A few things I'd like to address before you start reading.
This is rated M for violence and language. And some pretty sensitive material. These characters are obviously meant to be out of character, because these are almost entirely different people. They are under different circumstances with different histories and choices to make. There is a twist in this story. And the characters introduced in this chapter are not necessarily the only characters you'll see. There are more stories than just this. Everyone is connected in their own way, whether through other people or directly.
The purpose of this is not only to write a story about these characters, but to explore what people will do under extreme stress and circumstances to save someone they love. I've recently had a death in the family, and I've realized that everyone copes with grief differently. Even myself.
This is basically my own processing and almost what I'd call "writing therapy". If you want to give some polite notes to me to help out with the quality of this story, then that's all right. But I'll let you know I take these very personally, because this work is very personal.
Thank you. This will probably be one of the only author's notes in this, because I find it useless to add any otherwise.
background music:
break my soul (instrumental) by hybrid
Don't go away.
There's a flicker of resistance in the ribbons, untying themselves slowly and carefully from their position around the albino's mouth, an untangling bloody mess. His hands scrape at the surface, as the watery iron flavored substance chokes him. It's the sensation of being underwater that sends terror ripping through his spine like a jagged knife on metal.
I don't want to die.
His breath hitches, and more of the liquid is slowly inhaled, taking the air from his lungs with it. A hand reaches out, trying to find him in the cloudy lake of blood stained water.
"I'm here, Gilbert. I'm here."
Gilbert gasps awake, hands clawing at his throat as he jolts into a sitting position.
"Don't scream." A hand is placed over his mouth, and he's forced to puff air out of his nose, eyes wide in alarm. "You're okay. You weren't drowning. It wasn't real."
But it felt so real.
"Gilbert, breathe." The albino's brother pulls the hand away, slowly, and he remains in the same position. Still staring at the wall with quarter sized eyes and breath coming out in insistent puffs.
"How did you know I was drowning?" he whimpers.
"You're very predictable," Ludwig replies with a low chuckle. "Or maybe it's just instinct." His voice lowers as he nudges his nose in Gilbert's hair, a familiar gesture from his childhood meant to calm him down.
"What day is it?"
"Wednesday."
"Shit," Gilbert bolts from his bed and stumbles into the kitchen, tripping over his own feet as they slip along the tile and reach the door. He's already pulling his shoes on as he rearranges his clothing, wrinkled and slept on from the night before.
"Wait," a calm voice urges as Gilbert tugs the door open. Hands wind around his waist and pull him backwards. "Can't leave without this."
The uptight little boy that Gilbert used to know is long gone. And he has been for a while. Ludwig pulls his older brother into sloppy kiss, filled with tongue and saliva. The elder backs away, not for the reason that it was bad, but because he'll be late for work if he waits any longer.
The apartment building stinks of leaky pipes and dust, if that's even possible, and every floorboard under every footfall creaks as the albino bolts down the stairs and into the lobby. He has no time to chat with any of the other tenants, and immediately regrets leaving the house without a jacket as he bursts into the rain.
"Damn it," he curses under his breath, and curses his brother too for not noticing the weather and insisting on the jacket, which he would've probably resisted anyways. "Damn it all to hell."
So much water. So much water.
"Don't think about it, Gil. Everything's fine. A little water won't hurt you."
He winds around the morning crowds, dodging puddles along the way. A few people curse at him as he knocks around, splashing here and there on his rush to work. It's not ten minutes until he arrives to the old, brick townhouse with the bottom floor renovated into a shop of sorts. It's the checkpoint for the deliveries. Gilbert had picked up the job not long ago, assuming that delivering mismatched things here and there on a motorcycle wouldn't be that bad. A Turkish man named Sadiq owns the business; he is always a bit flaky, and likes to stir trouble up with the neighboring store, where a Greek man and his Japanese partner sell odds and ends. One of his closer coworkers is a man from Switzerland named Vash, who always carries a loaded gun on him and hates talking to people he dislikes at first glance.
The first time Vash had seen Gilbert, he'd turned to Sadiq and said: "Why in the hell did you hire a seventeen year old, spindly little kid?"
"I'm twenty-six," he'd responded quite quickly with a biting edge.
The albino had always been smaller than his younger brother. I mean, it was only a three-year difference, but Ludwig had always managed to outweigh him in height and everything else. Even maturity. He was often mistaken for a seventeen or eighteen year old because of how thin and gangly he was, with knobby joints and an awkward stance. All of his clothes were baggy on him, and it only made him look smaller, and he looked especially thin when he borrowed Ludwig's clothes.
Gilbert slips a bit on the wet pavement, and slides up to the front doors of the shop. As he goes to open it up, the door to the building adjacent opens, and a girl steps out. She's Asian, of what origin, Gilbert wouldn't know. But she's wearing a school uniform to one of the nicer schools in town, and as she adjusts her book bag, she notices Gilbert and waves with a smile.
"Hi Tally," Gilbert waves back. He'd met her once before, when he'd almost ran her over with the bike one day. She'd introduced herself as Tally. Kiku's younger sister. She doesn't usually talk all that much, and even as they'd conversed she hardly spoke more than two sentences at a time.
Gilbert shoves open the door to the shop, which always sticks when it rains or there's bad weather, and nearly knocks right into a very angry Emil. The Scandinavian grunts and shuffles past Gilbert, making no further comment.
Sitting with his feet propped on the desk is Sadiq, barely glancing up as Gilbert enters, noticeably late. That was one thing that the German liked about his job. The fact that his boss didn't mind all that much when he was late. It just meant less of a paycheck for him.
Vash has his white Beats by Dr. Dre headphones on, glaring as Gilbert walks in. The albino shuts the door behind him and approaches the desk where Sadiq is reading a magazine.
"I'm here," and sopping wet.
The Turk glances up. "And twenty minutes late. What happened this morning?"
"Got sidetracked, is all. Woke up late."
"Hmm…" he taps his finger on the surface of the desk. "Vash, what shift are you taking?"
It's a miracle that he could even understand what Sadiq had said, what with his headphones on. But it seems he'd just been watching the conversation, and the slight gesture of Sadiq's head and his moving lips gave him the signal that he was being talked to.
Vash pulls his headphones away, letting them hang loose around his neck. "Huh?"
"Shift?" the brunette raises an eyebrow, and the blonde just rolls his eyes.
"What the hell do you think? I always go after him. He won't ride in the bad neighborhoods. I was just hanging out here cause he was late." He tosses a dirty look in Gilbert's direction. "So what do you want me to do? Pick up his deliveries?"
"If you want to," Sadiq replies with a sigh. He shuffles a few of the knick-knacks on his desk around, thinking. "How about you, Gil?"
He looks up and brushes a piece of limp silver hair out of his eyes, and wrings a bit of water out of his shirt. "Just give me an address. I don't care."
He wonders for a moment if he should ask about Emil. The kid had stomped out of there so angry; Gilbert could almost assume it was Sadiq. The two of them had a strange dynamic, and by strange, Vash usually meant "sexual tension".
Gilbert is handed a package and an address, sent off to go deliver on the other side of town. He leaves quietly, and the others make no comment.
—
Lovino hates these days.
These are the days where he's forced to visit, forced to make the choice of whether or not he really loves him. But does that matter, most of the time? No, more often than not it doesn't.
The elevator door slides open, and reveals the shiny marble entryway of the upper floor of the business building, housing many offices. The Italian glowers, scuffling out and pulling his fedora down lower on his brow. The secretary at the desk glances up, and smiles, putting a phone on hold to help him.
"I'm here for Mr. Fernandez Carriedo."
The blonde nods, and pulls the phone back to her ear. She says a few more things, curt and blunt before hanging up. "You can go right in. You must be Lovino, right?"
"Why yes, Katyusha. He's told me a lot about you." Lovino forces back the smile. "I'll be seeing you." He waves to her as he strolls down the hall in the direction of Antonio's office.
"Don't get him too riled up this time!" she shouts after him.
Oh, that's right. Last time Lovino got him angry and he nearly destroyed his entire workspace. Katyusha was nice about it, but gave him a firm warning afterward. Lately the big shot businessman has been a little shaky in the emotions department.
Lovino doesn't even bother to knock. It's a waste of time, and Antonio already knows he's coming. But as he opens the door, he doesn't expect to see him standing over by the far wall, made of glass to overlook the city, speaking to another man in a suit seated in a chair in front of the desk, who looks utterly bored.
They stop, and the blonde man looks up from his seat.
"Ah, Lovi, you're here. I almost forgot." The Spaniard absently shoves his hands into his pockets, a habitual gesture that usual signals him being uncomfortable. "Come in. Sit down." He pauses and sighs. "I hope you don't mind leaving it at that, Arthur. We'll meet again tomorrow, if you want."
"No, I don't mind," the Brit casts a glance at Lovino as he rises from his chair. "We'll talk another time."
He leaves without another word.
"Sit down, Lovi. It's nice to see you again."
"You always say that," the Italian replies blandly, but takes a seat anyway. "I know last time didn't go very well."
"It usually doesn't."
There are these cold, gritty moments when Antonio isn't Antonio. He's the Not-Antonio, the Antonio that's distant and bitter, and violent in every way. It's scary, disturbing. But Lovino won't leave him, even if he tries to convince himself that he doesn't love him at all. It's too hard.
"What do you need from me this time?"
"A favor," the Spaniard blurts out suddenly. "But I'm not going to force you to do anything, Lovi. I know you won't do it if I ask you."
"What is it?"
"Leave me," there's a smile in his voice, painting the edges with malice still covered in false pleasantries. "If it was your idea, maybe you'd actually follow through with it, but I'm not entirely sure you would. If you leave me I almost guarantee you'll live a better life."
"I'm not leaving you."
A flash of light blinds Lovino from behind his eyelids as he's slammed into the wall, hot breath in his face. Antonio's grip tightens around the collar of his shirt as his fist shakes uncontrollably.
"I'll kill you. I'll kill you if I have to, you need to leave me." Anger, hurt, and frustration flit across his eyes. "I know how fucking hard it is for you to forget about your brother. Little Feliciano, selling himself on the streets. Your grandfather, who tried to help you but you were a lost cause, going to burn in hell for your sins, for loving another man. The fact that you work for the mafia because you think it'll make you feel better during the meantime, until you get yourself killed because you're secretly suicidal. I know what hurts you, makes you cry. And I'll make you hurt. I could say that I can't help it, but that would be the worst lie."
"You're not Antonio. You're not the man I know." Lovino knows no way to strike back, and this hurts even more. Because no matter how much he put up that barrier, Antonio always found a way in. No matter if he was drunk, tired after sex, or just beat after a day of work. He weaseled his way in and infected him. But Lovino knew next to nothing about his lover. Nothing.
"No, I suppose not," a muscle underneath his eyes twitches, and that look of absolute rage dissolves like sugar in water. "But I'm not the man you want me to be either."
That kiss Lovino's waiting for never comes, because the thin, gangly albino kid in the doorway is holding a package with a frightened expression on his face.
Antonio seems to recognize him through a flash of concern in his eyes, tongue coming out to run over his lips in an anxious habit.
"I forgot," Antonio says absently, off somewhere else in that tangled brain of his. "I had another meeting with someone, Lovino. Sorry, I— I guess I'll see you next week."
"Kicking me out? So unlike you." The bit of dry humor doesn't seem to be appreciated at the moment, and the Italian weasels his way around the white-skinned freak.
Nothing matters at the moment except for the fact that he'd truly, completely forgotten about his brother until Antonio had mentioned him.
And this makes him extremely guilty.
—
"It's been such an absolutely long time since I've seen you, Gilbert. And now, you're here, delivering me a package?"
Seated at his desk, Antonio is almost more intimidating than he was when he was standing. But either way, he's still smiling at him like he's a piece of meat; ready to pounce when the opportunity comes. The package is placed in Gilbert's lap, still not yet taken by the Spaniard.
"Yes."
"The last time I saw you we were working together, and you were sick. You were sick a lot back then, weren't you? Really, really sick." He taps a finger on his pursed lips. "But I remember you getting better really fast as well. That was always a mystery to me."
"I got help."
"From your brother?"
A small gasp escapes his lips. "Why is that the only thing you remember?"
Antonio leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. "What would you do to save your brother?"
"What are you—?"
"You know that I know, Gilbert." An unsettling smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "It's killing him from the inside out, burning him to death. It's eating his soul."
"By it, you mean his blood?" Gilbert replies weakly.
"Not only his blood, but his very essence. It runs in you as well of course, or else you'd be dead by now." A brief look of sympathy passes over his face, but then disappears again. "I have one thing to ask of you though."
"What is it?" Gilbert's gone quiet, and he stares at the box in his lap. He wonders what could possible be in this box that needed to be delivered via underground delivery service. Was it that bad?
"Give me a few pints of that magic blood of his, and I'll help you out." Antonio leans over his desk, face closer in proximity than it had ever been before. "What do you say? Can you trust me, Gilbert?"
Lips barely brush over the opposing ones, but Gilbert leaps from his seat, and throws down the package in a rush to escape.
"Is that a yes?"
The albino has his back pressed to the door, reaching blindly for the knob. "Yeah. I suppose it is." He finally manages to get the door open with shaking hands and leaves on wobbling knees.
"It's been nice seeing you Gilbert!"
—
Gilbert doesn't want to go back to work.
Because the prospect of going back means he has to go home, and going home means he'll have to face his brother. He doesn't want to have to pull out that syringe, or sit in the shower for an hour until the water runs cold. What Gilbert wants is to forget about everything that Antonio had said, and to curl up in bed with Ludwig and sleep for four days.
But obviously God isn't on his side.
The door jingles loudly as Gilbert pushes it open, deadbeat tired and soaking wet. His clothes hang heavy on his body and make him look even paler and thinner than he already is. It's unattractive, and he makes note of this in a store window as he passes by.
"…I really don't think I can help you. I can't necessarily give out information of my employees sir."
The smell of leather and dust cause Gilbert to sneeze, a killer combination. This catches the attention of the two strangers standing at the desk, where Sadiq looks about as confused as ever. He wasn't really keen on helping people out.
A wave of shock settles over his body, clinging to his muscles and his joints like static that force him to freeze in his place.
"Ro-Roderich?"
The brunette seems to stifle a sigh as he sees Gil, looking like the total and complete mess he is. Standing beside him is Elizaveta, the young brunette girl who he remembers being quite good friends with, and her always being infatuated with him to some degree. The recognition is clear, but neither says a thing in response.
"You know these two?"
Gilbert chokes on words, but manages a nod anyways.
Elizaveta looks crestfallen at this point; sad that she wasn't the first one Gilbert recognized. "It's nice to see you again, Gil."
"What in the hell are you doing here?" a wave of panic soars up into his chest and Gilbert can't breathe at all. He chokes and pulls in a ragged breath, and its pace rapidly increases. "I-I didn't think—"
No. No, please! Not again!
—
It takes about two hours before Antonio quits sobbing, and that conscience left abandoned comes back around to wave a finger in his face.
You're destroying him from the inside out.