To Paint the Sky

by decoris

You've always been told your paintings are great—that you would be rich one day. You don't understand. They are so ugly to you. And then you meet Feliciano. And even on those warm, starless nights with him, you can't help but feel alone next to him. Gerita / very long one-shot.

"Oh my Ludwig, this drawing is so good! Where did you learn to draw like this?" Mrs. Achermann asks you.

She is your middle-aged primary school teacher, and she smiles a sweet smile as if smiling makes the words come out any truer. She is nice to you but always comments on how you don't participate enough. She praises you on your math and on your penmanship, but she says that socializing is just as important as written work.

"Gilbert," you say in hope that she will go away. It isn't true. Gilbert can't draw.

"Who's Gilbert?" she asks raising the drawing to the light to inspect it. It is still there. The pencil lines are more translucent now against the harsh, fluorescent lighting. She squints at your work, and you wonder what she is looking for. It's only a dog.

You don't like the noisy classroom. You don't like Mrs. Achermann.

"My brother," you say. That is true. Gilbert is your brother. But sometimes you don't like to admit that.

She lowers the drawing back to waist height. She sets the paper down on the table and turns to smile tenderly, and you inhale the strong scent of tangerine as she walks closer. Mrs. Achermann always smells of tangerine, and her lips are always stained red.

"Ludwig, this deserves to be out in the hallway! This is better than some of my fifth-graders," she says in hopes to make you feel prideful.

You feel shy. The dog was meant to be only for your eyes. You don't know what to say. It doesn't matter, Mrs. Achermann is excited to stick the piece of lined paper outside with the other atrocious pieces of work.

You follow her out to the colorful hallway where her lanky pale arms hang your doodle with a thumbtack. You miss your dog. It still needs detail and yet here you are having to see it hang among the other bad drawings of your grade. Yours stands out. You didn't like to stand out.

She steps back and looks down to you. She expects you to say something. You don't.

"Have you considered joining the art program, Ludwig?" she asks.

"No."

"You should. I'm sure you would love it there get a chance to talk to other artists. Wouldn't that be fun?" You hate her purposely squeaky voice. She smokes. She has a scratchier voice than this. Gilbert usually walks away from her quickly enough to not let the smoke get into your lungs. Too bad it's already inside of you.

"I can't, Mrs. Achermann," you say shuffling your feet. You want to leave. Leave to where? You don't know.

"Do you like other things? How about sports? I saw you beat Arthur in the playground last week in a game of soccer." Arthur is a fifth grader who comes from Liverpool, England. He is really good at soccer. You beat him.

"I like math, Mrs. Achermann," you say. It is true. Math is reliable. The other children just can't seem to understand how to carry ones or when you're subtracting and have a zero you just make it a ten. But you are considered "a genius."

She sighs and her long purple skirt sways back to the mess that is the classroom. She leaves you alone afterward to go scold the more lively children who will talk and laugh and sometimes behave. Something about Alfred not being allowed to make swords out of the markers to fight with the Russian boy because they were dangerous. You know it's really because they are expensive.

Only ten more minutes and then play time is over. In ten minutes the classroom will be in a shouting, groaning mess because toys will have to be put away and conversations cut short. You don't have to worry about that. There is no one to cut the conversation short with and your pencil is already sharpened and ready on your desk.

You look down at your decorated nametag. Ludwig Beilschmidt it says in neat, black ink. Not many people can pronounce your last name so they just call you Ludwig B. You're always second in the line. You wonder if your father will ever come back and change it to a less hard last name. Gilbert says that mom and dad don't want to see them because they are "assholes" and that you shouldn't feel down about it. You want to meet them one day.

Ten minutes feels too long to you. Thirty seconds haven't even passed and the classroom is still boring.

You get another piece of paper. There is no one interesting to talk to, and no one interesting to talk to you. You don't draw because you like it. You draw because you're lonely. Drawing doesn't require eye contact or words.

Drawing to you wasn't a hobby or something particularly liked. To you, it was a way to keep the hand busy. The teachers love it. They praise you a lot — that must mean something. But just like the students, they get bored after seeing a couple of minutes of the same thing erased, drawn, erased, fixed, erased to only start all over.

You draw another dog.

...

You are in fifth grade now. This was the grade Arthur used to be in when you beat him in that match of soccer. Arthur had demanded a rematch the next day feeling humiliated that he had been defeated by a first grader. So you said yes. You didn't win, but you didn't lose. The whistle had been blown on an even score.

He didn't bother you after that. He had been infected with the leech that was Alfred F. Jones. It was obvious that Arthur didn't want Alfred's company at first, but despite his skill in soccer, he was quite lonely as well. Arthur took it upon himself to be a "mentor" or something like that.

Soon enough, it was a commonly known fact that Alfred F. Jones had somehow been able to befriend a fifth grader from England.

But you don't care about that. You're watching Ivan walk towards his little sister Natalya on the playground with an angry expression on his face. Some boys tripped her by the side of the road away from where the teachers could see. They thought it would be funny to see the little Russian girl scrape her knees and not know how to tattle for help in English.

She and her brother were new to the school, new to the country. English was hard for them, their accents heavily thick when they could make a fluid sentence out, and from what you've seen from your spot on the hill, boys and girls aren't really nice. The girls don't bother to talk to her (instead opting to talk about her — whispering things like how she was probably still dressed up by her grandma, and that she sounds like she has a frog stuck in her throat, and her bow isn't as cute as she thinks it is) and the boys do dumb things like trip her.

Because of the fall, her favorite purple dress got a nasty tear. She didn't cry like most third graders did. She instead grabbed a sharp piece of mulch from the ground and started threatening them by making slicing motions on her neck. The boys ran away as Natalya chased after them screaming in Russian and the little English she knew. She knew "idiot" and "loser" and "dumbass" well enough at least.

You like Natalya. She's a nice girl.

You bring the sketchbook closer to your chest. Your chest is getting bigger, and it's starting to feel weird. You've always been a little taller than the other kids but now it just seems like you just can't stop going through this "puberty".

You grab the pencil by your side and start to sketch the playground. No one is sitting beside you on the hill. You don't think anyone ever will.

You start sketching Natalya because she's kicking the boy's shins. Once she's done with that she latches onto her brother. Those two are inseparable.

You know that Ivan doesn't like to be clung onto, but today is the exception. You also know that Ivan is terrifying when provoked or extremely annoyed. He was sent to the principal's office last year from some argument he and Alfred had. You ponder where Mr. Vargas got the mean bone in his body to actually make Ivan of all people apologize. You aren't sure which is more surprising: Ivan showing guilt, or Mr. Vargas serious.

You like Mr. Vargas. He's friends with your grandpa, and you sometimes wonder who his grandchild is since he's so "adorable" and "cute".

You sketch them sitting by the blacktop talking. Natalya is hitting the hot plastic with her loafers upset. Ivan is calm. Ivan is tall, and so you have to erase to make his torso longer than Natalya's. Ivan is still. Natalya is swinging her legs. Natalya has a large bow. Ivan has a large nose. They look good together.

You finish drawing them, and you look down. You hate the picture.

...

You come home that day. The school day ended, and you feel lucky to understand how to divide fractions. The teacher had a multiplication race in front of the classroom and you, of course, won. The thirteen's aren't that difficult, you think. Everything follows a rule and a pattern.

Your dog jumps at you to greet it. You like Blackie. He is a good dog. You nuzzle him fondly before taking off your shoes and placing them neatly on the entryway. You go to the living room and place your bag down. Blackie is right by your side panting excitedly.

"Gilbert?" you ask loudly. Your voice echoes through the house. No one responds. The dripping faucet does in the kitchen. The air conditioning in the house always responds to your hellos. The fridge is sometimes a little late in greeting you but it's old, so you excuse it.

Blackie nudges your leg, and you see a bone covered in slobber. You look at your book bag with the English homework you have to do.

You take the bone. You play with Blackie. If the house is going to be filled with silence, you might as well go outside where the silence has a little more noise. The house is clean. But you can't help but think that every time you step inside you make it dirtier.

...

Gilbert comes home late that night. Two in the morning is late in your book. You hear the door open and you swing your legs over the bed. You hear the faucet run and you slowly open your bedroom door. Your house isn't very large, the kitchen and your room only separated by a small living room with little furniture. There is no staircase and you wonder if someday you will ever have a house like that.

You walk towards the kitchen. You don't make a sound as you peer around the hallway, clutching onto the cold wall in hopes that your brother made it back sober. He is. But he's chugging down water as if it were vodka.

"West, you shouldn't be up," Gilbert says to you clearly with his back turned. You jump a bit but then show your whole body.

"You're home early," you reply instead.

Gilbert sighs. Gilbert works as a plate cleaner in some fancy restaurant you can't remember the name of. It's long and hard to spell and far away so it doesn't really seem real to you. You know the restaurant's phone number just in case anything happens because Gilbert doesn't have a cell phone. It's too expensive he says.

"Grandpa's sick, West," he says not moving from his spot from the counter. He says this as if the words have been stuck in his chest for hours, days, and months. To you, it seems like they are finally spilling out from the overflow of all of his other anxieties. Like a secret, his body can no longer cage due to weariness and exhaustion of something you don't know. Maybe, he didn't even mean to speak out loud, you think quickly.

But he did. So you frown.

"With what?"

"He has Alzheimer's. Do you know what that is?"

You've never heard of that before. It's not in any of the books you've read, and it sounds interesting. Is it like cancer? You know what that is.

You shake your head no.

"It's where you start to lose your memory." You sit at the table. Gilbert does as well taking the glass of water with him. Gilbert seems to almost melt into the chair, back slouched with tired, sore eyes that look down. You sit on the edge of the seat so your feet can be closer to the ground.

"It's a disease where the brain starts killing its own cells. It causes you to stop remembering things. At first, it's memories, but then it morphs into conversations you just had until eventually, you don't remember how to eat or breath." He looks to you to see if you understand.

You...you understand.

"Oh."

He sighs deep and weary.

You look at the clock on the stained, white stove and see the minute change to two seven am. The numbers are glowing red. If Gilbert had actually been an albino like those bunnies you once saw, his eyes would have been the same color as those numbers. But they aren't. They are the same shade as yours but lighter.

"What does that mean. Are we going to see grandpa soon? Will mom and dad be there?"

You like your grandpa. He's friends with Mr. Vargas even though he says he can't tolerate him at all. He's dry and stern, but he's nice. He knows how you think and knows what to say. You don't think his remarks are rude, and well. It's as good as a distant grandparent and grandson relationship will get.

You want to meet your parents now as well. You think they would like you.

Gilbert closes his eyes and they shut heavy and languid. He opens them again a couple seconds later as if to prove he isn't as gelatinous as his body seems. "Yeah, we'll see him soon. Probably this weekend. And mom and dad probably won't make it..."

You take the empty cup of water and put it in the washing machine. Gilbert is tired.

"You should sleep, brother," you say worriedly as he lays his head in between his arms. He mumbles a reply. You nudge his shoulder.

"Just go back to bed, West. I'll be okay," Gilbert says smiling a bit. He is blinking faster for some reason and the lights cause you to see a thin layer of gloss cover his eye. You don't want to move from that small, little kitchen, the same kitchen where you cook your dinner and lunch and talk to Gilbert.

The chunky air conditioning box by the window starts humming to life for the late May weather. It had been on sale and the house tended to warm up quickly.

"There's no more milk," you remind Gilbert softly. There hasn't been milk in a week. He nods, and you leave the harsh orange lit kitchen with old wooden chairs.

You hear the crickets outside, and you close your bedroom door. You snuggle back into the cold bed sheets and stare at the black ceiling. You touch the metal cross across your bony collarbone and mumble a prayer you remember from the few times you did go to church.

You turn your head and see the accordion paper blinds covering your window. The paper blinds have been in your room for as long as you can remember, and you can't remember a time they weren't yellow. Gilbert says they were once white and that everyone has paper blinds. You stare at the thin pieces of paper and get the overwhelming urge to cry. You don't know why but you turn to your pillow and let out a sob.

...

Fifth-grade ends, and the ceremony to send off the fifth-graders off to middle school is a bore. There are too many people in such a small gym, and the chairs are uncomfortable. Some girls wore makeup, and one girl tripped on her high heel to get the diploma.

They say your last name but it is mispronounced. They shouldn't have said it at all, you think.

As you take your diploma from the old tan hand of Mr. Vargas, you look for Gilbert in the sea of parents with black, blocky cameras. You see chubby women fanning themselves with brightly colored pamphlets full of the choir lyrics and names in small script. You notice restless babies, shuffling fathers, and content elderly.

You don't see Gilbert.

You aren't surprised. He has two jobs and graduating middle school is no big accomplishment.

You don't have friends. This is pointless. Who are you celebrating for?

You walk back to your seat. Your feet hit the soft, blue mats on the floor for the chairs, and you watch Ivan as he takes his diploma. His bigger sister is there, and she takes a picture while crying tears of joy. Ivan blushes and walks back to his seat. And on went the class in alphabetical order. You see Alfred smile brightly, and you know that Arthur is probably somewhere in the crowd scoffing and scowling. He is going to high school in a couple months and he is already being whispered as a delinquent.

You wonder, as more names are called up if you will ever have a friend. Gilbert tells you that school is a place to meet new people and make friends, yet everyone is either afraid of you or think you're not interesting enough.

You tell them that you cook your own lunch and clean the house on your own, and they look at you with disgust and pity. You don't have a mom or a dad or an aunt or an uncle to make your lunch every morning. You don't have a mom to write little messages on the napkins or a dad to buy you a nice, new lunchbox. You have thin grocery bags and leftover dinner that you make yourself. Sometimes you'll be lucky to have name brand sodas.

You were quickly labeled as the poor kid. Rumors spread how you couldn't even afford to shower and how you had to steal things from GoodWill. They are wrong. You buy things from GoodWill.

They care about how you're serious most of the time and how you don't understand most of the television jokes because you only have the public channels on the black, rounded T.V. You would much rather sketch your classmates than talk to them, anyway.

They don't understand.

They don't understand that Gilbert works so hard for what you have, and they don't understand how much it means to have a warm coat in the winter. Gilbert always grins at you and says, "Don't worry about me, West. Keep on studying so you can make us the big bucks, yeah?"

Even then, you were too keen on the world. And as you look back at it, the only one to blame was yourself.

...

It's the summer of seventh grade that you try a cigarette.

It's Gilbert's, and he always tells you to never try and light one. He says that cigarettes are life ruiners and only scum use them. But you don't think Gilbert is scum. He takes you to the park and plays with Blackie with you on his day offs. He drives you to the library and sometimes lets you buy the expensive, good quality sketch pads.

But he tells you that Grandpa is dead. In that same kitchen, he tells you Grandpa is dead at two in the morning. The clock reads two twenty and the fridge is late to say hello again. The milk is sure to go bad.

You don't know how to feel. Grandpa was the closest thing you ever had to a real biological father. His house was large, and he had real white blinds. He was kind and his large wrinkled hand felt nice when you were upset. He didn't know much English, and only spoke in German and somehow that made the house feel different. You want Gilbert to speak German but he doesn't. And you feel sad. Grandpa never liked Gilbert. And Gilbert didn't like Grandpa. But he's dead, and you suppose Gilbert is finally happy.

"I don't have a suit," you tell him. It is always like this with you. You don't grieve, there is always something next to think about.

Gilbert looks surprised. He thought you were going to start crying. But you don't. You take a deep breath and say that your trousers from church are too small now.

"I'll buy you a new one. The funeral's this Sunday..." You know that he's asking if you are okay by trailing off at the end. You are fine.

"The trash was today. You forgot to take out the bin," you say in a scolding tone. Gilbert always left early for work, and it was usually him to take out the bin every Wednesday.

"Oh, sorry about that. That wasn't awesome of me was it?" he says weakly. You say no and leave the kitchen. He doesn't come after you.

You stay in your room all day the next day. You draw furiously in the scorching room that let in too much sun. You try to put down every detail you knew of Grandpa down on paper. You are very good. That's what the art teacher said to you before school ended. She had handed you a brochure to a summer class down by the local college because she thought that you were "a prodigy". You don't think you're good but when you finish shading the tired wrinkles of Grandpa, you almost believe that he is still alive.

If it's on paper it's still alive. That's what you say to yourself as you shakily take the dull pencil to outline another angle. You wish you had bought the watercolor sketch pad because your tears make the paper brittle up. Small, blue dots mark the paper, and you continue to draw through blurry vision. An overwhelming sadness comes over you as you take in the piquant scent of meat come from under the door. It snakes through the room with a deep pungency, and it chokes you until your wailing with the sketchpad by your broad chest. The sun hits your back, and you curl up by the side of your bed. You taste the potatoes and the sausage even through your room, and sniffle as your name is called to dinner.

You don't want to eat. Your stomach wants to throw up its sadness away. Your name is called again, and you take a deep shaking breath in. You wipe your eyes furiously, and you wonder why you're crying.

It isn't until you are sitting at the table with a cool face that you realize your only friend is gone. And then Gilbert asks, whatcha been up to? and that is how you find yourself clutching onto Gilbert with bitter, selfish tears. He rubs your back, and you know that Gilbert misses him too. And that makes you feel worse. You aren't going to be the only one who will miss the baked pies or the small twitch of the lips by the staircase. Going out, learning how to shoot, and riding horses will no longer be a summer thing in the countryside.

It's now just Gilbert and Ludwig in a house that isn't even theirs in the city.

And then you see Arthur smoking in an alleyway on your way back from getting groceries. He's still a delinquent and still drinking and fucking as he pleases. He's almost about to graduate high school and be off to be someone in the real world. You hear that he and Alfred got into a nasty argument and are no longer the bestest of friends. You are not surprised. Alfred is showing great promise in baseball nowadays.

Arthur calls your attention that day. You look over again to make sure you heard right.

"Come 'ere. Yes you, Ludwig," he says motioning you with the glowing end of his cigarette. You walk over to him.

"Well look at you, you sprouted like a fucking beanstalk. You're huge," he says inhaling his cigarette. You get that a lot.

"Do you need something, Arthur?" you ask wondering why Arthur would want to talk to you. You are surprised he even remembered you.

He smiles. "I think the question is what do you need Ludwig."

You are confused. And he sees that. "I heard your old man died. Now you're a walking sad bloke," he says with little care.

You feel your face harden. You almost forgot that Arthur had become an asshole as well. You were about to turn to leave when he clutches onto your shoulder. You look back irritated.

"What."

"Here. Take this. I don't need it anymore." He puts a pack of cigarettes in your hands. You immediately shove it back to him.

"Keep your cigarettes to yourself, Arthur," you hiss.

What he's doing is illegal but to give a thirteen-year-old a pack of cigarettes is crazy to you.

Arthur shrugs and tries to play it off cool. He puts his hands in his pockets. You see the burning cigarette that was in his mouth on the ground by his boots, and you frown. You want to leave. The air is awful and Arthur isn't Arthur.

"They'll make you feel better." He scoffs. "Here I am trying to do something nice. Bloody ungrateful brat."

You think about it. There has to be a reason Arthur smokes them. Brother does as well and he started in high school too. Was there something you aren't getting? An experience you aren't living fully up to? Arthur sees you hesitate and attacks.

"I bet your parents told you to never smoke them right. But what do they bloody know? They cheat and drink all the time and they tell you to be a saint? Fuck off. You're a big kid, right. Do what you want."

Even as you leave the alleyway, Arthur's words echo through your mind. You tell yourself it's stupid, but as Gilbert stands outside to smoke and look at the night sky, you question why Gilbert should be in control of anything. He's the one who got kicked out of the house for being rebellious and stupid in his teenage days. He took you and didn't look back. He never drives you to your parent's house even though you know they are waiting. He works in dead-end jobs and can barely pay the bills as it is. He causes you so much teasing. He didn't graduate high school and has no plans to go back either.

You feel sudden anger. What if you had wanted to stay with mom and dad? What right did Gilbert think he had to take that away from him?

It's summer, and it's a hot day when you go into Gilbert's clean room. He's gone to work and won't come back until after midnight. You open the drawer and see the pack of cigarettes not so hidden. You open it see that there are only four left. You feel your heart quicken because you know Brother will notice something like this.

And then you think about all the anti-drug things you swore you wouldn't do at school. But then you replay Arthur's words. And the things you thought of last night. Grandpa, mom, and dad. All gone and you can't help but clump Gilbert into the group that caused a family death.

Gilbert won't notice. He's never home. And it will only be one. The windows are open and Arthur said it will make you feel better. Arthur is smart, Alfred has said so many times, so surely Arthur must know something about these things. Gilbert seems calmer when he drags the cigarette across his lips so maybe you will too.

And you take one. Nice and slow out of the box and it feels cold and heavier than you thought. You grab the lighter from the kitchen and hold it against the bud still, too afraid and anxious to really do it. You feel doubt and hesitancy. You hold the yellow and white stick in front of your dry lips and in a quick motion light the lighter. The bud is burnt and you inhale.

You immediately cough. You cough and your lungs feel absolutely horrible. The cigarette is tight between your fingers and you're too afraid to let it go. You feel like you want to throw up and you feel overwhelming shame. You're in shock at what you just did. You pant and look at the logo of the company in numbness. You hear ringing in your ears and the room is still too warm. The washing machine hums in disapproval in the back and it beeps to signal the clothes are dry and clean.

You feel disgusting and dirty. The room is clean yet you feel like you're making it dirtier. You always seem to do that.

...

Gilbert never finds out. He doesn't notice one less cigarette gone from the pack. You smoke the whole stick and you don't know why you do. You throw it in the neighbor's yard and drink water until your pee is clear. You haven't touched another cigarette but your hands are jittery, and you want to go back and try another one. Arthur sees you again and smirks.

He knows.

You are in eighth grade now. Nothing has changed and people still comment you are great at art. You still say thank you but you don't mean it. You give a speech that year, and you find that you are really good at it. The teacher says so at least. She likes you because you're good at math and are always there if something creative needs to be done.

It is November. It is cold and you still bring lunch in a plastic bag. You still sit alone.

"We're moving, West. We're finally getting out of here!" Gilbert says to you one Saturday night. It was one forty on the stained stove.

"Wait, what?" you ask surprised more than excited. You have lived here since kindergarten. You can't remember anything else other than this small house with creaky floors and paper blinds.

Gilbert grins. "We're moving next week. To a new awesome house. A real house, not this piece of shit!"

"How much is rent?" you ask.

Gilbert looks even happier. "None, West. Nothing! When I say a real house, I mean a house all to our own. No landlords or rent or any of that shit. All because of your awesome big brother!"

You smile and pack your belongings. It's not much but you make sure your pencils and colors are well taken care of. With Gilbert singing horrible pop songs, pestering you to join until you have no choice to match his strident voice that overrules yours anyway, and Antonio coming by and celebrating with wine and beer, the event is a happy time. You and Gilbert pack and soon enough the big day comes.

"Aren't you going to miss your friends?" Antonio asks you as you close another box with tape.

"I don't have any." And you carry the heavy box to the kitchen. Antonio sits there stunned and looks back at you sadly.

And like that, you are gone. You see the small house getting smaller in the rearview mirror, and you sketch your surroundings in the passenger seat. Gilbert turns up the radio, thumping his thumbs against the steering wheel to a guitar solo as he steps on the pedal to a road that should not be going sixty miles per hour, and you say goodbye to a town that gave you nothing. Gilbert rolls down the window slightly, and wind rushes to your face. You look over at him, and then it makes you remember that Gilbert left his pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table. You decide to not bring it up.

Gilbert enjoys the wind on his face despite the cold weather and laughs when you ask him if he's drunk.

...

In the new town, Elizaveta and her husband Roderich are your neighbors. You used to think of her as a mother. You have a faint memory of her soft green dress and your head resting on her breast as she sang a melody. You don't know if it's a memory or if you made it up on the way. Either way, you like her and her husband. Gilbert doesn't but you know he is happy to be by Elizaveta again. Even if it's not his ring she wears.

The years go by fast. You go from eighth to ninth, then to tenth, and then you realize that you are still as friendless as you have always been. You have acquittances now, but no one to share any secrets too. Gilbert doesn't smoke anymore (in front of you), and your craving for it is gone. You resent Arthur, and you forget about him just as you did all the others from the town before. You don't want to remember those times.

Because the new house has stairs. And real blinds. There is no air conditioning box by the window to hum, and the fridge always greets you when you come home to the empty house. You don't care that your lunch is in a bag because suddenly it's cool now.

You play soccer now too. You work out and have a job. The club praises you, and you feel good that it's not your art they like anymore.

You enter an art competition but not by your free will. A teacher stole a drawing you had made to enter it into a competition to surprise you. You win and gain two thousand dollars from it. You are happy for the money. Money closer to college.

Life is good you think as you walk back home in your work uniform. Elizaveta waves hello, and you wave back. Life is good even if Matthias annoys you in Pre-Calculus, and Feliks won't shut up about how good your backdrop for the drama group had been for its play and all the future plays you're now going to do. You sketch alone by the flat grass and know you are not sad. There is nothing to be sad about anymore. You are not sad. The world is simply too happy.

...

It's your final year of high school. The year everything goes wrong.

Gilbert calls you into the kitchen after work, and you walk towards Gilbert sitting down. The clock reads six seventeen on the shiny black stove.

The sketchbook is on the table and you raise a brow. You don't see anything wrong with it. Another contest?

"Ludwig," Gilbert says to you, "Are you...feeling down? Feeling kind of sad?"

You blink at him. You ponder on the idea of death a lot and don't particularly mind it if it does ever come. You have accepted that you are a boring human who will do ordinary things and become fertilizer to an ungrateful world. You look out the window and sigh a lot and paint with vibrant colors that seem more artistic than it really is. Your favorite color is blue. You always include blue in your art. You think it's a nice color.

No one has ever called you nice or kind so you have assumed that you must not be nice. They never stay to talk to you either to question why. They see your art hanging in the hallway by a zealous teacher, and you can't help but wish you could burn those paintings just as your lungs had burnt on that summer of seventh grade. The color red burns in your mind. Red numbers, red eyes, red paints, red skin, red cheeks, red ends to a white stick.

"No. Why would I be?" you say as you move to the counter to get a red apple. You take a bite and think it's too sweet.

"I mean, I always knew you were a good artist but some of these drawings are depressing as fuck, West," Gilbert says as he opens your one of many sketchbooks. He opens a recent one.

"How are they depressing?" you ask interested.

You take a seat and look when he shows you. You suppose drawing smudged figures and poverty-stricken cities are not considered normal. You draw anything that comes to mind. You like flowers. You always draw blue flowers somewhere. You don't think flowers as tears are weird but Gilbert takes it as a cry for help.

"What are you trying to say Gilbert?" you ask taking another bite. The apple is still too sweet.

"I'm saying that you should have told me if you were depressed! If you were feeling down you should have told me. Or Elizaveta. Or that fucking Austrian because you like him for some reason." Gilbert sounds hurt.

You look down. It's not depression you think. It's really not. You don't want to die but you want to know how it feels like.

You want to say that Gilbert is never home and that he's the only one you would really care to talk to. But you are about to graduate and move out of the house to go to college. You can't depend on the Gilbert who is always there in scarcity. Always there in a kitchen that is always empty.

"But I'm not depressed," you say with certainty.

"That's what depressed people say, West." Gilbert leans forward and you wish to fridge would make a noise when it's on.

"You might not believe this but Lizz used to have depression. Like hardcore wanted a noose. No one knew, and it wasn't until I stopped her from jumping off the school building did I know. She hid it so well, West. She was on the swimming team, always there to cheer others up and was smart as fuck. She had her life together, you know? But she was sad."

You take this in. If you were to be sad you could easily pinpoint why. Elizaveta seems odd.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was she sad?" you clarify. Gilbert looks guilty. You take another bite of the apple.

"Part of it was because of me. She...she didn't always know she was a girl. She honestly thought she was a boy for most of my childhood. I know right. What kind of shit is that? But she started growing boobs and fast and that fucked her up bad. She had a gender crisis and I didn't make it any better. I called her all the things I used to as if she could take it as a guy — my best friend. I made comments and I thought she was tougher than she really was. But she was going through puberty and felt weird in her body. She didn't let it show — how hurt she was. She beat me up and cursed me like before and I thought things were fine. She wore dresses and knew how to cook and looked like all the other girls."

"And she grew to be really sad," you say understanding. You feel bad for Elizaveta and anger at your brother. How could he be so insensitive?

"That's right. All because of your fuck up brother."

You don't like it when he says it out loud.

"But..." Gilbert continues, "That's not why I wanted to ask you. I think you're old enough to know this. You deserve to know, you're about to move out, huh?"

You set down your apple and question what it is.

Gilbert bites his lip and doesn't respond for a minute. You run out of patience and ask what it is already.

Gilbert takes a shaky breath in. "Dad killed himself, Ludwig. He's dead. He's been dead for eighteen years. He was so disappointed in me that he couldn't bear to live in this world anymore. He didn't want his life anymore."

You don't breath. You stare at Gilbert waiting for him to cackle at his horrible joke. But he doesn't. He rings his hands and keeps looking at you in a tense silence. He lied to you. All these years he had been lying to you. You swallow and you swear you can hear the old air conditioning machine by the window. You know that you will look at the clock and it will read two fifteen am in red numbers. The crickets stay the same and you want to rip the fake blinds. They are not paper. They are not right.

"Brother when can I see mommy and daddy?"

"Not now, but I promise you will see them when you're older. Cheer up, you still have your awesome brother!"

"Why didn't mom and dad come to the funeral, Gilbert?"

"They knew we would be here. You'll see them one day, Luddy. Don't worry about it, okay?"

"For my birthday I want you to drive me to mom and dad."

"Oh, Ludwig...they are back in Germany. You know we can't afford something like that..."

"You...lied to me...You lied to me. You lied to me!" you shout as you jump out of your chair.

Gilbert looks desperate. "West, calm down — "

"Calm down? Calm down? You know how much I wanted to see dad! You knew and you — you never told me. You told me," you can't seem to get the wording right. "You always said that...you said that they. It was all a lie? All of it?" you finish weakly and see that it is six forty-five.

"It wasn't a lie West," Gilbert continues with the silly nickname, "they would have loved to have gotten to know you."

"What do you mean they? Don't tell me mom is dead too," you demand sharply.

"Drug overdose. From cocaine," Gilbert adds meekly to your misery. You want to punch Gilbert. You want to scream and break something.

"Mom and dad are dead. Have been...for how long?" you ask with frightening calmness. You've always been this way. You don't grieve because there is always something else to think about.

"Ever since you were born. But you have to understand Ludwig! I couldn't leave you to Grandpa! You were all alone and no one really cared if I dropped out or not. So I did and got myself a job to raise you. I stayed here for a bit, and Elizaveta helped me for a bit with money when we dated. We moved, and I knew that I had made the right choice. The only choice. The Grandpa you knew was the one tired and in grief. He was a raging alcoholic that would beat me when I did something wrong. Dad sent me to him a lot because he used his fists but then felt guilty enough to play it off as caring. I couldn't let you grow up to that. I just couldn't."

You feel conflicted. You have always had so much respect towards Gilbert, and your love for him never seems to stop. You feel your heart breaking and you realize you haven't done anything remotely challenging in your life. Your life seems so pampered now that you think about it.

"How can I know what you say is the truth?" you ask.

Gilbert goes into his room and comes back with Grandpa's will. There in ink, it says his deceased daughter and her husband's son shall receive a small part of his earnings. You clutch the paper.

"Do you get why I'm worried now?" Gilbert asks. "I don't want to lose you, Luddy." Gilbert almost starts to cry. His eyes are a shining red and his lips shake. "God, I really don't want to lose you. You are all I have left. If you go," Gilbert chokes up and can't continue.

First Elizaveta. Then mother and father. Then Grandpa. You swear to not to add to that list. You will live. For Gilbert.

You hug him and you stay there. You breathe in his scent and clutch onto his blue coat.

...

It is January now. You destroy your jar with savings to go to Germany because they are pointless. Gilbert says you look a lot like mom but act a lot like dad. You ask who Gilbert looks like, and he says he's too awesome to be compared.

Twelfth grade really is the worst year you think back.

Because it is that year that you find out that Gilbert isn't even your real brother.

You are talking with Roderich when the subject of parents come up. You aren't ashamed anymore. You never knew them, and they really were as good as dead all along.

Roderich is hesitant to share when he slips up and says your father was a cheating brute. You quickly coerce the story out of him, threatening to throw his piano keys down a river if he doesn't explain himself. With restless adjustments in his seat and hesitant throat clearings, Roderich recounts the tale that had been thought to have been known by all.

Roderich used to come over to Gilbert's house, and he had met your father plenty of times apparently in Gilbert's childhood.

"Ludwig you must understand that your father was a strange man. He was tolerable one moment and a complete madman the next. He was irascible and painfully obdurate. But it was said that he was always loyal..."

You urge him to go on. "I found him with another woman one day, Ludwig," he says softly. "He was...having an affair with another woman. I caught him in the act, and he threatened to kill me if I ever told anyone. I took it literally and never told a soul. But secrets could not be kept for long."

"She became pregnant."

You taste the dryness in your mouth but do not comment. Roderich continues looking out the window. He is sitting rigidly in the piano room.

"She became pregnant and your father didn't want the baby. Gilbert came to school one day with a black eye. It was dark and nasty and he didn't tell us why for a long time. We were clueless until he retold the story. Gilbert had found out from an argument your mother and father had and was beyond excited for a younger sibling." Roderick's eyes soften.

"He wanted you so badly, Ludwig. I don't think you can ever understand how much you mean to him. He fought with his father to keep you, and your father beat him for saying such a thing. Gilbert didn't care that you were not from his mother. He wanted you to be born. And then you were. On a doorstep, you were wailing and Gilbert had hugged the woman for giving him a baby brother with blonde hair and chubby cheeks."

You don't want to believe it. You weren't born out of love but instead a quick fuck? You laugh. You laugh until you double over. Roderich stands up and hurries over to your side. You let him ask questions because you find your pathetic life just so hilarious. You wait for the director to say cut because that's what your life is isn't it. A giant play and you just want to fucking die already.

You get up and stop laughing. You thank Roderich for informing you, and you ask a favor out of him.

"Tell Gilbert I will coming home later than usual."

You ignore Roderich's cries of wait! and Ludwig! as you walk out the door. The day is cold as you keep walking. You walk and walk until you land at a park. The cars zoom by, and you sit down on one of the swings. It's too low, your weight snapping the rusting chains straight in the hissing cold. No one is crazy enough to be outside during such weather. But you're here.

You know it will snow heavily today. You see your breath out in the air, and you refuse to cry. You swing and think back to Natalya and Ivan. You still hate that drawing. You despise it more than ever now. You see Natalya swinging her feet to hit the blacktop and Ivan talking calmly.

You grip the metal chain and it digs into your skin like a knife. You don't cry. You kick the weary mulch and wonder when you became so sad. Because all you see is blue. It's not your favorite color. It's all you've ever known.

But the twelfth grade isn't all bad you think back with fondness. Because it is the year you meet Feliciano. Wonderful, sweet Feliciano.

"Ciao~! You look sad! Do you want some pasta?" you hear someone to your right say. You jerk your head to find the source of the accented voice and see an overdressed Italian swinging jauntily on the swing. He grips the chains with a black glove and is smiling.

"No, I do not want pasta," you snap.

The Italian makes a sad face. "Do you not like it?" He closes his eyes in content. "I love it! I love all kinds! It's so cold outside, pasta sounds so good right now."

You look at him strangely. "Then why don't you back home and make some?"

The Italian stops swinging so happily. "I was kicked out of the house..."

"Oh. I'm sorry..." you apologize regretting making such a candid remark.

"It's okay! I didn't want to hear Lovino having sex with his boyfriend, Antonio, anyway!" he says cheerfully.

"Did you say, Antonio? Antonio as in," you stop yourself. Gilbert's friend isn't gay. It must be someone else.

"Antonio Carriedo. Do you know him?" He hops off the swing excitedly and stands in front of you. You blush not used to the closeness.

"I do," you say. Feliciano widens his eyes and laughs. You look at the thin man and wonder if he goes to your school. You have never seen him before. But you don't see many people anyway.

"What is your name?" you ask.

"I'm Feliciano Vargas," he chirps. "I go to Himaruya High School and am going to graduate this year. Pretty cool, right. What's your name?" he says breathlessly and happily. He's too bright you think.

"I am Ludwig Beilschmidt. Ludwig B if it's easier."

"Ludwig Beilschmidt?" he repeats with furrowed brows. "Beilschmidt. I like it, it suits you." He widens his eyes. "Wait! Are you the one with the amazing paintings in the hallways?"

You wince. "Yes. That is me."

Feliciano spins around on one foot in joy. His scarf dances around him and his cheeks flush from the sudden chill. He can't stop smiling it seems. "I've always wanted to meet you! I never knew who made those drawings. They are magnifico! I was really inspired by your art!"

You duck your head. No one has ever said that before. They usually just say your art is good and move on. You have never been told that you were inspirational. You are a little boring people say. You are too uptight others gossip.

"Really?"

Feliciano nods rapidly. "Of course! I can't believe it was you this whole time! Why haven't we seen each other before?"

"I don't really know." You say it more like a question because Feliciano is tilting his head and searching your face for something. You avert your eyes away from him feeling exposed and see him walk closer to you. He's standing in front of you while you're still there nervously rocking on the swing to relieve some of the anxiety you feel. It's strange that even if you are the larger one out of the two, bulkier and stronger, you feel towered over by him. He is wearing all neutral colors — white scarf, gray coat, black pants, black boots. He's almost like a fading shadow, the soft blur of grays and whites behind an object that catches enough sun at the right angle to have the slanted line of silvery existence.

His shoulders rise as he gives a pleasant smile that is almost hidden by his scarf. "Let's be friends then, Ludwig!"

Feliciano is strange you think. He babbles on and on about things you didn't even know could be babbled on about. He asks you questions and you answer. You ask some questions back, and you listen. It feels nice until you hear your name being shouted.

"Ludwig! Ludwig! Where are you?"

It's Gilbert. You don't want to see him right now. You want to keep talking to Feliciano. He doesn't mind that you like math and don't talk much.

"Did you hear that?" Feliciano asks blinking. He rubs his hands together feeling an errant breeze pass by.

"No," you rush. "It must be the wind." The breeze turns into a gush of air that sweeps through.

"Ludwig! Answer me!"

"Someone is calling your name, Luddy." He gasps. "Are you a thief? Are you a criminal? Please don't stab me, I have a math test tomorrow! I'll fail it anyway, but that doesn't mean I can't at least delude myself that I'll get a passing grade for once! I want pasta before I die, can you grant me that wish? And some breadsticks." Feliciano swings beside you in a frantic way, and you roll your eyes. He laughs, and you can't help but think that it sounds really nice.

Even after talking with the Italian for an hour, you don't understand him at all. He calls you Luddy now. You don't mind it.

Gilbert comes onto the playground panting and looking frantic. He sees you and rushes over.

"Ludwig! Oh, thank god you are okay."

You don't move from your seat and continue to swing slowly.

"Who is this, Luddy?" Feliciano asks curiously. Gilbert looks surprised at the name, and he beats you to the introduction. "Gilbert Beilschmidt. The most awesome older brother you will ever see!" He makes a proud face and jabs a thumb to his puffed up chest.

"Half-brother," you correct coldly. Gilbert's eyes flash with hurt and he put down his thumb.

"Ludwig, we can talk about thi — "

You get up from the swing. Feliciano looks up from his spot with wide eyes but you know that his eyes are just big. You see the curiosity in them, and you see something else but can't identify the emotion as he follows your back with longing eyes.

You start walking away from the playground. Gilbert follows you quickly. You look back and give Feliciano an apologetic look. Feliciano looks lost, and you feel guilty when you turn your back on him again. And then Gilbert is in front of you.

"Move."

"No."

"Move!" you say pushing him out of the way. He stumbles to the side and you walk forward clenching your teeth. You breathe out through your nose and see it form a ghost in the cold.

"Wait. Wait. I said fucking wait, Ludwig!" Gilbert screams as he tries to catch up to you. You had started running. You don't want to be around a liar. He told you that you had parents waiting for you happily. He told you he was the best older brother ever. He told you he loved you but you know now that is probably wrong too. You're just a burden. You made him poor. Why would he love someone like that?

"Ludwig! Stop running away!" You get to a crossway. The sign is red and the cars zoom by. You stop. There is no other way other than straight. Gilbert catches up with you because it is inexorable that you will have to talk things through. This time it isn't in the kitchen. You don't know what time it is.

"Ludwig, I'm sorry," Gilbert says once he has caught his breath. "I'm fucking sorry. I screwed up, screwed up really fucking bad. I thought it was something that you didn't really need to know."

You spin around. "How is that something I didn't need to know, Gilbert? You didn't even think about ever telling me?" You are so angry and sad and confused and lonely and you don't know what you want to do with your life. You want to die.

"Why does it matter that you aren't my full brother, Ludwig? I never cared that you weren't mom's," Gilbert tries again. But you care. Because you know that you had the chance of never being born and you like that idea. Of never knowing this life. You weren't supposed to have lived. You should have stayed that way. The mother should have aborted you as planned.

But of course, Gilbert got in the way.

"It doesn't matter. I was never supposed to be born anyway, I was just some slut's stupid child. I'm a bastard child and you know it, Gilbert."

Gilbert scrunches his eyebrows. "Is this what it's all about? Not being mom's?" he asks softly. You send him a glare. What does he think this was about? Him?

"Yes, Gilbert. That is what this is all about. Because I shouldn't have been born and dad shouldn't have died and you shouldn't have to have taken care of me. You should have just closed the door when you saw me," you say wanting the light to be green already so you can run away.

Gilbert is stunned speechless. "Ludwig...how can you say something like that! Do you really think I should have just abandoned you?" he says with broken eyes.

"If you ignore something, you can hope it goes away."

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," he mutters. "It doesn't matter if you were mom's or not. I will never regret taking you in as my baby brother. Never. I don't care what you think, I will say it a thousand times if I have to."

You see more cars zoom by and you feel your face tighten on the verge of tears. You feel the pain in your jaw from where you want to cry but won't allow yourself.

"But it does matter if I'm dad's or not. Because if that's true, you're practically a stranger. Who is to say I'm actually dad's? Have you ever thought that I wasn't dads and that he was just a great cover up to that whore? And doesn't that count as kidnapping? With all the lies you've told me, I wouldn't be surprised if I really was kidnapped," you say coldly. The light finally turns green, and you walk across the dashed line. You wonder where all the cars went. There is none anymore.

Gilbert clutches onto your hand and you stop in the middle of the road. It is cold and the street is empty. You both stand there and you don't look back. You don't pull your hand away from Gilbert's tight grip.

"Ludwig, look at me."

You don't.

"Ludwig, look at me. Please." You stay still.

"Ludwig, please, just. Please just turn around." You slowly turn your head back to see Gilbert's grief-stricken face. You feel instant guilt. Here you are again making Gilbert's life harder than it needs to be. You are useless you think as he tries to pull you into a hug. So utterly useless.

You stand still as he wraps his arms around you. You feel sickly protected. His warmth is familiar. Just like Elizaveta's sweet melody to the sound of a graceful piano, Gilbert is home and all you've ever wanted. You don't deserve to have a brother like Gilbert. He shouldn't care so much about you.

"Ludwig. I-I. Do you know how long I've wanted a younger sibling? You could have a vagina and tits and I wouldn't have cared. You could be black, Asian, or anything else and I wouldn't have cared. You were born and you are Ludwig. Awkward, can't flirt to save your life, too good at school, have slight anger issues, neat, a great artist, and most of all alive. I never kidnapped you, I can you show your birth certificate if you really want, and you are dads. I had you checked when you were small. You're my baby half-brother."

You slowly raise your arms and hug Gilbert back. You don't say anything and you close your eyes knowing how stupid it is to hug right in the middle of a crossway. You wouldn't have minded if it was just by yourself, but you don't want Gilbert to die along with you. It doesn't matter what Gilbert says, you living really is a mistake.

You let go and see that the little man walking is still green. You step away and you aren't as angry anymore. "No more secrets. No more major secrets between us, got it? If you want to confess something, do it now. I won't be mad if you say you're actually a stripper."

Gilbert laughs loudly but you are being serious. He wipes a tear and smiles a crooked grin. "Agreed. No more secrets. I have nothing else to confess. I am not a stripper, sorry to crush your dreams, West."

You say no more secrets and you know that is a two-way street. You have a confession to make.

"Well, I have one to make, Brother."

Gilbert raises his eyebrows. He stuffs his pale hands into his pockets. "Oh yeah? What could you have possibly done?"

You don't want to say and you almost don't. But you were going away soon and you might as well.

"I smoked one of your cigarettes when I was thirteen. I'm sorry," you say looking down in shame. You look back up when Gilbert doesn't say anything. "Why?" he asks disappointed.

You hate that look. "It was the summer Grandpa died. I saw Arthur that day when getting groceries. He offered me some when he heard Grandpa had died but I said no. But then I got home and saw you smoking outside. I then thought that I was missing out on something because Arthur did it and you did it, and I was sad and angry that you wouldn't let me see mom and dad, and we were always on the verge of being kicked out of the house, and there always seemed to be something wrong, and the house was always too warm, and I'm sorry."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Gilbert ruffles your hair despite being shorter now. "You're such a good kid, Ludwig. I almost forget you have moments of doubt."

"You're not mad?" you ask surprised.

"No. I'm not. I should have known. With my shitty parenting skills, I'm surprised you turned out so great, honestly. You should be out there smoking and drinking and being Arthur. But you didn't. And you confessed. What a saint you are! Kesese, you are so great Ludwig," he says proudly. He looks pensive for a short moment. "Only one?"

"Only one," you promise. Gilbert smiles. "Heh. Good to know." He walks ahead and you realize that the little green man is going to change soon to a red hand. You walk behind him and see the green man turn red when cars start to come again.

The red hand blinks to no one on the other side.

...

You see a lot more of Feliciano now that he knows how you look like. He screams your name in the hallway and clings to you in every possible way during the school day. He has one class with you and that is English. He tells you that he doesn't know how he never saw you before in class. You don't know either.

"Luddy, I want you to meet my friend, Kiku! He's really into computers and is super smart and stuff like you! But he's not as buff, or as tall, or as blonde, or as white. I think you'll like him," Feliciano says one day next to a small Asian boy. The Asian boy bows his head refusing to make eye contact. "Kiku Honda. Pleased to meet you, Ludwig."

You like that he's polite. Feliciano looks to you like an excited puppy and waits for your reply. "Pleasure is all mine." Feliciano cheers and leads you to the normal cafeteria table. You still make your own lunch.

"You always have such yummy looking lunch, Ludwig. Can I try some?" Feliciano asks. You shrug. You push your food in front of you, and Feliciano's eyes sparkle.

He takes his fork and stabs down on one of the meats. He puts it in his mouth and stays there with fork in mouth. He is frozen, eyes locked in place, and perfectly still for seconds.

"Feliciano? Are you alright?" you ask.

That undoes the spell. He immediately spits out your food and starts furiously chugging down water. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he breathes the water down his throat, and he gulps and gulps, and you stare at him in shock.

He stops chugging and makes an exaggerated gasping sound. "Oh, Dio mio that was absolutely horrible! My taste buds! How can you eat something so disgusting!"

"Feliciano, that's rude," Kiku scolds.

You pull the plate back. You got over it in fourth grade. "It's not for everyone," you say. Feliciano nods with little tears gathering in his eyes. He looks so pitiful. You sigh and wipe his tears away with a napkin. He needs to stop crying so much, you think. Feliciano pouts and you pull away once you see that his face is dry.

He digs into his pasta and relishes the fact that it's not your German cooking. You stab at your meat and chew. It did need some more seasoning, you think.

"Can you guys believe we'll be graduating in two months? Two months until we're adults, you guys! No more teachers to say I can't have pasta or take my siesta, and we'll be able to wear hats inside of buildings when we want, and I will be able to talk AS LOUD AS I WANT," Feliciano says shouting at the end to prove his point.

It's funny you think. How Feliciano enjoys the little things like wearing hats inside and inhaling pasta at any given moment of the day. It's something you would never have thought or cared about. It's always been like that you muse as you remember sitting at those gray long tables in a too bright cafeteria.

"I am looking forward to more sleep," Kiku says taking a bite out of his rice.

Feliciano brightens up. "I am too! More sleep and no more homework. Homework makes me feel sad."

You swallow some water down and can't remember a recent time when homework ever made you feel sad. There is that one time in third grade where you needed help with a worksheet, and Gilbert had come home drunk and useless. He didn't help, and you didn't know who to ask in the big, strange world of evil that Brother had said was out there. You turned in a blank paper and felt horrible when your teacher frowned at you and gave you a zero that day.

"Lovino is going to teach me how to drive this summer too," you zone back in, "but I have already begun practicing. I've only run into three mailboxes! The police love me, they never pull me over. The lights are pretty when I see them in the mirror. The sound, not so much. Lovino told me to floor it when I see that, and I feel bad for them because I always get away! I need to say I'm sorry somehow..."

You become irritated at such stupidity. You should be used to it considering it's Feliciano, but such a reckless driver on the road has no right to be getting a license anytime soon. Someone could die from such lackadaisical and blunt ignorance of precaution, you think. Feliciano could one day crash, and you don't know what you would do then.

So you hit him upside the head and glare. "You idiot, the police don't want to be your friends, they want to arrest you! You need to be careful and follow the rules of the road when driving or else you're going to get someone killed because of your carelessness. And you do not floor it when a cop comes. Mein Gott, you should be rotting in a cell right now."

Feliciano looks genuinely shocked, and his lip quivers. "But, but, Lovino said it was okay!"

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Then don't take advice from him."

"Oh, okay. Are you still mad?" he asks. You look to Kiku, and he is still eating rice calmly. You wonder why the hell you wanted friends in the first place.

Feliciano still looks like a kicked puppy. He almost looks like your dead Blackie when he was a pup. You miss Blackie.

You can't stay mad at him. It's like trying to be mad at a toddler who didn't know any better. It's such a blinding ignorance that you wonder just how this human came to be. He's a walking cartoon character and you're the loyal, forgotten sidekick.

"No, I guess I'm not...but don't be a dumbass on the road," you grouch because you take human life seriously. Just because you don't want to be alive doesn't mean someone else should decide the right to death.

Feliciano smiles big. "I'm glad. Oh! Guess what you guys, I have an art show this Friday. You guys are coming right?"

"Forgive me, Feliciano, I cannot," Kiku responds gaining a sour face, "I have to go help my older brother this weekend."

"Aww but Kiku, I wanted you to come," Feliciano whines.

"I'm sure Ludwig will come, correct?"

Feliciano looks to you with all the hope in the world trapped in glass amber orbs.

"When does it start?" you ask knowing that soccer practice takes most of your after-school time.

"At eight. You'll be there, right, right, right?"

And you know you can't say no. So you say yes. And Feliciano is happy and grinning brightly and hugging you. You blush and try to push the body that smells of basil leaves and cologne off of you because you are embarrassed by what people see. Feliciano's touch lingers on your arms for a bit before letting go.

...

The night you see Feliciano's work, you know you will never be a true anything.

Because his work is memorizing and rich with emotion. The strokes are gentle, and the curves of the woman are just right, and the face is so beautiful and symmetrical that you know that you don't know what talent is. You paint tragedy and show the canvas all your bitterness to the world that likes hope. Your paintings aren't bright or filled with serene faces. You don't understand color theory with color triads and split-complements, but you know that it will never compare to Feliciano's.

And so you stand there and admire the piece of work by the white wall shown in bright lights. The title is underneath on a thin, gold plaque but it's in Italian, and you only know German and English. You stand there even when people shuffle to the next work.

You want to touch the painting, but you know better. You aren't startled when a bubbly voice starts to talk to you.

"This was one was inspired by you. I saw one of your drawings, and I stayed up all night to finish this," Feliciano says beside you. He's not much shorter than you, coming up to your eyebrow level or so but you still look down to meet his eyes looking up. You don't know how such an ugly painting of yours could inspire something so great.

"How..." you murmur not understanding what Feliciano sees.

Feliciano blinks. "How? How what?"

"How could have I inspired you?" you ask searching the painting with thick strokes and fine lines.

Feliciano laughs. You know he doesn't understand how serious the question is. "Don't be silly, your work is amazing! I felt moved — that special feeling you get when you're inspired. You know it, right? That little jolt?"

You don't. You just draw the same things because you feel the same things.

"Not really."

Feliciano furrows his eyebrows. "You've never been inspired by someone? Anyone?"

You shake your head. You don't have a favorite artist or do anything to follow the artistic crowd. You are a weird paradox, you realize. You play soccer with dexterous feet, work out in a gym for most of the week, like math and sometimes English, and paint gentle rains with calloused fingers.

Feliciano sees this as a really sad affair by the face he makes. "Then how is your art so good?"

You recoil. You've heard that phrase so many times in your life, but it is his voice and his mouth that makes it so much more different and meaningful.

"I don't know...practice I guess," you say with a sandpaper tongue. "Lots and lots of practice."

Feliciano is not satisfied with that answer, but you don't know what else to say.

"I don't like this painting," Feliciano then tells you. "I don't like it because yours isn't beside it. It's lonely."

You don't know how, but you feel Feliciano's hand clutching onto yours. It's sudden and intrusive, and you're too scared to look down. You feel your heart beating through your throat, and you like the feeling of the warm, smooth hand against yours. You squeeze it — tentatively, softly, hopefully, because oh god this can't be all in your head — and the hand squeezes back. And your heart leaps because maybe Feliciano understands.

The simpering woman with arctic, glowing eyes stares back at you, and you see that yes, that smile is, in fact, sad.

...

It isn't a date until your brother tells you it is.

You and Feliciano spend a nice Saturday afternoon strolling around and talking. Feliciano does most of the chatting and tugging.

You buy him ice cream, but it falls into his lap, and your flannel finds itself on his body to cover up the stain. It's baggy, not incredibly so, on his frame, but Feliciano doesn't seem to think of it as anything more than what friends do. You've never had friends before, so you think that's what you're supposed to do. You've never been called kind so you still don't know.

"Is this where you work?" Feliciano asks excitedly when you two stroll past the pet shop you sometimes tell him about. You nod a little wearily as to what Feliciano will do with that information.

He opens the door, grabbing your wrist to make sure you came along with him, and steps inside to the sound of a small, metallic bell ringing. No one welcomes you, but the scent certainly does. Feliciano doesn't mind, not one bit by the way he is already bouncing over to see the fishes with fingers ready to press on the glass and stare at the brightly colored organisms. You walk over to him more calmly and answer every question he has about the variety of fishes on display. You walk alongside him, firing off facts and novelties about the little creatures you find severely underrated, and Feliciano soaks it all in. He hums and waves at the fishes when they turn to face him as if they could wave back. You ask him if you're boring him, and Feliciano shakes his head no. He's never bored with you, he says.

You don't understand how talking about...fishes could make someone so happy. You think he's probably just being polite or something. So you offer to show him the new puppies instead.

Feliciano doesn't face you when you ask him, his eyes training on the large goldfish swimming in circles instead. "Puppies?" He bites his lip.

You nod. "I can go ask one of my coworkers to let us go in the back. John owes me one for calling in 'sick' for a week."

Feliciano waves his hands out in front of him. "No, no it's okay, Ludwig you don't have to do that. There's a lot more cute animals we can see! Do you guys have ferrets? I want to see them fight. You know almost murder each other and all that, haha." He spins around, walking — pacing — away from you, and you're the one to grab his wrist this time as he almost disappears around a corner.

"We can't just go to a pet store and not see the dogs. Come on, I know you'll love them," you say with overconfidence and, well, (excitement). You tug Feliciano to the back, not taking any heed to the meek, quickening, "No, but Ludwig, I." He follows you despite saying otherwise so you take it as a sign of shy wanting. You're not sure of what, but when you carry the small, eager Labradoodle, you know you have made a mistake.

Feliciano is terrified of dogs, you learn. He trembles and shakes and physically can't bring himself near the curious puppy. That's when you know that this is an actual phobia. It's something that petrifies him to the core, makes his heart race, voice weak and quake. He isn't crying, but he turns his head to the side in shame. The puppy barks when a medium sized Golden Retriever comes bounding to them to feel included. Feliciano jolts and shuffles away in fear.

The dog immediately goes to circle and sniff Feliciano which makes him suck a deep breath in, quickly and sharply, and back away violently from the persistent dog. The Golden Retriever thinks of it as some kind of game and trots faster to him, staring up and panting in anticipation. It barks, this time louder and deeper, sending Feliciano to a panicked state.

You watch the interaction in sadness and feel the unwavering need to show Feliciano just how loving and wonderful dogs can be. Blackie never made you feel alone and was always there to lick away your salty tears. Pets are wonderful and essential to you.

It isn't an easy feat for you, of course. There's a lot of resistance and pleas and crying, but you are determined.

"Feliciano, take my hand," you instruct when Feliciano once again backs away harshly when the Golden Retriever wags its tail. You try talking to him, placating and reassuring him that nothing will happen, but it seems action will be the best mentor after all. Feliciano shakes his head furiously, and you fear he will bolt away.

You take his hand by force, not roughly, and Feliciano doesn't move away. You lower him and yourself down to the ground so that you're both kneeling. Both of your knees hit the tile and the world seems larger from down below. He doesn't stand back up but goes on to plea once more.

"Ludwig, I really don't want to. It's fine, I don't need to be unafraid of dogs, really. I'm already a giant, dumb crybaby, it makes no difference. Can we just go do something else? Please? Please?"

You look at him in the eye. "Do you trust me?"

Feliciano lowers his head a bit, his hair brushing against his eyelashes as he looks to the side."I do. But..."

You pull him closer to you so that when he gets his doubts and fears he will not feel alone. You feel him squirm against you and notice his legs crossing together. You assume its in fear but his face is starting to turn red.

"Her name is Abby. She's a good girl, Feliciano. She's a lot like you, see? She doesn't like seeing others sad." Your hand is on his, and you lower his unwilling palm to touch her fur slowly. Your larger hand touches the warm, bony body of Abby who is getting bored. Your hands just stay there, letting Feliciano know that it's okay, Abby isn't going to move or growl or bark. You thumb his knuckles in assurance as you carefully let go, watching Feliciano's conflicted face, and his hand stays. You watch him proudly as he begins to hesitantly move his hand back and forth on the dog to see how she reacts. She lays her head down but does nothing else.

Feliciano then gives you the most beautiful and genuine smile, his cheeks faintly pink. He runs his hands on her fur excitedly. He laughs when the dog perks up and rolls on her belly. He doesn't recoil when he gazes back at her eyes for the second time. He smiles and tackles you so that you're both on the floor.

You groan a bit when your head hits the floor. You look up at him where he is smiling ebulliently and radiantly. It's almost like he's at a loss for words, the only emotions flowing through his body uncontrollably, ever flowing sanguineness and gratitude.

"You're so amazing, Luddy. So, so amazing." He hunches his shoulders up and there is no scarf this time to hide the gentle stretch of his lips. The sunlight that filters in through the window highlights his speckled amber eyes, and you find yourself short of breath as well. The feeling, the sudden pounding behind your ribcage and warmness doesn't go away even as you round up the dogs in a flustered, confused state.

"She was so calm, Luddy. She was nothing like the dogs I knew growing up!" Feliciano recounts never facing away from you as he gestures and moves. You hold the door out for him as he walks out of the store and nod.

"What kind of dog made you so scared, Feliciano?" you ask curiously.

"It was this really scary German Shepherd that my neighbor had when I was a kid. Really big and really buff. Kinda like you but it was brown and not as cuddly. It would bolt to me every time I came home from school and bark loudly. It was behind a fence, but the fence was really weak. I could see its face all squished up by the wood with its sharp teeth and slobber and growling throat and angry, rabid eyes and strong body wanting to attack me."

"I was scared that the fence would one day just snap — maybe its head would burst through and finally tear my body apart like it wanted to every day. It always jumped against the fence, pawed at it, and clawed at it so eager to escape and..."

He looks away, his face offaly solemn. You notice that he has defined cheekbones when they aren't scrunched up.

"It was terrifying. The neighbor went away, though, and took his dog with him."

Blackie was a German Shepard and you can't really imagine him as a dangerous dog. You know they are fierce, but that image just doesn't really sit in your mind because Blackie was so kind and loving to you.

"Why didn't you tell your neighbor to put it on a leash if it scared you so much? Lovino is your older brother, right? Why didn't he do anything?"

Feliciano finds you statement funny for some reason. "Lovino was just as scared if not more than me!" He shakes his head. "He would use me as a meat shield on the way home from school. He always cursed at it, and that always made it angrier, so he would run away shoving me toward the fence as he sprinted away. He always made the dog furious, but never looked back."

"Lovino sounds like an absolute dick."

Feliciano shrugs. "Yeah. He kinda is, but I still love him." He looks back to you, and the familiar smile comes back. "He's my Fratello after all."

You understand. Gilbert is intolerable on most days but you know you can't imagine a world without him.

Feliciano suddenly falls to the concrete floor. You make sure he is okay with worry but then become irritated when the accident is caused because by his untied shoelaces.

"Idiot. You double knot to make sure these things don't happen," you say as you lead the both of you to a bench so Feliciano can tie his shoes.

"Tie them for me, Luddy. Tie them for me," Feliciano demands childishly swinging his legs back and forth. The day is cold and you are taller than Feliciano. You don't have your sketchbook this time, sadly.

You give him a look. "I'm not tying your shoelaces, Feliciano."

"Okay..."

Feliciano hunches over pitifully in the seat and just stretches his arms out as if to bend over and tie the shoes. He doesn't move much farther and makes little noises as if in a struggle to move farther than a couple degrees. He eventually goes all the way and ties the lace once only to redo it and do it again. He takes it apart, re-ties, takes it apart and repeats again, doesn't like the asymmetry and then goes once more, then again and again until you can't take it anymore.

You lace his shoes securely and tightly in neat little bows so no tripping can happen again. He wiggles his foot.

"Oh wow, you're so nice! You made little bows and double knotted them for me. Thanks, Luddy!" Feliciano says chipperly jumping off the bench with energy that wasn't there before. You give him a deadpan look from the ground below. Feliciano is a child, and children are known for being conniving little twerps.

You get up and dust your pants. "Ja, Ja. Where do you want to go now?"

You suggest coffee but Feliciano goes on a long rant about proper coffee beverages at certain times of the day with his hands and you are very amused. So amused that you smile because it's cute in a way.

You two don't get coffee because you respect Feliciano's little custom and instead buy some sweets. You love baked goods, and Feliciano does too because they remind him of Roderich and Elizaveta. You guys talk and it's nice. Even if it is cold.

Feliciano despises the cold, you learn when you're done with the warm chocolate bread and now sit in a lively, little shop with jazz music playing in the background as a soft hum.

It's a weird choice, but the things Feliciano say are stranger. He's never had a cavity before and didn't know what the tooth fairy was until he moved to America. His favorite pasta is too hard to decide so he doesn't have one. He broke a bone once in seventh grade trying to climb a tree to touch a cloud in the sky, but that backfired on him when he crashed down. He loves the color green, he tells you and has a tabby back at home. He used to live in Italy, but he barely remembers it anymore. He doesn't like the dark and can't sleep alone, and he still wishes he got stickers as grades instead of numbers.

He is a giant child with eyes that hold a certain melancholy and wisdom.

It is also through him that you learn Mr. Vargas had died.

"Nonno, grandpa, died three years ago. I was really sad. I visited the Middle School and saw that a new principal was there. Someone called Mrs. Achermann or something. She wasn't nonno..."

You barely remember that name. It itches at the back of your mind of a woman with stained red lips and tight cheekbones. You know she was your kindergarten teacher but that is as far as you can remember.

It is on that outing that you realize that Feliciano knows loss and pain and loneliness just as well as anyone does. You don't see many people talk to Feliciano even if Feliciano talks to many people. He is like a patient, rentable friend that no one wants to hear or really hang around for purposes other than to fulfill their own issues. They carelessly discard him when done, thinking that he will always be happy and eager for them to come back. And when they do come back to talk, they stretch a pull string on his back to wind up the old doll, only wanting a certain amount of words that can be easily ignored, and don't look back when he wilts on his shelf and waits with sad eyes for another person to come by and pull the string again.

His warm chatter, no matter how much he tries and tries, can't break through the impenetrable, brick wall of apathetic students.

He's annoying, you've heard others say many times when he's out of earshot. He acts so gay the boys on the football team mock. And the girls defend him by saying he's nice and funny but will admit that he's weird and a little much.

Feliciano, you come to sadly realize, doesn't have many real friends. He might be well known and have someone to talk to for most classes, but actual friends? That has to be the only reason he tries so hard to be with you...

Feliciano takes a bite out of his cake and looks at you with half-hooded eyes. Feliciano isn't smiling and you rarely smile either. You look down and debate if you should spill your life story as well. Tell him how you didn't have parents because they wanted to leave the world all too eagerly and how your grandpa died by falling down his porch, cracking his skull and leaving you and Gilbert divided and united.

"My grandpa died too. When I was in seventh grade. I was," you pause because you have forced yourself to not think about this in a long time, "I was really sad too. I missed him too." You are whispering now. You didn't think your whispers would ever be heard by someone else other than yourself in the dark room and cold sheets.

"I really miss him...it never goes away, does it?" he asks you.

"No, it never really does," you agree. He twirls his fork on one prong.

"We didn't have enough money for the funeral. Grandpa went bankrupt and had to work in his retirement years to keep up. He was cremated and...one day I want to go back to Italy and let the ashes go to the sea. I think that would be nice..." he twirls the fork some more, "don't you think?"

And then you tell him about Grandpa, the full story, but you don't talk about your hungry stomach, or your hatred towards warmth and buzzing, and you don't tell him about the things he should have known. Even now, Feliciano still doesn't really know, does he?

Eventually, you guys move on from the subject to happier and more casual things, but there is something else there that wasn't before. A connection — a language — that makes it feel different.

Even as you get popcorn to watch the movie, and hush Feliciano as he talks loudly all throughout the previews — even as you force a straw against Feliciano's lips to just be quiet, he slurps the slushie with the whistling plastic against his teeth and pops his mouth when the straw backs away to comment on how good the drink was, and even then, as you drive home in the dark, content and replaying Feliciano's goodbye by the passenger's seat, you feel the pounding in your chest, the warmth — because those never went away from earlier — and the feeling of maybe, finally, happiness. You tap the steering wheel to the sound of an old guitar solo from the radio and run a hand through your hair as you slow down to a complete stop due to a red light.

You are incredibly happy right now, and you're glad that there is no one to see your ugly smile because you can't contain the absolute joy that keeps thrumming your body.

And apparently, according to Gilbert, you are one step closer to getting laid because that was a date.

(You actually laugh at that. No one will ever love you like that, you know.)

It is as you tuck yourself into bed with the cold cross on your bony collarbone that you remember that Feliciano had called you kind. You clutch onto the bed sheet and can't help but think how nice it feels for it to be said out loud.

...

You go to prom with Feliciano that year.

Kiku gains a certain look and smiles mysteriously when you tell him this. He covers his mouth and then shooes you out Feliciano's door after taking many pictures by the luxurious stairway and whatever other location photographer Kiku wants the both of you stand in. Feliciano asks one more time if Kiku really doesn't want to come along with them. It's not as fun, he insists. There is still time to go find a tux, he reminds.

Kiku shakes his head no, however, and tells the two of you to enjoy yourselves. You want him to join but respect his decision to stay at home and watch anime.

So you and Feliciano descend down the stairs, and you listen to him talk about how excited he is to go to a party. He's never really invited to parties, and he sighs and looks at the horizon turning to dawn. He's so glad to go with you he admits jumping over a puddle from the rain that fell the night before.

But Feliciano spills juice all over himself, making him blink and wail at the tragedy of his expensive shirt ruined. You drape your blazer over his shoulders and gruffly tell him to stop crying where Feliciano wipes his eyes and says thank you with a lot more emotion than you think is necessary.

You feel out of place in just your white, ironed shirt among the men in black, but find that it doesn't really matter because Feliciano has punch stains hidden underneath his now pristine, larger blazer.

Teenagers "dance", lights flash of all kinds of colors across the large gymnasium illuminating the both of you in blues and reds and greens, Feliciano dark for a moment before a wonderful bright color that he deserves to be in passes by, and music thumps and plays against your feet and ears.

Prom is hot, annoying, and packed.

You chase a stray puppy that lurks around due to the smell of food an hour in. Feliciano is fast when chasing something and catches up with you quickly. And you guys don't go back to the crowded, sweaty gymnasium filled with hormonal teenagers and blasting music in the background. The red solo cups and the awkward slow dancing aren't your guy's thing, after all.

You swirl your aluminum can outside and see a ladybug crawl on the orange pavement. The old street lamp is on, and the bulb is a dull orange. The lamp makes a slight buzzing noise, and you almost don't mind the sound of pop music coming from the gymnasium. You don't like rap or EDM, so you take a swig of your Fanta.

"You do know how stereotypical this is, right?" you ask setting down your can to the uneven, glittery pavement.

Feliciano is sitting to your right and trying to touch his toes along to the beat of the grasshoppers. "Why do you say that?" You see bright lights and the sound of tire hitting concrete in your peripheral vision, but it's just a high schooler in an old car.

You shrug. "Who would have guessed, the two losers outside."

Feliciano looks to you, and you notice that his eyes are so much prettier than yours. He smiles. "But I'm having more fun outside here than in there. Does that mean losers can't have fun?"

You take the can and feel the metal touch the button of your nose. You're out of soda. "I guess not," you say putting the hollow can to the ground and listening to its empty echo as it hits the pavement. You see that the ladybug is gone, and you lean back with the palm of your hands behind you. The ground cuts into your palms, and it is painful, but you have felt worse, and you can't help but really like how dark the sky is.

Is it black or an unknown shade of blue, you wonder.

It is just you and Feliciano sitting in the parking lot looking at the sky feeling the warm air whisp around you comfortably. There are no stars out but that is okay. Feliciano has an iPod and plays some music to not listen to the booming sound from the bricks. It is a dull throb to the turbulent playlist in that starless night. You debate whether chili is vegetarian or just normal and tell Feliciano that the suit isn't even yours, and Feliciano tells you that he was pretty sure his suit was from the women's section so it was okay.

You think back to that night and laugh. You guys were such losers. But you guys had been happy.

...

Graduation makes you feel old and anxious.

Old because you've always felt that school just dragged on longer for you. Anxious because you are finally moving away from Gilbert to the college you have wanted since middle school. It wasn't until middle school that you had thought about these kinds of things.

You also feel a bitter melancholy go through you as all seniors do. You try to commit the cafeteria to memory so you can remember all the times Feliciano embarrassed you and how Kiku would add in his sassy little comments slyly. You want to remember the hallways and lockers and maybe not so much the students, but the building itself because the building makes it seem as if there were more happy memories than there really are. The bright posters, the announcements that someone always managed to stutter or mess up on, and glass walls. You want to remember it.

But you are just as excited to graduate and leave just as everyone else. Even if the cap doesn't fit your head all that well and it's hot and itchy against your scalp. The red gown is fine but you hate the color red.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt," the principal calls. Gilbert cheers loudly and obnoxiously and you internally sigh. Graduation had somehow along the way become a popularity contest among the students and parents. It seemed that if you didn't get a bleacher's worth of hollering, you aren't important or loved. Gilbert is loud all on his own so that it not a problem for you. You just wish Gilbert didn't have to receive such dark looks.

You walk up the stage, shake the woman's hand who smiled and said congratulations to you and walked back to your seat. You take a seat back down and you know Feliciano and Kiku are in the crowd. You like your last name. It always went early.

You feel the fake diploma in your hands wrapped up prettily in a red ribbon. You know that once you unwrap the loose ribbon, a piece of paper with congratulations will show but it will not have your name. You feel the material and then the stickiness of the day. You are getting a headache. The ceremony has already dragged on for fifty minutes.

More students are called up through a breathy, accented voice that is too close to the microphone. You see Kiku go up and get his diploma and feel a twitch on your lips because he wants to bow and get off the stage quickly. No one claps or shouts for him but you know that it would have been weird if someone had.

More names are called, and you want to take off your cap. The speakers are loud because the student council insisted that the ceremony be outside on the football field. So there you sat on the uneven grass and an overheated, plastic chair. The heat to your head is killing you especially since your seat is right by the sun. You curse global warming because you know it wasn't always this hot in early June.

You wait until Feliciano's name is called. He bounces up the stage with his airy walk of his and shakes the hand vigorously. Kiku had dared to Feliciano to go up to the microphone and make a speech. And you see him almost about to do when his eyes meet yours. He walks off the stage. The walk to his seat is kind of long but you don't turn back to see just how long. But his name serves as a marker because the ceremony is almost done.

You could not be any happier.

...

The goodbyes are awful.

Feliciano will not stop crying and hugging you. Kiku and Feliciano are at your house because Feliciano wanted to drop by. He has come over many times. Not because you invite him, but because he lives close to you, and that is the only reason Feliciano needs to invite himself in.

You pat his back. "We'll see each other soon," you say softly looking down to your chest where Feliciano's head rested. He sniffles. He tightens his grip on your torso, and you sigh. You knew this day would come. Your gown is on the couch, and Gilbert had disappeared not wanting to "kill the mood".

"But, but, it won't be the same!" Feliciano blubbers with a cracked voice. You feel your stomach drop. You don't like the idea of leaving Feliciano and being alone again.

"I'll come back to visit during the breaks and it's not like I'm leaving tomorrow. I leave in August," you say in hope to make him feel better. He grips on tighter.

"That means we only have two months left!" Feliciano wails sounding even more devastated. You look to Kiku for help, but he looks just as lost.

"Then we'll make the most out of it," you say with thoroughness. Feliciano stops hiccupping and looks to with shiny eyes. "You mean it?" he asks.

"Of course," you say.

And that is how you find yourself spending the whole summer with Kiku and Feliciano. It's just the three of you through the pleasant days, and it's like the childhood summer you never had. It is picture perfect in your mind, and sometimes you have to pause and question if it's actually real.

"Luddy, take off your clothes already and jump in! The water feels great!"

"Not when you're naked! Put on some briefs at least!"

"Kiku doesn't mind it, right Kiku? You have a nice body, there isn't anything to be ashamed of!"

"Kiku fainted, you idiot! I am not jumping into the lake. You have no clothes on, and this is most likely illegal. Someone will see and — "

"Oh, you're all wet. I guess you have to take off your clothes now!"

"FELICIANO! Why the hell would you pull me into the lake?! What if I couldn't swim!"

"Then I would save you!"

Swimming at the lake had been fun. And swinging on the swings had been fun too even if parents did give you weird and dirty looks for hogging them. You have a bonfire too, and Feliciano burns all his books and papers in it. He flings a textbook into the flames to see how long it will take for the pages to turn into a crisp, and you almost have a stroke. It's just his English textbook he says. It's a no big deal, he sings. But that was the only class you had ever had with him.

You meet his older brother too. Lovino despises you for some reason. You say hello and he says fuck off man bitch. You like his creative insults. You didn't know there were so many combinations of insults for a German. You almost look forward to how he will insult you. You don't really mind that he hates you because you don't hate him. So in July when he phones you for help in moving his mattress and bed frame you say yes. Even if the plea is, "I'm just calling you because you're on steroids and potatoes and shit and this is fucking community service bastard."

Lovino moves in with Antonio in the city that summer adding onto Feliciano's sadness. Feliciano is eighteen and perfectly capable of taking care of himself. In theory, of course. He is a clinging mess, and Lovino almost feels bad that he chooses love over family.

Feliciano stays at your house for six nights that week before you force him to chin up and look at the brighter things.

"Lovino loves Antonio. People in love do things that might hurt others but in their mind it's right. Lovino doesn't love you any less, however."

"I know...but just because I know it doesn't make it hurt any less..."

You're not good at comforting people because people have never really shared anything with you. But Feliciano finds great comfort in sleeping and cuddling in your bed even if you are as stiff as a board those nights. You feel his warm breath on your neck and his softer, shorter body next to your taught one. And you feel something that makes you squirm and restless. You want to turn and do something but you don't know what.

Either way, Feliciano never stays sad long because he has you. That's what he tells you at least.

His house is warm and you love it. The kitchen is much brighter, and the red numbers are fine in his house. It's Feliciano's. You spend so many nights there without intending to, and you can't imagine not being friends with Feliciano. It's almost like you have known him all along. As if you had been close childhood friends. You just get along with him so well. You get annoyed by his:

"Luddy, help me!"

"I didn't know metal couldn't go in the microwave. Yahoo Answers failed me!"

"The cat scratched me! Rabies! RABIES! It hurts, it hurts! Kiss it better?"

"It's illegal to lick a doorknob in Ohio, did you know that? But I licked one anyway...! I wouldn't recommend it."

but you sigh in fondness anyway because he deals with your:

"No, Feliciano. I am not leaving the house until all the clothes are folded into squares."

"This GPS has never failed me. We are going the right way, see? Don't worry, this is the perfect shortcut. Will you stop screaming already!"

"You're wheezing after ten damn steps! We're training from now on so you can get in shape. Six thirty sharp and you better not come in only a shirt this time."

"Potatoes are a perfectly good midnight snack. And breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. And appetizer. And dessert. Potatoes are great."

That summer you paint more than you have ever. You draw and spend hours locked away in your room making quick strokes and hating the stroke you just made. Your clothes are splattered with stains of blue and purple from a painting you can never re-create. The paintbrush feels wrong, and you don't like the way the pencil hits the paper.

Feliciano wins another award that summer. He gets a call from a prestigious university a week later.

He is making pasta in your kitchen when his cell phone rings. You dwindle down your last sentence so he can press the little cellphone against his ear, and he speaks loudly, cheerfully into the speaker as if the person is right in front of him with no hesitation. There are rapid hand movements, his tan wrist flying into the air with every word he begins to gradually chipper out in excitement, and you begin to become concerned with how high-pitched Feliciano's voice is becoming. He laughs, and he rambles. He's happy, looking out the window with such surprise and delight, and then he says his goodbyes and farewells to cut the call with his eager finger and spin to you. He tackles you into a hug, and will not stop chattering, "You won't believe this, Ludwig. Guess who that was? I did it. I did it! I really did it!"

You celebrate with a bitter smile. You hug back, murmur congratulations to his ear, and don't let the truth come through when you gaze back at his absolutely radiant self.

You throw away your sketchbook into the lake that summer. And you see it sink until there is nothing left in that sticky and noisy heat.

Despite the feelings of confused loneliness brewing within you, it amazes you how you have only known Feliciano for six months. By that July of senior year, you meet the most important person in your life. The person to make your life worth living for. It is exhilarating and just oh so wonderful for your parched, deprived soul.

That summer really is the happiest summer of your life. And as you pack another box with tape, you know that all good things must come to an end.

"Aren't you going to miss your friends, West?" Gilbert asks sitting on your bed. Only one more box to go, and you will be moving away from the town that gives you everything.

"You know Gilbert, I really am."

...

You share your first kiss on the playground.

It's with Feliciano. Feliciano kisses you on the lips with a gasping breath and cast away eyes. You don't pull away, but don't respond back. You don't know how.

"I'm. I'm so sorry, Ludwig...I shouldn't have — I don't even know if you're gay. I just. I'm going to miss you so much, and you're leaving and Lovino is gone too, and Elizaveta is pregnant and will be really big and round soon with a little baby, and —"

You don't know the rest of the reasons because you kiss him back. You don't need to know what to do, you just do it. You have always been this way. You always think about the next thing.

You still feel anxious and restless, but Feliciano melts against you perfectly, and it isn't perfect. The kiss. It's inexperienced and requires more work than you had thought. Your teeth clank against his for a moment, but you feel all the emotion you didn't know you had into the touch. You pull away because you need to breathe. You don't want to breathe, you want to continue because your heart is beating madly and frantically.

Feliciano is dazed and for once speechless. He breathes out shakily, and you wish a puff of white would come out. "I...I love you, Ludwig," he says.

You feel dryness attack your throat and that same feeling of adrenaline run through your veins. Feliciano is a dangerous fire to your malleable feelings of gasoline. You don't want to admit it. You have to admit it. He has said it. You don't have to say it. But you are about to leave. And you say it.

"I love you, Feliciano," you whisper back not saying too because the word too doesn't measure how much love you can really express. You feel it isn't right to say as Feliciano cries and comes crashing down to your chest. He hugs you tighter than he has ever before, and the sun beats down on both of your necks. It is still hot, your slight tan not comparing to Feliciano's sun-kissed skin.

He cries, and you can't say it is okay because it isn't. He cries and makes a wet stain on your shirt. You hug him back and wonder just when you came to love such a lazy, loud, and misguided heart. He isn't a cartoon character, a joke, or stupid.

"You say the strangest things, Feliciano. Every time we see each other it's always something different."

"You think so? I just act the way I think you see me. "

He is Feliciano Vargas, the boy who lost his parents at the age of nine and never truly understood why. It was never explained to him, but it was considered okay because he showed the same alacrity in his grandfather's care. He grew up with an older brother who had needed some happiness in his life. It wasn't fair his brother accused, so Feliciano created two states of happiness — one fake and one real — for the sake of his family because he loved them so much.

He didn't let them know that he was the boy who got bullied because he liked to sing the lyrics and dance. He was the one people didn't notice when he was made fun of for being short and weak, loud and excitable, and painfully trusting. He was the butt of many jokes, everyone thinking it's fine because he fully agreed and laughed along with them. (He made them happy, therefore he's happy!) He was always jubilant, brushing off the comments from his chipping armor, and so no one cared enough to simply ask if he was something more.

He liked to talk, curious and hungry for people's affection and stories, and didn't know why he was castigated. He lost himself, shading and coloring the only thing people took him seriously for, his art, his pictures, and appearance, and hoped that they would see that he was worth more than what people said. He spoke his heart on the canvas, yet people didn't really listen when he explained with his mouth. He doesn't know how it feels like to be truly listened to. He has many anxieties and fears but never wanted them to slip through.

"It's not like I'm leaving forever," you say. Feliciano stops shaking his shoulders and looks up to with eyes of glass.

"I will be back...and we can call and FaceTime and — "

"I'm coming with you," Feliciano says. "I'm coming with you," he says to himself to confirm it out loud again.

"You can't come with me, Feliciano. It's too late to enroll, and you know freshman can't own apartments —"

"I don't care! I want to be with you!" he says desperately. You feel touched. You feel sad.

"Feliciano..." you begin softly, "you know you can't come with me. It's too sudden. You haven't talked with Lovino about this, and you can't stay in a dorm with me..." You despise being so logical because it makes Feliciano look even more crestfallen.

"Lovino didn't tell me when he moved out. He just did and left me. He was so happy with Antonio, and they — why can't I be happy with you? Why can't I do the same?" he asks breaking apart.

"Feliciano you're making this harder for me too," you say swallowing down the knot in your throat. "I don't want to leave you either."

"Then don't."

"...I can't just let that money go to waste. You know how valuable money is, Feliciano."

Feliciano looks defeated and instead just holds onto you. You are fine with that as you bury your face into the crown of his head. He smells of green apple shampoo. You make it a goal to never eat red apples again.

And like that, you leave town for twelve months with unwilling legs and a heavy heart.

...

The first year of college makes you miserable.

You are out of state and far away from the neighborhood with green grass and colorful leaves. Your roommate is obnoxious and not necessarily homophobic, but not necessarily supportive. You still paint but it is hard to find time considering the workload. You are studying to be an architect, and the work is starting to pile up.

Your roommate is a slob, and you are neat. He stays up till three in the morning playing League of Legends while you can barely get signal to FaceTime Feliciano at nine.

You wonder how he has been during your absence. How he truly is — not how he is when the camera turns on, or when the text bubble gets marked with read — but how he is in his dorm, running to class, eating out, studying, and essentially everything that you wish you could be a part of. Not when he's alone, because Feliciano is never alone with other people, but alone in his head. It's a question that sometimes bothers you until you realize that it's more of a question that isn't even about him.

You don't know because it seems like your life is once again confined to the narrow walls of white and hanging colorful posters. You work at a bagel shop because you have always liked baking. The few times you would make something with Gilbert, you had found immense joy in it. But as you smell the dough, you think it's maybe because Gilbert had been home by four forty instead of one.

You look down at your paper of small black text and pictures of shapes and hit your head against the desk not feeling the sting through your temple. Your roommate asks what your problem is but you don't answer because you just stare at the wood of your small bed in a glazed, existential state. You don't feel anything, and you feel like you're not even in your own body anymore. The intense clicking of your roommate's mouse floats through your ears as you breathe in with unfocused eyes.

You blink, and it goes away. You get out of your chair immediately, put on a coat for the cold weather, and go buy another sketchbook that day.

You draw Feliciano crying blue flowers.

...

You come back in the summer.

And when you do, it is momentous. There is a lot of touching and kissing by Feliciano, and you feel older somehow. Because you are now nineteen and even broader than before. Your chest still hurts and feels weird, but you know exactly why.

Your legs are tangled with Feliciano's on the small bed, and he is shirtless and warm. His feet are touching your shins, and his head is happy to rest on your paler chest. You miss this. You miss this so fucking much you don't give him an explanation when you kiss him again on the bed. You see that little curl of his stand up. He is so cute, you think as you pull away and gaze at him just taking in his features.

"Luddy is so affectionate today," Feliciano purrs. You pull him closer and feel the rigid bones of his shoulder blades and where the skin stretched on your hand. This is all yours. All yours.

Feliciano tells you about his own experience in college answering the questions that plagued you before.

He was widely recognized on campus and many sought him out for tips. The teachers criticized a lot of his pieces, he tells you as you put on some sweats, but it wasn't in the intention to deride. He didn't always get the work done on time, but he liked the experience because there were others like him. But none like Luddy, he says with fondness.

His roommate wasn't too bad, and he actually liked him. He wasn't mean, he tells you, so that was considered nice by default. His girlfriend was a shy little thing, and he liked her choices in clothes he retells you as you put on a v-neck.

The days are spent telling each other what you guys had missed, and you feel like the separation is a little good. Because now the two of you are tired of real life and ready to indulge in the fantasy of summer.

But nothing can ever beat the summer of twelfth grade. Because the lake isn't as fun without Kiku.

Kiku left to go study back in Tokyo. You had felt a wave of sadness wash over you. You were going to miss Kiku with all of his odd politeness and (not) so rare moments of sassiness and sarcasm. You were going to miss his warm tea and looks to the side of wisdom. He always knew what to say and when to say it. His eyes were keen and his smile did not reveal much. He had this air of familiarity and untouchableness that you were going to want to be around for longer. But you had seen him off at the airport and he had been gone like that through the skies of never-ending blue.

The waters aren't as innocent or exciting because you know what lied at the bottom of it. The canopy of trees provide a wonderful shade, and you don't feel as warm that summer even if the temperatures are another record high. And as you go back for another year of college, you don't know why.

Your sketchbook is filled by the end of the summer. You buy another one and say goodbye to Feliciano again.

...

When you were nineteen, you had time to reflect everything in your life up until that point and decide that senior year was a cauldron of bitterness and misery with a happy ray of optimism that was Feliciano.

It all results in the same pain, and you don't understand why.

You are now twenty and know that that suffering is nothing in comparison to the early fall of sophomore year of college.

Because it is that summer that Gilbert gets into a car crash.

It's Gilbert's fault. It's Francis's fault. It's Antonio's fault. You don't care whose fault it is because Gilbert is in the E.R.

Gilbert had gone out drinking. That's fine, it's normal for you. It's been normal for you for a very long time. Francis was supposed to be the driver that night. But he drank when Antonio and Gilbert had been just as equally buzzed and talking from the booze and not their brains.

You don't need the full story to know that Gilbert had gotten behind the wheel. He's driven while drunk so many times he thought of himself as some kind of expert at the illegal practice. He had experience, he knew how to make it seem as if he could see straight, right, haha! He would make it home to his little half-brother waiting patiently by the corner of the wall at ungodly hours.

But you are twenty now and wish it had been you who had died when Gilbert crashed into another sober family. They were T-boned violently on an old back road, and you don't know what to do with yourself when you find out that everyone was sent rushing to the hospital with blood and glass and cold heart rates.

You don't know what happened to Antonio and Francis. You don't care. You are speeding to the hospital with your foot planted on the pedal so that you can feel the car floor. Feliciano is beside you shaking and clutching the bar above the window. You know that he isn't afraid of the speed, but instead of what is chasing the both of you with frightening, amorphous viscosity. He doesn't say anything as you swerve the car and pray to god flashing lights don't appear behind you.

"Is this Ludwig Beilschmidt?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

Feliciano poked his head out of the kitchen. You guys were watching a movie, and you had to pause when your cell phone started ringing. He walked towards you with sock covered feet chomping on popcorn. He took a seat on the couch and made himself comfortable.

"This is the police department. Your brother has been charged with D.U.I. tonight, sir. He is not arrested, he is being taken to the E.R. first. We assume he's unconscious, but from the force of the hit, it is very likely that he has entered a coma-like state."

You stood up and clutched tighter onto the glass phone in your hand.

"..."

"Luddy? Who is it? Can we get back to watching the movie now?"

"I...I understand officer. Thank you for informing me. May I go visit him now?"

"I do not control hospital regulations, sir."

Feliciano hugged onto the bowl of popcorn from the other side of the couch to his chest. He had his knees pulled up, and his back was resting where the armrests were so that he is facing directly to your stiff profile.

"I see. Thank you."

"..."

"Luddy? Luddy? Where are you going? What's going on? Why did the police call? Why do you look like that — something is wrong. Why are grabbing your keys and —"

You can't believe it. You want to be angry at Gilbert doing such a stupid and reckless thing, but your heart just won't let you. It beats and thrashes, and it's afraid. You want to scream at Feliciano to shut up, but he's not saying anything and that makes you angrier.

You don't know what to feel. Nobody ever told you how to feel. It's like Grandpa all over again, but this time you understand.

You make it to the hospital without being pulled over, and you feel as though maybe the police knew it was you. You dismiss the idea almost immediately because you walk into the calm hospital of white walls and colorful posters.

You look to your right to see Feliciano just as nervous and anxious, and you wish to calm him down with all the things you want to tell yourself.

The hospital waiting room is cold. The temperature outside was eighty-three that night and the coldness that seeps through your bones from the machines is almost nice. You feel goosebumps. You hear the television play CNN in the background with monotone voices and the shuffling of papers from the other patients who stare at you and Feliciano.

The tan woman at the desk looks up to you bored from her computer. She had been typing and the sounds of clicking keyboards still continue from the other side.

"Hello, you'll need to si —"

"I need to see Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was just admitted to the E.R. I am Ludwig Beilschmidt, his brother," you say roughly clutching onto the counter.

She seems to be in no rush as her long nails click and click on the keyboard. "How do you spell his last name?"

You exhale deeply. You can't punch this woman. You can't punch this woman. "B-e-i-l-s-c-"

"C-s or s-c?" she asks looking up from her glasses with dull eyes.

"S. C," you bite out clearly. She frowns not liking your attitude.

"Alright. Continue."

"H-m-i-d as in dog, and t," you say feeling your hands getting clammy.

She nods and clicks that stupid keyboard of hers. You see the screen reflect through her glasses, and you know that your brother has to be one of those names on the long list.

"Here it is. Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was admitted only thirty minutes ago, no visitors allowed yet."

You feel your stomach ache. "When will he be out?" you ask desperately. She almost looks sad for you.

"I don't know, sweetheart. I will tell you as soon as visitors are allowed. Also, is he family as well?" she asks moving her eyes to Feliciano.

You freeze for a moment. Gay relationships may be fine with the young and liberal people but many adults still hold their jaundiced views. You want to say, boyfriend because that is what he is but that title now seems silly because he's so much more to you.

"No. He's not. He's my boyfriend."

She looks surprised, and you glower deeply daring her to comment on it. Feliciano moves uncomfortably, and you feel sorry for having to drag him into your problems. He shouldn't have to deal with this, you think.

"Only family is allowed to visit," she says. And Feliciano wilts because Gilbert is family to him.

You had been worried for a time that Gilbert would steal Feliciano away from you because Gilbert loves to coo how cute and adorable Feliciano is. And Feliciano is so oblivious and naive sometimes about these kinds of things. You had been gone for long periods of time and that house by the corner with Elizaveta as a neighbor became his house too. You know that Gilbert needed Feliciano just as much as Feliciano had needed Gilbert to not be sad over you.

Don't you feel loved.

You thank the woman and lead Feliciano out of the hospital.

"Ludwig..." Feliciano says for the first during the trip.

You don't say anything back because you get back into the car. You slam the door shut, and the sound of the night is blocked off. It's just you and Feliciano breathing in a tense, silent air. The sky is starless again. You don't care what color it is.

Feliciano sits in the passenger's seat with pure worry on his soft face. You clutch onto the steering wheel and feel bile come up your throat. The silence through your ears creates that small ringing sound, the one where it's just your heart beating and beating and beating and beating, and you want to scream just so you don't have to acknowledge the pulsating noise that has followed you for your whole life. You hit your head against the leather steering wheel, coolness touching your forehead for only a moment. You feel your shoulders shake because tears are starting to fall down.

"Ludwig...Ludwig, things look bad now, but —but, there's always a brighter side —" Feliciano tries to comfort.

You take a shaking breath in and don't dare to put your head up from the steering wheel. Your face is too ugly and red.

"No...no, it's not. Gilbert. Gilbert might not make it, Feliciano," you clutch onto the wheel tighter, "He might not make it because he was such a fucking dumbass!" Feliciano jumps because he has never heard you scream or curse with such intensity. And you continue to tell him the feelings locked inside.

"He is so stupid...so fucking stupid..." you swallow, "and if he does make it out alive, he — he will be sent to prison. An accident this severe must have been worse for the other driver...oh my god, Gilbert's going to prison. My brother's going to be sentenced to prison for homicide. He's not a murderer. He's not a murderer" you say on mantra because the thought of hardworking, silly Gilbert in orange makes you choke out another sob.

You can't stop the tears that come out. You want them to stop. There is no point in crying, you had known the outcome since the moment the officer said D.U.I. Was your name cursed you question. Did somewhere along the way you forsake yourself so much that you blindly forgot how cruel your family is. Was it because you didn't go to church as a child? Was it because you only prayed when you cried? Was it because Gilbert lied on the form as being your legal guardian or was it because you were born.

You feel the steering wheel against your rough fingers and realize that someone's final moment had been in the same seat you are sitting at. But that person couldn't cry and be comforted in the face of danger. Skidding wheels, shattering glass, and terrified, unblinking eyes against the dark sky was that's family's final moment.

And you suddenly feel no right to be sad. Because Gilbert is still alive (he is, he is, he is, he is, he is, he is), and Feliciano is still to your right. You hear movement and little grunting sounds from the other side. You don't lift up your head still because you are just so ugly.

A button of the car is pressed but it is only the AC, and the car isn't even turned on. There is more struggle until you feel Feliciano forcing his way onto your lap. You look up and let go of the wheel by instinct, and Feliciano gets comfortable straddling you quickly. You look away not meeting his eyes because you are ashamed of what you look like. His back is hitting the steering wheel and you no longer have something to grip onto.

"Ludwig, look at me," Feliciano says seriously.

You don't because you know his eyes will be just as heavy and dark. His eyes will shimmer, and his chapped lips will shake.

You feel his hands touch your cheeks. He rubs his thumbs on your skin, and you wonder how Feliciano is so good at knowing what to do. You've always had better marks than him, yet he is the one to make you look to him directly. And you are right. He is worried and his eyes speak so much for him.

"Ludwig has always been so nice to me when I cry. It's my turn, si?" Feliciano says as if he owed you anything.

"What are you talking about...you don't have to do an —" Feliciano shushes you. His hands tangle into your hair. The usually slicked back hair falls down to your eyes easily, and the repressed layers come out. Your hair becomes fuller and messier as Feliciano comes closer and keeps running his thin fingers through your hair, he knows that it feels nice for you. You don't calm down, instead, you feel worse because you feel like your child self again.

"Luddy always looked better with his hair down...when did you start slicking it back?" he murmurs to you.

"Eighth grade..." you say back as his fingers stop roaming across your scalp. And he is so close to you that you question if he's going to try and kiss you. He pulls away and it almost comes true, but he instead cradles you.

You inhale his scent and are disappointed to find that the shirt has just been washed and smells only of laundry detergent. You hear his heartbeat, and you don't know how it's so calm. He then starts to talk again.

"Have I ever told you about my neighbor? When I first moved here?" he mentions suddenly. You furrow your brows because the situation doesn't call for random stories. And he keeps talking.

"I guess I haven't. How bad of me...When I came from Italy, there was this little boy I would see every day. I used to wear dresses back then because Elizaveta was always a little weird. He thought I was a girl but always seemed to be mean to me. He would chase me and never ask nicely to play with me."

"Then you should have told him to stop," you say not helping yourself.

Feliciano smiles. "But I was scared. He was scary looking and had really intense blue eyes. He always wore this cute little black hat that made his eyes seem darker. He would chase me and scream my name but he never did anything to hurt me. But sometimes I would get locked out of the house, and he would bring me food. It wasn't good food, and I always pushed it away, but he was always happy about it. He wasn't scared of the dog because it was his...and when it started barking he would tell it to stop because I would start crying..."

You don't say anything.

"He wanted to learn how to draw. I was good at drawing, and he wanted to learn. He was horrible at drawing thing, but he gave it his all. It was cute. He wasn't mean, and he didn't care that I wore a dress. I don't think he knew I was a boy." Feliciano laughs a laugh that sounds more like a couple tremulous breaths out. "He practiced every day, and I was confused. He would bring his sketchpad and try to copy me. I taught him what I knew, and eventually, he gave me the drawing he wanted to draw so badly."

"What was it?" you ask grateful for Feliciano. You are interested in the story because you are jealous.

"It was a drawing of me in the park. I had fallen asleep by the tree, and he drew me. Looking back at it, the art is horrible and messy but I had been so happy. And then he wasn't so scary looking anymore. We spent a lot of time together after that."

"But," you say because Feliciano had said the last sentence with a descending tone.

"But he moved. He moved away...His older brother took him away from me..."

"Feliciano...what are you trying to say?"

Feliciano tightens his grip on you. "The older brother was kind. He always gave me ribbons and lifted me up when I couldn't reach things. His name was Gilbert, and the little boy was named Ludwig..."

You don't breathe. You freeze and question why these things always have to happen to you. The teachers told you that you were so smart and going to do great things. The teachers praised you because you knew how to hold a paintbrush correctly and how to divide fractions so well. The other children weren't as bright they had seemed to say all throughout your life.

But you aren't bright. You don't know how to do anything and the one thing you could call yours was for and by someone else. You understand now. Why your paintings will never be as good as Feliciano's. You understand so well that you start chuckling.

"Ludwig?" Feliciano says cautiously. "Are you okay?"

Yes. No. Of course.

"Oh, my god. Oh, my god, I can't believe it, Feliciano. It makes so much sense. So much damn sense! It's great!" you say shrilly. Maybe it isn't the reaction Feliciano wanted but it's the reaction he gets. Maybe he expects to be kissed silly and have a wonderful, relieved boyfriend who is happy to have found his long-lost love or something like that. But life isn't a play, you think amused.

You can't be mad at him. He doesn't know what you had to grow up with. He thinks you're hurting because Gilbert is in the hospital and on the verge of death. He thinks you moved to another house with stairs and big rooms, lived life as if the neighborhood over there had a park and green grass, and came back again with nothing changing other than voice and body.

It is supposed to be a tale of hope, you numbly process. It would be touching and inspiring if you were a different person, but you know that this is a story of felicity for the wonderful Feliciano alone. It isn't for you, and you shake your head because you can't believe that you thought things could be simple. Is it fate? you ask yourself. Is this what Feliciano is trying to tell you? That nothing really mattered because you both would meet each other again anyway?

Then maybe, it's been fate all along to be punished. Gilbert can't disappear and reappear like a fairy tale, and nothing can kiss it better. Fate, you think, its a terrible, terrible thing.

"Ludwig, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I couldn't take it anymore. I remembered you but you didn't remember me," Feliciano says with his voice breaking. You don't want him to be sad. That is your job, and you do it well.

"It's okay. I'm not mad."

"I'm so sorry, Ludwig!" Feliciano cries thinking that you had lied. You shake your head. You rub his back with your hand to calm him down.

"It's fine Feliciano. I'm more shocked than mad. You did nothing wrong," you soothe.

"R-Really? You're not angry I kept this secret from you?" he asks meekly. You aren't. You feel deader than anything and at this point, you probably should have expected it.

That feeling of familiarity. You now know why.

"No, Feliciano. I'm not. I came back, right? I don't see a reason to be mad about something in the past. I'm still here. You're still here," you say factually.

Life is cruel you think as you stare out the windshield and see the hospital glow with light.

"I love you, Ludwig. Please don't ever forget that." Again. It's an unspoken word but you rub his back some more because you don't say anything back. You don't think you need to.

And it was that night you lost most of the shine in your eyes of light blue. Feliciano says he loves them because they look like the sky. Gilbert overestimated himself that night, and your hope of fate and destiny shrivel up to a crisp. The gasoline has run out and the fire is burning brighter. Because it hadn't you that had fallen in love with Feliciano, it had been Feliciano who had fallen in love with you. Or the past you.

And you had thought the first meeting had been wonderful and movie like. You thought it was lovely and that somebody cared for only you. That maybe something unexpected was finally good for a change. Maybe it wasn't you Feliciano had been clinging onto at school, you muse, but maybe it had been the taller version of your past self.

Either way, the night sky is a lovely shade of black you finally decide. Yes, it is indeed black.

...

Gilbert is not dead.

He's not even in a coma. He survives, and you're now in the hospital room alone with him. The beeping heart monitor makes your eyebrows twitch, and you want to disconnect it. Feliciano couldn't come in and he, of course, threw a big fit but rules had to be followed. He's outside waiting.

The visit shouldn't have ended badly but, isn't life just great! Life certainly loves you! It loves you so much that it leaves you wanting to kill yourself! Hahahahaha!

Because that very same night, at two sixteen in the morning, you find out that Gilbert has lung cancer.

Oh, and it gets better.

He has had it for five months. Five months~!

It is silent in the hospital room. You don't look to Gilbert and his bandaged neck and head. His neck snapped but he wasn't dead.

"West —"

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up." You bury your palms into the tired sockets of your eyes and don't cry. You can't cry anymore, there are no more tears to cry. The heart monitor beeps on. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It's so steady and jagged and red.

"I said no more secrets Gilbert," you finally say after tense minutes of utter silence, "I said no more secrets, and you agreed."

Gilbert looks ashamed of himself. He can't seem to meet your eyes. You wait for an answer that never comes.

"Why?" you ask tiredly. You want to sleep. Not waking up would be nice but you are in too good of health not too.

Gilbert doesn't seem to want to answer, and you ask why again with more force.

"Because I didn't want to worry you, West. You had enough stress with your studies, and I know you would have probably told me it was all my fault. I'm not so awesome, huh? I told myself I would quit smoking, yet here I am about to go to prison and die in a cell with lung cancer. I'm glad you quit West. I'm glad you didn't always follow your big brother."

You don't correct him that it's half-brother and has been for a long time. Seeing Gilbert bandaged up and lying down on the bed with an oxygen mask and tubes connecting to frail, pale arms makes you realize that you really are an adult now. Gilbert makes mistakes and always has, but something about being twenty and Gilbert thirty-five makes it all more real to you.

"Gilbert, I'm going to always worry about you," you say in your monotone voice. "It was stupid of you to think I wouldn't just because I was away."

"Yeah..."

You sigh. Sometimes a tragedy happens and it's traumatic for one second filled with horror and adrenaline, and then the rest is just restless and quiet.

You're still angry. Angry but most of all tired. And it shows because Gilbert tells you, "West, just go to bed. Go back home and get some sleep. You need it."

"No."

"West, don't make this h —"

"Gilbert. I am not leaving this room and you can't make me," you say with finality, and Gilbert looks almost proud.

"Alright, alright, you're all grown up now and don't want to listen to me I see..." he says with subdued mirth.

"Considering your neck is wrapped up as if you've gotten a big hickey, I don't think I will this time, brother."

Gilbert laughs but it hurts for him, and he chokes and stops when the heart monitor starts to speed up quickly. You jump out of your seat ready to call a doctor but he stops and takes deep labored breaths in through the mask to make the jagged lines steady again.

"Don't...do that West," he wheezes out.

You didn't think your comment was funny but you agree anyway.

You let him get back to normal in great worry, and he says to stop looking like that.

"It's not like they can send a guy with cancer to jail, right?"

You exhale. "Gilbert, yes. They can. And they will. The law doesn't care that you have cancer or a damaged liver or weaker eyesight than everyone else. You're going to jail." It is harsh and blunt, but it feels good to say it out loud.

Gilbert winces. "But what if the judge has mercy?"

"Then he has mercy." And he will be forever confined in a metal cell of guilt and shame.

A doctor comes in and is not surprised that you are still there.

"How are you feeling?" he asks Gilbert going toward the machines. He checks his heart and things of that sort in the meantime. You just watch.

"As good as I can be," Gilbert says glumly for being interrupted.

"Is that better or worse than last time?" he asks, and you see the purple circles underneath his eyes.

"The same, doc."

The doctor nods and writes some more things down. He is about to leave after saying that visiting hours are almost over, but you can't let him leave just yet.

"Wait, I have a question," you say. He fixes his glasses and looks at you with his aged brown eyes. "Yes?"

"My brother has lung cancer, correct? How long does he have to live."

"Ludwig, stop it," Gilbert hisses at you.

The doctor seems surprised at the bluntness. "Well...according to previous medical records of your brother and from the damage tonight has brought onto his body, I would say...until Thanksgiving if lucky."

How can a doctor say that so neutrally?

November. November. Your brother dies in November.

"Isn't there anything that can stop it? Chemo, laser, something?" you ask frantically getting up from your seat.

The doctor looks a little moved. "I'm sorry, sir, there isn't. Chemo at this stage of cancer would be pointless and ultimately cause your brother more harm than good. It was offered, at one point, but your brother didn't seem to want to go through with it. With his weakened liver and current accident...I'm sorry."

"Oh."

"Is there something else you had questions about?" You don't raise your hand because you don't have any more questions, Mrs. Achermann.

"No. That's it," you say weakly. The doctor leaves the quiet room into the even busier hospital.

"Isn't this great, Gilbert? You might die before your trial has a verdict. You might not go to jail, brother. Treatment is free in jail, did you know that? I didn't know that before, but now you know what I know."

"Ludwig, snap out of it, you're freaking me out here," Gilbert says wishing he could get up and shake your shoulders. You smile bitterly.

"November. Would you be mad if we celebrated Thanksgiving early this year? Feliciano can make the pasta and I the pumpkin pie. I know you hate strawberry but a strawberry cake won't be so bad, will it? Elizaveta's kid loves it. He loves it, I love it, Feliciano loves it, we all love...we all fucking love strawberries."

You do love strawberries because they stain your fingers red.

"Ludwig, calm down and don't go all crazy and stuff," Gilbert says watching your every move.

"I'm not going crazy. I'm grieving."

"I'm not dead yet and it's not that bad, Ludwig —"

"Hey, Gilbert."

"Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up."

And he does. For a long time.

You stay by his bedside for a long time not speaking but just enjoying the heart monitor still beep in a staccato rhythm. You had asked him why he didn't take the chemo, and he had said because he needed to help pay for your college.

He eventually tells you to go to Feliciano because he must be worried sick. And during the waves of emotional stress, you had dealt with, you had forgotten about Feliciano. And you debate whether you really want to leave the room and go deal with that. You can't be strong for him right now, you're tearing apart at the seams.

But when he says Feliciano, your mind goes back and replays the words Feliciano had said to you in the car.

"Gilbert, I have something to ask you," you say a moment after he tells you this.

"Yeah?" Gilbert says readjusting himself on the thin sheets. He can't move much because of his neck, so he just wiggles like a cocooned worm.

"I was talking with Feliciano earlier, and he said that I used to know him. That we moved away from this neighborhood and I forgot about him. But that can't make sense because you said mom and dad lived in Germany."

"I did?" He then straightens. "Oh, yes, yes, of course, I said that."

You give him an unamused face.

Gilbert sighs. He cracks a small, careful smile. "The story kinda got messed up along the way. I didn't think you would remember..."

Of course, you would remember any detail about mom and dad. You had made sure to engrain in your head for the maybe one days.

"You've always had an awesome memory, West. But if you remember, I said that mom and dad sent me to Grandpa a lot of times in the past."

"Grandpa only speaks German. It would make sense he would be in Germany too," you say back to Gilbert's patient face of expectancy. You know Gilbert would be shaking his head if he could.

"You give me too much credit, West! You really think that I traveled all the way from Germany and into America on my own?" The white ceiling steals Gilbert's attention. "No. No, I'm not that strong or brave...I could have, but with what happened in '01, you really think it would that easy too?"

You were seven when the twin towers hit. You had been old enough to know that people were dying and the nation was sad and afraid, but not old enough to know why or how it affected you since you had lived in Ohio. New York was very far away from you back then.

"...I see...Oh. I see, Roderich and the childhood memories...Elizaveta and her middle school days...Feliciano in the past. You're not telling me that —!"

Gilbert smiles. "Yep. This is where I grew up, West. Where you should have grown up. I always did say you were going to meet mom and day one day, didn't I?"

If you hadn't been tired and wary and cynical of life you would have laughed and found the beauty of being in the same town as your parents. Maybe even delude yourself into thinking that your house is the same house. This should have been a heartwarming experience. To think...the place you found a belonging in was your motherland. (Your...fate.)

But you don't feel a thing. In fact, you feel even worse for some reason. A depressing mood washes over you, and you can't help but want to break out of the chains that confine you to some kind of invisible enemy in your own head. You wonder if Feliciano can see it. If Gilbert can see it. And if they do, could they destroy it for you? Destroy it like it's destroying you?

"Come on West. You're supposed to be happier about this," Gilbert says lightly.

You clutch onto his hand and find that it's warm despite all things. "I don't care about mom and dad, Gilbert. You raised me, not them. And now you're going to go away...why does this happen to us, brother?"

Gilbert widens his eyes and wants to desperately face you but can't. You're fine with his chin pointing towards the light.

"It —It wasn't my intention...to die. In this town —right now, I mean fuck! I don't want to die, West! I don't want to leave you alone! I want —I want to do things. Awesome things. Get another dog, a girlfriend —a boyfriend —who the fuck cares, someone. I-I. I want to stay and see you get married. I know you won't have kids on your own, but an adopted little girl would be just as awesome." Gilbert starts to choke on his words. His eyes are getting harder to maintain dry, the reality finally setting in now that it is validated by another ear.

"You would be such a great dad, Ludwig. And —And Feliciano would be an awesome, cute little mom. You would be filthy rich with your job, and I would be awesome uncle Gilbert..."

You take this in and feel a horrible ache in your heart. You realize that you want that to happen as well. You may not want it now, but knowing that that option will never be attainable makes you want to shout at the God you thought was fair absence curses. You will grow to be fifty, but the Gilbert you knew would always be thirty-five and lying frail on a bed.

"...Gilbert, when did you start smoking again?" you ask after a rubbing a hand over your face in an attempt to keep it collected. It isn't working very well.

Gilbert must have decided to just be honest because he said to you, "A year ago."

You shouldn't be shocked. Yet somehow, you are.

"A year?"

"Don't be so surprised, West," Gilbert says with a raspy voice, "I've been smoking since fourteen. Eighteen years is a long time to smoke. I'm surprised I haven't kicked the bucket earlier considering how much I drink too." Gilbert actually sounded amused.

"Yes, but..."

Gilbert motions you to come closer to him. So you scoot your chair closer to him, and he can still raise his left bandaged arm up with tubes connecting to it. He ruffles your hair and you recoil.

"It will be fine, West. Don't worry about it."

Is he talking to you or himself, you think.

"Don't worry about a thing..."

You look down and twiddle your thumbs. You know it's silly. You are twenty years old now, you shouldn't be asking for such requests. But as you look back to Gilbert's brilliant red eyes on the monotone ceiling in that small quiet room where you could hear your own thoughts as though they were shouts, you know he will like it just as much as you will. So you steel yourself and feel your embarrassment already beginning to show. Gilbert feels something different and flicks his eyes to you.

"Gilbert...can you tell me a story? Not the unawesome Disney stories, the Prussian ones."

At that moment, you don't think Gilbert had ever looked so happy.

...

Feliciano knew about Gilbert's cancer and decided not to tell you.

"It would stress you out too much". You had a fight with Feliciano. The first one ever. You were just so tired and depressed and angry and bitter and done with people's secrecy and their perception of protection.

You know you feel anger towards your brother. But you don't know about Feliciano. After lying on your bed in the room as dark as the sky outside, you know that it is regret. Maybe you should have never said hi back to Feliciano. Maybe that way looking back at those memories wouldn't be so painful because you had been happy for the first time in your life, and Gilbert had been healthy. It wasn't perfect but it seemed like it had been.

You don't talk to Feliciano for a couple days.

And one day you see Arthur again. You are swinging on the swing, and you spot a figure in a suit and briefcase. It's the eyebrows. You know it's Arthur immediately.

You rock back and forth hearing the poor swing creak horribly. The swing squeaks even when Arthur comes walking towards your direction. The sound really is bothersome, you think.

"Ludwig? Is that you?" Arthur asks surprised in his accent. You look at him and see how much he's changed. No more earrings, or wild colored hair, or tight shirts with black boots. His hair is tame now and a good shade of blonde. His suit is clean and precise, and he looks like a stunning adult. He looks nothing like you. It seems even the delinquent can get his life together better than you.

"Hello Arthur," you greet still rocking the high-pitched swings. You've wanted to punch Arthur for a long time for what he did. He killed your brother in a weird way. He killed you in an even more officiant manner.

"Oh my, I didn't even recognize you, Ludwig!"

You stop swinging. You glance back up at Arthur, and he slowly stops smiling. "Is there something wrong?"

You shake your head. "No. Just thinking how odd it is for you to say how much I've changed."

Arthur shuffles uncomfortably. "Ah. Yes. You left when I was...at an unfavorable period of life." He looks apologetic. "I'm sorry for acting like a total wanker back then. I was a complete twat as a teen."

You want to say that your life has always been unfavorable, and you didn't turn out like that, but you don't. He has apologized at least, and you can't blame him. You were the one stupid enough to smoke the cigarette.

The sun is hidden behind a cloud, but the heat is still surrounding you. You hate being so warm. You've always been warm.

"It's fine. You were, what, seventeen? I don't hold a grudge against you." Not anymore at least. Other things are more pressing now.

Arthur looks relieved. "That's good to know. I've always wanted to —"

"Artie? Where are you?" a voice shouts that makes Arthur twitch his eyebrows and spin around angrily. And then another person appears that you would have never expected to see again.

"Who did you ditch me for? Not cool dude, I had to walk and find you," the other man complains.

"Alfred, I was having a conversation with Ludwig before you showed up," Arthur says grumpily. You're glad he hasn't changed too much.

Alfred looks surprised. Alfred definitely grew up nicely as well. He wears a loose long sleeve shirt and shorts, but you can see the muscle and definition throughout his body. His face is chiseled and his glasses look good on him. It seems everyone has grown up.

"Ludwig? Ludwig that's you? Holy shit bro, you're fucking jacked!" he exclaims. Oh. Okay...

Arthur doesn't seem as alright with it. "Alfred, you see him for the first time since middle school and that is all you have to say?"

"But it's true. Look at him! He went from raw potato to baked potato."

"You make it sound like he's high right now, Alfred," Arthur deadpans.

"How do you know that he's not? I mean —"

"Alfred!"

"Yes, babe?" he says cheekily. Arthur huffs and looks to you as if to apologize for his behavior.

"Are you guys dating?" you ask curiously.

Arthur clams up while Alfred puts an arm around Arthur. "Yep! Finally got this old man to say yes!" Arthur tries to move out if the grip with blushing cheeks and furrowed angry brows.

"You twat, what have I said about just stating it out in the open like that! What if —" you cut Arthur off.

"Congratulations, Alfred, Arthur. I'm happy for you two," you say with a little less deadness in your voice. It is enough to make Alfred smile gratefully and happily at you. You start swinging on the seat again. You miss the creaking noise.

"Thanks, man! What about you? A special lady friend?" Alfred asks wiggling his eyebrows. Arthur rolls his eyes. They are cute. They look good together.

You blush a bit. "Ah, no. Not a lady friend but I —"

You get cut off from your cell phone ringing. You see that it is Feliciano calling. You don't want to pick up, but you don't see the conversation going towards anything positive soon, so you answer. You give them an apologetic look, and they seem to understand as you press the phone to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Luddy! Thank goodness you picked up your phone. I know you're still mad at me and probably don't want to talk to me ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, again but I just got the police report back. I think you have to come over and see it for yourself."

Hearing Feliciano's voice is nice. Even if it is rushed and begging for acceptance again.

"Why can't you just tell me now?" you say evenly. You're very close to forgiving Feliciano.

"...I think you should be here in person to see it, Luddy...it's pretty bad..."

You hear the waver in his voice and you wonder if it might be a trick to come over. You see that Alfred and Arthur are still standing there and so you have to wrap things up soon.

"How much worse can it get," you say bitterly.

"...the kid didn't make it, Luddy. The girl in the car is dead Ludwig..."

You almost drop your phone. You stop swinging, and you hear the swing creak violently. You hate Feliciano's voice now. He tells you something you never want to ever hear.

Gilbert's a murderer. Gilbert's really a murderer.

"I...I see. I will be there soon," you say without emotion. You end the call before Feliciano can say goodbye.

"Is something the matter?" Arthur asks when you stand up abruptly.

"I have to go. It was nice seeing you again, Arthur. Alfred."

You nod to them as you walk away hurriedly back to the house.

"I wonder what happened to him, Artie," you hear Alfred confess.

"What do you mean, Alfred?" Arthur asks back.

"I don't know but he just seems..."

You don't hear the rest because they're out of earshot. And as you open the door, you wonder what happened to you as well.

...

You are on speaking terms again with Feliciano. You have forgiven him. And you tell Gilbert the news, and he doesn't let any visitors come into the hospital for days.

"Are you here to see your brother again?" the same lady from a week ago asks you sympathetically. You nod. She sighs. "He's still not taking in visitors."

"I see," you say. You don't see anything.

And so you try again the next day. "Still nothing, Mr. Beilschmidt."

And the next day. "He says no visitors."

And the next. And the next. And the next. And the next. Until "He will be seeing you now."

And you see Gilbert lying in the bed staring at the wall in blankness. "Brother? Brother, I —"

"I killed them. I killed them, Ludwig. I killed a little kid. And a mother. A sober mother. They shouldn't have died. I should have. I really shouldn't even be in this hospital."

You don't know what to say. What he says is the truth.

"The father is safe," you say as if that makes anything better. And Gilbert gives you a look because he knows that is a pitiful attempt to comfort.

"I guess it's good that I'm gonna die soon. Maybe it's karma long over-do," Gilbert says again staring at the wall. "Yeah, long overdue karma for all the shit I did as a teenager. All the things I said and all the times I did drive home drunk. I guess I just finally got what I deserved."

You don't say anything. It's not because you don't know what to say this time, it's because you know that Gilbert just needs an ear to listen too.

"Smoking, drinking. The two just go so well together, don't they? I at least didn't do drugs but I was close too. I have a tattoo West, did you know that? I thought it was the shit back then."

"Don't you need parental consent for that if you're under eighteen?" you ask.

Gilbert snorts actually amused. "And you think I asked? Naw. I got it at a real shady tattoo shop. Real cheap too. It was in no way trustworthy or good quality but I was happy."

"What was it?"

"A black eagle. You can laugh now."

You don't laugh.

"Why a black eagle, brother?"

"...I was inspired by the Prussian flag. I'm not German, West. I'm Prussian. Always will be and I know you're going to say Prussia hasn't been a country since World War Two but fuck you."

You feel a twitch on your lips. Yes, a black eagle is very fitting for your brother's pale body. You don't ask where it is on his body because he is already unbuttoning his hospital gown to show you.

It's on his chest. You don't know how you have never seen it before. "See, right here. Not so bad for such a shady place," Gilbert says with mirth for the first time. And you almost feel like things are normal.

"Chest tattoos are for people with muscles, Gilbert. You're just a stick."

Gilbert closes the hospital gown and looks offended. "Hey, I used to be awesomely buff, excuse you. All the chicks digged it. It's pretty hot, you know?"

You can imagine it. A wild, untamable Gilbert in his younger days with a cocky smirk and a head full of natural white hair.

"I bet you had a motorcycle too," you say amused.

Gilbert gasps. "How did you know?"

And you laugh. There it is. A classic teenage bad boy with a tattoo that has a meaning probably holding much validity and depth. A bad boy with a heart of gold you know because you're still here.

"All too easy, brother. Stereotypical," you say shaking your head. Gilbert looks wistful. "Yeah...I guess it is...Bad boys usually don't make it far in life..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Gilbert, do you remember what you told me two years ago? That night when you told me mom and dad have been dead for all my life?"

"No. I said that mom and dad were dead?"

"Yes. But you also asked me about my lack of happiness at the time. You told me about Elizaveta and how dad killed himself. You thought I was suicidal, and you told me how much you would miss me...how I was the only one you had left..." Your voice starts to weaken and crack.

"Ludwig..."

"You, you have to realize this a two-way street Gilbert. It's never just been about you," you begin harshly, "it's also been about me. You should know that. You raised me. And if you do something stupid. If you do something stupid," you take a deep breath in, "I could never forgive you."

"..."

"..."

"But I'm going to die anyway, West. In jail or in here, I'm going to die," Gilbert finally says.

You know this already. God, do you know this.

You choke up a bit. It seems as if your emotions just bubble up at random times. The moments you need to be calm are the times your throat feels the worst and the emotional moments the times you are the most collected.

"I know, brother, but. But we all die eventually. It's when we die that matters. Dying tomorrow is much different than dying in a couple months," you pause, "So, please. Please don't do something drastic. You're...you're all I have left."

You feel like such a child. But you don't care because you feel as though this time it is justified. Gilbert's neck is still not okay so you can't hug him. You search for his hand on the bed, and clasp your fingers around his, feeling how he curls his knuckles against yours in no haste. So you wait for the answer that is not coming out of Gilbert.

Gilbert starts to close his eyes. His eyelids droop, and you know the conversation is over. "Okay, West...I won't do anything stupid. I'm too awesome for that..." Gilbert hasn't had good rest in a while it seems because his chest is rising and falling quickly.

The heart monitor is still the same. The room is still as clean as it was before. And the room is still white. But you get out of the plastic chair, stalling to let go of Gilbert's loosening hand, and burn the image of your brother sleeping so peacefully. It is an image you will have to get used to soon, but without the rising and falling.

You want to say something back but you know he won't hear you. You close the door.

Gilbert doesn't wake up until a day later.

...

The hurdle now is whether to go back to college or not.

Gilbert is out of the hospital and in prison for life. Police officers had shown up the hospital in heavy shoes and thick belts and made sure to be very clear that they had guns and tasers. Voices rang through the walkie-talkies, and it was a silent affair as you had watched Gilbert handcuffed with little resistance and yanked out of the room like some kind of dog. The air had been tense and you made the mistake of looking Gilbert in the eye one last time before he turned around and walked away with the men in black.

The media is licking its lip when the story finally gets authorized to fully expose. And they exploit every single second of it. Your brother's crime turns into a twisted, sick game of how evil you can portray a human being, devaluing every single thing he has ever done to the one single moment that was the end for all.

The incident causes outrage, sympathy, and disappointment. People comment on his appearance and sigh in relief at how comforted they are in knowing that such a strange and clearly dangerous person is behind bars. His blue eyes are unnaturally pale and void of color they point out, and his face is too devoid of pigment and life to be able to actually be one of them, they talk. Everything about him is stripped away so that he can simply be another headline in bolded, capitalized letters.

It makes you sick to your stomach to see how others react. Seeing him blown up on a television screen and spoken about in that dumb, monotone news anchor voice makes you jab the buttons on your remote harshly to make the uncaring voices stop talking. On social media, online newspapers, and Facebook posts they talk and comment, and you deny any requests from people who suddenly are asking, are you okay?

They don't care about you — they want gossip and cheap talks — so you block off the world for a little bit. You're the topic of the neighborhood for a short while, the rumors and hidden pejoratives that people had harbored before coming out with no shame because of the societal acceptance that Gilbert doesn't need understanding and never has. He lives on in thick ignominy and there is nothing you can you do about it.

None of it passes onto you, however. It instead conversely makes you look wonderful and honest.

It's a good thing Ludwig isn't anything like his brother. Can you imagine? Having to put up with that?

Ludwig never causes trouble — he's such a good kid. How are they even brothers?

You hate it, yet you can't blame them. You would say and think the same if you had scrolled past the story as well. You would equally shame and detest the person in the mug shot. You don't need to know their personal story or whatever else because a felony is a felony you would and still think.

But the biased part of you doesn't because it's different this time. It's personal and actually affecting you and making you feel — and you don't want to feel — maybe you do? — and it's awful and confusing and too real and close, and so you don't think about it.

(Even though your mind is spinning in circles and circles around the same words and emotions constantly in the back of your head.)

It's the terrible, raw truth that makes you so frustrated. You can't escape it no matter how much you try and that is what really makes you realize that the churning in your stomach should perhaps be there.

With all this, you don't have much time for Feliciano anymore. Your life is now a whirlwind of stress and nerves and phone calls to people who don't do anything unless yelled at. You are very good at yelling.

The trial had been a speedy trial, and no extra evidence had been needed to find Gilbert as the offender of the crime. Gilbert was guilty as charged, and he had made no protest against it. The trial ended as you had both thought it would.

It's funny how moments like those are made out to be life-changing. As if that moment is where everything ends and the denouement is achieved. But life goes on, and the days are still cyclical.

The insurance is one thing. Gilbert's cancer is another. People asking and prodding and annoying you about him is an addition. There is also the fact that one of the victims is dead, which is just lovely. School starts in a month as well, and your inbox is exploding in reminders and promises with happy photos and blatant lies.

If you didn't have enough on your plate, Lovino now truly despises your guts. Antonio is also sentenced to jail, and Lovino comes storming to you in a fit of absolute rage.

Surprisingly, it's Feliciano who fends Lovino off.

It is becoming normal to wake up at the kitchen table with knots in your neck and a dead cell phone. You are beyond stressed now, the bills piling up and someone always in the need of something. You don't have time to think about yourself even if somehow you are also slowly sinking.

Feliciano does the best he can to keep you afloat, and you are grateful, but it seems as though life is just too gray for you. It keeps beating you down and you are having a harder time rising back up in its grainy quicksand.

And so when you are in the kitchen looking over some files from the police report, everything you have been trying to suppress came back spitting at you with cold venom. Apparently, the woman had been texting while driving, you learn through the report. How ironic, eh?

Lovino breaks into the house somehow and starts screaming horrible things at you. Feliciano is with you chopping some onion for the meal he's making for lunch. He's humming some kind of song Kiku had sent him when Lovino comes barging into the kitchen violently.

"Fratello? What are you doing here?" Feliciano asks. You set the paper down and feel a migraine coming on.

"It was you!" Lovino screams pointing to you, "It was you who did this! You were the one who fucked up Antonio's life!"

You feel your eyebrows furrow angrily. You do not have time for this right now.

"I didn't do anything," you say with false calmness.

"Yes. It was. If it weren't for your fucking stupid brother, Antonio wouldn't be in jail right now. Why didn't you stop him, you dipshit? You're the responsible one, yet you just let him go out and have his merry ol' grand fucking time!"

"Francis was supposed to be the one driving that night. If you want to blame someone, go blame him."

"Oh let me call him. Oh yeah, he's in jail you stupid cock sucker," Lovino seethes. You clench your teeth.

"Then what do you want me to do about it?" you ask glaring at him.

"Paying his bail would be nice but I know you can't since your sorry ass is broke."

You stiffen. Money has always been a sore spot for you. It's like he knew that you were always the poor kid.

"If it weren't for your stupid brother, we would be living our dream. But no, you were too useless to even do something so simple. And even if you don't care about Antonio, you caused a murder. You could have stopped an innocent death but you fucking didn't!"

You feel your hand shake on the pen you are holding. No...it hadn't been your fault... Francis was the one to blame, not you. You didn't do anything. But maybe that is the problem, now isn't it?

"Fratello, stop it," Feliciano commands seeing the way you are curling up within.

"So now you feel it. How heartless are you? Fucking up other people's lives. You ruined my life. Ruined that little kid's life. You ruin everyone's life!"

"Fratello quit it already," Feliciano says more harshly time.

You bite your lip. No. No. He's wrong. He's wrong, right? You didn't expect for things to go that way, and you aren't horrible because Feliciano still likes you...right? You aren't ruining Feliciano's life, right?

"This is all your fault. Even when you think it's not, it is," Lovino hisses seeing the way you are just staring wide eyes at the table and unable to say a word.

"Lovino, stop! Stop saying those things!"

Maybe he is right...maybe you did know deep down things would one day end that way...

"I hope you are happy with the blood on your hands. So conceited, only crying over your fucking brother. Others are hurting here, and you're just fucking sitting there and not doing shit!" Lovino is shouting, and his voice echoes throughout the house. "If you had just put your stupid ass brother on a damn leash then none of this would have happened!"

"Lovino, leave! Get out!" Feliciano screams marching over to him.

Lovino blinked surprised. "I'm not leaving — "

"You are going to get out through the door, shut it behind you, and never come back. Do you understand, Lovino? You're the real conceited one because you don't have a single clue as to what Ludwig has had to go through, so just leave," Feliciano says scaring you at how low his voice can get and how dark his eyes can flash. He hasn't let go of the knife he was using earlier and grips onto the wooden handle with great intensity.

"Feliciano..." Lovino trails off still in shock. "What the hell is this?! You're sympathizing with that dumb Kraut?!"

"Do you understand?" Feliciano clarifies once more clearly and dangerously. He points the knife in his direction, the blade shining in the light. "Get out."

Lovino looks at you and leaves slamming the door.

It is just silence when he leaves until Feliciano puts down the knife and goes to your side. He starts hugging your head to his chest like some kind of mother. He says reassuring things to you and tells you, of course, you hadn't known and that Lovino was being a complete dick and that you were the greatest person he knew...

"Because if it's true that you had some part in this, then that means I did too. It was Ludwig and Feliciano's fault."

But even with those kind words and lack of tears on your part, the seed had been planted. And it didn't take much to sow.

...

You don't go back to college.

You can't go back. You sell all your artwork, and Feliciano cries and begs you not to. But your "beautiful" paintings are now in the hands of someone else, and your room is decked out clean of anything you have created. You even sold your previous sketchbooks because someone had bought it for twice than what you offered. You don't sell your current one.

You have some excess scholarship money that is immediately sucked into the payments of insurance. Your money saved for Germany is given to the victim's family because that was something the judge had granted as fair and just.

Feliciano asks you if he should go back to college.

"I don't want to go back, Luddy. I don't want to leave you alone," he says clutching onto your black tank top with the window open for the warm air to drift into the room.

"Don't sacrifice your future because of me, Feliciano. Don't be stupid," you murmur back.

"I'm not going back. I'm not going, Luddy."

And you can do nothing but agree.

But you admit that the house is better with noise. Feliciano still makes you smile and shake your head fondly, but a weight is on your shoulders that you can't seem to get rid of.

You visit Gilbert three weeks after his arrest. He looks thinner and paler. He coughs much more now and sometimes has to leave early because he needs to have medicine.

He does look good in orange, strangely enough. You hold onto his cold hands through the small glass window, and Gilbert thanks you. He thanks you with a bitter smile and reminds you to not forget to buy milk, yeah?

You visit every week. Every time you guys talk about something different and pointless. How Elizaveta's little boy was caught eating a stick of deodorant, or how Arthur is actually a lawyer now and a really good one apparently, or about Taylor Swift's new boyfriend and debate how that happens, or about the shitty bakery down the street that everyone loves. Numbing, everyday conversations you both delude yourself to have in an everyday situation.

And as the days become colder and the sun shyer, they do become normal.

But Gilbert wasn't there for the last week's meeting. Or the next week's. He had been too weak.

And it is that week that it finally hits you. Really hits you. Gilbert is too weak to talk to you. Gilbert's suffering alone in a prison with a sickness that could barely be handled in normal terms. Gilbert is going to die on a hard mattress of metal and blood and be forgotten within those narrow hall of gray and white.

Gilbert doesn't talk about his time in prison. You don't know if he has enemies, if he has friends — if he's been raped, if he's eating enough, if he's been stabbed or beat —

And Gilbert is going to die.

It is already October, and you throw up violently in the bathroom when you see the date. You see Gilbert's cigarettes, and you almost take one in a frenzy of desperation and anxiety but Feliciano stops you.

You are so grateful to Feliciano, and he tells you it's okay, you apparently have stopped him doing stupid things like that all the time. You don't think he understands, but you are grateful anyhow.

You work now full time, and so does Feliciano because he doesn't go to school anymore. It is October and the dorm is empty with no smiling Feliciano in it.

And as you push the shopping cart down the grocery store you wonder if you made a mistake. For even hoping and thinking you could go to college and be normal. You grab the cheapest set of soap and chuckle.

A mistake indeed.

...

Gilbert dies on Halloween night.

Elizaveta's little boy is dressed up as a vampire, and it is adorable. You give him candy, and Roderich looks displeased for such a costume and like a gushing moron because his little purple-eyed, brown-haired boy is so cute.

The night is fine because you are the one giving out candy, and the children's smiling faces make you feel something.

But then Feliciano screams and falls down to his knees in the kitchen. You ignore the doorbell ringing and rush to the scene where Feliciano is sobbing on the ground by the dangling phone. You still have an old, white wall phone connected to the wall.

You can't get a word out of him because he's shaking his head and burying his palms into his eyes as if the tears would stop coming out. He is gasping, and you clutch onto the receiver feeling a cold brick settle nicely in your stomach.

A prison guard informs you that your brother is dead. With a bland voice and over-complicated sentences, he tells you your brother died two hours ago. He offers his condolences and the last words Gilbert had wanted you to hear:

"Ich hab dich lieb, Ludwig."

You don't scream. You don't crumble to the floor and sob. You breathe the same, tighten the grip on the phone and thank the man for his time. You wish him happy Halloween because it is the polite thing to do. You hang up the phone, hear the phone click nice and slowly, and don't let go from where you place the old thing into its groove. You stand there, arm stretched onto the wall from where the phone is and just stand.

The doorbell rings in the background but you can't hear it. You can't hear anything. Are you even alive? You know it's not a dream because that would be too easy.

"Come on...they aren't opening the door..." a muffled, disappointed says.

Feliciano is still crying on the floor, and you wish you could join him. You let go of the phone, and your arm swings to your side as if your broad shoulder can barely support its own axis.

Feliciano looks up as you walk to your room with a dry mouth. The doorbell rings again, and you close your eyes. It's fitting. For Gilbert to die on Halloween night. You almost think Gilbert did it on purpose. He was always into theatrics.

As you lie on your bed numb, empty, and nothing and everything of what you used to be, you realize that you want to die. You want to die and leave this world already because it has given you nothing. It gives you Feliciano, you weakly argue, but even that just doesn't seem enough. Because Feliciano still has Lovino. Despite how angrily Feliciano had argued in Italian over the phone that one night, they still have each other. He has other living family members, and you have no one.

You turn to your side and feel the exhale of your nose on your upper lip. You stare at the darkness of the black that is the room for a long time listening to the children outside shriek with happiness and parents saying to calm down or slow down. The night is young and beautiful and you cover your ears with the pillow, only hearing how the material of the pillow invades your ear sockets.

You cry for the final time that night. You cry and cry, and you can't stop the tears that come out of your eyes. You cry yourself to sleep.

Feliciano comes to your bed, and you are grateful he is so warm. Because even with his arms around your torso, you are glad you are chilled to the bone.

...

Time is said to heal all things.

You don't cry at the funeral. You wear a new suit and trousers that Sunday. It is cold but you don't feel it. You give a speech because you are good at them. It is a silent time, and you give white flowers because they were Gilbert's favorite.

Feliciano doesn't know how to cope with it. How is he supposed to help you? So you mourn together. Elizaveta weeps and weeps at the service, and looks to you as if you should have been doing the same. All you can do is stare and wonder if the other family finally feels satisfied that Gilbert had died.

You feel worse for Antonio and Francis. They aren't even allowed to come.

The funeral is only a couple hours but the effects are more than just the gathering in black. It haunts you, goes to sleep with you, smiles when you make coffee and never leaves you alone when you see the same messy hair of a different shade in the mirror.

You see Gilbert everywhere. You see him whistling by the old, stained stove, smiling tiredly at you with the face that is now your age when you were once five, buying peeps even when it wasn't Easter, making pillow forts in the living room, and so many other things that make your heart dry up more and more.

Even now, you still have to pay the bank with the loans you had promised when you were hopeful of a career. The envelopes of insurance don't assure you because all they want are payments and your money for "helping" you. You can't grieve. There are bills to pay, something else to think about.

And Feliciano one day asks if you are okay. Really okay. If you are depressed. And you never liked English all that much but you say something offaly poetic to him:

"Am I depressed... No, life is just painted with a palette of shades of whites and blacks, and somewhere along the way, the colors become gray and murky. It's up to us to decide what color we want to put on the canvas. I think I simply see more gray."

And Feliciano doesn't know what to say to that. You wouldn't have either, but you don't know anything. You are useless, and you have finally accepted it. The great thing about being a Beilschmidt you think amused is that you will die in an unfavorable way. And you wonder when it will be your time. Twenty years is a good life.

You do the same things every day, and you feel like you take two steps backward every time you force your unwilling foot to go forward.

You don't know if you have depression because sometimes you feel happy. You feel joy and hope and have moments of deep appreciation for life and living. Those days are wonderful — when you are in a good mood for no reason and don't self-loathe. You never feel a loss of appetite or the need to overeat, and you still stick to your hobbies, and talk to the same limited amount of people, so you're not depressed, right?

But other times you feel nothing. (You feel nothing most of the time, actually.) Or you feel the urge to cry after nothing bad happens during the day. Your feet step through the door, and suddenly the emotions overflow. You don't allow the tears to fall and angrily curse at the spontaneity of it all. It makes you confused because the sadness is thick and unrelenting with no explanation as to why it's there. You're just there drowning and trying swim back up until you accept that the feeling has no logic or reason. It's there commanding its presence to be compensated for, and your breathing is back to normal by the time Feliciano comes home.

Strangely enough, you're always happier the next day. Until you're not and it repeats with nuance and exceptions.

So you don't know what you are.

But you live your life full of clinging, desperate touches of Feliciano because you two are so miserable. You understand each other so well now, you know every groove of his body just as he does with yours. You know more things about him than yourself, and you love Feliciano so much, and you know that if you had been born in a different time, different situation and circumstance, he would be gasping at the expensive ring you would slide on his slim finger.

You had a cheap, plastic spider ring from Halloween, and Feliciano put on with a smile. He had held up his hand to the light with a loving gaze. He hasn't taken the ring off.

And then Christmas passes by in a blur of snow and overplayed carols. You can't buy him anything fancy or the puppy he wants, but you can offer your broken heart, and he is content with your strawberry cake and broad chest that still aches.

You snuggle by the fireplace, fog up the patio door window to write I love you to the snow outside falling and listen to the soft music in the background from Feliciano's iPod.

You wish Gilbert Merry Christmas.

...

You are now twenty-one. Twenty-one and just as lost and sad. You don't slick back your hair anymore, and Feliciano says you look so much better like that. He says your five o'clock shadow and loose hair makes him look just oh so handsome. You don't see what he sees, but you let your hair grow out a bit and do notice more stares from women. And when that happens in front of Feliciano, he gets strangely possessive and jealous. It's quite cute. You look to him amused every time, and he never looks one bit ashamed.

New Year's passes with much more than just a kiss, and Elizaveta comes and checks how you are. You lie and say just fine but even you know you can't keep saying it.

You somehow have gained a following on Instagram and Tumblr. Feliciano posts some of your work and the internet adores it. You don't paint professionally, but do like that you are so highly regarded.

And Feliciano chirps, "See, Luddy? I always told you your work was great!"

You don't believe it, but stroke the same paintbrush to the same canvas with different feelings.

And it is on February seventeen that something changes your life. You are staring at the sky from the backyard, reach out your hand as if to touch it and grab a cloud. You know now why Feliciano had tried in seventh grade and failed.

Blue. Limitless, boundless, unrelenting, unattainable, and confining. Yes, I think I like blue quite a lot.

You keep your hand out in front of you and take in the sounds of nature around you. Life and the cruelty of it because it doesn't care about you. You smile because you can respect it. And then you jolt up from the grass and stiffen your back like a board when the idea finally hits you. You breathe and look up to the sky again. You see no birds or sun, and you get up and dust off your pants quickly. Feliciano isn't in the house as you rush and grab the keys. You dash outside and get into the car anxious to go to the store.

You drive to store, stop at the stop signs and follow the speed limit. You give the woman the money and walk out with your plastic bags lighter and happier than you have in a long time. And you smile because you know Gilbert is finally happy too.

...

"Luddy? Luddy! You won't believe what happened to me today! I was eating some pasta right and...and...ah, what are you doing?" Feliciano asks you by the doorway in a nice work uniform.

You look down to him from your ladder. You put the paintbrush down with blue paint on its fine tips.

"I'm painting," you answer.

Feliciano tilts his head. "But why on the ceiling?"

You look up at the little progress you have made. You feel a smile creep onto your lips.

"Because I think it's about time we touch the sky, don't you think Feliciano?"

...

Feliciano helps you paint the ceiling. A lot of paint goes onto your clothing, and you may have a paint fight along the way (a lot of times, actually) but Feliciano's steady hand helps yours.

"I feel like Michelangelo~ This is harder than I thought it would be, though..."

March blends into April, and the weather becomes less cold again. You are almost done with the painting, and you couldn't be any prouder. You don't think you can remember a time when you had put so much effort and vigor into something — especially not a piece of work.

Oh, if only Feliciano knew what he had been helping with. If he had known, he wouldn't be looking at you so happily right now. He wouldn't be smiling and rocking back in forth on his toes waiting for something.

Because the painting is done on April twentieth.

Feliciano climbs off the tall ladder, and you tell him to be careful from below. Feliciano jumps off the last step with a bounce and puts his hands on his hips to look up at the work. It's finished and Feliciano had decided to make the sky during sunset because "the colors were prettier". Purples, oranges, and pinks make the rounded large ceiling look so Feliciano.

You don't mind. You could see the blue. You can always see the blue.

Feliciano shakes in place, and you roll your eyes. "You can do it now."

Feliciano cheers and rushes to the light switch. He shuts it off, and the ceiling glows. You feel something surge within your chest as you see the stars painted on. It's so beautiful. They glow so brightly against the black. It's the star-ridden night you've always wanted...

"Wow..." Feliciano breathes out amazed. You see the moon glow and squint because you see something that shouldn't be there.

"Feliciano?"

"Yes, Ludwig?" he replies distracted moving across the floor and looking up.

"You're the one who painted the moon, right? What is that up there?"

Feliciano laughs. "You noticed it? You have such good eyesight! I put our initials on it."

You start to climb the steel ladder, and Feliciano scrambles to the base. "What are you doing? I'm sorry, I should have asked but the paint isn't dry yet! Luddy — "

You ignore him as you continue to climb. You get to the last step, and it creaks a bit from your weight. You see the initials on the glowing moon.

F.B. and L.B.

You gasp, and you grip tighter onto the ladder. "Feliciano..."

"Yeah?" Feliciano says confused and scared. You look down to Feliciano who has soft reflections of light illuminating his face in all the right places. You can't help but want to paint him like that, how he is right now at the moment.

You climb back down, and Feliciano relaxes because you aren't mad. You kiss him, and Feliciano heats up in the face and reacts immediately. You break away, and Feliciano is peering up at you with those eyes of amber.

"You fool...you utter fool..."

...

It is the summer of when you're twenty-one that you have time to reflect everything in your life and finally decide which years were really the worst.

You conglomerate all your years of primary school into one chapter of your life and secondary into another. Both chapters are not necessarily happy, but you don't think it was so bad either. You had been still hopeful and naive, even if it wasn't innocent or happy. Seventh grade was pretty bad you think with the Arthur mess, but no addiction came out of it. Twelfth grade is a mix because you met Feliciano and Kiku, went to prom, swam in the lake, and did stupid things. Your parents mean nothing to you now, but back then it had been everything to you. You had teenage angst because Gilbert had lied to you, and you found out by accident that you are another woman's baby.

You never really did get over that. You shouldn't be alive.

And you decide with finality that the summer of twenty was the worst. Two deaths came out of that summer. You lost Gilbert that summer. Not on Halloween night, but on the day when he walked out of the hospital room with handcuffs and a calm gaze.

You lost yourself as well. You could never pick yourself back up after that. Even seeing Elizaveta's little three-year-old boy play in the front yard did nothing to bring you joy to life. Painting, crunching numbers on an excel sheet at midnight, eating cold pasta from Feliciano, swinging on that lonely swing just to hear it creak, hearing the ringing in the ears when Feliciano wasn't around, blocking out chirping crickets, hearing the air conditioner buzz outside every day — it was a weight you just couldn't handle any more.

Feliciano had been complaining recently about how you always woke up later now and how you always distracted him from going to work because you looked so cute and sexy when sleeping. You took the compliment but wished you could sleep for just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer...

And you finally do.

On July seventh, Ludwig B. tries to take a very long nap. He writes a letter to Feliciano; he sees the stars and smiles because he finally touched the sky. He has always needed a little help sleeping. So does Feliciano, the white pills are good friends to them.

And good friends tuck their friends to sleep. A long, and peaceful sleep where the house is large, Ludwig is the rich kid with a nice lunchbox, a mom and dad and grandpa are there with a grinning Gilbert and a forever happy Feliciano...

...

You come home that night. The night itself is crisp, and you hum a tune as you open the door with the turn of your keys. You see that the lights are off, and you wonder if Ludwig is working late that night. He tends to do that, he loves perfection.

You giggle. You love Ludwig despite his need for perfection. You love a lot of things about Ludwig.

You walk into your shared bedroom with Ludwig. The lights aren't on, but you see a figure on the bed from the moonlight shining so brightly through the open window. You see a little letter by the nightstand and scream as you tackle Ludwig before he can tilt his head back.

"NO!"

"Felician — ?"

"No," you repeat as you land on top of Ludwig on the bed, "No, no, no, please don't do it, Ludwig. I beg of you not to do it. Don't do it..." you plea as you feel the chest rise up and down. Ludwig doesn't say anything to you, but you don't care. Ludwig is still breathing.

You see the sleeping pills on the nightstand and the little glass of water. You want to break that glass of water but that would be wasteful. You look up to his face and feel your heart shatter to pieces. Things had not been fine it seemed. You feel tears start to run down your cheeks. You taste the salt in them, and you know your face is getting red.

"Why are you crying?" Ludwig asks gently. He rubs a thumb over your cheek as if to get rid of the tears forever, and you cry harder.

Oh, Ludwig. Cold, loving Ludwig. You love him. You love him so much. Because he loves you despite being so broken.

He hugs you despite being so emotionally unstable so you can feel safe in his large arms, he leaves the hallway light on because he knows you don't like the dark, and when you don't understand something, he explains them with patience and a helping hand instead of yelling like so many others had done before. He plays with Elizaveta's child as if it were his own, and he never leaves you cold.

But you know that he has too many demons to be considered okay. You knew this the day you met him on the swings. And at that time, you told yourself you loved Ludwig because he had drawn you underneath the tree. But as you got to know Ludwig more, you fell in love with him once again; you fell in love with the real Ludwig.

You fell in deep. You fell in deep with the way he would say something so blunt and meaningful without meaning to, to the way his large hands were so gentle with you. He still smiles despite having no reason to anymore. He always eats your pasta, makes sure the sheets are washed more often in the winter because he knows you hate the winter months and their coldness and holds your hand when walking in the town square despite the intense stares.

"I almost lost you, Luddy. I almost lost you...you would have left me all alone...Please don't leave me all alone...You're — You're all I have left," you choke out because there are just too many reasons to want Ludwig to live. You were never good at fancy words. Ludwig was always better with these kinds of things.

Ludwig gasps, and you see that his eyes are becoming misty as well. You know Ludwig won't cry. He simply can't anymore.

"Ludwig, please come down to Earth again. There is only so much the sky can offer, Luddy," you say softly because you know Ludwig will know the meaning. And then he tightens his grip on your back, and you hear him give a shaky breath out.

"Okay...I-I...I will, Feliciano," Ludwig tells you staring at the ceiling full of painted stars. You give him a smile and don't let go just yet. Ludwig looks to you finally, and you know he still wants to die. You know that he can barely understand why he agreed. You know he regrets what he tried to do and what he didn't succeed in doing.

"Hey, Feliciano," Ludwig says wandering his eyes back up to the fabricated night sky.

"Yes, Luddy?"

"I don't like the color blue anymore. I like amber...yes, I think I like the color amber quite a lot now."