But I am fine with where I am now
This home is home and all that I need.
But for you, this place is shame
But you can blame me when there's no one left to blame.
Oh, I don't mind.

And all my life, I've never known where you've been
There were holes in you; the kind that I could not mend.
And I heard you say 'round when you left that day
"Does everything go away?"
Yeah everything goes away.

xAlways Gold-Radical Face

Gilbert had seen horrors, had been present for crimes that even the most cold-hearted of men would squirm at having to witness. He'd been made to do horrible, terrible things that no one could ever justify. There was blood on his hands. He had never been cold, nor had he ever been as naive as he pretended to be.

Gilbert wasn't sure he'd ever be able to truly sleep again. He was sure that he would never be able to look Elizabeta and Roderich in the eyes again-Roderich. If he was even alive.

The trials to get back to his home were long and he found that there wasn't much to come back to. None of his things meant much anymore, and like himself, his house was soon an empty shell, containing only the most necessary furniture. He scrubbed his hands raw. He screamed himself away from night terrors of skeletal bodies and the smell of rot and death. Gilbert shook with tremors that were unifxable. He ignored the letters from Elizabeta that came weekly now; he didn't even open them, afraid of what he might discover.

He wasn't ready to read that Roderich was taken.

It would be a miracle if he hadn't been. A miracle Gilbert desperately needed. There was a hopelessness about him now though. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to try. He didn't want to live anymore. The things he'd done-oh the things he'd done.

And Francis, his best friend in France. France, that had fallen. Francis and Roderich and Elizabeta. His little brother, Ludwig, his baby brother on trial for war crimes. Ludwig and Francis and Roderich and Elizabeta. Gilbert couldn't breathe anymore. He was sure that he was drowning. He was holding his breath and waiting for that one moment, when your body opened and tried to breathe the water in, but it couldn't. That moment when he would die.

He never opened Elizabeta's letters, but he'd found the strength to go to their house, a week long trip. When he knocked on the door, Elizabeta answered and slapped him hard across the face. He held out a hand in an aborted motion that would have been a hug. His scarred, tattered excuses for hands. His scarred face. Elizabeta started to cry.

And like a miracle, Roderich came to the door to see what was wrong. Roderich was alive and Gilbert was crying too, crying from relief, crying from heart break and utter brokenness. Roderich hugged him. He held him close and whispered that it was okay. Whispered that he'd taken Gilbert's advice after all and left to stay with Vash for the duration of the war.

Gilbert whispered that he was sorry too, but it wasn't for the same reasons. He whispered that he'd done unforgivable things and that he would never be able to live again. His head was pounding, his heart was in his throat. Elizabeta was still crying, but now she was saying something.

She was saying that he was forgiven, no matter what he'd done. She was saying that she and Roderich didn't need him to apologize. That they understood. Gilbert shook his head and let it all pour out-the terrors he'd seen and the crimes he'd committed. They went quiet. Roderich still didn't let go.

Finally, the Austrian whispered quietly to him. He whispered that he was still forgiven. That it wasn't his fault. That he was glad that Gilbert was alive, and safe. That they would put him back together. Elizabeta told Gilbert that he would stay with them until he was better-until he was himself again. Gilbert knew that he would never be himself again.

He let them soothe him anyway. It felt nice to be in the company of people again. In the company of people he loved. Gilbert was home, and even though he was still broken, now he was healing.

Gilbert answered back, "I love you."