Chapter 3

1911

Winter had always been one of his favorite seasons, second only to fall.

Cold air. White skies. Quiet times.

The fireplace roaring in the living room.

Winter had always been kind to Ludwig.

Some people walked around in the snow and slush, and looked as if they would have liked nothing more than to sink down into the street and die, wiping their noses with their sleeves and grumbling miserably under their breath.

Ludwig loved walking in the snow.

And so he was now, cheeks red and breath puffing out white in the freezing air, and even as he walked home he could see how miserable most people that he passed looked.

Oh, well. To each their own.

It didn't bother him. He'd rather be in the cold than the merciless heat of summer.

He bounded up the steps as eagerly as he did in the spring months (if not a bit more carefully for the ice) and reached out to grab the handle.

"Gilbert!"

Pushing open the door, Ludwig slid inside, bulky coat covered in snow and water as he cradled his books in his arms. A flurry of January snowflakes came in behind him, and he shut the door as fast as he could, looking around in anticipation at letting his brother in on every detail of yet another school day.

Gilbert, as doting and possessive as he was, was always eager to hear the news, and the lessons, and even the homework.

He shook the water from his hair, and turned around.

Silence.

Huh.

Gilbert was not there, and he frowned.

Well, that was unusual. Gilbert was always waiting for him when he returned from the Gymnasium.

That loud mouth was always running.

"Gilbert?"

He removed his coat and put it up to dry, shivering a little as the cold settled in. Setting his schoolbooks down on an end table, he went around the corner and looked into the kitchen. Gilbert was not there. He looked in the back yard, in the basement, and finally trekked up the stairs, poking his head into Gilbert's room.

Nothing.

Accepting that Gilbert was not home, he went back downstairs and threw himself down on the sofa, taking up his books and tapping a pencil over his schoolwork dutifully.

Every so often, he found himself glancing towards the window, where the snow still fell outside, and no matter how hard he tried, he found that his eyes kept wandering over to the mailbox. Seeing it brought on a pang of longing.

Ever since that letter had come, Gilbert had strictly forbade him from checking the mail ever again, and he obeyed, fearful of invoking his brother's wrath, or at the very least, to keep from disappointing him.

But, oh God, he desperately wished that he had opened it when he had had the chance. He had twisted it in his hands for so long that he hadn't even heard Gilbert coming down. It had been his letter. Not Gilbert's. Why shouldn't he have been allowed to open it?

No one ever wrote to him.

He had no friends, no acquaintances, no peers. That was how Gilbert liked it, and he had told him over and over, what good were friends when he had such an 'awesome big brother'?

Maybe so.

Still, it was a bit lonely. Just Gilbert and himself. That wasn't a normal family. A normal life.

No matter how hard Gilbert tried.

The snow fell harder.

The door suddenly clicked, alerting him, and he looked over when Gilbert stepped inside, shaking himself off like a dog. When he caught Ludwig's gaze, Gilbert smiled amicably, stretching up his arms lazily above his head and saying, "Hey, kiddo. Good day?"

"It was alright. Where were you? I was waiting."

Gilbert just smiled.

"Just meeting a client. Nothing to worry about."

As he turned his back to Ludwig, pulling off his soaked coat, he added, "Miss me?"

"Mm-hm!"

Well, that was true. He always missed Gilbert when he was gone. Always.

Gilbert seemed satisfied at his enthusiasm.

"Yeah, you better."

Ludwig smiled and leaned back into the sofa, waiting patiently for Gilbert to give him his full attention as he tapped his pencil down upon his papers. It was not long coming before Gilbert noticed his relentless stare, and lifted a brow.

"What's up?"

Eagerly, Ludwig clutched the folder to his chest, saying, "I have to write an essay."

Gilbert scoffed, hanging his coat up carelessly next to Ludwig's and wiping his boots on the mat. "Well, listen, I'm not exactly the person to help out with that."

"But it's about you," he added, and now Gilbert looked at him, a strange curiosity on his face.

That huge ego.

"Me?"

A wide grin of self-satisfaction spread over Gilbert's face, and he suddenly seemed much more interested.

Ludwig carried on, now that Gilbert's flitting mind had finally focused.

"We had to write about our father's careers, and when I told them I don't have a father, they said I could write about you." He smiled, setting the folder on his lap. "Since you're a lawyer, I figure it'll be pretty easy! It shouldn't take very long. I just need to learn exactly what you do."

"Ah."

A strange, prolonged silence.

Gilbert's interest suddenly seemed...

Alarmed.

He squirmed under Ludwig's unwavering gaze, seeming suddenly uncomfortable as he tried to give a confident laugh.

It came off as weak, and strained.

"Sure! That's! That's no problem. But why don't we eat first? I'm starving!"

Gilbert's gaze kept wandering. His smile was only half-hearted.

He looked suddenly a bit ill.

But Ludwig pushed it aside, because Gilbert had always been a little moody.

A little weird sometimes.

Lately more than usual, it seemed, and sometimes Ludwig would look up to see Gilbert staring at him in a manner that almost looked disheartened, and sad. And Ludwig could never figure out exactly what he had done wrong.

Gilbert was just strange.

"Aren't you hungry?" Gilbert pressed, when he sat there, still. "C'mon, I'll try my hand at cookin' for once. Huh?"

Well.

"Alright," he conceded, and they moved into the kitchen, and Ludwig could not help but notice that Gilbert seemed nervous and shifty. Anxious. It was hard not to, no matter how hard he tried.

Hell, maybe he'd done something wrong again.

Gilbert tried his best to cook something edible, and Ludwig noticed that he seemed to be taking his time, with a very great intent. Staring off in space and barely paying attention to what he was doing.

He tried to make small talk, even as unfocused as he was.

"So. Learn anything new today?"

Ludwig, sitting at the table, watched as Gilbert stared firmly at the counter, chopping an onion.

"Ah... I learned a little algebra."

Gilbert gave a quick, "Hm."

Silence.

Ludwig tapped his pencil on the table, and tried not to let Gilbert's moodiness get him down.

The grey skies outside seemed to affect Gilbert more than they did him.

"Are you good at it?"

The question startled him a bit, and he looked up from the table.

"Huh?"

"Algebra," Gilbert elaborated, in a low, quiet voice, "Are you good at it?"

"Not really. Not yet."

"You'll get the hang of it."

Gilbert always did his best.

Dinner came and went in more silence than usual, and Ludwig was ready to get Gilbert down and get his work done.

But as soon as they finished eating, Gilbert found excuse after excuse to delay the inevitable.

He needed to take a bath. He needed to take a nap. He wanted to go outside for a bit. He was too tired to talk. He was thirsty. He wanted to have a drink first.

It was frustrating, and somewhat unnerving, and he hated it when Gilbert evaded his attempts to engage in personal conversation. It made the pessimistic side of his mind wary, and he hated the mistrust that sometimes fleeted within him.

Gilbert tried his best, but sometimes whatever it was he was doing just didn't feel right.

Something seemed wrong, sometimes.

Gilbert was so shifty.

It was not until late in the afternoon that Ludwig finally ended the game of cat and mouse and cornered Gilbert with pen and paper, bombarding him with questions, that he finally got his brother to speak.

He didn't really have much of a choice. He was kind of cornered.

Gilbert just leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets, and looked a little pale.

"Well! Let's get this over with."

Funny.

Ludwig had been so sure that Gilbert would have been eager to do this, if only to stoke his ego a little.

"Alright. Well, first thing's first. What kind of law is it you practice, exactly?"

Some part of him felt silly that he did not already know these things about his own brother, but Gilbert never talked about work even when he asked, so how could he? Gilbert was strangely tight-lipped when it came to work.

Strange, as loud as he was about everything else.

Gilbert cleared his throat, heaved a great sigh, and began.

"It's mostly property disputes, ah, civil cases, you know."

Ludwig nodded as he wrote, barely noticing that Gilbert was chewing mercilessly on his thumbnail, foot tapping on the floor as he glanced up at the clock.

"How many clients do you get every year?"

"Ah... A hundred, give or take."

"Are they hard cases?"

"Not all of them."

"How many times are the cases settled out of court?"

Ludwig's pencil was scratching furiously, and Gilbert laughed; a strange, thin sound. "All these questions! You could be a lawyer some day too, you know?"

Ludwig looked up at him, smiling breathlessly at Gilbert's praise. "You think so? I don't know, it seems like a lot of work."

"Yeah," Gilbert said, his eyes unreadable and face somehow tense. "Yeah it is."

All of a sudden, as he was scribbling away, Gilbert reached out, and placed a heavy hand on the top of his head.

"That it?"

An almost desperate question.

For a moment, distracted by the warmth of Gilbert's hand and the tone of his voice, Ludwig would have liked nothing more than to toss the papers aside and leap into Gilbert's arms.

He hated seeing Gilbert looking anything other than obnoxiously confident.

But duty called.

"Just one more. What year did you graduate law school?"

"Ah."

The air suddenly seemed a little chilly.

Now Gilbert fell silent, as if deep in thought, and when he spoke he began to stammer. "It was, ah... Nineteen-o-three. No! No, it was, um, nineteen-o-one. Yeah. That's right." As Ludwig watched him with a furrowed brow, he began to shift about, resting his chin in his hand. "I got out in... No. That's not right. I got out in nineteen...seven? What the fuck is the goddamn year? Nineteen-o-five. That's it. That sounds right. Maybe..."

Gilbert just shook his head to himself, and his muttering became incomprehensible.

This uncertain rambling set off a silent alarm in the back of his head and, feeling suddenly uneasy and wary yet again, Ludwig took his paper and backed away, saying, "That's good. I've got enough. Thank you."

Gilbert did not seem to hear him, looking straight at the wall as he continued to mutter incoherently to himself.

"...dammit, that doesn't even make sense. That's way off. Let me think..."

Chest tight, Ludwig retreated into his room, shutting the door behind him as he attempted to escape the nagging doubt that chased him. Sitting down on his bed, he tried to clear his mind and began to write, stringing together a choppy essay that was uncharacteristically bad for someone so meticulous, but he just couldn't seem to focus, and quickly found himself stopping every minute or so.

Something just seemed so wrong.

He hated that feeling.

Gilbert.

He loved Gilbert. Adored him. Depended on him. He lived for Gilbert.

But he didn't trust Gilbert.

And that hurt, above all else.

Time passed in a blur of annoyance and nausea and worry, as he shifted back and forth on the bed and put his paper down and picked it up and put it down. He couldn't seem to think. At least about anything other than Gilbert, and what he was hiding.

Gilbert was lying.

To him.

Gilbert claimed that he would do anything for him. That he loved him. And yet he couldn't just tell him the truth.

Unacceptable.

Tired and irritated and feeling sick, Ludwig looked up at the clock, and was surprised.

It was already eleven. Far past his bed time.

No wonder he was in such a bad mood.

"I'm probably just tired," he grumbled to himself as he pulled himself to his feet, and set the folder aside. Time to rest a bit, and get to sleep.

He had until Monday morning to complete this task, and perhaps Gilbert was just having a bad night...

Everyone had bad nights.

He turned off the light, crawled in bed, and went to sleep.

He wanted to trust Gilbert, for he had no one else.

Gilbert was everything.

The night grew darker, the moon was rising above the snow clouds, and his sleep was fitful and restless. Unusual; he had always been a heavy sleeper. Nothing stirred him once he was out, not even God or the Devil or a damn earthquake, as Gilbert put it, but his unease perhaps had left him in a vulnerable state, for the closing of a door awoke him hours later.

Just a click.

It was enough.

Sitting up, chest heavy and startled, he looked blearily up at the clock when his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Two in the morning.

He swore that he had heard the front door close.

And in the middle of the night, that was not usually a good thing.

Pulling himself to his feet, he opened his own door, warily, poking his head out and whispering, "Gilbert?" There was no response, and he stepped into the living room, feeling the first prick of alarm.

Had someone come in?

Everything was dark.

His socked feet made no sound as he moved about stealthily, and he climbed the stairs, slipping into Gilbert's room, anxiously.

"Gilbert? Wake up, I think..."

He trailed off when he turned on the light, and turned around.

The bed was empty.

Gilbert was gone.

His fright turned into agitation so quickly that it made his head hurt, and he dropped his arms loose at his sides, muttering irritably to himself, "Really, Gilbert?"

Really?

He went back down the stairs, checking every room, every bathroom, every closet, and confirmed beyond a doubt that his brother was, indeed, gone.

Gone.

It was always like this with Gilbert. Why so many secrets? What exactly was it that was going on, that Gilbert could not confide in him? He told his brother everything, but he was not extended the same courtesy. It was painful, and frustrating, but some part of him almost didn't want to know.

Maybe it was better not to know.

He had thought at first that perhaps it was just a gambling addiction, when Gilbert came home that morning chased by the police. Underground gambling was illegal, so that made sense. But, he quickly realized, gamblers always lost money, and every time Gilbert walked through the door it was with expensive things and pockets full of Marks.

So, if it wasn't gambling, it had to be something even more illegal, and that was frightening. Why would he need to, when he was already a well-to-do lawyer? This huge house, the expensive school, the shameless outings...

Why risk them so?

Why risk him, and his confidence?

It was not normal, these late night excursions, and it wasn't safe.

Gilbert was up to something.

Losing Gilbert was not something he could fathom, and he felt his patience waning.

He deserved to know.

Maybe he wasn't a child, not anymore, but at this moment he certainly wanted to act like one, and he thrust out his leg in a moment of fury and kicked Gilbert's dresser as hard as he could. It shuddered with the force, and damn if his toe didn't hurt like a son of a bitch afterwards, and the bottom drawer opened, just a centimeter.

He pulled his foot up into the air to cradle it in his hands as he hissed and cursed, and for a moment he almost didn't notice the drawer had come open at all.

Christ, if he'd broken a toe, he was gonna give Gilbert all kinds of hell.

Once the pain started to dull and he could open his mouth without spewing every curse he'd ever heard Gilbert utter, he looked down and saw the gaping drawer.

As he bent down automatically to correct this ill-alignment, as was his nature, he paused thoughtfully, hands gripping the teak.

Well. Gilbert's privacy.

And yet...

"I'm not that nosy," he reassured himself, and hesitated, both wanting and fearing to look inside. But in the end, his curiosity won out over his conscience, and he pulled the drawer open, reaching his hands down into his brother's belongings for the first time.

He immediately wished he had not.

Feeling something cool and smooth beneath a folded shirt, he pulled out a bulging wallet, so packed over its limit that it fell open on its own.

Inside were cards.

Looking over his shoulder, just to make sure that Gilbert wasn't sneaking up on him, he could already feel the dread.

Something was always wrong with Gilbert.

He turned his attention back to the wallet and pulled the cards out, one after the other, and realized they were IDs.

The dread turned into horror.

Card after card.

And they kept coming.

There were so many he would not even attempt to count them, and every one had a different name. A different photo. A different hair color. A different age. A different address.

But the face was Gilbert's.

So many Gilberts.

Ha. Somehow, he wasn't surprised. Gilbert could change mood and tone and attitude so quickly...

How could it ever surprise him that he could change identity as well?

Absolute devastation.

That Gilbert was not who he said he was.

That maybe he knew absolutely nothing about the man who sat in front of him at the kitchen table and reached out to run a hand down his cheek in moments of fondness.

Gilbert.

A sudden, horrible thought :

Maybe Gilbert wasn't even his real name.

Oh, God.

Ludwig fell back on his haunches onto the floor, clutching the cards in his hands as his heart began to race and his blood rose. He could not comprehend. Why would Gilbert need false IDs, and so many? It didn't make sense.

He felt the awful churning in his stomach, already feeling betrayed without knowing exactly why.

Gilbert had lied to him. Probably about everything.

He pulled himself to his feet after a great struggle, put the cards back where he found them, and left the room as quickly as he could.

He was afraid to see what else lay in there.

The horror turned into anger.

Staggering down the stairs, he thought of his options.

Options. Like he could really do something about this. Like he could ever change Gilbert. Stubborn, loud, thick-headed Gilbert.

Yeah, right.

So what could he do?

Options.

Confronting Gilbert was absolutely not one of them; Gilbert would fly off the handle and into an absolute rage, and would probably stalk out after a very aggressive fight, and he would accomplish nothing. He could not try to snoop any more on his own here; he was not quite brave enough, and Gilbert was too clever. He could not ask around; he knew no one.

So.

How could he find out what his brother was up to?

Dumb Gilbert.

Why couldn't he just tell the truth? Why couldn't he just explain himself?

Gilbert gave away nothing, and asked for everything.

Just lies. All he ever got. Nothing more. Nothing less.

As the night began to recede, he retreated into his room after hours of pacing the living room, saying nothing to Gilbert in the morning when he 'woke up' and waiting for the next opportunity.

Enough was enough. This was it. No more.

He was tired of getting nothing. He was tired of being lied to. He was tired of being left in the dark. He was tired of not knowing.

He was tired of Gilbert.

So he waited.

When Gilbert left tonight, he would follow him, and learn the truth, once and for all.

He was tired.


"One for you, three for me."

There were few things in the world gloomier than the underbelly of a monstrous city, particularly one that was the scale of Berlin. The homeless and destitute, the criminal and the victim, and those with something to hide, slunk through the alleyways, avoiding the light at all costs.

Gilbert did not fear the light. He just didn't care for it.

Night was his time.

A calm, confident voice rang out in the darkness of an abandoned warehouse, creating an echo that bounced around in the eerie lime glow of street lamps.

A home for dishonest men.

"One for you, three for me."

And, well, Gilbert sure as hell fit that description.

He sat at a poorly constructed table, counting out a large pile of Marks that he was dutifully dividing into two stacks. All around him were strange, heavy crashes, and one would need only a second to realize that he was surrounded by metal cages. In each of them, barking and snarling, fangs bared, stood muscular dogs, hot breath visible in the cold night air, and they slammed themselves without thought against the doors, thinking only of reaching their brethren.

Gilbert eyed them evenly, silver hair tinted green in the sickly light.

As if they could do him any harm, the way they were locked up.

One of the canines let out a strangled howl, and he turned back to his money, mindless of their blood-thirst. "Man," he said lowly to himself, "this is my best haul yet. You hear that, Fido?" He looked over his shoulder, catching the eye of a dog, and smiled. "Here's your cut. One for you..." He patted the small pile with emphasis. "And three more for Gilbert."

The dog tilted its head to the side, curiously, and Gilbert waved it off.

Dumb mutt.

He was surprised the damn things were as expensive as they were.

"On second thought...better be all for me!"

Laughing, he reached out and scooped the money deftly into his pockets, feeling pretty damn good about himself. The dog behind let out a muffled whimper, and Gilbert stood, adding, "No hard feelings, huh? You'd just eat it anyway."

He had almost outdone himself this time.

The air was freezing.

Looking around, rubbing his hands up and down his arms to keep warm, he decided to just go for it.

He turned on his heel and ambled off, exploring the enormous warehouse with an eagle eye. This was where he had been instructed to leave these beasts after he had procured them from a sleazy dealer on the French border. His client, equally sleazy, was a (supposedly) professional dog-fighter, in need of new stock. And Gilbert had delivered well.

Very well.

The crude, blood-stained wooden pens were only mildly distasteful to him. This place was more like some kind of torture chamber, rather than a warehouse, but...

Business was business. He'd seen worse things.

While he was waiting for the owner to come and claim them, why not look around and see if he had anything in here to nick? The more, the merrier, after all.

Passing a wall covered with muzzles and stained breakup sticks, he caught sight of a cupboard in the corner that looked hopeful. Sneaking up silently, he opened each drawer swiftly, and was disappointed when he found nothing of particular value. But as he shut the small door, he could swear that he had heard something.

And it wasn't the dogs.

It was footsteps, light and hollow, and he lifted his head, eyes and ears alert.

He knew his business well, and no one snuck up on him.

No one.

He slunk back over, keeping his own steps absolutely silent as he approached the front of the warehouse.

The steps stopped and started, as if examining the building.

Whoever it was, they were not inside, but just outside the door. Close enough to cause trouble.

Had they heard the barking? In this supposedly empty place? That could be...inconvenient.

He clenched his fists at his sides when the footsteps drew closer.

Alarmingly close.

A noise, as if someone were fiddling with the door.

Oh.

Shit.

He could not afford to lose this shipment. Not one this large, and not one this profitable. He had only received a third of the payment; the rest of it was dependent on his ability to keep the cargo safe.

And goddammit, that money was his.

One way or another.

He stood there, still and breathless, and Christ! Wouldn't those fuckin' dogs stop barking?

Another noise.

It happened.

The warehouse door began to creak as someone gripped the handle, and Gilbert slunk forward, pulling a small knife from his pocket as he found his footing.

Mostly show.

He would not kill this nosy jerk, but hell, they did not know that, and he was intent on scaring the living daylights out of them and securing the location, at least for the night.

That was all he needed.

He settled on the side, and waited.

This punk was about to have a bad, bad night.

The creaking suddenly stopped, and for a second, he thought they had changed their mind and gone. But then the door pushed open, hesitantly, and someone stood in the frame. Gilbert did not speak, staying in place as this intruder took a step inside. He did not see Gilbert, standing behind him with crossed arms, and a sharp intake of breath alerted him that his eyes had adjusted enough to see the scene.

No doubt a room full of killer dogs was enough to cause nightmares.

Gilbert, standing back in the shadows, observed.

It looked like a man, his height, completely covered head to toe in a thick coat, face bathed in darkness as he stood there. He was completely unrecognizable, but Gilbert saw no threat in terms of strength. Pretty skinny, even from beneath the coat, and his visible hands were pale and slender.

The hands of good breeding, not those of a criminal.

No problem.

He acted, and took a step forward.

"Curiosity killed the cat," he drawled lowly, and the man turned, startled, and Gilbert's knife gleamed in the light.

Still couldn't see his face, hidden by his coat, but his stance alone was that of surprise.

Good.

He expected cowering, begging, even a clumsy, desperate assault, but what he got was a foot chase.

Turning on his heel, the man bolted through the warehouse, and Gilbert gave chase. But damn, was he fast.

Too fast.

For a horrible second, as he ducked and dodged around Gilbert with the nimbleness of a deer, he thought the man would actually be able to outrun him and escape, and then the game would be over, as he would no doubt go straight to the police. They doubled back, and Gilbert slipped, and the man jumped over him, running out of the open door as fast as he could.

Oh, shit.

He couldn't let him get away, and, panting, Gilbert ran out after him, lungs stinging as they hit the freezing night air. Looking around, he saw a shadow on the horizon, and followed with a sharp left. But now the tables turned, and it was the other man who slipped in the snow, skidding in the ice, and Gilbert caught up to him just as he was slipping (literally) into an alley.

Reaching out, he managed to grab the hood of the coat, just by a millimeter.

He could see his breath in the air.

A moment of stopped time.

The fabric was in his hand.

He dug his fingers in, and ripped the man back, slamming the unwelcome visitor onto his back hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

A dull thud, and a wheeze of pain.

There it was.

The chase was over.

He had won.

The burn of victory and adrenaline fought off the freezing air, and flushed his cheeks.

He almost smiled.

And when Gilbert turned around and looked down at him, knife ready and legs braced, he felt a horrid jolt of nausea and despair, and time froze.

Everything stopped.

Even his breath seemed to stop showing in the cold.

Silence.

He couldn't seem to hear anything, not even his own heart.

Nothing.

The burn of victory dulled. Adrenaline evaporated. Everything was too damn cold.

Cold.

Staring up at him from the icy street, gasping for breath and forehead covered in cold sweat, hair shining white in the moonlight and fingers digging into the snow, lied Ludwig.

Ludwig.

Even from a distance, there was no missing the accusation and betrayal in his eyes.

Ludwig.

Why? Oh, Christ in heaven, why had he come out here?

Ludwig's eyes were as white as his hair as the moon hit them.

Gilbert just stood there, and stared down at him.

He could not breathe. He could not move.

God, that look. He couldn't bear that look. Ludwig had never looked at him like that before.

Not like that.

He was frozen in horror, mind going blank, and then the realization of what he had done hit him with the force of a train, and he began to tremble so terribly that the knife slipped from his fingers.

The clatter was barely audible through the whooshing in his ears.

His head hurt.

Ludwig didn't say a word, still staring at him, and he fell to his knees on the hard pavement, moaning in misery, "Oh God, oh God, oh no." He reached out, grabbing Ludwig's face in his hands in a desperate need to touch. "Are you alright? Oh, God, you're not hurt, you can't be hurt."

If he had hurt Ludwig, he'd curl up and die.

Ludwig didn't talk.

Oh, wouldn't he say something?

Anything.

"Are you alright? Oh, c'mon, you're not hurt, are you? Tell me you're not hurt, I didn't hurt you, I know I didn't!"

He was crying in earnest now, all composure gone, grabbing Ludwig's shoulders and shaking him savagely as the fury came rising up.

Dumb Ludwig.

He should never have come out here.

Never.

"You! How could you? Do you know how I could have hurt you? Don't you know what could have happened to you? Do you? Why can't you ever listen to me? Why? How could you? You're so stupid! You're so fuckin' stupid you little son of a bitch! How many times have I told you not to worry about it? Why don't you listen? Why don't you ever fuckin' listen? Stupid! You! You idiot! I could just strangle you, I swear I could! You stupid brat! How..."

Anger dissolved into absolute shame. Never had he felt such shame.

Not even back then.

Ludwig just stared at him.

Too much.

He'd fucked up. In the worst way possible.

He'd lost Ludwig's confidence.

He bowed his head, words lost to his clenched throat as despair became overwhelming, sobbing as his world came crashing down.

He couldn't ever take this back.

Ludwig only stared at him through narrowed eyes, and he felt the guilt come flooding in, overtaking even the awful hurt and horror.

"Oh. What have I done?" he groaned, mostly to himself, and as he sat there, hands clenching his hair, Ludwig finally spoke.

His voice was soft and emotionless and icy; not his own.

A whisper.

"You're not a lawyer, are you?"

Gilbert's hands fell to his sides, and he looked down at Ludwig, feeling his eyes heavy and bleary. He opened his mouth, lost his voice, and could only shake his head, once.

Years of lies, gone like smoke.

Confidence gone. Trust broken.

Ludwig knew. Nothing would ever be the same.

There was a derisive scoff, and Ludwig stood up before him, legs shaky, grunting, "I should have known."

It hurt.

Gilbert watched him, too ashamed of himself to even try and hold onto him as he reached his full height, and Ludwig turned his back, arms loose at his sides as he whispered, "I'm so... I can't believe I... You..."

Incomprehensible muttering.

Ludwig stopped, and fell still, head bowed.

Gilbert was glad, for a moment, that he couldn't see Ludwig's face.

Silence.

Never had he seen Ludwig look so defeated.

Far too cold and very numb, Gilbert could only murmur, thickly, "I'm...so sorry."

The wrong thing to say. It set Ludwig off like a bomb.

"You're not sorry!" Ludwig roared, as he rounded on Gilbert like a wolf, kicking the snow in anger. "You're never sorry for anything! I can't believe I trusted you! I can't believe you lied to me! I asked you! You promised me! You promised me that you weren't hurting anyone!"

He'd never heard Ludwig shout.

Not ever.

The sound of it was alarming.

Broken promises.

Ha... What else was new? Didn't Ludwig understand that breaking promises was really the only thing he had ever been good at?

He didn't say a word in his defense. He didn't even have any.

Ludwig reached up and clenched his fists in his hair, pacing back and forth in a rage as he tried to control his breathing, absolute fury incarnate, and he cried to no one, "I'm so stupid! How I ever could have just believed you! You're right about one thing, you know? I am stupid! I'm so stupid!"

Gilbert hung his head, and Ludwig finally stalked off into the street, leaving his brother broken behind him.

There could be no turning back from this.

It was over. All of it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, long after Ludwig was gone, and, sitting in the snow and ignoring the bitter wind, he realized he had lost the only family he had ever had.

Ludwig was gone.

He was alone.

And as he wallowed in a pool of self-pity in a dirty alley, he couldn't have known that Ludwig was tearing the house apart, searching for the letters Gilbert had hidden away from him for the past year.

Something had to change.

Over.