Chapter 10
It was only appropriate.
Oh, god, he was so afraid of the dark.
His worst fear. Night. Not seeing.
Gilbert was afraid of groping blindly in the black of night. He was afraid of not knowing what lay ahead, or behind. He was afraid of things laying in wait that he could not see. He was afraid of ghosts, even, for Christ's sake.
He was afraid.
But it was only appropriate, Roderich had written on the map, that Gilbert be forced to use the same death tunnel that Ludwig had crawled through when he had set out on his rescue so long ago. Because history was doomed to repeat itself, after all, and Roderich had always had a taste for the cruelly ironic.
What Roderich did not understand was that Ludwig was brave...
Gilbert stood before the grate, hands clenched into fists at his sides, chest falling and rising with deep breaths as he struggled to stifle his fear and nausea, forehead dripping with sweat despite the cool air.
...and he was not.
Or maybe Roderich understood that full well and was tormenting Gilbert out of spite.
Seemed more likely.
This place. This horrible place.
All around him were terrible gusts of wind and haunting creaking of the dilapidated building, and he stared ahead at the locked metal grate, and beyond it there was nothing—only oblivion, and oh, Christ, it was so dark. It was made all the worse at the thought in his head of Ludwig standing here once before, and he could see it before him as though through a dreamy fog :
Ludwig, pale hair shining white in the moonlight, standing tall and straight, completely calm and determined, and when his eyes looked into the void, he saw only the other side.
Gilbert saw only death.
Nothingness.
Gilbert was glad that he hadn't told Alfred he was leaving, because Alfred was brave too, and he had no doubt that Alfred would have pushed onward without a doubt and without fear. Alfred would have showed him up without a hesitation.
He could barely move. He felt sick.
Stuck.
Terrified.
So frightened that he was trembling down to his boots.
He fell onto his knees before the grate, and pulled out a bobby pin, but his hands were shaking so terribly that it kept slipping from his fingers. He stabbed blindly at the lock, turning his fingers this way and that, but it did not click open. He tried again, and then again, and when he fumbled the pin and lost it all together, he pulled himself to his feet and withdrew the gun from his coat.
His hand shook.
He wanted to cry, more than anything.
Felt so damn helpless.
He aimed, and fired one shot, and somehow, despite his terrible aim, the bullet hit the lock straight on, and the iron obstacle fell to the ground with a dull clatter.
Time to go. He could do it.
He could.
Ludwig had done it.
Sucking in one great breath, he knelt back down, pulled the mesh up, and as soon as he had crossed the other side, he broke into a mad dash, praying that he could just make it to the other end in one mighty sprint. But it didn't happen that way, and he had barely gone ten yards before he was forced to slow, as the ceiling suddenly turned into dirt, and the dirt kept getting narrower and narrower.
The tunnel was small.
For a moment, bent at his waist, hands reaching up and cupping soft earth, he froze.
Had never been so fuckin' scared in his entire life, not even in that damn cell.
Not like this.
Suffocating. Stifled. In absolute darkness.
God help him, the terrible thought that crept suddenly into his mind, oh god help him.
That thought.
The thought that he could just turn around right then, that he could slink back into the city, that he could go somewhere far away, maybe France, retreating from this death tunnel as he retreated from so many things, and he would take with him all of his memories of Ludwig, and no one would ever know of his horrible descent into shame, or how he had thrown away his brother because of his own cowardice.
Could have run, so easily.
It was worth it, just to see you again.
How could he? Ludwig had crossed the wall for him.
No.
Digging his fingers into the dirt so close above him, he closed his eyes, and pushed it away so hard that his head began to pound, because he would turn this gun on himself before he ever abandoned Ludwig to the winds.
No matter what road lay before him, he would never turn his back on his brother.
Ludwig was more than brother; Ludwig was everything. Everything.
Loved that man.
Never.
He lived for Ludwig. Without Ludwig, there was nothing.
No stars. Just an empty sky.
Carry on.
Gilbert sucked in a great breath, found his feet, and plunged into the darkness, leaving behind him the security of the West, because Ludwig needed him, and maybe the whole thing was folly, stupid and foolish, but if he could not get Ludwig back, then he would not return.
He'd shoot himself, he would. Couldn't live the rest of his life like that. Not like that.
Crouching down and feeling dizzy as his heart hammered in his chest, he crept along carefully, sticking his foot out and feeling around before he took a step, and at his sides he felt the moist edges of the tunnel. It was cold, damp, and the air was stale and musty and rancid. Close and tight around him.
Absolutely pitch-black.
It was the most horrifying experience of his life, worse even than when he had been strapped to that iron chair in the Stasi building, because at least there he could see. At least there he had a bearing, had a sense of his surroundings.
Nothing here,
Claustrophobia.
Everything was closing in.
Crushing.
His breathing became shallow and erratic, and he could feel his self-control wavering as the walls began to close in around him, and his head bumped against the dirt ceiling. It was too small, too compact, too narrow, too cramped. He could not get enough air.
He couldn't breathe.
Carelessly, he stopped feeling before he stepped, desperate to get free from this suffocating night before he passed out.
The dirt got stuck under his nails.
He tried to speed up, but there were so many holes, and he stumbled, over and over again, and every time that he pulled himself to his feet he could feel the urge to run bubbling up within him.
He was scared.
It was so long.
There was no end in sight. An eternity of fear and night and foul air.
Just wanted to bolt, but couldn't fuckin' see.
And if there was someone behind him, or in front of him, then how would he know, and Jesus, what if there were bodies in here? What if he tripped over one and landed on it, and—
Something suddenly crawled over his hand, an insect maybe, but the skittering touch was just too much, and he threw all caution to the wind and gave in to his panic.
Blaring panic. Hadn't ever felt anything like that panic.
He ran, as well as he could, gasping in the sour air and trying his best not to cry. He had to get out of here.
The scariest moment of his life.
He tripped in another hole, and this time his ankle twisted, but he could not stop.
Panic in his veins led him now. Not the urge to save.
He forced himself to his feet, ignored the terrible pain, and hobbled on, digging his fingers in the dirt and hauling himself along.
Because behind him there was only fear and pain and anger and hopelessness and regret, and oh, how he hated himself with every breath for ever being so stupid, Roderich would never forgive him if he gave up, and before him there was hope and salvation and redemption in the face of Ludwig—
Oh god, help me, help me, helpmehelpmehelpme—
Light.
Suddenly there was light.
He sped his furious pace, and there was suddenly a flimsy wooden door before him, made of poorly constructed boards and nails, and through the cracks streamed a faint light.
Hope.
He ran into it with all of his strength, his shoulder bringing it crashing down, and when he broke through into the fresh air, he collapsed.
Oh, god.
Air. Light. Open space.
He was in another building, he did not know what kind, nor did he care; there was only cool air and moonlight, and he crawled out from the dirt, fingers digging into the concrete floor as he pulled himself back into the world.
Freedom.
Rolling over onto his back, he heaved for breath, staring up at the ceiling, and once his lungs had had their fill, he reached up, clenched his dirty fingers in his equally dirty hair, and started to cry.
He laid there for half an hour, maybe more, sobbing into his sleeves and crying out in misery to no one, rolling from side to side as he tried to come down from that awful atmosphere of total fear, and he was grateful for once that Ludwig was not with him, because it would have shamed him for his brother to see him wallowing like this.
Shame. All he had was shame.
What did it matter, anyway? Ludwig had seen him wallowing before. All he'd ever done his whole life, it seemed, dirty and wallowing in some street.
Ludwig just wasn't here to pick him up this time.
It hurt, more than anything else, to imagine his little brother crawling through that tunnel, kneeling in the dark and creeping through death itself, just for him. For a big brother that had been less that and more burden.
It hurt.
Oh, Ludwig.
Couldn't even stomach the thought.
It made his chest ache and throat clench up, seeing it up in his head. That proud, noble, dignified Ludwig had ever had to do this. Had been reduced to this. Pristine, neat Ludwig, lowering himself into the dirt for Gilbert.
Because Gilbert had been stupid.
As he laid there, gasping for air and coughing as he tried to stop the sobs, he wished, above all else, that he had left Ludwig in Roderich's care all those years ago as everyone had wanted. None of this would have happened.
Roderich had deserved Ludwig all along.
Hell, maybe it would have been better for everyone if he had just overdosed on some pills and slipped away quietly in some dirty alley long before all of this as he had come close to a couple of times.
Ludwig would be alright. Safe, tucked under Roderich's protective wing.
But it hadn't happened that way, and Gilbert had to go now.
Ludwig was waiting, somewhere.
Once he had found the strength to carry on, he staggered out of the abandoned building, limping as his ankle lit up with agony, and he found himself once again roaming the streets of the Eastern Bloc. Once again voiceless and repressed. On this side that he hated.
Back in the East. How funny. Couldn't ever seem to get away from it.
Somehow, he didn't know how, he eventually found himself in front of his flat. It was locked, and his key was long gone. He shattered a window and crawled through, because surely one night of this hell was enough for now.
He needed to shower himself free of the acrid soil, and put ice on his ankle.
Try to scrub free of the shame.
It did not fully register with him that he was home until he looked out at the city from the window of his abandoned flat, and saw the wall looming in the distance.
That old wall. He shuddered.
God, he had gotten away from this.
For what? Just to come straight back? He had dreamt of the West for so long, and now he was back in the East, his taste of freedom only a memory. But then, it hadn't been true freedom, not really.
Not without Ludwig.
Wasn't the same if Ludwig wasn't there.
Didn't matter where the hell he was, if Ludwig was gone.
He threw himself into a chair, and stared at the wall, and he stayed there in his house for nearly two damn weeks, gathering his strength and his nerve for his journey into the abyss. Trying to overcome shame and desperation.
Pitiful.
Ludwig was strong. He wouldn't give up.
Gilbert wouldn't, either.
Ludwig was waiting for him.
Together.
Weeks.
Weeks of merciless training, with orders and disappointed shakes of heads and halfhearted smacks, and Ludwig felt like a goddamn dog, jumping when Toris said to without even realizing he was doing it.
Every day. Every hour. Every minute.
Even though Toris said it was for his own good, Ludwig had serious reservations about the truthfulness of that statement, because how could it possibly be good for him to have Toris burst into his room in the dead of night, stomping his boots and shouting, 'Up! Up!' and scaring the almighty out of him?
How could it be good for him to have Toris blaring the Soviet national anthem on the record player as he tried to sleep?
How could it be good for him to have Toris drag him into the bathroom, toss him into the shower, and turn on the cold water?
Every day was the same.
He wondered sometimes if Toris hated him.
Because at times, it felt like he was more of a glorified stress ball for Toris, more than a pupil. Because it looked like Toris seemed to enjoy it. Liked tormenting him. Looked very much like Toris took some kind of pleasure out of Ludwig's misery.
Maybe that was just him.
The first day hadn't been so bad. Toris had only worked on how straight he kept his back and with what precision he saluted. And even though Ludwig didn't understand why the hell he was doing this, any of this, he did it anyway, because he had thought it was easy and humoring Toris was easier than arguing with him.
Arguing with stubborn Toris was like trying to argue with an ass.
...actually, Toris was an ass.
Anyway, Ludwig did it because he didn't have anything else to do.
He thought it was just a game, in some way. Something to pass the time. Something for bored Toris to do.
But Toris was just merciless.
A single millimeter off with his hand and Toris would heave an aggravated sigh and slap the back of his head. A single quiver when he was standing straight and Toris would furrow his brow and grab his collar at the back of his neck, pulling him from behind until he was as rigid as a board, not caring at all if he could breathe or not. A single twitch of his eyes when he was supposed to be at attention, and Toris would smack his cheek, sharply enough to sting.
And everything Ludwig said had to be followed up with 'Comrade'.
'Colonel?'
'Yes, comrade?'
'I like that uniform.'
'Thank you, comrade.'
'Where did you get it?'
'From you, comrade.'
'Where's your hat?'
'On my head, comrade.'
'And who owns that hat?'
'You do, comrade.'
'I own that hat, so does that mean I own your head too?'
'Yes, comrade.'
If he forgot to say it, Toris would reach up and pull his hat down below his eyes and hit the top of it with his fist. It didn't hurt, not with Toris' somewhat gentle hands, but it was annoying as all hell, and sometimes he just longed to whirl around and punch Toris in the nose and say, 'That's for you, comrade!'
Why didn't Toris have to say it?
Jerk.
It was with great effort that he restrained himself from following through with the urge to punch Toris, because Irina usually accompanied Toris on these training sessions, and Ludwig would not resort to such uncouth actions in front of a lady. Roderich woulda killed him. Especially when Irina was always so keen to tell him exactly how well he was doing, and how handsome he was, and how mannered!
Well.
Yes. All that.
Her praise made it a little easier. Not the worst thing out here, certainly, her praise. And he could walk now, without that pain in his body, and that helped his irritability a bit.
Toris would press his luck too far one day, though.
Sometimes, Ludwig felt agitated.
Trapped.
Couldn't stand it.
Always, always, he thought of ways to escape.
Couldn't yet, though, so he did what Toris wanted.
At night, when the training was complete (if Toris was in a good mood, anyway), when he would lay down in bed, exhausted, Ivan would knock once on the door and then slip inside, sitting himself down in the chair and smiling over at Ludwig calmly.
Ludwig could only look over at him, terrified more than he was annoyed, because Ivan was always so damn scary, and tried to engage in awkward conversations with the big oaf.
'Toris said you did really well today.'
Oh, yeah? News to him. Toris sure told him the opposite.
A strained, 'Mm.'
'I'm glad. I expect a lot from you, you know. You're going to be something great. I can tell. Keep it up!'
With that, Ivan would stand up, clap Ludwig on the shoulder, and leave.
Ludwig stared at the door long after he was gone.
Psycho.
Something great? Like what? He'd never been anything.
Nobody.
He didn't know what Ivan wanted from him. He didn't understand. What was the point of any of this? Ivan said he expected a lot. Of what? He hated even thinking about it. It made him sick. He didn't get any of this. He couldn't figure it out.
He hated not knowing. Being in the dark.
Every day was the same.
Sometimes, Toris taught him something different.
Ludwig was starting to wear down a little, although whether from exhaustion or duress he couldn't say.
Just didn't get it.
Didn't know what Ivan wanted.
Didn't know what Toris wanted, either, for that matter.
Toris was trying his best to beat all of these actions into Ludwig's subconscious, and even though he hated it, by god it was working, and when Toris would burst into his room in the night, Ludwig would leap from his bed in a bleary daze, stand up straight and salute, and Toris would only smile (or was that a sneer?) and walk right back out.
Sometimes, when he wasn't thinking about it, Ludwig would stop and realize that he was humming the national anthem.
Sometimes, when Toris walked into the room, Ludwig would realize that his posture had become perfect.
Worse, when Ivan would enter the room Ludwig would stop where he stood and stare straight ahead, as though at attention, without even thinking about it, and when Ivan smiled knowingly, pleased, Ludwig felt his cheeks burn red and realized that he had been successfully conditioned.
They were getting into his head.
No. Ivan was getting into his head, because everything Toris did came straight from Ivan, didn't it, and he could not help but wonder, with something that felt like pity, who had trained Toris.
Moody Toris, who could barely raise his fist in anger despite his harsh words, and Ludwig hoped that it had not been ruthless Ivan. But who else could have?
No one else here.
It was also this pity that kept him from taking out his anger on Toris, because he knew now that Toris had once been in his position, somehow or another. Toris just hid it pretty damn well. Ludwig woulda never guessed at all if Toris' hadn't told him. Had thought Toris had always been here, the way he acted.
What was going on around here? So many things hidden. This world of secrets and lies.
He hated this place.
Sometimes, Irina would see his depression and come up and take his hand, patting his cheek. When Toris was in a good mood, sometimes he smiled. The boy always smiled at him, especially when he was in uniform. And always, Ivan had nothing but compliments.
He hated them.
All of them.
Irina was nice, but she was a little off, in a way, and pretty dumb. Hated her. Toris was moody, bitchy, bossy, easily agitated. Hated him. The kid was annoying, somehow or another. Hated him.
And Ivan?
Hated him most of all, that fuckin' lunatic. Fuckin' psychopath. Ludwig wished Ivan would have just dropped dead.
Hated them, and yet...
Yet, he had been so lonely for so long, ever since Gilbert had been gone. No one had ever really been able to fill the void left behind. Alone, all the time. No one with him.
At least here, he was never alone. Always someone nearby.
Ludwig couldn't help but enjoy the attention they gave him, in some dumb way, even if he would go to his grave denying it.
Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if they could have just told him. He just wished that he knew what was going on. He wished that they would explain it all to him. Sometimes, he wished that he had just been sent off to that prison that Ivan had spoken of, because at least there things would make sense.
He could understand being in the prison, he really could.
Couldn't understand this house. Why he was here.
This place made his head hurt. He hated this place.
Everything was veiled.
Time passed, Toris kept on training, and he kept on learning. Even if he didn't really want to. What else could he do? He didn't have a life outside these walls anymore. He did what he was told, in a blind daze.
Maybe that had all been for the best.
Time passed.
He finally got the salute right, and when Ludwig had been a little proud of himself, waiting for praise, he had been disappointed.
Toris had just lifted up his brow, gave Ludwig a droll look-over, and then snipped, grumpily, 'Took you long enough.'
Ludwig had nearly sighed.
Oh, well.
Days later, he was finally given some insight and information.
It wasn't what he wanted.
For when finally he realized why Toris had been training him so relentlessly these entire weeks through, it did not make him feel any better. Actually, it made him feel worse.
Kinda wished he didn't know at all.
It was the coldest morning yet, so cold he could feel it even as he slept, and Ludwig had been shaken awake at dawn's first light, pulled to his feet, and when his eyes cleared, Toris had been standing before him, brow creased in worry.
Ludwig hadn't even had time to open his mouth to ask what was wrong.
Dazed. Sleep-shocked.
One yank to the door, and Toris had dragged Ludwig down the halls rather forcefully, so fast that he stumbled, and led him into a room.
Clothes had been shoved into his hands, and Toris had said, 'Change! Quick!'
He had.
And here now he stood, in front of a full-length mirror, dressed in the ugly Soviet uniform that had been forced upon him, and Toris was circling him like a vulture, inspecting every detail.
Hated that color.
Hard not to hate everything when Toris was nitpicking him like that. Fingers, pinching here and there, straightening and preening.
"Well," Toris finally grumbled to himself, as he stood on his toes to straighten Ludwig's hat with sure fingers, functioning surprisingly efficiently with one hand, "at least you look good in it, I guess."
What did he say to that? Thanks?
Eh.
Toris was such a jerk.
Ludwig only grunted and shrugged a shoulder, awkwardly, and suddenly Toris met his eyes, and there was only seriousness.
"We're leaving soon, so be ready."
His heart raced.
"Where are we going?"
He hadn't been outside in all the time he had been here. He didn't even know what it looked like out here. Didn't want to, either.
Toris looked at him, and for a moment there, moody Toris had almost looked sad.
Downtrodden, in a way.
"Lensk. It's another town. Ivan holds a military ball there every year, or just about." Toris' eyes narrowed, and he observed Ludwig from head to toe, adding, voice thin, "He's had one already this year, so you must have made quite an impression. Well, no one ever died from too much fun, I suppose."
Yeah, right. Gilbert might have challenged that statement.
Still, Ludwig didn't understand any of it, and his look said as much.
Toris took pity on him, for once, and elaborated, "They hold a big military ball every year in Moscow, but Ivan hates Moscow, so he started hosting his own in Lensk a while ago. They're a big hit with the Soviet generals and everyone else, too; Bulgarian, Chinese, Hungarian, East Germans, Romanian, Polish. Ivan doesn't hold them up to military code when they're there, you see. They do whatever they want. They bring their mistresses. They bring boys. They drink all they want. They gamble. It's held in the grand hotel, so they can sleep it off the next morning. You don't even want to know what goes on in some of those rooms." Toris laughed; strained, and humorless. "That's the only reason they put up with this damn cold weather! You wouldn't catch them dead in Siberia otherwise. And every now and again, Ivan likes to show off something new. A conquest. Looks like you're up this time. I hope you know how to waltz."
Conquest? Over his dead body.
Ludwig shuddered.
"Who says I'm going?" he retorted, petulantly, and Toris crossed his arms.
"Ivan."
And that, it seemed, was that.
Ivan's word was law out here.
Whatever words Ludwig had were stifled when the door clicked open, and someone joined them. Looking over his shoulder in the mirror, Ludwig saw the boy that he had glimpsed several times, and for a moment he was going to raise his hand gently, to say hello.
Why not?
Toris drew his attention quickly back by buckling a gun holster around his waist, and when he saw the glint of steel in the light, his breath left him.
A rush of hope.
Desperation.
Until Toris said, curtly, "I hope you don't think it's loaded."
His face fell.
Once it was hooked in, Toris raised his head, and studied him with an eagle eye. He made sure that everything was perfect, down to the gloss of his belt buckle and the smoothness of his pants, the neatness of his eyebrows, and Ludwig let him do as he would, feeling worn down and confused and halfhearted.
Why was any of this necessary? What did it matter? Who cared?
He felt defeated. Tired.
Wanted to go to sleep.
Behind him, the boy suddenly came up to Toris' side and gazed up at them with awe, and then he reached out, taking handfuls of Toris' shirt and tugging him a but eagerly.
"Toris! Kogda ya poluchayo uniformu?"
Ludwig looked down at him through the reflection in the mirror, and he was taken aback by the very adult look of resentment on the boy's face. He had the sudden urge to snip, 'What are you staring at, you little brat?' but it seemed that Toris was just as irritated by him, and swatted him away like an annoying fly.
The kid frowned and skulked off, stomping his feet, and Ludwig asked, under his breath, "What did he say?"
Toris snorted.
"He wants a uniform so badly. But Ivan won't give him one until he's old enough. It drives him crazy." Ludwig barely suppressed a roll of his eyes, because god, who would want this? But Toris only shook his head, and added, lowly, "He doesn't speak German, but be careful how you act around him. It'll get back to Ivan, one way or another. He wants to impress him, you see. Wants a uniform so bad that I guess he thinks he'll get one if he does something worthwhile. Dumb kid. What's he know?"
Ludwig didn't respond, standing still as Toris straightened his collar and then picked lint from his shirt, and when Toris was satisfied, Ludwig finally looked at his reflection.
What he saw there made his chest burn with hate. Despair.
Hell, if he didn't know for a fact that it was him there, he would not have recognized himself.
Who was that man?
Straight as an arrow and polished down to his cuticles, hair and hat perfectly perched and uniform absolutely pristine, he looked like the very definition of Soviet military. Looked like he belonged. Looked like a damn colonel. And he understood now what Toris had meant when he had said that no one would know he needed help.
God, he looked just like them. He looked like one of them. Just like them.
That man.
He suppressed the urge to reach out and shatter the mirror with his fist.
Or cry.
Pitiful.
Toris saw him twitching, and sighed.
"Don't look so nervous," Toris said, more awkwardly than soothingly, and Ludwig could only stare down at him with complete hopelessness, and for a moment, just a moment, Toris' stern eyes dropped their guard. Reaching up to brush down the shoulders of the uniform absently, he added, "Just salute a lot, and act like you own the world, like I showed you, and you'll do fine. It won't be as scary as you think. It'll be alright. You'll do fine."
Ludwig wasn't comforted, and his look said as much. He just wanted everything to be over with.
Wanted to go away, but didn't know where.
Fade away.
Toris opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and he finally just shook his head and turned away.
A moment of silence.
Toris shrugged his shoulders, keeping his back towards Ludwig, and then he spoke up again.
"I don't know what else to say to you. I really don't. I'm not good at...this. All this. Telling someone what to do, and pretending that I know everything." He ducked his head, and for a moment Ludwig could see something breaking through that perpetual despondency and agitation. A sudden slump of Toris' shoulders. "Hell, I'm used to other people making all the decisions. What do I know? I don't know what to do."
Yeah.
...neither did he.
This wasn't quite like anything he had ever prepared for. Why couldn't he just go home?
Finally, Toris turned back around, mask firmly in place again as he squared up his shoulders.
"Ready? Let's go."
Ludwig, numb, stared firmly at the floor as he walked behind Toris, who led him suddenly along.
A door opened, and Ludwig was outside. The first time since he had been here. The light hurt his eyes, for a moment, after being inside for so long, and he squinted.
White.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Minutes, and then he could see. For all it mattered.
Snow.
Snow all around, the short trees sagging down with the weight of it, the sky was grey, the horizon pale and misty, and even though he had not yet seen the house from the outside, he didn't look over his shoulder as they walked down the steps.
He didn't want to see his prison.
Sometimes, it was better not to know.
Instead, he kept his eyes on the car that was waiting in the drive, plumes of carbon monoxide floating through the freezing air, and even though he had only been out here for not even a minute, his ears were numb.
It was so cold. He never knew there were places on earth that could be so cold. His eyelashes were getting stuck to his skin. How could anyone live here? Just a few damn minutes, and he was already sticking to himself.
And people lived here—seemed crazy.
Toris led him along.
Then he was before the car, and Toris opened the door to the backseat.
Ludwig froze, and not from the cold.
Ivan was there in the back, smiling that ever present smile, well-groomed and wide awake.
Ludwig hesitated, shifty and anxious, but Toris shoved him from behind and he had no choice but to step in. When he sat down, he scooted towards the window as close as he could, keeping his eyes everywhere but towards Ivan.
No need to encourage him. Didn't wanna talk to him. Didn't even wanna look at him.
A lurch, and then they were moving.
He was already shivering. Was probably gonna die before they got there.
There was a shuffle at his side, and Ludwig dared himself to glance over.
Probably shouldn't've. Ivan had scooted closer.
Ugh.
Annoyance.
Ludwig's brow came down, and he primly ignored Ivan when he said, cheerily, "Good morning!"
He didn't respond.
A shift at his side, and with an iciness that had nothing to do with the temperature, he could feel Ivan leaning into his side, and he crooned again, "Good morning!"
He caught Toris' eyes in the rearview mirror, and at Toris' worried gaze Ludwig could only duck his head and grumble, monotonously, "Morning."
Maybe it was better not to antagonize Ivan, even by just ignoring his greeting.
Who knew what set Ivan off, anyway.
There were hands on his head suddenly, and Ludwig flinched back when Ivan removed his hat with eager hands. He nearly protested, because it was too damn cold to be without it, but then Ivan shoved another hat down onto him forcefully. He could feel that it was fur, and the flaps hanging down the side told him it was an ushanka.
And when Ivan tied it together below his chin, Ludwig narrowed his eyes, feeling absolutely ridiculous. He could have died for the shame.
God, he could hear Alfred's voice in his ears.
Better dead than Red!
Musta looked so stupid.
"It's warmer," Ivan supplied, at his testy look, and scooted in ever closer.
To take his mind off of the overwhelming presence, Ludwig turned his eyes to the window, and watched the road go by.
There was nothing. Only trees, and snow.
White-out.
It was already well below zero (and indeed, the thermometer in the front of the vehicle clearly read negative thirty-two) and the road was coated with ice. They went along at a snail's pace, and every so often Toris would curse under his breath as the tires of the vehicle began to lock up and slide. Every time it happened, Ludwig threw out one hand to the windowsill and held on for dear life, his heart racing as Toris fought with the steering wheel, and oh god, he thought they would run off the road and roll over.
Then what?
Freeze to death, no doubt.
But in the end, Toris beat the vehicle back into submission, clearly a master of driving on ice with even one hand, and when Ludwig looked over, Ivan only smiled. As though confident that nothing would go wrong, and he would place a hand on Ludwig's shoulder in what he may have thought was a comforting manner.
It was not. He felt sick.
Even though they were going so slowly that he probably could have just opened the door and stepped out without even stumbling, there would simply be no jumping into this wintry hell. He had fallen victim to the mild snows of Brno, hadn't he, and how could he expect to overcome the wilderness of Siberia?
His uniform was itching terribly. He didn't dare move, though. The ushanka on his head was barely enough to keep the chill at bay, and he could not feel his nose.
Ivan saw him twitching this way and that, and leaned in, leering, "Are you cold?"
Ivan knew he was, the bastard, but Ludwig shook his head nonetheless, leaning against the window and trying to convey that he was not interested in holding a conversation. Ivan started talking anyway, and Ludwig only half-listened, watching the gleaming snow go by.
"You'll like where we are going. It's pretty. Big ballroom, lots of music, a whole orchestra! All the vodka you can drink, dancing. You'll meet lots of important people." He reached out, and ran a gloved hand down the fur of the hat, and Ludwig shuddered when he leaned in and whispered, "All of them will watch you, you know, because you are so pretty. But don't worry, I won't let them come near you. I'll keep you safe."
He froze up, as usual, terrorized. Oh god, oh god, what did that mean?
He didn't have time to dwell on it, for Ivan leaned fully onto him, and wrapped him in his arms. His breath stopped, and he didn't dare struggle, so intimidating was Ivan, but oh, god.
Coulda died.
Shame. Embarrassment. And above all, such hopelessness.
This was not what he had signed on for. None of this.
He was so frightened all of a sudden, and he sensed something horrible on the horizon, and Ivan's arms were locked around him so strongly that he could barely breathe.
What did this guy want?
This was not the agreement. This was not the deal. He had signed on to spend the rest of his life in some fuckin' prison.
Not this.
He was panicking. There was no room to escape when everything took a turn for the worse.
Couldn't stand Ivan touching him.
The words were worse than the physicality, though, when Ivan spoke.
Leaning down, Ivan rested his head on his shoulder, so close that he could feel his warm breath on his cheek, and he whispered, in a voice so soft that he could scarcely hear it through the thick fur of the ushanka, "Your brother, Gilbert? He's so grateful you saved him, you know? He's living enough for both of you now. Parties. I bet he throws lots of parties, doesn't he? I know men like that. Ha, I bet he hardly even remembers you now, he's having so much fun! Guys like that, you know how they are."
The nerve.
The fucking nerve!
Men like that.
He closed his eyes and bit his lip, longing to retort as the fire of anger lit up his cheeks, and he wanted so badly to tell Ivan what was what, that he knew Gilbert. They were brothers, they were connected by so much more than blood, and Gilbert would never forget him, and that Gilbert was probably sitting at home crying on Erzsébet's shoulder every night. There was no way he was out roaming nightclubs so soon after such a traumatic experience, because he knew his brother.
Guys like that.
He knew his brother.
...didn't he?
Okay. So Gilbert had let him down a lot before.
A lot.
Gilbert had always been one of those 'guys like that'. Gilbert had been a little crazy.
But this was something so different. Gilbert would never forget him. Not like that.
Gilbert would have done it for him.
"You were so brave! I could tell, when I first saw you, how brave you were. Not like him. He is a coward. He left you there, alone, didn't he? Abandoned you. You said you would do anything for him, but he wouldn't do anything for you. He must not love you very much, if he gave up on you so easily! What kind of brother is that? What a shame, after all you did for him."
Despite it all, despite his resilience, the words stung.
His mind reeled. His head hurt.
Wanted to go home.
Idiot.
Ivan knew nothing. Not a thing. He didn't know Gilbert.
Gilbert had raised him.
"He got into trouble, and he waited for you to come save him. I'm sure he did that a lot."
Gilbert had protected him.
"And when you rescued him, what did he do? How did he repay you?"
Gilbert loved him.
"He isn't coming for you. You know that, don't you? That's why you are so angry, now, because he won't come for you like you came for him."
...but Gilbert had gone back to the world.
"But I would do anything for you. You left me on the train, remember, but I came back for you. I did not leave you behind to die in the snow. I came back. He won't."
And he was left in the dark.
"I came back. Your brother won't."
Oh.
Gilbert was gone.
Gilbert had left so many times before, no matter how he had begged him to stay. Stubborn, proud Gilbert. Gilbert did stupid things sometimes. But not like this. How had it ever come to this?
Gilbert would have done it for him.
...wouldn't he?
Oh, god, wouldn't he? Gilbert had made so many mistakes. Gilbert had always been a little selfish. Gilbert only ever thought about himself. Always had. Where was Gilbert right now? Was he really in mourning?
A man like Gilbert, when it really came down to it, could never be truly trusted. Ludwig had always known that, but had loved him anyway. Gilbert hadn't been a great guy, but Ludwig had loved him. Shouldn't that have been enough?
Wasn't Gilbert mourning him?
Wasn't he?
Or was he...
"He doesn't remember you."
He had not forgotten Gilbert.
"He doesn't love you."
With the terrible words slithering though his head, he tried to shut down, and ignore the Ivan's clever tongue, because they were only words, and what he and Gilbert had was far too strong to break so easily.
Even if he wouldn't ever see Gilbert again.
Gilbert was gone.
Gilbert.
He knew better than to listen.
But, oh—
The road was too long.
Gilbert wouldn't come back.