25 February 1947
The door slammed shut. Ludwig was left, in the cold, empty room, staring at the opposite wall. Gilbert had never seen such rage before. Such rage directed at him.
He forced himself to breathe. In, out, in out.
No. Gilbert needed to come back. Needed to open that door and come back to him. Needed to say it was all okay, that he wasn't leaving, that he was staying by his side and they would get through this together, just like they always had.
But Gilbert didn't. He did not open that door.
The seconds ticked by. They seemed like hours.
What hurt the most was not Gilbert's words, it was Gilbert's truths. He was right. He hadn't wanted the war. He hadn't wanted the man in power. He hadn't wanted any of it. But Ludwig was so confident, and so sure, and for a time it was all going so well…
And now it was over. It hadn't gone well. It had gone horribly. So, so horribly. Now, Gilbert was gone. Prussia was gone. There was only him, and what he had caused. What could he do? How could he go on, knowing what he had done? To himself, to his brother?
The door opened. It was not Gilbert, but Alfred, and Arthur. They were speaking to him, but the words were blurred, muffled. Where was Gilbert?
Something about continuing reconstruction. Something about West and East and some more things that did not even register. Alfred took his arm gently, and Ludwig stood, and they escorted him out of the room.
Down the halls, through a room or two. They were still talking, but Ludwig did not pay attention. He was looking for Gilbert, but he did not see him.
Gilbert was gone.