It was like waking up in the middle of a dream. He could think of no other way to describe it. That desperate, confused feeling as he struggled to make sense of his waking world. That horrible lurch in the pit of his stomach when he realized the world he had known for forty-some years no longer existed.
He hadn't needed Ludwig to tell him because he knew, didn't he? That was the plan all along, wasn't it? That was why he sought out a way across the Wall. (Or maybe it was a test, to see if he was still Russia's pet.)
Gilbert flinched at that thought. Oh, he hated that violet-eyed bastard. He hated what Russia did to him. He hated what Russia had him do to his people. And yet….
And yet, part of him could not blame Russia. Part of him missed the constant presence, and – Gott, sick as it was – he missed the eager smile and brightening eyes whenever Gilbert did something good. (Whenever he obeyed. Like a dog. Russia's wolf-hound.)
Gilbert stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray by his bed. Yes, it was a colossal mind-fuck.
The hall clock struck half past eight.
It was the sound he'd been waiting for. Slowly, he pushed himself up, ears straining against the thick silence, listening for any indication his brother might be home. There was none, of course. Ludwig was still in meetings, like he had been for the past couple of weeks.
Ludwig was busy deciding what sections of the Wall should come down next.
Ludwig was busy trying to make sure the two governments could stabilize.
Ludwig was busy ensuring the people in the East – his people! – would acclimate to western culture.
Ludwig was too busy to be bothered with Gilbert. And that suited Gilbert just fine, thank you very much. He didn't much feel like being bothered by Ludwig, either. All Ludwig wanted to do was talk. About Russia. About the Wall. About how Gilbert really needed to attend the meetings, too. Talk and talk and talk…and help. That word Gilbert hated the most. Ludwig wanted to help him. Gilbert scoffed. He didn't need help. He was perfectly fine. Anyone could see that. Well, they would if he accepted visitors. But Gilbert refused to see anyone after France and Spain stopped by at the end of January, because even they had the same look in their eyes. The same one Ludwig wore when he looked at his brother. Poor, pitiful Gilbert. He must have been through so much. What can we do for him? It disgusted him. It was an ever present reminder of the things he so longed to forget – his time with Russia, his failing nationhood.
Gilbert stretched his arms, elbows cracking as they lengthened. He had been pretending to sleep, although he knew he didn't need to now that Ludwig had his meetings to keep him occupied. It used to last the entire day (before Ludwig was gone from sun-up to sun-down), feigning sleep, waiting for his brother to leave on some errand or go to bed. And, oh, he was good at this game. Russia was blessed with an endless amount of patience and so, therefore, was Gilbert. He'd spent the past four decades waiting – waiting to be fed, waiting to be let out of that pink room, waiting for a prisoner to confess their sins against Mother GDR. All of this waiting ultimately held one goal: to see West again. But yet, now that he was here, now that he was back with his brother again, the only thing left to wait for was the inevitable end. He was sure of it. Germany hadn't needed his protection for quite some time, and the only reason he lasted past the war was because Russia wanted him. His services, whether used for military strength or as Russia's buffer zone, were no longer required.
Gilbert pulled on his boots. His room was pitch black save for a pool of white moonlight spilling in through his window. He liked it this way. He felt like he was a part of the night. Night was quiet. Night let him do what he pleased. He was a shadow, blending in with the rest and moving about freely, not caught in the microscope-glare of the sun (or his brother's ever scrutinizing gaze). Most importantly, night was the only time his mind would shut off. It gave him peace, even though he was loathe to admit it came at the bottom of a brown bottle.
He'd spent the better part of two months like that – out almost every night, usually at bar – until he was too stone drunk to see straight. But that suited him just fine. He didn't like going home sober enough to see West's worried face. Or hear West's anxious voice. Always questioning. Question after question after question about Gilbert's time spent on the other side. He was sick of it! He preferred the alcohol induced buzzing between his ears to his brother's voice.
Whatever keeps your mind off your eventual demise….
He smirked to himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He could almost taste it….
"Where are you going?" Germany called out from behind his newspaper.
Scheisse. Gilbert hadn't seen the dull amber lamp glow or his brother sitting in the living room. Still, that didn't stop him reaching for his coat on the hook.
He casually flung it over one shoulder as he faced his brother. Lifting his chin in the air, Gilbert answered: "Out."
Ludwig eyed Gilbert, his mouth set in a thin line. "You mean to a bar."
Gilbert's own eyes narrowed. He made to protest but Ludwig cut him off. "C'mon, Gil. I do your laundry. I can smell it in your clothes."
"Fine," Gilbert spat. "I'm going to a bar. I'm going to a bar! I'm going to get drunk at a bar so I don't have to see your stupid face!"
Ludwig dropped his gaze. Bullseye. Gilbert smiled, putting on his coat.
"…I wish you wouldn't," Ludwig whispered.
Gilbert snorted in response.
"The money I leave for you is for food and…and for whatever essentials you need. Not so you can blow it on alcohol."
Gilbert's face cracked into a slanted grin. "Booze is essential, West."
"That's not what I meant. I'm asking you, please, stay in tonight. There's another meeting tomorrow and I want you to come. I want you to be with me – "
"So put a padlock on my goddamn door!" Gilbert hissed. "If you want me to follow you around, tie a leash to my neck! You won, West, okay? I get it. You're the stronger one. It's not me anymore. You won. Fine. Whatever! But don't you fucking patronize me by dragging me to those meetings when you know damn well I have no say anymore. I didn't ask you to come for me!"
Ludwig let his brother rage, uninterrupted. He knew that's what Gilbert needed. It was his brother's nature. But the last part infuriated him. How dare he? How dare he!
Ludwig was on his feet, hands balled into fists to keep from shaking. "You were caught buying fake papers! You wanted to get away! And you act like it's my fault for going to look for you when the borders opened. Because I was worried! I care about you, Gil – "
"Bullshit! You wanted me gone since '32. Russia was right – "
"What are you talking about!"
"Altona! When my government was dissolved! And let's not forget Königsberg…"
"That was a long time ago, Gil," Ludwig interjected, face reddening. "I wasn't in my right mind then – "
"…and then there was Law 46," Gilbert continued, ignoring his brother. "And now this! My country's being taken, again! Can't you understand why I'm less than excited to be here?"
"…So," Ludwig began, fighting to keep his voice steady, "I should have left you over there? Alone? In that cell…?"
"…Yes," Gilbert said. Then I could have died in my country.
Ludwig blinked. Not at what Gilbert said, but the way he said it.
Defeated.
The fire and storm were gone from Gilbert's eyes. The rage that animated his body suddenly flew away, leaving him sunken. The proud knight stood before Ludwig defeated.
"We said 'goodbye' in '45, Bruder, even though I stupidly held onto to some hope I would see you soon. But the years kept passing without a word – "
"I tried, Gil. I promise I – "
"I know you did, West. Really. I do. But…I…."
Did he really hate his brother? No. He'd forgiven West. Really, he had. He'd never been able to stay angry with his brother deep down. It was all surface anger, meant to intimidate while masking his true feelings. It was easier, so much easier, to scream and shut Ludwig out than to confess his fears to his baby brother.
Saying it makes it true.
"What? Gil, what is it?"
Ludwig's forehead creased as his eyebrows began their upwards angle, and oh, God, that look! That pitying look crept into his brother's eyes. Something jagged and heavy sank below Gilbert's navel. He had to leave. Now. He was going to be sick if he stayed any longer.
"I…I can't. Just…I just need to go. I need to, West."
Gilbert's hand twisted the doorknob. Ludwig knew he needed to act quickly, but his mouth failed to respond for all the thoughts running through his head.
Gilbert turned, pulling the door open. Ludwig's brain engaged, seeing his brother about to walk out. He reached for his brother's shoulder, stammering out a simple plea: "…Stay, Gil, please…."
Gilbert looked back at his brother, and, shaking his head, stepped out into the night, Ludwig's fingers brushing his coat sleeve as he shut the door.
A/N Uuuummm, what to say? This chapter depressed me the most to write, I think. Note to self: read fluffy fics to make happy again! I'm sort of marching around the idea Gilbert's turned to alcohol as a way to cope (and the fact he's pretty much given up.)
Brief history nugget: The Free State of Prussia's government was unseated in July, 1932 by Reich Chancellor Franz von Papen, saying it had lost control of public order after a shootout occurred between Sturmabteilung demonstrators and communists in Altona, Hamburg.