Chapter 22
The Last Waltz
There were times when Alfred felt as if he were taking advantage of Ludwig in some way.
Felt like a necessity, really, one that could have consequences were something to fall apart, but what else could he do? Didn't want Ludwig to know about anything unpleasant, didn't want Ludwig to worry, to fret, because god knew Ludwig had already done enough of that. So what could he do?
Alfred stood there and pretended, lied sometimes even, and used Ludwig's blind trust and good-nature and naivety to his advantage.
Alfred couldn't tell Ludwig that they couldn't go on their usual route to the park now because Alfred had crossed paths with a shop owner who had very loudly and very aggressively told Alfred that he was no longer allowed to walk on that street at all. Alfred had had a good bit to say about that, because who the hell was that guy, anyway? Wasn't like Alfred was going inside his shop. Did he own the whole damn boulevard?
But during the shouting match, Alfred had glanced around to see that a few guys had walked behind the shop owner to keep an eye on him, he realized the precarious situation he was in, and had had no choice but to concede yet again and stalk off.
Tell Ludwig? Hell no.
He took Ludwig on a different route, and when Ludwig asked about it, Alfred just lied and said that he was sick of that damn street and wanted to see something new, even if it took a few extra minutes.
Ludwig, as always, believed him without question.
Hated lying to him, hated deceiving him, but the other option was simply one Alfred wouldn't suffer. If Ludwig ever found out and hated him for keeping him in the dark, Alfred would only take it for what it was.
After two weeks, though, something in Alfred just dimmed a bit and he didn't ask Ludwig to go walking at all. Realized that going on that weekly walk was counterproductive to his pretending, when something could so easily go wrong. Ludwig seemed to wait and wait for Alfred to say something, but Alfred never asked, and neither did Ludwig.
Just a wonderful pastime that had to be let go of.
Ludwig still smiled.
For now, Alfred clung to Ludwig's happiness, his brightness, and used it as a torch when things were bad on the outside. Ludwig's light was enough for now to keep those shadows at bay.
One rather normal Wednesday morning, Alfred found himself beneath the undercarriage of a car, as he always was, covered in oil and grease, and he had almost yelped in alarm when a boot caught the edge of the creeper and he was abruptly slid out from under the vehicle and into the open. The constriction of his pupils in the light, the split-second of being unable to see and for that so vulnerable.
Panic had become his first reaction these days. Always waiting to be jumped as he was, always on edge and ready to defend himself.
No one was above him with a crow bar, though, so that was a relief. Just his boss.
Adrenaline was making him dizzy.
He stared up with wide eyes at his boss, who snorted a little at the look on his face, and then he jerked his head to the side, walking off as randomly as he had come and clearly meaning for Alfred to follow.
Aw, man—last thing he needed.
He hauled himself upright and trudged along morosely towards the office, and when he was inside, the door was promptly shut behind him and his boss was staring him down.
Alfred cracked, and lowered his eyes.
A question.
"Alfred, how long have you worked for me now?"
Shifting his weight anxiously, Alfred replied, quickly, "Since it was legal for me to do so without gettin' ya fined?"
A bark of laughter.
"That's right!"
Alfred kept his eyes on the floor, and dreaded what was coming. Didn't take long.
"So, Alfred. The guys are talkin'. Sayin' they keep hearing all these rumors about you. Now, you know I have to ask, as your employer. Just think about it for a second, and then answer me. Are these rumors I hear true?"
Coulda passed out then, from how fast his heart was racing.
Dammit—
Losing this job would set him back so far, both financially and emotionally and potentially in his new relationship. The horrible shame of ever having to go back to an already struggling Ludwig and tell him that he had lost his job, that he was no longer able to play that role of head of the household he had so eagerly and abruptly claimed.
Didn't seem like there was much use in lying, because from the look on his boss' face he already knew the answer and was just fulfilling his duty to ask.
Wouldn't lie, because there was no point.
Finally, Alfred gathered up every bit of courage he had, every last shred, lifted his chin and braced himself, and said, bravely, "Yeah."
Immediately, his boss retorted, "Wrong answer! Try again."
Alfred's brow came down, his lips pursed, and suddenly his bracing was from aggression, as irritation rose up and so did anger, because he didn't know what was going on but knew he was damn frustrated.
His boss must have known that Alfred was a breath away from throwing a wrench at his head, because he clarified, "You know damn well I can't keep you on knowing about you. You tell me 'yes' and I gotta let you go, for appearance's sake. But if you lie to me, I can't help that, now, can I? What do I know? I'm just a nice guy that took your word on it. So. Let's try again. Alfred, are these rumors I hear about you true?"
Oh—
Not fair.
Knew that he was being given a lifeline, knew that he was being extended a helping hand, and so he didn't know why it stung so damn much, to be forced to either lose his job or lose a bit of himself. To keep his employment and pretend that Ludwig didn't exist. To deny what he had built up, because it wasn't what it should be.
What could he do?
He hung his head, slumped, and felt so damn defeated suddenly that he must have looked pitiful. Must have looked so pathetic, dejected, because in some way he felt so stupid then.
Could never have explained why, and so Alfred finally cast aside his pride yet again and mumbled, lowly, "No. Don't know where they came from."
A movement, a sound, and then a hand clapped on his shoulder.
"Good to know. I didn't believe it anyhow. Get back to work, kid. Just keep your head down and don't cause trouble out there."
Was that supposed to encourage him?
Made him feel worse.
Alfred wandered off back to his spot, and when he slid back under the car, he just stared up at the carriage above him and felt a horrible sting of his eyes. The blurring of his vision. Bit it back, pushed it down, cast it aside. Hadn't broken yet, hadn't, and wouldn't start now.
Wouldn't cry. Couldn't.
He eventually brought his hands back up and set to work, as the painful realization sank in that Alfred may have been the king of his castle, but was merely a slave to the whims of others outside that door. Had no power anymore, no control. He was reliant entirely upon the graces of those around him, depended on the moods and morals of strangers. Had gone from owning the city to falling victim to it. Having his life decided by how much any given person may or may not have liked him.
Realizing that he no longer controlled the direction of his fate.
Didn't cry that day, no matter how badly he wanted to, and went home one more day victorious.
Had only lost another shard of his pride, but Ludwig was worth the price.
Ludwig smiled at him from across the table, teasing him and reaching out to push his glasses back up his nose, and Alfred wondered if maybe he was just a little too quiet that night. Played it off as being tired, and Ludwig, as always, just believed him, and coddled him as usual before shoving him off to bed, playing mother once more.
Couldn't sleep that night, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered if he was really even Alfred anymore.
Who was he?
Hard to say. Felt as if so much of who he had once been had been stripped away. No one knew him anymore, and maybe that was because he didn't even know himself. Once more, the circumstances around him made him doubt himself, shook his confidence, knocked him off balance.
Sometimes, he didn't recognize himself anymore.
But then Ludwig came quietly in and crawled into bed, resting his head on Alfred's shoulder, and he remembered. Confidence returned. Doubt vanished. His feet were steady. When Ludwig was there, Alfred was just a man in love, and who he was to anyone else didn't matter. Didn't matter what his name was, who he had once been, how much he had changed.
Ludwig loved him.
Alfred just clenched Ludwig up and found his nerve, because he wasn't alone.
The wind grew colder and stronger as November came rolling in.
The first snowfall of the year came shortly after, rather later than it usually did.
Alfred had watched it coming down from inside the shop, and was looking forward for once to a pileup, because he fully intended to drag Ludwig outside and try to have some fun with him. Land a snowball in his face or something. Try to get him to play around a little, to keep him in that wonderful high he was in. Would recruit Gilbert, too, and take Ludwig back to some place long gone from childhood.
Didn't get the chance.
It didn't snow enough for that to take place that day, but even if it had it wouldn't have mattered at all, because there was a very unpleasant surprise waiting for him.
It was Alfred's day to leave early, at lunch, and he tromped off home through the sludge, squinting up at the sky as his glasses fogged up and the grey sky made the city seem so dreary. Wondered what Gilbert was up to, these days. The snow had made Alfred think of him, although he couldn't say if it was because Gilbert was so pale or from Gilbert's time in Siberia.
Wondered how cold it got there. What it was like in that kind of environment. Alfred could barely even handle this cold, and it couldn't have been nearly as extreme.
His mind kept on wandering as he walked, and he only snapped out of it when he reached his door and glanced up.
Fell still, in absolute shock. Black caught his eye, so dark and ominous against the grey and white.
His door was black, and Alfred was stunned.
The door had been completely vandalized, covered in spray paint, and Alfred felt that awful squirm of nausea, the rise of heat brought on by adrenaline, mortification, anger.
Wrath.
The old feel of a can of spray-paint in his own hand, in this very neighborhood. This time, though, instead of the great swastika Alfred had once painted, there was a word, in bold, capital letters, covering the door from top to bottom. Black paint, running down from the thick letters in dried rivers.
Just a word.
Hurt him more than it should have been possible for it to.
FAGGOT.
Stupid. Shouldn't have bothered him, maybe, because he had held himself up so well these past months, had dealt with the looks and the harassment and being shunned. Shouldn't all of that have hurt so much worse than some stupid word? Should have.
But it didn't.
And at the bottom of the door, in the corner, perhaps as a bonus, there was a little swastika after all. As if it had been an afterthought. So glad they had remembered that little detail. Really tied it all together, sure did, two things that couldn't be farther apart, and Alfred stood there for long, awful minutes, just staring away at his door. When he regained mobility, it was to turn his head left and right and look over the other houses. No movement, no one peering at him from their windows that he could see. Had anyone seen it happen? Had anyone tried to stop it?
He turned around then, and cast his eyes to the door of the old widow.
He had scrubbed her door clean; hadn't she at least opened up to berate the perpetrator? Hadn't she offered a word, something? Anything? Had she just watched through her blinds as she always had, as she had that night Alfred and Ludwig had worked so hard to rid her door of paint?
It struck Alfred hard then that no, she wouldn't have. Had she seen it happening, she wouldn't have said a thing. Why would she? Sometimes, he forgot that it must have been painful and outrageous to her, having to suddenly live across the street from the son of the man that had killed her husband.
They were alone; no one stood beside them except for their exceptionally rare friends.
Alfred turned back to the door, and it was as if he had been struck by lightning, that awful jolt of horror. He reached down, pulled up his sleeve, checked his watch, and then he turned on his heel and bolted off. He ran so quickly and so furiously that he slipped in the slush and slammed down hard onto his knee on the sidewalk. Picked himself up without hesitation, carried on his mad dash against the pain, skidding here and there into the streets and looking for the nearest home shop.
Didn't have too much time—
He found what he was looking for after a while, frantically bought a canister of white paint, a brush, and scrambled back home as quick as he could.
Wouldn't let Ludwig see, wouldn't, woulda died first before he ever let Ludwig see that. Had a couple of hours to cover it up before Ludwig got off, and Alfred had never considered himself so fortunate to be the first one home. What a damn bit of luck!
He tumbled home, panting and gasping, knee on fire, went straight to the door, popped the lid off the can, and started painting. Would take a good few coats to cover up that thick black paint, and Alfred impatiently waited after every layer for it to dry a bit so he could add the next. As he waited, he checked his watch and tapped his foot, looking over his shoulder every few minutes.
Felt so utterly violated.
The first time his castle had come close to being breached. Too close, far too close, and it shook him up entirely, all the way through. Had felt safe once he had reached home and was able to keep an eye on Ludwig, but this changed things. Meant that, no matter how hard Alfred tried, there was now the very real chance that Ludwig would come face to face with hostility when Alfred wasn't there to blind him to it.
As he kept on layering the paint, the word became less and less visible, and relief began to set in, just a bit. Had time yet.
Wondered what would have hurt Ludwig more; the word or the swastika? Never wanted to have to find out.
Luck, alright...
Sure. Wouldn't last forever.
He spent the next few hours literally watching paint dry, and hoping above all else that somehow, someway, Ludwig just wouldn't notice.
Hardly.
The first thing Ludwig said that evening, when he came inside, was, "Did you paint the door?"
An awful pang of hurt, but Alfred just waved him off and said, so casually, "Don't you think it was time? It sure was dirty. Doesn't it look better?"
Oh, god.
Ludwig stared at him for just a second in contemplation, and then he gave a light scoff and carried on as he always did, without missing a beat, going straight into the kitchen and saying, "You really do like to take charge, don't you? I suppose you actually think you are the man of the house now."
"Of course I am," was Alfred's immediate response, as he trailed Ludwig at a short distance, eyeing him and watching, waiting. Hoped Ludwig couldn't hear Alfred's heart hammering away, hoped that he didn't notice how he was swallowing, his nervous gestures and pursed lips.
His knee was throbbing, swollen, painful.
But Ludwig looked so happy, utterly oblivious, because, as it always was, Ludwig just trusted Alfred and believed everything he said without any question whatsoever. Ludwig believed in Alfred, all the way, and Alfred hated that that just wasn't enough to the world.
Ludwig looked over his shoulder at Alfred then, as he leaned there in the frame, and smiled.
"Funny how you painted the door, but you haven't fixed the wobbly chair yet."
Alfred came forward, fighting off any limp stubbornly, and intrusively wrapped his arms around Ludwig's waist as he tried to start dinner. Was damn glad that Ludwig couldn't see him in that second, because when he buried his face in the back of Ludwig's neck he thought for a horrible second that his mask had crumpled.
Still, he laughed, and managed to mutter, "People can see the door. No one can see the chair. But I'll fix it for you. Can't have you breaking your pretty neck."
"Good."
Alfred annoyed Ludwig for the rest of the night, in an effort to keep himself occupied so that Ludwig wouldn't notice any of his doubts, and Alfred wondered, from time to time, as Ludwig smiled so contentedly at him, if he was just that good of a liar or if Ludwig was just that naïve.
Maybe both.
Ludwig wasn't an idiot by any means, and was mistrustful of the world in its entirety, and yet it seemed that when Ludwig finally trusted someone, when he finally loved someone, he put everything he had into them and never even thought to question them at all. Ludwig would believe everything Alfred said, and sometimes it was difficult not to take advantage of that.
When they sat on the couch, Ludwig was quick to tease him, as he ran fingers through Alfred's messy hair, and murmur, "You're in trouble now. I'm going to put you to work fixing everything."
Alfred snorted, and kept that dumb smile plastered on his face without once letting it slip.
"You better at least pay me for my services."
A noise of thought, and then Ludwig whispered, in that rumble Alfred loved, "I'm sure we can work something out."
Ludwig leaned down to kiss him, and Alfred just tried to forget the day and get ready for the next one. His cycle now, this exhausting one day at a time routine. Never knowing what the next test would be.
Where it would come from.
Monday night, Alfred went to see the old man and was greeted by a look of utter confusion.
"Hey, there. ...that you, Sergeant?" A long stare. A raise of his father's shoulder in anxiety. "I think I got lost."
Alfred came inside, leaned down a bit towards his seated father, and said, softly, "You're home. You're not lost. It's me. Alfred."
An inhale, and a look around.
"Oh! Right. Sorry. I got confused." Eyes raked him up and down, as Alfred averted his own and tried to feel nothing, and then came a deep whisper, "When did you get so tall?"
Just wanted this to be over with.
A hand reached out and grabbed his own, and Alfred started pulling back, instinctively, but stopped short at the last second from the expression on the old man's face. An awful crinkle of his brow, a shadow, a look of something that was alarming close to being distraught.
"Kid—I'm sorry. I tried to save you. I'm sorry I let you die. But we— We killed all those Jerry, we did, all of 'em, so we got 'em back. Razed them all. Damn, though, I wish I coulda saved you. You look... I swear, you look so much like my son."
His stomach hurt.
As it had been under that car, Alfred suddenly felt that horrible sting in his eyes, that clutch of his throat, and as before he shook it off, pushed it down, and jostled his father's hand, firmly.
"It's me, I said. It's Alfred. It's me. The war's over, dad. You came home."
So many hadn't, and maybe somewhere down the line his father's memories had blurred, and a young kid he had once lost to a bullet had been merged with his son. Maybe he couldn't tell one from the other because in his head they had somehow become the same person.
Maybe because his father considered Alfred a victim, after all, to a German.
How much longer would this go on? Wished the old man would just go quietly.
Damn...
What a man he was. Maybe it was better that he didn't recognize himself sometimes, because maybe it wasn't always worth seeing.
When the old man calmed down, came back, settled and regained a bit of clarity, when he recognized Alfred, Alfred was quick to flee, coward that he was.
Tried to distract himself by planning for Christmas. Not so far off now. Surely this year he could do better than a dumb card and fixing a busted window. Wanted to do something spectacular, wonderful, something that Ludwig deserved, and came up absolutely empty every time.
Clueless.
Gilbert had come home; seemed as if no matter what Alfred did, no matter what astounding gift he managed to procure, whatever charming stunt he managed to pull off, it just wouldn't mean anything at all because Ludwig would only sit there the entire day and stare at Gilbert. Because, really, that was the best gift Ludwig could have ever gotten, and Alfred could never compete.
Yeah, maybe. Was still gonna try, at least. If only to keep his mind preoccupied.
Could only work so much, pretending.
In the last week of November, Alfred's luck finally and completely ran out.
He ran into his old gang, at long last.
In a way, Alfred considered this his final hurdle. Everything coming full circle. A rather sort of poetic bottom rung of the ladder. Supposed it was really only fair; Alfred had changed tune, sure, had turned a new leaf so to speak, but the things he had done with these men were reprehensible and he had never once been punished for them.
Maybe this was fitting.
They had been hidden in a side street. Didn't even see them there, until they had slunk out behind him and called his name.
"Hey, Jones! What's the rush? Where are you going? Don't you wanna hang out?"
Like old times.
Hardly—the tone of voice already had Alfred's fight or flight response surging up.
Was ready for flight, too, but they were just a bit quicker.
Alfred suddenly found his path blocked on either side, and somehow he already knew what was coming. How bizarre, to stand in between them like that, as the prey, when he had always been the alpha at the head of the pack.
Not a pleasant sensation, the other end.
He lifted his chin, sent them his best sneer, and tried to sidestep them. A hand in his chest stopped him short and shoved him back a step. His favorite person, of course, Ryan Jr.; hell, had almost forgotten the bastard existed. Could imagine the conversations he was having with his father, who was no doubt calling Alfred's father relentlessly only to be ignored. Wonder what the entire veteran community was thinking now. Must have been a remarkable scandal.
Alfred glanced down at the hand on his chest, curled his lip, and knew he was done for. Damn—no getting out of it, apparently.
"Where are you going, Jones? We just wanna talk a little."
"Got nothin' to talk about," Alfred griped, as he tried once more to get around, and was once more blocked.
"Plenty to talk about. Say. I heard a little rumor about you, not too long ago."
"Oh, yeah?" Alfred drawled, trying his best to look unbothered. "You did always like gossip."
He wondered, briefly, if it had been one of them that had defaced his door. Didn't bother asking, because if it had been they would have proudly boasted about it.
He tried once more to push past, and once more a hand on his chest impeded him.
From behind, a tease, "Hey, careful man! He might like that."
The hand quickly pulled back, a grimace of disgust, and Alfred grimaced too and made very sure to say, however foolish it may have been, "Stop, you're gonna make me sick. Not if you were the last man left alive, and please believe how much I mean that."
They were not amused.
Didn't pounce, though.
Ryan was the one to lower his voice and say, so eagerly, "Hey. How did our last conversation go? I can't remember. Seem to recall it wasn't that friendly, though. Think you mighta punched me. But I gotta tell ya, everything makes a lot more sense now. Here I was, all this time, just thinkin' you'd become a Nazi sympathizer. Silly me."
"He is a sympathizer, though," came another tease. "Sympathized that one all the way to bed."
Laughter, but not from Ryan, who might have shuddered a little, clearly horrified by the thought.
From behind, one of them reached out and flicked his ear. He swatted them off, but there was no denying the panic that was rising. That horrible vulnerability that came from being trapped and knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to escape what was going to happen. Made him sick, thinking about Ludwig in this very position all those years, as Alfred had stared at him from afar and never once came forward to help.
His turn.
It was his turn, yeah, but it wasn't exactly rushing along. It was very clear what their intentions were, and yet all of them seemed rather reluctant to be the first to lift their hand. The last confrontation had been far more heated, spur of the moment, charged and emotional. Wasn't like that now, was very tense and very aggressive, but there weren't any hot-headed reactions.
They glanced at each other very frequently, shifting and shuffling, and it felt to Alfred as if they were nervous in some way. Must have been a bit different for them, having only ever beaten up those beneath them. Going for one of their own, deposed or not, may have been pushing the bounds of their bravery.
Alfred was an outcast now, but that didn't change that they had once followed him, and for that they hesitated.
One last time, Alfred took a step, and tried to push through.
One last time, he was blocked.
Had he tried harder, had he been more persistent and more vocal, sterner, Alfred was actually fairly certain that he could have gotten by them, the way they were fidgeting. Could have gotten away unscathed, because they were cowards, too, and he could have left them behind.
He could have, but in some way he didn't want to.
Didn't know if it was because he wanted to start a fight, even knowing he would be overwhelmed, because he was so frustrated. If he wanted to use this as an outlet. If he wanted them to go at him because he wanted to take one for Ludwig as he deserved. Maybe that would have felt a little right to him, just to let them get him once, so that he could feel a little better about doing nothing for Ludwig before.
Didn't know why he did it, but Alfred finally just inhaled and struck out, punching Ryan in the nose, because if he was only going to get one good hit in then he very much wanted it to be in that smug face.
That was good enough.
Guess that was the justification they needed to finally let loose, because they came out of their stupor and Alfred was dragged into the alley.
Surreal for sure.
Still couldn't comprehend that he was actually here. Wondered if maybe he had slipped into some other dimension where he was Ludwig and the roles had reversed and he had really just been here all along. Didn't know who he was because he was a different person in some different time. Just fell through the sky one day and had become Ludwig.
Or that silly thought could have been brought on from his head being slammed into the brick wall. A more likely explanation.
It was what he had imagined it would be, quick and brutal and efficient, and yet somehow, for it all, it didn't seem quite as savage as Alfred had expected. Only Ryan seemed to be putting everything he had into it, and the others pulled back as much as Alfred ever had. Maybe this was still a bit much for them, too frightening in a way.
Didn't matter; the job was done regardless, and when Alfred was on the ground rather than against the wall, his glasses clattered to the concrete. One of them, not as afraid of glasses as he was of Alfred, stomped down on them. Could hear the crunch of glass and metal.
Eh—least of his worries. Was more concerned about that boot that slammed into his ribs and the other one on his back. One more on his head.
His vision sure was getting dark, and it wasn't from losing his glasses.
Dizziness.
And then, right on the brink of unconsciousness, a sudden savior, and it was the last person he ever expected.
"Get off of him! How dare— Unbelievable! Get off! Get off!"
They froze still, and Alfred tried to get the world to stop spinning long enough to figure out where the hell he even was, let alone who was saving him. Ugh, that was the worst feeling, having someone coming to save his sorry ass. Was supposed to be him saving other people. Humiliating.
Footsteps.
Silence, suddenly, and then a hand on his arm, trying to haul him upright.
"Oh—! Please be okay."
He heard himself laugh, before his brain really caught up and he could see, because he knew who it was and somehow that was hilarious to him, really was, couldn't ever explain why, though. His head was splitting open, so maybe that had something to do with it.
Sure enough, when he was on his knees, swaying a little back and forth, there was Alice, holding his arm and trying so hard to get him up to his feet, but he was too heavy for her. Couldn't make her out in detail, but knew it was her all the same.
Man! Wished he could've gotten his head up in time to see her beating her way through them with her purse and scaring them off. His loss.
He looked up at her through his daze, knowing he was smiling inappropriately, and when she saw he was staring at her and seeing her (well, sort of), she asked, frantically, "Are you alright? Can you stand?"
Alfred just smiled up at her, dumbly, laughed a little more, and then said, as he tried to pull himself upright, "I always knew you would be the man."
She stared at him through wide eyes, aghast and alarmed, but when she saw that Alfred wasn't falling over dead, she actually cracked a smile.
"Well," she teased, as she held him steady, "Someone has to be."
Alfred just laughed some more even though it hurt like hell.
She looked around a bit for his glasses, and gave a soft, "Oh!" when she saw them crushed there on the concrete. She picked them up all the same, handed them to Alfred, and with that she tried to drag him along.
That was the first time that Alfred could ever remember that Alice hadn't once cared about how dirty she was, and she held him there up against her, walked him through every puddle and every obstacle, and when suddenly he was in front of Ludwig's house she was as covered in blood and dirt as he was, or just about.
She didn't seem to care, and he was alarmingly fond of her in that moment.
When he looked up at last, though, it wasn't Ludwig's house he was in front of. It was hers. He assumed it was hers, anyway, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't his. Couldn't see where he was, what the street was, and could only guess.
He looked over at her, and she was trying to smile, despite it all.
"Let's get you cleaned up before we send you home, hm? No need to worry him any more than necessary."
Oh—
Fond? Nah. For the first time, Alfred thought maybe he actually loved Alice just a little bit. Go figure. Never thought that would ever cross his mind.
Had never been to her house before, not once in all these years, and it was quite fascinating in a way. Didn't know really what he had expected. Supposed, with the way she was, he had expected to cross the threshold into some kind of bizarre occult setting. Candles and skulls and odd tribal knick-knacks or some such, something out of a movie.
Maybe he was actually a bit disappointed to find that it was just a perfectly normal house, not one single detail out of place. Squinted his eyes only to find nothing of obvious interest. The only thing that might have drawn attention at all were the numerous bookshelves and some of the very odd titles mixed in, when she walked him close enough by for him to make them out.
Far too normal.
What a shame.
...so where the hell had she brewed that stupid love potion back in the day?
She pushed him down in a chair, went to the bathroom, and Alfred leaned his pounding head back and tried to regain his senses.
A wet cloth fell on his cheek shortly after, and Alice tended to him very carefully.
Hated the metallic taste in his mouth. Couldn't get rid of it.
As she wiped the blood from his face, he turned his glasses about in his hands, knocking out what remained of the glass and sticking it in a nearby ashtray, wondering how salvageable the frame was. Anything to keep his mind occupied, to keep from thinking about his inevitable encounter with Ludwig. Made him nauseous, thinking about it.
She asked, helpfully, "Shall I accompany you to acquire another pair?"
"No, thanks," he grumbled. "I've got a spare one back home."
Although going there was equally unpleasant.
"I can walk you there, too. Can you even see?"
"I know the way."
Knew this city well enough to walk it blind for the most part. As long as she told him what street he was actually on, he'd find his way just fine. She had done enough for him, and truthfully he just didn't want her to see how bad his father had gotten, assuming she didn't already know from her own father.
But she clearly didn't know.
As she pressed the cloth into the gash on his head, she asked, softly, "So. Does your father know about all this?"
"Probably," Alfred said, wincing a little as she poked and prodded. "I haven't said it to him, if that's what you mean. Everyone knows by now."
"So it would seem."
Alfred looked up at her through a squint, and asked, "Didn't you say your dad was gonna talk to him? Why would you think he wouldn't know?"
She was unbothered, and merely replied, "Daddy said he never picks up the phone. They haven't spoken. I wondered if maybe this had something to do with it."
"Yeah. Guess so. He's embarrassed."
Not really a lie at all; the old man had been very aware of the rumors when he had been clear-headed. Knew what was happening, and Alfred knew that he was humiliated.
They fell quiet, her hands more soothing than they had any right to be as he hung his head and came close to just drifting off. She kept him there until the gash stopped bleeding for the most part, and likely it was coming close to time for her father to return.
Time to go.
And then Alice pulled him once more to his feet, gave him a long good look-over, and when she was satisfied, she reached out and patted his arm. "Don't worry about it," she said, as she smiled ever up at him. "It won't happen again."
Alfred just stared at her, and wondered if he wanted to know what the hell that meant.
Well. Between her and that whacko Lovino, he supposed maybe it was just better not to know. She had as much clout as her father did, and so Alfred put a little trust into her hands.
He did turn his eyes briefly to all of her little spell-books sitting there on the shelf, and couldn't help but snort. Knowing her, she was probably going to sit down that very night and try to jinx every single one of the bastards, put some kind of curse on them, and that was just as hilarious to him as her picking him up had been.
She walked him to the door, and shooed him off with words of encouragement. He clung to them, and made his way home out of instinct. Couldn't see a damn thing, and was extremely vulnerable for it. Made his way, eventually, without getting hit by a car, although by the time he reached his door he rather wished he had been.
Horror.
Never had Alfred felt such dread as he did then, standing in front of that door, handle in hand and knowing, at last, that he couldn't keep lying to Ludwig. Couldn't keep him in the dark anymore. Couldn't lead him astray. Couldn't keep up the act.
He was entirely frozen.
Couldn't breathe.
And then he panicked, he gave in to the flight mode that roared up again, and he let go of the doorknob and quickly backtracked, speeding away from home and changing direction. Couldn't face Ludwig, just couldn't, couldn't stand to see the look on his face. Was only inevitable, knew he couldn't just hide somewhere until the bruises faded, but couldn't do it tonight.
Not tonight.
He fled, ambling through the blurry streets and heading off towards his father's house. He stood outside the door for a while, listening, and when he heard no movement he crept inside. His luck held in that aspect, as his father dozed away on the couch, and Alfred was able to slink into his bedroom and dig out his spare pair of glasses.
As he left, though, with clear vision, he noticed that his father was wearing his old uniform.
...how strange.
He made for Francis' immediately after, very much intending to spend the night there and gather up his courage for the looming conversation tomorrow. Wasn't so hard to knock on Francis' door, because Francis had nursed him through much roughhousing as a child. Was a bit taken aback for that by Francis' reaction, when he opened the door and saw Alfred there.
A cry.
"What happened? Oh, god—!"
Alfred was grabbed by the arm, dragged inside, and suddenly Francis was blabbering, running hands over Alfred's cuts and bruises and shifting between fear and anger and speaking so quickly it was hard for Alfred to keep up. A far cry from when Francis had just sighed and rolled his eyes and pulled out some bandages.
Francis was so frantic, in fact, that at points in his verbal assault he actually slipped back into French, and eventually what he was saying became a mangled multi-language mess that Alfred just couldn't understand at all.
Alfred could only stand there dumbly in Francis' hands and wait it out.
When Francis' panicked tirade slowed down enough for Alfred to get a word in, all Alfred said was, "Can I use your phone?"
Francis' wide-eyed look. A sputter, and then a nod, as Francis let him go.
Alfred drifted to the phone on the end-table, feeling so out in space, and when he called Ludwig, he hoped that his voice was confident and easygoing. Hoped that Ludwig wouldn't hear any distress in him, wouldn't notice anything awry.
"Hallo?"
Alfred opened his mouth, and choked.
A long, awful second, and when his throat unclenched, Alfred said, "Hey. It's me. Just lettin' you know, I'm gonna stay with my uncle tonight, alright? Late night."
Alfred surprised himself, sometimes—his voice was perfectly smooth. Unbothered. He sounded as casual as he always did, and Ludwig quickly accepted it, with a calm, "Alright. Goodnight."
"Night, baby. See ya."
Felt so dazed and confused, lost, but his voice was fine, just fine, and Alfred stood there for a long dumb moment as the dial tone sounded out, before he finally set the phone down and looked around.
So lost.
Francis came forward again, grabbed him back up, and sat him forcibly down at the kitchen table. When he sat in front of Alfred, his face was very stern, very hard, and that was the first time that Francis had ever actually looked the part of the severe father.
Alfred foundered under his gaze, and looked away.
"Tell me what happened. Now."
Even Francis' voice had turned to steel.
A painful hesitation, before Alfred finally shrugged a shoulder and then muttered, "Just ran into some old acquaintances, was all."
"Oh?"
Francis was in no mood for nonsense.
"I guess," Alfred grumbled, "that they didn't really like the news they heard about me."
A low, angry hiss.
"Didn't I tell you to be careful? Didn't I? Didn't I warn you, Alfred? I told you to be careful. You could have gone about this so differently, but you're so—"
Francis cut himself off abruptly, hands gripping the end of the table, and then he took a deep breath and seemed to be calming himself.
Alfred kept on staring at nothing, and regretted. Francis had told him to be more careful, but Alfred had never listened. Had been too proud, too bold.
At last, after apparently coming down from his anger, Francis finally opened his mouth, and asked, so tentatively, "Can we talk for a little bit?"
His voice had gone from steel to soft, and Alfred could see that suddenly Francis was the one squirming.
Automatically, Alfred nodded, as Francis shifted his weight endlessly, restlessly, and seemed so painfully anxious suddenly. Alfred dreaded the conversation and yet somehow he already knew in some way what Francis wanted to say.
A horrible hesitation, as Alfred poked irritably at the bruise over his eye, and then Francis finally gathered up his courage.
"Is this really all worth it to you? I'm not saying that you don't care for him, but... Alfred. I can't help but wonder sometimes if you're only doing this to get back at your father. Is it really worth all of this? I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you, I really can't. Knowing that you're in danger. Him, too, of course, but I— Can't you just..." A struggle for words, as Alfred glowered above Francis' shoulder and at the wall. "Wouldn't it be easier for the both of you, just to go back to the way you were before? Wouldn't it be best to part ways? Sometimes we can't have everything we want. Maybe— Oh, I hate saying it, but maybe you really should just do what your father had wanted and settle down with that girl. I'm sure that you and him care about each other, but is it really the way you think it is? You're a kid; what do you know about love? Are you sure you're not just trying to make it up to him, for all those years? Is this who you really want to be? What's so wrong with being normal, Alfred? Why do you always have to stand out? You don't need to be different. Can't you just be a normal man?"
Silence.
The worst he had experienced in a long while, too, as the words cut and air was hard to find. Maybe it wasn't what was being said alone that made it so hurtful, but rather who the words were coming from, because Francis was the only man Alfred actually strove to impress. Francis was the person in the world that Alfred most wanted to make proud, and to hear that from him—
Had no words. None at all.
Alfred just stood up then, without once looking at Francis, and turned on his heel and walked out. Francis called after him, rather hurriedly, but that time Alfred didn't stop and didn't look back.
Nothing to say.
He knew then that Francis really had just been telling Alfred what he had wanted to hear, that although Francis had seemed supportive enough on the surface, underneath it all he really had been quite put off. Had been easier to support Alfred when everything had been distant in a sense for Francis, when Francis wasn't really forced to face anything, but now that consequences were making themselves visible Francis was rethinking his words.
Couldn't really say he was that surprised, and honestly he couldn't hold it against Francis, couldn't blame him, because Francis had at least lied to him instead of disowning him. More than he could have said for the rest of the city.
'I don't think any differently of you,' he had said.
A lie.
It was in that moment, perhaps, that Alfred realized that the only person who had never once truly thought differently of him, that had never seen him in a different light, that had never once saw anything at all askew within him, was Matthew.
Only Matthew.
All this time, only Matthew's opinion of Alfred had changed for the better, and Alfred sought Matthew out then relentlessly, because he needed to speak and he needed to speak right then and there or he would go crazy.
When he reached Matthew's house, he rapped on the window as he always did, and Matthew lifted up the pane, as he always did. Just like old times, almost, Alfred running over to Matthew's all beat up. Only the perpetrator was different this time around.
Matthew saw the state he was in, panicked just a bit, and helped haul Alfred all the way in through the window. When he toppled on the floor, Matthew began blubbering away.
"What the hell happened to you? Are you alright? What happened? Who— Hey! You okay, man? You wanna go to the hospital?"
Alfred just shook his head, dumbly, as he pulled himself to his feet, and he stared at Matthew then so furiously that he could have easily set Matthew on fire. Matthew shifted his weight under that gaze, and seemed quite alarmed.
"What?" was all Matthew managed to ask, before Alfred was upon him.
Had hugged Matthew before, of course he had, but never like that. He wrapped his arms around Matthew's chest, squeezed him as tightly as he could, and lifted him clean off the ground in his exuberance.
A pained exhale of air from Matthew as his chest constricted beneath Alfred's furious embrace. A wriggle from Matthew, as he squirmed and tried to gain some leverage, and after a while he managed to move his hands just enough to clench Alfred's belt and try to regain some control.
"Got something on your mind?" Matthew finally wheezed, with great effort, and Alfred at last put him down, letting him go and promptly clapping his hands very heavily on Matthew's shoulders.
A long stare, as Matthew gawked at him as if Alfred had finally cracked, and then at last Alfred said, very deeply and very sincerely, "You're my best friend. You always were. I'm sorry I never let you know. I'm a jerk."
Always had been, and probably always would be, but Matthew had stuck by him anyway, even though Alfred was one of the worst possible best friends to have.
Matthew scoffed, drew up his fist and punched Alfred's chest very gently, and said, teasingly, "Wow, you can finally admit you're a jerk? Is this really you or do I have an imposter on my hands? Did you have the jerk just beaten right out of you?"
At long last, Alfred laughed, a little.
"Maybe. Would explain a lot."
He crashed shortly after on Matthew's floor as always, and even through all of the quiet chatter Alfred felt the mounting dread.
Morning came far too soon, and Alfred crept out.
Work was awkward and slow, as the guys tried to pretend that Alfred wasn't a wreck and Alfred pretended they weren't there at all. Just counting down the minutes until he had to go home.
Suddenly, it was time, and Alfred was once more standing before his own door and too afraid to go inside.
Had to be done.
After many inhales and mental pep-talks, Alfred snuck inside the house, and braced himself.
Ludwig was on him in a second, and Alfred's eyes were glued to the floor as Ludwig's voice grew high and hands ran over his face and down his neck. Not as panicked as Francis, nor as vocal as Matthew, and yet somehow the worst of all, as Alfred had to see the horrible fall of Ludwig's face.
"What happened? Did— Is this why you didn't come home last night?"
Dumbly, Alfred nodded, and escaped Ludwig to drift into the kitchen and sit down.
The silence then was almost as bad as the one with Francis had been, because Alfred could already envision in his head the collapse of that wonderful happiness that had surrounded Ludwig.
Gone.
The scrape of the chair, as Ludwig sat, eyes as down as Alfred's.
As if they just didn't know what to say to each other.
It was Ludwig who eventually broke the impasse, as Alfred mourned the loss of something entirely intangible.
Ludwig finally lifted his eyes, stared Alfred down, and merely said, "Why didn't you just tell me?"
Alfred shifted, and replied, so lowly, "I didn't want you to worry about it."
"I always worry," Ludwig chided. "Every day, over everything. Always. You think I wasn't already worried about you? I always am. You should have said something."
Alfred furrowed his brow, lifted his head, and sharpened his voice.
"Why? What good would it do? If I had told you, nothing would have changed, except you woulda spent all day thinking about it! How's that help? I didn't want you to do that. You were already worried about Gilbert. I don't want you to worry about me more."
True, and Ludwig knew it.
Ludwig may have always been fretting in the back of his mind, but that was only because that was Ludwig's nature. Hadn't been given great cause for any of that worry, and that was why Ludwig had been smiling. Having him hear something, see something, that fretting would have come to the front, would have become priority.
There had been no need for that.
A piercing stare, but then Ludwig seemed to concede that point to Alfred, because he looked away.
They sat in awkward silence, and then Ludwig finally stood up and came over, standing above Alfred and looking over his wounds with that eagle gaze, turning his head this way and that.
"You should have gone to the doctor to get that stitched," Ludwig murmured, observing the gash on his forehead.
Alfred was silent, and so was the rest of the night.
If Ludwig was angry with him, then he didn't say anything.
What Alfred had feared had happened, though, because it was clear enough in the morning that crease in Ludwig's forehead, that air of worry that surrounded him. The way his eyes followed Alfred to the door, and the way he leapt up that night when Alfred got home to look him over.
Hadn't wanted that, but it had only been inevitable.
Alfred's pretending, after all, was only that. Didn't mean anything to anyone else. Purely in his own mind.
More trouble came along.
His father was increasingly unpredictable. Seemed to be declining, and rather rapidly, because it was a very rare moment now that his father was lucid when he came over. More often, he was back in some memory, days long gone, and Alfred never knew anymore what he was going to get.
Came in one day, and his father rushed up to him in alarm, saluted him, and said, urgently, "There ya are, Captain! Been lookin' everywhere for ya, musta gotten lost, I can't find anyone else. I thought the troops had pulled out and left me behind here with the Jerry—"
Alfred had grabbed his father's arms instinctively to keep him still, eyes wide and too stunned to speak.
Not again.
His father kept on blabbering, even as Alfred led him over to the sofa and sat him down, and he took a good long look around, sighing through his nose and feeling helpless and trapped. What the hell was he even supposed to do? Try to snap the old man out of it? Play the role of captain and try to calm him down?
Didn't know what to do.
Eventually, Alfred just grabbed his father's shoulders and said, for what felt like the hundredth time, "The war is over."
A look of shock.
"Over? We—we won? I can go home and see my son?"
Goddammit, why did this haveta keep happening? Didn't want to know now if the old man had loved him all along and had just had a shitty way of showing it, really didn't. Didn't want to know what had fueled him during the war.
Just wanted to keep moving forward without continuously looking over his shoulder.
Alfred leaned farther down, thinking of what to say.
Didn't say anything in the end, because the old man came back, if only a little. His father lifted his head, and the smile there on his face somehow made Alfred feel worse than any of those words had.
A hand reached up, and touched the frame of his glasses.
"You're so close. Can't see anymore, huh? C'mon, we'll go get you some new ones. Can't have you not seein' the blackboard. You already used that excuse."
A flash in his mind.
Eleven years old again, his father walking him down the street and into the optometrist's office. Taking his old glasses off, everything cast into blurry smudges, and then, when he finally procured new ones, setting them on his nose and seeing his father light back up, in both clarity and smile.
'See me now? That's better, huh! You get that from your mama, ya know.'
Alfred opened his mouth, and said, "I'm not a kid anymore, dad."
It was then that something glinted in the light, and Alfred looked down to see the hilt of a gun in his father's pocket. A surge of unease.
A flash of fear.
A hesitation, and then his father reached up and clapped Alfred's arm.
"No. I guess you're not. Come on. Let me take you out somewhere."
Alfred shook his head, and stepped back, trying, weakly, "Lay down and rest. You're sick. Just rest for now. We'll go out some other time, alright?"
"I don't feel sick."
All the same, the old man relaxed back on the couch, and Alfred hung there close to the door in contemplation, eyes locked onto that gun. Felt like hours that he argued with himself up in his head, back and forth.
Wasn't safe, he knew it, and yet in the end Alfred turned aside and walked away without taking it. So many things could go wrong, leaving an old man with dementia with a gun, but Alfred didn't take it, because, god help him...
The absolute worst part of him almost hoped that the old man would use it and put himself out of his misery and therefore end Alfred's.
Maybe he deserved everything he was getting now.
He didn't take the gun.
Felt so stifled suddenly.
Ludwig was worried, and the old man was less and less lucid.
Everything piled up, and sometimes Alfred had to stop what he was doing and squint his eyes and clamp his jaw, steady his breathing, because often now the urge to cry would come rushing up out of nowhere. So frustrated, and wouldn't let himself release it. Kept bottling it all up.
Just hated the way Ludwig looked so relieved when Alfred finally made it home, knowing that he had been sitting there waiting anxiously for hours.
They hadn't gone to the park in weeks.
Five days before Christmas, Alfred's greatest fear suddenly came to pass.
He came home one day, and Ludwig was curled up on the couch, face pressed into the cushion and very clearly trying to burrow away.
Oh, no—
Alfred crept over, knelt down, and reached out tentatively to rest his hand on Ludwig's shoulder. Ludwig shifted a bit, made a noise deep in his chest, but made no real move to acknowledge Alfred.
A long hesitation, and Alfred finally asked, "What's wrong? You alright?"
Almost didn't want to know.
It took a long while, but Ludwig finally heaved a muffled sigh, squirmed around until he was facing Alfred, and Alfred could see how red his eyes were, although it didn't seem as if he had been crying. Just looked exhausted.
Ludwig's eyes ran over Alfred's face as Alfred's hand stroked his shoulder, and finally Ludwig spoke.
"Well. The Germans all know about us now."
A sinking of Alfred's heart, at that awful look on Ludwig's face. The crinkle in his brow, the crease in his forehead, the pursing of his lips. The face of a man who was very desperately attempting to appear utterly unfazed even though he could see his entire world crumbling down around him.
Alfred finally pressed, gently, "And?"
A very brief collapse of Ludwig's face, pushed quickly away, because Ludwig, after all, was a master at pretending to be unfazed. Alfred should have taken lessons from him, in hindsight.
Couldn't stand the sad way Ludwig's eyes kept on flitting over his face. If Alfred had been using Ludwig as a light, then he could see in that moment that Ludwig was using Alfred to reaffirm every shred of faith and confidence he had just lost. Regaining his sense of self.
At last, Ludwig murmured, "I stopped by the shop on the way home. Rudolf asked me— He wanted to know if it was true. I was so scared, but I can't lie. So I told him it was. And he..." Another horrible crumple of Ludwig's composure. "He told me I could still shop there, but that he just couldn't help me with anything else from now on. Said that everyone had already talked about it, and that, as long as I'm with you, I'm not a part of that community anymore. I can't be with you and be with them at the same time."
Alfred could have sworn that it was his heart suddenly that was breaking, although surely it was Ludwig's. Could barely breathe.
A firm grip on Ludwig's shoulder, offering whatever reassurance he could, and Alfred was silent and still, clueless as to what he could possibly say. How awful that must have been for Ludwig, these people he had known and relied on for so long turning against him. Losing that last bit of security, community, friendship.
Home.
Essentially, Ludwig had truly lost the last bit of home he had left, the very second the Germans had turned against him. So far from home, so isolated and alone, with only those few people who spoke his language and knew his customs and understood him on the basest level. Couldn't fathom losing something like that.
Another horrible silence, and then Ludwig whispered, in a barely audible rumble, "They say of course that Gilbert is still very welcome, naturally, and that if I ever were to leave you, they'd do the best they could to pretend it never happened. I... I didn't want to accept it, so I went over to Mrs. Schultz'. I knocked. I just... I wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be okay, like she always does. She saw me the through the window. And that was the first time she didn't open the door."
Alfred could envision Ludwig standing there before that door as Alfred had so many times, chin low and chest clenched and hoping, hoping, that she would just give him a chance.
Couldn't be.
The only times that Alfred had ever seen Ludwig cry had been the day he had lost his dog and that day that Gilbert had miraculously reappeared. Alfred was far too aware that he was very close to a third occurrence.
Ludwig's deep voice was cracking. Trembling.
So close.
Ludwig's hand suddenly raised into the air, fell onto Alfred's cheek, and Alfred ducked his head then to save face because seeing Ludwig like that was killing him in every possible way.
Ludwig had been given a very clear choice : community, or Alfred.
That terrified him.
When his throat finally unclenched long enough to speak, Alfred uttered, lowly, "I can't tell you what to do. I don't know what you feel, how you feel about it, but I— I gave up the whole world when I realized that I was in love with you. And I'd do it again, a hundred times, for you. You're enough for me. I'm trying my best to be enough, too, but I know I screw up so much, so I get it if—"
Didn't get to finish, when Ludwig's hand slid over from his cheek to cover his lips, and Ludwig pressed forward shortly after to kiss him.
Ah, shit.
Alfred pulled quickly away and ducked his head low and to the side in mortification, because fuckin' hell, suddenly he was crying.
Pitiful.
Had made it so far, so long, had given everything he had, had fought it off for so long, and it was at that moment, at long last, that Alfred finally cracked.
Wanted to be enough for Ludwig to give up his own world as Alfred had.
Was absolutely humiliated, crying like that in front of Ludwig, of all people, when it was for Ludwig that he strove so hard now to be stern and impassive. Letting Ludwig see a break in his composure was inexcusable.
A shift, a movement, as Ludwig pulled himself upright onto his knees, settled there before Alfred, reached down to take his face, and forced his head up. No hiding it then, and somehow meeting Ludwig's eyes in that moment just made him cry all the harder.
His glasses were plucked neatly from his face, Ludwig lifted his head, and when Ludwig kissed him again, all Alfred could do was fall against him and grab the back of Ludwig's head. A long moment of breathlessness as Ludwig kissed him and Alfred cried, and when Ludwig pulled back he merely pressed their foreheads together and whispered, "I can't give up the world for you. That's impossible. You are the world, to me. I'll go wherever you take me."
It wasn't the proudest moment of his life by a long shot, but Alfred pressed his face into Ludwig's chest and clenched his shoulders and sat there for what felt like hours, bawling away helplessly into Ludwig's shirt.
A long time coming.
Felt stupid and pathetic as he sobbed away, yeah, but damn if he didn't feel a hell of a lot better afterwards, when he finally managed to catch his breath and gather up the shards of his composure. Ludwig was quiet and still, and didn't say a word the entire while Alfred had used him as a handsome towel. Felt good to relieve some of that stress, to get out some of that pressure, to take the edge off.
The world was blurry when Alfred finally pulled back, from tears and the lack of glasses, but Ludwig was close enough to be crystal clear, and that was beautiful.
A visual representation of how he felt—Ludwig was the only thing worth seeing.
Better to look at Ludwig and let everything else fade away as long as he could.
The world was burning, and the flames were at last breaching Alfred's castle. The tower in which he had placed Ludwig wasn't as safe. The walls not secure.
No matter how much Alfred desired it, he couldn't always be the knight.
Helpless down below.
The castle just kept crumbling.