A/N : Eight years is better than twenty, I guess. That's the only excuse I have. Apologies for the long, long wait, but I really do appreciate how many of you have hung in there with me and put up with my nonsense. In all honesty, this was always my favorite of the big three, and you can't imagine how grateful I am to those of you who encouraged me and gave me hell and stayed with me. It really meant so much. Thanks guys! I hope your patience was semi-worth it, but I understand if it wasn't. See you guys in some other place, and thanks again!
Chapter 28
Ride This Train
It was quiet these days.
Hours passed in blurs and dull colors. Lethargy.
The town mourned. It wasn't their town in Finland, but these men here knew Timo, too, him and his friend, and now the other had fallen. Those men, the ones that they had all protected in these great forests, took over everything.
For the best, because they were all too damn stupefied to do anything. They had all shut down in their own ways. Berwald sat on the couch beside of Lukas, and they just stared at the floor for hours. Ludwig sat beside of Magnus at the kitchen table, arm over Magnus' shoulders as Magnus gazed off ahead at the wall.
Silence, perpetual and thick.
The Estonians had patched Magnus up, because he had been shot too, in the arm and had been grazed on his side. Magnus didn't even notice, really, and had just stared at the wall as he had been stitched up. Hadn't even twitched or glanced. They had only gotten their hands on Timo when Magnus had fallen over unconscious from exhaustion and misery and blood loss. Magnus had woken up, looked around, and just hadn't really come back. Didn't seem to know where he was.
No one had spoken a single word to each other.
As it had been every other time Timo had been gone, Ludwig slept in Magnus' bed. Just a little different this time; Magnus didn't cling to Ludwig and worry endlessly, tossing and turning. Rather, Magnus just lied there and stared at the ceiling, and it was Ludwig who rested on his side, arm thrown over Magnus' chest. Magnus didn't move at all. Didn't say a word. He clenched one of Timo's shirts in his hands and held it atop his stomach.
When dawn broke, Magnus sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and then he just sat there and stared at the wall, Timo's shirt gripped in his fingers.
Lukas came in, and shooed Ludwig away, taking charge of Magnus so that Ludwig could rest. He and Lukas took turns, trying so hard to keep Magnus' head above the water, and Berwald sat at the kitchen table, arms folded above and face buried. Ludwig stood there above him, knew he should have done something, said something, but just—
Couldn't. Didn't know what to do.
So he just stood there and stared at Berwald, as Berwald's shoulders shook, and then he wandered off and sat outside.
No one spoke at all. No one ate. Just drifting about aimlessly, lost and dazed and confused.
Ha...
Timo was the navigator, the compass, the leader. How could he have just left them like that? The jerk; didn't he know how much everyone needed him? Didn't he know how lost they were without him? How scared? Didn't he fuckin' care?
Anger and bitterness, under the lull.
Two days after Magnus had walked through the door, the men gathered together and built up a great pyre. Many of these Nordic rebels viewed cremation as more glorious in some way than burial, for whatever reasons. Supposed the notion of going up in flames was far more exciting to them than just being tossed under the dirt.
Who cared?
Timo was dead—nothing else mattered. Ludwig was as angry at Timo on that pyre as he would have been had he been underground, was just as mad at him, was just as devastated and lost, so who cared? Let them do they wanted.
No one in the house cared at all, and just watched without a word.
Ludwig was so mad at Timo, so mad. Felt betrayed and lied to in some way. Had put so much faith into Timo, had relied so much upon him, and had followed Timo blindly for years, wherever he had led. Years of devotion and loyalty, and how had Timo repaid him?
Misery.
The town gathered around the pyre at the edge of the forest, and Berwald, funnily enough, was the only one standing. A silent sentinel as he always had been, watching over the pyre dutifully. Easy to see that he was crying, but it hardly mattered because he looked so untouchable in that moment. Had pulled himself together, had found that sense of leadership he had once had, for just that one day. When everyone else failed, Berwald stepped up.
The fire started easily.
Magnus sat on a log, back to the fire, and Ludwig and Lukas sat on either side of him. They didn't watch, either, leaving Berwald alone.
Could feel the heat of the fire on his back, and couldn't bring himself to look over his shoulder.
Magnus just sat there, like always, and even though the light of the flames lit up his face in that one brief second he glanced back, nothing else about him had seemed to light up since then. Lost, somewhere.
Timo's shirt was ever clenched up in his hands. Carried it everywhere.
The Estonians weren't exactly solemn in their mourning. They were rather rowdy, loud and vociferous, many of them drinking and toasting the fire, and even though Ludwig knew that Timo was a hero and elicited those sentiments even now, somehow it hurt. Timo would have loved this, would have enjoyed these drunken men giving him speeches, but Ludwig was so sick still about it that he bolted upright and ran over to the edge of the trees to throw up.
Burst into tears immediately after, and stayed there in the shadows, hidden away as Lukas held Magnus upright and Berwald stared into the flames as if entranced.
Several hours later, Lukas stood up, dragged Magnus to his feet, and walked him back home. Ludwig followed. Berwald came home much later that night, and went straight into the kitchen, and pulled down a bottle of vodka with shaking hands. Sat there at the table and drank himself into a stupor, crying in intervals, and Lukas joined him halfway through. Ludwig sat on the couch and stared into the fireplace, and just saw Timo there burning.
The fire burned all night.
The next morning, there was a knock on the door.
Lukas opened it, and there was a man there, holding something out. Low words. Lukas reached out, and his hand fell still halfway in hesitation. Lukas froze up, choked, and Ludwig was distressed by that, and more so by that awful crinkle of Lukas' brow.
The man held out a little pouch. Ludwig knew, somehow, what it was. Lukas stared at it for a long damn time before he finally reached out and took it, clenching it up and holding it to his chest for a moment. Ludwig turned his eyes away, and focused on Magnus there beside of him.
Berwald was still passed out in the bedroom.
Lukas sat down at the table, set that little pouch there down upon it, and just stared at it as if it had crept up out of hell right before him. Stared and stared, and Ludwig could see him swallowing, how heavily he was breathing. The crease in his forehead.
Magnus, ever oblivious to anything going on around them, was silent and still.
When Berwald came into consciousness later on, after he had vomited and cried a little more, they all sat down at the table, and looked around at each other. Magnus had been put away in the bedroom to avoid any unnecessary duress.
But now what?
God—was this really all that was left? One of his brothers, his countryman, his partner, his friend. The one whose back he had always had and who had had his in turn. The one, really, who had saved him in the very beginning. The one who had let him stay. The only one in the beginning who had looked at him and saw a friend rather than an enemy. Each one of these men were unique to Ludwig, meant different things to him, all of equal import but in different ways, and Timo was Ludwig's cornerstone, always had been. If not for Timo, on several occasions, Ludwig wouldn't be here right now. Was that all there was now, that little pile of ashes? Unfathomable.
All five of them, together again...
Worthless sentiments.
Berwald blearily glowered at the pouch, and Ludwig could see then that he wasn't the only one that was angry with Timo.
Lukas lifted his head at last, looked them over, and uttered, "Well. Here we are. So...what are we going to do?"
The first any of them had spoken at all.
Lukas' voice had cracked, broken. A first.
What could they really do?
Timo's ashes sat before them, and the question now was of what to do with them. Magnus and Lukas had wanted to go into the sea. Ludwig, the black forest. Only Timo and Berwald had never voiced their preferences. None of them had ever asked Timo, and Timo had never wanted to say it. All they could do was guess. The two things Timo had loved more than anything were Finland and Magnus. Hard to say which he had loved the most, towards the end anyway.
Finland.
It was obvious, and Ludwig met Lukas' eyes, and said, gruffly, "You know where he'd wanna be."
Lukas just nodded, and said nothing more.
Berwald scoffed, stood up, and staggered out of the kitchen to throw himself down on the sofa.
It had to be that way, didn't it. Owed Timo that.
Oh, how inexplicably and miserably devastating it was, to have Timo save him, so many times, and to have been unable to do the same. To owe his life to a man that had lost his own, away from home and friends and brothers.
No words for that guilt.
He owed Timo his life, and therefore he would get Timo to Finland, one way or another. At the risk of his life, he'd see Timo home for the last time.
He and Lukas were left alone, and Ludwig asked, against that clutch of his throat that was constant, "Should we wait for the war to end? It won't be long."
Lukas stared off ahead at the wall blankly, keeping his composure as usual, and thoughtfully murmured, "No. The sooner, the better I think. We don't know if Finland will be...annexed, after the treaty."
Lukas had paused, faltered, and Ludwig understood because somehow, even then, it felt so disrespectful and almost frightening to speak of the possibility of the Soviet Union annexing Finland after the war, with Timo there. ...in whatever manner. The thought of Finland becoming part of the USSR, after Timo had worked so hard.
As hard to stomach as anything else, and maybe even Lukas felt that, too.
Lukas inhaled, gathered his will and nerve and bravery, and met Ludwig's eyes.
"Let's go, then. You and me."
Ludwig nodded, with no hesitation, because it was the right thing to do.
Timo...
He'd had so much he had wanted to say.
Ludwig looked over his shoulder; Berwald was still glaring into the fireplace, Magnus was put away, and there was never going to be a time that could be considered 'good'. So he stood up, and said, weakly, "Let's go see who can help us."
Lukas took much longer to stand, but trudged out the door all the same, without even bothering to pull on his coat. They walked down the drive, into the small town, and fell still, looking this way and that.
Some little village in the middle of Estonia. No one there they knew, not really. People knew them, but they knew no one, and that feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. Isolated and frightened.
This was Timo's job, always had been, that bastard—
Ludwig took an unsteady step to the left, another, and walked up to a man who was carrying a heavy bag over his shoulder.
He tried, quietly, "Excuse me, sir, can you help us—"
The man shook his head, speaking back to him in Estonian, and Ludwig turned his eyes down to the road. He swallowed, feeling the alarming threat of collapse. When he looked over his shoulder, it was somehow worse to see Lukas.
He stood there in the middle of the street in his thin shirt, uncombed hair whipping in the wind, eyes heavy and tired, the circles beneath so dark, and everything about Lukas just looked so entirely vulnerable then. Never had he seen Lukas like that; he wasn't looking at a deer then, so much as a lost fawn.
Lukas glanced around, helplessly, looking so lost, turning this way and that as he sought out something he couldn't pinpoint, and for the first time that Ludwig had ever seen, Lukas suddenly slumped. Completely and utterly slumped, as he looked around back and forth, and then he inhaled, shakily, and said, "I don't know what to do."
His voice was nothing Ludwig had ever heard. Some other man's voice, because he had never once heard that. Deep and rough, the furthest thing from silky, breaking, shaking. Ludwig imagined that that voice was very much what he sounded like when he was breaking down, and that was terrifying. Didn't know if that was Lukas' real voice, if the silvery one had merely been part of his wartime façade.
Killed Ludwig to hear it all the same.
Lukas squinted his eyes and his head hung for just a moment, and Ludwig was so scared that Lukas was really going to burst into tears. Wouldn't know what to do, because it didn't seem like something that was even possible. Felt as if seeing Lukas really cry would be the end of the world. Ludwig looked to Lukas to be impervious. Couldn't handle him breaking down. Lukas was the only one then that had any semblance of composure, and they needed him to stay that way.
A long, awful second of blinking, swallowing, quick breathing, and then Lukas mercifully pulled himself back together and lifted his head.
The dam held ever strong.
Lukas persevered, carried on, found his way, and eventually found an Estonian who spoke Swedish. They fumbled their way from there, feeling swept out to sea, navigating for the first time without their lighthouse.
In the dark.
The next day, they had gotten it enough together, and had their boat ready to go at their call. They'd be going entirely alone, just him and Lukas—no Estonian considered this particular mission worth the risk, and Ludwig knew he shouldn't have taken it personally but he did. Took it as some personal attack on Timo in a way, irrational though it was. He was furious at them, had cursed them very loudly and very angrily, and it was lucky for them perhaps that Ludwig hadn't been understood.
So angry—
It was worth the risk, and Ludwig had been so angry that he had cried on the way back home. Seemed he was always crying these days, over something or another. Hadn't felt this helpless and claustrophobic since that rainy night long ago.
A new venture.
Magnus stayed behind, and Berwald stayed with him. Up to Berwald, of all people, to keep Magnus afloat until they would return. Ludwig and Lukas called this trip theirs, and would go back into Finland, whatever the risk. Timo would have done it for any one of them. Berwald's words that day long ago, that they would have gotten Ludwig back to the black forest no matter what—it was the right thing to do. Even if Ludwig was furious with Timo, he still loved him under it all, and would go.
Actually leaving, though, was a bit more of an ordeal.
Standing before Berwald yet again, after promising to never again leave; felt like a liar, in a way, felt horrendous and guilty, and had tried to sputter explanations as Lukas had pulled on his coat and tucked that pouch carefully into his lucky backpack.
Berwald just interrupted rambling Ludwig, to say, "I know why you're going. Ya don't haveta tell me. Go."
Berwald reached out with his left hand and rested it on Ludwig's face.
In a reversal of their last farewell, it was Ludwig that time who started crying, yet again, as Berwald just stared at him calmly.
That time, instead of trying to stop him, Berwald lifted Ludwig's chin up, met his bleary eyes, and said, very deeply, "You know everything I wanna say."
Ludwig's eyes squinted, his face utterly collapsed, and he could only nod against Berwald's hand.
Was so sick of crying, so sick of it, always felt so nauseous and nothing ever made it go away. Maybe that was why he went, too, in some desperate attempt to find a little peace, a little closure, something.
Anything.
He finished his farewell, kissed despondent Magnus on the forehead, and gathered up his things. He tucked his new identification into his wallet, sniveling still, and kept it safe. Timo's final gift to him. Ludwig would hold onto it for eternity.
Time to go. Again.
They set out at sunset, followed the Estonian to the boat, and began the journey.
Ludwig kept telling himself that he would never more get into a boat, and yet found himself time and time again disobeying himself.
This time, when Ludwig threw up, he wasn't sure if it was from seasickness or heartsickness. Felt so strangely and desperately homesick, and didn't know for what. Something he couldn't grasp onto, something intangible.
Homesick for Timo, maybe, and knowing he would never see him again.
Couldn't come to terms, trying so hard to cling yet to denial and constantly thwarted by everything around him.
The very long journey to Finland was terrifying, made more so by the fact that they were essentially blind. Neither him nor Lukas were exactly navigators, and the compass was the only thing that kept them from going in circles. Ludwig felt very lost, whatever that compass said, and when the dark black outline of a forest became visible on the distant waves, Lukas exhaled in relief.
Hitting shore was a rather mixed event for Ludwig. Was relieved that he could do something for Timo, even if it meant nothing in the end, and yet it was also a painful blow to his pretending. Hard to sit there and pretend that Timo was just still out and would come back, when they were in Finland and holding something they had no right to be holding.
They stepped into the trees, walked a while, and when Lukas knelt down and removed his backpack, Ludwig turned his eyes to the forest, lit up in the pink light of breaking dawn.
He didn't want to look when Lukas opened the pouch, but had no choice.
Had there ever been a more ghastly sensation, in enemy territory, in a great dark forest, spreading the ashes of their fallen comrade? Wasn't right, nothing about this was right, and it shouldn't have happened. They shouldn't have been there, but they were, and Ludwig watched as Lukas murmured under his breath.
Dust.
Timo had gone back to Finland. That was the important thing, really. Where he had always been, in some way, and Ludwig hoped somehow that the land itself knew that its greatest hero had returned. Truly how he felt about Timo. Hurt like hell that no one would ever know it. That there would never be statues of Timo in every Finnish city. Had earned that and more, and no one knew. That was the most difficult thing for Ludwig to swallow those days, really. Just Timo being another number on a paper. Fading into obscurity. That no one would remember him outside of this household.
That hurt.
Timo's name should have been plastered everywhere, and no one would ever know it at all.
Oblivion, obscurity, and for someone that had burned so bright.
This was what their years of fighting had come down to, to be nameless specks of dust in a greater world that wasn't even aware of them. Looking around then at that vast forest, Ludwig felt small and meaningless, defeated.
Pointless.
They had pressed their luck too many times. They had gotten overconfident. They had thought themselves invincible. So many times they'd stared death in the face. So many times they had come out victorious.
They'd pushed too far.
Lukas settled up against a huge tree, Ludwig sat beside of him, and they rested against each other, trying to sleep and pass the daylight hours in merciful dreams. Hardly worked, either of them waking up in fright at every little sound, and by the time night came again they were spent and cranky.
When they trekked back to the boat and boarded, Ludwig looked over his shoulder.
That feeling he had then...
Leaving behind Finland forever, and knowing, despite his denial, that he was also leaving behind something he would never have again. Someone. Losing forever something entirely unique, something that no one else could ever replicate, something that would never again cross their paths.
Someone was missing, and always would be.
He looked over his shoulder then not at Finland, but at Timo.
Getting in the boat was Ludwig's final and ultimate goodbye.
The journey back was somehow scarier than the trip there, but that could have just been that looming reality over Ludwig's head, always threatening to break through to him at last.
It became downright terrifying halfway there, however, when they happened across a patrol boat that heard their engine, twisted their light in their direction, and began firing at them after a very long silence.
Couldn't even see a damn thing.
Lukas, always quicker to react, grabbed Ludwig's collar and threw him to the bottom of the boat, falling onto his stomach beside of him.
Terror.
The splash of water, too nearby, as bullets hit the sea. A thunk, as one hit the stern of the boat and splintered the edge of the wooden seat.
Lukas reached out, found Ludwig, gripped him, and hissed, "You alright? Huh?"
"Yeah," he stammered back, so nauseous, as the splashing suddenly stopped.
No more gunfire.
The lights in the distance began to fade.
Ludwig rolled over onto his stomach, grabbed Lukas' coat in his hands, and very frantically asked, "Are you okay? Are you hit?"
Wouldn't suffer this again—
"No, I'm— I'm alright. I think."
The lights by then were far away, and Ludwig sat up at the waist, hauling Lukas up and running hands over him in a panic, aware that he was crying a little but too scared to stop it. Lukas seemed as intent on determining Ludwig's wellbeing, and when they were satisfied that they were both alright and uninjured, they carried on, as quick as they could.
Too damn close.
Hitting shore was a goddamn victory. Another hurdle down.
It said so much about how miserable they were that when Ludwig and Lukas came back, Berwald just looked up from the couch, seemed so relieved, and yet didn't smile. Just closed his eyes and sighed, and Magnus, sitting there beside of Berwald, turned his head to the door, eyes wide and jaw clenched and pulse pounding.
Oh—no.
They weren't who Magnus had wanted to see walk in, and that fuckin' hurt, so Ludwig darted quickly past them and threw himself into bed. Couldn't stand that look on Magnus' face, looking at that door like that, as if he really thought someone else would have come walking through.
And as Ludwig lied there on his stomach on the bed, he realized that he felt as miserable now as he had when he had set out. Felt no better. Felt no relief, no peace of mind.
Closure?
Maybe that was a lie, because he didn't feel as if some book had been closed, as if something suddenly was at peace, as if everything now was in order.
He still just felt sick.
Timo being back home meant nothing at all, and he realized that now that he was back. It didn't matter at all where Timo's ashes lied, as long as a warm Timo wasn't there next to them. Had been a pointless endeavor, truly, and the Estonians had been right in that it hadn't been worth the risk. He had just been desperate, but stepping into Finland hadn't helped.
It felt to Ludwig in that moment that it would be this way forever, that there would be no possible way to move forward, that it would never feel any better. Nothing would ever improve, because nothing would ever be the same.
Lukas must have felt the same way, because Ludwig found him at the kitchen table every night after, putting back glass after glass of whatever alcohol he had been able to get his hands on that day.
That didn't help, either.
They were doomed to walk this never-ending path of misery, perhaps; their punishment, for being foolhardy and proud, for failing one of their own, for pretending to be something they weren't.
Some days passed, and on the last day of March, Lukas came back inside from a trip in town, and said, "We're leaving now."
Leaving.
What Lukas should have been able to say was, 'We're going home.'
It didn't feel that way anymore. Couldn't say 'time to go home', because unless they were all together there was no home to be had. Just another house that didn't feel right. Something missing, as it always had been for them in one way or another.
It was time to go. Time to leave unfriendly lands for good, and go back to Sweden. Felt so wrong, was so hard to swallow, and Magnus had just looked around when Lukas had announced their departure, and spoke for the first time since then, and just to say, "Shouldn't we wait?"
Wait?
They all knew what Magnus wanted to wait for, and Berwald's face had collapsed and he had started crying, as Lukas grabbed Magnus' arm and led him upstairs to pack. Ludwig followed them, and watched as Magnus began gathering up clothing and belongings.
But he gathered Timo's, setting them very carefully into the bags, and Lukas opened his mouth only to very quickly look away.
Magnus could sit here on this couch and wait forever, but the thing he wanted wasn't coming. They could have stayed here and waited for years, and Magnus would continue to be disappointed. What was left of Timo lied now in Finland, where he always had been in his heart, and that was that.
The next day, they had packed up everything they had brought with them so long ago. Nothing was left behind, with the exception of Lukas' wires and cables. No point in having them, anymore. No more need for explosives, when the last match had burnt out.
Magnus had fallen back into the dark, didn't speak, and when night began to fall, they set out, following the Estonians for the final time to their last dangerous ride. Once more, it was up to Ludwig and Lukas to find the way, with Berwald not up to speed and Magnus lost in the tide. As before, they did their best, and it was the need to leave behind Red lands for good that kept them from turning into wrecks when Magnus uttered, in the middle of the night, "We should go back and wait."
Lukas cursed endlessly under his breath as he manned the wheel, and Ludwig stared holes through the compass.
The rest of their lives would just be waiting, it seemed, but at least the Soviet Union was soon a memory, as they crossed into Swedish waters and washed their hands of the war. They left Estonia behind, and went back to Sweden. Sweden, where Ludwig had dreamt of going back to for years and years, and now it just didn't feel right. Setting foot into neutral land at dawn, returning in defeat.
Wasn't right, because one pair of boots didn't touch that soil. The one pair that had the most right, really, because Timo had been the one guiding them and keeping them all alive.
They hadn't gone to Gotland that time, going straight onto mainland Sweden, near Stockholm, and from there they pooled together money and bought an old car come nightfall. It was a very tight squeeze with all of the luggage, and Magnus and Ludwig were rather squished up together as bags took up the other half of the backseat. Magnus stared out of the window and watched the trees going by.
Sweden was as silent as Estonia had been.
They drove all night, stopping only when Lukas started falling asleep, and when morning was bright the next day, Ludwig could see the smoke rising up from chimneys in the distance. Long forgotten mountains.
A hill.
And there above, as it always had been in his dreams, sat that old house, waiting for them as it had these long years.
They had finally come home, but it wasn't home anymore so much as just another house. Home had slipped away somewhere back there, and getting back a sense of it seemed impossible. It was still a comforting sight, in its own way, and Berwald at least seemed very relieved to see it.
They tried once more to settle, Lukas and Ludwig dragging the bags in, and then walking Magnus in. How bizarre, to see this place again. It was dusty and dim, rather musty, but Magnus woke up just a little, reached down to grab a bag, and started walking right down the hall.
Muscle memory, perhaps, breaking through the fog.
Magnus sat down in what was Timo's old room, on the edge of the bed, and looked around a bit. Lukas, ever at his side, very carefully took the bag from Magnus' hand, stood up straight, and looked so tired, so exhausted, but Ludwig watched from the frame as Lukas all the same went to the dresser and began putting Timo's clothes away.
Left very quickly, because his vision was blurry and his chest hurt. Even after years and years, it still smelled just a bit like Timo in there, and he couldn't stand it.
Pretending.
These should have been their happiest days, and instead were the most somber and miserly.
Lukas slept in Magnus' bed now, and it was Berwald who stared blankly at the ceiling as Ludwig rested atop his chest.
It was as if the very pole itself had vanished, and the needle within the compass was spinning endlessly, helplessly, lost and confused and not knowing where to go.
The North was gone.
Magnus didn't eat. He didn't move. Just sat there.
Staring.
The thought of dying was something that most men feared above all else. At the surface, it seemed like the most natural fear. Nobody really wanted to die, and survival instincts were always lurking.
But really, if anyone had ever sat down and actually thought about it, the one thing that was more terrifying than the prospect of dying yourself was the notion of the person you loved more than anything dying. After all, when you were dead, you were dead. That was all. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to think about. Carefree and liberated from earthly stress.
God, though, being the one left behind—
That was terrifying.
Berwald sat there now, and watched Magnus, perpetually lost in that plane of misery. It was unfathomable, that hurt, no words at all for it. Berwald had been there, when Ludwig had 'died'. Knew what Magnus felt, and knew that there was no escaping it.
Magnus had never belonged here, had never wanted to hurt people, had never wanted to die. Had never really wanted to fight, not really. Magnus had been terrified of the prospect of death, on whatever side, and Berwald knew that he now stood before the most impossible trial a man could ever face : acceptance.
Magnus was a master of pretending, and hadn't yet accepted reality.
Berwald was in no place to judge him, because he too had refused to accept. It had been Magnus that had taken the gun away from Berwald that day, and so Berwald stayed ever at Magnus' side now, just in case. Magnus wasn't like Berwald, not like that, and Berwald didn't truly ever think it would go that far. Not Magnus.
The way he looked though...
Better to be safe.
That dark, misty forest that had trapped Berwald over and over again; Magnus walked there now, and it seemed that no matter how hard they tried to find him, he was ever lost to them. Couldn't find him amongst the trees and fog. Lukas and Ludwig called endlessly to Magnus, but he couldn't hear them, and Berwald just fumbled about the dark as he always did, useless and unable to keep up.
He had never been the leader, and that was painfully obvious now that their real captain had vanished. Everyone was lost, confused, dazed, aimless, wandering around helplessly. No sense of direction, no sense of purpose, no urgency and no hope. Just night, vast and starless, with no end in sight. The needle in the compass was immobile, and so were they, now that Timo—
...hurt too much to even think about. Couldn't handle it, couldn't stomach it, and tried so hard to pretend that nothing at all had ever happened, but it was so much harder to pretend when he turned his head and saw Magnus sitting there staring off into nothing. To sit together at the table and notice that painfully empty seat.
This house was where they had been borne as a group, and here now they stood defeated. They had come home at long last with less men than they had set out with, and all of them were in their own stages of denial.
Magnus was dormant, Lukas was silent, Ludwig was dazed, and Berwald was stupefied. Magnus kept Timo's clothes always ready in the dresser, Lukas refused to look at Timo's bedroom door when he passed it, Ludwig stared down the driveway sometimes as if he expected someone to come walking up, and Berwald, even now, despite it all, still looked over at that empty chair first thing in the morning and actually expected to see pale hair lit up in the white sun.
And he did, but it was always Ludwig's.
The silence was unbearable.
One Friday morning, Lukas and Ludwig walked together down into the town below to buy supplies and groceries, and Berwald was left alone to think too much. Magnus sat on the floor against the wall, in the very spot he and Timo used to clean their guns together.
Magnus was pale, unshaven, wan and exhausted. Berwald had never seen a man look as bad as Magnus did then, and he imagined that it was very much what the others had seen when they had looked at Berwald in those stretches of time when Ludwig had been gone.
Berwald stood up and limped into the living room, and Magnus turned his head, leaning back against the wall as he was, and stared up at Berwald.
A very uncomfortable stretch of quiet, and then Magnus spoke.
Could count on one hand the number of times Magnus had spoken since that day.
He uttered, deeply, "Before we left here, I was— I was scared to leave. But I'd go anywhere he does, so I told him I'd follow him. I gave him a flower, and told him I'd go with him, wherever he went, even though I was scared. Because I was in love with him. He told me to grow up and go because I wanted to make a difference, not because I was in love. I thought he threw it away."
Berwald looked down, and felt a godawful pang of hurt that rushed up so powerfully it made him stagger a bit. In Magnus' lap, he held that kid's book, that fairytale. Mikko and the Fox. The book Timo had read to unconscious Ludwig the first day they had brought him back, when he had been tied to the bed.
It was open, and within the pages rested a dried red flower.
His eyes stung, his vision blurred, his denial threatened to shatter, and Berwald fled as quickly as he could into the bathroom. Made it just in time and shut the door behind him right before he burst into tears. One of his more miserable moments, collapsing to the floor and bawling so hard that he couldn't breathe at all.
His chest hurt.
He cried himself utterly senseless in there, until his head was on fire and his eyes were swollen and he couldn't breathe.
Didn't know how long he was in there, sobbing, but when he pulled it back together and hoisted himself up to his feet with the aid of the sink, when he trudged in defeat back into the living room, Magnus was gone.
The book sat on the floor.
Berwald looked around, and spied a flash of red through the window.
He tottered over and looked out, and saw Magnus sitting there up on the hill where Berwald had liked to stand and look out at the mountains. His back was to the house, and Berwald didn't know why he shivered then, why he felt so uneasy and alarmed. Why he made instantly for the door and as fast as he could outside.
Magnus was just sitting there on the dead, wet grass, soaked from melted snow. Sitting there in the cold mud.
Climbing that hill was damn hard, slipping on the slick grass, but urgency was high, dread was higher, and Berwald didn't know why he was so scared suddenly. Just that awful feeling he had.
He made it up the hill eventually, panting and huffing, freezing cold from both the air and fear, and he could see Magnus staring off as blankly as ever, this time into the vast mountains on the horizon.
In Magnus' folded legs rested his hands, and in his hands he held a pistol.
A painful rush of adrenaline, a surge of panic, fear, and Berwald bristled out and felt time slow a bit, as he saw Magnus sitting there like that, staring off into nothing. Eerily familiar. Immediately, he set slow course for Magnus, and called, as he went, "Hey."
Damn—couldn't run, couldn't move quickly, and the cane sank down into the wet earth enough to slow him down ever more.
"Hey!"
Magnus didn't acknowledge him, but when Berwald had hobbled over close enough to see Magnus in detail, he heard the click of the hammer. Berwald went as fast as he could, but when he was beside Magnus, that gun suddenly raised up, and Magnus held it against his temple as Berwald once had. Berwald fell instantly still, because he wasn't quick enough, and he was afraid moving then might have set Magnus off. Didn't wanna risk it, so instead Berwald lowered himself to one knee with the aid of the cane, and then plopped down onto the ground there beside Magnus.
Still, Magnus didn't look at him, but knew he was there, because after a moment, Magnus asked, "What was going through your head that day?"
That day—when Berwald had been sitting like this.
Magnus' voice was lower and rougher than Berwald had ever heard it. Despondent. Dull.
Honestly, Berwald answered, "Not a goddamn thing."
The truth. Had been barely aware of anything around him.
He couldn't tell yet what Magnus was really doing. If he was serious, if he was just giving in to a moment of desperation, or maybe if he wanted to imitate Berwald's posture just to see how it felt, how it sat with him, so that he could determine if squeezing the trigger was worth it.
A long silence, and then Magnus whispered, his rough voice breaking just a bit, "It's like... It's kinda like drowning, isn't it? Is that what you felt? Like you were under water? I can't— I feel sometimes like I can't breathe."
Drowning?
No, that wasn't what he had felt, because he hadn't been aware enough for that. Magnus had shut down, but it was different than Berwald's episodes. Magnus was so much more capable of handling devastation than Berwald was, although it may not have seemed that way at a glance, as pitiful as he had looked all these years. Had Berwald been in Magnus' position, he wouldn't have lasted as long. Berwald hadn't drowned, because everything had stopped firing altogether and there had been only that pitch-black plane of nothingness.
The world had just vanished, floated up in ashes.
Berwald opened his mouth, thought of nothing good to say, and scooted a little closer.
Oh, damn, he wasn't the right person for this, he wasn't, shoulda been Ludwig or Lukas sitting here right now. Either one of them would have already diffused Magnus, would have already claimed the gun, and Berwald just sat there fumbling.
Wouldn't lose Magnus too, couldn't. Couldn't lose anyone else. Wouldn't've made it through that, any of them. They were already ruined, hanging on by a frayed thread.
Magnus followed a small cloud with his eyes, and then said, "I'm trying to find a point to... I keep thinking, you know, everyone is different. Every person is an individual, right? So even if I looked around for the rest of my life, I'd never find anyone else like him. No one out there would ever be just like him. I won't ever have that again. I don't want—"
A swallow, a deep breath, a crinkle of Magnus' brow.
Closer and closer.
"He said he'd come home with me. Why'd he lie? He didn't have to lie. What's the point? Isn't that what you thought? He's gone, and there's no one else out there like him, so what's the point?"
It was the adrenaline brought on by that gun that kept Berwald from breaking down into tears then, as Magnus' face ever threatened to collapse.
Berwald found his voice again, and tried, so cautiously, "Just because no one will ever be the same doesn't mean you haveta just stop. You have an entire life still. You're so young. You don't know what else is out there."
Magnus scoffed, and Berwald knew that Magnus knew that Berwald was full of it.
Berwald had been here already, and Magnus had stopped him, for whatever reason, and so Berwald was trying to stop Magnus now and was saying whatever came to mind.
Ludwig had been gone, and Berwald had thought those same things; if Ludwig was gone, there was no point in going on, because no one else out there would ever be perfectly the same. No one would have ever loved Berwald again, not the way Ludwig had, and Magnus stood there now on that realization, that no one else on the Earth would ever be exactly like Timo, would never give him those same sentiments.
But...
Gathering up a bit of bravery, and a little bit of lies, Berwald offered, "I loved him once. You know I did. I felt that way, too. I thought there was no one else. But then I met Ludwig. So... You don't know what can happen."
A semi-truth, perhaps. It had been different, because Timo had never loved Berwald. Timo had loved Magnus, always had, and that was why Berwald had moved on from him. Losing someone that had loved you in return was entirely different, and incomparable.
Magnus didn't want anyone else—he wanted Timo, and that couldn't be.
The future seemed empty and pointless.
Still, Magnus watched clouds pass, and had yet to make any true motions.
Another scoff.
"You think he'd be pissed off if I did it?"
Eyes ever on Magnus, as he crept so carefully closer, Berwald uttered, "Yeah. You know he would be. He'd be mad as hell at you. He'd call you a coward and punch you before they even finished slapping the halo over your head. Then he'd take it right off and strangle you with it and kill you all over again. You know how mad he gets."
A crumple of Magnus' face, an awful squint of his eyes.
Magnus didn't speak anymore, breathing so heavily and chest heaving, and Berwald scooted just a little closer, and asked, to bide time, "Why did you take the gun from me?"
No response at first, as Magnus stared ever off into the mountains.
Berwald crept a centimeter more, and now their knees barely brushed. Magnus didn't look over at him still, gun gleaming in the sunlight and eyes still squinted. The puffing of Magnus' breath in the cold air.
Was so close, but was still too afraid to reach out.
Again, Berwald asked, "Why did ya take the gun, huh? How you're feelin' now—that's how I felt. So why'd ya stop me?"
Magnus took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and said, far too thickly, "'Cause I— It hurts too much to lose people."
A little closer. His knee pressed fully into Magnus'.
"Yeah? So. How you think Ludwig and Lukas will feel? It's easy for you. It's not easy for us when you leave us behind. You really wanna make them suffer so you don't have to?"
He raised his hand, so carefully, and rested it on the small of Magnus' back.
A long silence, as Magnus tried to control his breathing.
And then Magnus scoffed, laughed, although it sounded more like a sob, and the gun fell ever so slightly from his temple, to rest atop his cheek instead. Berwald raised his hand, so slowly, up Magnus' back. A very slow lowering of Magnus' shoulders. Magnus' eyes ran over the clouds above the mountains, and after a moment he spoke.
His voice a bit higher. Thinner.
"I took the gun from you. And we waited and— All that time we waited, and then Ludwig came back. If I..." The gun fell a bit lower, and Berwald's hand raised higher, up to Magnus' shoulder. "If I wait, too, then maybe..." Farther and farther, and the muzzle of the gun rested then on the line of Magnus' jaw, and Berwald's hand gripped Magnus' wrist. So close.
Magnus twisted his head then, met Berwald's gaze, and tried to smile, as his eyes squinted once more.
"If I wait long enough, maybe Timo will just come back like Ludwig did."
An awful burn of Berwald's eyes, a clench of his throat, and Berwald pulled Magnus' hand down at last, and gripped the gun in his own hand. Knew he was crying, and couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand that awful expression on Magnus' face, that crinkled brow and nose, that smile that was more of heartbreak than hope, and Berwald at last disengaged the gun from Magnus' hand and claimed it.
Magnus could sit there and stare at the door and wait all he wanted, but it wouldn't change anything. Could keep all of Timo's clothes right there ready to go, but it wasn't going to turn the tide.
Timo wasn't coming home.
Couldn't see for the tears, and could barely breathe. Thought he had just cried himself dry, but apparently not.
When the gun was safely in Berwald's hands, he opened up the chamber and took the bullets out, tucking them in his pocket and then tossing the pistol aside. They sat there for a moment in silence, and Berwald pushed his glasses up just enough for him to wipe his eyes. When he glanced back over, Magnus was still looking at him.
Magnus stared at him then, really seeing him for the first time in weeks, and swallowed a bit before he was finally able to speak once more.
But oh, what he said to Berwald was the most miserable fuckin' thing that had ever come out of Magnus' mouth, and Berwald wished he had never heard it at all. Magnus, who had always been the most cheerful amongst them, whether it had been false or not. The best of them.
That breaking, mournful tone.
"I wish I'd'a died too, so I wouldn't have to feel this way."
Magnus wished that he would have been killed, too. Not because he would have traded his life for Timo's, although he certainly would have. Not because he wanted to be dead so that he and Timo could be together, although certainly at some level he wanted that, too.
No.
Magnus wished that he had died, so that he wouldn't have to sit here now alone and feel this unending pain.
Agony.
And Berwald understood Magnus perfectly on that level, because, oh god, when Ludwig had left, there had been no words for it. Getting back word that Ludwig was gone, swept away into the sea, that he wasn't coming back—
No words for the way you could stand there for hours, watching the door and yet knowing that no matter how long you stood there, the person you wanted to see wasn't going to come through. No words for that godawful sense of dread that came up like a tidal wave every time that you opened your mouth to speak, and realized that the one you wanted to talk to wasn't there anymore. No words for the despondency of waking up in the morning and reaching out, only to have your hand hit bedding instead of warmth, no words for the ache that came when you realized that that face would never be next to yours again.
No words for the loneliness. The hurt. The way the world stopped and getting it to start again was impossible.
The part of you that always tried to deny and pretend, and was constantly foiled by the reality all around, the faces of others, how no one spoke or looked at each other, and you knew that your pretending was only that.
Magnus suddenly slumped, in every way possible. His shoulders, his face, his eyes, everything seemed to collapse, and then he burst into tears and twisted at the side and pressed his forehead into Berwald's chest. The first time he'd cried since that day. Berwald grabbed him up, and was silent.
What could he say? Nothing ever got rid of that feeling.
But Ludwig had come back. Timo wasn't going to.
Magnus hands lifted up and clenched in his collar, and Berwald could really only bury his face into Magnus' hair and cry some more.
Magnus could barely breathe, crying as hard as he was, but somehow he managed to choke out, brokenly, against sobs and high-pitched whines, "I wasn't gonna tell ya— It's my fault. I wasn't gonna tell any of ya, 'cause you'd hate me, and I couldn't— It's my fault. I didn't wanna say it. You guys already hate me, for comin' back instead of him. I know it shoulda been him. He shoulda been the one to come back. Not me. You guys didn't want me. I know you all would trade me for him, I know, 'cause I would, too."
Berwald opened his mouth, and choked.
It should have been someone else doing this. Why him? Why was it him? He was useless in this matter, was the wrong person for Magnus to be breaking down against.
He didn't know what to say.
"It was my fault," Magnus moaned, voice muffled by Berwald's shirt. "It was my shot— I missed. I fuckin' missed. Like always, I missed when I shouldn't've, and he got hit because of it. It was my fault. I shoulda never gone with him. If Ludwig had gone with him like always, he'd be fine, because Ludwig wouldn't'a missed. I missed. He'd be fine if I hadn't gone. I was always so useless, why did he even wanna bring me, when he knows I ain't good for nothin'—"
Magnus broke off then, and could speak no more.
Berwald was ever silent. Didn't know what to say. Felt so stupid, and would have felt worse somehow if he had tried to say 'it's not your fault', because Magnus would never believe that, and in some awful way it really was Magnus' fault if he had missed a vital shot. But it wasn't as if he had ever meant to, and for that perhaps Berwald should have said something.
Why bother?
When Ludwig had 'died', not a single word any of the others had said had mattered, not one, and so Berwald didn't say anything then because he wouldn't insult Magnus like that. Would have meant well, and would have made Magnus feel worse.
So he just held the bastard the entire while he broke down.
Couldn't have spoken anyway, had he tried, hard as he was crying into Magnus' hair.
Years upon years hating this man, really for no good reason, and Berwald wished then more than anything that he could have just helped him. Wished that there was something he could have said or done that would have relieved some of that pain, but there wasn't, so all Berwald could really do was try to ride out the storm with Magnus and hope to see it through to the other end.
Magnus cried himself senseless, until he just couldn't cry anymore, but even after he stopped he just stubbornly pressed his face there in Berwald's shirt, fingers clenched into the fabric.
One final mumble, muffled and low.
"I'm sorry I let him die."
With that, Magnus pulled back, eyes red and bleary, and he stared at the mountains for a moment before exhaling and falling back onto the wet grass. Berwald watched him for a while, struggling through his own sea of misery, before he followed suit and collapsed backwards.
Nothing to say.
Berwald had always known, in the back of his mind, why Magnus' aim was so terrible, and why it had never improved even a little during all these years; because Magnus had never wanted to kill anyone. Magnus' aim may not have been skewed by his shaking hand so much as his heart, and he always missed because something deep down in him just wouldn't let him aim to kill. Magnus hadn't ever really been one of them, but this time had paid far too high a price for his inability to cause harm. Magnus had missed, and that was all there really was to it. As it so often did, war took advantage of kind men and punished them.
They lied there side by side on the damp ground, wet and cold and dirty, and just stared at the clouds floating away. They didn't say another word to each other, and Magnus seemed to fall back into his trance, bleary eyes following the white puffs above.
Ludwig and Lukas came back, and when Lukas saw them lying there in the wet grass and dirt, he dropped the bags in his hands and ran up the hill, Ludwig right behind him. How scared they must have been, seeing them like that, how many things must have been running through their heads.
Berwald's view of the sky was suddenly blocked by Ludwig, who stared down at him in concern, as Lukas hovered over Magnus.
When it was clear that everyone was alright—well, alive anyway—Lukas knelt down next to Magnus, grabbed his hand, and pulled him up until he was sitting. Magnus stared once more into the mountains, as Lukas looked around tiredly, uncertain of what to do.
In the end, Lukas just plopped down on the ground next to Magnus, as Magnus clung yet to his hand, and Ludwig fell onto his back next to Berwald.
They stayed there, the four of them, muddy and wet and cold and heartbroken, and watched clouds.
Ludwig's hand took his, as Lukas had Magnus'. Magnus suddenly reached out his other hand, and grabbed Berwald's. A surreal sensation, but he gripped Magnus' hand as tightly as he did Ludwig's, and they all sat there in that pitiful chain of misery. Four. Four? That number wasn't right.
Someone was missing.
Berwald wished that he was somewhere else. This place, this time, this reality—hurt too much. The dream had ended.
Not fair. It had been the last time.
Timo had had dreams, too.
Nostalgia.
It let Ludwig down this time. So many years sleeping in foreign lands and dreaming endlessly of this house. Had always known in some way that he had perhaps unfairly elevated this house into ridiculously high expectations, but that was what had gotten him through it all, knowing that he would one day come back to this house he had loved.
Exaltation failed him. The house didn't live up to that old feeling he had once had.
They tried to go back and find their feet. Berwald tried to get back into making woodworks as Lukas and Ludwig went into town and tried to find odd jobs here and there, and Magnus was slowly moving around a little. Still didn't speak, but didn't just sit there and stare ahead all day anymore. Often, Ludwig glanced over to see Magnus at Berwald's side. Unusual, but hopeful.
They bought another car, and Ludwig tried to distract himself by tinkering with it.
April passed quietly and mournfully. They were still in lingering shock, still in their own stages of denial, and while they did their best as they had to, sometimes something would set them off.
Berwald just dissolved into tears one day while sitting on the porch and staring at a pile of firewood. Ludwig caught Lukas with his face buried in his hands sitting on the staircase. Magnus cried, for the first time Ludwig had seen, when they had gone to the little shed by the edge of the woods and saw the old skis there inside.
Ludwig was sweeping the house, and when he swept Timo's room, he reached under the dresser and dragged out a piece of broken ceramic; a bit of the lamp he had shattered years ago to escape this room. Why that had made him burst into tears, he couldn't say.
Stupid little things.
May came, and Magnus ate without them having to force him to. Ludwig knew in a way that it wasn't because Magnus was accepting things and putting them behind him, so much as that Magnus had managed to find some kind of modified reality where Timo had either never existed or was simply on a very extended trip far from home.
Magnus was perfecting his pretending, and if that was what he needed to do then so be it. If that was the only way forward for him, then Ludwig had no problem with that, and honestly they were all really doing the same.
They didn't talk about Timo at all. Never once mentioned his name, never talked about Finland, never talked about the past. It was sad and maybe disrespectful to pretend that Timo simply never was, but it was the only way they were coping with it. To just erase Timo in a sense, because remembering that he had once been with them and no longer was simply wasn't comprehensible yet. Maybe in a few years, when the hurt wasn't as fresh, it wouldn't be so. Maybe someone could say Timo's name aloud and not get that awful silence and those averted looks of misery.
For now, no one spoke about it, and then suddenly, one day, it happened.
The war ended.
It ended in Europe, and the continent rejoiced.
They had dreamt of it for so long. Planned it all out. Had so many long nights just talking about what they would do when it finally happened. They had wanted to go out with a bang. Celebrate the end of the war with a great party and too much alcohol, with other rebels and maybe even some soldiers, outside in the open and finally free to go about as they would. To celebrate becoming normal men again.
But they weren't in Finland anymore; they were in Sweden, and the war ended long after they had been defeated.
It was just a cool, dreary morning, misty and pale, and they sat together at the kitchen table, heads bumping together as Lukas tuned the radio this way and that.
The 8th of May.
Magnus just stared out of the window, and didn't pay attention to the radio. Garbled voices came in and out.
"...on this day...of 1945, we are...announce to you...war in Europe...over."
No one was smiling.
Instead of the glory they had always envisioned, there was just silence. Instead of victory, a silent walk with their tails between their legs.
One chair was empty. Too few at the table.
Lukas stopped fiddling with the radio, letting the static take over, and turned his eyes to the table.
The war was over.
It was somehow incomprehensible, after so many years of fighting and death and terror. The world had been insanity for so long, and it just ended like that, with a voice on the radio. Like signaling the end of an enormous bomb by setting off a tiny firecracker. The thunderous war went out with scarcely a little whimper.
Ludwig stared at the empty chair.
Lukas turned the radio off, nearly glared at it for a while, and then Magnus suddenly turned his head to them all, and looked them over. When he spoke up, in one of those extremely rare moments, his voice was husky and deep. Rough.
Just a simple question.
"What did we accomplish?"
Everyone was silent, because the answer was very obvious :
Not a damn thing.
All along, that was their accomplishment—nothing.
Magnus stood up, and walked out. Berwald was the one staring out of the window then, swallowing and blinking rapidly, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring as he struggled for composure. That awful silence was suffocating, and Lukas suddenly grabbed the radio in his hands and threw it across the room and into the wall as hard as he could.
It broke, and Ludwig stared down at it for a while, and really just saw them there.
Damaged.
Glory. A blaze of glory. That was what men said. Some sought it out, like Gilbert had, that 'blaze of glory'. Going out in grand fashion, becoming a war hero, being memorable, making a difference, feeling worthwhile and as if they had accomplished something. They had all grown up in the shadow of the first great war. Statues everywhere, espousing the glory and bravery and success of men who had died. Easy to look at those statues, at those memorials, to be schooled on events, and to think that truly the greatest thing a man could accomplish was to die dramatically for his country.
A fuckin' lie—the only people that could ever truly get that sense of glory were the dead men and those who had never come into contact with the war.
Timo had his blaze of glory, alright, because he was dead. That meant nothing at all to those left behind. All war had given them was strife, trauma, nightmares, discord, misery, hate. It had nearly torn them apart, and Ludwig realized in that second that glory was just another lie they had all been sold.
There was nothing glorious in this feeling. Nothing glorious about Timo being carried in Lukas' fuckin' backpack in a pouch, nothing glorious in Berwald limping behind everyone else with his eyes downcast, nothing glorious in Magnus clenching the shirt of a man who would never come home, nothing glorious in those godawful nightmares they all had.
Nothing glorious about an empty household.
Every man Ludwig had ever killed—they had left behind people, too, hadn't they. All those Red soldiers; they had just been following orders, all of them, had just been doing their job, and in so many places now in the Soviet Union there was a house full of people who felt just like they did in that moment. Ludwig couldn't stand this feeling, how unfair it was, and hated somehow even more thinking that he had caused this very feeling to so many other people, and for what?
For what? It was pointless. The world seemed pointless.
This wasn't glorious.
The war was over, and none of them had anything to show for it except anguish and destruction. They would have felt as ruined then had the Axis won as they were that the Allies had. Made no difference who the victor was, because they had lost a long time ago and nothing would have ever been able to turn back time and make any of it worthwhile.
They had accomplished nothing.
Lukas stood up, stalked out, and on his way he stopped to kick the broken radio as hard as he could. Berwald and Ludwig were left there alone at the table, Berwald silently crying as he stared out of the window, and Ludwig folded his arms on the table and buried his head.
The war was over, and it meant nothing.
How stupid—had never meant anything at all. They had only ever lied to themselves. Everything they had done for the past five years had been for absolutely nothing. A waste of time and energy. The world didn't notice them, had never known they existed at all.
Still didn't.
They were nobodies who had fooled themselves into thinking they were heroes.
What a great story to tell.
Thumping and banging from above, and Ludwig could only assume that Lukas was taking out his rage on his bedroom, ripping things apart and causing destruction. Some part of Ludwig would have liked to join him, but apathy had set in, and he just sat there at the table and zoned out.
So much they had lost, and nothing they had gained.
Berwald staggered up a while later, and vanished.
The next few days were as dreary as those last days in Estonia. They tried to cope in their own ways, standing there in the face of their own pointlessness. Looking in the mirror and seeing nothing there at all to be proud of.
Lukas and Magnus frequently sat on the hill together and looked out into the mountains, and Berwald spent all of his time walking, because maybe the pain in his leg was better than the pain in his chest. Ludwig wandered about as a phantom, walking through town and observing buildings that someone else would never again lay eyes upon.
In June, something awful happened.
Ludwig and Berwald had just been sitting together on the couch, pressed together and whispering to each other, as they tried to come up from the depths, and Lukas had walked up to them and observed them with a tilted head.
A snort.
Lukas looked Berwald and Ludwig over in turn, slowly and pryingly, and then he smiled, a bit wanly. A low whisper.
"Well. You guys have a great family home here, huh? It really suits you both. Guess I oughta set out and find my own home."
An awful rush of hurt, fear, anxiety.
What? No, no, no, where the hell had that come from? They were supposed to stay together, all of them, that wasn't right. What the hell was Lukas thinking?
Didn't want Lukas to leave.
Lukas stared at Ludwig very pointedly, expectantly perhaps, but Ludwig choked when he meant to say, 'Please don't go.'
Berwald inhaled, opened his mouth, and just like Ludwig he floundered and said nothing. The distress on his face was easy to see.
Lukas lifted a brow, waited a little more, and when there was only more silence he eventually walked away.
Ludwig hung his head, and felt his world crumbling ever more. Had already lost one. Didn't want to lose anyone else. They should have stayed together. Wasn't right, for any of them to leave. Ludwig wanted to beg Lukas to stay, would fall to his knees and literally beg if he had to, wanted him to stay put, because this house was already too empty.
The next morning, Ludwig realized with horror that Lukas was packing, and so was Magnus.
Oh, no—
That day felt so dreary, so misty and frightening. Watching Lukas packing and feeling his veins pulsing with dread. Watching Lukas murmuring to Magnus, as he helped Magnus pack.
Why was he letting them pack? Why wasn't he saying anything? This wasn't right. His best friend and his brother. Why were they leaving?
Magnus still packed up Timo's clothes along with his own.
Berwald was as silent as Ludwig, looking around as if utterly bewildered. Confused. Ludwig caught his eye at times, and they stared at each other as if they were watching the world end, and yet neither of them opened up their mouths.
Lukas packed the bags up into the trunk of one of the cars, and Ludwig stood in front of the door and looked around in a daze. Was this really happening?
When he finally opened his mouth, at long last, all he croaked to Magnus was, "Where are you going?"
Magnus was silent, and seemed as dazed and confused as Ludwig was. Lukas came up, reached out, and clapped a heavy hand on Magnus' shoulder.
"He's goin' wherever I go. We'll be fine together."
Magnus tried to smile. Didn't work.
In desperation, Ludwig asked, "Where are you going?"
Lukas looked rather curious, oddly expectant, and replied, breezily, "I don't know."
What did Lukas want? What was he doing? What did he want Ludwig to say? Maybe he really did want Ludwig to beg, and by god he was ready and willing to do that.
But he kept choking, and suddenly Lukas was hugging him, ruffling his hair and then kissing his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, hugging him again, and then said 'goodbye'.
Goodbye.
The most terrifying word there was. Parting ways. Splitting up. Saying goodbye. He hated it. Brothers, spreading out into the winds. He shouldn't have let it happen.
Lukas went to Berwald, clapped his left hand and then hugged him, as Magnus looked around dumbly.
Lukas went out to the car then, with the vow, "When I find somewhere, I'll call or write. I promise."
No. Didn't want that.
Magnus was left behind then, looking back and forth between Ludwig and Berwald as if he were standing on the edge of some great cliff. Looked so scared, so uncertain, so helpless, and it was the most emotion Magnus had shown since back then.
Eventually, after a deep breath, Magnus took a step forward, and then another, and then he stood before Berwald and extended his hand. Berwald hesitated, looking down at it as if it would hurt him somehow, and he swallowed before finally taking it.
It was a strange, sad sight, to see Berwald and Magnus clasping hands, looking so...
"Well. ...bye."
Sad.
"Bye."
Lost.
They had spent so long hating each other that maybe the thought of being apart was actually pretty terrifying.
They held hands for far longer than the handshake lasted. Just staring at each other, and Magnus looked nearly distraught when he finally let go of Berwald's hand and then turned to Ludwig.
Ludwig sucked in air and clamped his jaw, as tears stung his eyes, because Magnus was his best friend and the thought of him being gone made him nauseous. Was a breath away from vomiting. Magnus took a step toward him, hesitated, and slumped.
He stood there for a long time, and Ludwig couldn't even imagine what was going on in Magnus' head.
What he did, though, surprised Ludwig so much.
An odd silence.
And then Magnus straightened up, whirled around, and ran back, grabbing Berwald in such a firm embrace that he nearly knocked him backwards onto the floor. Magnus' powerful grip kept Berwald from falling.
If Ludwig hadn't felt so much like crying, he might have laughed.
"I hate you, you fuckin' asshole," Magnus uttered, quite thickly, even as he clung to Berwald, and it took a moment for Berwald to gather himself and return the embrace with almost as much fervor.
"I hate you more, you miserable son of a bitch," was Berwald's low, unsteady reply.
The cane clattered to the floor, as Berwald abandoned it to throw his other arm around Magnus instead, and it was one of the sadder things Ludwig had ever seen, Magnus holding Berwald upright and Berwald clinging to Magnus for dear life. Their heads pressed together, and whatever they whispered to each other then was lost on Ludwig. Magnus held Berwald up by the collar with one hand, and reached down with the other to take Berwald's hand in his in a powerful clasp.
They hated each other, and didn't want to be parted.
Berwald and Magnus had far more in common than either of them would have ever admitted.
Magnus carefully leaned over and collected the cane without letting Berwald fall, shoved it in his hand, and they spared one final, intense look between them before Magnus finally turned away.
Magnus advanced on Ludwig then, and their embrace was as furious as the one with Berwald had been, as they each lifted the other temporarily off of the ground in their fervor. Didn't want to let the bastard go, because when he did he was gone for good and that made him feel so sick he could have just passed out.
Magnus pulled back, many long minutes later, and pressed their foreheads together as Ludwig clung to his collar. Whispering and nuzzling, and Magnus had to reach up and actually untangle Ludwig's fingers from his shirt before he was able to take a step back.
Magnus' final words to him :
"You were the best friend I ever had. I'll—I'll miss you."
It took Ludwig a long time to speak, and his voice was thick and shaking when he uttered, "We're going to see each other again. This isn't goodbye. We'll meet again."
Meeting again. They shouldn't have had to meet again, because they shouldn't have been parting ways.
Magnus kissed his forehead, and then walked to the door. Ludwig watched him go, too stunned in a way to even start crying.
Berwald looked so confused.
Magnus lingered in the door. Head bowed and arms loose, he stood there for a minute, as if actually walking through the frame was somehow the last thing he ever wanted to do. He looked over his shoulder at them, for a long while, but in the end he took that step, and walked down to the car.
The sound of the door closing for the last time. The roar of the car as it cranked up.
In this very town, years ago, Magnus had said that since they were together during the war, they should be together after. He had uttered those words, and now he was leaving. Timo was gone. Magnus and Lukas remained. They should be together.
None of this was right, and Ludwig turned to Berwald then, and said, with a quiver, "Well. I guess we have a marital home."
He wasn't smiling, and neither was Berwald when he scoffed and said, in a breaking voice, "Yeah. I guess so."
Ludwig didn't really know how Berwald truly felt about it, and so tested the waters a bit by adding, "It's really big here, for just the two of us, don't you think?"
A glance over, and a nod.
Berwald and Magnus, together in a house.
He wondered...
"You know," Ludwig finally said, as Berwald stood there, looking lost, "They're getting away."
Berwald glanced up again, and Ludwig could see the flash of hope on his face. The wide eyes and quick pulse, as if Berwald had desperately wanted them to stay as well but had thought that Ludwig perhaps wanted a home just for them, as Ludwig had thought Berwald would.
But it would appear that they were thinking the same thing.
Brothers.
"Well!" Berwald said, taking a step forward, "What're ya waitin' for, huh? You can run a hell of a lot faster than me. What's the matter with you? Makin' a man with a cane run. Hurry up!"
Ludwig smiled, for the first time since then, and wasted no time in using his legs for all they were worth to bolt out of the front door and down the drive. Oddly enough, the car wasn't very far down the drive at all. As if, somehow, Lukas had anticipated this.
Lukas, that creep! Maybe this was all a test.
The car stopped where it was, and Lukas poked his head out of the window, brow high and truly smiling, teeth showing and eyes crinkled. Lukas' real smile was an odd, strange sight.
But a beautiful one.
Now that the war was over, now that every moment wasn't one that could be the last, that wall of impassiveness that Lukas had built up seemed to have fallen.
"I was wondering how long it would take you! I went real slow."
His voice seemed different, too. Deeper. That rumble of despair that Ludwig had once heard in Estonia—maybe that really had been Lukas' voice. So much prettier now, though, so much warmer and more appealing.
Time to meet that weirdo all over again, perhaps.
Ludwig griped, crankily, "Then why the hell did you go through all this trouble?"
Lukas snorted, and rumbled, "Because it was the polite thing to do. I had to make sure we weren't imposing on the loving couple."
Bastard.
Ludwig banged his hand on the trunk, and Lukas obeyed, popping it open. Ludwig immediately took all of the bags out, making it obvious to both Lukas and Magnus that they weren't going anywhere at all. Magnus looked a little more alert than he had in a long time, and when he stepped out of the car and helped Ludwig with the bags, Ludwig met his eyes and saw Magnus actually looking back at him.
Berwald watched from the porch, and seemed relieved.
When Magnus passed Berwald, bags in hand, Magnus muttered, "You really thought you were getting rid of me, didn't you, you miserable bastard."
Ludwig laughed.
Laughed—didn't remember what that felt like.
Berwald seemed shocked, mouth open and eyes wide, and then he scoffed, and grumbled, "A man can dream."
Lukas didn't get out of the car, though, and when Ludwig came back out, Lukas cried up to him, "Hey! Come on down! Let's go for a drive! The weather is so nice."
Sounded great, and they all darted back down, Ludwig and Magnus leaping in the back as they waited for Berwald. Berwald came down, fast as he could, and before they knew it, they were all in the car together, like times past, and even though there was one missing, it was still the best damn feeling in the world, to go off together. Berwald sat in the front seat, stretching his long legs, and Ludwig rested his head on Magnus' shoulder as they watched the world go by outside the windows.
The war was over, but maybe that didn't mean life had to be.
Together.
"Where are we going?" Ludwig asked, and Lukas shrugged a careless shoulder.
"Dunno! Let's just drive and see where we wind up. It's a road trip. Let's go on an adventure together. Let's just drive around and see the world a little today. Who knows what trouble we can get ourselves into."
That sounded phenomenal.
Pretending to be normal, if only for a day. Pretending that war hadn't ruined them, that they had a little life left in them yet. That they could still be happy, if they tried.
Driving with absolutely no destination was pretty much the story of Ludwig's life by then.
At least this time, there were people around him that wanted him there, and that he wanted there in turn.
Somewhere down the road, hours later, Berwald twisted in his seat, looked at Magnus, and smiled.
That was a first.
"Hey," came Berwald's deep, rough voice, "What's that one line? The one with the window. Romeo and Juliet."
Magnus sat still for a second, a strange look upon his face, and then he smiled back. Ludwig was sure, then, that the entire world had flipped upside down. Berwald and Magnus smiling at each other. Surreal.
"Mm— 'But soft! What light through yonder window breaks.' That one?"
Berwald sat pensively still, eyes squinted in thought, and then he barked a laugh and turned back around, watching the road ahead.
Finally, Berwald said, "Nah. Sounded a lot better in my head. Damn."
Well—whatever.
Ludwig found himself quite lost on that one, but he smiled anyway, because Magnus was still smiling, and he threw his arm over Ludwig's shoulder. Magnus looked over at Ludwig shortly after, gave him a shake, and said, "Hey, don't forget. We have to go to Denmark and get you your papers, Ludde."
Ludwig beamed, unspeakably thrilled to have Magnus back, if only a little. One thing at a time.
They'd be alright, in the end, as long as they were together. The world had let them down, but they could do what they had always done, and create their own world. Everything that burned and collapsed could be rebuilt, with some determination.
Their old dream had died.
Hurt, to let go of it. It hurt to admit that it couldn't be. It hurt to surrender and realize that it couldn't be changed. It hurt to stand there and have to say aloud that they had failed. Hurt to acknowledge that no matter where they went, no matter what they did, there would always be someone missing.
Always, one too few.
No matter how many times Ludwig saw all of them there in his dreams, when he awoke there would always be a different number, and they couldn't keep living in that rut.
Dreams faded away.
Couldn't change it. Couldn't make that missing link reappear. One missing link broke the chain, but, if you wanted it badly enough, the loose ends could always be put back together, and that was what they had to do now. Time to let the old dream go, and make a new one. Just starting over again. Life went on, whether they all got onboard or not, so they could only follow along.
Ah, hell—Timo would have hated getting old, anyway. Had said so himself. Was probably happy as could be this way, going out in that coveted blaze of glory and for Finland, which he had loved above all else. Better for Timo to have died young. He would have made a miserable old man.
They took comfort in that.
FIN