Chapter 8

Chasing Delusions

Saturday morning, once more at the crack of dawn, Ludwig was awake.

Alfred had hoped he would sleep in, and was disappointed to sit up crankily and see Ludwig in the kitchen. He was dressed already, in something more like athletic wear, and honest to god Alfred groaned in distress when Ludwig said to Alfred, "I'm going for a jog. I'll be back in an hour."

"Like hell," Alfred rasped, dutifully pulling himself up and fretting about what to do.

Ludwig must have known, as he eyed Alfred up and down, that Alfred was not exactly a jogger. Wasn't a cardio man at all, hated it in fact.

Hopefully, Alfred tried, "Sure you don't wanna come with to the gym instead? Hit the weights?"

Ludwig's droll look, and he began, "No. I have a—"

"Routine," Alfred finished, blandly. "I know. I know. Alright, just—! Just give me a minute, man, alright?"

Ludwig glanced at his watch, much less gaudy and expensive than Gilbert's, and Alfred was appalled to see Ludwig literally set a one minute timer.

Shit.

He had forgotten that Ludwig was very, very literal.

Alfred scrambled, grabbed his gym clothes, and had barely come back downstairs before Ludwig was opening the door. Cold air and pink light. The smell of the city, muted under the frost. It was pretty out, sure, but Alfred bitched away endlessly in his head as Ludwig began his jog, struggling to find pace and balance and hardly keeping up.

Couldn't lose the bastard, just couldn't, and Alfred huffed along behind him, miserable and red-faced, the cold air stinging his throat as he panted.

Ludwig was trying to kill him.

How Alfred survived that jog he could never say; had been entirely fueled by the adrenaline brought up by the thought of Gilbert throwing him through the office window should anything have happened to Ludwig just because bulky, fatass Alfred couldn't keep up with blondie during a morning run.

What a way to go.

There was no way in hell that even bulkier, fatass Ivan had done this, either, because it took a muscle-head to understand another one, after all, and so it must have been strange for Ludwig to have company.

He glanced back very frequently, to make sure Alfred was still there.

That was nice, in spite of it all.

Alfred was positively wheezing by the time they made it back to Ludwig's house, and he doubled over the second they were inside, gasping for air so hard that his chest rattled, and Ludwig made coffee as Alfred collapsed on the couch and tried not to die.

A while later, at the table, Alfred wiped his sweaty bangs out of his eyes, sore and tired and grumpy, and he thought that, for a moment, Ludwig had actually almost smiled.

Maybe he was seeing things.

When Ludwig stood up to make breakfast, Alfred watched him as protectively as ever, and didn't miss that Ludwig glanced back at him from time to time. Ludwig wasn't really ignoring him anymore, and seemed to be steadily accepting Alfred as his sudden and unexpected housemate.

Alfred tried to engage him, tried to connect with him a little, because he still didn't know much about Ludwig himself.

Grasping at conversational straws, Alfred abruptly asked, "Why don't you play something on the piano later?"

Ludwig turned the stove off, looked back at Alfred, and then said, calmly, "I don't play. That's Ivan's. He's the musical one, not me. I can't play any instruments."

Alfred lowered his eyes, pursed his lips, feeling stupid, and just grunted, "Hm!"

Once more, Alfred had unintentionally put his foot in his mouth.

This time, though, when Ludwig set the table and sat down, Alfred glanced up and could see that his face hadn't become blank. He hadn't withdrawn, hadn't put on that mask, and that was surely a good sign that Ludwig was coming around.

Maybe.

Before Alfred could try to instigate more conversation, Ludwig added, almost proudly, "Ivan also plays the guitar. There's one in the closet, in the bedroom. Do you play?"

A nearly hopeful question.

Alfred hated being a disappointment, but had to shake his head all the same.

It was Ludwig that time that uttered, "Hm."

They fell into yet another silence, as Alfred observed Ludwig as always, and it wasn't lost on Alfred that look on Ludwig's face as he had spoken so briefly about Ivan. That light in his eyes, the quick glimpse of pride. Had looked more like a father bragging about his son, for just a moment. Ludwig loved Ivan, and that was very obvious in many ways, but this was the first instance in which Alfred had directly seen it displayed there on Ludwig's face.

As if nothing had ever happened.

Toris had said that Ludwig couldn't see Ivan for what he was, and Alfred could sense that, too.

That Saturday was spent attempting to be around each other for an extended period of time in a house, getting a feel for each other, and when Ludwig pulled out some papers and began doing what was clearly work, Alfred tried to distract himself.

He went into the kitchen, and tried to fix that crooked cabinet door, because seeing it was going to drive him crazy.

Would have to paint over those claw marks when Ludwig was at work.

If Ludwig knew what Alfred was doing in the kitchen, then he didn't say anything, sitting there on the couch sideways, one long leg pulled up to use it as a surface for his pencil.

Hours later, when the sun was lowering and Ludwig finished up, Alfred figured he may as well get it over with.

Time to address it, once and for all.

Alfred finally made good on his intent to continue interrogating Ludwig about his husband. It had been because Alfred didn't want to be punched again or cause Ludwig undue duress that he had given him a few days reprieve to begin with, and he didn't see the point in putting it off anymore.

Time to get more information.

For him to do this job efficiently, he needed to be able to think like Ivan, and right now he just couldn't. He was used to being in the minds of criminals. Could understand them, sure, could understand money, drugs, territory, power. All of that made sense to him, because he was used to it. It was easy to protect a terrible person from another terrible person, because Alfred was able to think like the men he was fending off.

But he couldn't think like the bad guy this time, because Ivan at the moment was more like a phantom, and beyond that, Alfred just couldn't really look at Ludwig and see why anyone would want to hurt him.

Couldn't think like Ivan, and Alfred felt vulnerable for it.

He was too familiar with Ludwig's position to be able to find foothold in Ivan's, and that wasn't going to be good enough in the long run.

Pressure was intense. The need to protect Ludwig was very potent, helped greatly along by this sense of mystery and confusion. Being in the dark made Alfred feel uneasy, and the only light visible was Ludwig. Naturally, Alfred drifted to him.

Although Ludwig had paler eyes, paler skin, paler hair, it was still easy to glance at Ludwig and see a little bit of someone else.

Wouldn't screw up again.

So, when Ludwig served dinner, after an entire day of gathering his nerves, Alfred honed in, focused, and said, pointedly, "So, Ludwig, let's talk a little."

Ludwig, probably knowing what Alfred wanted, shifted his weight and braced his shoulders, replying, softly, "Very well."

No point in dragging it out.

Before Alfred could actually speak, however, Ludwig went to the cabinet, leaned over, and pulled out a bottle of wine. Alfred waited and watched as Ludwig uncorked it and sat back down, glass in hand and already pouring. This time, Ludwig didn't even offer any to Alfred, and it was very clear his intention to drink the entire thing by himself again. Alfred didn't argue, because maybe a tipsy Ludwig would be easier to pry information out of.

Ludwig filled the glass to the brim, half the damn bottle, and Alfred was quite impressed when Ludwig took a deep breath and started chugging. Actually chugging, and when Ludwig put the glass down again it was empty.

Alright, then.

The rest of the bottle was poured into the glass, and Alfred cleared his throat and began, "Where does Ivan live now? Do you have an address?"

Ludwig shook his head, and muttered, "I don't know."

Not helpful at all, and Alfred wasn't sure if it was because Ludwig really didn't know or if he was just protecting Ivan once more.

Crazy bastard.

Alfred ate quietly and quickly, trying to keep up some semblance of normalcy despite this crazy conversation.

Damn, though, could Ludwig ever cook.

Prodding him along as usual, Alfred tried, "If you had to take a wild guess, where would he be?"

The steady crinkling of Ludwig's brow. The pursing of his lips.

Knew he was upsetting Ludwig, but there was no other way around it.

After a stiff silence, Ludwig grumbled, "I suppose... Perhaps on Coney Island. He has a cousin there. I don't know where else he would be. It was always just us."

Ludwig looked so disheartened, suddenly, and that was when Alfred knew that Ludwig wasn't lying; he really didn't know where Ivan was, where he was staying, and for it was distraught.

Had Ludwig known where Ivan was, no doubt Ludwig would be there this very second, running into Ivan's arms.

Alfred quickly pushed that thought from his head.

As Ludwig tackled more wine, face already flushed red, Alfred continued, "Tell me a little more about Ivan. So I know what I'm dealing with here. What does he do for work?"

Ludwig's lower voice, barely a rumble, distant thunder.

"He's an astronautical engineer. He works for a Russian-owned company. One of our partners."

Alfred, feeling a little dumb, risked being thought less of himself by asking, softly, "What's the difference between an aeronautical engineer and an astronautical one?"

Ludwig ran his already bleary eyes over Alfred's face, but didn't mock him or give him that patented sneer. Rather, Ludwig just replied, patiently, "An aeronautical engineer designs craft meant to travel within the Earth's atmosphere. An astronautical engineer designs craft meant to go to space."

"Oh."

Two brilliant, ambitious men, who seemed miles above Alfred's head, as high up as the machines they designed.

Alfred pushed down his own insecurities and asked, "Where is this company? What building does he work in?"

Another falling of Ludwig's face.

"It doesn't matter," Ludwig murmured, eyes on his wine glass. "He lost his job about eight months ago. He just... He was so out of sorts. Falling apart. They let him go."

Good. Deserved it, the bastard, and then some.

"Where's he work now?"

Ludwig replied, "I don't know. I can't imagine that he's successfully holding a job now, the way he's become. He can't seem to think straight. He must be living off of his savings."

Ludwig looked so sad, so sad, and that was the worst part. As if Ludwig was worried about Ivan's well-being, as if he was upset, thinking of his abusive husband being out of a job and living in a bad part of town. As if Ludwig was fretting endlessly about Ivan's situation.

Didn't make sense.

Alfred shook his head to himself, exhaled, and tried to keep his temper in check, because he was getting a little agitated. Needed to stay very calm, very cool, very laidback, because even though Ludwig was quite a stoic man, quite in control, in the back of his mind Alfred was always afraid of being a little rowdy and startling him. Scaring Ludwig, in any way, would have made him feel like a piece of garbage, that was for sure.

Toris said Ludwig didn't need a hero; Alfred disagreed.

Probably only because he was so desperate to be a hero that he was willing to do the mental gymnastics needed to make Ludwig appear weaker than he actually was.

And now, then, with Ivan's job and whereabouts established, or rather lack thereof, it was time for the not-so-fun part.

Getting a feel for this elusive man.

Ludwig finished off the rest of the wine, in what surely must have been a record time for demolishing an entire bottle, and Alfred took a breath.

Here we go.

"Tell me about Ivan. What's he like? What kind of a man is he? Other than— Well. You know."

Other than a wife-beater, he had nearly said.

Ludwig must have known, but mercifully let it slide without any punches that time. That glare burned, though.

The way Ludwig shielded Ivan even when he wasn't there was rather terrifying in some way to Alfred.

But then, suddenly, something remarkable happened :

Ludwig's face softened, his brow lifted, his lips twitched upward, and suddenly Ludwig was smiling, prettily, in a manner that was reminiscent of the smile in that photograph. The first time he had seen Ludwig smile in person, the first time he had seen any real, true emotion there upon his face. Looked so wistful then, looked happy, and it was very easy to see that thinking of Ivan made Ludwig feel content. Was so easy to see that Ludwig, despite it all, was still in love with his husband.

It wasn't right.

One thing stood out in that moment to Alfred, above all else; when Ludwig smiled, he was beautiful. Absolutely lit up, and it was so easy to see there how good a person Ludwig was, beneath that icy exterior. The complete opposite of the men that surrounded him. Kind and caring, in his own stern way.

Beneath the ice, the crystal waters were lovely.

Ludwig looked up, met Alfred's gaze, his eyes crinkled with that attractive smile, and he said, in a beautiful, soft voice, "Ivan is wonderful. He truly is. He's one of the best men I've ever met. Everything about him. He's responsible. Caring. He's very protective—"

Alfred scoffed at that, despite himself, but Ludwig, caught up in those memories, either didn't notice or didn't care.

Ludwig's voice then was as pretty as his smile, warm and bright and lit up as much as the air around him.

How Ludwig loved Ivan.

Written there upon his face.

It was clear to Alfred that Ludwig was speaking then about the Ivan he had married, not the Ivan that Alfred was guarding him from, and so Alfred just bit his tongue and listened, because seeing that look on Ludwig's face was actually fascinating.

"He's brilliant. Brilliant. He's the smartest man I've ever met. So far above me, you don't know. Absolutely brilliant. He can calculate anything up in his head, just like that, impossible equations and sums. As if it's nothing. He's so well-spoken. He's charming, polite, well-mannered. A perfect gentleman, if you will. He's extremely professional. He has a fantastic sense of time management. I would panic and stress about one extra minute here and there, and he would always find a way to perfectly rearrange my schedule so that everything worked out as it should, to the last second. I couldn't have survived these years in that company without him, I couldn't have. Ivan has saved me in every possible way. He has a very high sense of duty. He would do anything for anyone he cares about. The perfect sort of family man. He's not afraid of anything. Absolutely and utterly fearless. I've never met anyone so brave. He's fast, powerful. He's cunning, quick on his toes. He thinks so quickly, sees things so quickly, clearly."

Ludwig couldn't seem to stop now that he had started, and Alfred wanted to bark, 'Alright, enough already, shut the hell up', but stayed silent.

Ludwig probably hadn't been able to just sit and speak to anyone in his entire life.

Gilbert was always judging Ludwig.

"He's brilliant on the piano. I always liked to watch him play. He has such big hands, rough from machinery, and it always seemed so funny to me, seeing him play. How quick his hands can move. The farthest thing from a pianist's hands and yet he was remarkable all the same. I could watch him a million times and never get sick of it. His mother wanted him to be a cosmonaut, and I have no doubt he could have done that, too. He loved her so much. As much as everything else, he was the perfect son. He called her every morning before work, just to see how she was. He— He's..."

Ludwig trailed off for just a second, seemed to stumble, falter, stammer, and Alfred leaned forward subconsciously across the table when Ludwig's face abruptly and randomly collapsed.

Looked ready to suddenly burst into tears.

Ludwig bowed his head, sucked in air as he gathered himself, and Alfred watched him, ready to leap up and come over to place a hand on Ludwig's back if the breakdown occurred.

It didn't; Ludwig pulled it back together, right there on the brink, found his bravery, and steadied himself.

A long silence, and then Ludwig murmured, in a rougher voice, "I miss him. I miss seeing his face. His eyes. He— I can't— I still expect to wake up with him there beside of me. I haven't adjusted. I can't accept it. I know why you're here, I do, and I know why Gilbert is doing this, but god— I miss his hands."

Alfred bit down the urge to snip, cruelly, 'Even when they're hitting you?'

...sad.

Alfred glanced down at Ludwig's hand, remembered that Ivan still wore his own ring, and didn't know why he asked, "Where's your ring, then? If you still love him."

Didn't know why he felt agitated, annoyed. Angry. Ludwig being in love with Ivan still was extremely disconcerting to him, beyond the obvious. Couldn't ever fully explain it.

Ludwig stared at Alfred, stared and stared, and suddenly he reached down beneath the collar of his sweater and pulled out a chain that had been hidden from sight. Alfred was quite floored to see the ring dangling there from it, and it was obviously the missing counterpart to Ivan's.

Had been there all along. Alfred merely hadn't known.

Ludwig rolled the ring absently between his fingers, carefully and lovingly, and said, "I have to wear it like this. Gilbert, you know. He saw me wearing it when I left the hospital and blew a gasket. He slapped me. Told me to take it off, and that he never wanted to see it again." Ludwig's look darkened. "I have to do what he says, naturally. So. I wear it like this, so Gilbert won't see. God forbid he let me make my own decisions."

Alfred lowered his eyes to the table, removed his glasses, and played around with them a little because he felt awkward and uneasy and needed something to do.

Another long silence, as Ludwig stared quite longingly down at that ring, and Alfred attempted to think of something comforting to say. But nothing came to mind, nothing at all, and Ludwig seemed so far out of reach yet to him, mentally. Ludwig thought so differently, felt so differently, saw the world and the people in it so differently, and Alfred was having trouble understanding.

Felt as if Ludwig stood atop a cliff while Alfred was caught in sea mist down below.

When Alfred looked back up, a while later, Ludwig's face was quite blank. Distant. Had buried his emotions again, the frost had come back, and Alfred found his voice again.

"So. Then. I gotta tell ya, I'm— None of this makes sense to me. I mean, how does someone like you end up in this situation? You're so smart. How did all this happen? Why did you just...give up? All these people around you all the time. Someone could have helped."

It was impossible for Alfred to understand, because he didn't think like Ludwig did. Couldn't comprehend Ludwig's motivations, his hesitations, why Ludwig had stayed silent. Why Ludwig had had the chance to end all of this and press charges, and had chosen instead to turn his head.

Did reputations really mean that much to him?

Ludwig seemed so tired then, so worn down, so weary, and just stared at Alfred in a sadly subdued manner.

His voice was low. Barely a rumble. As tired as his face.

"It's not so easy to explain. I don't know how to... No one would ever listen to me, when I tried to talk about it. Gilbert just won't let me say anything. He won't listen. He stopped any conversation short. Said he didn't want to know anything at all about Ivan. He hates him so much, you see, so I— And Toris, it's different with him. I can tell him anything, I know that, because he does listen, well sometimes, but looking at him, all I see is that I'll disappoint him. Letting Toris down is somehow worse than letting Gilbert down. They only hear what they want to hear, and they didn't listen to me."

A surge of anger.

Knew it all along, those miserable bastards, Toris and Gilbert, too selfish and cold to care about what was happening right in front of them—

But, once again, Ludwig and Alfred had had a misunderstanding.

Alfred thought that Ludwig meant that no one had listened when he had tried to get help, but no; Ludwig had meant something else entirely.

Ludwig met Alfred's eyes, those pale irises lit up in the light above, and Ludwig added, "They just didn't want to hear anything that might have cast Ivan in a better light. They've already made their judgments about him, and don't want to hear my side. I tried to explain to them that it's not really Ivan's fault, but they won't hear me out."

Alfred nearly groaned, and set his glasses aside to bury his face in his palms and run them over his eyes.

God almighty, Ludwig!

Took everything in Alfred then not to sigh.

Yet again, for the hundredth time that week, Alfred's anger collapsed in on itself like a neutron star and left him utterly exhausted. This kid was gonna be the death of him, he knew it.

Not Ivan's fault. Sure. Tale as old as time, wasn't it, the old 'not their fault'.

At Alfred's posture, Ludwig fell silent, no doubt trying to gage Alfred's mood again.

As Alfred tried to just sink into the ground and out of existence, Ludwig finally spoke again, to whisper, "Will you just...listen to me? It's not his fault, really, and if someone would just listen—"

"No," Alfred said, sternly and tiredly, and ran his palms down his face.

Didn't wanna hear it. Didn't.

Ludwig was the one to lean across the table then, and his voice was ever lower, deeper, as he asked, more urgently, "Just, please, just hear me out, no one has ever just listened, please—"

"No," Alfred repeated, more sternly, hands now on the table and eyes closed.

Couldn't stand it.

Wouldn't listen, couldn't, because it was too close to him. Ludwig didn't know, didn't understand, but Alfred just couldn't.

"Alfred—"

"No!" Alfred said, powerfully, meaning to end it once and for all, and he made a motion to stand.

In a moment of desperation, perhaps, Ludwig reached across the table, grabbed Alfred's hand in his own, and beseeched, deeply, "Please."

He fell still at the touch.

Alfred stared at Ludwig's hand for a very long time, and, dumbly, was surprised by how warm it was. Ludwig was ice, so somehow Alfred expected him to be cooler to the touch.

Like Toris had been unable to say 'no' to Ludwig about attending his wedding, Alfred couldn't take anymore of that look, hated the sight of it, and caved in. Gave up and relented.

Hell. This entire situation was pitiful, it just was, and so Alfred exhaled heavily, shrugged a tired shoulder, and conceded, wearily, "Alright. Alright."

Ludwig seemed deeply relieved, and it took him a moment before he withdrew his hand.

Alfred was a little disappointed.

Had to push through this, as he pushed through everything else, and try to understand Ludwig just a little bit.

After a gathering of words and thoughts, Ludwig met Alfred's eyes, and started speaking.