Chapter 34

Another Warm Body

Slow going.

Dragging a tank like Ivan was hardly an easy task, but Ludwig did his best.

He was kinda lost, though, and maybe Ludwig was going in circles as the sleet ever fell.

As they stumbled down a street that Ludwig was suddenly sure he had already walked once, he stopped and furrowed his brow as he glanced about, and a passing couple sent them a long look. The man looked over at them, his girl on his arm, and muttered something under his breath, and when Ivan raised up bleary eyes and turned his head to spit something back, Ludwig could feel his brow furrowing ever lower. And not because he was lost.

The irritation surged back up. He didn't know what had been said, but he knew that tone of voice.

Maybe that tsunami hadn't crashed all the way, because a second wave was starting to build.

He stopped where he was, stood the drunken Ivan carefully up against the wall of the nearest building, and turned around. The couple had already carried on. Not fast enough.

An insult to Ivan was an insult to the entire world he lived in. God—didn't anyone understand that this world was all he had? Ivan was everything. Everything. He'd given all he had to Ivan. Ivan meant everything. Hearing someone back-talk Ivan was like having shards of glass grinding together in his chest. He couldn't get rid of the anger, no matter how hard he tried. Something was wrong with him, he was sure of it then. Fuckin' whispering in his head wouldn't go away.

Agitation.

He stalked up behind them, his footsteps hidden by the sound of the sleet, clenched his fist, and cuffed the man on the back of his head as he walked.

A sucker-punch, maybe. He'd sucker-punched before, several times, because that was what that man had taught him to do. There weren't any rules of etiquette out here that he had to abide by, anyway, and according to Ivan there weren't any rules at all, so the son of a bitch should have counted his blessings that a low blow to the back of the head was all that he received.

Could have been a bullet.

He'd already pulled the trigger once.

The man whirled around, shouting angrily in Russian, and Ludwig wasted no time in shoving him backwards. He fell, slipping on the sleet, and Ludwig would have hit him again, maybe, if the woman hadn't started screaming at him. He shoved her, too, but she didn't fall, and it was her irritating screeching in his ears that finally got him to back off. Couldn't leave Ivan alone for too long. He might fall over.

The man pulled himself up quickly and was dragged back by his girlfriend. Wisely, he went with her, thinking better of getting into a fight with two soldiers, drunk or not. It took a bit of restraint to keep himself from going after them, as they cursed at him over their shoulders, and he only stomped his foot and cursed back at them.

The altercation was quick, yet it seemed significant in his mind. That man hadn't done anything to Ludwig, but Ludwig had hit him anyway. Never in his life had he raised his fist with no reason. No matter how much he tried to pinpoint it, he couldn't figure out why he was so mad. He couldn't grasp it. He had never been like this. At least, not that he could remember. Maybe he was so angry because he had to actually sit there and think to remember who he was.

Who was he?

Nothing he had done tonight had felt like something he would do. No thought that had crossed his mind had been familiar to him. This anger was unfamiliar.

He couldn't remember.

Who are you?

When the couple had been run off, Ludwig stomped back over to Ivan, heaved a rather huffy breath, and hauled him back upright. His head was killing him. He tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. Ivan was leering at him, though, and made it hard to do so.

"Did you understand what he said?" Ivan asked, the vodka heavy on his breath.

Well...

"No."

"Then why'd you hit him?"

Ludwig lifted up his chin, pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and snapped, irritably, "I didn't like the tone."

Oh, god, who was he? He couldn't think. His name. What was his fuckin' name? Who was he?

He wanted to cry all of a sudden.

Ivan smiled, sloppily, and muttered then, "You're startin' to sound like me."

Light.

The irritability vanished, as randomly as it had come.

Being compared, in any way, any insignificant way, to Ivan was like finding foothold on the first cloud that led up to heaven. If he couldn't remember who he was, then he could at least cling to Ivan, and try to impose Ivan's identity onto himself. At least until he remembered.

Ivan laughed, suddenly, a rather high-pitched cackle, and when he spoke, his voice was breathless.

"All he said was, 'Soldiers should know better than to get so drunk.'"

Oh. Well.

All the same, Ludwig gave a 'hmph', and said, "I don't care what he said. Like I said, I didn't like the tone."

Ivan stopped moving for a second, turned his head until their noses bumped, and his smile was strong when he whispered, suddenly, "I love you."

Words like that meant everything. Ivan was the only man whose life he valued anymore.

He returned the smile, feeling so bleary all of a sudden, and replied, "I know."

Because he did know. Ivan loved him. He had no doubt of that. When he was angry, when he couldn't remember, when he couldn't think, then all Ivan had to do was look at him, speak to him, and Ludwig realized that nothing mattered. Ivan loved him, no matter who he was.

Unconditional.

If he were more like Ivan, then he wouldn't have any more doubts about who he was, either.

That was why that wallet was so important, too. Every time he opened it, he could see himself there and remember. The name might have been a little different than what he had once had, at least half of it, but the photo was still of himself. If it was his photo, then it was his name.

A while later, he finally caught sight of the hotel amongst the shoddy buildings, and started the trek towards it. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, by the time he reached the door, and he set Ivan down in the elevator as it went up just to catch a quick breather. Ivan, legs splayed on the floor, leaned up against the wall and grabbed the railing above his head, smiling the whole while at who knew what.

Soft, drunken laughing.

Ludwig looked down at him, at red-faced Ivan grinning away and looking so happy, and knew that he would have done anything for that man. Anything.

The elevator jolted and stopped, and it took nearly more strength than he had left to pick the big guy up again and get him down the hall. Ivan kept burrowing his face in Ludwig's hair, whispering in his ear with crooning words in Russian, and the door couldn't come soon enough.

He was tired.

Tired, yeah. He was tired as hell. But not out for the count.

The second that the hotel door shut, he found that he couldn't help himself; he whirled around, pushed the tipsy Ivan against the wall, and kissed him for the second time that night. All that excitement had riled him up. Hurting someone. From the way that Ivan was steady enough to suddenly grab his waist and flip them around so that it was Ludwig against the wall, he couldn't help but wonder if he had been had again. If Ivan had stumbled around on purpose. Teeth sank into his neck, and suddenly it really didn't matter anymore.

He felt himself pulling his gloves off.

Ivan's hands clenched the fabric of the coat as he tried tugging it off, and Ludwig wasn't sure why he threw his arms around Ivan's neck, and whispered urgently, "Tell me my name."

He couldn't bear another minute of being so unsure of who he was or why he was or what his goddamn name was.

Ivan won his battle with the coat and tossed it aside, and pressed his lips against the side of his head as he said, gently, "Ludwig."

Lyudovik.

The mists cleared, he remembered, and all was right again. He loved the way Ivan said his name. His name.

Ivan's gloves joined his own. Hats fell afterward. When Ivan pulled back and attempted to reach down and unbutton Ludwig's shirt, he succeeded only in stumbling onto his backside on the floor. Guess he hadn't been fakin' after all. Bolstered by the sound of his name and far too warm to just let Ivan go to sleep on the floor, Ludwig reached down, pulled off his boots and then Ivan's, then grabbed Ivan by the collar, and tried to drag him back up. He at least wanted to make it to the damn bed.

Ivan's fingers were warm and calloused as they gripped his wrists.

Somehow, someway, he managed to drag Ivan over and up to the bed. He got his wish, alright—like before, it might have been precipitous, for when Ivan staggered over far enough and shoved him forcefully back onto the mattress, he made no effort to crawl away, as he once had, and yet he found himself unable to move.

Uncertainty. Flashes of voices.

Ivan flopped down onto the foot of the bed and dragged himself up. Whispering. His shirt was ripped open and yanked off in a blink. A shiver down his back. Rough hands fumbling in his belt. Shadows, creeping in the corners. No rules. Ivan's broad chest pressed his own down.

His name was Ludwig.

Ludwig.

The scent of Ivan's damp hair, the mingling of cologne and the smell of the uniform, sweat and vodka.

He was who Ivan told him he was.

"I'm proud of you," came the slur in his ear, and the frightful immobility vanished.

Love. Ivan was proud of him.

He found his hands at last, reached up to grip them in Ivan's hair, and engaged. He had wanted to drag Ivan into a corner in the bar; this was hardly any different. Ivan hadn't pulled out his gun yet and pressed it into his forehead, and even if he had, Ludwig was so certain that Ivan wouldn't hurt him that it might not have scared him anyway.

Ivan wouldn't hurt him.

The shadows crept closer. Ivan's arms braced as he held himself up, muscle firm and taut when Ludwig grabbed his shoulders. The hair on Ivan's chest poked out from the collar of his wet shirt, half-way unbuttoned, and Ludwig couldn't really remember when his hands had helped Ivan out of it altogether.

Ice, clinking against the glass of the window.

The world might have gone on like normal outside, but something earth-shattering was happening in his head. The wire in his mind was being tripped again, pulled by something he couldn't see, and when it finally clicked, when the line was crossed, it was like someone had punched him in the chest.

A great inhale, a lurch of his pulse, and it was he who took Ivan's belt within his fists and pulled him down farther. It was he who unclasped the belt and fumbled with the button and pulled down the zipper, and it was he who got the pants down to Ivan's knees. It was he who dug his fingers into the band of Ivan's boxers and yanked them down.

A very foreign sensation, the friction between them, as Ivan pressed against him.

Ludwig couldn't have ever put it into words, but he was fairly certain then, as Ivan grabbed his thighs and lifted them up, that the wire had been more than tripped. It had been cut clean in two. Gone. Maybe the shadows in the corner had dragged him in, because he felt different. He would have said that he didn't feel like himself anymore, but hell—he didn't even know who the fuck he was. He wouldn't know anymore if he was different. He'd probably be different tomorrow, too.

And the day after.

Whoever had brought the wire-cutter had cut the blue one instead of the red one, because his sanity felt very much like it had been snapped back like a rubberband. That thought made him laugh a little, and if Ivan thought it strange then he certainly didn't say anything, and was quite happy to kick his pants off of his ankle and be rid of them.

Heat.

Ivan's arms held up his weight as he tried to keep his balance, his intoxication keeping him uncertain as to whether he wanted to pull Ludwig up or let himself fall down. Ludwig couldn't really tell him what to do, because he didn't know what to do, and he had faith that Ivan would eventually get his clumsy hands working and figure it out.

He did. Like always.

Somehow, he got Ludwig's legs up high enough without tottering backwards altogether, and he muttered away under his breath in Russian as he raised a hand to his mouth and spit within it. The hand was quick to fly back down, Ivan pushed all of his weight forward suddenly, and Ludwig could feel Ivan's legs paddling around like a damn cat as he tried to get in position.

Pressure.

Ivan pushed forward, rather briskly, and Ludwig clenched Ivan's shoulders and buried his face, squinting his eyes and strangling his cry at the last second. Come to think, maybe not a cry. Might have been a laugh.

He felt kind of crazy.

Stillness, as Ivan hung his head down and seemed to be either gathering himself or giving Ludwig a second to adjust, and, God, when he finally started moving, it was like a knife in his back. Perhaps in a literal sense.

It hurt more than he had thought it would. Nothing unbearable, and nothing he was gonna lie there and cry about. He wondered if Ivan's intoxication was a factor, or maybe Ivan was trying to be gentle with him. He had seen Toris' busted arm; if Ivan had even half a mind to, he could have really hurt him. Ivan could have beat him within an inch of his life and left the bed so covered in blood that the maid would think there had been a murder. Ivan could have twisted his arm and snapped it as easily as he had Toris'.

He didn't.

Ivan's exceedingly dangerous hands lied quite placid, one on the bed and one gripping a leg to keep steady, and if Ivan was hurting him now then it was not intentional, and it was not beyond his threshold. Anyway, nothing Ivan could do to him now could ever hurt worse than being in that room had. Nothing hurt more than stopping still suddenly and realizing he couldn't remember who he was.

He clenched his teeth, bit down, and dealt with it.

All he could do was try to keep breathing under Ivan's weight and attempt to find some good balance between the pain and the creeping sense of pleasure—not necessarily from Ivan's hands or the friction from Ivan's stomach so much as from the fact that he was making Ivan happy. That was the most important thing.

He couldn't really say what possessed him to reach up and yank Ivan's hair then, as Ivan moved slowly, except for the possibility that maybe he had wanted Ivan to be a little rougher and the best way to do it was by being rough himself.

It worked.

He knew Ivan, well enough to know that this gentle, easy-going pace was for Ludwig's benefit only. And that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Ivan to do as he pleased, and the tug to Ivan's hair was a silent way of saying, 'You're not going to fuckin' break me or anything, so do what you want.'

As much as the man in the alley didn't need to be told twice, neither did Ivan.

The grip on his leg tightened. Ivan's shallow breathing grew heavier.

Just like that, a leg was yanked up onto Ivan's shoulder, fingers clenched, Ivan pulled back, dug his feet into the mattress, and slammed back in.

Ludwig did cry out that time, and there was no mistaking it for a laugh because it wasn't. Actually, it had been damn close to a scream, and he clamped his jaw shut because if he did it again then Ivan would go back to that slow pace that was surely boring to him, and it might have been in that moment that Ludwig came to the realization that he would bear any amount of pain just to please Ivan.

That he would have thrown himself into the dark closet, if Ivan had asked him, and sat there obediently still until Ivan felt like opening the door. Anything to make Ivan happy. Anything.

It wasn't just for Ivan's benefit, though, if Ludwig were honest—beneath it all, he was still high on that power-trip of being in control of others. It may not have been that Ludwig was actually attracted to Ivan in a normal sense, but he was damn attracted to the notion of Ivan. Power. Owning the world. When he was with Ivan, he felt that way, too.

Ivan's fingers were leaving bruises, as hard as they dug into his thighs, and he knew that his fingernails were scraping the skin of Ivan's shoulders. Heavy, breathless grunting in his ear.

He stopped thinking.

Ivan's hand raised up every so often, gripped his throat, gently, and then wound up in his hair.

He zoned into space.

Rustling.

At some point, when the pain had started dulling, when the angle changed and when Ivan stopped pulling out all the way and just pushed against him in shallow movements, when the sleet outside had stopped, Ludwig heard whispering. He raised his eyes, expecting to see the shifting of shadows and darkness, expecting to see things roaming about in the faint blue light of the city, and saw nothing.

A second of confusion.

He looked the other way, towards the window, and still saw nothing.

It took him a while to realize that it was him, whispering in Ivan's ear. He couldn't remember what he had said, he couldn't say how long he had been doing it, and he couldn't really say that he had recognized his own voice at first. All he knew was that Ivan's hazy eyes locked onto his own, Ivan smiled crookedly against his panting, and leaned down far enough to kiss him.

What had he said?

Didn't matter. No time to think about it. Ivan's rough hand grabbed him, the pace picked up, Ivan had him so high up that he might have folded neatly in two, and breathing had gone from hard to impossible when Ivan's other hand snatched his neck.

No air. Blood flow decreased. The dim room went black. Dots across his vision.

Behind the daze, behind the lack of sight, caught on that brink of unconsciousness, the whispering in his head seemed to get louder. Lurid. Strange thoughts. Darkness, and not just within the room; up in his head, too.

He dug his nails into Ivan's back, hard as he could, and yanked them up because he knew that it would hurt. It was Ivan who grit his teeth, then, to keep a sharp gasp from escaping. His toes contracted as the pit of his stomach caught fire, and he could hear that Ivan wasn't breathing either, caught in some ecstatic state, head low and feet braced and eyes squinted.

Erratic, furious thrusting.

The fire turned white, and so did his vision for a second, and he clenched Ivan so tightly then that he knew he had drawn blood, bucking up as best he could against Ivan's weight and leg jerking.

Warmth under his fingernails.

Ivan let him go and braced himself on the bed, finally taking a great breath, giving a few more firm thrusts before falling still and sucking in air as hard as he could, his sweaty forehead dropping down onto Ludwig's shoulder. He let his hand loose from Ludwig's neck.

Air came back.

Ludwig rasped so hard that he nearly coughed, Ivan collapsed on top of him, and his head swam. It took a minute for the lights to stop dancing across his vision and for his lightheadedness to disappear, and when it did, he turned his head, pressed his nose into Ivan's hair, and smiled.

Ivan was god.

Afterwards, as he lied there, staring at the ceiling and heart still hammering away, he realized that he didn't feel bad. No regret. Not a bit of remorse. Not about anything that had happened that night.

He didn't feel bad about shooting a man. He didn't feel bad about hitting another. He didn't feel bad about letting Ivan crawl on top of him. He felt no remorse about laying here now, covered in sweat, pinned under someone else and trembling in exertion, he felt no remorse about becoming Ivan's, and he felt no remorse about the loss of something in his head that he couldn't put his finger on.

What had he ever been scared of? This was just like moving into Ivan's bedroom; it had all seemed so much more frightening until he had actually tried it. Pulling the trigger had seemed impossible the other day, and yet, now that he had done it...

Not so daunting.

Ivan was so heavy above him that breathing was barely possible. His leg threatened to cramp, still up at uncomfortable angle. Ivan's stubble was scraping his neck.

It hit him then, the thing that Ivan had been trying to make him understand for so long—hurting someone else hadn't hurt him. He'd hurt two people that night, and with each one, there had been no pang within him. Nothing.

No rules.

Ivan's voice, whispering suddenly in his ear.

"I love you."

Ivan's voice was louder than the other ones.

He leaned up his head, as high as he could, fingers still gripping Ivan's shoulders, and when he sank his teeth none too gently in the crook of Ivan's neck, the strangled exhale of breath was worth anything. Ivan reached up and clenched thick fingers in his hair, wrenching his head backwards so hard that the muscles in his neck pulled and ached, and the whisper in his ear had turned somewhat terrifying.

"I love you. You love me too, don't you?"

Another wrench of his hair, harder than the last.

"Don't you?"

The voice that Ivan used when he slipped into the dark waters. The most frightening sound on earth.

Oh, god—he coulda cried then, suddenly, for how he felt. His immediate answer, hardly a gasp, more of a sob :

"Yes."

Had he said 'no' or been unable to answer, he was quite unable to fathom the consequences.

Luckily for him, he meant it. He meant it, so much. He loved Ivan so much. He had never meant anything more. He couldn't understand what had snapped up in his head, but something had, because he suddenly realized that he would have burned the entire world to ashes then if it would've made Ivan smile a little. He'd'a jumped off a fuckin' bridge if Ivan had asked him to. He'd have gone back there and shot everyone he once knew, if it would have made Ivan happy. Anything.

The fingers let go, and he was the one who took Ivan's hair then, pulling him down so that he could kiss him again.

He loved Ivan, and everything that came with him.

Satisfied at his answer, Ivan burrowed his sweaty forehead into Ludwig's neck, and was out soon after.

Ludwig laid there, and stared at nothing.

He smelled like Ivan. Suddenly, that was the only way he ever wanted to smell. The hair on Ivan's chest agitated his own, but he made no move to squirm, not against that or the wetness that was irritating his thighs. Moving might wake Ivan, and he might get up. Ludwig would rather he stayed there, because, god, there couldn't ever be a feeling as good as this. Weight above him and a heart pounding against him. Feeling in place.

To feel needed.

Pain was nothing, as long as Ivan was content.

In the light of the moon that had come out from behind the clouds, Ludwig looked over breathlessly at the mirror, and found that he no longer recognized himself. Pinned under massive Ivan, forehead shimmering and hair matted to his head, he saw his reflection, himself, his eyes silver against the shadows, something of a sneer upon his face, and even his expression was something he had never seen before. He lifted up his hand, fingers across his face, and the eyes that peered out from between them were unknown.

Who was that?

No one he knew. He almost saw something of Ivan there within him. That made him smile. And he realized, too, that that smile wasn't his.

Ivan's.

He just stared at the man in the mirror, feeling surreal and enthralled, until Ivan rolled off of him later and slung an arm over his chest. He turned on his side, faced Ivan, and somehow, someway, he still felt as if he were staring straight into that mirror. Ivan had suddenly become his reflection. The glass had shattered at some point, and both sides had merged together.

One.

He put his hand on Ivan's cheek, feeling more as if it was his own, and let his tired mind wander.

Hurt. When he didn't think about it, when he didn't sit around and wonder about whether it was right or wrong, it wasn't so hard. It wasn't hard to cause harm to others. It wasn't hard to pick up the pen. It wasn't hard to pull the trigger. It wasn't hard to start a fire. It wasn't hard to hurt people. If it made Ivan happy. The world didn't matter. People didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Except for Ivan.

There was a reason that there were laws against hurting people—because once you did it, it was hard not to want to do it again.

No more rules.

That little voice in the back of his mind, the one that had been withering away for so long, the one that had given the last of its strength to stop him from killing that man, finally lied down that night, curled up, and died.

It didn't come back.


His good mood that had come from speaking about Ludwig had taken a turn for the worse.

It didn't come back.

Eduard, tipsy and restless, had started playing with the radio, and Ludwig had woken up long before to start berating him again over absolutely nothing. No doubt he had earned a good tongue-lashing, over something or another, but now wasn't the best time. Sleepin' in this shitty Moscow hotel was pretty much hell on earth. Seeing Eduard drinking and not being able to join didn't help.

'Gilbert, look at you! What are you doin' here? Roderich is probably waiting for you to call him, but you haven't. You should have let Alfred come, as least he could have kept up with everything. You don't listen. Alfred would have me already. He's better than you are.'

Gilbert couldn't tell Ludwig to shut the hell up in front of Eduard, so he glowered at the wall instead. The passing in and out of radio stations was starting to annoy him. He wanted to say, 'Knock it off, you're getting on my nerves.' He didn't—pissing Eduard off wasn't a great idea. Not with the unholy journey they had ahead of them. Gilbert wasn't that smart, but burning through the only ally he had was a damn bad move.

They sat there silently, listening to more sleet battering the windows, and Eduard kept on flipping rather wearily through the radio stations, apparently hoping to catch glimpse of something familiar.

Gilbert stared up at the ceiling, as the squealing and tuning irritated his ears, and Ludwig looked down at him from above.

'You should pay attention,' he chided, seriously, 'What if you hear his voice, huh? Why don't you ever listen when you need to?'

His first thought was to retort, 'So what? Who cares?'

So what, if he heard that voice again on the radio? What good would that do? If he were feeling more childish—that is to say, if he had been feeling more like himself—he might have grabbed the radio and chucked it against the wall just so that Eduard couldn't play with the goddamn thing anymore.

Garbled words every so often. A flash of music. Static.

Eduard's hand fell still for a second, brow scrunched, and then he gave an odd, tired sigh. Nothing. After a second of hesitation, he flipped the knob, the static shut off, and he flopped down stomach-first on the bed. Turning his face, half-buried in the blankets, Eduard looked over at him, and just muttered, "I swear, can't even find a good radio station out here."

Eduard's lame attempt to make him smile failed. Miserably.

This time, Gilbert did snap, "So what?"

Eduard just stared at him, and it was obvious that he had something he wanted to say, but not until Gilbert was in a more receptive mood.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes and sent Gilbert a prim glare, muttering, 'Can't even be nice to people that are tryin' to help you, can ya? You're such a brat.'

Again, he spat, "So what?"

Eduard sent him a strange look.

'Just go home, Gilbert. If you're going to be like this, then I don't even want you to come get me.'

Those words terrified him.

He tried to soften his voice a bit, hard for him, and finally said, "If you got somethin' you wanna say, you may as well say it. You're not gonna put me in a worse mood than I'm already in."

And that was the goddamn truth.

Eduard hesitated for a second, the flush of alcohol finally appearing upon his face, and he gave a great sigh, glasses crooked on his nose.

"Well! I've been thinking about it, but I was kinda scared to throw it out there. It's not something I was really looking forward to, but our situation now doesn't seem to be very good." He buried his face in the bed momentarily, gathering courage perhaps, and tried to trudge on. "Just...bear with me a little, alright? It sounds kinda weird."

"Whatever. Just say it."

Ludwig just shook his head.

Finally, Eduard said, carefully, "I know somebody that might be able to help."

Gilbert sat up so fast that a sharp pain hit his side, and he craned his neck forward, eyes wide.

Before he could open his mouth, Eduard said, quickly, "But there's a catch!"

His adrenaline faded, and he gripped handfuls of blanket. Ludwig was smiling, and it was the sight of him that gave Gilbert the courage to ask, "What is it?"

Eduard pushed himself up, and sat on his knees.

"She's crazy."

Ludwig broke into a beam, and purred, 'Who isn't?'

Well—that was true.

"How crazy?"

"Crazy enough that I felt it prudent to mention," was Eduard's somewhat snippy response.

Maybe once upon a time such a tone would have made him swing a fist, but he was too damn jittery to really take offense at Eduard's snap. He could feel his hair bristling, standing up on the back of his neck in what, for once, was not fear or anger.

Excitement. A long time coming.

"I'm not sayin' she'll lead us right to him. Hell, even if she does help, it will probably just be her way of trying to get us killed, but it'll be easier if we could talk her into at least keeping a lookout for us. She couldn't stand it when I was out there; I'm sure that she'll be glad to try and get rid of your brother. So. What do you say? Do you wanna risk it, or should we just forget it and go on our own?"

Crazy.

Eduard watched him, expectantly, and waited for his call.

He didn't even think about it. He'd take any help he could get. Any. There were certainly many holes missing in this, and some part of him wanted to ask why the hell some woman out in the middle of nowhere would even have a care about Ludwig, but he realized it didn't matter.

Anything.

"So!" he finally said, as Eduard eyed him easily, "Let's go find the bitch."

A short silence, as Eduard smiled away, and then he quipped, "Got a death-wish, huh?"

Probably. He always had.

"Scared or somethin'?" he boasted, in a absolute bluff, because he was the one that was scared, but Eduard didn't seem fazed by his bold words, and just laughed.

"Hell yeah! Why'd you think I was drinking? I gotta be drunk to even think about gettin' help from her. She scares the shit out of me. Ha, you'll be scared, too, when you finally meet her."

"Sure."

Eduard's smile fell for a second, as a darkness flashed over his face, and Gilbert imagined that he was struggling with this whole thing. By all rights, Eduard could have (and probably should have) just abandoned Gilbert to his own devices and gone back to the border screamin'. Who knew why he didn't. Gilbert didn't pretend to know, and didn't really want to.

When Eduard spoke again, he just said, "Between her and him...hell, I'd almost rather run into him, honestly. But hey, you do what ya gotta do, I guess. Sure will be something, seeing her face again." A coarse laugh. "Me and you will end up lyin' next to each other in some boxes by the end of this."

Gilbert couldn't find his bluff this time, and just sat there, knowing that his shoulders had slumped and his ecstatic air had deflated. He just wanted to go home.

Gilbert lied back down, then, and replaced his hands behind his head. A little while later, when his mind started wandering, something struck him. He looked over suddenly at Eduard, and repeated, lowly, "When you were out there. Is that what you said?"

A long, long silence.

"That's what I said."

"How—"

"Don't. Just don't. I'm not that drunk."

Shot down, Gilbert turned his eyes back to the ceiling, and listened to Ludwig's deep humming. He was curious, sure, but he wouldn't press. Whatever was going on with Eduard didn't concern him hardly as much as what was happening with Ludwig.

Ludwig. The north star.

Every so often, Ludwig's deep humming became high-pitched, as an adult Ludwig reverted occasionally back to the child one.

When he had picked up Ludwig that first time, he had promised it would be forever. If he couldn't keep that oath, then lyin' in a box somewhere was exactly what he deserved.

"Get some sleep," Eduard finally grumbled. "You look like shit. We'll start out of here in a week or two. Try to make it over Yekaterinburg and wait there for the snows to start melting. Maybe in a month or two we'll make it to Lesosibirsk. We've got a hell of a way to go, my friend, so you may as well sleep through most of it."

He tried.

Ludwig lied beside of him again, and stared at him from across the pillow.

Hours later, when Eduard was asleep, Gilbert sent Ludwig a smile, and whispered, fervently, "No matter what happens, I want you to know that I—oh. Ludwig, you made me happy."

A calm smile from Ludwig.

Ludwig had made him happy. The only thing that ever really had. The world didn't matter to him, not if Ludwig wasn't in it.

Ludwig stared at him as he lied there, and when the brink of sleep was upon him, when reality turned into surrealism, when being awake was no longer distinguishable from being asleep, Ludwig started whispering. The godawful shudder of fear that crept down his back couldn't ever have been felt as strongly had he been truly awake.

Not Ludwig's voice. Someone else's.

He reached for the pillow with heavy hands, buried his head beneath, and tried to shut out the familiar voice in his ears.

His voice.