Chapter 33

The Other Promise

Ludwig was refusing to make eye contact with Alfred.

Every time Alfred walked in, Ludwig's eyes lowered to the floor or went over to a wall, and stayed there. Wouldn't speak. It somewhat reminded Alfred of the way Ludwig treated Gilbert, and Alfred collapsed at the kitchen table and ran his hands through his hair with a curse.

Screwed everything up, no matter what he did.

Ludwig was utterly despondent, had entirely shut down, and Alfred realized it about five hours after the one-sided conversation.

January was a dreary enough month in New York City, but it was somehow even more dismal that year, as Ivan lied in a hospital bed and Ludwig was probably crying away in a different bed. Alfred wouldn't know; Ludwig had barricaded himself in Alfred's unused bedroom. Only saw him during meals, and every day that passed it grated him more and more, because Ludwig looked worse and worse.

It had been three days since Alfred had put his foot down, and they had been the longest three damn days ever, Alfred swore it.

Scary, too, because Alfred didn't know what the hell Ludwig was doing up there.

Ivan was probably terrified as much as Alfred, being left all alone in the dark in that hospital. Three days was a long damn time for men like them, and Alfred fretted endlessly about what, precisely was going on in that hospital. Or, more specifically, what Toris was up to.

No one fretted more than Ludwig, no doubt, and that was why Alfred had crept into his bedroom when Ludwig was in the bathroom to snatch up those hidden sleeping pills. He tucked them back down in the kitchen when Ludwig wasn't looking, on the highest shelf.

Three days.

Alfred was writhing, pining, wallowing, and he hadn't wanted to press Ludwig too far but he couldn't take it anymore; when the sun set that day, he took up his phone and texted Ludwig.

Pathetic. Texting a man who was right upstairs.

'Please come down.'

Alfred waited and waited, but there was no response. Alfred cursed for the hundredth time, lied down on the couch, and waited some more. In the midst of his waiting, he drifted off, just a little. It was enough. Had a fuckin' nightmare, a terrible one, of Ludwig lying on the kitchen floor that night that he had overdosed. Those blue lips and fingernails. Slipping away right there in front of Alfred, because Ludwig had always loved Ivan more and Alfred wasn't enough.

Alfred jolted awake in a fright, looked about, but everything was as it should have been. Nothing amiss. Well—except for Ludwig still MIA up there.

Couldn't shake that nightmare, and tried hard not to think about the horrendous nightmares Ivan must have been having, all alone and lost in that drab hospital, sick and weak. Hurt to ponder it at all.

Alfred blearily checked his phone, but there was no response. It had been three hours.

Fear and agitation mingled with frustration. Hurt. Anger. Why was Ludwig always so goddamn stubborn? The worst sort of man when he put his mind to it. Ludwig was locked away up there, and it may have been part of Alfred's insecurity, but he felt that Ludwig was being an intentional bitch just to rile Alfred up. Perhaps because Ludwig thought if Alfred were angry enough he would just up and leave on his own and save Ludwig the trouble.

Not a chance.

He swung his legs over the edge of the couch, pulled himself up, and marched up the stairs. Alfred knocked on the bedroom door, gently, but Ludwig had refused to open. Alfred knocked again, and there was no response.

Oh, that hurt he felt. Ludwig hated him.

He called, softly, "Ludwig? Come on—let me in."

No answer, and no movement from within.

Alfred knocked one more time, and when he was ignored, anger overtook hurt, and Alfred banged his fist on the door as hard as he could, just to make a point.

Silence on the other end.

Under his breath, Alfred muttered, "Bitch."

He hadn't been this hostile to Ludwig since the day they had first met, but then, Ludwig hadn't given him reason to.

Alfred wasn't in the wrong. He wasn't.

Alfred stared at the door for a while, before marching back downstairs and straight into the kitchen. He opened up the cabinet, and grabbed Ludwig's sleeping pills. He twisted the cap and dumped the bottle into the sink without a second of hesitation, and ran the tap until they had all been dissolved down the drain. Why? Hard to say, because Alfred didn't know if concern for Ludwig's wellbeing led his actions as much as pettiness did in that moment.

He tossed the empty bottle in the trash, and then went back upstairs and knocked one more time.

Still, stubborn Ludwig refused to open the door and respond.

And so equally stubborn Alfred went back downstairs, opened up the bottom cabinet, and began pulling out Ludwig's wine bottles one at a time. One of the best ways to get back at Ludwig without actually touching him. The snow fell outside as the streetlight gleamed weakly throw the curtain, and it was an oddly vindictive moment for Alfred, watching the drifting snow as he uncorked wine bottles purposefully.

One at a time, each wine bottle followed its more powerful brethren right down the sink drain. In between each one, Alfred glanced up at the ceiling above him, where Ludwig mourned a dying man.

When Alfred was done, the cabinet was empty and the trashcan was full.

One more thing left, then, and the most important—Alfred's gun was hidden up in that room. Ludwig likely knew that, and although Alfred didn't really think Ludwig would even consider that, it was still something to mull over. Ludwig couldn't kill himself in a messy manner, for Gilbert's reputation, but Alfred and Toris were pushing Ludwig to the very edge of his sanity. He would snap, one way or another.

Sooner or later, Alfred had to get Ludwig out of that room before Ludwig ran out of willpower.

He marched one final time up the stairs, and knocked yet again. Yet again, he was ignored.

He lifted his fist, banged it down on the door as hard as he could for a second time, and barked, "Hey! Open up, now, or I'm kicking this door down."

Silence, utter silence, and Alfred scoffed derisively to himself.

Well, then! He had given the pale bastard a lot of chances.

So Alfred did exactly what he promised, when Ludwig didn't open the door; in a thoughtless moment of anger and hurt, Alfred braced himself, gathered strength and momentum, and jerked his leg forward to kick in the door. It cracked, splintered, and crashed open as the lock broke. So many times bigger Ivan had lunged at this door, and it was Alfred who broke it in, because Alfred had been trained how to do so and because Ivan's senses had been gone.

The door was open, and Alfred took a stomping step inside. Ludwig sat there on the edge of the bed, palms on either side of him upon the blanket, eyes red and yet very composed. Ludwig lidded his bleary eyes, looked Alfred up and down with lips pushed out irritably, and there was a long silence.

The gun certainly wasn't in Ludwig's hands, and it was clear that Ludwig had just been sitting there crying and not rifling through Alfred's things.

Alfred's anger faded under a burst of humiliation. Embarrassment, as Ludwig stared at him as a parent stared at a kid throwing a tantrum. Essentially, Alfred had just thrown a little tantrum, and it was made painfully clear how Ludwig felt when he rumbled, bitterly, "Do you feel better?"

Alfred clamped his jaw, pursed his lips, and turned on his heel to march right back out into the hall, after making such a scene. He stomped downstairs, out the front door, and stalked in a rage up and down the street.

He was angry then at himself, for being so childish, and he was angry too at Ludwig for putting him in that position. Angry at Gilbert, for putting too much pressure on the both if them. Angry at Toris, for forcing Alfred's hand with threats. Angry at his mother and father, for teaching him to use violence first.

Angry at Meg, for dying and bringing Alfred up here.

Angry at Ivan, for having the nerve to be sick.

Angry at everything and everyone, all at once, angry at the world entire, so angry because underneath it all he was so scared. Scared that Ludwig hated him. That he would have a life partner, alright, but one that despised him and would probably fantasize about poisoning him. At this rate, Alfred would have the silent treatment for the rest of his life, and then in death Ludwig would probably hobble over to Alfred's headstone and whack it with a cane a few times.

Terrified that he had twisted Ludwig's arm too far, and had caused more harm than good. But if Ludwig had chosen Ivan, then what? No good woulda come out of that either. Alfred had just wanted to help, he really had.

Yeah. Sure.

Help himself. As usual.

Doomed, whichever path he took.

Alfred eventually composed himself enough to return inside, but Ludwig hadn't come downstairs. Alfred trudged back up, and peered a bit abashedly inside the bedroom. Ludwig sat prissily still, where he had been before, arms crossed now over his chest and staring defiantly at the wall. Didn't glance over at Alfred at all, and Alfred crept in with his tail once more between his legs and slunk silently over to where he kept his gun. He took it out, looped it in his belt, and retreated like the coward he was.

Ludwig didn't come down until dawn.

The fourth day.

By then, it was Alfred who looked a damn wreck. Hair unwashed and uncombed, unshaven, clothes wrinkled. Bags under his eyes. Alfred was falling apart at the seams, because his entire existence as he knew it presently relied on how Ludwig saw Alfred. If Alfred had lost his position as protector and hero, then he lost his very identity, and would be forced to move on again. Didn't wanna move again, because this was the first time he had ever felt like he belonged somewhere, just a little.

Didn't wanna let that go.

When Ludwig glided soundlessly down the stairs in the light of morning, Alfred sat up straight on the couch, like a pathetic dog, and started following Ludwig around. Anger had been snuffed out, and fear once more took over.

All Ludwig had to do was give one order, one word, and it was over.

'Go.'

All Ludwig had to say. Alfred sought to delay it, and slunk as pitifully behind Ludwig as he had slunk into the bedroom the night before. Ludwig stepped into the kitchen, and his eyes immediately snapped over to the trashcan, piled full of empty wine bottles. Alfred didn't regret it at all, no, but winced a little when Ludwig opened up the cabinet for a mug, and then slammed the door closed so powerfully that a glass inside fell and shattered.

When Ludwig passed Alfred by, his hand clenched and jerked, and Alfred locked up and prepared for a flying fist. Didn't come that time, as Ludwig fought off the urge and then walked on.

For now.

Ludwig was likely a breath away from punching Alfred again, and hell, Alfred wished he kinda would, just to get it over and done with and get rid of this awful tension.

Alfred tried his best to win Ludwig back over that day, and failed miserably at every attempt.

When Ludwig made breakfast, Alfred uttered, weakly, "I'll fix the door today. Sorry."

Ludwig lifted his brow, pursed his lips, and scoffed.

Ludwig sat on the couch, and Alfred hesitated, then sat beside him and tried to rest an arm over his shoulders. Ludwig squirmed out from under his arm, stood up with a grimace, and stomped back into the kitchen.

When night fell, Alfred stood behind Ludwig and asked, at last, "Is this how you're going to be from now on? Did I force you? I gave you a choice. If this is how you really feel, now would be a good time to let me know. Do you want me to leave?"

His heart thudded in terror, and Ludwig was silent for a long while, refusing to turn around and look at Alfred. Thought that Ludwig's shoulders fell a little, but he never really gave Alfred an answer that night. Managed to vanish without a word back upstairs, and Alfred collapsed on the couch in despair.

Sleep didn't come so easily that night.

Thought he heard creaking upstairs throughout the night, and hoped that it was Ludwig peering down over the railing, trying to make sure that Alfred was still there.

Ludwig wasn't being fair, no, but Alfred hadn't been either, so perhaps it wasn't right to lay all of the blame upon Ludwig. Ludwig lashed out like any other man did, in his own way.

All Alfred could do was try to work through it, because he had risked too much and come too far to just let Ludwig go.

The fifth day.

Alfred lingered a ways back as Ludwig cooked breakfast, always braced up and ready just in case Ludwig decided to whirl around and pitch a glass right at his head. He didn't; in fact, Alfred actually got something good from Ludwig that morning.

Well—sort of.

Ludwig finally lifted his eyes, at long last met Alfred's gaze, and said, very mechanically, "May I go to the hospital today? I need...to tell him the truth. If I'm not going to..." A brief falling of Ludwig's face, a break in his automatic voice. "If I'm not going to be there, he deserves to know why. Let me go to the hospital, so I can him tell him the truth."

'May I', as if Alfred were Ludwig's father.

The tone hadn't helped either, but hell, as least the jerk was talking to him again after five days of the silent treatment.

But, oh...

Didn't want Ludwig going back to the hospital, to see Ivan again, even just for a moment, because Ludwig always cracked when Ivan was in his sights. On the other hand, Alfred was terrified to refuse, to deny Ludwig, because Ludwig would have more cause to hate Alfred and likely would have disobeyed Alfred anyway, and that would have cracked the ice beneath their feet evermore.

They were on the verge of a fistfight; no need to provoke stressed Ludwig more than absolutely necessary.

What could he do?

After eternity, Alfred managed a nod of his head.

Ludwig stood up without a word, and walked away.

In a sense, Alfred felt that Ludwig was walking away from him as a whole. Ludwig agreed to stay with Alfred, but mentally had entirely disconnected from him, because Alfred had forced Ludwig to choose. Ludwig wasn't really here right now. Out of Alfred's grasp, even though Alfred could physically touch him. A million miles away.

Ludwig changed, and Alfred barely managed to brush his dirty hair before Ludwig was stalking outside. Alfred scrambled after him, because there was no way in hell Alfred was letting Ludwig go to the hospital alone. For all he knew, Ludwig might have unhooked Ivan from the needles, snuck him out the back door, and driven off into the sunset with him, taking him to some other hospital in some other state to get away from those ruling their lives. No way in hell, so Alfred intruded as he always did.

Ludwig didn't speak to him again, not yet. Sooner or later, though, he would come around. Alfred had to cling to that hope, because it was really all he had.

The sky that day wasn't so grey. A pale blue. Clear. White clouds in the distance. A pretty day, freezing but bright, but it didn't give either of them any cheer. Not as Ivan waited, probably out of his mind now with panic after not hearing from Ludwig for days.

The drive was too quick, and Ludwig's face was always twisting and threatening to collapse, as finality lied before him. Knowing what he was being forced to do. When it was all said and done, would Ludwig really be able to sever the connection and let Ivan go? Ludwig said he would, but Alfred doubted it.

Ludwig couldn't choke; Alfred's future relied upon this visit.

Nervousness.

Alfred had just completely forgotten, in his struggle with Ludwig, that Toris had given him five days to act, before he intervened. And Alfred had also completely forgotten to tell Toris that he had made Ludwig choose, and that there was no need to interfere at all. Alfred had done what Toris had wanted, had just...neglected to inform him of that.

His mind had been a wreck; could he be blamed for forgetting?

But, oh damn, was he ever given a reality check when he turned that corner.

Alfred missed a step in his shock, and nearly fell flat on his face. Ludwig, equally startled, fell to a complete halt, forcing Alfred to crash clumsily into his back. Their surprise was justified, given that the door to Ivan's room was suddenly guarded by two very familiar faces.

Feliciano and Lovino.

Alfred must have paled about ten shades, and Ludwig had practically gone translucent. Lovino tried to raise a hand and give a clumsy wave, but it fell halfway, and Feliciano turned his head immediately aside, unable to even look Ludwig in the eyes at all.

Oh shit!

Alfred coulda died, when it hit his chest like a ton of bricks when he realized his awful mistake; he had forgotten all about Toris. Ludwig didn't know about Toris bribing Alfred, no, but he knew that Toris was always up to something, and wasn't naïve enough to be oblivious. They knew. Lovino and Feliciano were there because either Gilbert or Toris or both were behind that door, and god only knew what they were saying.

Their shock was amplified when they realized there was a commotion behind that guarded door.

The sound of screaming.

Ludwig straightened up, already so pale, pulse hammering and eyes wide, and Alfred was jolted out of his numbness by the burn of adrenaline. Knew that screaming, alright—had heard it so many times before.

Ivan.

That pretty voice of Ivan's was quite terrifying when he screamed, absolutely unmistakable. Alfred had never heard anything like that before, ever, and would never forget it.

Ludwig reacted immediately to the sound of an Ivan in distress, as he always did, and lunged forward towards the door. Lovino snatched out and tried to grab Ludwig, but Ludwig was far too intent and in that moment would have given a gazelle a run for its money. Feliciano pounced and at one point had Ludwig's collar in his hand, as Lovino tried to get hold of Ludwig's arm, and yet for the both of them Ludwig still somehow outwitted them.

Ludwig's love for Ivan would heed no barrier, and Ludwig slipped past the men put there specifically to refuse him entry.

Lovino screeched, "Shit!", right as Ludwig barged into the room, and Alfred was able to follow as Lovino and Feliciano tried to catch Ludwig and haul him back. Ludwig shook them off, and pressed forward.

Alfred, dazed and confused and scared, skidded in just in front of Ludwig to guard, as he was used to doing.

The scene then was not exactly what Alfred had expected somehow.

Ivan was screaming alright, at Toris, who was staring at him from the opposite end of the room. Ivan was upright, one hand clinging to his IV for balance, hospital gown ruffled and shorn hair glinting in the pale sunlight, standing there and screaming at Toris for all he was worth, and Alfred noticed that there was a stack of unkempt papers on the hospital bed.

Gilbert wasn't there at all.

Ludwig was absolutely still, motionless, eyes wide and looking petrified, as he tried to figure out what was happening.

Oh, god, the sound of that screaming—

Made the hairs on his arms stand up.

Toris murmured in Russian as Ivan shrieked at him, two contrasting tones and voices and emotions. Ivan screamed, furiously, clearly distressed and riled up, and yet for all the drama he had caused Toris was quite calm. Even in the face of Ivan's wrath, Toris' voice was soft and as droll as ever. One man on the brink, the other looking as if he were ambling about in a boring dream.

It was strange, because any person walking into that room would have feared for Toris, perhaps, but Alfred knew better; it was Toris that was the aggressor, the instigator, the dangerous one. Toris wasn't violent like Ivan, but didn't need to be. Toris' clever tongue could cause more damage than Ivan's fist ever could. Toris had all the power here, had the upper hand, and it was Ivan who everyone should have feared for.

It was Toris who noticed the intruders first, as Ivan's back was to them, and Toris' pretty eyes landed on Ludwig's and held the gaze unwaveringly.

Toris was so calm and sure, as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.

Ludwig was silent, but Alfred could see his fists clenching at his sides.

Before Ludwig could figure out in which manner he wished to act, Ivan suddenly followed Toris' gaze with a twitch of his head. Ivan gasped audibly, eyes flying open, and Alfred could never in a hundred lifetimes have found the words to describe the way Ivan looked at Ludwig then.

Ivan fell still and breathless, holding the IV tightly and staring at Ludwig through wide, bleary eyes. Had he been crying? Looked like it; his cheeks seemed damp. Eyes bloodshot. Every sort of distress written there upon his face.

A horrible silence, as Ivan gaped at Ludwig.

He looked so awful; had he looked that bad five days ago? Ivan had utterly fallen apart during Ludwig's absence it seemed. Looked so weak and pale and frail, however big he was. And then to add onto that the water building in his eyes, how puffy and red-rimmed they were. His shorn hair making his head wound visible. Shadows cast by his cheeks. Had any man ever looked worse than Ivan did in that moment?

A crying Ivan was somehow more pitiable than a dying one.

Toris broke the impasse, switched quickly back to English, and said, softly, "Leave us alone for a while, Ludwig."

Ludwig shook his head, obviously, and focused ever on Ivan, who was staring at Ludwig as if Ludwig had just shot him in the chest. As if it had been Ludwig, in fact, who had stabbed Ivan in the heart.

That look.

Alfred glanced at the papers on the bed, and realized with a lurch of dizziness what they were.

God.

The divorce papers, and police reports. Hospital reports. Could half-see photos, awful photos, taken by the police of Ludwig's injuries as he had been unconscious. The folder Gilbert kept in his office. Toris had brought that folder in to Ivan. Toris had told Ivan the truth, everything, against Ludwig's wishes. Ivan knew now, everything.

Everything.

That was why Feliciano and Lovino were waiting outside, to intervene if needed should Ivan rage and become uncontrollable for one man, despite his sickness. That was why Ivan had been crying, why he was so distraught, why he was screaming, why he was raging, why he was coming undone.

Why he looked at Ludwig like that.

Toris.

Alfred's fists clenched as tightly as Ludwig's had, and the rage then was undeniable.

This wasn't fuckin' right, not doin' it like this, not like this, Ivan didn't even remember any of this. Toris, that sneaky, conniving, miserable son of a whore, had given Alfred a fuckin' ultimatum and hadn't even bothered to call and check to see if the mission had been accomplished. Hadn't given a single damn effort to find out, because Toris had wanted to do this, had wanted to rake Ivan over the coals, had wanted to cause Ivan such duress that maybe Ivan would just keel over—

That miserable fuck.

Woulda punched him, if Ludwig didn't suddenly looked as crushed as Ivan.

Ludwig's eyes were as red and watery as Ivan's, as he realized what, exactly, had happened.

That Ivan knew.

Ivan and Ludwig stared at each other as if they were on the opposite decks of simultaneously sinking ships. Helpless in the ocean, so close and yet unable to aid the other. Forced to watch as the other sank beneath the surface.

Toris was entirely unruffled and unbothered by the strife and grief he had created, as usual, and Alfred's chest actually physically stung when Ivan suddenly pointed at the pictures, and stammered, desperately, "I didn't do that. Baby—tell him I didn't do that. Tell him."

Alfred swallowed and hung his head, and Lovino and Feliciano very quickly backtracked and vanished without so much as a sound, closing the door behind them. Alfred wished he coulda joined them.

Ludwig was frozen, eyes flitting from Ivan to the photos and then back.

The silence was deafening.

A scrunch of Ivan's face, a sharp inhale, a quick collapse, before Ivan tried again.

"Tell him I didn't do that."

Ludwig was so silent, because he couldn't say that, when the evidence was lying there for the entire world to see. Ludwig lied and lied, over and over again, twisted the facts, omitted details, did every possible gymnastic to protect Ivan and muddle the truth, but he couldn't this time. Not with those papers, and two living witnesses. Ludwig couldn't speak then, because he couldn't lie anymore.

Toris turned his eyes to Alfred, and Alfred looked quickly away because he couldn't even stomach seeing that dirty bastard.

Ivan pressed, desperately, "Tell him!"

Ludwig's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He just stared at Ivan as if he were watching the city entire being washed away by a great wave. The end of the world. The end of Ludwig's world, rather, the one he had built so long in his head. The crumbling of the fantasy castle.

No more running; time to tell the truth.

Ivan took a step towards Ludwig, unsteadily, and beseeched, one final time, "Tell him!"

Toris kept on staring at Alfred, but Alfred refused to meet his gaze, even though looking at that devastated Ivan on the brink of collapse was painful. A man, lost and sick and alone, now forced to confront the worst thing he had ever done, when that thing hadn't even been in his control and he couldn't even remember doing it.

Waking up one day with no memory, and being told that you had hurt the only person you loved.

Alfred couldn't comprehend how that felt.

After eternity, after that unbearable silence, Ludwig finally spoke. Just a low, deep, rumbling whisper that was barely audible even in the awful quiet. A breaking, pitiful whimper, hardly befitting a man like Ludwig.

"You were sick."

A sharp inhale from Ivan, and with that he entirely collapsed, in every possible way. His face collapsed, his voice collapsed, his will collapsed, and then his body went with it, and with a great sob Ivan staggered back against the wall and then slid down to the floor.

And just like that, after years of Ludwig evading and running and lying, it was over.

Over.

Hardly a glorious or satisfying end.

Alfred stared at the floor, as Ivan buried his face in one palm and started crying. Crying, really crying, bawling. Had never heard anyone cry so damn hard. Must have been what Alfred had sounded like when he had broken down in Meg's trailer.

Alfred squirmed, shifted, couldn't sit still, because god help him, the sound of Ivan's helpless and uncontrollable sobbing was killing him. Couldn't stand it, couldn't, and it was Alfred who turned around first and stomped out of that room and into the hall.

Couldn't take that sound. Utter heartbreak in audible form. Had never heard anything like that, and never wanted to again.

He reached up and unbuttoned his collar, because he couldn't breathe.

Feliciano and Lovino were staring straight ahead at the wall at perfect attention, in what was an obvious attempt to save face. Alfred paced around, running a hand through his hair in subconscious distress, but he wasn't alone out there for long.

Ludwig suddenly came bursting out, Toris right behind him, and Ludwig whirled around so furiously that he crashed into Toris' chest. A hiss of fury, and Ludwig shoved Toris backwards so hard that he hit the wall. Toris, unfazed as ever, merely stared Ludwig down.

That time, Ludwig didn't bend.

Alfred could only watch, as Feliciano and Lovino glanced over despite their discomfort, ready again to intervene.

The look that Ludwig sent Toris then was one Alfred had never seen on gentle Ludwig's face. Was certain that it was fury. Rage. May even have had a little hate there.

Once more, Ludwig opened his mouth to speak, and entirely lost his voice.

Alfred was floored then, absolutely shocked, when Ludwig suddenly drew back his hand and slapped Toris powerfully across the face, as hard as Gilbert had slapped Ludwig that day. The sound of it seemed to echo in the hallway, as bizarre and surreal as it was. Alfred was aghast, and so were the others, because Lovino made a loud, vocal noise of surprise and Feliciano gasped in shock. Toris, for his part, seemed quite offended, mouth falling open and brow shooting up.

Could barely comprehend what he had just seen. Had never imagined such a thing. Toris was essentially Ludwig's mother; seeing Ludwig strike him was shocking. Ludwig, who never fought back.

Ludwig could find no words, as much as Alfred never could, and just settled then for staring at Toris and saying whatever he needed to with his eyes alone. Ludwig had been betrayed, the way he saw it, in the worst possible way.

Unease.

Toris was blank, stoic, cold, unbending, and Alfred felt sick because he knew why Toris had done what he had done; because it would drive Ivan away from Ludwig, would solidify Alfred's position. Every day, just a little more, Alfred felt that he was just another power play. Gilbert once more had something hidden beneath a cloth that would break Ludwig into submission, and this time it was Alfred.

Alfred struggled now with his own conscience, his own ego, his latent selfishness. What he wanted rather than what Ludwig needed. He wanted Ludwig, he did, wanted to win, and so, still, even knowing it wasn't right, Alfred stayed silent.

If Ludwig could look at Toris like that, if Ludwig could slap Toris, the man he trusted and admired as much as Gilbert himself, then, god, what the hell would Ludwig do to Alfred when he found out that Toris and Alfred were in on this together? Alfred denied it to himself, tried to distance himself, tried to lay all of the fault on two men more powerful than him, but Alfred was in on this as much as they were. His fault, too, and if Toris came clean then Alfred was getting more than a slap.

A beating, more like.

Toris looked over pointedly at Alfred, a cold sweat broke out on Alfred's brow, and then Toris turned back to Ludwig and finally broke the silence to whisper, softly, "You're welcome. I did what you couldn't. He had to know. You lost one man. No need to lose both."

Ludwig knew what Toris was referring to, and it may have been latent shame for how he had handled the Alfred/Ivan situation that led Ludwig to back down and not instigate a further fight.

Ludwig lifted his chin, and walked silently back inside the room, slamming the door not so gently behind him.

As soon as they were alone, Alfred glared at Toris and hissed, furiously, "Why did ya do that? Huh? I had everything under control—"

"No," Toris interrupted, very drolly. "You didn't. So I took matters into my own hands. You should be grateful. You were too pathetic to do it yourself."

A rush of warmth to Alfred's face as his cheeks blazed as red as Toris' assaulted one, and even though his ego was bruised, Alfred found himself averting his eyes to the floor.

Toris was right, really. Alfred may have gotten Ludwig to stay home for a few days, may have 'won' in a sense, but it was only a matter of time before Alfred lost that slight grip on Ludwig, because Ludwig's desire to be around Ivan was stronger than his need to bow to Alfred's will. Eventually, Ludwig would have resisted, and Alfred would have cracked again, because Alfred wasn't hard enough, wasn't like Toris and Gilbert enough to emulate them.

Toris was right, as usual, and Alfred hated him for it.

Alfred submitted, and Toris huffed a little, straightened his collar, fixed his hair, preened prissily to assuage the offense he had received from his child, and drawled, "Take him home. It's over. I've done all I can for you. I suppose you get the house, after all, although I put in all the work."

Alfred wanted to say, 'Fuck that house and fuck you, too,' but choked as usual and turned his head away.

Toris snapped his fingers smartly in the air, Feliciano and Lovino jumped, and before Alfred knew it all three of them had marched off down the hall and were gone.

The divorce papers were still in that room; wasn't Toris worried about Ludwig torching them? Maybe they were copies.

Alfred gathered his courage and rejoined Ludwig in the room. Ivan had lied down upon the bed, the folder set aside neatly there above the pillow. The blanket was pulled all the way up over Ivan's head, hiding him entirely from sight. Ivan had burrowed away from the world, and when Ludwig came forward and rested on the edge of the bed, there was a low, muffled statement.

"Go away. Leave me alone."

Ludwig hung his head, face collapsing, but he nodded all the same, even though Ivan couldn't see him, stood up, and retreated. Ludwig glanced briefly at the folder, as if contemplating reaching out and snatching it, but Ludwig must have been too scared to agitate Ivan farther for the finally let it go and walked out.

Alfred lingered in the frame, staring at that huddled shape under the blanket, and couldn't stop swallowing. Felt so oddly nauseous. That awful rush of adrenaline. The feeling that came with guilt, and Alfred didn't know why he felt that way.

Well, he knew why, fine, but didn't know why he should.

Shouldn't have felt this wrong to be right.

Ludwig went home, sat on the piano bench, and stared off into the void of nothing. Didn't move, didn't talk, didn't eat, and was just so stunned and dazed that he didn't even cry.

Alfred couldn't stop seeing Ivan's face, as he so frantically demanded that Ludwig deny the charge. That look.

Night came and went.

At the light of dawn, Ludwig's phone rang. But Ludwig was hidden away somewhere in his stupor, and had left his phone on the kitchen table. Alfred looked about, guiltily, when he saw who was calling.

Kiku.

Dammit all to hell. It was his conscience that forced Alfred to grab the phone and answer, with a weak, breaking, "Hello?"

"Where's Ludwig?"

"Sleeping," Alfred said, because who knew, coulda been true, but Alfred was more focused on the tired, low tone of Kiku's voice than Ludwig's whereabouts.

"Tell him to come in, if he can. I need his help. Ivan is refusing radiation therapy now. Says he just wants to go home and die."

An awful rush of heat to Alfred's face, brought on by absolute and utter guilt.

"Okay," was all he could muster, and cut the call.

Another moral dilemma laid now before Alfred; to tell Ludwig or not? If he stayed quiet, Ivan would just go home and slip away quietly, which would be best for everyone, and Alfred could carry on.

But, oh, god, if Ludwig ever found out—

There would be no coming back from that betrayal, and Ludwig truly would have hated Alfred until his dying day. Couldn't stand it, and so Alfred stood up and started hunting Ludwig down. Found him eventually, asleep on the bathroom floor, where he had no doubt come to cry and had succumbed to exhaustion.

Alfred shook him awake, and when Ludwig blearily looked up at him, Alfred wished that Ludwig could have just been happy to see him. Alfred. Just Alfred.

He wasn't, and so Alfred murmured, distantly, "Get dressed. The doctor needs you. He's refusing treatment."

The panic on Ludwig's face, as he bolted upright.

Not three minutes later they were in the car and on the way.

Toris may have won, but Ludwig wasn't ready to surrender just yet.

So Alfred followed him as always to the hospital, where Ivan sat despondently atop his bed, the blanket Ludwig had brought him thrown over his shoulders, as if it were a shield from the real world.

Ludwig stood beside him for a long while, but Ivan never looked over and never spoke, so it was up to Ludwig to step forward and whisper, "It was my fault. Not yours. Please. Don't do this. Not now."

A crinkle of anger in Ivan's brow. A purse of his lips.

Alfred turned his head to Ludwig, and felt his own face fall, because something in those words struck him, out of nowhere, and he didn't know why or how. Ludwig had been saying that it was his fault since as long as Alfred had known him, and yet somehow it hit Alfred in that moment, in that awful silence of misery.

He understood, at long last : he hadn't fixed Ludwig.

Alfred had watched Ludwig perk up, come around, let his guard down, build up trust, and when Ludwig had fallen into Alfred's arms, Alfred had assumed, arrogantly, that he had successfully put back together a broken human being. That he had fixed Ludwig, that he had saved him in a way, that he had risen up and become the hero he had always dreamed of becoming.

He hadn't.

Ludwig had never been 'fixed'; Ludwig had passed from Gilbert's hands into Ivan's, and then from Ivan's into Alfred's, and he hadn't really learned a damn thing along the way. Ludwig hadn't been fixed because maybe Ludwig wasn't salvageable. Some people could be saved, and some couldn't. Maybe Ludwig could have been rewired with the right means, with the right people, with the right help, but that wasn't coming from Alfred.

If Alfred had gone home that night and punched Ludwig in the face out of nowhere, Ludwig wouldn't have punched Alfred back and then stomped angrily off because Alfred had lit some kind of self-respect and strength in him. No; Ludwig would have just said, 'I'm sorry'.

'It was my fault.'

Meg hadn't turned, and Alfred thought that maybe he had succeeded this time just because Ludwig was with him, but that wasn't right. Ludwig hadn't learned anything valuable, hadn't overcome that mentality of victimization, and Alfred hadn't accomplished a single damn thing except keeping the dumb bastard from killing himself.

Ludwig would have stayed with Alfred had Alfred started beating him, because Ludwig was just that way, and Alfred didn't know what else he could do about it.

Ludwig would stay by Ivan's side, whatever happened, because maybe Ludwig had been right all along; maybe something in his genes was just weak. The perfect storm of nature and nurture. Control was everything to Ludwig, and Alfred understood now that this was another aspect of that. Ludwig enjoyed control, and that included someone else having control over him. Alfred hadn't grasped that, but it was very easy then to see, as Ludwig held Ivan's hand and took responsibility for something that had never been his fault.

Ivan and Gilbert had always controlled Ludwig, and Alfred had started doing that, too, in his own ways, and that was why Ludwig had been receptive to Alfred, because Alfred was just like they were.

He hadn't helped.

Ivan closed his eyes momentarily, clearly attempting to control his bad temper extra hard in light of the circumstances, and then he finally said, in a very stiff voice, "Ludwig. If you ever loved me, then get out, and leave me alone."

That awful hurt on Ludwig's face, as he blinked quickly and was obviously taken aback and surprised.

Alfred couldn't say he was as shocked as Ludwig was; Toris was a master of his art, and Ivan had no doubt by then read the entire miserable content of that folder.

Ludwig reached out to touch Ivan's cheek, but Ivan jerked to the side to pull away, and repeated, far more irritably, "Get out!"

Ludwig swallowed, and obeyed.

Sort of.

Ludwig lasted an entire fifteen minutes pacing outside the door before he cracked, and slunk back in, Alfred right behind him. Ivan, for his earlier harsh words, sat up with a sharp inhale, eyes wide and looking somehow both terrified and elated.

As it had been before, Ivan hadn't really meant it when he told someone to leave.

The regret was so easy to see there, and Ludwig came forward, fell to his knees on the floor before Ivan's bed, grabbed Ivan's hands, and buried his face atop them.

The first time Alfred had ever seen Ludwig prostrate himself like that, and he hoped to never see it again, when Ludwig mumbled within Ivan's hands, "Please— Please. Please. Please, you have to do the treatment. Please, I can't... I can't..."

Ludwig trailed off, but Alfred finished the sentence up in his head :

'I can't live without you.'

Ivan couldn't live without Ludwig, and Ludwig didn't want to live without Ivan.

Ivan stared down at Ludwig, lips parted, and it was so painful to see a man that was once strong and confident and so happy looking like that. To see Ivan accepting death so willingly.

Ludwig wasn't ready to give up, but Ivan was, and if Ivan didn't want to fight then there was only so much Ludwig could do.

Ivan shakily stood, grabbed Ludwig's hands and pulled him up, forcing Ludwig to stand along with him. But Ivan didn't stay upright, sitting back down immediately once Ludwig was steady, as if all strength had just been sapped right out him. Exhausted, clearly, emotionally, mentally, physically. Everything in Ivan seemed burned out, and at this point, hell, death might have been a mercy for the poor son of a bitch.

Ludwig looked down at Ivan, and beseeched again, "Please."

Ivan's bleary eyes ran over Ludwig's face, ever closer to collapse, and his soft voice was shaking, thick, breaking, when he finally spoke again.

Just a low, mournful whisper :

"I remember now. Everything. All of it. I was up all night. It all came back at once, like some nightmare. I read it all, and I could see it. I remember. And I can't stand it. I promised you— Remember, at the beginning, I told you that I— I couldn't promise you that I would never hurt you, the way we are, you know, all of us, men like us, but I promised that I would— I swore that I would never want to, or mean to. I didn't mean to break that, I didn't, I—"

Ivan was unable to speak more because Ludwig cut him off by throwing arms around his neck and burying his face in Ivan's shoulder. An awful second of Ivan's eyes meeting Alfred's, a second of intensity, and then Ivan's face was hidden when he pressed it into Ludwig.

Alfred wanted to just go home. Hated seeing this.

When Ludwig pulled back, what felt like hours later, Ivan's red eyes ran over Ludwig's face once more as he uttered, "I'm sorry. I didn't wanna hurt you. I just— Everything looked so different. I was scared. You were the only thing that looked the same. I didn't want to let you go. When you were gone, I was afraid all the time. I'm sorry."

Ludwig stayed silent, likely because he simply couldn't have spoken then had he tried. Ludwig clenched Ivan then to shield him yet again from the cruel world, but this time it wouldn't work, however firm Ludwig's grip.

Ivan remembered.

Alfred had thought of Ludwig as a lighthouse, and it was clear enough then that he wasn't the only one that needed that light of guidance. As the tumor had twisted the world and everything in it, as familiar faces and places warped and distorted and became frightening, it was Ludwig who had remained bright and beautiful in Ivan's delirious eyes.

Why Ivan had done anything and everything to get to Ludwig, how he had managed such inhuman strength and feats. To reclaim some small sense of normality. Serenity.

To find something that would keep him from feeling that terror, if only for a few seconds.

Ludwig tried to be brave, to stay composed, and he murmured, "You also promised me that you'd never go away. Remember? You promised me that you'd always be there."

Ivan's eyes lowered to the floor, and he was painfully silent.

A promise, made long ago by a healthy young man in love.

One last time, Ludwig begged, "Please."

Please.

Please don't give up. Please don't die. Please don't go away. Please don't leave me behind.

Ivan looked up again, cheeks damp again although this time there had been no sound, and Ivan tried to smile, for the first time in a long while. Fell halfway, and Ivan instead lifted his shoulders, as if he was simply too lost for words and bewildered to do anything else.

The complete and total disbelief of a man who just didn't know what to do.

And then Ivan pressed up suddenly and kissed Ludwig's forehead.

He said no more, and Alfred knew that Ivan was letting go.

Saying goodbye to Ludwig, and Ludwig knew it too, for his face collapsed and he dissolved once more into tears. He fell onto his backside, knees up, and buried his face in his hands as his entire universe went dark. As Ivan had caterwauled in the face of losing the one he loved, so Ludwig did the same then, as Ivan refused to save his own life.

Alfred and Ivan stared down at Ludwig imploding, and stayed silent. In the end, the only move they made was to glance mournfully at the other. They couldn't help Ludwig then, because they were the cause of his distress.

Alfred had promised Ludwig that he would stay.

Ivan had promised Ludwig that he would always be there.

One of them had to be a liar.

Ludwig cried for well over an hour.