Chapter 35
Empty Houses
Two days after Alfred had talked Ivan out of committing suicide, the treatment began.
It wasn't exactly what Alfred had expected, though he could never have said what, precisely, he had ever really expected something like that to be.
All of the legal papers had been signed. It was all official; after this first treatment, Ivan would be released and go into the outpatient program. A month in the hospital now, and finally Ivan could walk out of the front door and go home, rather than straight into a jail cell. All of the charges had been dropped. Not by Gilbert, so much as the state. No prosecutor on Earth woulda touched this case with a ten-foot pole. The publicity would have been horrific, had the media caught wind of it. Trying a dying man over something he hadn't been able to control. And Ludwig, naturally, would have been Ivan's star witness.
So Ivan was free to go tonight.
Alfred wondered if Ludwig would follow him, and it would be Alfred in Ludwig's house as Ludwig went to Coney Island.
Ludwig, mute and melancholy, gathered up a little suitcase at home and packed it full of Ivan's clothing. Had to have something to wear out in the cold.
Ludwig was so quiet. Sad. Alfred dreaded Ludwig breaking down and opening his mouth and saying, 'Come home with us.'
Ha—yeah right. Ludwig would have said, 'Come home with me.'
In Ludwig's mind, Alfred was pretty sure the only 'us', the only 'we', was Ludwig and Ivan. Alfred was just there, the safety net waiting loyally beneath the skyscraper window.
The time had come, and Ivan was getting paler and paler as he glanced anxiously at the clock.
No one knew what to expect.
Ludwig had been holding Ivan's hand within his own, whispering away about absolutely nothing at all, and there was a knock at the door. A man came in, one Alfred had never seen. Blond and blue-eyed, bespectacled, smiling in a calm, pleasant manner that was rather nice to look at.
He came inside, walked up to the bed, and said, far too cheerily, "Good morning! Ivan, it's nice to meet you at last. Awake, at any rate." The man stuck out his hand to weary Ivan, who took it. Even from where Alfred stood, he could see how lax Ivan's grip was; as weak and half-hearted as everything else. Still tried to smile though, as the man carried on, "I'm Dr. Von Bock. I'm the radiologist. Call me Eduard. I'm going to be getting you started today. I'll walk you through everything, alright? Don't be afraid."
Impossible—who could ever not be afraid?
Ivan was brave, strong, fearless, but even he had been completely worn down, and it was easy to see in his tense brow and pursed lips that he was actually quite afraid, thanks a lot, so why even bother?
Ludwig looked more nervous than Ivan, and his grip on Ivan's hand intensified.
Ivan finally gave a nod, and the new doctor seemed satisfied. He was much friendlier outwardly than Kiku, but likely just as professional, and they must have worked together frequently. No doubt Kiku had told Eduard every single little last detail about Ivan, so maybe Eduard's cheeriness was in response to Ivan several times refusing treatment.
To spur him on.
Eduard took the seat in front of Ivan, pulled out a folder from beneath him arm, and started going over everything that was about to happen. Alfred tried damn hard to listen to every word, but he felt so squeamish and sick and most of it was above his head, anyway. All he really managed to grasp during that hour long tirade was that Ivan would be getting treated every single weekday for the next month, and then they would see how he was doing and go from there.
What the treatment was, exactly, wasn't quite clear to Alfred, because he frequently zoned out as he watched Ludwig's hand clenching Ivan's so tightly that Ludwig's knuckles were white and Ivan's hand was tinting blue.
Ivan signed some papers, reluctantly, glancing guiltily from time to time at frazzled Ludwig, and then Eduard stood up.
"Very good!" he said, pleasant voice so happy, so out of place in this dreary room. "Shall we get started, then?"
Not a question, really, because Ivan had no choice.
Ludwig stood up, gently pulling Ivan to his feet as he had a hundred times in their lives, and Alfred almost smiled just a little when Ivan sat into the wheelchair Eduard had brought in. Almost, because Ludwig tutted and fussed and repositioned Ivan several times to make sure he was comfortable, and then at the last second Ludwig grabbed the blanket from the bed and practically smothered Ivan with it to cocoon him in warmly.
The smile dropped as quickly as it had come, because Ivan's eyes reddened and glistened and he turned his head aside.
Having something you loved right there in front of you and yet couldn't have.
Alfred stopped smiling.
The nurse took over and began wheeling Ivan out into the hall, and Ludwig glowered a little because it was so clear that he wanted to do it. Hospitals had protocols, however, and strict Ludwig wouldn't argue and break them.
Eduard led them here, there, down a floor, down a long hall, through a corridor that was full of windows and gave them a view to the snow outside, and then into a very quiet, isolated building. No one else around, and the light was dimmer.
Alfred felt the dread creeping up with every step he took.
A door. Unassuming. Blandly colored like the walls. Nothing amiss at all about it, except for the bright, yellow hazard sign.
The awful radiation warning, instinctively terrifying to any man.
Ludwig kept chewing on his bottom lip, mindlessly, and the wheelchair came to a halt in front of the door. Eduard swiped a card. The door opened. Ivan looked as if he were being pushed right into hell when they went inside.
A cold, quiet office.
Another door just beyond, though, with another yellow sign.
Eduard sat down at the desk, Ivan and Ludwig in front, as Alfred lingered in the corner. The nurse swiped her own card and opened up that second door, vanishing inside. A large pane of glass behind the desk, and a light flickered from within. Extremely dull, hardly useful, and Alfred tried to focus on the nurse tinkering away on some machine instead of on that pitiful Ivan.
The hairs on the small part of Ludwig's forearms that were visible were standing on end. Alfred didn't really think it had too much to do with how cold the room was.
A few more words, instructions, things Alfred couldn't bring himself to pay attention to, and then Ivan stood up on Eduard's command. He raised himself to his full height, pulled his chin up, squared his chest and shoulders as best he could, trying at that very last verge to be dignified. As if Ivan were just so scared that he tried to puff out and make himself look bigger as he would have in the face of an enemy.
This time, though, the enemy was Ivan's own body.
Ludwig watched as Ivan walked into that room when the nurse held open the door, as if he were watching Ivan walk right off the edge of the Earth.
The door shut behind Ivan, and Ludwig let loose a great, shaky sigh.
Eduard kept on smiling, trying to be encouraging even then, and Alfred was so nervous, so sick, so jittery, that he uttered mindlessly, "I didn't think chemo was this damn creepy."
Creepy, alright. Looked more like some horror movie, this place.
"This isn't the chemo," Eduard said, easily, as he pulled a very heavy-looking apron off of a hook on the wall. "We're not doing that today. This is radiation therapy. We won't start chemo until later. Could be a month, maybe two. It depends."
A crinkle of Ludwig's brow as he dropped his eyes, and Alfred didn't care about how dumb he might have looked when he grunted, "Oh. I thought they were the same thing."
"A lot of people do. No worries."
Alfred was curious, nosy, because he always was, and maybe he blabbered then because he was trying to distract himself from reality.
"So—what is the difference between this and chemo?"
Eduard pulled the apron on, tied it behind his back, and so casually said, "Chemotherapy involves the use of drugs. It will look a bit like dialysis to you, I suppose—"
"Eh?"
Eduard snorted, and simplified, "When we do chemo, I'm gonna pump him full of chemicals with a big needle."
Alfred shuddered.
"This is radiation therapy. So, now, I'm going to go pump him full of radiation with a big machine."
Ludwig moved his jaw back and forth, perhaps a subconscious effort to stifle his own nausea, and Alfred sometimes just didn't know when to stop.
"But doesn't radiation make you sick?"
"Yes," Eduard patiently answered. Guy musta been a saint. "Radiation kills DNA. Too much of it will kill a human, but we're aiming it right at where the cancer has spread, so we'll kill more cancer and less Ivan. But he'll still get sick."
Messed up.
Alfred scoffed, and muttered, "So you make him sicker, to make him better, huh? Makes a lot of sense."
Eduard gave a snorting laugh, seemed to find Alfred's blabbering amusing more than off-putting, and glanced up through his pale lashes to answer, drolly, "I suppose you're not wrong."
With that, Eduard stepped inside the room, leaving Alfred and Ludwig to stare in through a window. Ludwig came forward, and so Alfred had no choice but to follow him.
The room beyond was dim, cold, white, and a huge machine lied in the center, where Ivan was lying down and waiting, the nurse speaking to him from above, suited up. Eduard pulled on a similar suit, Ludwig briefly looked away, and Alfred knew that it was hard for Ludwig to see someone intentionally hurting his husband, even for the greater good. So long Ludwig had protected Ivan, but this time he could do nothing.
Eduard positioned Ivan very carefully, and it was hard to watch as Eduard prodded and poked and scanned and then repositioned and prodded and poked some more. Ivan was silent, still, so docile, cooperative, but only because Ludwig was watching.
Alfred didn't know if the glass was two-way or not, if Ivan could see them as they could see him, but Alfred turned around halfway through, because it felt respectful and also because he was about to puke.
Eduard took up some sort of pen, about forty minutes later, and marked little dots on Ivan's neck and chest, near the armpits.
Eduard's lips were always moving, but Ivan never responded.
Ludwig shut his eyes and paled a bit when the machine finally started whirring. Damn—it was loud. So much louder than he had thought, and Alfred glanced over his shoulder and wished he hadn't, because he could glimpse Ivan's face just enough to see that he was scared.
Shit.
Ludwig blinked quickly, swallowed, and Alfred gathered up the courage to rest his palm on Ludwig's back. Ludwig leaned in to Alfred's side, and didn't say a word.
Once more, a sick Ivan was confused and helpless behind a pane of glass.
It took a while, and Alfred had long since managed to sit Ludwig down in a chair to ease his mind a little. Not that it worked, but not sitting there watching every second had to have helped a little.
The door finally clicked open, and Eduard came out.
Ludwig leapt up, and asked, "Did everything go well?"
"Perfectly," Eduard supplied, true or not, and Ludwig relaxed a bit.
Perfectly? Bullshit. Eduard had just radiation-beamed that son of a bitch, and that was the farthest thing from perfect.
Ivan came out shortly after with the nurse, Ludwig darted up to him, and Ivan tried so hard then to keep up that dignified, stoic act. He fell short. Ivan's lips were pursed, pale as a sheet, cold sweat visible on his brow, scared to death and yet still trying to be brave.
Eduard seemed pleased enough, and he smiled to Ludwig and said, "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"
Ludwig swallowed, and gave the least enthusiastic smile Alfred had ever seen in his life.
Ivan was breathing through his mouth, and for once Alfred wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or terror. Couldn't blame him; must have been terrifying, knowing that radiation had just been forced into your body and knowing what was going to happen. Maybe it was even more terrifying for Ivan, who was Russian and had grown up in a country that had had its fair share of disaster with radiation.
Eduard led them over to the desk, sat them all down, and was still smiling away.
To Ludwig, Eduard said, "When we're finished with treatment entirely, we can remove those with lasers."
It took Alfred a moment to realize that Eduard was referring to the dots he had marked on Ivan's skin. Ah. It wasn't ink that Eduard had used to mark Ivan, or at least not the kind Alfred had assumed. Eduard had tattooed him, permanently, presumably so that he would know exactly where to aim that radiation the next time.
The least of anyone's worries.
"Now," Eduard began, his soft voice soothing, despite it all, "Ivan. I imagine you're very ready to go home at last! I presume you have someone looking over you?"
Eduard's eyes flitted to Ludwig, and so he seemed surprised when Ivan abruptly said, before Ludwig could speak, "No. I'm alone."
Oh, that awful look on Ludwig's face.
Eduard's lips pursed, his brow lowered, and he seemed a bit concerned at that. Confused, perhaps, because Ludwig had obviously been practically using this hospital as a hotel for weeks on end.
"Do you have someone that can stay with you? I'd rather you have someone. I don't like for any of my patients to be alone, especially the farther along we go. You'll be very weak. You shouldn't be alone, if at all possible."
Ludwig turned his head, and settled his eyes on Alfred.
That awful look—swore that in that second, Ludwig was positively pleading with him, begging him without saying a word, and Alfred couldn't take it. Alfred knew what Ludwig wanted, knew what was going to happen, but honestly Alfred didn't know why Ludwig was actually asking.
Ludwig did what he wanted with Ivan. Always had.
...oh. Right. Gilbert was gone. Ludwig needed a backup plan.
What was Alfred supposed to say? Say 'no' and be the shittiest fuckin' guy on the planet? Lose Ludwig forever, if only emotionally, because he had been cruel at his rival's most helpless moment? Was that who he was supposed to be? He couldn't.
His fault, after all; he hadn't let Ivan go quietly.
So Alfred twitched his head, just a little jerk, hardly a nod, but Ludwig's eyes fluttered closed in relief all the same, and he immediately turned back to Eduard and said, "I'll look after him. He won't be alone."
Ivan stared at Ludwig, and seemed mesmerized but also devastated. Couldn't figure out Ivan's look, because maybe Ivan didn't know what he was actually feeling.
But the misery under everything else was visible.
Eduard, for his part, seemed relieved, and carried on.
"Very good! Now then. Ivan, I'll be sending you home with a lot of papers. Read them all, if you please. Very important. Go home. Get some rest. Eat some good non-hospital food. Sleep. And I'll see you back here at eleven in the morning, sharp."
Eduard stood up, forced Ivan into another handshake, clapping Ivan's hand within both of his own, and then Eduard turned his attention to Ludwig. He rested a hand on Ludwig's shoulder as Kiku had, lowered his voice, and whispered, "Don't give up. You would be surprised at the things I've seen the human body being capable of."
Ludwig's eyes watered, but he remained composed, and nodded his head.
"Thank you."
Eduard sent Ludwig a reassuring wink, and then suddenly, too fast, Ivan was in the wheelchair again, and before dazed Alfred knew what was happening they were outside. The air was cold. The sky grey. Snow falling.
Ludwig looked around in utter confusion, so lost, and so Alfred took the car keys from his pocket and said, "Wait here. I'll get the car."
Ivan, for his part, sat in that wheelchair in front of the nurse and seemed to have shut down. Up in space.
A month ago, Ivan had held a knife above Ludwig and torn a skyscraper apart. Now, in his most vulnerable moment, Ivan was going home with them.
Bizarre.
The duo had become a trio.
Ludwig wasn't going to Coney Island after all. Neither was Ivan. They were just going back to the house Alfred had started calling home.
Alfred threw Ivan's little suitcase in the trunk, the nurse and Ludwig helped Ivan into the backseat, Ludwig plopped down beside of him, and Alfred's hands rested on the steering wheel for a long goddamn time before he was actually able to put the car in drive and start out.
Home.
Whose, though?
Ivan refused to look at any of them, and Ludwig clenched the blanket in his hands, staring blankly ahead. Alfred was in full autopilot, driving mechanically, and sat still for a moment long after he had pulled into the parking garage. It was Ivan who stepped out of the car first, perhaps feeling stifled. Alfred grabbed the suitcase from the trunk without a second thought, because he really was just Ludwig's pack-mule, and they started walking.
Oh, had anything ever been more awkward?
The house came into view. Their door.
The window that Ivan had stood before in the middle of the night in the freezing cold, staring and staring, motionless, void.
Ivan knew it, too. Put his eyes on the sidewalk, and didn't look back up.
It was a bit surreal, stepping through that door with Ivan, as he essentially moved in with them. Ivan. How that must have felt for him, moving back into a house that had always been his but that now belonged to someone else. Someone else sleeping in his bed.
Alfred was silent, absolutely silent, as he set the suitcase down, and Ivan looked very awkward, trying hard not to look over at Alfred. Between them stood Ludwig, who seemed so lost. Bewildered in some way. Once more, Ludwig was caught in between two men who had both put him into very precarious predicaments.
How could they coexist?
And then of course there came the technical aspects; where Ivan would sleep, where Ludwig would sleep (that one was terrifying), how they could ever possibly live in this horrific situation where someone's heart was absolutely going to be broken, no matter how hard everyone tried to get along.
Ivan was weak, spent, and would only get worse, so obviously Alfred couldn't in good conscience give him the upstairs bedroom. Had to give the bastard his bed back, and hated it, hated it, and he hated more having Ivan inside this house when so many little remnants of his former self remained. The stains on the carpet, the scraped varnish on the railing, the claw marks upstairs, the patched holes in the living room wall.
And Ivan must have felt that way, too, because his eyes were firmly on the floor and didn't once lift up, even as Ludwig took his arm and led him over to the couch.
Ivan did glance up, however, towards the piano.
Ludwig disappeared into the bedroom with Ivan's suitcase, and Alfred didn't follow, because in his heart he knew that Ludwig was putting Ivan's clothes back up and taking that photo out of the drawer and probably setting those wedding rings down on the end-table.
Couldn't stomach it.
Ivan sat himself down on the piano bench, perhaps because that was really the only thing that he felt still truly belonged to him in this house. Alfred caught Ivan glancing up at the wall above the couch, and knew that he remembered his anniversary gift to Ludwig.
Alfred sat on the couch, and stared at Ivan. Didn't mean to, wasn't trying to make him uncomfortable. It was just so bizarre, and it was like seeing a bit of the past, wasn't it, Ivan sitting there at that piano after Ludwig had longed so for him to be there.
When Ludwig came back out, a while later, he came up to Ivan, and said, to absolutely no one at all, "I missed the music."
Ivan didn't look up, running his fingers barely atop the piano.
Ivan must have been exhausted, drained, must have felt like he could have keeled over and died right there, must have had absolutely nothing left in him, and so Alfred was somewhat awed when Ivan suddenly opened up the piano.
The keys gleamed in the pale winter sun, low in the sky.
Ludwig's breath hitched in anticipation, he leaned forward, eyes on Ivan's big hands, and Alfred could so easily see the love there.
Alfred clasped his hands, set his elbows on his knees, leaned forward as well, and waited.
Ivan positioned his hands, then fell still. A million things running through his mind, no doubt, anxiety and insecurity. Ivan, who had been unable to play as the tumor had stripped him of himself, and now perhaps he was unsure if he still possessed the ability.
A few quiet, soft, tentative plinks. Just a feel for the keys. Testing the waters.
Ludwig scarcely seemed to be breathing.
Ivan's hands fell down into his lap, and Alfred thought briefly that Ivan had choked, lost his nerve or will, or maybe he just couldn't remember how. Thought that Ivan had given up on that, too, had once more mentally withdrawn.
He hadn't.
Suddenly, Ivan took a great breath, and in a blink he had pulled his hands up and then thrust his fingers powerfully down onto the keys.
A deep reverberation. Low tones.
Ludwig froze up like a statue, mesmerized. Alfred didn't realize that he too had started holding his breath.
It was slow at first. Deep and solemn. Ivan's brow had crinkled in concentration, his eyes lidded and downcast, covered by his lashes. Nostrils flared and wrists loose. The low keys mingled with higher ones, dancing in abruptly and then gone, and the pace began to quicken.
Alfred didn't know a damn thing about classical music anymore than he knew about ballet. Could never have told anyone what this piece even was or what it was called or who had composed it. Didn't know anything at all, and didn't need to.
Could feel it all the same.
He was fascinated by Ivan's hands. Ludwig had been right; Ivan's hands were nothing at all like one would imagine a pianist's hands to be, yet they moved swiftly, surely, with no doubt and no quiver. Knew exactly where they needed to be and what they wanted to do, and as the pace grew ever faster, Ivan's eyes had closed.
Didn't know how he did it, but it was beautiful.
Faster and faster, more intricate, every possible key being used, and Alfred could scarcely keep up with Ivan's hands at all they were moving so fast. Sometimes, his right hand crossed entirely over his left, back and forth, this way and that, and Alfred could hardly believe what he was seeing, just because he had never seen anything like it before. Had never known musicians, had never seen any classical concerts, had no experience whatsoever with any of this, and every move Ivan's hands made seemed impossible in a way. Entirely otherworldly.
The melody changed suddenly. The solemnity vanished, high and low keys gave way to middle ones, a brightness came in. Something intangible but audibly happy.
Maybe Ivan was playing what he felt for Ludwig.
Lost memories and sentiments, bursting forth after Ivan had lost them for so long.
Brightness turned into something calmer. Couldn't describe it as much as he could feel it. Serenity somehow, despite the rapid pace and flitting hands.
Alfred had never known that a single man playing an instrument could ever evoke such emotion.
He sat there utterly breathless.
He didn't know how long Ivan had been playing. Time was lost.
And then, as the snow fell harder, that electric, furious pace began to soften. Ivan's fingers suddenly started slowing down, the melody became less brisk, weaker, fading away into the air, and that was because Ivan was, too. Could see the exhaustion on his face, and when his hands abruptly fell still atop the keys, he was breathing heavily through his nose. Winded, from simply playing the piano.
The illusion shattered, as Ivan panted for air.
Already gone, even though he sat there yet in front of them.
Alfred stared at Ivan long after he had finished, and air seemed hard to find. Could never have possibly expressed how he felt, because it was too much of everything and yet also somehow painfully empty.
But, oh—
That beautiful expression on Ludwig's face. As if he had lived in night his entire life and had just watched the sun rise for the very first time with every possible color painted across the sky.
Seeing that look stung, because Ludwig had never once come close to looking at Alfred like that.
He could see that clearly now.
Ivan turned to Ludwig, and breathed, "Sorry. I'll try again later."
Ludwig shook his head, eyes red and lips parted, and all Ludwig uttered then was a weak, "That was enough."
And Alfred believed that Ludwig meant it.
It was always just enough.
Everything went quiet then, as they slunk away from each other and hid in their various corners, trying to settle in and figure out where they each fit in.
They came together only when Ludwig made dinner and gathered them up.
Not the best dinner, for sure, as everyone wanted to be somewhere else.
Ivan didn't eat, no matter how hard Ludwig tried to coax him, and Alfred didn't need for Ivan to speak up to know that he was terribly nauseous. Could see it on his pale face. The way he swallowed so frequently and took often to breathing through his mouth. Ludwig tried and tried, but Ivan wouldn't budge, and then Ludwig started crying and so Ivan hung his head and conceded, and then shortly after he ran to the bathroom and threw up.
Ludwig cried more, and when Ivan reappeared Ludwig whispered, "I'm sorry."
Alfred stared at the table, and wished he was somewhere else.
Ivan went to bed shortly after, in Alfred's bed. Ivan's bed. Ludwig's bed. Didn't even know anymore, but it had been Ivan's before it had been Alfred's. Ivan shut the door behind him, and a sad, dejected Ludwig crept upstairs and burrowed under the blanket.
Alfred was the last to retire, and for a while there he considered sleeping on the couch, because that might have been less awkward.
He eventually decided to go upstairs, got in bed, threw an arm over Ludwig, and tried to sleep, because Ludwig needed him.
Didn't he?
Maybe not; after about an hour or so of restless shifting, tossing, turning, Ludwig suddenly sat up. He looked around in the dark, as if in a daze, and when Ludwig swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, Alfred didn't even bother asking where he was going.
Already knew.
Ludwig crept out of the bedroom, shut the door behind him, and went downstairs. Alfred lied on his side and watched the window, counted the minutes, but Ludwig never came back up.
Restless sleep. Cold and lonely.
At dawn's cold light, Alfred walked as quietly as he could downstairs, steeled his will, and very slowly pushed open the bedroom door. Saw everything there he expected; Ludwig, asleep, with Ivan held in his arms, Ivan's face burrowing away into Ludwig's chest. Even then, with the heat blasting, in his sleep Ivan was shivering.
Alfred went into that defensive state of autopilot and headed for the kitchen, and as he went he reached out crankily and turned the thermostat up a handful of degrees. Bastard. He made coffee, sitting at the table and staring so blankly at the wall that he didn't even hear Ludwig come out a long while later.
A hand on his shoulder. A long, awkward silence, and then arms wrapped around his neck, Ludwig buried his face in Alfred's hair, and his voice broke and shook when he uttered, "I'm sorry. Please—he needs me more than you do right now."
Alfred knew that, and that was why he was still sitting here like a damn fool.
But what could he really say? Every single thing happening now was not only something that Alfred had seen coming, but also something he had allowed.
Alfred finally whispered, pitifully, "I know."
All he could say.
Ludwig kissed the side of his backup plan's head, and then retreated back into the bedroom to tend to his number one.
Bitterness.
Alfred lifted his eyes and over and over again to the open frame that divided the kitchen and the living room, and no matter how hard he tried, his gaze always drifted down to the areas he had painted over. Over to the cabinet he had fixed.
He stood up, abruptly, and walked over to the bedroom door in a moment of anxiety. He leaned against the wall, leaned in as far as he dared, and tried hard to listen in, because he was a nosy bastard.
Low whispers, scarcely audible and only in segments.
"...be back home."
"It's not my home...more."
A pause.
Ludwig's sad tone.
"This has always...your home."
Alfred heard just enough, shook his head, and backed off. A couple of hours later, the door opened and Ludwig came back out, a disheveled and abashed Ivan in tow. Ivan's head was hanging, eyes on the floor, and it was clear that he was desperately attempting to avoid accidentally looking at Alfred.
Why bother? They were living together now, for at least one month in certainty, but very likely it would be until Ivan's death if Ludwig had his way.
Alfred was, after all, in Ivan's house, really, not the other way around.
Still Ivan slunk around as far from Alfred as possible.
Ludwig made breakfast. Small talk. Awkward looks, Averted gazes. Ivan picked at his food, halfheartedly, but would only truly eat when Ludwig gave him no choice. Alfred stared at Ivan from time to time, inadvertently making Ivan squirm, and Ludwig was alert and aware and yet seemed stuck under the surface of some great wave. There, but not.
After the most awkward household breakfast known to mankind, Ludwig reminded Ivan that he needed to get ready. Ivan obeyed, as he always did, and came out of the bedroom later in a sweater that was clearly his and yet also clearly too big now.
Ludwig looked him up and down, and still managed a smile, in spite of it all.
Then, in the most profound moment for Alfred in a very, very long time, Ivan stopped there by the door, and put on his shoes.
The shoes that had survived so many years there, waiting. Maybe Ludwig putting them under the tree really had served a purpose, for here Ivan was against all odds, as if truly borne from some desperate wish.
Alfred drove to the hospital that day, as Ludwig sat in the backseat with Ivan and read over Eduard's papers briefly with him, as much a businessman as Gilbert. Ivan nodded along, blankly, but likely didn't hear a word, as his eyes kept meeting Alfred's in the rearview mirror.
Ivan must have been waiting for Alfred to punch him in the face, what with Ludwig creeping downstairs in the middle of the night.
The hospital came too soon, Ivan paled into a sickly yellow shade in preemptive fear, Alfred's stomach hurt, and Ludwig held his head high to pretend that he wasn't dying inside at the sight of a scared Ivan. Eduard, on the other hand, was positively peachy, beaming as brightly as the day prior, and greeted them all with a handshake and a smile.
"Good morning, Ivan! Ready?"
Ivan shrugged a broad shoulder, and grunted.
As good as anyone could get, really.
Eduard smiled anyway, and walked over to get that heavy apron.
As Ludwig murmured to Ivan to encourage him, Alfred found an opportunity to go in to Eduard, and ask, pointedly, "So he has to go through a month of this, and then, what? It's gone? It's done?"
What Alfred really wanted to know was for how long, precisely, Ivan would be sleeping in his bed.
Eduard's brows shot up, he looked startled, but just for a second, and then his face was suddenly as blank as Kiku's, in what was no doubt their defense mechanism for dealing with hard situations.
"No," Eduard began, softly. "You misunderstood. A month of this every day, and then, come the second month, if he's responding well then we'll start adding in the chemo. If not, then we'll wait another month before we combine them. This treatment will last a minimum six months. It could even be longer. I'm sorry if you misunderstood."
Six months?
Alfred's face must have fallen, and Eduard glanced back and forth between Ludwig and Alfred, as if he were attempting to establish their relationship in his head. What role they played with each other.
Yeah, good luck, buddy—even they couldn't figure that out.
Eduard must have known from Kiku that Alfred was a 'bodyguard', the most useless one to have ever existed (according to Kiku, probably), and Eduard decided he wanted nothing to do with this at all and turned his eyes away.
Good choice.
Eduard ushered Ivan into the room, that awful machine whirred so loudly, Ludwig fretted, and Alfred tried to come to terms with the fact that he was just a guest, sleeping in the guestroom after all. A roommate, a tenant. Little more. Until Ivan died, Alfred was a roommate. He should have just left, he knew it, but couldn't bring himself to do it, because Ludwig needed help with Ivan and needed a shoulder to cry on from time to time.
Alfred was in love with Ludwig, and so it didn't really matter if Ludwig was in love with him.
He would stay all the same.
Ivan would get sicker and sicker, and so maybe it was Alfred's duty to lend a helping hand. For going so often behind Ludwig's back, for being Gilbert's pawn.
His penance.
Ivan was still that awful shade of yellow when he came out of the room, Ludwig immediately went up to his side and placed a hand on his back for balance, and it made Alfred's stomach twist when he saw Ivan's hands shaking. Wondered what it must have felt like to be locked in that machine, completely immobile as radiation was blasted right at you. Couldn't fathom how scary that was. Knowing that this doctor was intentionally making him sicker and weaker, to try and save his life. Knowing what lie ahead.
Wondered if it hurt.
Didn't really wanna know, in the end, and would never have been tactless enough to attempt to ask Ivan.
Eduard came out after, shed now of his thick suit, and Alfred thought that, for just a second there, Eduard had looked as tired as Ludwig. Gone in a flash, though, replaced by that pleasant smile. He must have noticed how sickly Ivan looked, suddenly, for he led Ivan over to the chair in the corner and motioned to the trashcan beside of it.
"It will come and go," Eduard murmured to Ivan, as that cold sweat began shimmering on his forehead and nausea was clear for all to see. "I'll give you some medication for it. It won't always help, but it usually will."
Ivan closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth, as Ludwig turned aside to stare at the wall in a moment of utter vulnerability. Alfred went to Ludwig's side and tried to be silent support when Ivan finally bent over and retched.
The worst sound.
That was an awful morning, and the car ride back home was painfully silent.
Ivan rested his head against the window, and Ludwig stared out at the passing city. Seemed no one wanted to make eye contact, because everyone was still trying to pretend that everything was going to be alright when it was so clear that it wasn't.
They stopped at a pharmacy to pick up bags and bags of medication. Christ almighty, how many damn pills was Eduard trying to shove down poor Ivan's throat? Couldn't stand the sight of it. Made him want to puke, too.
On the way back to the house, Ludwig grabbed Ivan's hand, and Alfred didn't even bat an eye. Hated saying that he was kinda glad Ludwig had, because Ivan was so sick and needed every little bit of comfort he could get.
Ivan went straight for the bedroom and crawled under the blanket, and he wouldn't come out again until Ludwig forcibly dragged him out for dinner.
Dinner. Pfft—just let the poor guy sleep.
Ludwig ran a hand over Ivan's short hair, tried to encourage him, coax him, spur him, but Ivan just shook his head over and over again and wouldn't eat. Must have felt so awful, couldn't imagine, and when Ludwig kept pressing and pressing, Ivan finally whispered, "I can't. I can barely swallow. My throat feels like it's closing up."
Needless to say, a panicked Ludwig instantly called Eduard. As Ludwig sputtered and fretted over the phone, Alfred stared at Ivan, and noticed that, indeed, Ivan's neck and jaw did seem quite swollen.
A side effect of the radiation?
Ivan glanced up suddenly, grey eyes meeting Alfred's, and it was a long, strange stare between them. Until Ludwig hung up, and redirected Ivan's attention by uttering, "The doctor said it's normal. It should go down in a few hours. But please... You have to eat something. The medicine will make you sick if you take it without eating."
Ivan scoffed, and replied, "I'm already sick, ba—"
Ivan abruptly cut himself off, and it took Alfred a second to realize that Ivan was trying to stop himself from using affectionate monikers with Ludwig.
After all...
Alfred was here. Ivan and Ludwig weren't together anymore. The divorce papers Ivan had seen had made that painfully clear.
Ludwig no doubt caught that as well, and whispered, simply, "Please."
Abashed, likely, Ivan took a deep breath and tried to eat a little, to appease a Ludwig on the very verge of a mental breakdown.
Pitiful, the both of them.
After Ivan had done the best he could, Alfred shuddered when Ludwig gathered up the pills and set them in Ivan's big palm. So many of them, and so big. Ivan looked nauseous just looking at them there, paled again, pursed his lips, but had no choice.
That was an awful moment, as Ivan tried to swallow those huge pills with his swollen throat and sometimes needed a few tries to get one down. Ludwig's eyes were red, filled with water, but he didn't let himself cry then because Ivan needed a firm hand.
Looking at Ivan then, though...
Alfred felt guilt more than anything, because maybe he hadn't done the right thing. Maybe it would have been kinder, more merciful, to let Ivan make his own decision to slip away. God knew that that cancer couldn't have hurt anymore than this awful treatment to slow it down. Torturing the poor bastard, just to get a little more time.
Not fair.
It wasn't ten minutes later that pale Ivan bolted upright wordlessly from the kitchen table and stumbled into the bathroom. Ludwig stared after him, swallowed, and then finally dissolved into tears. He stood up shortly after, and vanished. Alfred didn't go after him, because sometimes you just needed to be alone.
Maybe...
Alfred should have just let Ivan go.
Ivan came out a good fifteen minutes later, yellowish and eyes bloodshot, and sat right back down at the table as if nothing had happened. It took him a moment to realize that Ludwig was gone and probably wasn't coming back, and instead of just going to bed, Ivan sat there with Alfred.
The sound of the wind outside. Snow in the streetlight. The heat blasting.
Alfred and Ivan alone again, for the second time, with everything said and done.
After so long, Ivan finally looked into Alfred's eyes, and breathed, weakly, "I'm sorry."
Didn't express for what or why, and didn't need to.
Somehow, someway, Alfred understood.
Ivan wasn't saying 'sorry' for almost killing Alfred, for any pain he had caused his physically, for any of the chaos he had set loose upon Alfred's world, for any of the threats, for any of the stalking, for any of the criminal and dangerous acts that could never be taken back.
That awful look on Ivan's face was far too easy to read.
'I'm sorry,' Ivan said, and Alfred didn't need a translator to understand.
'I'm sorry that I'm here.'
'I'm sorry that I'm still alive.'
'I'm sorry that I'm in love with the same person that you are.'
Alfred and Ivan stared at each other for a long while, as everything in Alfred steadily started burning out, and Alfred finally replied.
So many things he had wanted to say to Ivan, so many things he had wanted to befall him, so many dismal and vindictive things.
Instead, all Alfred said was an equally weak, "Don't be."
Pathetic.
Ivan wasn't even really there, anyway. Three men now in this house, and yet it seemed still so empty. Vacant. Abandoned. Three ghosts, more like, three lost souls wandering aimlessly, seeking happiness but never finding it.
No one here at all.
Even though Ivan was awake and lucid and sane right there before him, in some way Alfred felt that Ivan was still in a coma, because there was no real reason for Ivan to truly wake up and come back to the world if he couldn't have Ludwig.
Sleepwalking.
Even when he sat there awake, Ivan was yet asleep. The lights were on, but nobody was home.
Eternal slumber.