Chapter 36
The Way It Was
A house wasn't a home without love.
It was just a pile of wood or bricks, walls and floors and ceilings, with no substance, no warmth, no sentiments, no personality. Just a house. Nothing more, nothing less.
Without Ivan, Ludwig wasn't really Ludwig.
Ivan wasn't really Ivan.
Just two shadows that happened to be lurking in the same house in which Alfred resided. Two phantoms, wandering aimlessly. Alfred could see them, could smell them, could speak to them and interact with them, could feel them, they were completely real and very much there, and yet in some way Alfred felt as if they had been lost to him on some misty plane. Alfred wasn't able to really connect with them, because most of their time was spent staring at the other mournfully, sometimes smiling in devastation and other times whispering with tremors.
Was he a ghost, too?
Did Ludwig see him, smell him, feel him there, and yet find himself unable to connect? Maybe. Would explain a lot, anyway, since Ludwig had slipped into some sort of permanent daze.
No one here was really lucid.
It wasn't a home anymore. Just a house, with three lost, confused people bumbling about inside.
But sometimes, in the right moment, in the right mood, when the stars aligned, there were little moments of light. Alfred observed them as an outsider, because he was never a part of those little sparks when they happened.
They happened only between Ludwig and Ivan, those little embers of normality. A glimpse of home, warmth, comfort.
Love.
The ways things used to be.
Glimpses of the past.
In the morning, when Ludwig would pour Ivan a mug of coffee, he would take it over to seated Ivan and hand it out instead of putting it on the table. Ivan would reach out with both of his own huge hands to take it, and in passing their fingers would brush. Time seemed to slow for them in that moment, two pairs of longing hands recovering something dear they had lost, and Ludwig would smile down at Ivan in a burst of warmth. Ivan's tired eyes lidded in calm rather than exhaustion as he stared back up, and Alfred could see them then as two young people that had run away together and were remembering each dawn that they only needed each other.
One afternoon, Ivan went to fetch the mail, perhaps in some small way attempting to make himself useful. Ludwig watched him hawkishly from the living room, always guarding, but Alfred hadn't missed his soft smile. When Ivan came back in hardly a minute later, out of breath but alert, Ludwig stepped over to him. One step, and then another, and with each one Ludwig took, Ivan stood up straighter and straighter, until his chin was as high as it could go and his shoulders braced. His legs spread, his chest puffed out, and Alfred rolled his eyes as Ivan did his little peacock-dance for Ludwig. Couldn't be mad, though, because Alfred did the same damn thing every time Ludwig closed in on him, and it was nice to see something alive in Ivan, something still burning deep down under the ash. Ludwig had come forward and taken the mail from Ivan's hands, nearly pressing their chests together. Ivan's arms had lifted, for just a moment, and Ludwig had leaned so slightly in. Ready to fall into each other's arms, but they resisted at the last moment. It had been easy to see there, though, a younger Ivan coming back from work late and a smiling Ludwig sauntering over and welcoming him home.
Other times, Ivan and Ludwig just stared at each other from across the distance, saying a million things with their eyes alone, and Alfred envisioned them in lives past, their gazes locked as they gave up everyone and everything around them in order to be together.
Little sparks, here and there, lighting up the dark.
Simple things, nothing extraordinary, and yet profound for Alfred as he witnessed them.
Love was the driving force behind human nature, and Ivan and Ludwig basked in the dying glow of the fire that had been their romance.
The way it was.
It hurt to see, yeah, but it could never have hurt more than the way things were at present. To envision the way things had been years ago, and then for that illusion to vanish and to be left with the sad, hollow reality of the way things were now.
Ivan was disappearing right before their eyes.
It was hard to watch such a big, strong man deteriorate. Alfred just glanced up one day over the table and realized how much mass Ivan had lost. Had looked like a tank of a bodybuilder before, and now, as Alfred stared at him, Ivan just looked more like a normal man. Still a big guy in his frame, granted, but he had lost so much weight by then that he was slightly smaller than Alfred despite standing six inches taller. His sweaters were too big for him, loose and long. Wasting away.
Alfred didn't need to like Ivan to have sympathy for him, even though sympathy was something he didn't really want to have at all.
He couldn't help it. Alfred was only human, too, after all.
But, oh, sometimes...
Just wished someone would look at him the way Ludwig looked at Ivan.
Would never be, until Ivan was gone. Ludwig could only truly love one man at a time, and, as always, Ivan was the real king of the castle, however hard Alfred had tried to snatch his crown.
Valentine's Day was approaching again.
Just like the one before, the lead up was remarkably dreary, sad, and distant, as Ludwig once more stared off blankly into space. Alfred plotted, as usual, ways to creep in, ways to remind Ludwig of his existence. Ways to get Ludwig to himself, just for a day.
Alfred considered getting a nice hotel for the night, whisking Ludwig off and trying to make him smile again as he had before. Go all out like he hadn't been able to the year prior. Just the two of them for a while, reclaiming some sense of normalcy and affection. Feeling loved again, if only for a few hours.
Alfred glanced up, and grimaced.
Ludwig was sitting sideways on the couch, Ivan in between his splayed legs. Ivan's back was up against Ludwig's chest, and Ludwig was running firm hands down Ivan's swollen neck. Massaging it to get the fluid moving, and Ivan's head was hanging as he dozed in and out. The adoration on Ludwig's face was easy to see, because it was so bright. A burst of sunlight from behind a cloud front.
Alfred turned away, and scrapped all ideas completely.
Ludwig would never leave Ivan for a night, and if he had, would have fretted endlessly and there would have been no romance for it.
All signs pointed to this relationship being over. Everything was clear for all to see, and yet Alfred stubbornly refused to acknowledge it, forcing himself to see only what he wanted to see. There was no future for Alfred and Ludwig as long as Ivan was alive, and Ludwig seemed to be pretty damn determined to make Ivan live another hundred years.
Not so long ago, he and Ludwig had been huddled there on that couch, looking at homes in Kitty Hawk.
It was the worst feeling, because any other day Alfred would have been so glad to grab that jackass' collar and yank him in and punch him in the nose for havin' the gall to lay hands on Alfred's boyfriend. Couldn't do that now. Ivan was impervious, behind the shield of sickness, and Alfred couldn't even muster up any anger at the end of the day. Could barely even lift his eyes, let alone his fist.
Couldn't be mad at Ivan, because Ivan didn't want to be here anymore than Alfred didn't want him here.
This was all Ludwig's doing, really, either by his own hand or by Alfred's guilt.
Ludwig finished rubbing Ivan's swollen neck, leaned down and whispered something in Ivan's ear, and there was a sharp pang in Alfred's stomach when Ivan leaned back wearily and rested his head on Ludwig's shoulder. Just for a moment—Ivan's eyes widened, he very quickly sat back up, and glanced over at Alfred. Remembered where he was and with whom and how things were, and without a word Ivan stood up and retreated into the bedroom.
Ludwig watched him go, and the sunlight went away, too.
Dark again.
Ludwig looked over at Alfred, Alfred couldn't think of anything to say, and they parted ways.
Everything was upside down.
The day before Valentine's Day.
Alfred had let all ideas go, because there was no point. Ludwig only had eyes for Ivan, and if there was to be any romantic notions today, it would likely be from Ludwig trying to cheer up a fading Ivan.
Alfred came downstairs later than usual, for lack of motivation, and was right; in the kitchen, on the table, was a large bouquet of flowers. Alfred knew who they were really for, and didn't bother making eye contact with Ludwig. Ivan, for his part, saw the flowers there when Ludwig called him in for breakfast, and he stood there for a long second in the frame. Alfred didn't miss the shine in his eyes, the quick blinking, the pursing of his lips, and felt rather heartsick.
For himself or Ivan, he couldn't say.
Every breakfast was awkward, but that one was exceptionally so, though perhaps not for Ludwig. Ludwig rested his chin in his palm and smiled across the table fondly at Ivan, no doubt reliving Valentine's Days past up in his head. Sometimes, Ivan glanced up long enough to meet Ludwig's eyes, and tried to smile back.
Alfred contemplated getting a hotel room that night after all, but for himself alone.
Better, maybe, than watching Ludwig and Ivan mourn each other even as they sat inches apart.
Those little moments of reprieve for Ludwig, however, were always short lived, and today was no exception.
After breakfast, Ivan stayed in the bathroom for an unusually long time. Ludwig, always hovering over him and panicking, went to the door and knocked. Ivan didn't open up at first, and Alfred wearily looked up from his coffee, waiting to see what the problem was now. Hoped the jerk hadn't fainted or anything, because Alfred wasn't looking forward to breaking down the door.
But no; Ivan eventually opened up, and Alfred could see on his face how hard he was trying then to be casual. As if everything was alright. But Ludwig saw everything, everything, and immediately lifted his hands up to Ivan's face, tuning it this way and that. It took Alfred a long time to see what Ludwig was looking at.
Ivan's hair.
It was still damp from his shower, but with how short it was now Alfred could see Ivan's scalp gleaming through on one side, where apparently a large chunk of hair had just fallen out.
Oh, damn—
Ivan tried to smile, tried to wave Ludwig off, but Ludwig just looked like everything in him was dying along with Ivan.
Later on in the afternoon, after treatment, Ivan disappeared again, and when he came out of the bathroom that time, he had shorn his hair off entirely in a buzz cut. If ever Alfred had thought that Ivan was a Russian-looking motherfucker before, then, whew! Looked like he had walked right out of the KGB with that hair. Coulda stood next to Putin and Alfred wouldn't have batted an eye.
For it all, though, the way Ludwig looked at Ivan never changed, however much Ivan did.
Time passed slowly. Quietly.
Alfred and Ludwig were always sweating these days, shirts damp and foreheads glistening, because the thermostat had been cranked up ever more as Ivan grew weaker. The guy was always freezing; what could they do? Alfred was an asshole, yeah, but Alfred wasn't about to be that much of an asshole, wasn't about to be the guy that was mean to another guy with cancer. Couldn't say to Ivan, 'Suck it up, man, everyone else is sweltering.'
Would never.
Anyway, it was kinda cute to see Ludwig going all out. Ludwig looked like a mother getting her kid ready for school every morning, when he doted on Ivan and literally bundled him up in about three sets of sweaters and then layering on socks. Ivan gazed down at Ludwig, utterly spellbound, as Ludwig coddled him. Ivan always seemed astounded in some way that Ludwig was really there, no doubt because Ivan was shocked Ludwig would want to be there after everything Ivan had done. Ludwig would just look up at melancholy Ivan, and would try to cheer him up by running a finger down the sole of Ivan's foot, where apparently Ivan was ticklish. Ivan jerked back, cracked a smile as their eyes met, but it always eventually faded.
Sad, yeah, but cute.
Before Alfred knew it, the month had finally finished. Time now to see how Ivan was coming along with therapy.
Alfred wasn't sure what he was hoping for, but no doubt Ivan hoped he wasn't responding at all so he could have a better excuse to just lie down and go to sleep.
Eduard and Ludwig had other ideas, naturally, and Eduard was smiling a bit more sincerely that time when he shook Ivan's hand.
"How do you feel?" he asked, with a glance at Ludwig.
Ivan felt like shit, probably, and that was likely what he wanted to say, but Ivan only lived now for Ludwig and so he grunted, "Okay."
Eduard clapped Ivan's shoulder, seemed spurred on and a little riled up even. Alfred imagined it was because Ivan had been such a difficult patient for Kiku and Eduard, essentially a completely lost cause, until Ludwig had refused to give up. They were proud of their work, for sure, and Ivan really was exceeding their expectations.
Kiku had put Ivan into a coma that first time, never really anticipating that he would wake up again.
Here Ivan was, against all odds, because Ludwig's will demanded it be so.
Still, the brush of death was undeniable, especially in this room, where the wan, strange lighting caught Ivan's hollow cheeks and eyes and cast such stark shadows.
Eduard sat down, and declared, "You're responding extremely well to treatment." Alfred didn't miss the quick lowering of Ivan's eyes in obvious disappointment. "Today, we're going to change the routine. You'll get the same radiation therapy as always, and afterwards, we're going to start the chemotherapy. Just like before, I'll walk you through everything, so—"
"Don't be afraid," Ivan interjected, dismally and very sarcastically, and Ludwig snapped his eyes over to Ivan as if angered.
Eduard was unfazed, used to bullheaded patients surely, and didn't miss a beat when he chirped, "That's right!"
Ludwig was staring away at Ivan, piercingly and sharply, those same razors that Gilbert threw out when he was displeased, and Alfred was squirming on Ivan's behalf. When Eduard stood, Ivan happened to turn his head and catch Ludwig's extremely stern expression. A passing of shame on Ivan's face, quickly gone when Eduard ushered him into the room beyond.
Ludwig crossed his arms over his chest, and glared instead at the machine attempting to turn Ivan into a one-man-Chernobyl.
Alfred stayed well and far back, so as not to catch Ludwig's wrath.
Ivan stayed equally far back when he came out, because when Ludwig snapped and was in 'that mood', even the bravest man would have had second thoughts about squaring off with him. One punch in the nose had been plenty for Alfred, thanks.
Ludwig's eyes stayed on Ivan, trying to burn him alive, the entire while Eduard spoke.
Ivan stared blankly at Eduard's chest, and Alfred wondered if he was even listening.
"This treatment will be in cycles. We're going to start out with a four week cycle, and in the next few months we'll make it six weeks. You'll have treatment three times this week, three times next week, and then you'll have a two week rest period. Next month, the same thing. It's going to be an IV infusion, so we'll need about two hours for each treatment to finish."
Ivan nodded along from time to time, as Alfred squirmed queasily. Had so many awful things floatin' around in his head, and all of them were making him sick.
Ludwig was still glaring away at Ivan, and Alfred was somewhat glad since he would rather Ludwig look pissed than a breath away from tears.
Ludwig didn't need to try so hard to keep Ivan in place; Ludwig had already broken the big bastard into submission long ago, and Ivan should have had the right to be snappy, too.
Ivan was the one dying.
Some more papers were signed, and then Eduard led them out of that awful room and back into the hall. Another maze of corridors, the elevator going up, another quiet walk with footsteps echoing on cold tile, more phantoms wandering in a daze, and then there was another door.
This one wasn't as scary-looking as the door to the radiation room, but Ivan's brow was shimmering with cold sweat and his fists were clenched defensively.
Ludwig was ever cutting Ivan with his eyes, daring Ivan to open his mouth and try to resist. Ivan would never—he owed Ludwig.
When they walked inside that room, Alfred found himself lingering just outside the frame. For just a moment, god, he didn't wanna go in. Didn't wanna see, didn't wanna be there, didn't even know why he was here to begin with, when no one else really wanted him here.
Why was he here?
A voice from what felt like forever ago. Tired, and overwhelmed.
'No. Do the chemo.'
Right. He was the reason Ivan was here, and maybe by then Alfred stayed in this ridiculous situation because of Ivan. Perhaps at some level he was here for Ivan more than Ludwig, because Alfred had forced Ivan's hand and also because, dammit all, Alfred related more to Ivan than anyone else around him.
Ivan wasn't really here right now because of Ludwig. He was here because Alfred had guilted him out of his wish to die on his own terms. Alfred was the reason Ivan was in this room right now, why Ivan was suffering, and so Alfred should have stood there and watched.
So he stepped inside, even though he didn't want to.
He was surprised.
This room was a very far cry from the cold, frightening, isolated room down below. This room was bright, painted in warm colors and well-lit, the air was heated, and, most surprising of all to Alfred, they weren't alone. There were people in here, perhaps ten at a glance, in various corners of this large room. They sat on chairs, sofas, at tables. Some of them reading, some of them on computers, some of them drinking coffee and chatting with others.
But all of them hooked up to a machine.
Ludwig took his razor eyes off of Ivan at last, to take in this very different environment.
Eduard turned back to look at them all, and his smile then was as warm and bright as this room.
"Better, huh? Time to bring you back into the world."
Ivan lifted up his head at long last, to observe. Didn't say anything, didn't look happier by any stretch of the imagination, but Alfred thought that maybe his posture had loosened up a little. There was certainly some sort of psychology put into this room, careful use of color and decoration and scent. Meant to encourage, to offer hope, and perhaps even weary Ivan felt that a little.
The gentle hum of people speaking melded into the background as Eduard led them over to their own little corner. A curtain for privacy, and Eduard pulled it out as he sat Ivan down on a recliner chair and himself on a little stool. Ludwig hunkered in beside of Ivan, but his eyes then were sweeping over the other people in the room.
Eduard scooted himself over very exuberantly on his wheeled stool, feet off the floor and smiling like a dork, trying to be as cheery as he could no doubt, and he was obviously very used to no one smiling during his shenanigans, because his feelings were clearly not hurt when Ivan rolled his eyes and crinkled his nose.
As Eduard began hooking up cables into a chest-high machine, Ludwig asked, softly, "So he can walk around during this?"
"Yup," Eduard chirped, adjusting his glasses when he swirled around to face Ivan. "This is your personal little home away from home. There's a little cafeteria in the adjacent room. You can get a coffee, sandwich, whatever you want. There are books, computers. Cards. Board games. Make some new friends, if you wish. All of these patients have been coming for at least two months. You're the newest. They can advise you, maybe better than I can. Get to know them."
Alfred followed Ludwig's gaze and looked quickly about the room, but far from curious and eager, Alfred felt rather sad about it. A room full of people with cancer; what was more of a buzz-kill than that?
Two older men in the corner, playing checkers while laughing. A middle-aged woman alone on a chair, snuggled under a blanket with a book, her hair gone. An old woman bundled up and chatting with her family, there for support. A boy, a teenager, fifteen or so, with a bandana covering his head as he played a videogame. His whole life ahead of him, but only maybe.
Didn't wanna be here, however warm this room was.
Ivan shouldn't have been here, statistically speaking, and maybe these people too had all conquered unfavorable odds to be sitting here right now.
Eduard pulled on a new pair of gloves then, and Alfred's stomach dropped right down into feet when Eduard opened a draw and pulled out a huge fuckin' needle. Ivan paled, swallowed, and Ludwig averted his eyes.
Eduard set the needle on a tray, along with a tube and cotton swaps and rubbing alcohol, and Alfred couldn't stand the smell of it when Eduard began rubbing Ivan's arm to disinfect it. Just that automatic response to knowing something painful was coming, and Ivan turned his head entirely aside when Eduard came at him with the needle. Alfred didn't throw up, shockingly, when the needle was plunged into Ivan's vein, but he was clammy as hell by the time Eduard connected the needle to the tube that fed into the machine. A few more seconds of tinkering from Eduard, programming, and then Eduard pressed a button.
Ivan's first session of chemotherapy officially began.
"There!" Eduard said, as he removed his gloves and stood up. "This will take about two hours, so get comfortable. When you're all finished, the nurse will unhook you, and you're free to go. I'll see you again tomorrow morning for our regular treatment. Ludwig, call me if you need anything or have questions. I have to go. Have a good day, all of you."
Alfred managed a halfhearted wave of his hand, Ludwig breathed, "Thanks", and Ivan just stared away at the wall despondently.
Ivan didn't get up and walk around once during those two long hours. Didn't say a word, and only looked from time to time at the IV pumping him full of chemicals. Alfred couldn't blame him, because he wouldn't have been in the mood to 'make friends' either.
Ludwig stood guard there the entire while, as much of a silent sentinel as Alfred had ever been.
At first, Alfred thought that the chemo was a hell of a lot better than the radiation therapy. Seemed so much less sinister, frightening, harmful. Sure, a big needle and mystery drugs sucked, but nothing could have been worse than radiation, right?
The nurse unhooked Ivan when time was up, they all walked silently out, and Alfred drove home, as usual. Didn't seem too out of the ordinary. Just an extra step three times a week to their usual schedule. Ivan threw up all night, despite the pills Eduard had given him, but that wasn't too unusual either.
It was after the second session of chemotherapy that Alfred realized he had been mistaken.
Chemo wasn't better, not by a long shot.
In fact, it seemed quite a lot worse. To be perfectly honest, the chemotherapy was one of the most awful things Alfred had ever seen. Not the treatment itself, no, not really the sight of it being done, but rather the horrific effects that it caused.
Eduard really was making Ivan weaker and sicker, to make him better, and it was so hard to watch.
After the second treatment, Ivan threw up about an hour after they arrived home, and he stayed in the bathroom for hours, presumably lying on the floor in misery. Ludwig knocked and knocked, but Ivan wouldn't open the door. He passed the night there, and when the sun rose the next day, Ludwig leaned against the door and whispered, mournfully, "Please come out."
Ivan did, looking like hell, and Ludwig just observed him up and down, as if confirming in some way that Ivan was still there.
Ludwig had a huge stack of papers sitting on the counter, and he read them every single night, a hundred times over, because he was terrified he would miss a symptom of Ivan's that could be dangerous. Ludwig was already a clean freak by nature, but had become more so lately, with Ivan being so much more vulnerable to illness.
If Alfred heard Ludwig tell him to wash his hands one more damn time...
Alfred always obeyed, though, because he was scared of getting Ivan sick, too, and Ludwig washed his hands so much that the skin above his knuckles was cracked and bleeding.
After the third chemo session, Ivan's arm was black and blue around the injection site, and Alfred noticed that his neck was bruising, too. In fact, everything seemed to bruise Ivan, and sometimes when he spoke, he would stop abruptly and swallow because his gums had started bleeding. He was always nauseous, and spent more time in the bathroom than out, and Ludwig was at his wits end.
Every day, it seemed Ivan lost more and more weight.
When the second week of chemo came to an end (with a blown-out vein in Ivan's right arm), it was clear enough that Ivan wasn't just nauseous, but was in actual physical pain. He ground his jaw and winced every time he stood, he was reluctant to move much, he clenched and unclenched his fists every few minutes as his fingers went numb, the bruises were darker, and he looked so tired.
On the last session of chemotherapy before the two week break, Ivan ran into the bathroom, threw up, and that time in his haste he hadn't had time to close the door behind him. Ludwig knelt next to him, rubbing a hand down his back, and Alfred hung outside, maybe still trying to be a bodyguard in someway, though he couldn't help Ivan in any practical sense.
Awful retching, and then, to Alfred's dismay, there was a great, dry sob that didn't come from Ludwig.
Ivan.
Alfred turned around, and looked in.
Ivan had rested his head atop the closed toilet seat, one arm above his head, and the expression on his face was heartbreaking, even if Alfred didn't like Ivan much. He was crying, and Alfred heard what he whined out to Ludwig through sobs and coughs.
"Please— When it comes back after this is over, please, please don't make me do this again. Please. Just let me go, please, this hurts so bad. Promise me you'll let me go, please. I can't do this again. Promise me I won't have to do this again."
Alfred felt that awful burn up his neck, the rapid blinking, as Ludwig hung his head, pressed his forehead into Ivan's back, and whispered, thickly, "I promise."
How that must have hurt to say.
For Ludwig to even think about giving up.
Alfred stood there for a while, and then he turned around and walked to the bedroom. He stopped short, turned back around, and went to the kitchen. And then back and forth again, and again, and he didn't know where he was going or what he wanted to do, because he just wanted to help and there wasn't any way for him to do so.
Helpless.
There was nothing anyone could do to make Ivan more comfortable.
In the end, Alfred pulled on his boots and jacket and went for a walk around the neighborhood, because he had started crying and he didn't want to risk anyone seeing. He stayed out until the sun was low in the sky, and then quickly hid himself upstairs, because he didn't want to see if Ivan was still writhing in pain.
He had made the wrong choice.
Should have let Ivan go.
The next morning, Alfred crept down, later and later every day, since he didn't need to follow Ludwig to work. He made it to the bottom step, and heard low voices from within the kitchen.
Alfred stopped short and hung around the corner, as he often did, just to be nosy. He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, exactly. Just wanted to know how much pain Ivan was in before he came barging in. So he would know how much he needed to steel himself.
Could never have steeled himself enough for what he heard that morning.
There was a short silence, in which Ivan must have been staring at Ludwig as he always did, for Ludwig suddenly pried, "What?"
A low noise of contemplation, as Alfred's imagination ran wild.
And then Ivan spoke up, softly, and said something that absolutely shattered Alfred's remaining heart.
"I'd give up all of these miserable five years, if I could— If I could just kiss you."
Oh, that awful silence then.
Alfred very quickly retreated back upstairs, because he didn't want to know if Ludwig had pressed forward then and kissed Ivan. Didn't want to know, and didn't know what he wanted. He wanted Ludwig, but at some human level he was hoping Ivan could catch a break. Back and forth, like always. He didn't want to lose Ludwig, didn't want to became Ivan's cheerleader, but...
Ivan was dying.
It wasn't until nightfall when Alfred came back out, creeping around once more. No need for extreme stealth; Ludwig had fallen asleep on the couch sitting upright, from utter exhaustion. Ivan wasn't immediately visible, and Alfred tiptoed carefully around the couch and into the kitchen so as not to wake Ludwig.
Ivan was sitting there at the kitchen table, staring down at a book. Alfred quickly realized it was a photo album, and when Ivan glanced up and saw Alfred there, he abruptly shut the book. Wedding photos were likely in there, and Ivan opened his mouth.
Before he could speak, Alfred cut him off with a low, "It's alright."
Alfred went to make coffee, as Ivan turned his eyes back down and reopened the book.
Alfred hadn't seen that photo album anywhere—another thing Ludwig must have hidden away to protect.
Alfred leaned against the counter as the coffee brewed, observing Ivan quietly in the meanwhile. He couldn't see the photos very well from where he stood, but could catch little glimpses here and there, and sometimes pale Ivan's lips twitched into a smile.
Without thinking too much about it, Alfred asked, "Want a coffee?"
Ivan glanced up briefly (but not through his lashes, because they were all but gone), and then nodded.
They weren't strangers anymore, but not friends. That awkward in between, where you were still getting to know someone that you weren't sure you actually really liked or not.
Out of habit now, Alfred washed his hands twice before he poured Ivan a coffee, and avoided breathing too close to it. Alfred set the mug down in front of Ivan, didn't hand it over like Ludwig did, and then took the seat across from him.
Ivan's eyes ran over the album, face wistful, and when Ivan closed the book a while later, Alfred inclined his head and asked, "Can I?"
Ivan hesitated, seemed anxious, nervous maybe, but finally slid the book silently across the table. Alfred took it, flipped it open, and instantly smiled.
As he suspected. An album full of just Ivan and Ludwig.
The very first photo was like a punch in the stomach, though, beautiful but devastating, and Alfred's smile momentarily dropped.
Ludwig and Ivan, alright, but clearly not too long after they had started sneaking out together. Ludwig must have been seventeen or eighteen in that picture, young and bright and so handsome, and even though he wasn't smiling, he was still beautiful. Ivan's arm was around Ludwig's shoulder, forcibly hauling him in for that photo, and Ivan was huge, strong, healthy, bright-eyed and smiling in that gawky manner he had, canines sticking out and hair messy. Not as handsome as Ludwig, no, but clearly just as beautiful in his own way then, and Ivan looked so happy.
Alfred glanced up at Ivan now, so much thinner, paler, weaker, hair very nearly gone completely from the top of his head, bruised up and sick.
Hurt to see.
Ivan only had eyes for the album, and suddenly whispered, "He hated taking pictures, at first. I had to drag him. He wasn't used to it."
No doubt, with Gilbert's strict, no-nonsense upbringing.
Alfred flipped through the album, and could steadily see, page by page, Ludwig opening up more and more in each photo. Smiling tentatively at first when Ivan wrangled him, and then slowly but surely the smile grew wider.
A picture of them in DC, in front of the Washington monument. Must have been shortly after they had married, because Ludwig was positively beaming in that picture, popping up on his toes in order to be the one with his arm over tall Ivan's shoulder, and Alfred could see the rings on their fingers.
It was Ludwig, then, who looked so happy.
They looked as perfect together then as they had in the wedding photo Alfred had seen the first night inside this house.
In a way, Ludwig and Ivan truly had been meant for each other.
Alfred flipped the pages, and saw pictures in what must have been Germany, Russia, Japan, Hawaii, some places he didn't recognize, and many pictures from around the city.
And then, abruptly, the album cut short, and was over.
Alfred knew there wasn't another one, because Ivan had started withdrawing, and taking pictures together had no longer been on anyone's mind.
A long, heavy silence, as Alfred slid the book back over to Ivan, who rested his hands atop it almost protectively. They sat quietly, avoided eye contact, sipping at their coffee and probably both wishing they had never met the other.
The moon came out from behind the clouds, as Ludwig slept away on the couch.
It was Alfred who suddenly and abruptly broke the silence, by lifting his head and asking, softly, "What made you fall in love with him?"
Why he had ever asked that, he had no clue, because he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Ivan turned his head, seemed startled, and uttered, dumbly, "Huh?"
A nervous vocalization, rather than Ivan actually not comprehending.
Alfred looked Ivan up and down, and pried, "What drew you to him? Why him?"
He was curious, maybe, but perhaps he had asked because he was still trying to show Ivan up in some way, still searching for excuses, for reasons, still grasping desperately at straws, anything at all that Alfred could have latched to that implied Ivan wasn't a good man.
He knew it couldn't be, but clung yet to the notion of Ludwig in his mind.
Ivan stared at him, brow crinkled and looking quite hurt, and Alfred might have felt a little bad for it.
After a long silence, Ivan shrugged a weak shoulder, and whispered so breathily in his pretty voice, "He remembered me."
It was Alfred's turn to utter, "Huh?"
A pale, halfhearted, thin smile, as Ivan repeated, "He remembered me. The day we first met— We ran into each other in the door. When I came back two weeks later to speak to Gilbert, I passed Ludwig in the hall. He stopped, and said he was sorry for running into me before. Two weeks later, and he remembered me. We had only seen each other for less than a minute, but he remembered me. No one had ever remembered me before. No one ever... I worked with the same men for years and years, and half of them still didn't know my name. I never had any friends here. It was so hard for me to talk to people. Men here are so different than back home. I never felt like I belonged. No one ever noticed me, or wanted to get to know me. But he remembered me. That's why."
Another weak lift of Ivan's shoulders, a forced laugh that sounded more like a sob, and Ivan lowered his eyes.
Alfred sat in silence as his stomach twisted.
Ludwig had never been able to forget Ivan, even when someone else had been sleeping in his bed.
Ivan turned the tables, and asked Alfred, "When did you fall in love with him?"
Alfred opened his mouth, and hesitated.
He hesitated because Ivan's answer hadn't been what he had wanted, Alfred's insecurities were rising up, and Alfred couldn't really say, 'when I saw his legs'. That was flippant, and not exactly true.
Alfred lowered his eyes to the table, stopped thinking so hard about it, and his answer came to him rather quickly.
He met Ivan's gaze once more, and said, "He let me inside when it was cold out. Even though he didn't want me here. He let me inside. No one had ever done that before."
No one had ever seen Alfred before Ludwig, and so Alfred understood so well what Ivan was trying to express. Someone noticing you. Seeing you. Remembering you. Remarkable. Ludwig had seen these two unremarkable men, and had made them remarkable by simply noticing them. Taking them to heart and mind.
An awful sting of his eyes, and Alfred very quickly turned his head away. Felt so sick, couldn't stand it, always felt so miserable, because he loved Ludwig, loved him so much, but Ivan loved him, too.
Alfred was so sick all the time because in his heart he knew that he wasn't doing the right thing.
There was no point in denying it anymore. Had to come to terms with it all. Alfred had stopped doing the right thing a long, long time ago. He wasn't the hero in the story, and hadn't been since the day Gilbert and Toris had dragged him out into the hospital hall in order to bribe and stoke him.
Ivan stared at Alfred for a while, studied him, and then turned aside to the open frame and let his eyes fall upon sleeping Ludwig.
Another horrible silence, and then Ivan whispered, perhaps more to himself, "My greatest fear was that someone else would fall in love with him. That he would notice. He'd leave me, because he's better than me. I was afraid of losing him, because no one else would ever love me. I knew for me, it was always him. Without him, I knew I wouldn't have any sort of life. I'd follow him, anywhere. Anywhere in the world, I'd go. But I can't now. He's not mine anymore. I had wanted to— I had a lot of plans. I wanted it to be another eighty years, not five, but I'm... I'm glad I got to know him for nine, at least."
Alfred swallowed, felt that chill of nausea, that unsteadiness and unease. Hurt and guilt and fear.
Ivan was Alfred's reflection, and Alfred knew that if the roles had been reversed, he would have been praying, praying, that Ludwig would have just stayed by him for whatever time he had left. That everyone could have forgiven him just enough to let him borrow the one thing he loved, just for a little while. That someone would do the right thing.
The right thing.
Ivan stared over at Ludwig for hours, and all Alfred could think of was that Ivan looked at Ludwig then the same way that Ludwig had looked at Ivan's hands in the hospital.
Taking in all you could, because it would be gone soon.
Ivan smiled suddenly, blinking away, and Alfred couldn't stand that expression on his face and stood up to leave.
As he went, Ivan murmured after him, "I promise, when the treatment ends, I'll leave. I won't bother you two again. But you must promise me in return, to— Stay with him, always. Please. Keep him safe from men like me."
Alfred fell still in the threshold, but was unable to look over his shoulder at Ivan. Didn't have the nerve or the heart.
Had to go, and didn't know where.
So Alfred barely managed to whisper, as Ludwig had prior, "I promise."
He fled then, as usual, Ivan's words chasing him.
Men like me, or men like us?
No.
Men like you, Ivan should have said.
Ivan was entrusting the wrong man, because Ivan didn't know the whole story. Ivan didn't know everything about Alfred. Didn't know what Alfred had been doing in the shadows, didn't know that Alfred was far more similar to Toris and Gilbert than Alfred would have ever admitted.
Alfred had already failed once before, and his second chance was a dark, tangled, confusing mess.
Alfred wasn't the hero.