Chapter 15

Overdose of Fear

The snow was high as January rolled along.

New Year had been uneventful; Ludwig had just locked himself up in his bedroom again and cried after drinking too much, the air of awkwardness lingering after Alfred had bombed.

Alfred didn't tell Ludwig about the gun that Gilbert had gotten him, but he didn't really need to. Ludwig was sharp, observant, quick, and had noticed that the gun Alfred hooked into his belt every morning was different. He didn't say anything, but Alfred could see the crinkle of worry in his brow, the crease on his forehead as he stared away at the pistol.

Maybe Ludwig knew who it had come from and why.

That aside, once the holidays were over, Ludwig perked back up a little, and everything seemed forgotten. Ludwig was actively retorting to Alfred now on a consistent basis, and Alfred was steadily scooting himself across the couch. Hadn't closed the gap yet, but was ever closer. Ludwig must have noticed, as he noticed everything, but was silent.

A good sign, maybe.

Alfred was steadily putting the guilt behind him, because hell—if he ended up shooting Ivan and killing him, then the bastard had it coming. Hadn't killed the other guy like he had always wanted, and maybe taking out that anger on Ivan wouldn't be such a bad thing. Ivan's mother was dead. No one would mourn him aside from Ludwig, and Ludwig would eventually get over it, because if it did happen then it was because Alfred had had no choice.

Toris and Gilbert had sworn to shield Alfred from the law as much as Alfred shielded Ludwig.

So far, though, Ivan had been MIA.

The beginning of February.

Alfred had played out a hundred scenarios in his head, considered the pros and cons, the possible outcomes, and had decided that he and Ludwig were far enough long now to where finally kissing Ludwig wouldn't cause the poor bastard a complete mental breakdown. Ludwig and Ivan had been technically apart now for around a year, a little less. That was enough time for Ludwig to move on, right?

Right.

Alfred's grand plan was to spring upon Ludwig on Valentine's Day, which mercifully fell upon a Sunday. He had it all mapped out in his head. He would take Ludwig out on a lunch date, to a café or some such, and then would wear his new suit to take Ludwig on a trip to the theatre. Afterwards, when they came home, Alfred would wait for Ludwig to go take a shower and then set up a more romantic atmosphere in the kitchen. Candles, flowers, the whole she-bang, and when Ludwig was good and well seduced Alfred would lean across the table and kiss him.

He had played it over and over in his head for weeks, and was so set on it, so desperate for it to be that way, that he never once considered anything going wrong.

He bided his time.

When Tuesday came rolling around yet again, Alfred looked forward to seeing Gilbert's manor if only for the sea. The house was kinda creepy to him now, sure, but the beach was great, even covered in ice and snow. It had become his day to hang out on the back porch and just watch the waves, as Ludwig tidied up. Nothing had ever calmed Alfred quite like the ocean. The one happy place he had.

Weeds swaying on the sand dunes in the wind.

He had spent nights sleeping on the dunes back home. A safe place.

Alfred went in and out of the house for the hours they were there, dividing his attention between the sea and the pretty blond thing bustling about.

When he went back in and found Ludwig sitting on a chair, hemming a worn edge of Gilbert's shirt, Alfred sat down in front of him, and randomly asked, "How come you didn't move back in here instead of being alone?"

It showed how far they had come that Ludwig's mood didn't founder, and he easily met Alfred's eyes as he replied, "I did my time with Gilbert. I wasn't looking to return. Not after all that. Nothing is worse than a Gilbert that can say 'I told you so'."

"Fair enough," Alfred laughed, and watched Ludwig sew with fascination, as always.

After a second, Ludwig did add, "I do miss the beach, though. I had gotten used to it. We moved here when I was eleven. Before that, we lived in a penthouse in Manhattan. But when my, ah, dislike of heights became more apparent, Gilbert moved us out here. To make me more comfortable."

Alfred lowered his eyes briefly to Gilbert's shirt, and made a noise of interest.

Curious.

Gilbert was just another man that Alfred couldn't really figure out. When Alfred thought that Gilbert and Toris were the absolute worst, Ludwig would say something like that that made him wonder. As usual, Alfred let his mind wander a little, and turned his eyes over to the couch beneath that portrait. Tried to envision Gilbert at home. How he interacted with Toris. Long ago, maybe Gilbert had sat there on the couch at night, Toris resting against his chest, and upon the laps of both of them reposed a small Ludwig.

This weird family.

Wished he could have been a fly on the wall sometimes. Wished he could see Toris actually walk up to Gilbert and show him affection, if only because he wanted to see if Gilbert's face actually changed, even a little, and if Toris looked at Gilbert as condescendingly as he did everyone else. Wanted to see which one of them was really in charge, despite Gilbert's need for control. Toris was some piece of work, and Gilbert seemed to fall instantly still whenever Toris reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

Wondered how icy Gilbert would have handled a small child running into his room in the middle of the night crying because he had had a nightmare.

Woulda asked, but didn't really think he truly wanted to know the answer. Likely wasn't one he wanted, just like everything else in this world.

Let it go in the end, because Alfred only cared about Ludwig.

They fell into a comfortable silence, as Alfred watched Ludwig tending Gilbert's clothing for a while longer, and then he went back out for one more long look at the sea before it was time to go.

Couldn't wait for Valentine's Day.

Wondered what kind of wine he should get Ludwig. Ah, no need—Ludwig seemed to have an infinite supply down there in those cabinets. Swore that Ludwig could have just pulled bottle after bottle out with no end in sight. A bottomless pit of minor alcoholism.

Amidst his wandering mind and his plans for landing this massive catch, Alfred had made a mistake; he had started letting his guard down, just a little.

Three months since Ludwig had stared into that alley, and Ivan hadn't shown up. No word. Neither sight nor sound. Not a peep. Alfred had stopped looking over his shoulder.

Wrong thing to do.

Alfred watched the gentle waves lapping on the sand and ice, the clouded sky turning the sea a pale grey. Overcast and dreary, but the sound of the ocean was always comforting. Was gonna snow any minute, from the look of it, and Alfred inhaled, deeply, getting in the last of the salt water scent for a full week.

He turned on his heel, and meant to go back inside.

He stopped short for a second when he heard a sudden, awful sound.

Screaming.

An awful screaming. Shrieking. Shrill, cracking, hair-raising. Had never heard such awful shrieking as that, and Alfred came out of his stupor and skidded through the door so quickly that he slipped on the polished floor and fell on his ass. A frantic second of turning his head this way and that to locate the source of that awful screaming, and when he had it, he pushed himself up and started sprinting, pulling his gun out as he went.

Nearly slammed into the front door more than he opened it, and oh, god—!

Terror.

That awful, high-pitched, wrathful shrieking was coming from Ivan.

Had only a split second to take it all in, that scene :

Ludwig was pinned down over the hood of the car by Ivan, in the exact manner a cop would have held down a suspect to cuff them, one hand yanking his arm behind his back and the other hand clenched up in Ludwig's hair to press his face into the car. From the awful, pained look on Ludwig's face, his arm was about to snap at any second. Ivan leaned over him, brute strength on full display, and was just screaming at him.

Had never heard such screaming, he really hadn't, hadn't known anyone could scream like that.

Ludwig's nose was bleeding.

Senses heightened as adrenaline lit him up, he raised the gun and aimed it steady, barging down the drive and to the car, barely able to comprehend a single word that was coming out of Ivan's mouth. Was too high on fear to really focus on that.

Just knew that Ludwig was in danger.

His finger held steady over the trigger, and Alfred was faced with the situation he had been fretting over.

To shoot Ivan dead right there or not.

Knew what Gilbert and Toris woulda said, what they wanted him to do, but Alfred instead took another step, putting himself in front of the car and now within Ivan's sights. Ivan, however, didn't seem to notice Alfred right away, so intent on screaming Ludwig into filth.

Caught a few words, here and there amidst the blood pounding in his ears.

"—you! How could you? What about me? We're married, you're my husband, mine, how dare you! I got you this fuckin' car, and you use to drive him around, who the hell do you think you are—"

Alfred shouted, abruptly, "Get back! Step back!"

At the sound of Alfred's loud voice, Ivan fell suddenly still, and glanced up.

The first time ever meeting Ivan's eyes directly for more than a passing glance. Being locked in that gaze was actually kinda terrifying, because Ivan was terrifying. Those damn eyes were like razors, piercing and pale and crazed. Alfred didn't flinch, but could see why Ludwig froze up under them. As frightening as any radioactive thing up in space.

He shouted, one more time, "Get off! I'll shoot!"

Somehow, someway, Alfred freed his eyes just enough to cast a fleeting glance at Ludwig. Ludwig stared at him, brow low and eyes wide, and managed to give the very slightest shake of his head even under Ivan's heavy hand. Just a little twitch, but it was easy for Alfred to see that Ludwig was pleading with him not to shoot.

Goddammit.

He stared Ivan down again, tried to gather his will, because what Ludwig wanted in the end wasn't always what was best. It would be better to shoot Ivan and get it over with, as Gilbert had said.

Damn, this gun felt too heavy, though, knowing what damage it would cause should Alfred indeed fire. Knowing the kind of bullets that were hidden within.

Ivan just stared back at him, trying to cut him to shreds with his eyes, and then he leaned over Ludwig again, lowering his voice into a dangerous hiss, too low for Alfred to catch any words.

Ludwig squinted his eyes shut, and murmured something, and Alfred just couldn't understand why Ludwig kept on protecting this man.

A terrible, whining noise of pain from Ludwig, when Ivan twisted his arm farther yet. Couldn't stand hearing that from Ludwig, not stoic Ludwig, who never expressed anything. Hurt too much, hearing that, seein' him like that.

What to do—

How the hell had this even happened? Alfred had only been gone one minute, one damn minute, and Ludwig had clearly stepped outside to start the car and let it warm up. Had only let Ludwig out of his sights for a second.

Where had Ivan come from?

Alfred knew the perimeter of the house well enough by then, and just couldn't wrap his head around how Ivan had gotten past Gilbert's defenses.

The bastard had climbed the fence, had somehow scaled it, in spite of his heaviness, and Alfred was awe-struck by that. Musta been twelve feet high, that fence, and somehow Ivan had gotten over it without impaling himself. He had to have; he wasn't wet, so he hadn't swam over.

Incredible.

Seemed Ivan was capable of anything at all if it meant he could get to Ludwig.

Ivan slammed Ludwig into the car, another cry of pain, and Alfred knew it was time to do something. Couldn't stand here and let Ludwig's arm get broken because he was afraid of Ludwig being mad at him for a while.

Ludwig wasn't always right—

Alfred clamped his jaw, focused his eyes, braced his legs, steeled his courage and his will, and did what he needed to do.

He squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the discharge was loud, booming, a powerful blast from a powerful gun, and instantly at the sound Ludwig had cried out in horror. An awful, high-pitched sound, as Ludwig stood on the brink of losing what he loved.

No need for his distress that time, as Alfred held the gun up into the air.

He had fired into the sky to startle Ivan, to wrangle him, to bring him down to reality. Just couldn't bring himself to shoot Ivan in that second, because he didn't truly feel that Ludwig's life was on the line in that moment. Didn't feel that desperation, that despair, that hopelessness, and so Alfred had cast Gilbert and Toris aside.

Couldn't do it.

Not like this.

The threat of a broken arm wasn't a death sentence. Ivan was unarmed, to Alfred's sight and knowledge, and he couldn't shoot him then and keep any sense of honor. And Ludwig woulda died if Ivan had, would have utterly broken down, and Alfred wasn't ready for that. Could justify shooting Ivan to Ludwig in a life or death situation, yeah, but this was not that.

At the discharge, Ivan let Ludwig go, as he raised a hand to his temple with a hiss, turning to look over his shoulder at Alfred in fury. Looked offended somehow, the crazy son of a bitch, as if Alfred had wronged him or something, and he rubbed at the side of his head, wincing away. Like the loud noise had caused him physical pain. Must have been sensitive to loud noises, and Alfred would remember that.

Alfred aimed the gun again, this time right at that wide chest. If Ivan charged at him then, things changed.

Alfred took one hand off the gun and twitched his fingers repeatedly in the air, telling stunned Ludwig silently to get the hell back over to Alfred while Ivan was apparently incapacitated.

Ludwig stood still for just a second, a startled deer caught in headlights, and then he inhaled and bounded.

Remarkably, Ludwig did run over to Alfred, but he didn't leap behind Alfred for protection like Alfred had planned. Rather, the stupid son of a bitch ran straight at Alfred, nearly crashed into him, and placed his chest right on the barrel of Alfred's gun. He reached up, grabbed it, and implored, as Alfred stared above his shoulder in alarm at Ivan, "Don't! Alfred, please, please, don't, don't shoot him—"

Alfred shook Ludwig off, pushed him aside far more forcefully than he normally would have, nearly knocked him over, because Ivan had lowered his hand and straightened up.

A rather terrifying stand off then, as Alfred aimed at Ivan and Ivan glared at him, face still scrunched in pain, and Ludwig kept on trying to grab Alfred's gun. Ludwig looked back and forth between Alfred and Ivan, clumsily uttering mindless pleas as he reached over and over again for the gun. No matter how hard Alfred knocked him aside, Ludwig kept coming back, and irritation was rising.

Was about to knock both of these bastards out.

Ivan wasn't moving though, didn't charge, and stood quite still, recovering from the apparent pain caused him by the blast. His pale eyes flitted between Alfred and Ludwig, and hell, it was kinda funny, but Alfred swore that Ivan suddenly looked upset.

Hurt, even, as his brow crinkled and he swallowed.

Alfred knew then that Ivan had been there that night in the alley after all, and had seen Alfred and Ludwig arm in arm. What Alfred had been nervous about had come to pass, and Ivan indeed had been made jealous.

Great.

Ivan's gaze lingered on Ludwig, and Alfred thought he might have seen a little betrayal written there on that crazy face. As if Ludwig had gone behind his back, cheated, as if Ivan were the victim.

Ludwig's bleary eyes, as he stared back at Ivan and tried so hard to express with his face alone that he still loved Ivan.

But Ivan's eyes flitted down then to Ludwig's hand, and there was no ring there upon Ludwig's finger, even as Ivan's ever glinted in the pale light.

Before Ivan could fly into a rage again, Alfred acted. Without once removing his sights from Ivan, Alfred stepped over, shoving Ludwig behind him and walking them both back towards the gate. When Ludwig was close enough to it, Alfred addressed Ludwig.

Softly, he said, "Open the gate."

Was ready to get this bastard out of here.

Didn't wanna hear Gilbert's godawful meltdown when he found out about this one, on his own property.

Ludwig's hands must have been shaking; Alfred heard the buzz of an incorrect code, and then again, before the beep and the sound of the metal opening up.

Ivan's brow had gotten ever lower, his jaw had clenched up, and in some way Ivan actually looked distraught then. Swear to god the bastard's eyes had gotten as bleary as Ludwig's, red and glistening, his lips pursed, and Ivan looked quite like he was either about to cry or implode.

Woulda liked to avoid either, thanks a bunch, and Alfred jerked his gun testily in the air to draw Ivan's gaze. When he had the whacko's attention, Alfred tilted his head towards the open gate, and said, with no room for argument, "Get the hell outta here."

A flash of anger on Ivan's face, and Alfred brace up for round two.

It didn't come, and Ivan sort of slumped a little, go figure, but Alfred didn't really think that it had anything to do with the gun, nor the fear of being shot. Ivan looked a little defeated, a little sad, and his eyes once more flitted down to Ludwig's bare hand.

But he took a step, and then another, stopping only to send Ludwig a mournful gaze in passing. Ludwig's awful inhale, shuddering and devastated, and then Ivan carried on and was outside. Alfred slammed his fist down on the button, and the gate creaked closed.

Ivan turned around, and stared at Ludwig through the bars.

Alfred relaxed just a little, at least until Ludwig darted forward and grabbed the iron in his hands, pressing up against the gate and staring back at Ivan. Looked like goddamn Juliet, alright, being forcibly separated from Romeo.

Pathetic.

Ludwig rested his forehead against the bars, gazing so longingly at Ivan that anyone would have thought they had been apart for decades. Ivan's face suddenly scrunched, he inhaled as sharply as Ludwig had, and took a step forward.

Alfred felt like an invisible spectator in some horrible, twisted bedtime story, some fairytale gone wrong, as these two damaged people mourned and longed for each other despite being the absolute worst thing for the other. Someone needed to remind Juliet here that Romeo had fallen off his rocker and was no longer safe.

Didn't want that tragic ending.

So Alfred reached out, grabbed the back of Ludwig's collar like he imagined Gilbert did, and hauled him back. Surprisingly, Ludwig offered absolutely no resistance, lax hands falling from the gate, and Alfred wondered if it was because dazed Ludwig assumed it was Gilbert. Obeying instantly out of instinct. Like scruffing a cat, maybe.

Alfred blocked Ludwig from view and pointed the gun once more at Ivan, through the bars, and commanded, "Get out."

That time, at long last, Ivan obeyed.

A turn of his heel, and he was gone.

When Ivan was out of sight, Alfred spat a curse and turned around, yanking Ludwig back over to the car to give him a proper inspection now that the danger had gone.

Hated what he saw, when he cleared his head and looked around.

The car had been a little banged up, as Ivan had used Ludwig as a living hammer against it. A dent in the door, on the hood. The windshield had a crack on it, and maybe that was why Ludwig's nose was bleeding, because he had been slammed against the glass. A small gash on the side of his forehead. Already, Alfred could see a bruise forming over Ludwig's sharp cheek and above his eye.

Alfred was furious about it, about his own failure, and so he took it out on Ludwig. He grabbed Ludwig's shoulders, shook him as brutally as Ivan had, and hissed, "What the fuck is the matter with you? Huh? Are you stupid? Are ya? Huh? Don't you ever get in front of my gun again! Ever!"

He reached up, to instinctively slap the dumb blond, but stopped himself at the last second, because he couldn't hit Ludwig.

Ivan had already done that for him.

Ludwig didn't say a word, and just stared at Alfred very passively. Apathetically. Ludwig had shut down a little bit, and was quite expressionless.

Alfred sighed, looked around in a daze, and all he could really think of to do then was to drag Ludwig back inside the house, take him to the kitchen, and clean the blood from his face and neck. Didn't know why. Just needed something to do before he went crazy, he figured, because Ludwig certainly wasn't bothered by the blood.

Ludwig's voice was as far away as his face, when he suddenly said, "We have to go. I'm going to be late."

Alfred scoffed, and meant to argue, but Ludwig was already walking to the car.

Like nothing at all had happened, and it was quite frightening, Ludwig's entirely mechanical voice and face. Sat down very calmly in the driver's side, waited patiently for Alfred to stomp over and get in, and drove without a single tremor. His hands were perfectly steady when he punched the gate code in this time.

Alfred ran a hand over his forehead, and prayed to god that Gilbert didn't fire him when he realized Alfred was hesitating to shoot on sight.

Ah, let the bastard fire him—he wasn't going anywhere. Would stay with Ludwig regardless.

Alfred watched Ludwig's eerily calm driving, at least until they ran into traffic.

When they were forced to a standstill in Manhattan traffic, that was when Ludwig's apathy started fading a little. His fingers tapped the steering wheel, impatiently, and he glanced several times per second at the clock.

Alfred was silent, waiting to see if Ludwig would break down or if he would successfully stand before Gilbert and meet his eyes despite the bruise. Waiting to see if Gilbert was going to finally throw Alfred through the window.

Minutes ticked by, and they had barely moved an inch.

Normally, this traffic was perfectly accounted for in Ludwig's immaculate time chart, but not this time. A delay had been caused by Ivan, and the clock was ticking, alright. With every second that passed, Ludwig was coming out of his coma, and right into panic. Alfred could see the steady dilation of his pupils, the flaring of his nostrils, the pursing of his lips, and his compulsive swallowing.

Another minute, and then Ludwig very abruptly collapsed.

Out of nowhere, Ludwig was suddenly breathing through his mouth, faster and faster with each second, and Alfred soon realized he was hyperventilating.

A panic attack?

Ludwig threw the car jerkily in park, slammed his palms down on the steering wheel, and cried, in nearly a whine, "Oh—! I'm going to be late!"

Late, and Alfred knew what being late would mean, and that was why Ludwig was utterly panicking.

Breaking down, alright.

He was absolutely panting by then, furiously, and Alfred reached out, grabbed Ludwig's chin, forced his gaze, and demanded, "Stop. Breathe. Just stop thinking about it. Stop."

But Ludwig couldn't seem to stop, breathing faster and faster, eyes wide and red and glistening, brow crinkled and pulse pounding. He stared at Alfred, helplessly, and Alfred let him go and brusquely opened the car door right there in the traffic. He stalked around to the driver's side, opened it, and barked, "Get over."

Ludwig scooted over as best he could as Alfred took the wheel, the cars behind him blaring their horns, and when Alfred put the car in drive, it was to abruptly jerk his way out of line and make a very aggressive U-turn.

Ludwig sat up straight, and shrieked, "What are you doing?"

"Taking you home," Alfred said, as sternly and loudly as he could, but Ludwig's panic only intensified.

Too much for him, the encounter with Ivan and then topped off by the deathly fear of being held by Gilbert atop that glass floor.

Unexpectedly, Ludwig burst into tears, buried his face in his palms, and whined, "Please— Please, please, please, don't make me late, Alfred, please turn around, please—"

He couldn't speak after that, as the panic attack closed his throat up.

Alfred pulled out his phone, and called the miserable son of a bitch that Ludwig called brother.

Gilbert answered immediately, as expected, shouting, "What's happened? What is it? Where is Ludwig?"

Ludwig drew his legs up at the sound of Gilbert's voice, huddled into a ball there in the car seat, buried his head down into his knees, and clenched his hair in his hands as he panted for air. Alfred had never seen a panic attack in person, and it was terrifying. Seeing Ludwig like that—

Alfred gripped the phone so tightly that it creaked, and he replied, stiffly, "He's here. He's fine. We're not coming into the office. Don't wait for us."

Gilbert cried, furiously, "Did you shoot him? Did you? Huh?"

Alfred spat, "No!" and hung up the phone.

Asshole.

That was the worst ride, it was, taking Ludwig home as he huddled up there and bawled his eyes out, unable to breathe and outwardly collapsing. Alfred felt so helpless. Didn't know what to do to help, because he had never experienced this before. Didn't know what to do, and so could do nothing except get Ludwig home as quickly as he could.

It must have been humiliating for Ludwig, to pull into that parking garage and to step out there in front of those men, bawling and panting as he was, and Alfred quickly grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the street, avoiding their looks of concern.

Ludwig's house had never looked so good.

When they stepped inside, Ludwig immediately stumbled into the kitchen, no doubt for a bottle of wine, as Alfred made a very quick run of the house to make sure Ivan hadn't somehow beaten them back and snuck inside. He felt violated and vulnerable at this intrusion, and Ludwig must have felt that a thousand times worse. But the house was secure, and when Alfred trudged into the kitchen, Ludwig had indeed gone for a bottle of wine. He was sitting on the floor, though, tucked up in the corner of the cabinets, knees up and bottle in hand. Wasn't even using a glass this time, just lifting the bottle straight to his lips.

His hands were shaking.

Alfred stood there above him, and watched over him rather sadly.

What else could he do? Didn't know what to say.

He could feel his phone buzzing endlessly in his pocket, no doubt by both Gilbert and Toris going into panic mode at the lack of information. Alfred was in no rush to speak, and ignored them.

Just watched Ludwig annihilate that bottle, sniveling as he was, and hated that the bruise was already darker. Looked so pitiful, then, hair sticking out everywhere and eyes puffy, disheveled and out of sorts, and Alfred finally came over and plopped gracelessly down on the floor beside of Ludwig. Ludwig looked over at him, face miserable, and Alfred reached out and threw his arm over Ludwig's shoulder.

A short crumple of Ludwig's face, before he twisted at the side and pressed his forehead into Alfred's collar.

Alfred let him cry it out there for a little while, and stayed ever silent.

Must have been a good half hour of crying, before Ludwig pulled back, grunted, "Thanks," and then finished off the bottle in a few long chugs. When Ludwig pulled himself clumsily to his feet, Alfred followed him, but Ludwig didn't go for another bottle of wine. Rather, he pulled out what was left of the scotch Alfred hadn't finished on Christmas, and asked, "Do you mind?"

Alfred shook his head, and Ludwig quickly annihilated it as skillfully as the wine.

Goddamn.

Shoulda stopped him, maybe, but just felt too bad for him.

When Ludwig staggered over and threw himself down at the kitchen table, Alfred sat down in front of him, and finally spoke up.

"Promise me you won't ever get in front of my gun again. I'm supposed to protect you. You need to do what I tell you. You have to listen to me, understand? You're gonna get yourself killed. You ever think about how other people feel, huh? How you think the rest of us will feel if you do something stupid? How do you think I'll—"

He trailed off, lowered his eyes, and scoffed.

Almost said, 'How do you think I'll feel, if I let someone else I care about die?'

Ludwig wasn't the only person hurting, but couldn't see anything that wasn't Ivan.

A long silence, and then Ludwig at last went for a second bottle of wine, without ever once submitting to Alfred's demand. Didn't give his word, gave Alfred nothing at all, and Alfred sighed as Ludwig began working on the second bottle. Alfred let him, but just wouldn't allow him to take a pill tonight. Could drink himself into a stupor if he wanted, if that was what he needed to do, but he would suffer later on when he couldn't get his hands on his medication. Alfred would break his fingers if he had to, if Ludwig tried it.

Hours passed. The sun set.

Alfred finally glanced at his phone, and deleted the mass of texts from Gilbert and Toris without even reading them. Later. He just couldn't now, couldn't, wasn't in the mood.

Ludwig was ignoring his own phone as skillfully.

Alfred assumed there would be no dinner tonight, because Ludwig was absolutely hammered by then, and so he stood up and went very quickly to the bathroom, and tried to calm himself. A wash of his face, a pep talk in the mirror. Didn't work. He failed, and went to commandeer the kitchen, as best he could. Bread and scrambled eggs for dinner never killed anybody.

Ludwig didn't eat.

Just stared at Alfred quite strangely.

Long minutes passed, a half hour, and then at last Ludwig lifted his head and spoke.

"Hey."

A strange, slanted smile from Ludwig, more unnerving than it was pretty.

"Ya think I could call Ivan? Just for a minute. Just a minute. Can I just call him for a minute? I just wanna hear his voice, just for a minute."

Alfred crinkled his brow in concern, felt a little uneasy, because Ludwig had suddenly started slurring. His speech was muddled, hard to understand. Disjointed and mixed up. It wasn't normal, because Ludwig was drunk but not that far gone.

Oh no—

Alfred noticed then how dilated Ludwig's pupils were, absolutely engulfed his irises, and Alfred suddenly understood—Ludwig had taken the sleeping pills, who knew how many, when Alfred had gone to the bathroom. Had been shaken up, distraught, and had tried to calm himself.

Had just taken too much this time, too much, and it was clear to see suddenly.

Shoulda known by now that he only needed to be absent for one minute for everything to go wrong.

Alfred jumped up, bolted over to Ludwig, yanked him upright and grabbed him to hold him steady, hissing, "What did you do? Huh? What did you do?"

Ludwig looked up blearily, struggling to find Alfred, and he was barely comprehensible when he slurred, "It's nothin'—I just took a few extra, was all. I just wanna go to sleep. Wanna forget. Can't I call him? Please? One more time. I just—"

Ludwig collapsed very abruptly in Alfred's arms, and Alfred didn't know what to do except pick him up in panic and stumble over to set him down on the couch. He ran back to the cabinet, took down the bottle, which mercifully was not empty thank god, studied the label furiously, but it didn't really help much beyond the obvious.

'Do not mix with alcohol.' Yeah, no fuckin' shit, thanks a lot!

What did he need to do?

He stalked back into the living room, and his intention then was to forcibly drag Ludwig into the bathroom, put him before the toilet, and force him to throw up.

Didn't get to.

When he came back, only a minute later, Ludwig was already entirely unconscious. Alfred skidded over to him, grabbed his shoulders, and gave him a good shake, calling his name. No response, none whatsoever, and it was very clear why :

Ludwig had overdosed.

His breathing was erratic, shallow. Faint.

Panic.

What did he do? Didn't know what to do, didn't know, was all alone here and was so scared to call anyone, to alert Gilbert and Toris. What woulda been worse to Gilbert's reputation? His little brother being in the news for being battered or for being in the hospital because of an overdose? Gilbert had smothered everything, always, because their image came before all else. Ludwig being drugged up wouldn't go over well, not at all, and Gilbert would have had Alfred's ass.

Reputations—

In a daze, red-faced and terrified, Alfred fumbled around for his phone, pulled it out, and dialed Lovino, because he didn't know what else to do.

The call was answered immediately, and Lovino didn't even finish saying 'Hello' before Alfred was screaming at him, in a thin, high voice he didn't recognize.

"I need help! He's not breathing right, he ain't, I think he took too much! What do I do? Tell me what to do!"

Lovino didn't really seem to need much more explanation, seemed to grasp immediately what Alfred meant, and barked, "I'm on my way. Put him on a hard floor, roll his head to the side, make sure he keeps breathing—"

Alfred dropped the phone, grabbed unconscious Ludwig up into his arms again, and darted back into the kitchen, the biggest hard floor available, and did as he was instructed.

Ludwig was white as a sheet, yellowish, and his lips had tinged a bit blue. Breathing so slowly and unevenly that Alfred was terrified it was going to stop at any second.

Awful minutes, those that he knelt there next to Ludwig, scared and lost and awaiting aid.

He had fucked up everything possible today.

Not even ten minutes later aid arrived, with loud banging on the door. Alfred skidded over, terrorized and panicked, and yanked open the door without even looking, knowing how stupid that was.

Didn't care—just didn't want Ludwig to die.

Lovino and Feliciano came bursting in, clearly having torn up the city streets in their rush to get here, dressed in house clothes and looking very ruffled. Didn't even have coats on, and Feliciano was wearing house slippers. Lovino had no shoes at all, in only his socks. They looked quite frightening then, to be honest, pumped up on adrenaline as they were and ready for business. Could see why Gilbert had hired them, in that moment.

Alfred bolted to the kitchen to show them, and they took over quite capably.

They skidded onto their knees, Lovino grabbed Ludwig's jaw and leaned in, and Feliciano asked, hectically, "How many did he take?"

"I don't know—"

"The whole bottle?"

"No," Alfred managed, voice still high-pitched. "No. There's still plenty in there. I don't know how many he took. He said a few."

A few.

Lovino hissed a curse, but Ludwig was still breathing, and Lovino plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a syringe. Alfred's panic ever heightened. Didn't know what it was, what they were doing.

When it came to drugs, Alfred's experiences had never been positive.

Feliciano rolled Ludwig onto his side as Lovino uncapped the syringe with his teeth, pulling down the hem of Ludwig's pants as Alfred fretted and panicked. Lovino jabbed the syringe quickly into Ludwig's thigh, pushed the plunger, and Feliciano kept Ludwig's chin tilted up with his hand.

Alfred started pacing, frantically, running a hand compulsively through his hair and breathing through his mouth as Lovino and Feliciano muttered to each other in Italian.

Oh, Ludwig, the stupid son of a bitch—

Feliciano's fingers pressed into Ludwig's neck, above his pulse, and there they stayed for the next fifteen minutes, as Lovino slapped Ludwig's cheek gently and called his name and tried to bring him around into consciousness. Ludwig was so pale, so pale, lips and fingertips still tinted the faintest shade of blue.

Couldn't let anything happen to him, Alfred had sworn to protect this idiot from everyone, including himself, and had already fucked up, hadn't even been four damn months.

Stupid.

Every time Feliciano cursed and then roughly massaged Ludwig's throat to stimulate him, Alfred felt his heart stop.

Absolutely nerve-fraying minutes.

An hour or so later, with Lovino's relentless jostling and Feliciano's constant vigil of Ludwig's pulse and breathing, there was finally something positive; Ludwig inhaled, deeply, and there was a deep moan from within his chest.

Coming around.

Feliciano cracked a jittery smile, looked up at his brother, who looked stern as ever but blew air through his teeth in what was obviously relief.

It was the world that would burn, in the end, if Gilbert lost Ludwig. Everyone's ass was on the line.

Restless minutes later, after more groans and moans, and Ludwig finally opened his eyes, just a crack. Wasn't lucid, though, wasn't really conscious, staring straight ahead at nothing and pupils so dilated that his eyes were nearly black.

Alfred knelt down there, reached out and placed a hand on Ludwig's shoulder.

Drugged and dazed and lost, Ludwig just stared ahead, breathing through his mouth, and then uttered, breathlessly and barely audibly, "Ivan?"

A pang of hurt.

Feliciano's hand ran over Ludwig's neck, as Lovino softly called his name and tried to keep him conscious. It must have been a good sign, though, Ludwig being awake at all, and the brothers looked a little less frightening as they calmed down.

Alfred must have zoned out for a while in his fright, too overwhelmed to focus, because the next thing he knew Ludwig was in his bed and Alfred was sitting on the couch, and it was his cheek that Lovino was suddenly slapping.

A snap of fingers in his face.

"Hey! Focus!"

He did, barely, and looked up.

Lovino held out a few syringes, and Alfred took them automatically.

"Keep these," Lovino commanded. "Put in 'em in your room or something. This is emergency only, got it? But if he takes the whole bottle this won't work."

"You'll have to take him to the hospital if he takes the whole bottle," Feliciano interjected, crankily.

Alfred looked dumbly back and forth between them, and asked, "What is this?"

"Naloxone. Keeps you breathing when you overdose. We, ah, got a cousin with a bad habit. Put it in his thigh, just like I did. Alright? And call. Always, call us."

Alfred nodded, silently, and they clapped his shoulder and vanished.

He stumbled over to the door, locked it, looked around as he felt very lost, and then Alfred followed where his feet led. For the first time, he stepped inside Ludwig's bedroom, and collapsed fully clothed onto Ludwig's bed as Ludwig lied there unconscious.

He rolled over, threw an arm over Ludwig, and pulled him in.

Alfred didn't sleep, not for a second. Couldn't. Too terrified, too scared, too anxious, and so he stayed awake all night, holding Ludwig up against his chest so that he would know immediately if he stopped breathing.

He just stared over Ludwig's pale hair at the wall, and felt like a failure.

In all aspects.

Oh, Ludwig—why had he done that? Why did he mourn Ivan so? Didn't he see Alfred here? Why didn't Ludwig know that Alfred would have done anything for him? Ivan had won Ludwig's loyalty by holding him to no standards aside from those of love; was Ludwig so blind to the fact that Alfred was doing the same?

Maybe Ludwig didn't like what he saw there in Alfred's reflection, either.

That night was the longest Alfred had known for a long time.