Chapter 25
The Terminal Show
A brain tumor?
A brain tumor—shoulda known, somehow. Nothing that Alfred had expected, and yet everything he should have seen coming. Had listened to Ludwig saying, time and time and time again, that something was wrong with Ivan, and he had never wanted to believe it. No one in Ludwig's life outside of him had liked Ivan, just because of where Ivan was from, and so no one had ever tried to help Ludwig. Just let him run it alone, and both Ivan and Ludwig had suffered for it.
Just like that, Ludwig's façade fell, collapsed, as he inhaled and hung his head, face crumpling and looking absolutely devastated.
Alfred turned his head aside and muttered a low curse, as Toris pinched the bridge of his nose in agitation.
Gilbert sat still, and didn't move a muscle. Alfred see how tightly his jaw was clenched, the pulse in his neck, the flaring of his nostrils, and knew that Gilbert was absolutely livid. Had scarcely ever seen such silent rage as he did in that moment, as Gilbert imploded, having accidentally ruined his own plans. Gilbert had sought to solidify his position, and instead had blown everyone out of the water.
A brain tumor—what kind of legal ramifications did that have? Oh, dammit all! How could Alfred ever be glad that Ivan was going to jail like this? He had been victorious for an entire twelve damn hours. Pitiful.
Everyone was imploding.
But Ludwig?
Alfred watched in disbelief as Ludwig suddenly smiled then, despite it all, and whispered to no one, "I knew it. I knew it! I knew it. I knew it all along, I knew something was wrong with him. I knew it wasn't his fault. I knew it."
Ludwig seemed elated suddenly, seemed satisfied, seemed vindicated. For just a surreal moment, Ludwig had looked happy. Ludwig's constant, unwavering belief in Ivan was suddenly justified, and that terrified Alfred beyond all words.
Ludwig was vindicated, and Alfred was scared.
'I knew it,' he said, because he had, all along, despite no one ever listening to him. Ludwig had always clung to the notion that it wasn't Ivan's fault, and now Alfred was afraid that Ludwig had a little ammunition to back that up. Hated it.
That elation passed quickly enough, as Ludwig clenched his jaw and squinted his eyes, trying very hard to keep composed and not burst into tears.
It was Gilbert who broke the silence then and rumbled, in that deep, dangerous voice, "This does not change anything. This doesn't excuse anything he did. It doesn't."
Ludwig glanced up, miserably, and yet it was the small doctor who risked Gilbert's wrath by interjecting, carefully, "It doesn't excuse it, no. But it may help explain it."
Yeah. That was kinda the problem.
Gilbert looked furious, but sat still instead of raging, and the doctor opened up the folder in his hand, walked over to the whiteboard, turned on a bright light, and hung up radiographic photos. Gilbert couldn't pitch a fit just yet, because he still needed to determine the state of his criminal case against Ivan. Had to sit here and listen, even if inside he was screeching.
The doctor turned to Ludwig, briefly, and added, "I'm not here to tell you what to feel or think. I'm just here to tell you the medical facts. That's all."
Ludwig nodded.
Toris, for his part, looked angrily fascinated, listening very intently despite the crinkle of his brow.
Ludwig was pale and exhausted, trying so hard to be strong and alert that he might have been overexerting himself. Looked about to fall over, and Alfred came over to his side, very closely, just in case he tottered.
The doctor raised his hand and pointed to a spot on the photographs, clearly a shot of Ivan's brain, and ran his finger along a shadow.
Gilbert pulled a little notepad out of his suit pocket, a pen, and started scribbling away, no doubt taking notes on everything so that he could find thirty different lawyers to get around every word the doctor was about to utter.
Alfred wouldn't deny his own curiosity, despite how much he was ready to cling to his hatred of Ivan and not let anything sway him.
"This here, this dark spot, is the tumor. It's about the size of a small orange, more or less."
Alfred narrowed his eyes, studying the photos, and it was very easy to see that spot there. Dark and smooth, surrounded on all sides by a white lining. A large patch that stood out against everything else. Alfred was surprised, more than anything, at how big it was. The size of an orange seemed ridiculously staggering, when you imagined trying to cram an orange into your brain. Christ. It wasn't perfectly circular. Looked more like a lake in the middle of the mountains, seen from above. Uneven and oblong, jagged edges.
"We find it here in the frontal lobe. This is where our personality comes into play. Emotions, creativity, intelligence, morality, impulse control, motor skills, all of that is held here. Now, any time there is an injury to the brain, the most common side effect is a shift in temperament. Concussions, lesions, scarring, all can cause severe and sudden changes in personality. We see it all the time in sports. Think of boxers, football players. You've seen that on the news, I'm sure. What's happening here is that this tumor is pressing against all of this tissue, and the more it grows the more it presses. The brain has to compress to accommodate the growth, and neurological function is stunted."
Alfred was all ears then because, much like Toris, he was suddenly fascinated. It was interesting, no one could deny that, and even cranky Gilbert was glancing over from time to time, studying the photo in between his furious scribbling.
Ludwig's gaze was as sharp as a razor then, focused and intent.
"Given the size of this tumor, it's certainly been there a while. Maybe two or three years. It's a slow grower. And given how much space it's taking up, what I could absolutely expect is a very severe shift in emotional stability. Because of the degenerated neurons, every stimulation, however small, would cause a reaction. And the most common reaction to any effect would be anger, because it's the most primal response and the one that uses the least amount of brain work. I would expect that anyone with this tumor in this position would be erratic, violent, aggressive. Most likely, there would be a decrease in motor function, in clarity. Hobbies and likes, for example, would likely be abandoned. Migraines. Visual and auditory hallucinations. Trouble sleeping. Confusion. Lethargy. There's no longer any distinction between right and wrong, and all reactions would be spontaneous. Impulsive."
All too familiar.
Everything Ludwig had ever said. Ivan lying on the couch, staring blankly away. No longer being able to play the piano. Ivan saying, so many times, that his head hurt. So sensitive to loud noises. Ivan no longer speaking, angry at nothing at all, changing so much. Flying into a rage with the drop of a pin.
Ludwig had said that sometimes he wasn't sure that Ivan had recognized him.
Ivan had looked so lost and confused there in the police station.
It had just come at the wrong time; Ivan's mother had died around that time, the time the tumor had started forming, and so Ivan's grief over his mother's death had masked the first symptoms. It had been chalked up to by Ludwig as depression, because those symptoms were so similar. If Ivan's mother hadn't died, it would have been so much more obvious to Ludwig that there had been something very wrong with Ivan, and Ludwig no doubt would have convinced Ivan to go to the doctor.
A very unfortunate chain of ill-timed events.
Toris grimaced, ran a hand through his messy hair, and muttered to himself, "Excellent. So the bastard wasn't crazy, after all."
That was not a happy 'excellent', to say the least.
"No," the doctor supplied, easily, dark eyes meeting Toris' with no hint of unease. "Not crazy. Just sick."
Ludwig had always said so, every day.
Ludwig sucked in a breath then, hung his head, and whispered, "This is my fault. I knew something was wrong with him, I always did, but I didn't do anything about it. I didn't. I just...let him go."
Alfred opened his mouth to offer comfort, reassurance, but nothing came out.
"It's not anyone's fault," the doctor said, in Alfred's stead. "It's no one's fault. It's just bad luck. Ivan got a bad hand, and it's not anyone's fault. These things happen. You couldn't have known."
Ludwig didn't seem very convinced.
Alfred felt awful then, and didn't even know why or for whom. Wanted to go home and go to sleep for days and pretend none of this had ever happened. Pretend that Ivan was still a villain, with no excuse. Didn't want this, hated this new muddled mess of grey. Didn't want there to be any way possible for Ivan to wriggle back into Ludwig's arms, because god knew that Ludwig would have scooped Ivan back up in a heartbeat, forgetting Alfred's existence entirely.
At last, Ludwig gathered up his courage and asked what all of them really wanted to know.
"Can it be... Will he...survive?"
Gilbert looked up, pen ready and eyes smoldering. Alfred knew what Gilbert wanted to hear, because if Gilbert couldn't get Ivan sent to jail then a death sentence was just as good, if not better.
At that, the doctor's face became quite serious, and Ludwig paled somehow ever more, and yet he still stood tall and determined. As if Ludwig had given up on Ivan once and was vowing to never do it again. That wasn't right though, because really, in some way, Ludwig had never given up on Ivan. Had left him, yeah, but had always believed in him, had never once been willing to accept that Ivan wasn't a good man.
As Ivan had forced himself on through sickness to do whatever it took to get to Ludwig, Ludwig defied his own body then to be strong and ready to get to Ivan.
But, oh, that awful silence, as the doctor stared at Ludwig.
Ludwig's courage was faltering.
A look around at them all, and then the doctor spoke.
"The tumor is...theoretically operable. But there's a bit more to it. Now—we have options. And an entire team here to help."
Ludwig shifted his weight, and in doing so he staggered just a bit, and Alfred reacted instinctively and reached out, grabbing him by the arm and holding him steady. The doctor seemed a bit concerned, and was quick to walk over to the loveseat, ushering Ludwig down and sitting beside of him.
Ludwig was so pale, so shaky, and Alfred couldn't take seeing him like that. Somehow, this was worse than Ivan screaming at Ludwig in the station had been, as Ludwig clung yet to hope despite everything seeming quite grim.
Before the doctor could continue, Ludwig gave a strange, wavering scoff, an odd laugh, and asked, "Theoretically operable? What does that mean?"
A good question.
Toris went over to Gilbert's side, and as usual leaned in to whisper fervently in Gilbert's ear. Gilbert turned that time and whispered back, as they no doubt sought to undermine every bit of work that Ludwig was about to put into Ivan.
Alfred was rather torn between them, because he didn't know how he felt.
Ivan was sick, but Gilbert was right—it didn't excuse anything, it didn't, and Alfred might have only felt that way because he loved Ludwig and didn't want to lose him. He needed Ivan to continue being a villain, because Ludwig loved Ivan more than he did Alfred and without that boost Alfred would fall too far behind.
This seemed a very dangerous precedent to Alfred; if Ivan really was sick, then Ludwig's dumb behavior as a victim had justification, and no lesson would really be learned. Ludwig really was just Meg, and Meg had just as gladly proclaimed that her husband was a good man. She had been wrong, and now Ludwig might not have been wrong, and instead of Ludwig being stupid and weak, Ludwig could now say that he had been right all along and had done the wrong thing for the right reason.
That wasn't right.
The doctor held Ludwig's gaze, tried to smile, and kept his voice steady.
"I'll explain. Theoretically operable means that I can get in there and remove most of the tumor. But— Well! One thing at a time. Here's what I want to do : I want to operate immediately, and remove the majority of the tumor. I'm the neuro-oncologist, so I'll be performing this operation personally with a neurosurgeon. Afterwards, two weeks later, we would operate again, and remove what is left. It's too large to remove it all at once. Hopefully, after a second surgery, we would get all of it. After that, radiation and chemotherapy would be necessary, to slow the spread. That's where our neuroradiologist comes in. This is the plan of action."
A sudden hesitation, and Ludwig squirmed, the cold sweat visible on his brow.
The doctor seemed to gather his nerves, and continued, in a quiet voice, "The thing is... Theoretically means that...the first operation, to remove the majority of the brain tumor, is exceptionally risky. I can theoretically remove that tumor, but the chance of patient mortality is higher than the chance of survival. It's the most dangerous part of the path to recovery. I would love to be optimistic for you, I really would, but I have to tell you that Ivan's chances of surviving the surgery will be...very, very slim. Very slim. As sick as he is, and with the size of the tumor. We've come into this game very late."
Ludwig squinted his eyes and pursed his lips, steeling himself and trying to be brave, trying to hold it together and stay focused, but anyone could see how the world was dissolving around him.
It was Toris who asked, "How slim?"
A hesitation.
"Less than...thirty percent. Optimistically, of course."
Sounded more like a shot in the dark to Alfred, and with something so serious. The doctor said 'thirty' to ease Ludwig's mind a little, but it was easy for all of them to see that he really meant 'fifteen'.
After a moment of deep breathing, Ludwig opened his eyes, looked up, and asked, "And without the surgery?"
The doctor shook his head.
"Without the surgery, Ivan will die. I would give him...two months, at the most. That's being generous. The chances of surviving the surgery are slim, but there is a chance. A very tiny one, but a chance. Without it, there's none. So, we'll need to make some decisions. Ivan is unconscious now. We've put him into a medically induced coma. He's not lucid, so, as his spouse, legally this decision falls to you. I need you to decide if you want me to operate or no."
Too much. Asking that of anyone was too much, and it was so unfair to ask that of Ludwig of all people, who already had too many burdens upon his shoulders. Ludwig was already drowning, and this was just throwing another anchor down upon him.
Ludwig opened his mouth, lost his voice, and so it was Toris who asked, quite emotionlessly, "If he survives this operation, what are his long-term chances of survival?"
Again, the doctor fell silent, as Ludwig foundered.
Gilbert's foot had started tapping furiously again, and from the way his pen was scratching away in mindless circles within his left hand, Alfred was pretty sure that Gilbert had actually broken a little bit in emotional overload. Misfiring on more than a few cylinders, for sure, as the pen no doubt pierced right through the paper at many points.
The doctor met Ludwig's eyes, lifted his chin, and said, "It's hard to say. It could be...five months or five years. We won't know until we see how he responds to treatment. It's already spread beyond the tumor."
Five years was the best the doctor could come up with? Five damn years? That was the grand reward to this incredibly dangerous operation? That was Ludwig's comfort, in having to choose in what manner to risk Ivan's life? Five years?
Toris was the one to say the word the doctor was trying so hard to avoid, as he surmised, "So it's terminal, then."
Terminal. A terrifying, hopeless word that seemed so innocent on paper.
Ludwig looked as if he had received that diagnosis, not Ivan. That heartbreaking look on his face.
Suddenly, the doctor reached forward and placed his hand over Ludwig's, and said, with every bit of comfort a man could attempt to offer in this situation, "Listen to me, Ludwig. Without the operation, Ivan will die, but he's going to die like this. As he is now. Not himself. Violent and dangerous. If we operate and he survives, he may— If he still dies in five months, then at least without most of the tumor he'll be more like himself. He'll be as he was before, more or less. He won't be in so much pain. My duty to my patient is to see them survive, and if that's impossible, then to at least see them die with as much dignity as I can give them."
Dignity?
Ludwig's eyes squinted as he started crying, despite his best efforts, and Alfred scoffed very lightly to himself.
What dignity could there ever be in death? That was some bullshit—there was nothing dignified in it, nothing, even if a man died on his own terms. There had been nothing dignified in Meg lying there in her own blood with a knife in her chest. There would be nothing dignified now in Ivan, as he lied unconscious in a hospital bed and was at the mercy of others to decide his fate for him. And even if Ivan had woken up right then with a clear head and decided to just let go, it still wouldn't be dignified.
Not dignified.
A man could live with all the dignity he desired for himself, but when dying every bit of that was stripped away, as he lied helpless.
There was no dignity in death. No honor. No glory.
Just pain and hopelessness. Loneliness. Every fear a man had ever had, playing out right there before him as he was unable to stop it.
The doctor's hand rested yet above Ludwig's, as Gilbert and Toris butted heads and furiously whispered to each other.
The doctor wasn't saying to Ludwig, 'Let's operate and save Ivan's life'. He was saying, 'Let's operate and give him just a little more time on the Earth.'
Not salvation. Just a temporary bailing of a sinking ship.
Extending a lease.
It was too much, so much, but Ludwig was one of the most tenacious men that Alfred had ever known, and as he always did, Ludwig did what he thought was right. He looked up, met the doctor's eyes, and once more Alfred could see that defiance on his face. This time, Ludwig wasn't defying Gilbert; he was defying fate itself, and it was very clear to everyone there that Ludwig wasn't going to let Ivan go down without a hell of a fight. Ludwig had leapt without fear in front of Alfred's gun, and Ludwig would very easily stand now before this diagnosis and tell it where to shove it.
"Do the surgery."
The doctor clapped Ludwig on the shoulder, smiled and seemed quite cheery, and stood up.
A vow.
"I promise, Ludwig, I promise you that I'll do my best. I'll do my absolute best to get Ivan through it. Please know that I'll try."
Ludwig just smiled, sadly, and murmured, "Thank you."
Well, then. Here they were.
The doctor looked up at the clock, and said, "We'll operate at six tomorrow morning. Go get some sleep."
Sleep? Alfred was pretty sure Ludwig wasn't going to sleep for one second until the surgery was finished, in one manner or another.
Sure enough, Ludwig stood up and asked, quickly, "Can I see him?"
As in the police station, Gilbert immediately barked, "No."
As before, Gilbert had no control here, and the doctor ignored him, placing his hand on Ludwig's back and saying, "I'll take you."
Gilbert actually huffed that time, offended no doubt by his sudden lack of control over Ludwig, and Alfred just left those two behind there in the waiting room to follow Ludwig blindly, as he always did.
Felt more like a dog now than a bodyguard.
Oh...
That was right. Alfred wasn't a bodyguard anymore, and not because Gilbert had fired him. Wasn't a bodyguard anymore, because Ludwig didn't need protection now. Ivan was out of commission, unconscious and helpless in a hospital bed, on the brink of death.
No one left for Alfred to protect him from.
Useless, as he always had been.
And now more than ever Alfred felt out of place, as he walked down those quiet halls, that awful chemical smell of a hospital permeating his nostrils, trailing behind a man who seemed to have forgotten he existed. Ludwig was so focused on Ivan that he probably didn't remember Alfred was actually here with him, and that Alfred was the one sleeping in his bed.
Maybe now wasn't the time for Alfred's petty insecurities, but Alfred was too egotistical to leave much room for others.
The doctor turned and pushed open a door, into a dimly lit room.
"Take your time," the doctor murmured, eyeing Ludwig quite fondly, and stayed out in the hall.
It must have been hard to have your occupation revolve around death, and the doctor seemed to find Ludwig to his liking, because Ludwig was brave and stubborn and fearless and those men attracted similar minded people.
When the doctor looked at Alfred, however, his expression was quite blank.
Even this man he had just met knew how useless Alfred was.
Alfred stood there for a while, awkwardly, and then Ludwig stepped softly into the room, moving silently and like a phantom. Alfred followed him inside, but stayed far back in the doorframe, because it didn't feel right to him to intrude. Not his place, not even a little, and he didn't belong there. Alfred hated it when Ludwig went to Ivan, but he couldn't interrupt, couldn't insert himself, because he was scared that Ludwig would start to hate him for it.
Ludwig's resentment terrified him, so Alfred just crossed his arms and watched.
It was very unnerving, Alfred could say, seeing Ivan hooked up to those IVs, on a respirator, wrists handcuffed to the bed, knocked out by drugs and so helpless. Ivan's life seemed to be over, either way. Get better somehow and possibly go to jail, or fail to win and fade away here in this hospital.
Maybe it had been Ivan, all along, who hadn't stood a chance.
However crazy Ivan had been, whatever was going on in his damaged brain, Ivan had been unable to bring down the knife on two occasions. Just hadn't been able to do it, and even in the mist and dark, the sound of Ludwig's voice had overtaken the pain and daze and calmed Ivan down, if only for a moment. When Ludwig had been dying, the clinging little bit of the real Ivan that had been left had miraculously roared to the forefront, to get Ludwig to the hospital before it was too late. Ivan forced himself along, and always to get to Ludwig, because maybe Ludwig had been the only thing to Ivan that made sense anymore.
What did Ivan see? How different did the world look, when you were no longer in control of your own mind and actions?
Ludwig leaned over unconscious Ivan, staring down very intently, clearly taking in his husband as much as he could, just in case it would be the last time he ever saw him. Ludwig reached out, ran his hand through Ivan's hair, and Alfred could see then, in his shaking shoulders, that Ludwig was crying.
Felt so low.
Ludwig leaned over fully then, rested his head on Ivan's chest, burrowing away, and he stayed there. Didn't move. Just ran his hand up and down Ivan's shoulder, bawling away in his chest. And then Ludwig, sniveling, took Ivan's hand and removed his wedding ring, tucking it safely into his own pocket. A palm trailing down Ivan's stubbled cheek. Ludwig's hands ran restlessly over Ivan, up and down, feeling him and remembering him. Maybe, even then, Ludwig was trying to get through to Ivan somehow and let him know that he was there.
Gilbert had slept in Ludwig's hospital bed because he thought that doing so would force Ludwig to wake up, and maybe Ludwig had that same idea in his head, that if he somehow reminded Ivan he was there that Ivan would survive the surgery.
Alfred waited, but Ludwig refused to let Ivan go. Just clung to him, and it was Alfred's foot before long that began tapping.
Ludwig stayed there so long, in fact, that the doctor finally came in and had to escort Ludwig back to the door so that Ludwig wouldn't end up passing out there. Ludwig didn't protest, didn't say a word, but it was clear that he had never wanted to let Ivan go, and he lingered there for a long time in the frame, looking over his shoulder at Ivan.
That awful, final glance.
Seeing Meg the last time, as the cop car had taken Alfred away. That last glance was always the one that stuck with you, however terrible it was.
The doctor walked Ludwig along, and Alfred didn't know why, but he was the one to pause then at the last second and glance over at unconscious Ivan. His eyes fell instantly upon Ivan's hand, now without a ring for the first time. The ring that, despite it all, Ivan had refused to take off. Even in the depths of insanity, even being so sick, even being out of his mind, Ivan had loved Ludwig so much that it had never once occurred to him to remove that ring.
Ivan had searched endlessly for Ludwig through the dark night, as he let himself fall apart.
Alfred's eyes were firmly on the floor as he walked out of the hospital with his tail between his legs. Gilbert and Toris had vanished, no doubt to figure out their position if Ivan survived. Alfred just dragged dazed Ludwig along, and hailed a cab. The ride home was deathly silent, as Ludwig watched the sleet battering the city.
Alfred glanced at his watch.
Ten. In eight hours, Ivan would go under the knife, and his outcome would shape Alfred's future more than his own.
Ludwig stumbled into the bedroom, pulled the chain out of the dresser, slid Ivan's wedding ring down there to rest beside his own, and Alfred felt his heart break a little when Ludwig reached up and clasped that chain once more around his neck.
Alfred stared up at the ceiling that night, not sleeping. Couldn't. The bed was far too cold; Ludwig was out in the living room, curled up on the couch, clinging to one of Ivan's shirts that he had dug out of the boxes, and crying himself senseless.
All Alfred had ever wanted was to be happy.
Just never worked out for him.
Toris and Gilbert, at least, had what they wanted. Ivan had a death sentence, even if Alfred had long refused to pull the trigger. A widower, Toris had said, and now they all stood before that word that would make it so, be it tomorrow, in five months, or five years.
Terminal.
Ludwig cried until dawn, and Ivan slept.