Chapter 26
Behind the Wall of Sleep
Morning came far too soon.
Alfred hadn't slept a single second, tossing and turning, and he sat up at the waist when the clock read four thirty.
He slunk out, where Ludwig yet lied burrowed on the couch under a blanket, face pressed into Ivan's shirt. Alfred couldn't tell if he was asleep or not, so he crept quietly into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Didn't have the stomach to eat anything, despite how long it had been, and didn't bother making coffee.
He felt so nauseous, and Ludwig surely felt the same.
The sleet had turned once more to snow, and Alfred glanced up when Ludwig trudged tiredly over and joined him at the table. Alfred stared at him, as Ludwig's puffy and bleary eyes gazed back at him.
Alfred wanted to say, 'I love you, too,' because suddenly his position seemed shaky.
Ludwig had said, not so long ago, that he loved Alfred. They had been looking at homes. Dreaming. That ring upstairs had been bought out of hope.
Where did he stand now?
Ludwig suddenly stood up, came over, and reached down to embrace Alfred around the neck, the same way he had Ivan in the police station. Alfred was the one who nearly cried then, because he just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been for that brief moment in time when they had been smiling at each other.
Ludwig murmured, thickly, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't hate me, please, I just— I have to do this. It's my fault that he's this way, so I have to be there for him now. He wouldn't be this way if not for me. I owe him this. Please."
Alfred squinted his eyes, embraced Ludwig in turn, and pulled Ludwig into his lap.
They sat there in misery for a long while, each no doubt feeling lost and confused and mixed up, and then far too soon Ludwig was pulling on his coat. Both weddings rings were tucked safely under his sweater, just in case Gilbert made an appearance, and Alfred trailed behind Ludwig as they made their way to the hospital.
The doctor, Kiku his name was Alfred thought, seemed far too calm for the situation, calling when he saw Ludwig, "Good morning!"
Ludwig merely gave a short jerk of his hand, and Kiku looked around to see who all was present. Just them; Gilbert and Toris were probably eagerly awaiting to hear news of Ivan's death, because that was what they had wanted all along.
In thirty minutes, it started.
Too soon.
Alfred could never have said how they had gotten here, all of them.
The doctor came up, and handed Ludwig a clipboard.
"Sign these for me, if you please."
Consent forms and the whatnot, no doubt, and Ludwig scribbled his name not on a form, but on Ivan's very life.
Thirty percent, optimistically. Not impossible, but it seemed so dismal. Kiku knew it, and clapped Ludwig's arm, saying, "I'm going to do my best. Are you going to stay here? It's going to be a long surgery. You can go back home. I'll call you."
Ludwig stubbornly shook his head, and Alfred asked, perhaps grumpily, "How long is long?"
Kiku replied, easily, "Sixteen hours. Twenty. Twenty-four. Who can say? We'll see as we go along."
Holy shit, hadn't known it could be that damn long, goddammit.
Alfred cursed and grimaced, but Ludwig was very undaunted, and said, sternly, "I'll be here."
Kiku nodded, and then was gone, leaving Alfred and Ludwig to sit down on that loveseat in the waiting room and, well...wait.
All they could do.
Ludwig did turn to Alfred and whisper, "You can go home. You don't have to stay."
Alfred shook his head, as stubbornly as Ludwig had, and they fell silent.
The first two hours were very quiet, as Ludwig played with his wedding rings, twirling them mindlessly between his fingers as Alfred pulled out his phone and tried to distract himself.
At the third hour, Ludwig stood up and paced up and down the hall, restlessly, endlessly, hands in his hair and breathing through his mouth. Alfred watched him, back and forth, back and forth, here and there. At least for the next two hours, and then his neck started hurting, so he went for some coffee instead, putting it back like water.
Ludwig didn't sit down—just kept pacing.
In the sixth hour, Alfred made more coffee, and drank the whole pot himself again, as Ludwig continued to pace.
At the eighth hour, Alfred finally cracked. He stood up, walked over to Ludwig, grabbed him by the shoulders, and dragged him quite forcibly back into the waiting room and over to the loveseat. Didn't give Ludwig a choice, really; just pushed him down, and then sat down himself so that Ludwig would stay still. Alfred enveloped Ludwig in his arms and pulled him up against his chest, forcing his head down and trying desperately to make Ludwig sleep.
Didn't work.
Ludwig's foot tapped away, even as Alfred pinned him still.
Alfred nodded off shortly after, coming in and out of consciousness as the hours passed.
At the twelfth hour, Ludwig actually began wearing down. His foot stopped tapping. His breathing slowed. His shoulders slumped. Slowly but surely, Ludwig had worn himself out, and was falling asleep.
Alfred was grateful for that.
When Ludwig finally, mercifully, fell asleep at last, Alfred exhaled, rested his head back on the arm of the couch, closed his eyes, and was out like a light, Ludwig still held firmly in his arms.
Time was dragging, it really was. Alfred could say that that was probably the longest day of his life. So much waiting.
And always that fear as he drifted, that someone would come inside with lowered eyes.
It was cold. Unpleasant. Unfamiliar and unfriendly. As they dozed in and out, huddled up together, Alfred could feel those rings pressing uncomfortably into his chest. A constant reminder, even under the veil of sleep, that Ivan was right there and ready to reclaim his place.
Even though Alfred wasn't a bodyguard, this man still lurked there, ready to take back what Alfred loved.
Always rivals, even if Ivan wasn't going to be dangerous anymore.
The next thing Alfred knew, he was being startled from sleep by knocking, and he jumped in his seat, eyes flying open and head turning, as Ludwig jumped as well.
Took them a while to focus, dazed as they were.
The doctor was standing there at the door, knocking gently on the frame to get their attention.
Alfred glanced at the clock.
Nineteen hours.
Before he really even knew what was happening, before he had truly come back to consciousness, Ludwig had stumbled up to his feet, and Alfred could see that he was already crying. Alfred, in a fright, leapt up as well, still half-asleep and alarmed by bawling Ludwig, thinking that he had missed something. Hadn't woken up all the way, caught in the fear of the unknown.
Kiku came inside, shut the door behind him, and Alfred could see how exhausted he looked. Looked almost as awful as Ludwig did, come to think, as they stared at each other for a long second. Tired as could be, circles so dark under his red, bleary eyes, hair a little ruffled.
Ludwig wasn't breathing, as he stared at Kiku with nothing short of terror.
And then, as Alfred's heart pounded and Ludwig's face slowly crumpled, there was a minor miracle.
Kiku smiled.
He smiled, reached up and ran hands through his messy hair, trying to tame it, and seemed quite bolstered. His attempt at taming his hair failed, as it stuck up to high heaven instead, and Alfred was pretty sure that Kiku had about a hundred more grey hairs now than he had when he had gone into the operating room.
A look over them, and then the doctor said, in a cheery voice that didn't match his haggard appearance, "Ludwig. I have good news for you."
A crinkle of Ludwig's brow, a hitch in his breath, and Ludwig looked on the verge of imploding. His hand had come up at the level of his chest, resting subconsciously over those rings, and Alfred could see the hope there upon his face, and it was beautiful.
Alfred didn't know what he wanted, what outcome was best for him, but seeing Ludwig like that was enough to stir Alfred into some sort of relief himself.
Even if Alfred had it in for Ivan, seeing Ludwig light up was mesmerizing.
Kiku suddenly said, "Ivan pulled through. We've removed a good majority of the tumor. He's stable. All in all, the operation was a complete success. You have a very strong husband."
Alfred just hung his head and exhaled, hand flying up to his forehead.
Damn.
Elated, and yet also very disappointed. Alfred was selfish, after all, and Ivan slipping away on the operating table would have been best for everyone.
Except for Ludwig.
Ludwig reacted as Alfred could have expected, dissolving into tears and coming forward to lean over and embrace the doctor around the neck, blubbering away words of gratitude.
Alfred ran his hands over his face and was damn ready to go home and sleep for about three weeks straight.
Kiku smiled, patting Ludwig on the back a bit awkwardly, and said, "Go get some sleep, won't you? You look terrible. Ivan is going to be unconscious for a good few days. We're going to keep him in that coma for about a week, alright? So go rest. When he wakes up, when he recovers a little, then we can keep going."
Nowhere near out of the woods, Ivan, and he still might have only lived for five more months, but Ludwig now had a sliver of hope to look forward to. A little glimmer of light in the dark sea.
Ludwig nodded his head, clinging to the doctor rather stubbornly, and Alfred finally had to come forward and pull Ludwig back, and the doctor was shuffling a little, clearly unused to expressing emotion as much as Ludwig was.
But sleep sounded good to everyone then, given that it was one in the morning, and so Alfred grabbed Ludwig's arm and walked him down the hall.
Ludwig, barely standing, looked like death and yet was smiling. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and made a call. It was answered immediately, and Alfred could faintly hear Toris' voice.
Toris awaited news of Ivan's death, and instead Ludwig breathlessly said, voice thin and high and so happy, "He made it!"
Silence.
Toris uttered something curt and short, and then hung up.
Alfred imagined that Toris had grunted, sarcastically, 'Oh. Great.'
Ludwig seemed hardly bothered, clinging to Alfred's arm as tightly as he had clung to the doctor and appearing quite in the clouds. It had been so long since Alfred had seen Ludwig light up like that, and he tried to enjoy it, even if he wasn't the cause for it.
Alfred couldn't really find much optimism, even for Ludwig's sake.
Alfred just didn't have to heart to remind Ludwig that Ivan may have survived this surgery, but that he was still going to die soon, regardless.
Unfair.
They made it home in that daze, and this time even the snow in Ludwig's pale hair couldn't drag Alfred up out of that dark pit he had fallen into.
Ludwig, bolstered, made dinner, Alfred ate for the first time in who knew how long, they still didn't make conversation, and then they went to bed. This time, Ludwig lied next to Alfred, arm thrown over Alfred's chest and face buried in his neck. As usual, Alfred stared blankly at the ceiling, and didn't sleep.
Morning came.
Exhaustion hung over Alfred far more heavily than any noose ever could.
Ludwig rolled over halfway on top of Alfred, kissed his nose as he had not too long ago, and for just a while there Alfred was content, reaching up to pull Ludwig in and kiss him.
That feeling, after so much darkness. Nothing like it.
A little bit of comfort.
But then Ludwig pulled back, kissed Alfred's nose again, and murmured, eagerly, "Will you come with me to the hospital today?"
A surge of disappointment.
Alfred tried to hide it, tried to appear unbothered, casual, content, because Ludwig was smiling for the first time in so long. He only kept up the act because Ludwig was lying on top of him, and he was yet the one in this bed.
"He's still asleep," Alfred tried.
Ludwig's pale eyes ran over his face, and he replied, "I know. But Gilbert stayed with me. I should stay with him. Just in case." Alfred's mask might have slipped for a second, because Ludwig's brow suddenly came down, and he buried his face in Alfred's neck. "I'm sorry. You were... All this time, you've been so patient with me. Can't you do that again, one more time?"
Alfred stared blankly above Ludwig's head, and was silent.
He desperately wanted to ask, 'If he makes it now and lives those five years, will you go back to him?'
He didn't, because he was afraid of Ludwig's answer.
So Alfred tried to redirect Ludwig's sentiments, and said, very pointedly, "You asked me over and over again to stay. I promised you I would. I'll be here, whatever happens."
Ludwig was quiet, as Alfred intentionally used his own words against him, making sure that Ludwig remembered that he was Alfred's now, not Ivan's, even if Ivan woke up from this coma a different man. It had come too far, and there was no going back down that dead-end road.
Terminal.
That word always lurked beneath the surface, however hard Ludwig tried to ignore it.
Alfred dutifully followed Ludwig to the hospital all the same, and stood back in the corner as Ludwig took over that room like a mother hen.
Ludwig rearranged the chairs in the room in the manner he saw fit, raised the blinds just a crack to let pale winter sunlight in even though the view from the fourth floor window made him totter, and then Ludwig turned his sights to Ivan. Alfred couldn't really say if Ludwig was doing this more for Ivan or himself, if Ludwig just needed something to cling to, but regardless of intent Ludwig went over to unconscious Ivan and began tidying him up.
Ivan was no longer on a respirator, and so Ludwig hovered over him, put a towel upon his chest, and gave Ivan a desperately needed shave. The care and amount of effort Ludwig put into it was very easy to see in his focused eyes, and sometimes Ludwig was so focused that his tongue would poke out a little.
Despite it all, that made Alfred smile a little.
Ivan's head was too wrapped up for Ludwig to get in there and trim his hair, whatever hadn't been shaved at any rate, so instead Ludwig fiddled around with other things, here and there. He picked up one of Ivan's great hands, and clipped his nails, cleaned them, as if he were some beautician.
Ludwig preened Ivan then as lovingly as any mother would their child, and Alfred had a hard time lifting his eyes up from the floor.
Couldn't say what was going on in Ludwig's head. He was a wreck in so many ways, and handled it in whatever manner seemed best to him. Preening Ivan like that might have just been an illusion, because if Ivan looked less messy then perhaps Ludwig could more easily pretend that he wasn't sick.
Ivan did look a lot better, Alfred had to say, when Ludwig was done with him.
Ludwig then sat down in a chair, held Ivan's hand, and stared at him for hours. From the intent look on his face, Alfred imagined that Ludwig was holding a telepathic conversation with Ivan, trying so hard to let Ivan know he was there.
When night fell, Ludwig finally pitied weary Alfred, and they went home.
The next day was the same, except that Ludwig took the car to the hospital, because he stopped on the way to buy an exorbitant amount of flowers. Alfred pursed his lips and felt again like a ridiculous pack mule as he helped Ludwig carry all those damn flowers and vases up to that room. Ludwig bustled about, setting the flowers all over, and the room certainly did look much cheerier and less terrifying when Ludwig was done with it.
Alfred knew why Ludwig did it, but it didn't hurt any less.
Ludwig was trying so hard to spur sleeping Ivan into fighting on as he always had, but Alfred looked around at the bright red flowers and just felt more like the room was on fire.
Or maybe that was his head, because it was as much a wreck as Ludwig's ever had been.
Once more, when Ludwig was finished he sat down, took Ivan's hand, and stared at him for hours.
The next day...
Well. Started off the same, this time with Ludwig bringing a blanket from home to put it over Ivan, so that maybe Ivan would have some greater sense of comfort in that coma, but when Ludwig sat down to grab Ivan's hand, something went a little wrong.
Out of nowhere, a sudden inhale, sharp and labored, and Ludwig's head snapped up and he stared away at Ivan with wide eyes as Ivan suddenly groaned and stirred. Alfred came forward in alarm, because he was certain that the doctor had said that Ivan shouldn't have been waking up for a good while. No one had said that Ivan was going to be brought out of the coma, so this probably wasn't good.
Ivan's hands twitched at his sides, tied to the railing as they were, and Ludwig stood up to frantically press the button to call the nurse.
Ludwig looked already like he was about to burst into tears, as he hunkered down and clenched Ivan's hand tightly between both of his own, leaning down to whisper away in Ivan's ear.
Hurt to see Ludwig caring so much, so much, for someone else, and more than that for someone that had hurt him, and maybe Alfred hated it so much because now he couldn't even hate Ivan, couldn't even hold the son of a bitch accountable anymore.
Ludwig had been right all along, after all.
That hurt was quickly lost under anxiety when Ivan suddenly sucked in a great breath of air through his teeth, and then began breathing erratically, sharply, unevenly, his face now twitching along with his hands.
Waking up—why was he waking up?
It was very easy to see that Ivan was in an unbearable amount of pain in that moment, must have been in unfathomable pain, and Ludwig's face had crumpled up like a piece of paper when Ivan's squinted eyes opened just a crack. Hissing, gasping, and Ivan sounded like he was crying then, as he tried to lift his hand up to his head. Couldn't, for his binds, and Ludwig reached his hands up, embracing Ivan around the chest carefully.
Wasn't even conscious, Ivan, wasn't really awake, not really, certainly not lucid, and yet it was obvious that he was in intense agony. Ivan was in a chemical coma, and so he must not have been on any painkillers yet, those wouldn't have been administered until it was time to wake Ivan up, and Alfred didn't really want to imagine what it felt like to come to after major brain surgery with no pain medication.
Unfathomable.
Ludwig held Ivan, so carefully, and Ivan had turned his head in Ludwig's direction. Wondered if at some level Ivan knew that Ludwig was there, despite not being really conscious. Maybe there had been a point after all in all of Ludwig's efforts, because even behind the sleep Ivan surely felt Ludwig's presence.
The nurse suddenly came rushing in, the doctor trotting on her heels, and after a moment to see what was happening, Kiku had taken up the IV in his hands and plunged a syringe into it. He turned his dark eyes to Ivan, tutting, lowly, "Ivan! What are you doing awake? I thought I had enough drugs in you to knock out a rhino."
Ludwig clung to Ivan protectively, and in a minute or so, the new drug took effect and Ivan slipped mercifully back into unconsciousness. What a relief.
The doctor furrowed his brow and pushed out his lips, clearly curious as to how Ivan had ever come to in the first place.
Alfred wasn't too shocked; he had seen what Ivan could do.
Kiku watched Ivan for a long time, gave him a look over and checked all of his vitals, and then he clapped Ludwig's arm for encouragement and walked off.
Ludwig didn't leave that night, stayed there beside Ivan, sleeping in the chair with his head rested on the mattress, and cranky Alfred reclined in the other chair and tried to remember why he was doing this.
He wanted Ludwig, and so he had to stay, had to be supportive. No one else was, and Ludwig would remember that. When it was all over and done with, when Ivan was better (that was, as good as he was going to get), Alfred could look over at Ludwig and know that Ludwig would stay with him, because Alfred had been there for him when no one else in his life had helped.
Alfred was selfish, and good at being so.
The next day, Gilbert finally came to the hospital, hunting down his little brother like a hound.
Alfred was out of sorts, staring tiredly out of the window as the sun rose. Ludwig was a mess, hadn't slept all night, so worried about Ivan, and looked about as bad then as Ivan had when they had dragged him into this hospital.
When the door opened, Alfred looked over, assuming it was Kiku.
It wasn't.
When Gilbert came inside, dressed in that ridiculously expensive suit and looking so out of place, Ludwig glanced up, saw him, and leapt to his feet. A step forward, and it was clear to Alfred that Ludwig wanted to hug Gilbert, wanted to embrace him, wanted to be near him, because Ludwig had worshiped Gilbert his entire life and Gilbert not supporting him had crushed him. Gilbert not changing his mind about Ivan had been devastating, and maybe exhausted Ludwig thought that Gilbert was there as a sign of peace.
It was only because Ludwig hadn't slept in days and was an emotional wreck that he actually had the courage to complete the act and come up to Gilbert, throwing arms around his neck and pressing his face into Gilbert's shoulder.
A breath away from a breakdown.
Alfred knew better than to expect a peace offering from Gilbert, and just watched as Ludwig burrowed away into Gilbert's neck.
How strange it must have been for Ludwig to actually hug Gilbert. Had they ever hugged since Ludwig had turned six and been put to work? Did Gilbert know how to hug someone?
Alfred spied Toris in the doorframe, and felt rather uneasy.
Why were they really here? Not to check in on Ivan.
Gilbert stood stark still, as much a statue as ever, and he didn't lift his arms to embrace his vulnerable little brother. Rather, Gilbert stared blankly at Ivan, unconscious there, and then he turned his head to Alfred, and said, "I wish to speak to you outside. Now."
Ludwig lifted his head, inhaling and eyes bleary, and said, thoughtlessly, "Of course—"
"Not you," Gilbert said, coldly and stiffly, as he took a purposeful step back and disengaged himself from Ludwig's embrace.
Alfred hated the falling of Ludwig's face, but Ludwig accepted it as he did everything, and stared at Gilbert longingly for a moment before he retreated and went once more to Ivan's side. When Ludwig bent forward, folded his arms, and buried his face there beside Ivan's, Alfred turned away.
He followed Gilbert out into the hallway, and then down the corridor towards a waiting room. When the door shut behind them, Alfred found himself alone with Gilbert and Toris, and felt a little like a mouse beneath the paws of two cats.
Gilbert studied Alfred, making him shift, and yet it was Toris who spoke first, by droning in his ever-condescending voice, "You're not a rocket scientist, but I trust you grasp how problematic this is, on many levels."
"I got that, thanks," Alfred spat back, bitterly, and aggressively.
Who were they telling, the sons of bitches? They weren't the ones that stood to lose someone they were romantically in love with because some big bastard had gotten sick—
Goddammit.
It had always been obvious that Gilbert didn't consider anything happening now to be absolution for Ivan, not even a little, and it was clear that Toris felt that way, too.
They stared Alfred down, and Gilbert spoke up, to rumble, "I've been consulting with every lawyer in the city. None of them are telling me what I want to hear."
Ha—must have been pitching a fit at home, the asshole, at not getting his way.
Alfred slumped a little, in exhaustion, and barely managed a scoff. He looked back and forth between Gilbert and Toris, and then whispered, wearily, "What's it matter? He's dyin'. What's it even matter? You got what you wanted."
Toris curled his lip, and muttered, "What I want is to have him die in prison. That's what I want."
A twinge of anger, but Alfred could never have explained why.
Toris noticed it, no doubt, and lowered his voice ever more to ask, "The man who killed your sister— If they called you today and told you that he was being released because he had a brain tumor and now suddenly it wasn't his fault, would you forgive him?"
An awful pang of hurt, and Alfred couldn't answer that and swallowed instead.
Because no. He wouldn't have. It wouldn't have changed anything in Alfred's mind, not at all, and so he couldn't open his mouth. Toris knew it, and Alfred didn't really want to side with Toris and Gilbert any more than he wanted to side with Ivan, but this was one of those times that they just made more sense to Alfred than Ludwig and Ivan did.
It wasn't right, maybe, wasn't fair, because Ivan really was sick, but Alfred didn't forgive him any more than Gilbert did.
Gilbert had slept on Ludwig's hospital bed for three days, clinging to the hope that his little brother would wake up, and Ivan being sick didn't make that dread and hurt and betrayal any better. Nothing would, and Gilbert had every right to want Ivan put away, however long he had left to live.
So Alfred stood still, and stayed silent.
Gilbert took a step towards Alfred, and lowered his voice into that dangerous, soft tone.
"I don't like you, let me say that now. I find you as interesting and meaningful as a rock. You have no place in this company, in this line. I think you're nothing, nothing, and should you one day vanish the world would never even know you once existed."
A surge of red to his face, his fists clenched, nostrils flaring in anger, and Toris as usual kept watch of the situation, eyes ever darting between them to keep charge of tempers.
Before Alfred could retort, Gilbert carried on, "You are nothing, but between nothing and that fucking thing lying in there on that bed, if those are really my choices, then nothing it is."
A sudden motion, Alfred braced defensively, and Gilbert had snatched out, taken the collar of Alfred's coat in one big hand, and hauled him in until they were nearly nose to nose.
Alfred was pinned down under Gilbert's eyes, immobile and unable to breathe.
Gilbert's deadly whisper of absolute finality.
"Whatever happens, don't you dare let Ludwig go back to him. Whatever you have to do. I don't care if he's dying—five years is still five years too many. Use whatever means you need to, but Ludwig is under no circumstances to leave you and go back to him. Understand? That's all."
Gilbert let him go, lifted his chin, and stalked out of the hospital, Toris following crankily behind him.
Alfred stood there in the waiting room long after Gilbert and Toris had vanished, staring at the wall and jaw clenched.
Couldn't describe the way he felt.
Pfft—yeah, great, he had finally gotten Gilbert's blessing to enter this sacred line, something he had desired, and now that he had it, it suddenly felt so sinister. Like everything else in Ludwig's life, Gilbert was extending something to Ludwig only to get what Gilbert wanted. Gilbert, as always, wanted to be entirely in control of Ludwig. And this time, even thought Gilbert's means of control aligned with Alfred's desires, it just...
Didn't feel right.
Alfred wanted Ludwig, more than anything, and was absolutely willing to fight for him, but Ludwig, for once in his life, should have been able to make his own decision. Alfred wanted to fight, wanted Ludwig to choose him, but he wanted Ludwig to choose him because he had won Ludwig over fairly. Didn't want Ludwig to choose Alfred because Gilbert and Toris gave him no other option. Didn't want Ludwig to choose Alfred because he was terrified that not doing so would mean he and a sick Ivan were out on the street.
Didn't Gilbert realize that he was giving Alfred an impossible task? There was no force in the universe that could have kept Ludwig from Ivan, and Alfred was just a man.
He would try his best, all the same, but his hopes were low.
Alfred pushed open the door and went back into Ivan's room, and felt that awful wave of hurt come back up.
Ludwig had crawled into the cramped bed, always mimicking Gilbert in one form or another, and had buried his face in Ivan's neck, arm thrown over Ivan's chest protectively. Ludwig wasn't shielding Ivan from Alfred anymore, but rather the world entire.
Maybe it was Ludwig who would have made an impressive bodyguard.
Every person around them pulled Ludwig's strings; Alfred had once thought that.
And now he was just one of them yet again, a little puppet dancing for Gilbert.
Ivan slept.
But not for long.