Chapter 5

Fear of the Dark

What was taking so long?

Something was wrong.

Pacing back and forth across the tile of his kitchen floor, Ludwig chewed mercilessly on his thumbnail, seeing but not comprehending his surroundings. He was out in space. He had heard nothing from Erzsébet, and Alfred wasn't back yet. He had not seen them in two days. Two long, miserable days. And god, he had gone out and waited near that old store front where he had stood so many times before. He had waited there as instructed, hands tucked into his pockets, watching the silent wall intently.

Gilbert had never shown up.

Two days had come and gone. He'd waited all night there at the wall, clenching his fingers in his hair and breathing through his mouth as the dawn broke, pacing back and forth just as he was now. No one had ever come.

Coming home that morning was the first time Ludwig had ever entered this flat feeling utterly defeated. So tired, so exhausted, so miserable. Hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, had done nothing for two days except panic and panic and panic and then when he wasn't panicking he was popping back the Valium so he wouldn't panic, and then he panicked when the Valium wore off and panicked when he had to take more.

Panic.

Was Gilbert safe? Gilbert was so brash and reckless. Gilbert didn't think before he acted. Never had, and always seemed to wind up on the bottom. That stupid man. Worse, it wasn't just Gilbert now, not just him, but others. If Gilbert went down this time, there was a good possibility that he would take Erzsébet and Alfred down with him.

Oh.

With a moan, Ludwig collapsed at the kitchen table, hands covering his mouth and staring over his fingers at the wall. With every passing second, his chest seemed to get heavier. His collar got tighter and tighter.

Time for the pills.

He was starting to rely on them. Was using them too much, far too much. Had never wanted to, never, and yet now his trembling hands uncapped the bottle and he put two back anyway, because he couldn't fuckin' breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't focus. Couldn't settle. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he looked like Gilbert then, throwing back pills and swallowing with a wince. Wondered if somehow he was going to end up becoming Gilbert.

Once Gilbert had started popping pills, he'd never really been able to stop.

Couldn't help it. Couldn't stand that tightening of his chest. Not being able to breathe.

Alfred. Where was Alfred?

Screwing the top back on the bottle, Ludwig had barely had enough time to finish swallowing them when there was a knock at the door. Panic and elation and horror. Jumping upright so fast that he knocked his chair backwards, he bolted forward, sprinting through the rooms and coming to a screeching halt in front of the door and ripping it open as his hope soared.

Oh, god. Had they brought him? He hadn't seen Gilbert's face in so long—

His eyes focused, and his breath caught in his throat. What he saw there made his hope die, as his heart dropped into his stomach.

It wasn't Gilbert.

Alfred stood in the frame, arms loose at his sides and head bowed. He was disheveled and dirty and looked far beyond beaten, as a gash on his forehead dripped blood down on his collar. Ludwig shuddered at the sight. All that blood. Was all of it his? Alfred was covered in blood. His coat was soaked through on the shoulder, as the wound on his head ever dripped. His glasses were so mangled and shattered that Ludwig couldn't even believe Alfred had ever been able to find his way home in the first place.

The panic then was indescribable.

Alfred just stood there, swaying back and forth, and then he looked up at Ludwig from behind his busted glasses, opened his mouth, and lost his voice. Was Alfred crying? ...no. Almost, though. Couldn't speak, for the threat of tears. Had never once seen Alfred look so utterly helpless.

Wanted to faint, suddenly. Terror.

Alfred just stood there. He didn't speak.

Ludwig finally came out of his stupor with an inhale.

"Oh, god," Ludwig finally breathed, when his voice returned, and he reached out, snatching a handful of Alfred's coat and pulling him inside as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind. Panic led his actions then, that awful, familiar panic, and Ludwig was tripping over his own feet as he dragged Alfred to the couch and pushed him down. As much as Alfred had been frantic and blubbering the first time Ludwig had had a panic attack, so too was Ludwig then, when he fell to his knees before Alfred and ran hands over him in terror.

Didn't know what to do—

In the middle of Ludwig's pitiful panicking, Alfred suddenly reached out, grabbed his wrists, and forced him still. A long stare, as much as was possible behind those shattered glasses, and then Alfred finally found his voice.

"It's nothin'," Alfred murmured, voice low and rumbling. "Just a scratch."

A scratch? A scratch! A fuckin' scratch? Ha. Typical Alfred. Ludwig was so flabbergasted and so taken aback by the words that he fell completely still there, limp and dazed and staring up at Alfred with horror. Alfred was quick to look away, and finally released Ludwig's wrists. Ludwig succeeded only in falling back onto the floor, weight held up by his palms as he stared breathlessly at Alfred.

Couldn't think. His brain just couldn't keep up.

Alfred stared off into nothing, as still as a statue, and spoke no more. Took Ludwig a long, long time to finally find his own voice.

"Where's Erzsébet?"

If anything had happened to her, he woulda died. If she weren't coming back. His mother, always had been, she had picked him right up off the street with Roderich and had taken him home and called him 'son'. It would be his fault, if anything had happened to her, and he wouldn't have ever been able to forgive himself for that, couldn't have lived with himself.

A despondent whisper.

"She's fine. She's with Roderich."

Oh, god! Incredible words.

There was a horrendous silence, and with effort, Ludwig braced himself and asked at last, in a voice so soft it was barely audible, "And Gilbert? Where's my brother?"

Alfred inhaled, hung his head, and burst into tears.

And Ludwig could have died.

Faint.

Didn't remember much after that, because his chest clenched and air was gone and everything went black, he had suddenly collapsed.

How many years had it been?

The only sound that kept him company was the steady dripping of crimson and water onto the concrete below.

Drip.

How long? '60 had been the last. Ludwig had smiled then.

His head hurt.

Blearily, Gilbert opened his eyes, and rolled his head to the side, observing his new lodgings. That iron chair had proved too close to failure (his own mistake, he knew) so, at the behest of that bored man that had accompanied the General, they had ripped him out of it and thrown him into a holding cell, where the iron bars were impassable, no matter how many bones he was willing to break. The cot where he rested was hardly even that; just a slab of cold, unyielding concrete.

The chain on his ankle kept him from wandering even a few feet, but it was pointless; he had no desire to move. They had tormented him briefly, the Stasi, once the General had stepped out for the evening, but he had barely been conscious then. He couldn't even remember now exactly what they had done. Maybe that was for the best.

He knew only that he was sore, and bleeding. But they had left soon in boredom when he refused to cry out, and no one had come back the rest of the night. Didn't know what they wanted, anyway. Must have thought he was one of the students. Wanted information, but he didn't have much to give. He was just a stupid man with no self-control.

Even though there were no windows, he sensed that it was early morning now.

The air was cold.

The void of complete silence in this cold building was almost as unnerving as the emotionless void of the Russian General's eyes.

He wanted to go home.

He couldn't stand it here, cramped and captive. He had never been an indoor person, and this was pushing his psyche to its breaking point. This silence. To keep himself from slipping into total insanity, he thought back on cherished memories. Memories, after all, were all he would ever have of Ludwig again.

Five years.

It had been five years since he had held Ludwig's hand. Five missed birthdays. Five missed summers. Five missed Christmases. In a little under three months, he realized with a lurch of regret and longing, and it would be a sixth lonely Christmas. For Ludwig, at any rate. He much doubted if he would still be around in three months.

Not here.

Why hadn't he made the Christmas of 1960 really count? They spent Christmas at Roderich's home every year, because Ludwig loved Roderich and Roderich's home was nice and cozy. Gilbert hated it. As soon as the eve of the 24th fell and the sun was gone, he had gone out into the city, crawling in and out of bars and nightclubs until he had lost all sense of time and his feet were sore, and he had come back the next morning hung-over from too much alcohol and still high. And as soon as he came through the door, what had he done? He had staggered straight past Ludwig and passed out onto the bed, and Ludwig had spent Christmas day sitting silently in the living room with Roderich and Erzsébet.

He had never even said 'sorry'. He had never sat Ludwig down and tried to explain to him that it wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with him, it was just that he couldn't bear to be inside of Roderich's house.

It hadn't been Ludwig's fault.

It was strange, how he had wasted that day so easily years ago, and now he would go to the ends of the earth and back just to have a single moment with Ludwig. Just to see his face. Closing his eyes, he tried his hardest to remember the feel of Ludwig's smooth hand within his own. He couldn't.

Raising his hand up to his forehead, he gave a rough, deep laugh that echoed off the walls.

Welcome to hell.

Right.

It was true already, and, as though on cue, the second that the words had passed through his head, the steel doors began to slowly creak open. Steadying himself, he raised himself up at the waist, resting his elbows between his knees. Every movement was agony, but even the throbbing, burning pain in his mangled hand could not compare to the pangs of anxiety.

The not knowing of what was coming was worse than anything.

And then that soft, gentle voice filled the silence, and he prepared himself for another day of torment.

It was only dawn.

"Please reconsider."

The office was colder than usual, but Ludwig was not bothered by it. Slouched in his chair, hands resting despondently in his lap as Roderich leaned over his desk with a look of alarm, he shook his head.

Reconsider? He couldn't.

"But, Ludwig—"

"I've already made up my mind."

His voice was mechanical, automatic. Not his own. So lost up in his head, perhaps, that his brain had just shifted over into autopilot.

Raising his head, he caught Roderich's frightened eyes, wide behind his glasses, and shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.

"Hey," he muttered, "What else do I have to lose? And to think I put Erzsébet in such danger, when I should have gone myself all along."

It was true, and he would never shake off the shame of letting his almost-mother go in his stead. She could have been killed, and how then would this conversation in Roderich's office be going?

"Erzsébet is fine," Roderich said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady as he struggled to regain control of the situation. "Alfred is fine. You're fine. And there are always other options—"

"I'm going, no matter what you say. But it will be easier if you help me. I don't want to set off in the dark."

Roderich fell back into his chair, and his stance slumped in defeat.

"And that's that?"

"That's that."

They locked eyes, and now, even the unmovable, impassive Roderich was squirming in his seat. Reaching up and running a hand through his immaculately styled hair, he looked down and shook his head. "How can I help you do this," he whispered miserably, faltering under Ludwig's gaze, "when I've watched you grow up? I've spent so many years protecting you. For what? To cast you out now amongst the wolves? I couldn't... I can't. You're my son. How can I let you go?"

"Please. I need you."

His father. The only one he had ever known.

"How can you ask so much of me?"

It was too much, far too much, and Roderich suddenly stood upright, slamming his fist on his desk emphatically.

Ludwig didn't flinch. Couldn't—too numb and dazed.

"No! I won't! He's gone! Gilbert is gone! We tried and we failed and there's nothing we can do to fix it! And now you're saying you want to throw everything away and go after him? Are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? He's probably already dead, and if he isn't, then so what? What can you do about it? What are you really gonna do about it? You really think you can just bust in there and break him out? You've lost your mind! It's not your fault, it's not, and you don't have to try to make up for it! What's the sense, in losing both of you? What's the point? What good can come of it? One was enough. I don't want you to go, too. It's not your fault—"

Roderich trailed off, and even as his heart began to pound in guilt from Roderich's sincerity, Ludwig never looked away.

"I'm still going."

Roderich spat a curse, hissed air through his teeth, lowered his head, and stared dejectedly at his feet, eyes squinted and brow scrunched. A shake of his head, and Roderich lifted his hands up to cover his face and stifle his scream of frustration.

A low, muffled whisper.

"You always want to fix his mistakes. Always. You always did. You always want to try and make sense of the things he does. You can't, Ludwig. You can't help him this time. No one can. You don't have to try so hard."

That awful rush of guilt.

Gilbert was stupid and crazy, irresponsible and selfish, yeah, but Ludwig had always known that, always, and somehow, in some way, Ludwig was still very convinced that this entire situation was his fault because he just hadn't tried hard enough to keep Gilbert's head up. Had been sinking so deeply in his own misery that he hadn't been giving enough effort to call Gilbert and try to support him.

His fault.

One way or another.

"I could..."

Some part of Ludwig would have loved to just stay put, and he could pretend that Roderich and Erzsébet were his parents and that Alfred was his brother instead, and that everything was right in the world. Gilbert had never been anything but trouble. God knew that Alfred would have made a hell of a better brother than Gilbert ever could, and he would have a good life surrounded by people that loved him and were normal.

Normal.

Hardly—they had never been normal. Ludwig wasn't normal, and he didn't know if he had been born that way or if Gilbert had made him that way, but he loved Gilbert, all the way and no matter what, and wouldn't leave him over there to die. He was better off here without Gilbert, he knew that, and he also knew that he just didn't care.

Couldn't ever have explained it in words, no matter how many years he sat there thinking, and he knew that no one else had ever understood, and he got that, he really did, because he didn't understand either. Gilbert's draw, Gilbert's magnet, Gilbert's pull—Ludwig had never been able to escape it, and just went along with it as he always did.

I'll never leave you! We'll always be together.

"I could just leave him," Ludwig began, pulling himself to his feet to match Roderich, "if I tried hard enough, I know I could. I could leave him there. I could— But would it be worth it, to throw him away? He screws up everything, and he doesn't listen, and he's stupid and stubborn and loud, and I know you hate him, and I do too, really, but... He's still my brother. I have to go." He tried to smile when Roderich's hands clenched. "You're my family. I'd do it for you. And I know you'd do it for me. So let me go."

Roderich would have done it for him, with no question, and so maybe that was the only thing Ludwig could think of to say that would have made Roderich understand how Ludwig felt.

A heavy silence settled above them, and for a moment, Ludwig thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears, and that he would have to go on alone, groping blindly in the darkness, with no one to turn to.

Roderich just stared at him, as if the world were ending. For an awful moment, Ludwig even thought that Roderich looked as if he were about to cry.

But then, inhaling a great breath to gather himself, Roderich suddenly reached out and tossed the phone off the hook, and then, pulling on a mask of complete indifference, he murmured, "Up north. There's a tunnel."

Roderich was the smartest, bravest man Ludwig knew, and nothing could have ever shaken him, not a thing. Ludwig had always wanted to be like that. His idol. Had spent his entire life wanting to be Roderich, to be like that, and now suddenly he was throwing it all away for a man that was the opposite of everything he had ever loved in Roderich.

Ludwig leaned forward, and hung on every word.

Roderich's hands clasped around his own as he muttered away, and Ludwig squeezed them as tightly as he could, feeling him and remembering him. He might not have ever seen Roderich again. Roderich had saved his life once. Roderich had done everything for him. Roderich had been there, when Gilbert had not. Roderich was sane, rational, devoted, thoughtful, responsible; everything Gilbert was not.

And yet...

He felt sick.

Roderich was important to him. Roderich was like a father. But Gilbert was everything. He'd do anything for Gilbert. Anything, and he didn't know why. Didn't know why, because Gilbert had caused him nothing but grief, had been nothing but trouble, and so Ludwig didn't know why he loved him so much.

Didn't make sense, but he would go all the same.

Gilbert was waiting.

"Is this right?"

Everything was dark.

Once to the right. Twice to the left. Right. Straight. There were so many twists in this path.

The air was stale.

"Ludwig, I don't know about this."

Left.

"Please— Let's just go back. Ludwig?"

Down.

"Are you listening?"

A corridor.

"Ludwig!"

Strong hands reached out and grabbed his shoulders, and Ludwig came crashing back into reality with a lurch of his stomach. Alfred was before him, wide-eyed and breathless, a look of fear upon his face, shaking him for all he was worth.

"Hey! You listenin'? We should go back! Now. Don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"I remember," Ludwig whispered, more to himself, and looked around. "I think I can remember."

He could remember. This awful place.

The East had been for so many years the source of everyone's nightmares, but in this labyrinth of alleys and stairways and doors that led to nowhere, they were coming to realize that the West could be just as unforgiving. But then, he thought with a shudder, Berlin was all just one city, wasn't it? These frightening crevasses had existed long before the Eastern Bloc. Berlin had been whole, once.

Roderich and Gilbert knew this city like the back of their hands. Ludwig and Alfred did not, and they were struggling with Roderich's hastily and messily scribbled directions, struggling to see for the dim light of the moon. Scrambling through the back alleys, some so narrow that Alfred's wide shoulders forced him to scoot along sideways, they had passed beggars and soldiers and suspicious men that had an air of foreboding, all under the cover of darkness.

They could bring no lights, for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

But, by either dumb luck or perseverance, they had come to their destination : an old, abandoned hospital from the long-dissolved empire, that looked on the verge of downfall, with a collapsed ceiling and dead trees at the gate. The front doors were padlocked shut, but they slunk in easily through a shattered window.

The hallways turned out to be the worst part, all the same color and the same length, with no signs. So many doors. Everything had fallen into ruin. Dead vines crept along the walls.

Ludwig tried to remember the turns as best he could, just in case. Just in case he would come back.

The night was cloudy.

And now, they stood in the dark corridor, lit up with only the faintest traces of moonlight, staring at the gate ahead that would soon part them. The stillness of the hall was disturbing. Shouldn't there have at least been the scuffling of debris in the light breeze, or the scurrying of rats?

Nothing.

"Let's go."

Ludwig took a step forward, but Alfred lingered back, and he could hear him shuffling back and forth anxiously, the wheels practically grinding in his head. Ignoring him (already knowing what he longed to say) Ludwig knelt down, and, after a minute with a bobby pin, removed the unlocked chain from the front of the gate.

The chain clattered as it fell to the floor.

This thin metal mesh was the only thing that stood between them, and the hospital's death tunnel. Once the last mile for the victims of infectious diseases, it had been usurped, carved out, and elongated by now-gone rebel groups. No one used it anymore, but the Stasi hadn't found it yet. Supposedly. It was hidden behind an inconspicuous door. There were no lights inside. Anyone foolhardy enough to enter the death tunnel had to walk over two kilometers underground in the pitch-black, feeling their way along the dirt wall, crouching to avoid hitting their head, and hope above all that they did not slip into one of the numerous, growing sink-holes, breaking their ankle, or maybe worse.

And when the other end emerged, who knew if it had been sealed up?

"Ludwig."

Standing, Ludwig looked over his shoulder, and whispered, affectionately, "Scared?"

"No," Alfred retorted, and leapt forward, reaching down and grabbing the gate in his hands. "I'm not!"

His halfhearted smile was hidden by the dark. Oh, Alfred. If he died in this venture, one great regret would be that he hadn't spent more time with Alfred. The only friend he had ever had. So many nights sitting there and talking about the future; Alfred had said that one day they would be eighty and still drinking together on the couch, either in Germany or America, and Ludwig had believed him.

Still wanted to.

"I'm just nervous, is all," Alfred murmured, as he lifted the metal as quietly as he could for the way it screeched, ushering Ludwig through before following himself. "I mean, I'm just worried about you, going over there all alone." There was no response, and Alfred took Ludwig's arm in a vice grip. "Let me come with you."

Ludwig had known that this was coming. Knew it, because he had spent the past twelve hours shooting Alfred down every five minutes. Nothing new by then, those words. At least Alfred was asking now. Earlier, he had shaken the life out of Ludwig, very angrily, and had sworn that Ludwig wasn't going anywhere at all without him.

Wasn't sure still how he had gotten out of it.

"No," was the immediate reply, and Alfred hung his head.

"Don't you trust me?"

"With my life."

"So why don't you want me to come?"

Ludwig smiled, snorted, and turned to glance over at Alfred, who had that look of hardened seriousness that Ludwig loved. Looked like everything then that Ludwig could have imagined an American would, from all those Hollywood movies. Looked just like those confident actors, looked so sure and so bold, so ready for danger, and Ludwig always thought that Alfred could do anything.

Not this time.

Trusted Alfred, so much, loved him, adored him, cared so much about that man, and that was why Alfred couldn't come.

"Because," Ludwig finally said. "You're my best friend. I can't save him if you come, because I— If it came to it, I'd leave him behind, so that you would get out. I'd save you before him. That's why you can't go."

Alfred was innocent, had nothing to do with this at all, and Ludwig would have remembered that and would have seen Alfred safe before Gilbert, and that was entirely counterproductive. Alfred would be too great a distraction.

Alfred stepped forward, reached out, as if to grab Ludwig, but fell short at the last second.

"Can't we just— Please. I don't want you to go."

Alfred's voice was thick. Trembling. Oh—couldn't stand it. Couldn't, couldn't take it, couldn't stand seeing Alfred like that, his courage was already hanging by a thread, and if Alfred started crying Ludwig might have folded.

"Thank you," Ludwig said, abruptly, and took a meaningful step forward.

Alfred gave a strange, strangled inhale.

How had it ever come to this?

"Listen," Ludwig suddenly whispered, as an afterthought, "If I don't come back—"

He wanted to say, 'I want you to know that you're the best friend I ever had, and I don't know why, but damn if I didn't love you.'

Didn't get his chance.

"Don't even," Alfred barked, voice suddenly strong again, interrupting him rudely and fiercely, "Don't even try it! Asshole. You're not good at sayin' things like that, and I hate listening to bullshit anyway. We both know you don't have a damn good thing to say about me! So. ...I know you'll come back. I'll be here when you do. Even if it's without him. You'll come back. I'll be waiting."

Alfred. They should have had more time together.

Couldn't breathe, and his own voice was thick and trembling then when he spoke.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"Lutz. I'll see ya around."

"Yeah. See you."

A sudden slam of the lowering grate told him he had been shut in.

There was no turning back. The former world was left behind.

Reaching out with a trembling hand, he opened the door, and plunged into darkness.