Chapter 7

Broken Dreams

Knocking on a door had never been so hard.

He'd been down and out more times than he could have counted, he'd had to pick himself up out of gutters and alleys, but never, never, had trudging through the streets of Berlin been so damn hard. Not ever. Lonely and injured, holding his broken hand gingerly at the level of his chest, Gilbert found himself wandering down streets that he'd seen a hundred times and yet still didn't recognize, and it was with what little dignity he had left that he had ignored the quiet concerns of passersby.

Just walked.

Gilbert's mind was too focused on how he was going to bring himself to do what was necessary to really even know where he was going. Just let his feet lead him.

What he could possibly say. How he would face them. How he could have ever said it.

Somehow, when he looked up, there it was.

And now, standing here before Ludwig's door, knowing that Ludwig was not inside, he struggled to keep himself from turning tail and crawling away. It would have better saved his pride, would have kept him from having to admit his godawful failure as a brother, would have been easier.

Couldn't.

There would be time later for self-loathing. For now, they deserved to know what had happened. All of them. They deserved that much. But, god, he was so guilty. So guilty. So ashamed. They would hate him.

Didn't know how he was going to say it.

Swallowing his anxiety, he reached up, and knocked, once. So softly that he honestly hoped they wouldn't hear it. He hoped that no one had heard him, so that he could walk off and pretend that he had tried. Pitiful. No go; the door wrenched open immediately, and when Erzsébet stood in the frame and laid eyes upon him, his guilt intensified tenfold as she burst into tears.

Absolute bawling. Hadn't ever seen that woman cry that hard.

"Gilbert!" she wailed, as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him inside. "Oh! Oh, god, Gilbert, I thought I would never see you again! Oh, god, how— Are you okay? Oh! Gilbert!"

Numb and dazed, horrified and dizzy, he allowed her to drag him into Ludwig's immaculate kitchen as she blubbered away, and his stomach lurched when he saw Alfred and Roderich sitting at the table, speaking gently to each other.

He was in the West, at long last, where he had always wanted to be. So why was it so damn dark and misty and foreboding? Felt more like he'd gotten shot right out into the black of radioactive space.

Oh, no. Felt so sick. They were all here. All of them. Sitting together, waiting for Ludwig to return. Instead, they would get him. They were waiting for Ludwig. They got Gilbert.

They wouldn't be happy about it.

When they noticed him, when they saw him, they both leapt to their feet, and Alfred came over, tall and worried and babbling away in English for his astonishment. Alfred looked absolutely bewildered, utterly confounded, and punched Gilbert's shoulder gently as if he didn't really believe he was there at all. Kept on hearing Ludwig's name in his speech, and Gilbert knew that Alfred was probably saying, 'I can't believe that stupid son of a bitch actually did it!'

Oh. He hadn't.

Gilbert stood there paralyzed, caught like a deer under Roderich's burning gaze as Roderich took one pace forward. A twitch of Roderich's eyes to the door. Pointless. No one else was going to come walking through. Gilbert was absolutely petrified.

The truth was...

He feared Roderich above all else. Their history was complicated, to say the least. Him and Roderich. Couldn't ever get along.

Because hadn't it been Roderich, after all, who had found Ludwig all those years ago, lost and confused in the street and without parents? Hadn't it been Roderich and Erzsébet who had intended to take him home with them and raise him? And hadn't it been he who had risen to the challenge, proclaiming that he wanted a little brother so badly, and that he could take good care of a child alone even though he was only seventeen? His parents had just died in that car crash, and he had been so lonely.

Ludwig needed someone. Gilbert had always wanted a little brother. Fate had given him a second chance at life.

Roderich, always so responsible, had been reluctant to leave Ludwig in his care, rightfully so, the way Gilbert was, but Gilbert was insistent, and Erzsébet had finally convinced the wary ambassador to give him a shot. If not for her, Roderich would never have given Gilbert the time of day. And after the first few years (under intense supervision, of course) had gone so well, Roderich had finally let him take full custody.

Life had given him a second chance at happiness.

He blew it.

And Roderich sat here now, waiting. Expecting.

He feared Roderich above all else. Because he knew, deep down, that Roderich had been right about him all along. He had never been suited for the role of a guardian. Now he would be forced to admit it. Roderich had been right. He feared Roderich because Ludwig had always loved Roderich, and sometimes Gilbert knew, although Ludwig would never admit it, that Ludwig had loved Roderich just a little bit more than he had loved Gilbert.

Had to tell Roderich now that, because of Gilbert, his son was never coming home.

"Where's Ludwig?" Erzsébet finally whispered, when no one else gathered the nerve, and Gilbert shuddered.

Had to say it.

Had to fuckin' say it, and he didn't know if he could do it before he fainted. The worst thing he would ever say.

Pulling himself up to his full height, he braced his arms at his sides, looking Roderich in the eyes as long as he could. The gaze was expectant, and daunting, but Gilbert somehow gathered together his strength, and whispered, with finality :

"He's not coming back."

The worst words to ever come from his mouth.

He'd have cried, then, if he hadn't been so numb. Couldn't cry. Could barely even breathe, let alone cry.

It took a second for his words to resonate, and he dropped his gaze as Alfred staggered back, catching himself against the wall with a dull thud. Gilbert hung his head, because he couldn't stand to meet any of their eyes, knowing full well what he would see there. Hate. Accusation. Regret. Hurt.

Hopelessness.

He heard Alfred's low, rasping moan.

"What do you mean? What? He has to come back. You're lying. Gotta be. He has to come back. You're such a fuckin' liar."

Then, as Alfred ran to the door to look out in stubborn disbelief, Erzsébet was upon Gilbert, pulling him into a firm embrace. It was soothing, if not somewhat mortifying, and he felt himself falling to his knees in utter despair as she buried her face in his neck and murmured, gently, "It's not your fault."

Roderich was still.

Not your fault.

...it wasn't? How?

It was his fault. It was, but, more than anything, he just wanted that to be true. He longed to believe her, wanted so much to believe her, because the alternative was too much to bear. That he had sold Ludwig out. That his own stupid mistakes had doomed the one he had swore he would give his life to protect. That he had let Ludwig down again. That he had put himself first again and sent Ludwig down the river.

That he had failed. Again and again, as he always had.

Gilbert fell into her chest as she held him tightly, and when he buried his face in her shoulder, she ran her hands up and down his back. Didn't really have the effect it was supposed to. It occurred to him, as he knelt there, that he would never feel Ludwig's hands again. He could have died.

Just wanted everything to stop. Wanted Ludwig back.

As she whispered away in his ear, Gilbert lifted his head up, and after a moment, he dared himself to open his eyes.

Kinda wished he hadn't.

Roderich stood back behind them, arms stiff and straight at his sides, and he stared down at Gilbert with an indescribably terrifying expression, jaw clenched so hard that Gilbert could see his pulse racing in his neck.

Tottering on the edge.

Roderich would break soon. Roderich, to whom Ludwig had meant so much. To whom Ludwig had been like a son. Roderich's eye started to twitch, as he tried to keep his breathing under control. His hands started twitching soon after. His chest started heaving. A sudden, furious clench of his fists. A bracing of his legs. A rush of red up his pale neck and face. His eyes squinted. His brow was so low that it had reached his glasses.

The hurricane was starting to breach the shore; Gilbert could see it, whirling there in Roderich's eyes.

Gilbert couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the sight of that wrathful Roderich, and moaned, beseechingly, "Roderich! I'm so... I'm so..."

He couldn't even say it.

'Sorry'.

Yeah, he was sorry, alright. In more ways than one. Knew he was, always had been, and still now, even now, he couldn't fuckin' say it. He couldn't say it. Couldn't say 'sorry'.

He deserved to be where Ludwig was.

Erzsébet's grip upon him suddenly tightened almost protectively, as though she knew what was coming, and surely she did, being married to Roderich and knowing his mind, and after a short, awful stillness Roderich took an unsteady step backwards, shaking his head. As if he were dizzy suddenly, from all that anger.

Only a second, though, and the storm came back.

The look on his face was terrible. Terrible. Hadn't ever seen a look like that on composed Roderich's face. Like his world had suddenly come to a grinding halt. As if everything he had ever built up had come crashing down. As if everything he had ever known had flipped over. And Roderich knew damn well who was to blame. It was Gilbert's fault. With Roderich, it seemed, it was always his fault. This time, and maybe every time, it was true.

Ludwig was gone. Wasn't coming back.

A short silence, and then Roderich's crumbling façade broke with the force of a volcano, and everything just slipped down from there.

"You! How could you?" Roderich began, and his usually cool, suave voice had become a horrible hiss of fury.

The storm broke.

Gilbert couldn't help but flinch back at Roderich's wrath, even in Erzsébet's arms. Swore that Roderich's look was burning him.

When Roderich finally started screaming, screeching, shrieking, Gilbert didn't even recognize that voice anymore. Hadn't known that Roderich even possessed a voice like that. So high and furious that sometimes it broke, and most of the vowels seemed to be lost to the air. Hadn't ever screamed like that.

"How could you? You're so stupid, Gilbert! You're so fucking stupid! How could you have let this happen? I left him with you because you swore you would PROTECT HIM! You! You wanted him so fuckin' bad and for what? For what? To give him away to save your own ass! You! YOU—" Roderich wrenched his fist back and slammed it into the wall with enough force that the hapless drywall collapsed beneath it.

Roderich had never hit anything in his life. Not even Gilbert, for all those years, even when Gilbert had deserved a punch.

Alfred came rushing back in, and stopped in the threshold of the kitchen, frozen under the horrible sound of Roderich's voice.

"You were supposed to watch over him! You said you could do it! I let you have him! I let you take him! I told you that he would be better off with me, and you still wanted to keep him! Because you did what you always do! You think about yourself first! You knew what was best for him, but you wanted to give it a go anyway! 'Oh, yeah, I can do it, sure, it's no fuckin' problem to raise a kid'! WELL! Look! Look where it got us! Look what's happened! I would have taken him from you and took him to Vienna if I knew this would happen! I should have taken him! I should have taken him—oh, oh, I was so stupid to let you have him! So stupid, I should never have left him with you, not ever, none of this woulda happened, none of it! I shoulda never let you anywhere near him, I shoulda blocked you off the first year! A DOG could have done a better goddamn job of parenting! I should never have trusted you! Why did I let you keep him? You're so useless, Gilbert, you're so fuckin' useless, you always were, always, and I don't know why I let you keep him—"

It was true. Oh, god, it was true, everything, all of it, and Gilbert buried his face in Erzsébet's chest in shame, and her whisper of, "Don't listen to him," was lost to the universe as he bowed under Roderich's righteous fury.

Because Roderich was right.

Alfred had bowed his head then, finally having no choice but to accept that Gilbert hadn't been lying, that Ludwig wasn't coming back, and even though he wasn't making any sound, his face was crumpled and his eyes were squinted shut and his shoulders were shaking; crying.

Alfred was crying.

Together.

"It should be you over there! He should never have had to go over there to get you, if you could just be more fuckin' careful! But you're such a showboat! This whole thing is your goddamn fault! The whole thing! You can't do anything right! I could have gotten you a visa if you would have just sat there and waited! But you don't know how to wait, and you just had to show off to the whole fuckin' world, and Ludwig has to pay for it, like always, and now! Now—!"

Suddenly, as violently and randomly as it had started, Roderich's screeching died down.

A short, spinning silence. So dizzy, so dizzy, he was gonna faint any second, he knew it, if Roderich kept on screaming at him like that—

Ludwig was gone.

Roderich suddenly fell against the wall, clenching his fingers in his hair as his anger was completely exhausted, and he moaned, miserably, in a voice that was nearly completely gone from his awful shrieking, "Oh god! Oh, god! I wish it were you! I wish it were you. It should have been you. He was my son, mine, I shoulda had him, I should have. He was mine. Oh. Oh! Oh, god, Gilbert, I hate you so much. I hate you. I hate you. I wish it were you. I wish you would have just died. I hate you."

And then Roderich, stern, immovable, collected Roderich, Roderich, who held countries together, fell forward atop the table and burst into tears, and Gilbert retreated inside of himself with guilt, and remembered nothing more.

Forever.

He shut down his mind. Reality was too painful.

Ludwig was gone.

The truth was, he had never been worth anything.

Sleep, if one has been deprived of it, quickly becomes the most important sustenance for the body. More so than food, and even water. Couldn't survive without sleep, and somehow Ludwig just hadn't exactly ever realized that. Did he ever now.

Sleep.

All Ludwig wanted to do was sleep. Would have done anything, anything at all, if they had just let him sleep. If he had been given a choice, Ludwig would not have refused the bloody concrete slab on which Gilbert had been tethered to; he was so desperately tired that he could have slept soundly on a bed of nails. So tired. Hadn't ever been so tired. Could have slept standing up, he was so tired.

As it turned out, he had to do neither, and, to his great surprise, he had been escorted, without cuffs, straight out of the Stasi building and into a large military vehicle, where he sat next to the silent Toris and across from the Russian General.

Everything felt so blurry, so distant, so surreal. Barely knew where he was.

Exhaustion.

He just followed where they led him, without a word.

There had been no speaking once in the car, and the Russian's unreadable gaze had proven too much; after several minutes of intense staring, Ludwig had finally admitted defeat and lowered his eyes to his floor. Too tired to give more effort.

The car exhaust drifted up into the cold night. When they were settled, the car started off. Lurching forward. He could feel the Russian's eyes upon him, but refused to look over.

He was so sleepy and so dazed and so numb that he couldn't really even think about what was going on around him, let alone where he was going. The movements of the car, even with this dire situation, were proving to be a little too tempting. He only bowed his head for a second, just a second. It was a second too long; even though his mind was screaming at him to stay on guard and alert, his body had other ideas, and he drifted into sleep in a mere blink. Deep, and dreamless. Merciful.

Sleep. All he wanted.

The moon was on high, circled by white clouds. Stars broke through the gaps. Cold and quiet. Calm. Tranquil. Dreamy. An ideal night for a car ride. No matter where it would lead to. He lost track of time. Rocking back and forth. He could have slept for years.

Some time passed.

He didn't know where he was, or how long it had taken to get there; all he knew was that, suddenly, someone was shaking him, and when he opened his bleary eyes, he found himself face to face with a somber Toris. Toris? Pretty sure that was his name, anyway. For all it mattered. Didn't think he would really need to remember this guy; they wouldn't be together for too much longer, once Ludwig was sent off.

It took a second for his sleep-shocked mind to focus, and, as he looked this way and that, Ludwig realized that he had fallen against Toris in his repose. He pulled away, stiffly, and was embarrassed, more than anything. Toris didn't say a word, but must have been agitated to have shaken him awake just to get him off.

Looking across the way, as the ghostly blue streetlamps filled the vehicle with light at the end of every block, Ludwig saw that the Russian, too, had fallen asleep. He was sitting straight up and completely silent, arms crossed, and only his bowed head gave away his state, swaying to and fro every time the vehicle lurched.

Feeling a bit more at ease without the suffocating presence, Ludwig turned back to Toris, and rasped, wearily, "Where are we going?"

For all that mattered, too. Nothing seemed to matter, actually.

Toris looked over, his eyes lit up a dark blue in the streetlamps, studying Ludwig with a peculiar interest, and then he whispered, "To the Czechoslovakian border. We leave the GDR in the morning."

Wait. What? They were leaving, sure, that was normal, but—

"We? Why am I coming with you?"

At this, Toris turned his attention to the sleeping General, and he only shrugged a shoulder, a look of distaste upon his face, saying, quite primly, "Because he wants you to. Why else?"

The exhaustion he felt was not strong enough to stifle his nausea, and he could not help but wonder if the Russian's threat of Siberia had just been a joke. Ah, hell. They would probably just stop on some remote stretch of road along the way and shoot him quick in the back of the head. Probably hadn't ever intended to send him to Siberia. Too much work, maybe, too much effort.

They'd probably just shoot him.

Falling back into the seat, Ludwig turned his head and looked out the window at the passing streets, and realized that a quick and painless death would most likely be a blessing. He would not struggle against them if they tried it, certainly. His mission was complete. Gilbert was safe. He had done what he had set out to do.

Who the hell wanted to be in Siberia, anyway?

With a heavy sigh, he leaned into the seat and slipped back into the realm of sleep, Gilbert's long-gone cries echoing through his ears. It was all worth it. Because Gilbert would have done the same for him, had it been his decision. Gilbert would have risked everything. Given up everything. Gilbert had made a mistake, yeah, but he would have given himself for Ludwig had the situation been reversed. They were supposed to do anything for each other. That had been the promise.

Anything.

He fell into space. Drifted.

As he slept, Gilbert's voice evaporated into the atmosphere.

He slept for hours. As he sat there, vulnerable and helpless, the vehicle suddenly came to a quick halt, and he started from sleep with a deep sigh. Not enough time. He could have slept more. Needed more sleep.

The darkness of the empty night streets were suddenly lit up. His head hurt. Squinting his eyes in the bright lights of a nearby building, he looked out of the window and realized that they were in front of what could have been a very high-end hotel or some such.

Odd.

Suddenly, his head was killing him.

"Get out," Toris suddenly said, with a nudge in his side, and Ludwig obeyed, not having much other choice. The door creaked in the cold air as he pushed it open, and he shivered as he stood out on the sidewalk apprehensively, his thin shirt doing little to protect him from the chilly air.

He stood there, feeling like a damn fool, as he waited for Toris to step out. Tottered a little, as the exhaustion threatened to take him down.

Here, the skies were clear. The stars, beyond the hazy glow, were bright.

He wrapped his arms around his chest without thinking about, shivering as he was, and as he gazed up at the grand hotel with a sense of foreboding, something heavy was suddenly draped over his shoulders. Jumping in alarm, he wrenched his neck over and saw that the General had come up to his side and had placed his own long military coat above him.

Panic.

For a second, he froze, as the Russian's eyes bored into his own, and then the General leaned in and whispered, neatly, "Ne boisya."

Didn't understand the words.

Ludwig shuddered at the voice, rough from sleep, but reached up and grabbed the coat nonetheless. His instilled politeness wouldn't really allow him to refuse this small kindness, no matter the circumstance, and that was probably for the best, because being rude to that man didn't seem like a very good idea.

Damn.

"Thanks," he finally grumbled after an expectant stare, and the Russian's face lit up with a pleasant, if not unnerving, smile, straightening up in what might have been satisfaction. Toris watched them patiently during this exchange, and then took charge with a long stride forward. Kept his eyes on Ludwig, though, the whole while. Staring him down without even trying.

"Come on," Toris said, walking off abruptly, and Ludwig sped after him, leery of being left alone with the other.

Didn't wanna be alone with that guy.

The building was warm, and well-lit. Ludwig felt stupid and out of place, walking beside of these glossy military men, in his torn, dirty clothes, his hair dark with dried mud and his boots caked with earth. People glanced at him as he passed, and he ducked his chin down. How embarrassing. Mercifully, the discomfort was short-lived. One quick elevator ride later, they emerged onto the top floor, which Ludwig realized with chagrin was only one very large, very elaborate room. It was the suite reserved for only those of power.

These men owned the world.

Toris turned the lock and pushed the door, holding it open with a rather sneering look. Ludwig tried not to look at him much as he was ushered through, and tried harder to focus on the room so that he wouldn't be sick.

Everything was perfectly in place under the high ceiling, lit up with a crystal chandelier, and in the parlor sat a desk, engraved with the Soviet coat of arms. Elegant all around, even down to the windowpanes. The army must have had this room especially reserved for tours of duty.

As Ludwig stood quietly, still and uncertain of himself in this massive room, the General passed him by and threw himself down heavily at the waiting desk. For the first time that night, Ludwig could see the hour on the clock above; already three in the morning. He could only hope, as he swayed back and forth wearily, that they would have a shred of mercy and just let him go to sleep.

Just wanted to lay down.

The Russian had other ideas, and waved his hand towards the empty chair in front of the desk.

"Sit," Toris said, and it was not a request, not a polite gesture.

A command. Like he was a damn dog.

Clenching the heavy coat over himself protectively, Ludwig fell down into the wooden chair without a word, because it was better to just do what they said, and the Russian leaned forward eagerly, intertwining his fingers on the table before him.

A moment of silence, as they stared at each other.

Ludwig was able to take him in for the first time, in the light, and shuddered.

Physically, he was fairly attractive. Late thirties, likely, with pale blond hair that nearly matched his own, kept neatly groomed and smoothed back. He was tall, very tall, and strongly built, with wide shoulders. Honestly, he was one of the biggest men that Ludwig had ever seen in his entire life. Grey eyes, framed by thick, pale lashes. A rather prominent nose, bumping up slightly in the middle as if it had been broken a few times, hawk-like. His skin was pale and clean, perhaps a bit weathered by years of exposure to harsh winds, and when he smiled, his teeth were straight and white, although his canines were too high up, sticking out a bit. Gilbert had always called them 'vampire teeth', and they made the Russian appear younger and more awkward than he was when he decided to show them. A little gawky, even. Certainly charming, though, that smile, when he chose to give it. Square jaw, wide and matching up so well with his cheeks. Well-dressed. Every detail in place. Fresh-faced and bathed in a subtle cologne. Absolutely immaculate, considering the circumstances and the hour.

A seemingly normal man at a glance, in the prime of his life, young and strong and virile. He looked fine, so why, then, did something about him feel so wrong?

Maybe it was the way he way he kept his hands loose and ready at his sides, or the way his shoulders were always squared. Maybe it was the impressive, almost too elaborate dress, or the way his constant, soft smiles seemed to be hiding a darker sentiment. Or perhaps it was his eyes, and how they gave away absolutely nothing, whether he was smiling or not, and yet the pale depths were always churning. Overly emotional with his voice and motions, exuberant, and yet quite emotionless. Couldn't figure that out. Really couldn't.

And that was terrifying.

The atmosphere around him was overpowering. Overwhelming. Terrifying. One would do well to avoid finding themselves on his bad side.

But, Ludwig wondered as he sat, looking about anxiously, where exactly did he find himself? He wasn't so sure anymore, about either of them.

Toris seemed less threatening than this man, but only by a hair. Toris, with his sharper nose and yet softer face, hair pulled back and cap held under his arm, shorter and slighter than the other but somehow less friendly. Darker hair, but lighter skin. Toris' eyes were deep blue, and far less calm than his superior's. Could actually get emotion from Toris, and, go figure, it was worse than nothing in someway. Somehow, for it all, Toris seemed rather more irritating than the other guy. The other guy was terrifying, but was at least smiling. Toris just kept on sneering at him, kept on looking down at him, and Ludwig wished that he could have just gotten rid of the both of them.

Didn't seem too important before, thinking he was going straight to Siberia, straight to jail. Now, sitting here in this room with these men, suddenly not knowing why he was here or what was going to happen...

He was scared. Anxious. Didn't know what they wanted.

And then he realized that it didn't matter what they wanted, not really. His fate had been sealed, either way, the second he had decided that Gilbert's freedom was more valuable than his own. Siberia, or a gunshot. Didn't matter.

He hung his head, and wondered if Gilbert had made it back safely. He needed a doctor. Ah, Erzsébet would take good care of him.

"What's your name?"

Gilbert would have done it for him.

"Name?"

He was sure of it.

Felt himself drifting.

He stared blankly at the desk, lost in his thoughts and so tired that he was already nodding off, and then the Russian reached out, snapping his fingers smartly in his face. Ludwig inhaled, and when he looked up, he was caught under a stern, impatient gaze.

"Name?" Toris repeated again, and when Ludwig looked over at him, dumbly, the silent warning in his eyes was clearly visible.

Ludwig longed to be defiant, even now, and keep his mouth shut, but Toris' look clearly advised against insubordination, and suddenly a strong hand had reached out and grabbed his chin, wrenching his head back. Warm, rough hands. Eyes bored into his own. The Russian's brow was ever lowering, and his iron grip was painful as their eyes met. Couldn't really stand the feel of him. Being touched by this man he didn't know.

Ludwig broke first, for the second time, and lowered his eyes.

Finally, he relented, and muttered, monotonously, "Ludwig."

The hand released him, and Ludwig kept his chin high, ignoring the ache proudly. Trying to, anyway. May not have looked as defiant as he felt.

"Last name?"

...didn't wanna give them Gilbert's.

"I don't know," he said.

Toris' eyes narrowed, a twitch of annoyance, but Ludwig was not leading, not really. Hell, if he knew his real last name, and not just that familial fondness that Gilbert had christened him with, his life would have been a lot easier. Giving them Gilbert's last name, or Roderich's, would have felt too uncomfortable, and maybe dangerous.

Better to tell the truth. Couldn't change that he really truly didn't know.

"I don't know," he repeated, leaning back into his seat. "I was an orphan. I never knew my parents' names. You can put whatever you want. I don't care."

There was a short silence, as the Russian's pen scribbled and scratched against Toris' soft murmuring, and then the interrogation continued.

"Date of birth?"

"I don't know," he repeated again, and now his agitation was steadily growing. "I just said I don't know anything about my childhood."

Were they deaf?

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, I guess. Give or take a year."

Felt so irritable. His foot tapped furiously in aggravation. Or maybe nervousness. He felt sick. He just wanted to go home.

Wanted to sleep.

The Russian in front of him seemed immune to his rude tone, and merely continued to write with what seemed to be glee. He glanced up, occasionally, and the lopsided smile on his face was almost more unnerving than the silence. As if he knew something that Ludwig did not. Hated the feeling of being so damn vulnerable.

"Ludwig, ah?" The Russian pointed to himself, and said, cheerily, "Ivan."

...Ivan?

Ivan.

Ludwig barely contained the roll of his eyes that threatened to come, and looked away. Why were they exchanging names, anyway? Just send him off already. He had no desire to hold a conversation with this Russian, even less so to use his first name. Such informality was undesirable, and careless on his part.

'Hey, Ivan, how's it going, yeah, I'm Ludwig, and that was my brother Gilbert you just took away from me, you jerk. Have a good night.'

As if.

Toris and Ivan. How strange.

A clearing of a throat, and the questions abruptly continued.

"Occupation?"

"Student," he lied.

How would they know, anyway?

"Place of birth?"

His patience was wearing thin.

"Munich, I think. I don't know."

"National Identification Number?"

"I don't..."

That was enough.

Scoffing, Ludwig looked around at them, as the anger rose up in his chest. "I don't have one! How the hell many different ways can I say 'orphan'? Don't you understand? Huh? I've said it over and over. Why are you asking me all this?" he cried, as he leaned forward and slammed his palm on the desk. "I don't understand! Aren't you just going to send me to Siberia? Why are you asking me all of these questions? Just send me off already! Ivan."

Far from angered, the dumb Red before him actually seemed glad, through everything else, that Ludwig had used his name. Hadn't understood the rant, but didn't seem to care, as long as Ludwig had used his name.

A bright smile.

Oh, god. Ludwig was somehow more terrified of that man when he was smiling.

Setting his pen down, the Russian leaned back, and observed him up and down with a strange, unsettling intensity. A gaze that seemed to be more of appreciation than curiosity. Ludwig did not like it, not that kind of look, and crossed his arms to say as much, feeling the first pricks of fear in his chest. Felt so damn vulnerable suddenly. Helpless. He didn't know exactly what was going to happen to him, but he suddenly hoped that it would just be Siberia.

Why couldn't they have just shot him?

Suddenly, he would rather have gone to Siberia than stay another minute with this man.

Snorting, the General reached down and pulled open a drawer on his desk, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka. Two small glasses followed, and he filled them to the brim, his smile never faltering. Speaking softly in Russian, he pushed one forward, studying Ludwig as though he were trying to solve a puzzle.

"A toast, to you."

Toris' voice had gone rather droll again, as if he were bored.

Ludwig refused the glass, looking about the room with a sudden, suffocating desperation. Could he get out of here? Not through the barred window. They were far too narrow anyhow, and he was too high up. Toris blocked the door, leaning against it with a gun at his waist. And the Russian, who now leaned back into his chair, propping his boots up on the desk very rudely as he raised his glass up, would be next to impossible to overpower. Huge guy like that—Ludwig could never have taken him down.

Toris and Ivan. His obstacles to freedom.

He felt frustrated, and when Toris saw him fidgeting in his chair, he shook his head, once. "Don't move," Toris quickly whispered in warning, and the Russian's eyes darted back and forth between them with amusement, as he downed the contents of his glass with one tilt of his head. He poured another, and murmured something, as he leered at Ludwig.

"It's rude," Toris said, sternly, "to refuse a drink in your honor."

As if Toris were trying to beat him over the head with the fact that not drinking would get old very fast.

Getting old, alright. This was getting ridiculous. And there was his headache again, returning with blinding force.

Hated them.

"I don't want to drink," Ludwig moaned, wearily, as he reached up to clench his dirty hair, "I just want to sleep. Please. Just let me sleep."

He bowed his head, and let his hands fall into his lap. Exhaustion took over. So tired, so tired, and now on top of that he suddenly wanted to cry, too.

A short conversation in Russian, crooning and murmuring, and Toris pushed himself off the door with a foot.

"Ah. Forgive my rudeness. Of course, you must be tired. I'll show you to the bedroom. This way."

Ludwig didn't hesitate to follow, and even if it was just a trick, he would not risk the chance that maybe he really would get to lay down in an actual bed. He stood up, wobbled, found his footing, and was led off.

Toris was as good as his word.

The bedroom was undoubtedly as well-furnished as the rest of the floor, but Ludwig took no notice. When he saw the bed, it felt like fuckin' heaven had crashed down around him, and he made a beeline towards it, and it took every strand of self-control within him to keep from throwing himself down. Every single effort he had then was used to keep from falling onto that bed.

Self-control, and the two men standing behind were another motivating factor.

He turned an impatient eye to them, but they were unmoving, and he finally muttered, "Was that all? Or am I allowed to lay down? I would like to sleep, if that's alright."

"So sleep," Toris shot back crankily, and, as the Russian sat in a nearby chair, holding his chin in his palm, Toris took his leave.

Clenching his jaw, Ludwig turned his agitation to the sitting Russian.

"Well?" he snapped, irritably and nervously. "Aren't you going, too?"

There was only silence, as the General smiled up at him and snorted, probably without comprehension.

Ludwig wanted him out, and said as much.

"Go on! Get outta here."

The Russian didn't move, didn't seem bothered by his tone, ever smirking, and instead pointed to the bed, whispering, "Zasnite."

The air was tense, frightening, but his exhaustion was too great. He had no more will to argue, and with a sigh he collapsed onto the bed, as filthy as he was, fully-clothed with his dirty boots still on his feet. He had little care to get comfortable, and had only the strength to send the leering Russian his dirtiest glare as he drifted into sleep.

The Russian stared at him serenely, and didn't stir from his perch, not even once.

The whole night.