Chapter 10

Asphyxia

"I think I will make you a colonel."

It was always quiet here. Never any commotion.

The days passed by in a slow, uneventful tranquility.

Every day, as the last of the medication was used up, Ludwig felt a little better. He could sit up now, without that pain in his chest, and it was easier to focus on things and much easier to think. He didn't remember much from those days of illness, but sometimes when he laid back and closed his eyes, he could hear that soft, smooth voice in his head. The Russian didn't stay in his room all day now that he had passed the stage of danger.

The Russian.

Ivan.

So easy to dislike saying his name. Felt less real that way, but it was really unavoidable. You could only see someone so many times before their damn name stuck in your head.

Ivan was always there, even when he wasn't, it seemed. It was both a relief, and a disappointment. He hated being alone, stuck in this bed, even though Ivan was really the last person he wanted to see.

Too much time to think otherwise.

He thought about Gilbert, and those he had left behind. He thought about how guilty Erzsébet must have been, having been unable to stop Gilbert. He thought about how hurt Roderich must have been, having sent him off to that tunnel. He thought about how distraught Alfred must have been, having stood there at the gate and being unable to follow.

And Gilbert. How he must have been laying there now, like this, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how things could have gone differently. How many 'what if's. If he had just been patient. Less impulsive. Gilbert couldn't help it; he'd always been that way. Something wrong in his head. Not his fault.

Gilbert couldn't help it.

Ludwig's great excuse, their entire lives.

Had to have an excuse for Gilbert, because Gilbert had been the sun in Ludwig's shadowy life. Spent so many days wondering who he was, until Gilbert jostled him and woke him up. 'Little brother', that was who he was.

Sometimes, he just couldn't remember.

The day had started off on the wrong foot.

As soon as the sun had risen over the horizon one cold morning, dim and pale behind the white clouds, someone had been at Ludwig's side, shaking him awake before he was ready. And for what? What could there possibly be for him to do here? So far, all he had done was sleep.

He smelled like sickness. Hated it.

'Wake up. Come on.'

He had swatted the hand irritably, weakly, and there had been a soft palm on his forehead, as a crooning voice asked, 'Feeling better?'

Before he could turn to see who it was, laying on his side as he was, another hand settled between his shoulder blades, and the soft voice said, 'Take a big breath for me.'

He did, as the hand stayed firmly on his back. Not Toris. Too gentle to be Toris. Toris usually tried to throttle the life out of him, it seemed.

'Cough.'

He did. It hurt a bit, but he did. A moment of silence, and then the hand was gone.

'Good! That looks really good! I was worried about you.'

He had looked over his shoulder then, and when he saw a pair of pretty, familiar blue eyes, he had sighed in relief. It had been the woman, he didn't know her name, but she was no threat to him. She had been there frequently in his delirium, and the motherly air about her was more than welcome.

Not Ivan. Good.

Kinda glad it wasn't Toris, either, honestly. The more and more Ludwig came to, the more aggressive Toris seemed. And the more and more Ludwig came to, the less and less he saw Ivan.

She had helped Ludwig sit up, sitting on the edge of the bed as she checked his temperature and smoothed his hair, and even though he was still in this house of the enemy, he just couldn't keep up too much of a guard around her, not the way she coddled him. Maybe he was just homesick. Lonely. Her hand ran over his stubbled cheek, and she fussed over his appearance in a friendly voice as he tried to take sips from the glass. Already, he was tired. How pitiful. He couldn't stand this feeling of weakness.

He had looked over at her from time to time, and took in her appearance. Fairly tall from what he could see, with pale skin and pretty eyes, a little stocky. Older than Ivan and Toris. She had the same color hair as Ivan, pale golden with a dewy sheen. Maybe they were related, which seemed a little strange, as scary as Ivan was. She did have his look about her.

She watched him as he tried to drink, her hands always wandering here and there.

'You look much better. I'm glad.'

He took comfort in her hands.

Her German was neat, and quite fluent, which was shocking if she and Ivan were actually related.

He meant to open his mouth and ask her what her name was, but he didn't have the chance; before he could even finish his glass, the door had creaked open, and Ivan had stood in the doorframe. Dressed a little more loosely than usual, it seemed, hair not yet combed and looking rather unkempt. Despite the freezing air, he wasn't wearing a coat. Hadn't seen him a while, and didn't want to.

After some gentle words in Russian, the woman took the glass from his hands, set it upon the end-table, and took her leave. Ludwig had longed to cry out after her, and say, 'Don't leave me alone with him!' but his throat clutched as Ivan's eyes fell on him.

Things turned tense, as always, and when Ivan had come to the edge of the bed, Ludwig shrank away without thinking about it. Just wanted Ivan to go away. So scared of that man, because the terrifying possibilities of Ivan's interest in him made him sick.

But the smile never fell from Ivan 's face, and he had extended a large hand, asking, quite happily, 'You want to go walking?'

Well.

Yeah. Yeah, he did. Actually, he wanted to do nothing more, having been bed-ridden for nearly a month, but that being said, he had not wanted to go walking with Ivan, unless it was to the train station so he could go home. That seemed unlikely.

Ivan had stared at him, expectantly, but Ludwig had found no answer. He had merely narrowed his eyes in lieu of speaking, but it seemed like Ivan had only asked out of courtesy, because he had reached down and snatched Ludwig's hand within his own, anyway, and had pulled him to his feet. It had hurt, as his chest lit up with agony.

'Feel alright?' Ivan had asked, seeing his face, and Ludwig nodded, even though he hadn't.

Felt sick.

He had been light-headed and woozy and in pain, wobbling dangerously, but his pride would not allow him to lean against Ivan, and he had boldly taken a step forward alone. A mistake, as he had promptly stumbled, his knees giving out completely beneath him. For a horrible weightless moment, he thought he would hit his head on the end table, but Ivan caught him with the reflexes of a cat, grabbing him up firmly by the waist and standing him straight. His legs just wouldn't work. They felt like someone had snatched the bones right out of them.

Oh, god, how he had hated the feel of it, and he had ducked his head when tears of frustration stung his eyes, and it hurt him more than anything to be so dependent on someone else for something as simple as walking.

Shameful.

'I've got you,' Ivan had said cheerily, seemingly oblivious to his distress, and had pulled him slowly to the door. 'It's too cold for you outside. We will just walk down the halls, yeah?'

It had sounded nice, at first, until he realized that Ivan was walking down the halls, and he was mostly being dragged. Couldn't stand being pressed up against Ivan's wide chest like that, not so vulnerable and with a man that had no trouble taking advantage of him in that state.

His feet felt numb, his legs quivered with the effort, and despite the cold air, sweat from exertion had dripped down his brow. His breath puffed out in the freezing air. Did they always live like this? In this cold? He had looked over at Ivan, dressed in a thick wool shirt and hands gloved, boots visible from under his pants, and could only assume the answer was 'yes'. How? He couldn't bear it. It was a strange feeling, to be sweating so and yet to be shivering with cold.

He tripped up a lot, and for a moment, he had to stop and duck his head down to keep himself from vomiting.

Ivan kept smiling down at him, and forced him to keep a steady pace, giving him a breather every so often.

'You'll get better soon. You were in bed a long time. It will take a while. You'll get better.'

The words were hardly comforting, as horrible as he felt.

An hour or so of stumbling down endless halls, twisting around corners and passing so many doors, and he had taken in his surroundings with a bleary mind. Everything was so bland, and he felt as though he were walking through a fog the entire time. Pale colors, white tile, odd paintings every so often, arches and closed curtains and high ceilings. No bright colors. No bright lights. Only the pale, dusty streams of sunlight struggling through the curtains, and it was so quiet. Their footsteps echoed in the halls with a strange eeriness. The house was huge, and built so elegantly, and yet it was bare and hardly furnished, and seemed so empty.

So strange. A world of phantoms.

He hated it.

Another hour of walking, until he could take no more, and he had collapsed against Ivan's chest, panting for air even though it was so cold it stung his lungs.

'That's enough for now,' Ivan had muttered, and with a strong arm, he pulled Ludwig up straight, and changed direction, and after a few more twists they came before a door. Ivan had nudged it open with his foot, arms busy supporting Ludwig, and they stepped inside.

And then things had turned weird.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Ludwig had been taken aback. The room was alive (if such a word could be used), with both color and people and sound, and to be totally honest he wasn't really sure if he was hallucinating again or not. But no, surely not; he was past that point of fever, and he let his eyes adjust to the light as he struggled to catch his breath.

It appeared to be some kind of living room, or, more likely, a dressing room, and there was a small round table off to the side, and at it sat Toris, dressed neatly and shuffling through some papers with his good hand, and another boy that he did not recognize. Across the room, speaking loudly as she rustled through a larger dresser, was the tall woman that had been at Ludwig's side, and they were all laughing.

When they had laid eyes on Ivan, and him, they fell silent. Ludwig felt embarrassed as they had looked at him, propped up in Ivan's arms without strength, and he had realized that a radio was playing, filling the room with cheerful music that he could not understand. How mortifying, being held up like that in front of them.

Silence.

Toris' papers fell still upon the table.

Then the woman smiled, and so did Ivan, and all conversation resumed as though nothing had happened. Ivan pulled him inside and rested him down on a sofa, and Ludwig had been so grateful to sit that he laid back and closed his eyes, having no care to keep an eye on his surroundings. What did it matter?

A movement at his side had alerted him, and when he looked over, wearily, he saw that the woman had sat down next to him with a wide smile.

Ivan had walked off to the dresser, and opened this drawer and that, with a tilted head, as he started searching.

'What's your name?' the woman had asked, in her fluent, if not quirky, German, and before he could even open his mouth Ivan had called, back, 'Ludwig'.

A twinge of unease. Ivan, so domineering and overwhelming, was already answering questions for him, and that was not helping the warning siren blaring in the back of Ludwig's mind.

'I'm Irina.'

He had liked Irina, more than the others at least, and would have preferred her company over Ivan's any day. She was comforting. Not so alarming.

Toris had looked back at Ludwig over his papers, almost expectantly, and he remembered feeling a stir of apprehension in his chest. Was something going to happen? He had been so nervous then that he barely heard Irina babbling amicably at his side. They kept on looking at him.

Then someone grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet, and thrust him in front of a mirror.

He saw himself there, as someone held him from behind. He wished that it was Gilbert's reflection that he saw alongside his, but it was not.

I won't ever leave you.

Gilbert was gone. For good.

And that jolt of longing brought him back to the present, and he stared into the mirror, watching his reflection with heavy eyes.

He barely recognized himself.

He was pale, even more than usual, white as a damn ghost, his forehead shimmering with sweat, and his chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. His hair was too long, and he needed to shave, even though the platinum stubble was barely visible against his skin. He had lost so much weight, so much. His collar bone was far too prominent, his cheeks hollow. He looked sickly and weak, and hated himself for it, and it was made all the worse by Ivan, who stood behind him with a leer. Ivan stared into the mirror too, and they met each others' eyes in the reflection, as Ivan's hands clasped together firmly in front of Ludwig's stomach as he held him straight.

Resting his chin on Ludwig's shoulder, Ivan looked bright and alert and healthy, the exact opposite of himself. He looked...

There were no words that Ludwig's tired mind could really find to describe Ivan, except for frightening.

Warm breath tickled his neck, and he shuddered. Ivan observed him thoughtfully, and then nuzzled his cheek.

Oh, god. Terror.

He tried to pull away. He couldn't. No strength left at all. Helpless, in this crazy man's arms. A sharp inhale, as Ludwig struggled to keep composed.

"I think I will make you a colonel," came the whisper in his ear, and Ludwig's brow furrowed in confusion.

A colonel. Of what?

"Colonel?" came a snappish cry from behind, and Ludwig looked over his shoulder in the mirror to see that Toris had leapt from the table, tossing his papers down, keeping a mind of his arm. His eyes were blazing with something that looked almost like anger. Posture rigid. Brow furrowed. Like Toris had heard the most infuriating thing the world.

Ludwig was so confused. Helpless.

...the hell was going on?

"But he just got here!"

"No one was talking to you," was the sharp reply, and Toris fell back into his seat without another word, although his low brow and narrowed eyes clearly spoke his displeasure.

Ludwig had no idea what was happening.

"That suits him," Irina said, smiling cheerfully, and Ivan released his waist, and returned to the dresser.

"I know I have one," he muttered to himself, and Ludwig staggered back to the sofa, collapsing into it. A few minutes of shuffling, as Irina smoothed his hair down and fussed over his appearance, and then Ivan gave a triumphant, "Ah!" He looked over, met Ludwig's eyes, and said, simply, "Come here."

Ivan held a uniform in his hand, and Ludwig looked at it in silent confusion, and then he turned to Irina, who tilted her head encouragingly.

What? The hell was happening? His head was throbbing. He didn't move, thinking that they were all crazy, because they were, and then Ivan took his hand and pulled him once again to his feet, and shoved the uniform into his arms.

"Here, put it on. I want to see you."

Ludwig stood there, dumbly, and Ivan grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back.

A tug towards a changing screen, a shuffle of clothes, and even though it was horrifically mortifying to have Ivan strip him down and help him into the uniform, it felt so good to be rid of his dirty clothes, even for this ugly olive-colored shirt and pants. Grabbing a cloth from the dresser, Ivan wiped his face of sweat, and tussled his hair to dry it, and when he was satisfied he pulled Ludwig back over to the mirror and looked him over.

"Colonel was right for you."

Somewhere behind, Toris scoffed.

And even though he was still too pale and the circles under his eyes were visible from a mile away, too skinny and wan, Ludwig couldn't really help but feel a ridiculous surge of vanity, because...

"You look so handsome," Irina gushed from his side.

He did.

Under normal circumstances, and if he were not still out in space from his brush with death, Ludwig would have ripped the Soviet uniform off and started screaming that he was no goddamn Red, and that he would rather die than see himself in such a color, but his thoughts were still muddled and he could only stare at his reflection numbly.

He was alone. No one here now to tell him who he was. Ivan was the only one now who had control over his fate, and Ludwig was so confused and depressed and homesick that he couldn't even think straight anymore, and even though they were his enemies, their kind words felt good in his ears. Clean clothes felt great. No matter what color they were.

Always felt good to be complimented, anyway.

Even as Ivan stood behind and reached forward, sweeping back his loose bangs with errant hands, Ludwig couldn't really seem to look away from the mirror.

Wow. He'd never worn a uniform. He'd never been able to. He'd never fit in anywhere. It felt strange. Not too bad. He'd always wanted to be able to put on a uniform. To fit in with everyone else. To be a part of something bigger than himself. To belong.

Oh. His head hurt. Maybe his brain still wasn't working right from the fever.

Ivan was beaming from behind, and for a confused moment, Ludwig had almost smiled himself. Almost. He'd used to wonder, sometimes, what he would look like as a military man. What he would have looked like had he been a normal guy. Had just always wanted to be normal.

This was anything but, though.

"I will think of a good last name for you," Ivan suddenly said, looking him up and down thoughtfully, "and then you can come with me when I go out. I'll leave you in Toris' care, for now. He will show you all you need to know. Understand?"

Nope.

But Ivan didn't wait for a response, and waved a hand in the air casually.

"I have to go. We will see each other tonight."

Then he was gone, and Ludwig was left with Irina and Toris and more bewildered than ever. He fell back onto the couch, exhausted. He just wanted to go back to sleep. Thinking was far too much effort right now. And nothing was making sense, so maybe it was better to be unconscious.

A voice drew him from his daze, and he felt a shadow fall over.

He opened his eyes. Toris stood above him. He didn't look happy. Actually, Toris looked more irritable than Ludwig had ever seen him, and that was saying a lot, because Toris was by nature a miserable bastard.

The pulse in Toris' neck was hammering away with what was likely fury.

"Listen here," Toris suddenly hissed, looming over with hand on hip as Ludwig looked up at him wearily, "Let's get this straight; I didn't ask to take care of you, and I'm not going to waste my time on it, understand? I'll show you the basics, once, and then you're on your own. I have better things to do than teach Ivan's pets new tricks. I can't baby-sit every five minutes. I have work to do."

Toris' usually cool voice was heavy with spite. Rough. Agitated. Toris was always so angry with him.

"Toris, don't be mean," Irina chastised, her eyes stern and face sharp.

Toris brushed her off.

Ludwig's brow came down, and he threw back, irritably, as his headache intensified, "So leave me alone! I didn't ask for this. You want somethin' better to do? Take me fuckin' home. How's that sound? Prick."

If Toris didn't want him here, then they were perfectly in agreement.

Toris' good hand twitched, and Ludwig wasn't sure if Toris had resisted the urge to pull his gun or to slap Ludwig across the face.

The atmosphere was tense, and Toris observed him through narrowed eyes, brow severe, and Ludwig could see his gaze falling over and over again to the bar on Ludwig's uniform. Ludwig looked down at his shoulder, dumbly, and observed too. His was gold, two blood-red stripes in the center, and above them sat three golden stars. He looked at Toris'; gold, too, but there was only one red stripe, and two gold stars.

Such a small difference, so why was he so angry? Who cared? He would be the first to admit that he had no knowledge of military ranks and duties, but what did it matter? He was not a soldier. He was not a colonel. He had the uniform, but anyone could find a uniform; so what? Toris had no reason to be angry with him.

This was some kind of game, right? Some joke. Just some kind of weird welcoming ritual.

Or something.

Welcome home, Ludwig!

It struck him suddenly, the utter absurdity of the situation, and before he could really stop himself he began to laugh, quite loudly, even as they stared him. His shoulders shook with the force of his giggles. Nearly crying, he laughed so damn hard. Couldn't even breathe. He probably sounded crazy giggling so, but he felt crazy, and what else could he do? Motherfuckers were getting him all twisted around.

Toris' ire was ever rising.

Irina looked at Ludwig with an odd expressions, and Ludwig could only shake his head, and wheeze, through his cackles, "I have no idea what is happening! I think I'm still dreaming, maybe. Nothing makes sense!"

Maybe he was really still in bed, stuck in delirium.

Instead of a prison, maybe they shoulda locked him up in a madhouse. He was losing it. Crazy as Gilbert. He couldn't seem to stop giggling.

The two beside of him looked at each other, Irina twisting her hands nervously in her lap, and when Toris' hand twitched once more, this time he gave in to his urge and did slap Ludwig across the face, quite smartly. Enough to stop Ludwig's outburst, anyway, and from the break on Toris' face, he had intensely enjoyed slapping Ludwig. Ludwig just gawked at him, breathlessly, and when Toris opened his mouth again, his words cut through Ludwig's hysteria.

"No dream. We call it 'life', so you better wake the fuck up. You're a colonel now, and if you ever return to Berlin, it will be as an officer of the great Red Army. You'll stand next to them, and no one will ever know that you need help. You'll look like them. You'll act like them. You'll sound like them. No one will even think to question your presence there. But it's all an act, so you better get good at it, and fast. Or else. Probably won't have a good ending otherwise."

His breath stopped.

The words didn't really sink in. His head was spinning.

Red Army. Ha. Impossible. What? Some joke, alright. Not so funny anymore, though.

"You're crazy," Ludwig shot back, stubbornly, and Toris only shook his head, his anger steadily fading into exasperation. Annoyance. As if Toris were dealing with a dumb little kid.

"You just don't get it, do you, you big idiot? He wants you with him at all times. He doesn't trust you alone, and the only way you can travel with a general is if you're military, too. So." Toris held out his arms at his sides, and smiled in a way that was more of a sneer, as usual. "Welcome to the Red Army."

Did Toris even realize that he couldn't pull off a damn smile without eventually sneering? Did he care?

Did Ludwig?

Suddenly, Toris sneering at him seemed like the least of his worries.

His chest ached. Couldn't think.

This stupid uniform.

Toris carried on, quite easily, as pale Ludwig gawked up at him.

"You won't actually be doing any decision making, naturally. You're not going to be sent off to the frontlines. You'll just accompany Ivan and stand at his side and pretend you know what you're doing. Think of it as more of being a well-dressed ornament. You'll meet plenty of interesting people, if you're into that. You'll get used to it. You'll probably like it. Someone like you. Hell, when would you have ever been that important, anyway? Colonel. If you're lucky, he might even give you a gun. Better learn to salute, though. They take that really seriously. Never mess up a salute."

A salute? Fuck the salute—

"You're lying," Ludwig whispered, and oh god, he hoped Toris was. "He can't do that. It's illegal! Isn't it? That's... It's... He could be—"

"Arrested? How? No one will ever know. Your uniform is real, isn't it? You look like a soldier anyhow, don't'cha, ya big oaf. And you won't say a word against him."

Like hell he wouldn't.

"Try me," he dared, voice barely a whisper, and now it was Toris who laughed.

"Just wait until you're alone with him, and see later if you're so brave! Think you can do better than me, huh?"

Me?

Ludwig felt the first trickle of dread slide into his stomach, and came to a sickening realization out of nowhere, as his eyes flew to Toris' uniform. Looked Toris up and down, eyes wide and forehead clammy and stomach churning.

No way. Couldn't be.

"You mean, you're not...?"

A coarse bark of laughter.

"No!" Toris spat, and it was Toris this time who gave a long round of hysterical cackles. Took him a while to calm down, as Ludwig tried not to throw up, and then Toris said, shaking his head as he smiled away, "I've never had a day of official military training in my life! What? You look so surprised. You thought I was a real lieutenant?" Toris' hand flew up, and he smoothed back his hair in self-satisfaction, sneering away and voice more of a drawl. "Yeah, I do a good job, don't I? I impress myself sometimes."

Toris laughed again, so easily, and Ludwig fell back onto the couch, feeling like he'd dived into the ocean.

He couldn't breathe.

He struggled to understand the magnitude of the situation he had been unwillingly thrust into. Everything around him was deceitful. He could not see the road before him, nor where it would lead to.

Lost. Alone.

A hand grabbed his shirt, and he was pulled to his feet.

"First thing's first, you better learn the national anthem! For appearance's sake. Ha! You're gonna be hearin' this for the rest of your life! Hope you like it."

He was dazed.

"Slavsya, Otechyestvo nashe svobodnoye!"

He was angry.

"Slavy narodov nadyozhnyy oplot!"

He was frustrated.

"Znamya sovetskoye, znamya narodnoye!"

He was scared.

"Pust' ot pobedy k pobede vedyot!"

He just wanted to go home.

Gilbert.

A smack to the top of his head, as Toris tried to regain Ludwig's attention.

"Hey! For god's sake! I'm not makin' a fool of myself for nothing! Come on! Follow along."

He wanted to see Gilbert.

"Ah. We've got a lot of work to do."

He wanted to cry.

"How's your hand?"

Emptiness.

Barely hearing the voice, Gilbert, head resting on the back of the couch, grumbled, "Better."

All the time. Surrounded by nothing.

"Let me see."

Automatically, he extended his arm, staring blankly at the ceiling, and didn't even react when fingers began to probe at his hand, the sharp pains shooting up his arm barely even registering. He felt nothing.

Only emptiness. Numbness.

"Well," came the hesitant voice, "I guess it's looking a little better. Can you move it?"

He tried. His fingers twitched, and then fell still.

"Nope."

"Alright."

And with that, Erzsébet lowered his arm gently down, and laid back, watching him silently. He could feel her eyes upon him, but made no effort to meet them, continuing his staring contest with the ceiling. He didn't much feel like speaking to her anyway.

His chest hurt. Or maybe that was his heart.

Who cared, in the end?

This had been the longest month he had ever known, and he hadn't even left the house except for when Erzsébet and Alfred had dragged him (literally) down to the hospital. His broken hand had been so badly damaged that there had been talk of amputation, and he had only shrugged a shoulder, not really caring either way what happened to him, but in the end, metal pins had straightened the bone and an operation had removed the unusable broken fragments from his tendon. It would be as good as new, they said, in a few months. Or at least more visually appealing than a stump, if not entirely functional.

So what? It didn't matter.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Time didn't matter anymore.

Ludwig was gone.

Living with Alfred was proving unbearable, every second of it, and all around him were reminders of his brother. Couldn't stand it. Ludwig wasn't coming back.

The mantle over the fireplace held photos of them together in days long since past. Gilbert had been in the process of burning them when Alfred came home and, furious, nearly broke his hand all over again to get them away from him. He had stashed them, no doubt, in his own room.

The kitchen was full of flour and baking pans. Gilbert threw them out. He didn't bake.

The bathroom smelled of sandalwood. He bleached it all out.

And the bedroom...

Oh, god, the bedroom. He couldn't even go in it. He had tried, and the second he had turned the knob, he had burst into tears and backed away. He just couldn't. He had been sleeping on the couch.

He felt like he was walking through a great, vast field of fog, and he couldn't see the other end. He didn't leave the house. He didn't want to see people. Sometimes, he rested his forehead against the cold window at night, and looked up at the sky. The stars seemed dull. Distant. The only star he had ever given a thought to in his entire life had been Ludwig.

That star had burned out. Ludwig was gone.

Gone.

Ludwig should have never been 'gone'. They were supposed to be together.

Alfred hated him.

Sometimes, Alfred came home and would start to say, 'Ludwig, I'm back,' and then he would trail off, a strange look on his face, and then his shoulders slumped and he would inhale sharply as his face crumpled, and then he would walk past Gilbert without even a 'hello'. Alfred couldn't even stand to look at him half the time.

Caught Alfred glaring at him quite often.

He hated himself, too, so Gilbert took it.

Meals were awkward. Forks scraping plates, and sometimes Alfred would look up at him, brow low and eyes dark, and when he saw that Gilbert wasn't really eating, he would quickly snap, in a hostile voice, 'If you don't eat, I'm gonna shove it down your throat. Ludwig didn't go over there for nothin'.'

One night, he'd been sitting there on the couch, and Alfred had stood there above him, watching him with a strange expression. When Gilbert had finally bothered to look up and meet his eyes, Alfred had shaken his head and whispered, mostly to himself, 'I can't see any of him in you.'

Him. Ludwig.

Of course Alfred couldn't see it. Because there wasn't any. Ludwig had been better. So much better. Not real brothers, anyway. Alfred knew it.

Once, he'd heard Alfred speaking on the phone to either Roderich or Erzsébet, and Alfred had dissolved into tears, moaning to the other line, 'But I don't care about him! I don't! I don't want him here! Please, find him somewhere else to stay! I hate having him here! I hate him! I want Ludwig back. Please. I can't— I can't...'

He'd walked away, and left Alfred in solitude.

Alfred hated him. He deserved it.

Erzsébet came to visit frequently, always with words of encouragement, but they did little for him. Useless rationality and halfhearted, 'it's not your fault's. It was his fault. She didn't have to lie to him. Roderich certainly didn't. Roderich had not set foot in the house since, but he called, to speak to Alfred, and if it was Gilbert who answered he would take a deep, shuddering breath, and slam the phone down.

Roderich hated him even more than Alfred did. Roderich had always hated him. The feeling had been mutual. Roderich and Gilbert—they hadn't ever been meant to be friends.

Everything about Roderich, Gilbert hated.

Vice versa.

Maybe Roderich had hated him at the beginning, though, just because Gilbert had been friends with his wife. Maybe that was normal, for a guy to hate another guy that was friends with his wife.

Maybe that was Gilbert's fault, for being a little touchy with her back in the day. Always had been, when Ludwig had been little, and Gilbert had been sitting next to her on the couch one night, high as a fuckin' kite, and she had turned to look at him, her smile comforting and pleasant.

He'd asked her, then, what she saw in Roderich.

She'd just smiled, and replied, 'I love him.'

It wasn't that Gilbert wanted her for himself. Wasn't anything like that. He hadn't ever loved her, not like that. It was just that he didn't really want Roderich to ever have anyone. He didn't want Roderich to be happy.

Simple spite.

So, he'd carried on the conversation, and had put an arm around her shoulder.

'Say, don't you think I'm a lot more handsome?'

She'd laughed, and placed her hand above his own. 'You're as dashing as they come, Gilbert!'

'So how come you're not with me?'

She had turned to look at him, her eyes red and lidded like his were, and she burst into laughter.

'Oh, Gilbert!' she had cried, between giggles, 'Oh! I could sit here and drop acid with you all day long, but I can't even! I can't even imagine fucking you!'

She'd giggled away, and it had been injured pride (and maybe the acid) that had made him grab her chin and turn her head, crushing their lips together. She had humored him, then.

Afterwards, he'd looked down at her, her chin still in his hand, and he'd conceded.

'You're right. That didn't do anything for me.'

She patted his arm.

'It's alright. I'd drive you crazy.'

Maybe that was true. ...and vice versa.

He'd really only ever thought about Ludwig. He did love Ludwig. It hurt, sometimes. It only got worse, the more Ludwig had grown. The possessiveness had grown right along with him, and Gilbert hadn't really been able to control it.

He had argued with Roderich so many times about Ludwig. He couldn't stand it when Roderich wanted to talk to Ludwig, even just over the phone. It made him want to scream. Made him want to strangle the son of a bitch. Talkin' to Ludwig? What for? What did Roderich want, anyway? Felt like Roderich had always wanted to steal him, take him away. Couldn't stand it.

Roderich had always hated him.

So it was with great surprise that Erzsébet threw a coat over Gilbert's shoulders that day, and said, "Roderich wants to see you. Come on."

Gilbert looked at her, dumbly, and she tugged him to his feet.

Since when?

"Why?"

"I don't know, Gilbert, he wouldn't say."

Even she seemed a bit surprised. Anxious, in a way.

Gilbert didn't want to go, and dug his heels in the carpet. He was afraid to go. He dreaded the thought of going outside. Being in the world. Facing humanity after what he'd done.

Of facing Roderich's gaze. Didn't want to see Roderich. But he was even more frightened not to go, because Roderich would no doubt blow his top and come marching over, and that would be even worse. Couldn't stand the way Roderich looked at him when he was angry, least of all now. Couldn't stand the storm in Roderich's eyes, nor the accusation. The hate.

Roderich knew damn well that it should have been Gilbert over there.

He let Erzsébet lead him where she would, and he drifted out into space, barely aware when they stepped into a taxi. Outside. He didn't deserve to be outside, amongst people.

Where was Ludwig now? Was he still alive? Or had he already expired in Siberia? Ludwig would never see these streets again. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Gilbert was older. Useless. Careless and reckless and mean and, to put not too fine a point on it, a terrible human being.

Ludwig was young. Bright. Gentle and polite and calm and good-natured and kind. Ludwig could have been somebody, someway, somehow. Ludwig had deserved the world. Gilbert had given him hell.

Gilbert came back down to earth only when Erzsébet shook his arm, gently, and whispered, "Go on. I'll wait here. It'll be alright."

He started, and realized that he was standing in the hallway of a building, and the door was in front of him.

When had he gotten out of the car?

She shoved him forward, and he stumbled.

That door.

He froze up, reluctant to pass through it and face the wrath of a better man, but Erzsébet pulled it open and shoved him through. The click from behind sounded more like a death knoll, and then he saw Roderich sitting at his desk.

His stomach twisted.

The air was thick.

They stared at each other, silently, Gilbert shuffling his feet awkwardly, and then Roderich stood. Felt like too long that Roderich tried to murder Gilbert with his eyes, and when he was unsuccessful, he merely said, "Gilbert."

The name from his tongue dripped with distaste.

"Roderich. You wanted to see me?"

Roderich, as usual, cut to the chase.

"Yes. Do you know how to get to Brno?"

"Where is that?"

"Czechoslovakia."

"I... No. I don't know."

Another short pause, as Roderich raked his eyes over Gilbert, observing and calculating, and then he asked, voice steady and guarded, "How are you feeling?"

Why? Roderich didn't care how he was, so there was something else going on. Roderich would rather that Gilbert was dead.

"I don't know," Gilbert responded again, warily, and Roderich leaned forward, brow furrowed.

"I'm asking how you're feeling," he said, and there was no love in his voice. "I'm asking if you can walk. If you can move your hand. If you're ready to get going."

"I'm..."

Gilbert trailed off, as Roderich opened up the drawer on his desk and began to rummage through it. He was confused, and cautious, and the light in Roderich's eyes was not necessarily a good thing.

Something was going on. And knowing Roderich, it was not going to be pleasant for him.

"Where am I going?" he finally managed, voice cracking, and feeling the churning in his stomach.

There was a heavy silence, a movement as Roderich pulled something from the drawer, and then Roderich scoffed and reached out across the desk, thrusting into Gilbert's hands a folded map, and a gun.

Holy shit.

The fuck was a guy like Roderich doing with a gun? Guns scared the hell outta Roderich, holy shit—

His felt ice slip down the back of his neck, and shivered.

"You're going after Ludwig. You're going to bring him home."

Ludwig?

Impossible. Ludwig was gone.

"Back...there?"

Gilbert shuddered, and, at some level, was disgusted at himself for his cowardice. He had spent the last month dreaming about getting back to Ludwig, but, oh god. The thought of going back there was enough to make him tremble like a leaf caught in a breeze. Back in the Red zone. Back into the USSR.

He could have puked right there.

"Yes," Roderich spat, sitting back down and clasping his hands before him. "Back there, you pitiful bastard. I've marked the map. I called some favors, and paid some money. That general that you mentioned—I found him. His name is Ivan Braginsky. I've written it down. He was touring the Eastern Bloc, and was last seen in Brno. From there, he was supposed to go to Budapest, but he never showed. So, you'll have to go to Brno first, and find out what happened."

"Why?"

He didn't understand. What could he do? What could he possibly do? If he did catch up to that guy, then what? Go up to him and say, 'Hey, I know we made a deal and all, but can I have my brother back? Kinda need him.'

Hardly.

Roderich was probably just trying to get him killed. That was pretty fair.

"Why go after him?"

And now Roderich's gaze churned as fiercely as Gilbert's stomach, and he muttered, "The man I spoke to said that the general was accompanied by a lieutenant, and by a young blond man with blue eyes, in no uniform, that no one recognized. Sound familiar?"

The world stopped, and all he could hear suddenly was the pounding of the blood in his ears.

He could have died.

Ludwig was with him? Alone?

No, wait, that guy had said that Ludwig was going to Siberia. Why was he with him?

Numb and suddenly very cold, he met Roderich's serious eyes and could only nod, once. Understood, despite the terror. Understood that Ludwig was gone, but not out of reach. Within the realm of possibility. There was hope still, however thin and fragile. Ludwig, brave and strong, might still be alive and in a position to be rescued. Good god, fuckin' Christ, hadn't ever even dreamed that, hadn't ever considered it.

Hope. A strange feeling.

It had been a month, yeah, but still not long enough to lose sight of Ludwig.

Roderich looked him over again, as if assessing his health, and then, quietly, amended, "Well. Take Alfred with you, if you want. He's stronger. He'll go, if you ask."

"No," Gilbert whispered, shaking his head. "I'll go alone."

Alfred hated him.

A scoff.

"Fine."

His heart raced in terror, because he didn't want to go alone. Not alone. Too damn scared to go it alone. But he couldn't bring himself to ask Alfred to go with him, even though he knew the bold brat would agree in a second, because Alfred hated him, and he couldn't bear traveling with someone better than himself. If Alfred saved Ludwig, instead of him, he woulda been horrified. Selfish, but he couldn't fathom the thought of not saving Ludwig as Ludwig had saved him.

Should have taken all the help he could get, because Ludwig deserved that, and so Gilbert was still putting himself first, as he always had. Couldn't take Alfred, because Alfred was a better man.

Pitiful.

All the more reason to get Ludwig back, to make him hate himself just a little a less.

Roderich, on the other hand, didn't really seem on planning to hate Gilbert any less, even if he did miraculously come trouncing over the wall again with Ludwig in tow, and was quick to add, "I want him back here, no matter what, Gilbert, and I don't care if you die along the way."

Dread.

"And when he's safe—"

Together.

"—I'm adopting him, he's getting my name, he's coming with me and Erzsébet to Vienna—"

He had tried his best.

"—and you won't ever see him again. And that's that."

Forever.

Numb and dazed, Gilbert could only nod dumbly under Roderich's burning gaze; how could he argue? Roderich was always right, it seemed, and Ludwig would be safer with them, because Gilbert had failed so terribly. How could he ever be trusted with such responsibilities afterwards? Ludwig would be better off with Roderich. Couldn't argue, for once in his life.

Roderich appeared satisfied.

"I'll help you all I can, from here. You know the number. And god help you, Gilbert, if you don't bring him back. If it's not with him, then don't bother coming back here. You hear me? Stay over there. Don't you come back across that wall without Ludwig."

Gilbert nodded.

He didn't deserve to see Ludwig again.

Roderich was right.

"Go."

He did, clenching the map so tightly in his hand as he went that it crumpled, and tucked the gun into his coat pocket. He wouldn't fail again, not again.

Redemption.

He'd do anything for Ludwig.

Anything.