Chapter 12
Nightmarish Waltz
As it turned out, at least one thing Ivan had said turned out to be true :
It was very pretty.
The road had seemed to go on for eternity, no doubt because of the languid pace of the vehicle, and it was not until the sun was beginning to settle over the West, a direction he yearned to continue heading, that they finally arrived in a small town.
It was quiet. Frozen. The buildings were very small and much, much older than the ones he had seen from the car in Mirny, and the trees here were older, too, taller and wider. The heavy fog had faded. Across the horizon, the clouds were lit up pink and gold and deep red. The wind was so strong that the mighty trees were almost doubled in the middle, and the car shook so hard that Ludwig was sure it would be pushed off the road.
Somehow, they made it, safe and sound.
...well.
Maybe not 'sound'. Not really a good word to use when Ivan was slumped against your side, sleeping away and leaving no room for escape.
Ludwig was glad when they started creeping into the icy little streets. He raised his eyes to the window, trying to ignore the sleeping Ivan, and observed the environment.
At the center of the town sat a massive building, made of washed-white stones, covered in so many windows that there was scarcely space between them, its roof covered in deep red tile that contrasted starkly with the darkening skies and pale surroundings. Before it was a great courtyard, full of shining black vehicles that were waxed to perfection, and hanging out at the door, cigarettes in mouth and seemingly immune to the cold, were two armed guards who came out at the sight of the new car.
Their guns gleamed in the last remnants of daylight.
And when Toris parked the car and got out, when Ivan woke up with a grunt and pushed open the back door and then dragged Ludwig out, when he was led to the door in a daze of pulse-racing adrenaline, when he was pulled through the doors and into a dimmed hallway lit up by low wall-lamps, when Toris hung back with a look of annoyance, Ludwig realized that he walked out of the dungeon and into the snake pit.
He couldn't breathe. A horrible sense of dread started to creep up.
The hallway was long and empty, on either side of him were great staircases that curved upward, their destinations unforeseeable, and at the other end stood a closed door.
From beneath it streamed a bright, white light.
The gate to hell, surely, for the way he felt.
As Ludwig stood frozen in mounting horror, Ivan's hand flew down and gripped his waist as though worried he would try to flee, and he flinched at the touch. Toris suddenly came over next to him (them; they were standing so closely together that there was no shard of light passing between them for Ivan's iron grip) and crossed his arms.
Toris opened his mouth, but Ivan interrupted by saying, "Here."
Ivan's hands were suddenly upon Ludwig, removing his heavy coat and throwing it on Toris' arm, straightening the odd wrinkle in his uniform and untying his ushanka. Terrorized and helpless, Ludwig stood still as Ivan took his hat off and stuck it in Toris' waiting hand, and then somehow one-armed Toris finagled around and passed Ivan the military cap.
Ludwig could only stand there, passively, and allow Ivan to do as he would.
"It's not so cold in here," Ivan said, as he put the cap upon Ludwig's head and smoothed his hair meticulously, and it was with a low whisper that he added, "I want them to see how pale your hair is. And you look so... So..."
He trailed off, brow furrowed. Ivan muttered something under his breath and then turned to Toris, snipping, quickly, "Word?"
Toris, lips very nearly twitching into a sneer, only drawled, "Professional."
"Ah."
Ivan turned back, gripped Ludwig all the tighter, and with his other hand he bumped gently the top of Ludwig's head in what might have been affection.
"Right. You look so...professional."
Well, that may have been true, but he sure as hell didn't feel that way.
He only averted his eyes as the anxiousness burned his chest, and then Toris finally spoke up.
"May I be excused?" he asked, voice low and clipped, and after a second of silence, Ivan reached up and waved his hand in the air dismissively. Toris inclined his head, turned on his heel, stepped onto a staircase, and then was gone.
And Ludwig couldn't even believe it.
Toris was gone. Toris had left Ludwig alone with the wolf. How could Toris have left him? When he knew so well how helpless he felt? Toris had known all along how lost he was here. Toris was supposed to watch out for him, wasn't he? Toris had shown him emotion that morning that wasn't hatred, that wasn't anger, and Ludwig had thought, for just a moment, that Toris was going to look out for him.
Toris left him.
No time to dwell on Toris' betrayal; Ivan turned him around again, and began to pull him not-so-gently to the door. Closer. He was so nervous. In arm's reach. The silver doorknob gleaming in the low light. He was going to vomit. Faint. Dizzy. Then Ivan reached out his hand, and pushed the door, and they crossed the threshold.
Time stopped.
His pupils constricted. A great burst of light. He froze up, momentarily blinded.
Ivan pulled him along. A final whisper.
"Don't be afraid."
His eyes adjusted to the light, Ivan's hand tightened, he was tugged forward, and time sped back up.
And suddenly everything was loud and noisy and vibrant and alive, and the dramatic change in atmosphere made Ludwig's head swim. There was music in the background. Everything was red. A flurry of bright color. The room was full of people. Voices. Laughter. So many people. He had not seen so many people since he had left Berlin behind. Certainly not in Ivan's quiet, calm, empty house, not out in those desolate forests.
Such unforgiving cold, and yet so many people were here.
The smoke of cigars hit him hard, and the headache was intense.
Ivan led him into the midst of it all with a high chin, and never for one second did he release the grip he had on Ludwig's waist. Ludwig could have just keeled over dead then from the panic alone, too high on the terror to be mortified by Ivan holding him like that. The noises filled his ears and hurt his head. He had gotten used to silence. Now he was surrounded on all sides by people, and felt more than overwhelmed.
Ivan coming into the room seemed to be an exciting event for an already exciting scene. His party, after all.
Men came up and threw heavy hands down on Ivan's shoulder, shouting coarse greetings in Russian. Others kissed his cheek. Other still pressed their foreheads into his with rough words, and Ivan's confident smile never faltered, quite at home in the middle of constant attention. Looked content and bolstered. Stimulated by his own worth.
It struck Ludwig like a bolt of lightning then, as the Soviet military stopped in its tracks in Ivan's wake, just how influential Ivan was. How powerful. Had known all along of course that he was powerful, but to see it like this, to truly understand the scope of Ivan's control, his authority and command; Ludwig was honestly running out of words that adequately described 'terror' and 'horror'.
Ivan suddenly seemed all the more intimidating and inescapable for it. How could anyone ever get away from a man like this? Ludwig truly was Ivan's prisoner, just hadn't been so blatantly obvious these past weeks.
Someone took Ivan's hand in a firm grip, and then looked at him, and smiled. A glance towards Ivan, and a knowing smile, and then he was offered a hand.
A jolt of fear.
The first rush of absolute adrenaline. Someone had noticed him. What to do. Not much, actually, not with Ivan's iron hand on his waist, keeping him in place.
Ludwig broke free of his daze and took the offered hand, nodding his head with mechanical politeness, and Ivan's smile widened to show his high, gawky canines as others came forward, curious about the new man on Ivan's arm.
Everyone wanted to meet him. Everyone wanted to see him.
It was simultaneously thrilling and horrifying to be the center of attention. The most exhilarating moment of his life.
The handshakes never seemed to stop.
It made him dizzy, whirling through clouds of cigar smoke and women in beautiful dresses and fur shawls, military men in full uniform with folded ushankas laughing to their officers, tables full of poker chips and bottles of vodka, the ceiling higher than heaven and just as bright from the crystal chandeliers, and all the while the orchestra below was strumming out wondrous Viennese waltzes and tangos and foxtrots. The room was warm, the walls coated in deep-red velvet panels to hide old wallpaper, the tablecloths a vibrant crimson, the carpet a dark burgundy, and out beyond the mess of tables there was a great dance floor; polished, stained oak.
A far cry from those dull, dreary days in Berlin, stuck at Gilbert's side as he crawled through dark bars.
A dumb thought swam in his head : 'Why didn't Toris wanna be here?'
An environment like this was certainly intoxicating. Toris must have been a stick-in-the-mud.
His second dumb thought was : 'Ivan's going to get himself shot.'
The Soviet Union was notorious for many reasons, and one of them was the eagerness with which they shot men that liked to be a little too friendly with other men. Ivan flaunted himself and his obvious inclinations so fearlessly, so boldly. Wasn't he afraid of being executed? Being inside of his own prison? It had all been coming together in Ludwig's head, about Ivan, hard not to realize it the way he spoke to and looked at Ludwig. It had always been rather obvious, yes, but Ludwig had been in very deep denial. Had to admit it, at last. Knew that Ivan wasn't what the USSR would consider a normal and worthy man. So Ludwig didn't get it. Didn't understand. Didn't understand how Ivan was yet so powerful and so impervious, despite being so openly audacious in front of these other men. How Ivan was so able to hold onto power while being less than secretive about his lifestyle in a land where no one could be abnormal.
But then...
Toris had said that there were no laws here, no rules, and it was incredibly likely that these men in this room had their own particular illegal vices that Ivan allowed and ignored, as that poker table obviously implied, and so did they in turn ignore Ivan's fancies. Nothing new to anyone in that room, that much was clear, from the way they just leered at Ludwig.
Ludwig was just the new fancy, apparently.
Nausea.
He was twirled and dragged this way and that, and every time he was swirled around there was someone new to meet. Generals, officers, colonels, lieutenants, majors, every class of Soviet military, and then he met their wives, their mistresses, their escorts, hell, even their damn drivers. And they came from everywhere, like Toris had said. He heard clumsy German from some, Hungarian and Polish from a few, Russian from the others, and Ivan spoke to some of them in heavy English, and to each and every one of them Ivan would thrust Ludwig forward and say, eagerly, 'So-and-so, meet Colonel Müller, from the GDR.'
Müller?
That was the best Ivan could come up with in all this time? He had hoped for something more...dramatic. König, maybe, or Von Falkner. Not that it mattered, but, oh, he had to keep his mind occupied with something other than what was going on around him, and even when he saluted that automatic salute that Toris had beaten into his head in the presence of superiors, Ivan's hand was still stuck firmly around his waist. Absolutely mortifying; everyone he met would look down at Ivan's hand, then send him the strangest of smiles, as if they just knew that something was off, and Ludwig felt the flush of red on his cheeks as he was torn away and presented to another.
It was relentless. They just kept coming.
The whole time, Ivan just smiled. As if he owned the world entire.
Ludwig could really only go along with him, and just pretend. What else could he do? All of these military men around, it wasn't like he could just turn around and punch Ivan in the nose and try to run. Couldn't throw Ivan's hand off of his waist right there in front of such a huge audience and tell Ivan that he was not like that. Couldn't do anything to shame Ivan at his own party, at least not if Ludwig wanted to stay very much alive, which he did, thanks a lot.
He was stuck.
...punching Ivan would have broken his hand more than Ivan's face. Damn.
An hour passed; Ivan wanted him to meet everyone, every single person in that room. Ludwig's damn arm was already sore from shaking hands.
There was a snag halfway down the road, however, and one of the men that Ivan led him up to turned around, glass in hand, and looked Ludwig up and down with a very critical eye. Ludwig held out his hand, mindlessly, but as soon as the word 'GDR' had dropped from Ivan's lips, the man lowered his eyes to Ludwig's hand, and wrinkled his nose.
Ludwig knew that look.
Then the officer met Ivan's eyes, grunting something in Russian, and Ludwig could tell from his tone alone that it was not polite. That seemed rather audacious, to be brave enough to rebut Ivan in front of all these people. For a second, there was something shifting in Ivan's gaze, and his smile no longer showed his teeth. His fingers contracted on Ludwig's waist painfully, but then the man turned and stalked off, throwing harsh words over his shoulder, and Ivan stood completely still.
Almost in disbelief.
The horror that had been slowly evaporating came rushing back up as Ivan's smile fell a little more, and Ludwig could already sense the sinking of the ship. If Ivan snapped, then he sure as hell didn't want to be anywhere nearby. A dangerous stirring of rage beneath Ivan's tranquil surface, and Ludwig said, lowly, in a lame attempt to prevent a possible explosion, "Well! No matter. What did he say?"
Ivan looked down at him, pale eyes burning, and only shook his head.
Ludwig hadn't taken it too much to heart. He assumed right off that that one man just happened to be of the Soviet mind that a man like Ivan (and, well, Ludwig, because after all it would be incorrectly assumed with Ivan's hand on his waist) was not right. That was all.
But Ludwig's inquiry did not go unanswered.
"He said," came a new voice from the side, and Ludwig turned to see a tall, very rough-looking man smoking a cigar standing next to him, "'I won't touch the hand of any goddamn, dirty fashisty.' You say, perhaps, fascist?" He trailed off, and lowered his cigar, adding, with a glance at Ivan, "I won't tell you what else he said. It would be obscene to say such things aloud."
His jaw clenched.
Ludwig turned his eyes back straight ahead, pretending to be unfazed even though the words burned him, and the agitation flowed in his veins like alcohol. He was alarmingly aware of the flush of red that was creeping up from his collar and onto his face, despite his best efforts at calm.
Anger.
Strange; had been unbothered at his initial assumption, because an insult to Ivan was not an insult to Ludwig, but this was different. He took it to heart then, did he ever, and the fury was undeniable.
Fascist? He had spent his entire life in the West, in an atmosphere of lingering aggression towards the Nazi regime, had spent so long living with the shame of that. Had grown up not being allowed to be proud of his country for fear of being called just that. And for it, he hated that word, more than any other. Being called a fascist was not something Ludwig took lightly; Alfred had learned that after a bad Nazi joke had ended with Ludwig nearly in tears. Still too close to home. The Germans were struggling to reclaim their identity, to distance themselves from the shameful Third Reich, and Ludwig was no exception.
Hurt, that he couldn't love his country without having to explain why.
He hated that word.
Let that man come back and say it to his face again, and see whose hand touched who.
His head was hurting worse than ever.
Ah. Maybe it didn't matter anyway. The feeling was mutual, and he disliked Soviets, so they were, perhaps, even. He was a fascist? Let someone else say it more than some damn Red. Communist son of a bitch. While they painted this frozen town up red, West Germany was thriving. Let them keep their snow huts. Millions in the Soviet Union were starving to death, and the West was rising.
With those rather hostile thoughts in his head, Ludwig felt a little better.
Sounded like something Gilbert or Alfred would say, and no doubt they had been the ones to put those thoughts there in the first place.
Couldn't help it. So mad. So jittery. Anxious.
Felt sick.
Couldn't stand the feel of Ivan's hand, and was helpless to escape it.
Before Ludwig could die of too much emotion, Ivan was suddenly pulling him along again, and resumed his introductions as if nothing had happened at all.
It felt like it lasted an eternity, the anger ever receding as he went, and when finally there was no one else to meet, Ivan dragged him over to a table and pushed him down into a chair. The flowers in the vase were as vibrant crimson as the tablecloth, and when Ivan uncapped the vodka and poured it into a small, fluted glass and pushed it in front of him, Ludwig grabbed it up and put it back with one tilt of his head.
He needed all the help he could get. His head was spinning. His skin was always crawling under Ivan's palm.
Ivan poured him another, he took it quickly, and the whole while Ivan watched him with an almost curious intensity. Leering more than a little. Ludwig looked over when Ivan finally poured himself a glass, and even though his face was relaxed and calm, there was still something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. Still brooding, no doubt. Plotting ways to right this wrong.
Yeah, good luck to that guy once Ivan got him alone.
The last man on Earth Ludwig would have ever had the balls to cross.
Someone suddenly stood in front of him, and when Ludwig looked up, a bit anxiously, he recognized the man who had answered his quiet question.
"May I sit?" he asked with a smile, but he didn't wait for Ludwig to answer before he pulled out a chair, and he extended his hand. "Major Pavlov. Remember?"
Ludwig nodded, taking the hand, although having absolutely no intentions whatsoever of remembering this man when everything was said and done. Ludwig's only thought then was to try and remember if a major was above or below a colonel, and how much respect he needed to show.
The major smiled, and inclined his head towards Ivan, who only shrugged. They sat in a moment of silence, as Ivan refilled the glasses with a strange half-smile. Communicating silently, no doubt, although they had a language they could have used just as easily had they wanted to keep Ludwig in the dark.
The man before him, observing him, finally spoke.
"Colonel Müller," he drawled, cigar in hand as the silver fur of his ushanka gleamed in the light, "From the GDR, eh? You look like a very, ah, how do you say, stern man. Very tough. Very strict." Ludwig watched him, and made no effort to disprove this statement, keeping his eyes cool and narrowed and body stiff and looking very much like the 'asshole' that Alfred had always called him. "Tell me, Colonel, how do you handle such insubordination as that?"
He waved his hand over across the room, towards the officer that had refused Ludwig's handshake, and the expectant smile on his face made Ludwig shudder.
Oh, god, he was gonna choke.
A second of absolute terror, as his mind whirred away, and it was a thought more horrifying than any, thinking about what he could possibly say to this man that wouldn't give him away. Thinking about what would happen if he did choke, if he embarrassed Ivan.
What would Toris say? Toris, Toris, pretend to be Toris, pretend to be Toris, had to think like that miserable bastard Toris.
Fashisty.
Sure.
Like Toris.
Feeling somewhat aggressive still and knowing that Ivan was watching him and expecting, Ludwig leaned across the table and said, as casually as he could for the tremor in his voice, "Major, I don't know how your camp does things, but I would have my Stasi remove his hand. One finger at a time, of course. Then he won't have to worry about shaking anyone's hand."
The words were stern, but his heart was thudding in his chest. He worried that they would sense it, and pounce. He looked like them, yeah he did, but he was not the same. They could probably see it, too. He could say the words, but he couldn't ever mean them. Couldn't have ever backed them up.
Didn't have to, that time; for a second the major sat still, but then he threw back his head and laughed, and Ivan laughed too.
Ludwig did not.
Sure hoped Ivan was proud of him, though. Or else.
Somehow, though...
"Very good!"
The way the major looked at him, somehow, someway, Ludwig knew that he had been had. That the major could see the fear there. That the major had heard the tremble in his voice. Could see it on his face.
Mercifully, if only for Ivan, it was ignored.
Ivan reached out and placed a rather gentle hand on Ludwig's shoulder, and leaned forward, saying to the major, "Ah, this is where Colonel Müller and I, eh, disagree. You see, he would take the hand of the officer; I would take the hand of his wife. Wife? Right word? That way he suffers more, you see, and every time he helps her from their car he must sit her on the left side, so she does not her lose her, what's the word, balance by leaning too far to the right."
They laughed some more, Ivan barked something out in Russian and poured them all another round, and Ludwig only stared blankly ahead, knowing somehow that behind the metaphor of the officer and his wife there was himself, and Gilbert. Ivan was clever and subtle with his words, even in a language he struggled with, but Ludwig was too sharp and scared to miss it.
The unspoken conclusion was that, for every time Ludwig acted out, Ivan's punishment would cross many borders and fall on Gilbert.
Gilbert. That stupid man.
And that was why Ludwig sat here now, wasn't it, doing everything Ivan wanted of him. That was why he sat here in this ridiculous uniform, wearing this ridiculous hat, confirming this ridiculous façade of a colonel, listening to these ridiculous men speak, and playing with disgusting efficiency the role of the belle of this ridiculous ball. That was why he didn't move every time Ivan ran hands over him, despite the horror. Couldn't move, couldn't flinch. Had to suffer it, had to abase and humiliate himself.
For Gilbert's sake. Always for Gilbert's sake. His entire life, for Gilbert's sake.
Stupid.
Ludwig took another shot, wincing as it burned his throat, and it was with relief that he finally felt the first splash of warmth. The first stirrings of tipsiness. About time. Ivan smiled at him in amusement as Ludwig's eyelids lowered and lowered in intoxication, and seemed content with where Ludwig was on the scale of drunkenness. Didn't refill his glass that time.
Not yet; Ludwig met Ivan's eyes, pointedly, and pushed his glass forward.
Ivan barked another laugh, nearly snorting, and poured him another. And another.
Ludwig took them.
Always for Gilbert's sake. Gilbert's constant fuck-ups had always fallen back on him. The story of his life. Gilbert had never been anything but trouble.
Another glass. He took that one, too. He had a feeling he would need much more to survive this night, and if Ivan wanted to keep his hands moving with no resistance, then he better keep vodka on him at all times.
Was going to turn Ludwig into an alcoholic at this rate.
Zoning out as the major and Ivan began to hold a conversation in Russian, Ludwig rested an elbow on the table, watching the room with only the faintest of recognition.
Such a grand party.
Ivan's words from the journey here were rising back up in his head.
Men like these. Men like Gilbert. Gilbert would have been right at home with these thugs, would have overshadowed even Ivan and probably would have been the life of the party. Would have immersed himself in this lawlessness and would have had the ability to somehow exacerbate it.
Was Gilbert at such a party right now? Was he sitting at a table with people he did not really know, drinking shot after shot as music played and people danced? If so, were his eyes following people with active interest? Did he engage well in conversation? Did he laugh sincerely? Did his smile reach his eyes?
If Gilbert was partying and drinking, as Ivan had suggested, then Ludwig could have easily forgiven it if only it were a desperate attempt to fight off depression. If only he drank shot after shot, not hearing the music that played and staring past the people he sat with. If his eyes were cloudy and unfocused. If he responded to conversation with simple shrugs and nods. If his laughter was forced and fake. If his smile foundered halfway.
Anything that would suggest that his mind was still on his brother.
But if Gilbert was really having fun, so soon, and thought no more of him...
He couldn't bear that.
He had given up everything; the least Gilbert could do was be miserable for the rest of his pitiful life.
Maybe it was selfish of him—it was selfish, he was certain—because, after all, hadn't his sacrifice been for just that purpose? Had he not offered himself in his brother's place so that Gilbert could go back home and resume life as normal? Hadn't that been what he had wanted? Maybe he was as horrible a person as Ivan was. For wanting Gilbert to be caught up in a wave of despair, replaying the past over and over again until he went crazy, for wanting his brother to be as hopeless as he himself was, for wanting his brother to live the rest of his life in a miserable grey fog, like he was doomed to.
That wasn't fair. He was selfish.
Ashamed for thinking such terrible things, Ludwig came back to reality with a lurch of regret. Easy to be bitter, but that hadn't ever been him. Better not to think about it at all. When his eyes cleared, he saw that the major had gone, and the bright lights of before had gone down to a mere dim. He looked up at a great clock on the wall. Almost midnight. He had been out in space for some time.
He missed Gilbert. He wanted Gilbert to miss him. Was that so much to ask?
Fair...? Who really cared about what was fair? Gilbert never had, and Ivan didn't. Why should Ludwig be held to a higher standard? Wanted Gilbert to be miserable, no matter how hard he denied it, because that would have been a little fair, and if not fair then it would have been satisfying.
"Thought I lost you, for a minute there," came a heavy whisper at his side, and when he turned, he was nearly nose to nose with Ivan.
He shivered. As usual.
Too close. Ludwig felt himself lean back, just a bit, but Ivan was too nearby to really evade. Ivan only reached out and brushed the line of Ludwig's jaw with a balled fist, though, almost a gentle bump of camaraderie, and Ludwig realized that Ivan had a very good head-start down the road of drunkenness. It was almost a relief, because a drunk Ivan was an Ivan that could possibly be outmaneuvered, if need be.
For one thing or another. Yikes.
Then again, he realized, as the heat ran through his veins, maybe he wasn't that much better off. Probably would have stumbled over his own feet had he tried to evade Ivan. Would have wound up in his arms one way or another.
A churn of his stomach at the thought.
Ivan stared at him, chin held up in his palm, a smile on his face. What the hell was he thinking? Who could ever say. Ludwig couldn't stand that gaze, if only because he couldn't really figure it out. He broke away and looked around, helplessly.
Oh, Toris. Fuckin' Toris. Where was Toris? Why could they not just lead Ivan upstairs to sleep off the vodka, and when he passed out, they could both creep down the stairs in the dead of night and get in the car and drive away, not stopping for anything until they reached the last border of the Eastern Bloc, and he could go home.
Toris. Needed that bastard now, more than he needed anyone.
"Do you waltz, Ludwig?"
The whisper caught him off guard, and Ludwig glanced over to where Ivan sat, swirling a half-empty glass in his hand as he stared across the table unabashedly. Ludwig lowered his brow in annoyance, and when Ivan's lips turned up into a warm leer, he turned his head away. Heart racing, he muttered, primly, "I don't dance."
His hands were already shaking.
Alone with a drunk Ivan; a nightmare he had never known he had.
"Oh? That's a shame," Ivan grunted, and finished off his drink with a tossed head. Slamming the glass onto the table with a wince, he turned his attention back to Ludwig, and the pink flush on his cheeks gave away his intoxication. Daring himself another quick glance, Ludwig could not help but shudder under his heavy, prying gaze, knowing full well, for once, exactly what was running through Ivan's mind as he looked him up and down.
No amount of social ineptitude could have hidden the intention of that look.
The helplessness was suffocating. The vodka wasn't even helping then, the tipsiness wasn't saving him from feeling that horror like it was supposed to.
"Maybe a private lesson would make you feel less...how do you say? Uncomfortable?"
Oh, right! Ludwig was pretty sure that if Ivan got him alone in a room, the dance Ivan tried wouldn't be a waltz, and it wouldn't be vertical. God almighty! He shuddered, and tried to keep his eyes from drifting back to Ivan.
Frustration came surging up, and for a stupid moment there, as Ludwig looked around the room in a panic, he felt his eyes sting and he almost started crying. Pushed it down quickly enough, but the urge to flee was ever rising. Couldn't—nowhere to go.
Prisoner.
"No, thank you," Ludwig finally ground out, and Ivan leaned back, eyes lidded and brow high.
And then Ivan started laughing, and Ludwig felt the adrenaline in his veins when he reached out and grabbed up his hand within his own. Like school kids. Shameful. Alfred had grabbed Ludwig's hand frequently, but that had been worlds different, no comparison at all, because Ludwig was very certain that Alfred had never had sinister motivations. This felt so underhanded, although it seemed like such an innocent thing.
Turning his head, Ivan acknowledged a different table, and said, voice slurred, "Do you see that table there? Do you know what they are doing?"
Ludwig looked, despite himself, and saw four men with cards in hand, empty bottles strewn all about. Walking around them all, bathed in the cloud of smoke, was a beautiful dark-haired woman, her expensive jewelry sparkling in the light, dress long and fur shawl shimmering. A lovely woman, for sure, and she circled them all, reaching out and placing her hand down upon each of their shoulders in turn, perhaps as Lady Luck.
Ludwig could only shrug a shoulder, his attention more focused on Ivan's hand around his own. It was heavy. Warm. Bigger than his own. Rough.
Inescapable. Terrifying. Domineering.
"Poker. So?"
"Ah," Ivan said, and now he met Ludwig's eyes with a frightening smile. "They are playing very, very, what's the word? High-stakes? Very high-stakes. You see that man there—" he pointed "—that man is a Romanian captain. That woman is his mistress. He ran out of money, so do you know what he bet? He bet her." Ludwig's adrenaline rush slowed into a cold dread, and Ivan continued, nonchalantly, "Here, for tonight, you can bet anything you want."
It occurred to Ludwig, so dumbly, that the words Ivan had chosen to learn during his study of the German language were very telling to his lifestyle. Didn't know how to say 'professional', barely knew the word for 'wife', and yet knew how to talk about poker, knew how to talk about removing hands, knew how to talk about partying and 'men like that'.
Could tell so much about a person, perhaps, by the first words they learned of a new language.
A sudden cheer, and a man at the table threw down his cards victoriously. The woman came up behind him, placing her pretty hands on his broad shoulders, and the defeated Romanian captain took a shot of vodka with a groan, looking only moderately disappointed. Just business as usual, as the woman (his woman) laid hands upon another.
What was wrong with these people?
"You see the corporal just won her, don't you? Now, she is his property. They'll spend all night up in a room—" They stood, the corporal leading the woman towards the door, and then they were gone. "—and in the morning, do you know who she goes home with?"
Good god, what was wrong with these people?
Could barely find air all of a sudden.
Numb and horrified, Ludwig could only whisper, voice barely audible above the chatter, "The corporal?"
Ivan seemed amused then, like Ludwig was a little kid that had said something silly.
"No. The captain! You see, Ludwig—I love saying your name, I really do, it's so pretty isn't it—whatever happens tonight is law. But, in the morning, everything goes back to normal, and everyone goes back to where they belong as if nothing had happened. But when they're here, it's their own private play-land. Whatever they could want. Anything goes tonight. Anything. Just fun. People just like to have fun. Tonight, we pretend the world is gone. No Soviet Union. Just fun."
Fun? Hardly seemed fun to him. Seemed rather atrocious.
Ivan paused, running his thumb absently against the top of Ludwig's hand, and then he snorted.
"You know, I bet Toris once!"
Ludwig froze up at his casual words, heart stopping and breath leaving him. Honest to god thought he had misheard, and Ludwig uttered, weakly, "What?"
"I bet Toris. I ran out of money. I had bad luck that night. So, what could I do? Toris was...what the hell was he...a junior lieutenant or something back then, I can't remember. The men were just sergeants and privates, so they played for Toris. Everyone likes to get one over on their superior from time to time. Right?"
Had anyone ever gotten one over on Ivan? Ludwig highly doubted it.
Ludwig just stared at Ivan, eyes wide and brow low, pulse pounding and feeling rather ill.
Christ, he would not wish such a thing on his worst enemy. Never, not that. He could see it up in his head then, angry Toris, arms crossed and sneering away as he watched the game unfold, standing behind Ivan, looking down at his cards from behind and praying, praying, that Ivan had a damn good hand. Doubted that Toris had circled that table like the woman had. Had probably been pale and jittery.
"But lucky for him," Ivan said, with a sickening seriousness, "I won that time."
Was it lucky? Didn't want to know the rest of the story, fuckin' god, didn't wanna know what had happened afterwards. Felt so sick, so dizzy, so scared, above all else.
Shit. No wonder Toris hadn't wanted to be here tonight. Toris leaving him seemed less treacherous, suddenly.
Ludwig's breath stopped quickly enough when Ivan leaned in and whispered, "I could bet you, if I wanted to."
There was no humor in his voice. The thumb kept on swirling around on the top of his hand.
An awful rise of nausea, brought on by searing adrenaline and too much vodka.
Oh. He just wanted to go home.
Past his rising urge to throw up or cry, Ludwig could only smile breathlessly over and assure himself that Ivan could bet him all he wanted to, alright, but he would kill or be killed before he was led away to an upstairs room or out into the backseat of some car.
Go ahead and try. Try it.
Ivan leaned in farther, reaching up and taking Ludwig's collar into his great hand, and he was so close that Ludwig could feel his breath on his eyelashes as he added, "But I wouldn't. Not you. Betting you would be too grand a prize, you see, because you're beautiful, and a German. A colonel. Who bets a colonel?" He released Ludwig's collar and fell back into his chair, looking very flustered and dizzy, and it was with a sloppy smile that he took up another shot. "Around here, a German goes for a lot more than a Pole or a Serb, or even a Hungarian. I wouldn't bet you, anyway. Too pretty. What can I say? Maybe I'm a jealous man." His hands fell into his lap, and for a moment, he looked almost like a child. Smiling eagerly, cheeks flushed and his cap lopsided, chest heaving with deep breaths as he fought with intoxication, eyes lit up and curious and maybe amused.
Even now, even in that easy-going state, Ivan was still frightening. The most terrifying man to ever walk this planet. Of that, Ludwig was certain.
In that moment, trapped there at that table with this drunk Red soldier, Ludwig felt very much like a piece of property. Just a paper, upon which sat Ivan's fuckin' signature. A declaration of ownership.
It sometimes still hit Ludwig hard that he was so powerless here. Ivan could have pressed his gun into Ludwig's head and shot him right there, had he been so inclined, and it would be like it had never happened, because Ivan could do what he wanted. Because Ludwig was nothing, nobody. It was somehow staggering to him that his life out here had absolutely no value, that he had no human rights, no basic respect. That Ivan could have done anything at all he wanted to Ludwig, and Ludwig couldn't do anything about it. That he no longer abided by society and laws that were there to protect him; he was at the mercy of a man, one man, and that man happened to be insane. Ivan could do what he wanted with Ludwig, because as far as Ivan and these lands were concerned, Ludwig was just property.
The worst feeling.
And then Ivan pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, standing tall and imposing above, and extended a hand.
"Come dance with me."
Ludwig didn't even have time to respond before Ivan had reached down and grabbed his upper arm, pulling him to his feet with one mighty tug. The movement made him dizzy. Shouldn't have drank so much.
With surprisingly steady hands, Ivan took his hat off and then took the cap from Ludwig's head and set them down upon the table, leaving Ludwig feeling somewhat exposed and vulnerable, and maybe a little less intimidating to those in the room. Ivan's gloves joined the abandoned hats, and, with a firm grip, Ivan began to drag him down to the dance floor. Ludwig tried damn hard to dig his heels in the carpet and keep himself back, but Ivan was too strong.
Oh, please—
Even now, even here, Ludwig still looked around in a daze, waiting for someone to come save him.
But as he looked around, he realized that all of the tables were now empty; everyone was down at the end of the room, in front of the orchestra, and oh god, he would die of embarrassment if Ivan led him out there and tried to dance with him in front of those people. He'd keel over dead in mortification. The shame alone would have been unbearable.
"I don't how to dance," he hissed, lowly and desperately, feeling the humiliation growing, and he tried to break away. For a second, Ivan stopped in his tracks, and looked back at Ludwig with a sharp frown, as though he could not understand his reluctance. Irritated, maybe, that Ludwig wasn't doing what he said.
Disobedient.
A moment of silence, and then Ivan's smile returned with full force and a look of understanding.
"You are worried," he said, and reached down, taking his hand and squeezing it. "Don't be scared! I'll show you how, it's easy."
No, wait, not what he had meant.
Ivan looked around for who knew what, and then he began to pull Ludwig back towards the front of the room, past the empty tables and close to the first doors Ludwig had come through earlier in the evening. The light was much dimmer and there were no people. The doors were shut. Only empty space, and Ludwig realized that he would not escape the inevitable, as Ivan came to a halt and then pulled him in front of him so that they were face to face.
Wished somebody would have come and saved him. Would have taken anyone, anyone at all.
Toris. Where was Toris?
His heart started up its mad dash.
For a terrible moment, Ludwig could only think about how utterly absurd this whole situation was, and how, if they could have seen him standing here in this uniform, with Ivan's left hand on his waist and right hand intertwining in his fingers, Gilbert would have started crying in distress, Alfred would have started shrieking in horror, Roderich would have dropped on the floor dead from a heart-attack, and Erzsébet would have only shaken her head in complete disbelief. And they all would have been so ashamed. So ashamed. He could have never shown his face again. They would have shunned him. Such disgrace. Oh, no. No. He missed them. Oh, wasn't there anyone out there that missed him, too? Would they reject him for this? Just for this.
They had loved him once. He still loved them.
Didn't want this, and hoped that they would know it somehow.
Ivan brought him back to earth by pulling him in as closely as possible, forcing their chests together, and whispering, "It will be harder on carpet, but I think it should be okay. Just listen to the music, and I will lead. Here, put this hand up, on my shoulder. We'll wait for the next one to start."
Ludwig could only stand there, feeling so stupid, heart racing in anticipation as Ivan listened to the music and waited, and then there was a final clash, and then a silence. Had no choice but to obey, because Ivan's gun was always gleaming there in his belt. Had no rights here, after all, and so he couldn't say 'no'. He wasn't really a person. A slave to Ivan's whims.
His hands were trembling so hard that Ivan must have felt it. So scared. Had never danced in his life, and never wanted to dance at all with this man that he feared. How stupid he felt, how ridiculous he must have looked, held up so intimately against a man more than a decade older than he was and in this uniform. How odd, though, that Ivan even knew how to waltz. A man like that; didn't seem like it would be of interest.
Ludwig looked off dazedly to the orchestra, as the violinists were tuning their instruments and people chattered, and Ivan only waited patiently, handsome smile ever present. So stupid. His hand up there on Ivan's broad shoulder, his other clenched within Ivan's hot one. Helpless. Humiliated. He felt himself shivering. Not from the cold. A sudden clamor, and then the music started back up.
Ivan started moving.
And it was the most godawful terrifying moment of his entire life, dancing with that man. Dancing with this man, this man that had wrenched Gilbert right out of his arms. Dancing was being generous of course. Ludwig was just being dragged clumsily along.
Ivan pulled him slowly at first, and kept his eyes on Ludwig's feet, quick to correct. "Be less nervous. You're not moving fast enough." He wasn't, for every time Ivan moved he was getting faster and faster, and Ludwig struggled to match his pace, clumsy and unbalanced.
Damn.
Had never in his life felt such utter humiliation.
Dancing had never been an interest for him. His skills lied in the intellectual and efficient, on creating routines and plans, not on grace and elegance. He preferred the complexity and delicacy of international negotiations as opposed to the complexity and delicacy of waltzes and the strings of violins. Roderich and Erzsébet were wonderful dancers; Ludwig had watched them, sometimes, in their more relaxed moments, and the speed and ease with which they had moved had seemed out of reach for his heavy feet. Roderich had taught him many things, but waltzing was not one of them. Roderich had known all along that Ludwig just wasn't cut out for that.
He stumbled. Ivan was quick to chide.
"Listen to the music," Ivan repeated, and Ludwig closed his eyes, brow furrowed. Not because he was actually listening to the music or focusing, but because if he kept looking at Ivan he was going to lean over and throw up. Listen to the fuckin' music—what the hell? That wasn't helping. What the fuck did that even mean? Didn't understand what Ivan meant. Music was music. Great to listen to, but if there was something there that was supposed to be guiding him, then he needed it to be a little more obvious.
"How?" Ludwig finally muttered, sick and nervous, and Ivan leaned down, pressing their cheeks together. His breath was warm and laced with vodka, and Ludwig turned his head away as far as he dared.
"The violin is the leader. Listen to it, not the others. When it goes fast, so do you. It slows, so do you. It's easy once you get it. Just listen to the violins."
Ivan made it sound so easy.
Yeah, right. What a damn liar. This was hardly easy for him.
Just wanted to squirm away and go sit back down and bury his face in his arms and cry, but Ivan's grip was iron, so Ludwig could only inhale to steady himself and try to concentrate. Couldn't be so vulnerable around this wolf. So, despite the knowledge that he would fail, Ludwig tried to 'listen' to the music and figure out whatever Ivan expected him to know.
A shift in the violin's pitch suddenly, and Ivan moved his foot, and then the other, Ludwig memorized it and then moved his, and then suddenly they had moved together without Ivan pulling him. The hand clenching his own relaxed, just a bit, and suddenly things were going much more smoothly, and Ludwig had it. He had it. Remarkably. Found the pattern, and he had it. Had memorized Ivan's movements and emulated them.
Thought he heard Ivan snort.
Tried so hard then to pretend he was somewhere else, eyes stubbornly closed and relying only on his sense of touch as Ivan clenched him. Pretending desperately that he was dancing with someone else, anyone. Literally anyone else on Earth; would gladly have pretended, even, that it was cranky Toris there in front of him. Anyone, that was, except Gilbert, because Gilbert didn't dance like this.
Alfred. Alfred was bigger than Ludwig was, had big hands, and with the power of imagination, Ludwig was just drunk enough that he was able to picture that it was Alfred dragging him along. Almost smiled, for a second there, at the thought. He and Alfred, drunk as could be, beer bottles littering the table and schoolbooks forgotten. Familiar nights that he missed, and this time Alfred had just gotten a little too drunk, was a little too excited, and had decided he wanted to dance. That was all. No girls around, so Alfred had just grabbed Ludwig and was having fun.
They were having fun. That was all. Just him and Alfred, messing around as young men did, being silly and stupid. Back home in their flat. The smell of home, comforting and familiar. Alfred's dirty clothes tossed in the corner of the room, so carelessly, even though Alfred knew that Ludwig hated that. The pictures on the wall. The sound of Alfred humming as he studied on the couch, Ludwig bustling in the kitchen to make dinner. They had had a great arrangement, a good setup. They were happy, they got along so well, and they were best friends. They told each other everything. The only person that Ludwig felt truly comfortable around, felt so at ease with. Trusted Alfred with everything, because Alfred was the only person out there that liked every single thing about Ludwig. Didn't have to pretend with Alfred, didn't have to do what he thought someone else wanted him to do. Alfred liked Ludwig the way he was, and for that Ludwig had loved him all the way. Woulda died for Alfred, gladly so, because the feeling was mutual. They thrived off of each other, and Ludwig was always so glad to look up and see Alfred's face.
It was Alfred he was dancing with now. Had to be. It had to be Alfred there in front of him.
Sure didn't recognize that cologne, though.
His head was pounding, warm and dizzy and tingling with alcohol. Alfred's laugh was one of the things that Ludwig most loved in his life, and he kept on listening, kept on waiting, but it never came. Alfred was dancing with him, but he wasn't laughing for once.
Missed that laugh. Missed that smile.
Alfred felt so far away, across a great ravine. As if Ludwig had just faded away behind some veil. Missing. Wasn't someone looking for him? Somewhere. Ludwig had just disappeared from the world.
Hoped someone missed him.
"Polozhis' na menya."
That whisper. Someone suddenly nuzzled the side of his head with their lips, and the thin comfort of his imagination was broken as he heard words in a language he did not understand. Couldn't pretend anymore, because Alfred didn't speak Russian. Would have jumped off the top of a building before he ever heard himself utter a word of Russian, so fervent was Alfred's hatred of them.
Ludwig opened his eyes.
Not Alfred.
The first thing he saw was the elegant embroidery of Ivan's shoulder patch. The color of the uniform. That cologne was unfamiliar because it wasn't Alfred's. He raised his bleary eyes, and above Ivan's shoulder there was only a whirl of deep red, breaking through the eerie low light. He looked over to his right, towards the great, luminous dance floor, and saw everyone swirling around like the tide, beautiful and well-dressed and very much at home.
Only he and Ivan were back here in the dark. No one was looking their way. No one even noticed them.
And no one missed him. No one was looking for him. To them, he was dead.
He was alone.