Chapter 13

Disturbance in the Night

The music picked up.

Faster.

A lone violin screeched above the flurry of the dancing crowd, the world was just moving too quickly for Ludwig all of a sudden, too furiously, and when Ivan pushed him forward suddenly, Ludwig stumbled and lost the rhythm. Lost the pattern. Lost the nerve. Lost the will. Utter and absolute defeat.

Would never hear Alfred's laugh again.

It was gone, everything, and Ludwig could do nothing to get it back.

Just wanted to go home.

His world had stopped, but Ivan didn't stop, and now it was uncomfortable, as the large hand at his waist dug into his skin painfully, and the other hand gripped his own in a crushing vice. He was pushed and pulled, yanked and dragged, and every time he lost his balance Ivan ripped him back upright with fervor, whispering chastisement in his ear. Whatever world Ludwig had slipped into for a while was no longer there. No Alfred. No Roderich. It was only intense Ivan, only the coldness of a different kind of world he knew nothing about, and the crushing hopelessness of despair.

No one looking. No one waiting. No one caring.

As he had been his entire life, Ludwig was nobody.

Ivan was relentless. The smell of vodka was overwhelming, nausea was coming back up, but Ludwig didn't have time to pull back; every time Ivan's lips brushed the side of his head, he was forced to watch his feet lest he trip over them. Everything was suddenly far too fast. He was getting dizzy, and Ivan was spinning and tossing him too vigorously.

It was too fast. He couldn't keep up. The shrieking of the violin was ever quickening.

Felt so sick.

Too fast.

"You're too slow," Ivan uttered gruffly in his ear, breath warm, and without warning he began to drag Ludwig towards the very back of the room, dark and isolated and far out of the eye of the dance floor. The red velvet panels that covered the walls were fluttering with the air from the heaters above that kept the room warm, and before he could even utter a word, before he could struggle in protest, one of the panels was lifted and Ludwig found himself pushed underneath, and bathed in darkness.

No light.

Panic. Terror.

He couldn't see, but he could feel, and what he felt was making his mind reel with fright :

Ivan was pressing him back into the wall, rough hands pinning his arms to his sides with enough force to bruise, and even though he couldn't see Ivan for the dark, he could smell him; the vodka was the strongest, and underneath the deep, spicy scent of wood and musk from the cologne he wore. Couldn't take it, couldn't stand it, was gonna be sick any minute, he knew it, with Ivan pressing into him like that—

The heaviness against his chest and the darkness all around brought him to the verge of claustrophobia, to absolute panic, and how he wanted to run, more than anything, but he couldn't even get his damn legs working. Frozen in place in silent terror as he was, and then Ivan's head was right next to his own, hands pressing him against the wall on either side. He could hear the slur in the low voice as Ivan whispered, "You're a terrible dancer."

What else was new?

"Toris is a wonderful dancer," Ivan suddenly said, and Ludwig felt a rise of perhaps irrational anger in his chest as Ivan added, "Ha. Sometimes, anyway. When he feels like it."

Ludwig was not Toris. He would never be Toris. Never wanted to be Toris. Fuck Toris. Toris had left him. Didn't even wanna hear Toris' name right then, not when Ivan was pressing him against the wall with his full weight. Toris had left him, wasn't coming to save him, and for that Ludwig hated him.

A chest, shoving against his own. Boots forcing his own to keep still.

He was about to vomit or cry, or maybe both.

"But," Ivan continued, "Toris scares too easily. He used to cry a lot in the beginning. Can you believe that? Ha. Imagine. I hate crying. Men shouldn't cry. That's why I like you so much, you see, because you are very strong. You don't frighten so easily. Brave! I like brave men. You are a challenge. I like challenges, too."

A challenge. What kind of challenge? For what? To break?

He could only imagine.

Ha...if only Ivan knew how close Ludwig had come that night to crying. On several occasions. He wasn't brave. Just too scared to move.

Then Ivan's hands moved from his arms up to his chest, and then they grabbed up his collar so tightly that Ludwig could barely breathe, holding him up straight and still. Ivan was ever closer, somehow, warm and heavy, his weight overwhelming. Ivan's lips pressed into his hair, and then against his forehead, he uttered something huskily in Russian, and the tremble in Ludwig's hands passed into his entire body.

Had never been so completely paralyzed. So frozen. Couldn't move a muscle aside from that awful tremor.

Could feel Ivan's breath upon him in the dark. So close. Too close.

Oh no. Please. No, no, no, this was not happening. Couldn't be. He was just drunk off in a corner somewhere, dreaming.

This couldn't be real.

It happened with excruciating slowness; a whisper in his ear, then a swift kiss on the tip of his nose, a hand raising from his collar to caress his neck, a horrible rush of blood to his cheeks as Ivan forced his chin up, warm breath, and the air was thick and nearly impossible to breathe. A moment of hesitation. His heart pounded in the dark.

Such a feeling he'd never known.

Fear. Adrenaline. Exhilaration.

Horror.

And then Ivan's lips crushed against his own, eager and intrusive and fearless, and Ludwig froze completely up, stiff as a board, as that awful panic washed over him. Absolute and utter helplessness. Terror. The grip on his collar tightened, nearly cutting off his air, and never had he imagined that his first encounter with romance, and that word was a serious overstatement, would be like this. Pressed against a wall, helpless and immobile, in a faraway land, cut off from the outside world and in the arms of the enemy. Overpowered by a man he didn't even know. Terrorized and victimized and unable to refuse.

Alone.

He fell into a void. He lost track of time and space. And above it all, above all of the panic and darkness and fear and loneliness, there was one thing that ran through his mind on a loop:

No one was coming to save him. No one. He was alone. The former world had been left behind. Oh, god, to think that this was all there was in his future. Just this man.

Just this.

How unfair. Had never even had a chance, had never gotten to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Had never gotten to know himself, had never been able to play around and figure everything out. Alfred had come up to Ludwig, over and over and over, and said, ' 'Hey, man! I met a real cute girl today. I think you'd like her. Double-date this weekend?'

That rush of adrenaline, excitement, as Ludwig glanced up breathlessly. The rush of the unknown, the urge to meet someone, to have fun and be with someone who liked him.

In the end, self-doubt came up, self-consciousness and uncertainty, and Ludwig had always just answered, 'I'll think about it.'

But he never did it, because Ludwig would look at Alfred, so sure and so handsome and so confident, and he felt so inferior there next to him. Didn't go, because if two girls could be invited on a double-date by Alfred, then surely the other girl would expect Ludwig to be similar to his friend, anticipated that, and Ludwig wasn't. Wasn't like Alfred, and the fear of being overshadowed and a disappointment was mortifying.

Alfred was always so bummed out when Ludwig eventually refused, and once Alfred had said, so carefully, 'You know... You can tell me anything, you know? If I'm not understanding something, you can tell me. I won't... Well, you know. You're my best friend.'

Hadn't understood at first, but when he eventually had, Ludwig had quickly replied, 'I just get nervous. I don't think anyone would really like me.'

That look on Alfred's face at those words. That short passage of hurt, that crinkle in his brow, and Ludwig had first known in that moment that Alfred really did love him.

He hadn't said 'yes' or 'no' that day, because he didn't really know what he wanted. Had never been with anyone, had never tried to talk to anyone, and although he had only ever glanced at girls, sometimes he thought that maybe he would just always be alone. Hadn't really been able to focus on anything but Gilbert, always Gilbert, and maybe romance just hadn't mattered that much to him.

Here he was now, at long last, and his decision was being made for him.

No choice now.

Ivan's enthusiasm was growing, perhaps at Ludwig's stillness, and the hand that had held his collar was suddenly moving downward. A grip on his inner thigh, and he gasped in alarm, and Ivan leapt at the opportunity to slip his tongue in his mouth. His eyes squinted shut in fear, still too dumb to move, and Ivan's hand clenched up in his hair. The other hand moved from his thigh to the belt of his pants, and when there was an intrusive tug, the sound of the buckle being undone, Ludwig broke out of his stupor with a lurch of panic.

By god! He was not that drunk, and he was not that despondent.

Not yet. Not yet, wasn't ready to give up that easily, wasn't ready to break, wasn't ready to fully admit that he didn't have a choice, wasn't ready to completely accept the situation in which he found himself. Wasn't ready to sit down and acknowledge that he was, after all, just Ivan's property.

Not yet.

Reaching up and pushing at Ivan's chest, he broke away just a little, and cried, with an awful tremble in his voice, "Get off of me!"

Wasn't bravery, as it never had been. Fear, and stupidity. Denial.

So scared.

A long, tense silence. He couldn't see, but Ludwig could imagine the look on Ivan's face; utter disbelief. Shock. As though, perhaps, no one had ever dared to defy him. Confusion even, maybe, as if Ivan thought himself so charming and handsome that he couldn't believe anyone would ever not want him shoving his tongue down their throat.

Not him.

Hell, maybe no one ever had said that, because Ivan's gentle voice turned sharp with anger, and it was with a grunt that he reclaimed Ludwig's collar and slammed him back against the wall with all of the strength he had, and Ivan was damn strong. A crack. His head hit the stone with sickening force, stars swirling, lights, pain, and Ludwig could only slump still, dazed and stunned, as Ivan leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Anhalter street, number six. Flat number three."

Ludwig's blood froze, and Ivan scoffed with what could have been annoyance. As if he hadn't planned on this. As if he had thought Ludwig would have jumped on him. Seemed irritated. As if Ludwig were being the difficult one. Ivan seemed quite annoyed that Ludwig wasn't charmed by him, wasn't responding, wasn't fawning over him. Ivan had been given the world for most of his life no doubt, was used to getting what he wanted, and Ludwig was denying him that.

And that street—

Alfred.

For the first time, that awful terror he felt in his chest wasn't for himself.

His head was killing him.

"That's your flat, isn't it?" Ivan scoffed again, unsteady in his drunkenness, shifting his feet a bit, and when he pressed his weight onto Ludwig to steady himself, he added, "You lived there with an American. You are very good friends with Ambassador Edelstein. His pretty wife comes to visit almost every week. Your brother lives there now. Took your place."

What? How?

None of this was right.

The awful heat of panic, knowing that Alfred and Gilbert were not exactly completely safe, not from a man like Ivan. Roderich was untouchable, of course, no worry there, but, oh, to think of anything happening to Alfred—

Innocent.

Gilbert had gotten them all into this mess, had started everything, and so Gilbert being in danger was not only expected but also somewhat fair, but Alfred had nothing to do with this, not a thing, shouldn't have been involved.

Ludwig shuddered as Ivan reached up and reclaimed his hair with rough fingers, whispering heavily, "You see? I know everything about you. I put men around there, you know, to watch. Always, someone is watching. That's how I know about your brother. That's how I know how happy he is. I have photos at home, of course, if you would like to see them. He's thrown out all of your things. You had photos in frames? They're outside now, in the trash. He wants to forget that you ever existed. The American moved out. Or maybe your brother kicked him out? Maybe he wants the house to himself, so he can bring over friends. I doubt much that he even remembers your name. He used you, you know."

Ludwig's bleary mind struggled to comprehend as the stars kept on dancing.

Pounding behind his eyes. Couldn't tell if his head was bleeding or not.

Ivan just kept on whispering.

"He goes out to the bars a lot. Ha! My men can barely keep up with him, for all he goes out! It's a shame about your friend. I wonder where he went off to. The ambassador never comes over any more. I don't think he and your brother get along very well. A little sad, about those photos, though. Your friend was mad. I don't blame him! Well, it's not your fault. Who can ever choose who they call 'brother'. You deserved a better one, I think. You're a brave man. He used you. He never cared about you. If he had, he would be here right now. He wouldn't have let you take his place."

Ivan's German was very choppy and disjointed when he was drunk; barely comprehensible. But Ludwig got the message, loud and clear. The stars in his vision didn't bother him anymore, not at those words. Not at that feeling. His churning stomach was suddenly no match for the hurt in his chest.

Alfred meant so much to Ludwig, so much. Gilbert had always been the most important thing in Ludwig's life, but Alfred was damn close to being at that level, to having that same amount of love and devotion. Couldn't stand the thought of Gilbert having really taken over that flat and kicking Alfred out. After all Alfred had done for him, to think of him moving out. They had bought that flat together. It had been theirs. Alfred's name was on that paper. Gilbert had no right to run Alfred out. No right.

Despair.

Those words.

That Gilbert would throw out all of their years together like so much garbage. Knowing what those photos had meant to Ludwig, having no other childhood. Those fuckin' pictures were all he had. That Gilbert could really just move on with life. Gilbert had always been so unpredictable. So moody. So volatile. So selfish. The worst part of it all was that everything Ivan said, as awful as it was, all sounded like things that Gilbert was perfectly capable of, in the right mindset. Sounded very much like Gilbert. Too much like Gilbert.

That was the worst part.

And it was true; Roderich and Gilbert had always hated each other. How would Ivan have ever known that, if he were just lying? Could such a bold statement really be an even bolder bluff?

Ivan spoke so surely, so confidently, and it was impossible to pick out the lies from the truth, especially when speaking about someone like Gilbert, who was another expert liar.

Did Ivan really have photos of Gilbert, smiling and happy and free, arm in a sling as he roamed the streets and barhopped, completely worry-free as he tossed out mementos, as he kicked Alfred out into the winds and shunned Roderich as he always had? Living up his second chance. Being in the West, where he had always wanted to be.

That was all Gilbert had wanted, to be in West Germany. Ludwig had always thought that that was because, of course, West Germany was where Ludwig was, and that Gilbert was coming to him. Easy to suddenly remember that West Germany had held many other things of interest to Gilbert; money, freedom, partying, drugs, choices and free will.

Things Gilbert had always chosen over Ludwig before and that he didn't have access to in the East.

Wished his head would stop pounding, just for a second, so he could think, try to think, try to clear his head, try to sort out his thoughts and gather up his senses.

Ivan had known his address. Ivan had known about Alfred. Ivan had known about Roderich. Ivan had known about Erzsébet. Seemed to know everything, actually. Oh. Why would Ivan even bother lying? What was the point? Ivan had already won; Gilbert was gone. Why lie to him and torment him all the further? What good would it do? It wouldn't change anything. He had already made his decision.

No going back.

Gilbert.

He felt sick.

Ivan's drunken little laughs were only making him all the sicker, and he continued, lowly, "You Westerners speak so lowly of us, but it's amazing the kind of things one can purchase from the Western government. Isn't that funny? I can buy anything I want. I love capitalism. ...don't tell anyone I said that."

Felt as if he were back in that awful fog that had covered the town that morning, so thick, endless, impossible to see through. Couldn't escape, couldn't see the road, no hope at all in sight. Just grey and misty all around.

Gilbert was gone, and that was really all there was. Gilbert was in the West, free, and so of course he would put Ludwig behind him and move on. Anyone would, maybe, and Gilbert had never been a good person.

Maybe he should have just accepted it. Was just so hard to stomach.

Ivan's fingers suddenly and abruptly released his collar, and moved up yet again to run through Ludwig's hair, but gently this time. His voice was gentler, too, when he crooned, "I'm sorry. Did I hit your head too hard? I didn't mean to."

Ludwig didn't move and didn't speak, as his head lit up with fire and his stomach filled with ice. Hadn't ever felt so demoralized.

Ivan released him then, and said, calmly, "Go out and get some air. I'll wait here."

A reprieve. Maybe Ivan's mood was as ruined as his.

Ludwig didn't need to be told twice. He fled, body working at long last. Groping blindly for the edge of the panel, he felt his way through the dark, and when he finally found the end of the fabric and burst back out into the fresh air and light, it was not with relief. Gasping to catch his breath and stumbling towards the door at the back, he left the ballroom in a panic and found himself back in the empty hallway.

Alone, he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hand, trying to settle his head and his stomach before he really did throw up. Couldn't even breathe. His head was swimming. He thought he would faint. A horrible, gnawing longing in his chest.

Home was gone. Admitting it at last hurt.

Wanted to cry.

He couldn't stay here. He had to get out.

Looking around blearily, he tried to gather a sense of his surroundings. There were other doors lining the hallway, and the double staircases at the ends. He looked the hallway up and down, feeling so hopelessly lost, and didn't know where to go. Couldn't go outside, woulda froze to death in a second. Couldn't go upstairs, where the frightening hotel rooms were. Couldn't go back to Ivan.

Nowhere to go, when you didn't belong anywhere.

The vodka was catching up to him in a bad way. Could hardly see straight, suddenly. Everything was spinning.

Pushing off the wall, he staggered forward, and just opened the first door that he reached. He burst through it, hoping for a place to lay down, to rest his mind, and stopped in his tracks when he realized he had accidentally stumbled into some kind of lounge.

Voices.

A fireplace crackled on the other end, and there were people on couches and sofas sitting, chatting amongst themselves, and when they saw Ludwig standing there in the doorframe, they all went quiet. A moment of silence, and then they started to whisper, and his agitation was ever growing.

His head hurt. Anger began to replace that fear.

They all recognized him, no doubt, as Ivan's handsome new German.

He wasn't anyone's anything.

If he could speak Russian, he would have raised his arms in the air and told them, in not so many words, what they could all go off and do to themselves. Would have let them know that he wasn't anything to laugh at. Would have told them what he thought about their worth and the worth of their motherland.

Couldn't, so he just stood there in the door and looked around at them in a daze.

At last, a woman standing off to the side caught his eye, and after a second of hesitation, she smiled at him, teeth lit up in the firelight.

And all conversation resumed.

A man came up to Ludwig and slapped him on the shoulder, shoving a glass into his hand with words that he could not understand. Encouragement perhaps. Ludwig looked around, and couldn't understand any of them. He didn't understand how they could live in this treacherous world so merrily. How they could see so many injustices and turn away.

Didn't they know what he had done to get here? The things he had given up?

The woman that had smiled at him came forward, and when she reached out and touched his arm, raising her pretty fingers up and down in languid movements, Ludwig raised the glass to his lips and drank it straight. Why not? He was already hammered. Would rather just pass out somewhere. She started speaking to him, her voice soft and gentle and sultry as she crooned, and Ludwig could only stare straight ahead at the fire, wondering, as the vodka flowed through his veins, why he had offered himself to the devil so willingly for someone who would not even keep a simple photograph of him to remember his face.

Maybe the devil was not the one he had assumed it to be.

Was it so much to ask, for Gilbert just to keep one picture of him? To remember the one who had given him that freedom he had been so desperate for? Was he being unreasonable?

The vodka was kicking his ass. He couldn't focus. Someone came up and refilled his glass. He drank it. Even though he knew he shouldn't. Couldn't help it.

The woman's voice was pleasant in his ear as her fingers crept down and wound up in his belt. She tugged him towards herself, and when he stumbled and fell up against her for his intoxication, she smiled up at him with a leer, biting her bottom lip in shameless flirtation, and reached up with her other hand to stroke his cheek. Much less terrifying than Ivan's hand.

Voice lowering into a purr, she whispered, in very broken speech, "You German? Is okay! I like Germans. Very handsome."

Was he smiling? Felt like it.

He looked down at her through blurry vision, entranced, and couldn't help but enjoy a little bit her, ah, friendliness. Her fingers released his belt and started to trace down the line of his pocket. A little too low. Needed something to distract him. Anything.

She wasn't the prettiest, but her eyes were nice and her dazzling way of dressing made her appealing.

And maybe, just maybe, he would have let her do as she pleased if there hadn't been an unwelcome intrusion. A sudden shadow blocked the light of the fire, and when Ludwig finally raised his eyes, he saw a somewhat familiar face before him. It took the shaking of his head to clear it, and a moment of thought, to recognize the man. It was the one that had refused his handshake.

Ah. Right. That 'fashisty' jerk.

From the look on his face now, as he held a glass in his hand and eyed Ludwig up and down, the lingering feeling of dislike was still there. And, as before, it was still mutual. Only Ivan was not here this time to mediate.

Apparently, the officer had not agreed with the woman's apparent like of Germans. Too bad. Here Ludwig was. From the look of it now, he wasn't going to be going anywhere, either.

A long, hard stare.

Without Ivan, who knew how things would play out. The other realized it as well, and after a thorough looking over of the room, he opened his mouth, and began to speak, eyes alight with malice.

Ludwig turned his eyes back to the woman at his side, trying his best to focus on her hands rather than the tone of voice rising above the quiet chatter. It was hard, and even her smile had fallen, as she turned a stern, nasty gaze to the officer babbling away before them. Ludwig was glad for once that he couldn't understand.

Someone from behind giggled, and he heard Ivan's name amidst the Russian, and he could only imagine the obscenities that were coming out of the officer's mouth. Innuendos and insinuations, disgusting suggestions and dirty jokes, and he felt his blood rising. Now, not even the warm hands around his beltline were enough to keep the agitation at bay. He was starting to lose his cool. No matter how hard he tried not to.

Anger.

The woman could see it, and she started speaking again, murmuring in his ear in an attempt to distract him, raising both hands to his face and trying to force him to look at her. It worked a little, maybe; the officer began to laugh, and Ludwig tried to appear calm and collected, smoothing his shirt with his hands and trying his best to smile, as if unfazed. Tried hard to keep his eyes on her. Just look at her.

Calm. He could be calm.

...but why? Why bother? Why couldn't he get angry, too? Why couldn't he act on aggression and fear, like everyone else did? Why couldn't he act like Gilbert, just for once, and start a fight? No one here to judge him, after all.

Roderich was gone.

Against the woman's hands, Ludwig couldn't really help but turn his head, towards the man, lift up his chin and say, as casually as he could for the slur creeping into his voice, "Why don't you fuck off and go lick Ivan's boots? All of you seem to be good at that. Didn't have so much to say earlier! Scared of him? Or are you scared of me? Huh? Fashisty? That it? Why don't you say any of this to Ivan, huh? Go on. I'd love to see it. I really would. We'll see who gets fucked by Ivan then."

A silence.

His head was killing him. Probably bleeding in the back from Ivan's blow. Felt like shit. Was a breath away from falling over completely.

The officer didn't understand the words Ludwig spat at him, but he understood the tone, sure did, and it was with a curse of malice that he suddenly tossed the contents of his glass straight into Ludwig's face.

Fire.

"Shit," he cursed automatically, hands flying up to his eyes as the vodka burned them like mace, the woman wrenched back too with her own curse, and as the white dots of pain danced before the dark, everything went painfully quiet.

He could hear only the racing of his heart. Blood pounding in his ears.

No one spoke now. Just silence.

Ludwig tried not to wince as he rubbed in vain at his eyes. Goddamn, hurt like hell, and Ludwig hissed air through his teeth.

The officer said something else then, voice barely a hiss, and Ludwig knew that it was something exceedingly offensive, because the woman behind of him let out an indignant gasp. Murmurs and scoffs. Sounds of disbelief.

The hatred that was squirming into his chest burned as much as the vodka did. He was on the edge of the cliff. His patience was wearing thin.

...no one was coming to save him. He was on his own.

Finally, Ludwig squinted open his eyes, as the pain dulled and his vision cleared, and he could see, with a horrible lurch of his stomach, that everyone was watching. Everyone was staring at him. No one spoke. Waiting for his response to whatever awful thing had been said. Feeling mortified and embarrassed and so angry, Ludwig reached up trembling hands and swept his dripping bangs out of his eyes with all of the composure that he could muster, pulling himself up straight and raising his chin high.

If he could only cling to some remnants of dignity. Some part of himself. He tried. He really did. Holding on so desperately to the person he was back home, tried to pretend that Roderich could still see how he acted, was still holding him to that high standard. Tried to pretend that Roderich was standing behind him. Tried to act accordingly.

Dignity. Pride.

He tried his damn best.

Then the officer spit on the ground before him, and that was too much.

Too much. Far too much. The pretend Roderich behind him vanished, and there was only rage.

Everything had been building up.

Sick with adrenaline and frustrated and unspeakably angry (and maybe at someone other than Ivan and this disrespectful officer), Ludwig couldn't help himself; he leapt forward with the speed of a tiger, and before he even realized what he was doing his fist had connected with the officer's face. No one had had time to react. The officer hadn't expected it, and stumbled backwards.

For the second time, he had sucker-punched. For the second time, he felt no guilt.

The woman's hands were suddenly in Ludwig's belt in an attempt to hold him back, but it was no use; she wasn't strong enough. He broke free of her grip, and charged, taking advantage of the stupor to knock the officer to the ground.

He could barely remember the last time he had gotten into a fight. The last one had been with Gilbert. Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He'd never gotten into a fight with anyone but Gilbert. Stupid, stupid Gilbert.

The only person he had ever hit in anger in his entire life had been Gilbert.

This man was the second, and suddenly Ludwig was on top of him, and it was through a haze of red that he pulled back his arm and hit him again.

The woman from behind started to screech, as she tried to grab the fabric of his uniform and pull him back. Too late. He had never been so angry in his entire life. He wouldn't budge, wouldn't move, fueled then only by fury and that awful fear that was always present underneath.

Ludwig hit him again.

Because how could Gilbert?

And again.

How could he?

And again.

How could he?

And again.

He'd given up everything.

And again.

His life. He'd given up his entire life, his entire future, for that man. Everything he had ever had, he had given Gilbert, so that Gilbert could be free.

Gilbert had given him nothing.

There was no longer any resistance from beneath him, but still Ludwig hit the officer, and he didn't stop until someone had suddenly come up from behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him back so hard that he fell onto the floor. Not that girl. She couldn't have had the strength, not with Ludwig in that red daze.

A terrible, frightening cry.

"Enough!"

Ludwig looked up, propped up on his elbows, and the haze faded into a dull, throbbing grey when he saw Ivan standing there above him, eyes stern and brow low. Looked angry and terrifying, ever imposing.

Ivan.

Damn. Why had he interfered? Ludwig was not finished yet. Gilbert had forgotten him. Someone had to hurt for that. That man was as good as any.

Ludwig could only lay there for a moment, stunned, and the woman came up to that furious Ivan bravely and spoke quickly, motioning dramatically with her arms as she no doubt explained what had happened. Ivan just stood there, listening, and his bristles seemed to fall. Looked less angry, less terrible, and his shoulders lowered as the woman spoke.

Ludwig tried to gather himself. He couldn't seem to breathe. His hands were shaking. Blurry vision. Couldn't say if that was because he was angry or because he was drunk. Or if because he about to cry.

Chest heaving and trembling with adrenaline, he looked over to the side.

The officer didn't move.

Gilbert was in the West, safe and sound. Ludwig was in Siberia, afraid and alone. That wasn't really fair. He had told Gilbert to wait. He had told Gilbert to be patient. In a little more time, they could have been together. Not fair.

The officer suddenly inhaled and groaned a little, and shifted. Awake! Well then. Motherfucker. Time to hit him some more. Pulling himself to his feet, Ludwig didn't really feel the pain in his hand, or notice that his knuckles were bloody and raw, and when he took a staggering step towards the fallen officer, Ivan came forward and moved into his path.

He tried to go around him. Ivan blocked him. He went to the other side. Ivan blocked him again. His intoxication made it far too difficult to get around quick Ivan.

He tried again. Ivan blocked him. Ludwig couldn't stand it. Someone had to pay for the aching in his heart. Someone needed to bear the brunt of this frustration. Of this unfairness. Couldn't hit Ivan, because fuckin' Ivan owned him, didn't he, so he had to hit someone else.

Just wanted that feeling to go away.

That helplessness. Wanted to be in control again, wanted to feel less powerless.

"Go back in the hall," Ivan said, voice cool and very serious, despite the red of his cheeks, "and wait for me there. I'll come for you later. I will handle this."

Ludwig lifted up his chin, despite his own drunkenness, and held firm. He didn't need someone to handle things for him. He was perfectly capable of dealing with offenses himself.

"Move," Ludwig said, perhaps foolishly, and tried to shove past.

It was like trying to shove a bull, a wall, and Ivan refused to move. Didn't even shift.

"Go on, I said. It will be taken care of."

Ludwig clenched his fists at his sides.

"Move."

"Get out."

"Let me by."

Ivan's cool voice was becoming angry, and his face was frightening again. Shoulders once more braced and legs spread firmly.

"I said go!"

Go?

Where the fuck could he go? Where could he go? Where? Where did Ivan expect him to go? There was nowhere to go. He was alone. His home was gone. Berlin was gone. Roderich was gone. Alfred was gone.

Gilbert had gone. He remained.

He snapped.

Where could he go?

"NO!"

Around him, there was only that endless fog. The vast mist of Siberia. Nowhere to go, because he couldn't see anything at all around him. Just snow and ice and cold and loneliness.

Ludwig turned on Ivan suddenly like an angry dog, throwing all of his fear aside, and with one great burst of defiance he reached out and shoved Ivan with all of his might. Huge Ivan staggered back only a centimeter at his efforts, and probably only that because of his drunkenness, but Ludwig was hardly deterred. In front of all of them, regardless of who was watching, he shoved Ivan's chest again, and again, and again, screeching at the top of his lungs, "No! I won't! This whole thing is your goddamn fault! You ruined everything! Everything! Everything would have been alright if it hadn't been for you! All of this is your fault! All of it!"

Ivan just stood there, and stared down at him with a low brow and pursed lips. Not angry, exactly. Curious, more like. Fascinated in a way, or maybe amused.

Ludwig stomped his foot, and shoved Ivan one final time, just for the hell of it, as the anger began to turn into a terrible, numbing despair. "I hate you for it! We were good before all of this happened! If it weren't for you damn Russians and your damn wall! You cut off everything, and I couldn't ever see him! That's why he was so stupid! That's why he tried to blow you all to hell! That's why he got caught! You should have just shot him! You should have just shot me back in Berlin and done me a favor! I would rather have died than to come here and hear all of this and, oh, Christ, oh god, he was so stupid! How could he have been so fuckin' stupid? He made me... He made me..."

Oh, god, Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert had been everything.

He had nothing. All those promises Gilbert had made.

Meant absolutely nothing.

His strength left him, and he fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands as he gave in to his despair, and everything was so wrong. He had made his decision, he had. Woulda made it again, too. He just hadn't known it would feel this awful. Would have done it again, but couldn't handle the way it made him feel.

He loved Gilbert. But sometimes...

Sometimes, he had hated Gilbert.

Gilbert had been nothing but trouble for him, his entire life.

"I gave up everything for him," Ludwig finally moaned, to no one, and there was a rustle and a blur as Ivan knelt down before him on one knee and grabbed his collar. With one mighty yank, Ludwig was lifted to his feet, and it was Ivan's eyes that bored into his own, and it was Ivan who was smiling and running a soothing hand up and down his back.

Not Gilbert. Gilbert would never smile at him again. Gilbert wasn't looking for him. Gilbert had gone on with life. And it wasn't fair. When had it ever come to this?

Those photos had meant so much. So much. Alfred had meant so much.

Ludwig looked up at Ivan, feeling miserable and pathetic, as Ivan's hand held him upright. "How could he be so stupid?" he whispered, caught under Ivan's gaze and feeling sick, "I gave up everything for him. I would have done anything for him. If he hadn't been so stupid. Why couldn't he have just waited? Didn't he know something like this could happen? Why doesn't he ever think?"

Why couldn't Gilbert ever realize that his actions had consequences for more people than just himself?

Ivan was upon him, then, wrapping him in arms, maybe a master of sensing weakness, and he whispered, "He's a fool, that is why. Men like that. You can't change them, even if you try. He is who he is. It's not your fault. It's his. All of it. You did what you had to do." Ivan pulled him close, and as he led Ludwig along, he leaned in and added, in a whisper, "I would never forget you, like he did. Not like that. I won't ever let you down like that. I'll take care of you. Always. I'll always be here. I give you my word."

Ludwig was pulled to the door, and it was with a blurry mind that he was led out of the threshold and then up the stairs. The entire while, he could hear Ivan's soft voice in his ear, cool and soothing, and for one delirious, drunken moment, Ludwig felt a little better.

Just a little.

Beating the hell out of someone had calmed his nerves a bit, and Ivan's voice wasn't the hardest on the ears.

'I'll always be here.'

Ivan had said that, and somehow, someway, that struck a nerve in Ludwig. To be there. Gilbert had always called him 'little brother', but he'd never been there when Ludwig had really needed him. Sometimes, it had felt like he had been a novelty to Gilbert, something cute and something to take care of when he felt like it, like a fuckin' puppy, but hardly more than that. Gilbert was never there when Ludwig had honestly and truly needed him, and never seemed to notice or care.

He'd just wanted someone that he could rely on. Was that such a great thing to ask for?

Ivan crooned away in his ear as they climbed the stairs. His head swam with the vodka. He could barely see. A twisting of hallways above, doors with numbers on them, and then Ivan stopped in front of a room, and pushed stumbling Ludwig against the wall.

Ivan leaned in, hand against his chest to steady him, and he smiled.

"Wait here. I'll be back."

Ludwig could only nod, dumbly, and Ivan reached into his pocket, and pulled out a key. With steady hands, he unlocked the door, pushed it open with stealth, and slipped inside.

Ludwig waited.

Leaning against the wall and feeling rather dazed, thanks in no small part to the overwhelming emotions, he looked down with a wince when his hand began to throb. Blood dripped down onto the carpet. He had hurt the officer pretty badly, he imagined, for his own hand to be so busted up. Ah, served him right. He'd brought it on himself. It had felt damn good, too. To relieve some of that terrible tension in his chest. To take out his anger on someone.

He couldn't take it out on dumb Gilbert. Not anymore.

Gilbert was gone.

Ludwig wondered if the others had pulled the officer up to his feet and led him to a couch somewhere and given him some vodka so he could nurse his wounds. Ha. He'd better start getting it back together soon, for Ludwig was certain that his blows would be absolutely nothing compared to whatever it was that Ivan had in mind for the officer, because hadn't he said that he would take care of it? Ivan did not seem one to say such things lightly and without reason, not just empty threats or grim jokes. When Ivan said 'I'll take care of it', the world would have done well to shudder. Not anyone Ludwig would ever wanna piss off, not a man like Ivan, that was for—

A gunshot.

Ludwig jumped in fright with a pitiful cry, so forcefully that he immediately tottered sideways in his intoxication and fell down onto the floor. Pushing up against the wall, heart racing in sudden alarm, he looked around in a bleary panic, thinking the officer had come after him with a damn gun. He scanned the halls, as well as he could for his bleary gaze, and saw nothing.

No one there.

His chest hurt from the adrenaline.

Ludwig looked around in confusion, pulling his knees up and pressing his palms into the floor for balance, and just when he thought that he was hearing things, there was a dull thud from within the room.

It had come from within.

He should have just waited. He knew he should have. But he couldn't help himself. He somehow pulled himself up to his feet, staggering and wobbling, and tried to find some bravery. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he grabbed the doorknob, and twisted it. It clicked open, and with a deep breath, Ludwig pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He should have turned around.

The room was pretty, neither too small nor too large, and the curtains above the windows were red. He stepped around the corner, and the bed came into view. The sheets and covers were red. Flowers on the end table. A radio on the dresser.

Ivan stood there, beside the bed, his cap held under his arm. He was staring down at something, almost thoughtfully, head tilted and lips pushed out as he patted a gun against his leg airily. Ludwig took a step closer, and saw that the carpet was red, too, but not because it had been colored that way.

It was red because it was being soaked through with blood.

On the floor, laying completely still and inert, was a woman. Ludwig dared himself to take a step closer, as his eyes widened and his head began to ache, and when he came close enough, Ivan glanced over at him, looking for all the world as though he had just completed a business transaction. Their eyes met. Ivan finally raised his brow, shrugged a shoulder, and put his gun away.

The air was heavy.

Ludwig looked down at the motionless woman. She was on her side, beautiful blue dress stained with dark blood, and from beneath her spread a growing red pool. The bullet hole in her chest was immediately obvious. She was pretty. Well. She had been pretty. A woman he had never met.

And never would.

Somehow, all the same, Ludwig knew damn well who she was. The officer's wife. Innocent. Ludwig fell back, as the dizziness and nausea overcame him. A fog of shock. He looked up, meeting Ivan's eyes through the mist with numb disbelief.

Ivan only snorted, humorlessly.

"I could have removed her hand," he said, simply, as he took up one of the flowers from the vase, smoothing back his messy hair as if nothing had happened, "but I shot her instead." Ivan's pale eyes bored into his own, twirling the flower within his fingers, and then he smiled. "Do you know why?"

Ludwig could only shake his head, having no words for what he felt.

Couldn't think.

"I shoot her now," Ivan said, voice low and husky, "because you suffer for your brother. She must be willing then, too, to suffer for her husband. When you love someone, you have to pay for their mistakes. Understand? Her husband's fault. Not yours. Do you understand me? Not yours. I did this for you, because you were wronged. I always will, every time. I promise you that. An insult to you is an insult to me. And no one insults me."

Ivan advanced a step forward, and reached out, gently grabbing Ludwig's chin with what could have been an attempt to draw dazed Ludwig's attention, because he was still staring away at that woman.

"I did that," Ivan pointed to the body, "for you. I would do anything for you. Always."

I would do anything for you.

Ludwig shuddered.

Ivan let Ludwig go and took the flower in his hand, tossing it down rather carelessly onto the woman. Ludwig couldn't stop staring at her. The daze was turning into panic, though it was too far under the drunkenness for it to fully take over. Felt like he was in some awful dream. Surreal and far away.

Looking back, Ivan saw his wide eyes and racing pulse, and reached out yet again to take his chin, forcing him to look up and lock eyes. "Hey! D'you hear me? It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

'No', he wanted to say, 'but she didn't, either.'

He stayed silent. Because, when he thought about it...

Ivan was right, in a way. Sometimes, loving someone only brought trouble. Because it had been Gilbert's stupid mistake that had brought all of this upon him. Ivan was right. He suffered for Gilbert. Why should he be the only one? It wasn't fair. The officer had fucked up, like Gilbert had. So his wife paid the price, like Ludwig had. It was wrong, and it was horrible, and it was the most disgusting form of cruelty that he had ever seen, but Christ almighty, it made sense. He just wanted someone else to hurt like he was.

His head was killing him.

Gilbert had let him down.

Ivan took his hand, gave him one of those handsome, charming smiles that poked his canines out, and whispered, "You can always depend on me."

He needed words like that. Ivan, whatever else could be said about him, did what he said he was going to do. Followed through with his promises. That was more than he could say about Gilbert.

"Come. We must go."

What else could he do? Stuck here in the middle of nowhere, with only Ivan to turn to. Had no choice but to go along with everything. He was alone. If no one was looking for him, what else could he do? Had to depend on Ivan, had to, had no choice, because there was nothing else out here. No one else could help him, and he was kept alive only by Ivan's good graces.

If Gilbert did not remember him, if his big brother no longer thought about him, then there was at least someone who would protect him from this freezing, merciless world.

But, he wondered dizzily, as Ivan took his hand and pulled him away from the scene of the crime, who, then, would protect him from Ivan? Ha. Who could? No one could have ever protected him from that man. Ivan owned this world, and everyone in it was only a pawn. Ludwig had no say, no power, no control. Stuck out in the middle of Siberia. Time to just flow down the river, perhaps.

If Gilbert had forgotten him, then what else was there to do except lay down and die?

Until then, he could take a little comfort in Ivan's soothing words. Because Ivan was always at his side. Gilbert wasn't here. Ivan was not going anywhere. Gilbert was not coming back. Gilbert had forgotten him. Ivan would kill for him. Both of them were liars, but at least Ivan's words were kinder on his ears than Gilbert's had been.

There were two worlds, one in the West and then this world of mist.

Ludwig had never belonged anywhere. He had never fit in. He had never been meant to be happy. It hadn't ever been in his stars. Nothing had ever worked out for him. There had always been something wrong with him. For that, perhaps, Gilbert had taken his place in the outside world. Gilbert, who had a name and a lineage that he could trace, who had a past and a future, who had papers and society to support him in his time of need, and who would probably do better on his own.

Ludwig had never been anyone. Nameless. Worthless. No past. No future. Maybe it was better this way.

Gilbert belonged in that other world, as much as Ludwig belonged in this fog. How it was always meant to be, maybe, all along.

Ludwig hated Ivan.

He just hated himself a little more.

Mist.