Chapter 14

Dreams of Leaving

He was lost.

Alone. Freezing. He didn't know where he was. It was very cold outside, and his shirt was too thin. He wrapped his arms around himself and walked down the streets, head bowed and feet numb. People passed by; no one looked down at him. He was not paying attention to where he was going. Everything was grey and blurry and foggy.

Where was he? Did anyone miss him? Was there someone looking for him?

He wandered. His bare feet were cut and sore, as he walked the dirty pavement. He wanted someone to find him, and take him home. Even if he didn't know where 'home' was.

He bumped into something warm and hard, and for a second he could only stare at the pavement in dumb immobility, too cold and sad and lonely to really think, and then someone bent down in front of him and placed warm, heavy hands upon his shoulders.

'Oh! I'm sorry. Are you okay?'

He looked up; a handsome man, kind and regal, was kneeling before him. He looked down at him with a furrowed brow, and from behind his glasses there was something that looked like concern.

Who was this man?

'Are you lost? Hey. Are you okay?'

Was this his father?

'What's your name?'

His name? He didn't know his name. Had he ever had one? He couldn't remember.

The man called out for someone, hands never leaving his shoulders, and then suddenly there was a woman kneeling before him as well. A beautiful woman, very young, hair tied up under a wool cap, and she smiled at him, with the kindest eyes he had ever seen. She looked worried, and maybe somehow happy, and he could only stare back at her, a strange stir within his chest.

Had he found his parents? He had been looking out here for days.

'Hey. What happened to you? Where are your parents?'

Weren't they? He bowed his head, lost for words, and then the woman reached down and took his hand, as the man smoothed his hair with his fingers. They stood, and he walked in between them as they conversed with each other above him.

'What should we do with him?'

'I don't know. He's lost, poor thing.'

The woman gripped his hand.

'Do you have parents?'

He shook his head, and they spoke again amongst themselves.

'We should take him to the police station.'

'Oh, no, Roderich! They'll put him in an orphanage! Can't we take him?'

'Take him? Us? But we don't know anything about him!'

'I can't bear to leave him here! Why don't we just take him, for now, and you can try to find his parents once we get back to Berlin? Until we find his parents, I'd rather he stayed with us. Look at him. We should take care of him, just for now.'

'Well! ...damn. Alright. Let's take him home.'

'Oh! Roderich! He's cute, isn't he? Maybe we can...'

'Not so fast.'

'...I know.'

He let them lead him where they would, and now he looked straight ahead as he walked, because he had found someone that would help him, that would care for him, even though he did not know where he was or who he was or where he had come from, or who they were.

Still, he couldn't smile. He just didn't feel like it.

They stopped at a corner, and the man made a call on a payphone, and then they were off again. They walked until they reached a vehicle, full of shopping bags, and the woman got into the backseat with him as the man drove. She held him in her arms, and he laid his head against her chest, hands clenching the fabric of her shirt.

'I'm Erzsébet! Do you have a name?'

He shook his head.

'Can I think of one for you?'

He nodded.

'What about...Rudolf! I love that name, Rudolf.'

'Rudolf? Erzsébet, at least think of a good one. What about Leon? Or Johan?'

They began to argue gently, but he did not care, as he drifted into sleep, warm and comforted and feeling much less lost. He had known that there was someone out there looking for him. They had been meant to encounter each other.

The ride passed quietly, as the woman ran her fingers through his hair and crooned away words of comfort.

He awoke hours later, as the woman shook him, and then they were pulling him out of the car and out towards a very tall, elegant stone building. They walked on either side, each of them holding one of his hands within their own. Inside the building, they went into the hallway and then up the stairs, and when they opened a door and passed through, there was someone else standing there.

The woman was smiling.

'Hi, Gilbert! Did you get everything ready for us?'

'Sure did! Is this him?'

He looked up as another man was suddenly before him, staring down at him with curiosity. Had never seen a man like that, so white and so pale, with those strange reddish eyes. Had never seen anything like it. Silvery-blond hair shining in the light. The man just stared at him, and he stared right back, and something about that man was different. Strong and wild and somehow comforting.

'Gilbert, what do you think of Rudolf? Don't you think Rudolf is a pretty name?'

'Leon is better.'

A silence, as the other man stared ever down at him, and then he broke into a lopsided grin and reached down, sweeping him up into his arms and lifting him into the air. He held him tightly to his chest, and for the first time, he felt himself smiling.

He reached up and threw his arms around the man's neck, burying his face in his shirt.

'Ludwig! He's Ludwig! Do you like that name?'

He nodded, pulling back enough to meet those unique eyes that he already liked, and he smiled again.

'Then Ludwig it is! It's great to meet'cha Ludwig!'

From then on, he had been Ludwig.

He opened his mouth, and his voice was scratchy and thin as he asked, earnestly, 'Are you my big brother?'

'How d'you know?'

After that, Gilbert refused to put him down.

For the next ten years.

Gilbert did everything for him. Everything. Maybe not things a parent should have, maybe not things a responsible man should have, but things a brother certainly should.

I'd do anything for you.

Gilbert was always with him. Gilbert held him close to his chest at night and told him stories until he fell asleep. Gilbert made him breakfast in the morning. Gilbert chastised him when he did something wrong, but afterwards he always ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. Playing together and rough-housing in the evenings.

He loved every minute of it. He loved Gilbert. Always had, since the very first moment Ludwig had ever laid eyes upon him.

I'll always be here for you.

Gilbert was proud and strong and brave and always so funny, and he never liked to leave him alone for too long when he was little, even once Ludwig was a little older and could take care of himself. Every year, the relationship between Gilbert and Ludwig grew stronger, while at the same time the relationship between Gilbert and Roderich deteriorated.

Roderich always wanted to take Ludwig, and Gilbert went ballistic at the mere mention. They had never found his parents, and Roderich constantly demanded that Gilbert return Ludwig to his care so that Roderich could get Ludwig documented and into the system. Gilbert refused, rejected it, and Ludwig had always wondered if maybe Gilbert liked Ludwig having no identity because that made it easier for Gilbert to claim ownership of Ludwig.

The older and older Ludwig became, the more he grew, the more overbearing Gilbert became. It was so strange, to have someone who absolutely suffocated him and yet was never there when he needed him. Gilbert was never around when Ludwig wanted him to be, getting drunk and high, and when Ludwig wanted to be alone, wanted to go out and try to have a life, Gilbert smothered him and pressed him down until he obeyed. Brotherly love sometimes felt more like obsession, and Ludwig drowned sometimes in Gilbert's vast ocean.

But love wasn't supposed to diminish for mistakes one made, and Ludwig loved Gilbert as much when he was hugging him as he did when Gilbert was screaming at him in the heat of an argument.

He would always love Gilbert. Always. Even though sometimes...

Why can't you ever just do what I tell you? Leave me alone!

Sometimes, he wished that Gilbert would have been a little more responsible. He wished that Gilbert would have acted his age. Wished that Gilbert could have been more like Roderich. Wished that Gilbert would have stopped drinking, stopped going out. Gilbert was just Gilbert. That was just how he was. Just Gilbert. He couldn't help it, maybe. Gilbert had always been a little crazy, but he couldn't help that.

Forever hadn't lasted as long as Ludwig had expected.

His head hurt.

Together.

You're Ludwig.

Someone was beside of him. Their breath shifted his eyelashes.

Don't be sad, Ludwig. It won't be forever. Look, I even thought of a great nickname for you! West! See, and...and I can be East, and even though we're split up, we're still together. Cool, huh?

The air was cooler and much thinner suddenly, and he felt the fog of sleep heavy on his mind. Warm sheets.

Were they together? There was someone asleep next to him, that much was certain; he could hear their deep, heavy breathing. When did he wind up in this bed? He didn't remember getting here. The voices in his head were muddled and disjointed. He was so tired.

West.

Ha. He hadn't thought of that ridiculous nickname for years. Gilbert had only ever used it once or twice. They had stopped talking there for a while, when Gilbert had thrown one of his fits, and Ludwig had forgotten about it over time. How strange. Thinking of it now.

Someone shifted beside of him, and there was a sudden hand thrown over his neck. It rose until it came to rest on his cheek, warm and heavy. He sighed into his pillow, resting on his side as he fought with the urge to fall right back asleep. Dizziness. Everything was comforting. That dreamy feeling of waking up on a cool night in a warm bed, with an equally warm body next to you. The hand upon his cheek was welcome; rough and large. Gilbert's hands were rough.

Gilbert was the East and he was the West.

There was the smell of clean linen and in the distance, roses. The aroma of laundered clothes, and when he exhaled he could smell faint traces of alcohol. That was, no doubt, the source of his amnesia of this bed. Drunk. He hadn't been drunk in a long time. Everything was fuzzy. The warmth was overwhelming, and he was on the brink of going back to sleep. Still felt loopy and intoxicated, even after catching a breather.

He started to drift.

And then there was a whiff of gunpowder, and he wrinkled his nose.

Gunpowder? Where had that come from? Gilbert could barely even hold a gun without getting a look of nervousness in his eyes. Alfred had put a gun in his hands once, hadn't he, and Gilbert had quickly dropped it with a nervous laugh and slippery fingers, and Alfred had smiled as he had knelt down and picked it up.

Alfred? No, that couldn't be right. Alfred hadn't come along until later. Gilbert and Alfred hadn't ever met face to face.

Ludwig frowned, and with a very slow lurch, like a vehicle stuck in mud, his brain was coming back into consciousness. The hand was warm on his face, and he reached up, tracing it with his fingers as the lightheadedness began to slowly recede.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

He opened his eyes.

Dark.

Absolute dark. Then his vision began to clear as his eyes adjusted, and he could make out shapes. There was another bed down a short distance; the lump under the covers indicating someone sleeping there. On the other side of the room a window was covered with curtains; the moonlight that streamed through was faint crimson as it bled through the velvet draperies. A heater was on an end table, and the curtains fluttered with its airflow. The shadows that played across the room were swift and fleeting and created strange shapes on the walls that writhed in and out of focus.

A calm, cool, beautiful night.

He glanced at the hand that he was covering with his own, but its owner was the only part of this scene that was not was not living up to his expectations.

Ivan.

Fully clothed and pale hair shining white in the bright moonlight, he slept there on top of the covers, booted feet hanging off the edge of the bed, his hand on Ludwig's face. Stubble shining on his cheek. Ivan looked so different in sleep, looked far less frightening, looked younger than he was. He was so close that Ludwig could see his eyes twitching behind his closed lids in the deepest state of REM sleep, eyelashes gleaming as white as his hair. His breathing was deep and steady, and Ludwig wondered, absurdly, what Ivan dreamed about. What scenes played out in Ivan's head in the depths of sleep. Gunpowder. A pretty dress.

Red.

The comfort of the past was shattered as Ludwig came crashing back down to earth with a sickening jolt, and he remembered through a dark veil the travesties of the previous night. The dance, the awful feel of Ivan against him, the fight with the officer, the woman in the blue dress.

Oh, god. What had he done?

So stupid, he had been so goddamn stupid, to sit there and drink like that. To take shot after shot, glass after glass, to not only allow himself to get drunk around someone like Ivan but to have actively sought out intoxication. To throw his hands in the air and let everything happen as it would. To passively allow Ivan to tell him what to do and where to go and what to think.

That he had just given up.

Ludwig had gone through hell and back to reach Gilbert, despite the odds and obstacles, and yet had just given in to Ivan, so easily. Ivan owned him out here, yes, that was true, but only out here. Back in the West, Ivan's world held no law, no say, and Ludwig wasn't his prisoner. Why had he just let go and accepted it? Hadn't he promised himself that he would escape from Ivan or die trying? Didn't want to live his life like these people, didn't want to just give up, and even if Gilbert really had just forgotten him then so what? There were other people in the world, there was still life out there beyond this mist.

Didn't want to stay here.

Didn't want to be lying here in this bed, nose so close to Ivan's, that hand there over his face. Didn't want this terrifying man to rule his existence and dominate him for the rest of what pitiful life he would have out here.

No way. Refused.

The apathy of the prior day faded, dissolved, and was replaced with the burn of survival instinct. It came roaring up as powerfully as that fear had, and the lurch of drunkenness faded as adrenaline cleared his head and his senses focused and honed. Wanted to get the hell out of here, and his body was responding to the flight impulse.

Now what?

He tried to gather a sense of his surroundings.

Ivan was passed out, so drunk that he had not even had the time to remove his boots. A good sign.

Didn't recognize this room, because he didn't remember coming up; too drunk by then. What he did remember was worse. He remembered being so close to a horrible downfall, tottering dangerously on the edge of Ivan's clever cliff. He remembered the metallic smell of blood, the sharpness of gunpowder. The despair. The thrill. The awe.

Ludwig had glimpsed, perhaps not fully and certainly blearily, how dangerous Ivan was. Not because he had held a gun and had murdered. Anyone could murder. There was something else about Ivan that made him so dangerous, something that was very real even if Ludwig could not quite put his finger on it. Ivan was soft-spoken and wily and absolutely calm, certain and self-confident and sure, meticulous and bold and fearless. Unshakeable. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Infallible. That serene, razor intelligence was more terrifying than any kind of cruel, brash explosion could ever be.

Ivan was impossible to overcome out here, because he was in his element. The only way Ludwig would ever be out from under Ivan's iron fist was to get out of the Soviet Union. Couldn't stay here, because this was Ivan's world.

Ludwig could only lay there and gather his will and wits, frozen in place, reluctant to move lest he wake then sleeping dragon.

Looking around as best he could, Ludwig tried to figure out what the hell came next. Needed to get out of the Soviet Union, but that was incredibly impossible as a whole, far too great a thing for him to even fathom, so it was better to take it one step at a time.

Firstly, get away from Ivan. Secondly, get away from this town. Thirdly, get the hell out of this wilderness. Lastly, make it to at least Moscow. Getting out of Siberia was his first step. Had to make it to Moscow, and if by some miracle he survived the journey then he could plan the next stage.

Right.

A gleam in the moonlight caught his eye.

Keys.

On the dresser, next to the vase of flowers, lay the keys to the car. His breath stopped, and he tried to read his luck. If Ivan was a heavy sleeper...

With gentle fingers, Ludwig took Ivan's big hand up within his own and lowered it down, slowly, slowly. It touched the sheet, and he withdrew his hand.

Ivan didn't stir.

Relief flooded his chest, and it was with determination that Ludwig squirmed himself as quietly as he could to the end of the bed, and he touched his socked feet down on the carpet without the softest of noises. Kneeling down, he groped in the dark until he found his boots. He pulled them on, and then he looked for his coat. Nope; it was on the edge of the bed, and Ivan's leg was over it, and he wouldn't dare try to pull it out.

He wouldn't risk it.

Shit, though, really needed it. He looked around, dizzily, and saw Ivan's coat there on the chair, and made for it, pulling it on. Boots. Coat. Hat? Didn't see them anywhere, and couldn't afford to make noise searching for them. Well, then. Keys. He crept around the bed, and took up the keys stealthily from the end table. His heart was hammering so loudly that he was afraid Ivan would hear it and wake up. A quick step; the keys jingled in his hand, and he froze up in terror, watching Ivan with wide-eyed horror.

He could have died, then, for that terror. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

Needless; Ivan slept on.

And for a moment, Ludwig stood there in between the beds, keys tucked into his coat pocket, and oh god. Felt so sick, then, so fuckin' sick, because he found himself standing there and staring at sleeping Toris. Toris, that jerk. Couldn't even move, he was staring at Toris so hard. He wanted to just turn on his heel and run, and damn if he didn't try. He lifted his foot, but it fell back down. Lifted it again, and it came back down.

Fuckin' Toris had left him. Why couldn't he move?

Why couldn't he get his legs working? Why was he standing there so foolishly, staring at Toris? Toris was not a friend, not in the slightest, and yet Ludwig stupidly considered waking him all the same. To wake Toris and to run away together. Stupid. Wouldn't work. Wouldn't, and he knew it, so why couldn't he move?

Toris.

An awful flash in his head of Toris standing there as cards were thrown on a table.

Ah, hell. He couldn't. He just couldn't. Couldn't leave him.

Shit.

Gathering his nerve and knowing that this could be the end of the whole thing, Ludwig cast aside his better judgment and crept over to Toris' bed. If Toris made a noise, they were both done for, but he would give effort to Toris, at least, because the guilt would eat him alive if he didn't, and he was so guilty already.

Guilt, that he had let Ivan very nearly turn him against his brother. Oh, Gilbert. Dumb Gilbert. It had been so easy, with Ivan's smooth voice whispering in his ear, to take out aggression on his brother, but Gilbert hadn't asked him to crawl through that tunnel. Gilbert hadn't asked him to sneak into the heart of a Stasi building. Gilbert had not asked him to foolishly confront a Soviet general. Gilbert had not asked him to take his place.

Gilbert had told him to run. Had told him to go home.

Ludwig had gone of his own free will and had made his own decision. No one had forced him. Least of all Gilbert. He had let Ivan twist everything.

So damn Toris better cooperate. Or else.

"Toris."

Ludwig shook him.

Toris shifted, and then opened bleary eyes, and when he saw Ludwig leaning over him he sat up straight with a sharp inhale and a look of clear panic. Panic? That was a first! What did Toris think was happening?

Toris opened his mouth, and was about to speak when Ludwig cut him short at the first word. But a noise still got out. With a wave of horror, Ludwig thrust his palm against Toris' mouth, and immediately, Toris' eyes snapped over towards Ivan, and for a horrible moment they sat there, Ludwig's hand covering Toris' mouth and nose, all but suffocating him, and they both watched as Ivan inhaled and shifted his weight.

They waited. Neither of them moved a muscle or breathed.

Then Ivan fell still, without incident, and Ludwig removed his hand and tried to tug Toris upright. Toris shook him off, gawking up at Ludwig as if he had fallen out of the sky.

"Come on," Ludwig whispered, mouthing the words more than he spoke them, but Toris was immobile, his chest absolutely still, as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Ludwig clenched his fingers in Toris' shirt, and tried to pull him up again. Toris resisted the movement, and stayed firmly in place. Ludwig's ire was rising, and his patience was waning. Fear, starting to rise up from under the rush of adrenaline.

"Toris, come on. Let's go."

Nothing.

Toris opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and then he saw the gleam of the keys in Ludwig's breast pocket. He started to breathe again, and Ludwig met his eyes. Understanding. Toris knew for sure then that Ludwig was running, and Ludwig didn't get why Toris didn't leap upright and start running right along with him.

"Come on, get up."

Toris knew, understood, and didn't move. Looked suddenly horrified, looked alarmed, and in some way, Ludwig was almost certain that Toris looked sad. Distraught. As if Ludwig were asking Toris to leave his childhood home behind, as if Ludwig had asked Toris to abandon something he loved.

Realized, in that look, that he had made a mistake. Too late now, he had already woken the bastard up, and Ludwig glanced over at Ivan, feeling the apprehension weighing heavily in his chest. They had to go. Now. Before Ivan woke up.

"Get up!"

Nothing. Toris sat still.

Ludwig was panicking. Ivan shifted again. This game wasn't exactly funny, and this was the worst time for Toris to get cold feet. He'd leave the bastard, he swore he would, if Toris didn't snap out of it fast.

"Toris!" he hissed, and reached out, grabbing up Toris' collar and giving him a firm shake, thinking, perhaps, that rattling his brain around would set him straight, "Come on! Don't be stupid, Toris! We have to go! Now! Get up!"

And Toris, god help him, only stared at Ludwig with wide eyes, as though he was afraid of even thinking about getting up.

Ludwig was frightened, too, but that couldn't stop him.

"Toris, get up."

Toris looked at the closed door, then over at the sleeping Ivan, and then, as though he were on the verge of some horrible mental crisis, Toris bowed his head, squinted his eyes, and hissed, quietly, "No."

No?

That horrible look on Toris' face. That awful expression. Toris just wouldn't move. Like a deer caught in a bright light.

...in Ivan's light.

Toris wouldn't budge, and Ludwig was damn near distraught for it, but maybe not because he was just that good a person. Honestly? He didn't really care about Toris, when it was all said and done. Toris wasn't his friend, wasn't anything at all to him except another obstacle, Toris didn't even like Ludwig, had never once been anything but harsh with him.

Hell, Toris had said that he had wished Ludwig had died.

Ludwig needed Toris, more than anything, to guide him out. More than his bullshit of a guilty conscience, honestly Ludwig wanted Toris because Toris knew the way outta here. Didn't know where he was, not a clue, and without Toris his chances of survival were hanging at about the same level as the temperature outside. He didn't care about Toris; had just woken him up because he needed the son of a bitch.

But if Toris wasn't gonna go, if he refused, then there was nothing for it. Ludwig had no choice but to go it alone.

Feeling suddenly horrified, Ludwig let go of Toris' shoulders, backed up quietly, stared straight into Toris' eyes, and whispered, with a tremor, "I've gotta go. I've gotta go. Oh, god, Toris, I have to go! I can't stay here, I can't. I gotta go!"

One final meeting of eyes, and then Ludwig turned and crept to the door, snuck out, leaving Toris behind. Left the bastard, and he felt shitty about it, if only for himself, but he couldn't waste any more time. He couldn't. If Toris didn't want to come, then what could he do? Toris wouldn't move. Wouldn't leave.

What could he do?

Toris made his decision, as Ludwig had, and that was all. Who could ever say what kept Toris here. Ludwig couldn't worry about it anymore.

He took a deep breath, pushed down the nausea, gathered his nerve, and shut the door as quietly as he could behind him.

Then he ran.

The hallway twisted. He remembered the two great staircases that sat opposite each other back in the entrance hall. If he could get back down there, he could find the door. He ran as quickly as he dared, while keeping a mind of his stealth. The hallway was long. Much longer than he had anticipated.

This damn place.

He passed door after door after door, 501, 503, 505, 507, and then the hall twisted again, and he ran into a dead end. He halted in his tracks, and, feeling the sickening adrenaline in his veins, he whipped around and went back the way he came. Shit. He must have missed a stairwell or an elevator door. But all of the signs were in Russian, and it was with a helpless frustration that he realized he had another problem in the letters. Those damn letters. He couldn't even read them; what if what he thought was a stairwell was actually a fire escape and an alarm came on?

Oh, he couldn't even fathom that thought.

Backtracking.

He walked the entire length of the hall again, and when he passed the room where Ivan slept, he slowed to a crawl and crept by without a sound. Christ, what if Ivan had already awoken and had slipped down the staircase and was waiting for him?

He shuddered.

One of the scariest moments of his life, creeping through those empty hallways. The hairs on his neck stood up. An eternity of fear and doors, and when he reached the other corner after long minutes, he heaved a sigh of relief.

Stairs.

He went down them as quietly as possible, looking over his shoulder every few seconds in fear, and as he went down flight after flight, he realized how high up he had been, five stories, and when finally there were no more stairs, he was back in the hall. It seemed long, dark, and dangerous. Like something from a horror movie. The door that led outside stood before him, at the end of the hall. He crept towards it, passing by doors and fearing, every second, that he would get caught.

Couldn't ever remembered being so damn scared.

He reached the door.

He stretched out his hand, and froze for a moment. What if it had an alarm? Could he take such a risk? Well. Didn't have a choice. Couldn't stay here any longer. Deep breath. Steady. He could do this. Chest flooded with dread, he brought up his trembling hand and grabbed the doorknob. He twisted it. He could feel a bead of sweat running down his neck.

Come on.

Terror.

Go.

He pulled the door open.

...and there was nothing.

Oh, thank god. Thank god.

He yanked the door open all the way, and all relief instantly faded as he was harshly struck still. The fuckin' cold slammed his chest like a train, so hard and so fast that not even all of that adrenaline could stop it, and Ludwig froze up there in the doorframe, immobile in shock. Couldn't breathe. His lungs had seized up, and there was that awful crackle in his nose again as his sinuses froze right over. The white in the corners of his eyes, as those ice crystals formed on his eyelashes.

A horrible vulnerable minute, and then air came back, he inhaled even though it hurt, and he stepped out into the cold and shut the door behind him. Too late to go back, too late to return, too late to be a coward and call it quits.

Had to go, because he had already woken Toris up, and Toris was probably waking Ivan up that very second.

No going back. He had always known that, but goddamn, this cold—

The full white moon hung above him, as the snow glittered all around. He took another step, and then another, already furiously shaking, and the great courtyard stood before him, the sparse trees hanging low with snow. There was no sound; only quiet.

Silence.

The snow and cars glistened with the light of the moon, and the air stung his lungs. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he stepped down the short staircase, and then there was icy pavement below. He walked as quickly as he could without slipping, reaching into his pocket and taking out the keys. Fingers already numb. Couldn't feel them at all, so quickly.

He reached the edge of the circular parking lot, and stood still. There were so many cars. All black. Did they really have to look exactly alike? Oh, how could he possibly know which one was Ivan's? He was gonna freeze to death right there in the car lot before he could even figure out which one was which. He'd have to guess. Unbelievable. Best to go in order, then.

He started at the left row, at the beginning of the half-circle of cars, and stabbed the key at the lock as best he could for his frozen fingers.

It did not turn; he passed to the next.

No.

Another. Not this one.

Snow drifted from the branches of a tree as he tried another, and he looked up in panic. Just an owl, though, staring down at him with golden eyes, almost accusatively, as though it knew what he was doing. He would have laughed to himself had he not felt so sick, as he stared back at the raptor, and maybe it was just one of Ivan's spies.

The key did not turn, and he passed on to the next.

The owl began to hoot.

Minutes passed; the cars were endless. He kept trying. With every second, his motor functions faded.

Hoot.

He thought he heard, over the silence, a click in the distance. He was halfway through the circle.

Hoot.

Every time he moved, he could swear that someone was watching him. He could feel it, could sense it, but when he looked this way and that, there was no one. Maybe just his mind playing tricks on him. The cold was getting to him. He carried on. It was slow going, with his numb feet and trembling fingers. He could barely function. So cold. Already lethargic and dazed. Could barely see, because the ice coating his eyelashes was longer with every single blink and was starting to obscure his vision altogether.

And then finally, mercifully, he dug the key into a door, and it turned.

He moaned in relief and pulled open the door and leapt inside without a second glance, his fingers and nose totally numb and shaking so hard from the biting cold that he could barely fumble the key into the ignition. Couldn't feel his feet, even through his boots. Hard to breathe, and his head was muddled. Felt oddly confused, even, and wondered if it was because of the cold shutting him down.

Finally the key slid in. Ludwig took a breath to steady himself.

He turned the key.

There was nothing. He tried again. Nothing. He turned it again, and now a cold-sweat broke out onto his brow, and the air around him was so cold that the moisture quickly froze there in the roots of his bangs, piling up on top of the rest of the ice coating him. But that was the least of his concerns, suddenly. He turned the key again. And again.

Only a sputter.

"Oh, start, you piece of shit! Start! Start!"

Desperate and terrified, he banged his fists down on the dashboard, as hard as he could, and now the tears of frustration were threatening to fall, stinging his eyes and momentarily blinding him, adding more ice onto his lashes.

"Start!"

He turned it again.

Oh, why wouldn't it start? His heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid he would pass out.

He turned it again.

Christ almighty, it wouldn't start, it was frozen, and he would sit here until he was frozen too or Ivan finally woke up and came down and found him—

"Oh, god, please! Please! PLEASE!"

A final, desperate twist of the key, and the engine finally roared to life. The lights came on. The radio crackled with static.

"Yes!"

Triumphant and barely suppressing a squeal of glee, he banged his fists on the dashboard one final time, turned the radio off, and fell backward into the seat. Watching his breath linger in the air, he gave in to his relief and leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, calming his heart. He didn't dare drive away straight off; he would only shoot the frozen engine to hell, and then he would be in an even worse spot. At least the tank was full. Toris had been smart enough for that. He wondered, blearily, how cold it had to be for petrol to freeze. Wondered if that ever happened out here.

He reached out and fumbled with the knob of the heat, and flipped it on high.

And he waited.

The dizzying adrenaline slowed into a warm throb, and he sighed, shivering as he wrapped his arms around himself and spaced out, waiting for the engine to warm.

The ice on his lashes began to melt, slowly but surely.

It had been too close. Too close. Far too close. Shouldn't have even risked waking Toris up. Not worth it. No one had come barging out after him. Hell, maybe Toris was taking pity on him. Or, more likely, Toris was just trying to get him killed. Toris hated him, made no effort to hide it, so maybe Toris was just letting him go because he knew Ludwig would eventually get himself killed.

Eventually, maybe, but not tonight. Not here.

The mixture of hot fear and freezing air was making him sleepy. Lethargically, he tilted his head to the side, gazing up at the sky as he passed in and out of consciousness. It was hard to stay alert, still half-drunk as he was, and especially with such cold air. He was afraid to fall asleep, but the Sandman was persistent.

He drifted.

The sky was crystal clear. Not a cloud in sight. The stars were absolutely countless, bright and lucid and shimmering. The ground was covered in glistening, glittering snow. The moon was high; full. His breath fogged the glass. Only the moon. No sun. If East was the Sun, and West was the Moon, then he was alone here, because there was no sun in this land. No room for Gilbert for the perpetual fog. It didn't matter. Gilbert was far away.

Gone.

Everything was absolutely still, not even the slightest of breezes, and he heard only his own heart, the purr of the motor, and the sound of his breathing. The smell of warm, musty leather.

Blearily, he smiled to no one, and breathed to himself, "Oh, god. Oh, god. You son of a bitch. You're so smart, aren't you? But so am I."

His breath puffed gently in the air and stayed there for an interestingly long time. The heater was so slow to warm. The crystals yet coated his eyelashes, although his nasal passage had warmed up.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he heard voices of the past.

Aim.

When had Gilbert dropped the gun? Ludwig had only been fifteen or so, so it couldn't have been Alfred who had handed it to him. Why couldn't he think straight? No, wait, it had been Erzsébet, hadn't it? Gilbert had put a gun in her hands as a joke, and she had dropped in it surprise, giggling apprehensively, and Gilbert had rolled his eyes as he had picked it up off the floor.

...was that right?

Fire.

Minutes passed in absolute peacefulness, and he struggled in and out of sleep as the freezing air dragged him down. He longed to just give in and sleep, and dream. He preferred dreams to reality nowadays, if he could just hear Gilbert's voice one more time. To hear encouragement. To hear Gilbert urging him on, like he always had before.

Ludwig, good marks again? I'm proud! You're a smart little bastard, just like your brother.

Just once more.

You're so smart, but...

Once more.

But...

Even for a second.

"Not as smart as me."

Ludwig's eyes snapped open and his heart stopped when the warm, sly whisper drifted into his ear. Shock, strong and so powerful that it had knocked the senses right out of him. His hands trembled so terribly then that it moved his entire body, and it wasn't from the cold anymore. Shaking, and it was with wide eyes of horror that he slowly, so slowly, turned his head to the seat behind him.

And then everything froze up, time as completely still and icy as the world outside. Even his breath stopped, the last visible vapors lingering in the air.

Silence.

He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

No air.

Because Ivan was sitting in the back, pale eyes glowing silver in the moonlight, his own lashes long and still icy, leaning forward so that his elbow was rested on the edge of the seat. His legs were spread in casual disinterest as he smiled at Ludwig, so close that their noses nearly touched.

Oh, no—

Oh god, how had he not seen him? How had he not seen him? Oh, shit, he had been so fucking stupid to jump in so blindly without even looking, and he had been lost in the hallway and then in the courtyard so long that of course Ivan would have had time to get down there before him and sneak in the car and lay low until he was completely off guard.

Shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Ludwig was trembling so terribly that he couldn't have even tried to reach out and open the door and run, and when he finally woke up, when reality finally hit him, his tremble became that of anger, and his hands clenched.

Toris.

Toris had woken Ivan. Toris had told him.

Betrayed and hurt and unfathomably furious, Ludwig could only smile breathlessly when Ivan reached out and ran a gloved hand down his cheek, and he was shaking from more than cold. So angry. So fuckin' angry, couldn't even function then he was so angry. Toris. That little bastard. That hopeless, miserable little bastard. That motherfucker. That goddamn back-stabbing son of a bitch. When he saw him again, he would do Toris a favor and kill him and put him out of his goddamn misery.

"Where are you going?" Ivan asked, voice low and calm and husky from sleep, and when Ludwig only stared at him blankly, he leaned in closer, pressing their noses together, lips barely ghosting his own. His lashes began to melt in the heater, drops of water falling down his stubbled cheeks. "Where are you going?" he asked again, hand stroking Ludwig's cheek absently, and Ludwig finally found his voice.

He nearly giggled in a fit of absolute insanity, feeling so scared that elation was almost a defensive reaction.

"Anywhere you're not," Ludwig whispered, still smiling, and after a second of silence, Ivan pulled back, observing him with a tilted head.

A long stare.

"Ah."

For a moment, Ludwig could see a flash of disappointment running through Ivan's pale eyes, and he was almost reminded of a child that had been given a wonderful present, only to have it snatched away before he could open it because it had been given to him by mistake.

Psycho.

"A shame," Ivan muttered, withdrawing his hand from Ludwig's cheek, balling it into a fist and leaning his chin atop. "You know, I thought we were beginning to understand each other. So, then, you're running from me. That hurts my feelings, Ludwig."

Feelings? What feelings? Ha.

Ludwig reached out and gripped the steering wheel to hide the shaking of his hands, and it was with a defiant air that he lifted his brow and said, voice thin with suppressed rage, "Fuck you. Fuck you!"

Not exactly the most intelligent of responses, but witty comebacks had never been his forte.

Another silence, and then Ivan leaned back fully into the seat with a heavy sigh, wiped the water from his face, rested his hands on his knees, and it was with a scoff and a shake of his head that he reached into his pocket. "Yeah," he muttered irritably, as he dug around for something, "We'll get around to that eventually."

Then, over the crushing silence and thick atmosphere, there was a single crisp click. Ludwig didn't need to second guess what it was, blood turning to ice as much as everything else, and then Ivan scoffed once more.

"You want to go so badly?"

He leaned forward, and something cold and hard pressed into the back of Ludwig's neck.

How was it that with Ivan...

"Drive."

...he always seemed to come out second best?