Chapter 16
Dead End
Elation.
Gilbert had come home. So late. The hour felt very late. Gilbert never stayed home. Always out.
Grabbing the cushion of the sofa, Ludwig pulled himself up with a great effort, and smiled. Because there was Gilbert standing before him, he was sure of it, and suddenly there were cool hands on his face, and Gilbert was kneeling before him, speaking gently and running fingers through his hair. A forehead pressed into his own, and he closed his eyes.
A whisper.
"Are you alright?"
He could only nod, vaguely remembering that the pretty woman had told him not to mention any pain or discomfort, and then he reached up with unsteady arms and embraced Gilbert around the neck, burying his face in his shoulder, moaning, "I missed you!"
Missed Gilbert so much, so much, just wanted him to stay home for once.
Even though his mind was blurry, and even though his heart was beating irregularly, and even though his head was pounding, Ludwig never stopped to think that maybe...
"You missed me? Ha. I'm..."
Strong arms embraced him, and there were lips on the top of his head, a pleased laugh in his ear, warmth against his chest. The lips brushed his cheek, suddenly, and then his nose, and it was with effort that Ludwig added, fondly, "Why were you out so late, Gilbert? I was worried about you."
A silence.
And then there was a soft, sharp, "Gil—oh, damn."
Gilbert pulled away from the embrace quickly, and suddenly, when he looked up, it wasn't Gilbert anymore. Hadn't ever been, actually. It was Ivan, and he was staring down at him with a furrowed brow and stern eyes. His eyes were grey, not wine, his skin was light beige, not translucent, and his hair was pale gold, not silvery. Not Gilbert.
Ivan.
Tall and broad-shouldered and imposing. Overwhelming. Powerful. Terrifying. Handsome.
Ivan.
But even though it was just Ivan (just Ivan? Since when had he only been just Ivan?), Ludwig found himself smiling nonetheless. He felt a return of that strange flow of exhilaration in his veins, that giddiness, almost like he had swallowed one of those pills that Gilbert used to take sometimes before he went out to a rave. He could not seem to find a very good reason to be upset at all, and hell, Ivan was kinda handsome in his own very rough way, whatever else could be said about him. Not conventionally attractive, no, but Ludwig found him appealing after a long look-over. Guessed there may have been worse things out there.
Ivan's power was entrancing, even to good people.
His hands wound up on Ivan's face, somehow, and he said, in a slur, "Oh, it's you! Well, then, why were you out so late? I was looking for you. I think you got lost."
Another silence, and then Ivan sighed in what could have been exasperation (why was everyone so damn annoyed with him, anyway?), and took Ludwig's hands within his own, pulling Ludwig up from the couch with one mighty yank. The movement made his chest clench up with a terrible pain, and for a dizzy moment, he thought he was having a heart-attack.
No air. Drowning.
It passed, though, and then Ludwig saw Toris standing over near the door.
Toris.
Ludwig reached up immediately and waved clumsily, but Toris didn't wave back, rolling his eyes instead, and Ludwig remembered, after a moment of thought, that he was angry at Toris, although he could not remember exactly why. Didn't matter anymore, anyway. Felt so content. So elated.
Ivan looked around the room, and then dragged him over to a door, and when he kicked it open with his foot, breaking it off its hinges, Ludwig muttered, chidingly, "You're gonna have to fix that, you know."
Ivan only grunted, "Yeah, yeah."
There was a bed, and Ivan settled him down onto it with slow movements. He grabbed up a heater from the floor and moved it up onto an end table, and when he turned it on, Ludwig frowned. It was too hot in here already.
Toris was beside him suddenly, looking him up and down, and Ivan leaned down next to him, gripping his hand and saying, "Don't move. I'll be back soon. Get warm. You're freezing."
Footsteps, and then Ivan was gone. Ludwig turned his head to Toris, who averted his eyes, staring off at the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. His foot was tapping furiously, and from the twitching of his lips, he obviously was struggling with something that he wanted to say. Ludwig could only stare up at him, and search through the mist to try and grasp the memory of why he should be angry at Toris.
Come on! Get up!
A walk in the snow.
Alone.
A jolt of something, and he said, aloud, "Toris! I wish you would have come with me. It was a pretty night."
A scoff, and then Toris was at his side, reaching out and grabbing his hand, and even through his delirium Ludwig could see the distress and maybe anger in his eyes as he cried, "You're so stupid! I had to do it, you know? I had to! You would have gotten lost. You would have ran out of gas, and froze to death out there in the middle of nowhere. Stupid! What were you thinking? I had to stop it, you idiot. Don't you... Don't you understand? Don't you even know where you are? You can't just up and drive and make it somewhere out here! You can't! You woulda died."
Ludwig had a strange urge suddenly to reach up and slap Toris across the face, but he was distracted momentarily by how hot it was, and the giddiness was overwhelming anyhow.
Wasn't it Toris who had wanted Ludwig dead not so long ago?
His toes were stinging, as though someone were shocking them. Something warm was dripping down his forehead. He reached up with numb hands, trying to unbutton his shirt.
"Can't you turn the heater off?" he asked, as he fumbled with the buttons, and Toris furrowed a brow, eyes wide in what looked like alarm, and Ludwig didn't understand why everyone was acting so strangely.
"Ludwig, stop."
He looked over. Ivan was back, and the woman was at his side, and from the looks on their faces they had been arguing. Ivan's cheeks were red with anger, his fists clenched at his side. What, had he done something wrong again? Ivan always seemed to expect something from him.
Ludwig opened his mouth, but then Ivan was suddenly upon him like a tiger, bushing aside his bangs and observing the cut on his forehead with a critical eye. Mutters and irritated noises. Ivan looked over his shoulder, at the woman behind him, and the danger in his voice was audible as he hissed at her in Russian.
...had she cut him? Ludwig couldn't remember.
She crossed her arms above her chest, quite immune to Ivan's words, and then Ivan turned back to him, running a gloved thumb over the cut. He met Ludwig's eyes, and whispered, with an almost disappointed click of his tongue, "I would have had you cut anywhere but your face."
A movement at his side, and Toris was gone.
Every motion around him felt so blurry and disjointed.
The woman was staring at him over Ivan's shoulder, and she held her finger up to her lips and winked at him, trying to communicate with him. Ludwig smiled back at her, and when Ivan pressed forward and kissed Ludwig's forehead, she spun around on her heel and stalked out.
Then it was just him and Ivan.
Sitting down next to him, Ivan threw a heavy arm around his shoulder, and shook him.
"Hey. Look at me."
He did, as best he could, and Ivan's cool eyes bored into his with that unnerving intensity that he had almost become accustomed to.
"Do you remember what happened?"
Remember? He remembered being cold. He remembered walking for what felt like an eternity.
"Do you know where you are?"
He was so tired. He couldn't feel his damn feet, and Ivan's questions seemed annoying. He shook his head, all the same. Ivan removed his gloves, and when he ran his hand down Ludwig's neck, he frowned.
"Oh. You haven't warmed up any. How are you feeling? Your chest doesn't hurt, does it?"
Ludwig heard a faint, 'Shh' in his ears, and smiled.
Right! Game on.
"No, no, I'm fine," he said, and was pleased that he was playing 'the silent game' with efficiency.
Ivan and Gilbert cheated, but so could he.
A furrowed brow from Ivan, as if he thought something was off, but when Ludwig leaned over and rested his weary head on Ivan's chest, he smiled. After that, there was hardly any concern in his eyes as he reached out with steady fingers, smoothing strands of Ludwig's damp hair gently, and it was with an almost cheery voice that he said, "Ah, well. Don't worry about it! Sometimes, when you get too cold, your head can get a little strange. Almost like drinking a lot of vodka." Then Ivan was suddenly holding his face in his hands, and added, "But! You are very determined, aren't you? I like that. I do." Ivan repositioned them, then, into a laying position, side by side, and pulled the cover up and raised it to Ludwig's shoulders. He reached over and took up a cloth from the end table, propped himself up on an elbow, and began to dab at the blood on Ludwig's forehead. "You're not afraid of anything, are you? So brave."
Afraid?
Afraid. Yes. He was afraid of that woman. He was afraid of Ivan. Even if he was not quite sure why. Afraid of everyone and everything out here.
Ivan seemed oblivious, and leaned his head down towards Ludwig's.
"I left you there because I knew you would be strong enough to come back. Brave enough. I love that about you. I probably could have put you out farther, and you still would have made it. See? I knew you'd come back to me. I was right." A coy smile. "Just can't stay away from me, can you?"
The cloth was tossed aside, and then Ivan leaned over and pressed their chests together.
Come back? Was that why he was here? Had he come back for Ivan? Ludwig squinted his eyes in thought.
Not much time to figure it out, though; Ivan was upon him and their noses touched, and Ivan's gaze was much more intense. He snapped fingers in the air to draw Ludwig's bleary attention, whispering, "But you know, bravery and stupidity can sometimes be the same. You won't ever get out of here without me. Understand?"
That look.
Ludwig nodded, and Ivan's look and words cut through his delirium like a knife as he whispered, "If I ever catch you running again, something bad might happen to your Gilbert. Don't you remember your end of the bargain? You took his place, remember? That means you stay here. You go where I tell you to go. You made a deal; I expect you to honor it. For your brother's sake. Don't ever try to run again. You made a deal. I kept my end. Keep yours."
For a moment, Ludwig could only lay there, caught under Ivan's eyes and weight, and maybe it was just the heaviness in his chest, but when Ivan shook him and asked him again, "Will you stay with me?" Ludwig nodded.
A deal.
A deal. He had made a deal. Bound by blood. And Ivan's statement seemed to make perfect sense in his fuzzy mind. He had made a deal. A contract, and, as Roderich would say, contracts could not be broken. Honor, before all else. A deal was a deal.
"Are you going to run again?"
How could he? He shook his head.
"Now," Ivan whispered, breath warm and look calmer, "we are understanding each other."
Were they? Maybe he would never understand Ivan. But then, he had never really understood Gilbert, either, but that had turned out okay, for the most part. When they hadn't been fighting.
Gilbert. Oh.
Ivan reached out and began to stroke his hair, gently.
Just wanted Gilbert.
"Hey. Don't worry about it so much. I know you'll stay here. You'd like it, if you gave it a chance. You don't have to be scared. It's alright. I'll take care of you. It's not so bad out here, you know? Come here. I wouldn't ever hurt you."
Warmth, as Ivan rested above him with his full weight. Ludwig closed his eyes, and leaned back, allowing Ivan to do as he pleased. Too tired to struggle anymore.
Gilbert had done his part. Ludwig had repaid him. They were even.
A deal.
Even if he would never see his brother again, even if he never spoke to him again, if he never again could picture his brother's face in his mind, even if Gilbert forgot everything, it was alright. Gilbert could forget, and Ludwig would stay here, and keep a silent vigil over his brother's life from afar. Maybe that was just another game, because as long as he stayed here with Ivan...
Ivan fell against him, muttering heavily, "You're so cold still! Here, I'll keep you warm."
...then Gilbert would stay safe.
Maybe he could somehow win, in the end.
Hands grabbed his face. He did not have the strength nor the will to break away. Lips against his own. Fingers tangled gently in his hair. A heaviness on his chest. A scrape of teeth down his neck, and then his collarbone. Hands roaming down to his chest, fingertips brushing his abdomen. A knee in between his legs. Everything was warm.
A laugh.
"Oh, you're so brave, aren't you? Look, you're so quiet."
God, it was so hot in here. Stifling.
Ivan was far too warm on top of him. Any fear that he would have felt completely forgotten in a haze of warmth and sudden dizziness, he pushed at Ivan's chest and said, dazedly, "Get off. Aren't you hot? It's so hot in here."
A thoughtful silence from Ivan. Another sharp pain in his chest.
...where was he? Good god, he didn't know where the hell he was.
Then Ivan reached up and ran a hand up under Ludwig's shirt, laying his palm on his bare chest and feeling his heartbeat. A moment of narrowed-eyed concentration, and then he frowned.
"Too slow. You said your chest didn't hurt."
Ivan reached over and ripped open the drawer of the end table, searching through its contents with fervor. Then he grabbed something, yanked it out, and when he leaned forward, he placed it in front of Ludwig's mouth and said, quickly, "Under your tongue."
A pressure in his mouth, something hard under his tongue, and Ivan watched him with a very intense expression. It stayed there for a few minutes, and Ludwig realized, vaguely, that it was a thermometer. He did not notice when Ivan removed it until he was holding it up in the air.
So far away.
Ivan sat in silence, staring up at the mercury, and finally he whispered, more to himself, "Thirty-one?" A horrible stillness. Quiet. And then, with a snarl, Ivan suddenly grabbed his shoulders and shook him, gently, hissing, "Hey! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me what was wrong with you? Huh? You took the hat off, didn't you? Didn't you? Why? Are you stupid? Huh? Are you?"
Shh! It's just a game!
Smiling at the absurd look on Ivan's face, Ludwig could only reach up and put his finger above his mouth, saying, "I'm playing a game. I think I'm winning, but I'm not sure."
He was determined to win, come hell or high water, and Ivan wasn't going to ruin it for him.
Ivan stared at him with a low brow and wide eyes as Ludwig started fucking giggling again.
Could help it. That look on Ivan's face. Had never seen that look. Was utterly comical to him, seeing that iron man looking so breathless and alarmed, to see his eyes that wide and his mouth hanging open like that.
Then Ivan leapt from the bed, crying, "Shit! Shit!"
Ludwig could only wonder, as he tried to roll over and nearly fell on the floor, what was going on, and why it was so mercilessly hot in this room. Ivan's strong hands stopped him from falling over the edge, and Ivan said, "Stop! Sleep, now. You have hypothermia. She knew, didn't she? She told you, didn't she? Damn, I should have noticed it earlier! Don't move! Your heart might give out. Be still! But don't worry. I know what to do. Don't you move!"
The hands were gone, and Ludwig could only squirm around as Ivan covered him with the blanket and shouted, "Natalia! Natalia!"
The heater was suddenly blowing onto him from the edge of the bed. He tried to kick at with his feet and knock it over. Too damn hot. What was Ivan thinking?
A gentle slap to his face.
"Stop it!" Ivan hissed, as he grabbed the heater and pulled it forward. "You're not hot. Stop it. It will pass soon. Just stay still."
And then the woman, Natalia no doubt, was in the doorway, eyes narrowed and arms across her chest, and Ludwig could not remember where he had met her. Ivan began to scream at her in Russian, and Ludwig tried to sit up, squinting his eyes as he watched them hissing back and forth like snakes. Where had he seen her?
His heart was lurching in his chest.
"Hey," Ludwig called, suddenly, and even though she was waving a finger in Ivan's face and Ivan was puffing out his chest and shoulders, they stopped and turned to look at him. "Ivan, is that your wife? You should have told me that you had a wife. She's so pretty."
They stared at him, Ivan's brow coming down, and Natalia smiled as if flattered.
She said, immediately, "Yes. I'm his wife! Remember, I told you?"
Ludwig could swear, even through the delirium, that Ivan shuddered. And that was pretty damn funny, too, so he started cackling again.
Ivan whirled around in anger and grabbed her arms forcefully enough to make her wince, shoving her out of the door without gentleness, and Ludwig tried to lean over and take off his socks. Couldn't get his hands to work right.
"Ludwig."
He looked up, blearily. Ivan was watching him from the frame.
"She's not my wife."
"Oh," was all Ludwig could manage, as Ivan watched him with an odd expression.
"She's not."
Didn't see why Ivan was so intent on Ludwig knowing that he wasn't hitched, but alright.
Minutes of silence passed, as he laid back onto the bed, exhausted and dizzy, and then Natalia was back. In her hands she held a bag of liquid, and a clear tube. Even in his daze, Ludwig knew an IV when he saw one, and could only watch dumbly as Ivan took it from her with sharp words and then sat down on the edge of the bed, grumbling as she left, "Crazy bitch."
Ludwig looked over at him, and said, dutifully, "You shouldn't call your wife that."
Ivan glanced at him through narrowed eyes and said, "She's not my wife. Remember? I told you that already."
Before Ludwig could think of a response, Ivan reached out and took his arm, bringing Ludwig's hand up and looking over it as though he were performing an inspection. His hands were warm, like always, and gentle. He pushed his fingers into Ludwig's wrist, head tilted, and then muttered, "You don't have very good veins."
No, he didn't. Gilbert and Roderich had taken him to the doctor after Roderich had found him, and the doctor said he was dehydrated and needed fluids, but he tapped here and there and poked over and over again before he found a vein that would hold. So many pricks; Gilbert had held his hand the whole time, firmly.
Like Ivan was now.
Ivan as a whole was terrifying, but his hands were appealing, rough and big as they were.
Ivan clenched his hand in between both his own, and began to rub back and forth. It was uncomfortable, as his numb skin began to warm and sting, but Ivan smiled down at him the whole time, and that made it a little better because Gilbert had smiled at him, too. And everything had turned out alright in the end.
A deal.
"I might have to put it in your wrist," Ivan suddenly said, meeting his eyes. "Alright?"
Ludwig didn't respond, watching Ivan's hands rubbing his own with something close to fascination. A few minutes of heat, and then Ivan raised his hand again and looked it over. He picked up the needle, and brought it down until the tip of it grazed his skin.
"Why don't you close your eyes?" Ivan said, as he held the needle up above the outer bone of his wrist. "This will hurt a little."
Ludwig obeyed, squinting his eyes shut, and there was a dull, throbbing pain as the needle sank down past the bone and into a vein. A tug and a sharp sting, and Ivan's hands left for a second, and then they were back, tying the cord in.
And then there was a sudden flow of warmth through his veins, and, god, it hurt.
Felt like acid.
"Sorry," Ivan murmured, as Ludwig ducked his head down and clenched the blanket, "It has to be hot. Your blood is too cold. This will help. It won't hurt for long."
A silence.
Minutes.
"Feel better?"
Ludwig could only hang his head, as the fire burned his veins and ripped below his skin, and Ivan was suddenly pulling him back down onto his back. Wanted to cry, suddenly. That giddiness had faded into utter exhaustion. Frustration. Felt so helpless.
"Don't move. Go to sleep."
Warm hands were on his chest, and Ludwig finally opened his eyes.
Ivan was lying next to him, on his side, and his face was calm and serious as he dug the tips of his fingers into Ludwig's chest, above his heart, massaging up and down. A meeting of eyes, and Ivan said, "To get the blood back to your heart faster." Ludwig lowered his eyes, watching Ivan's fingers, large and strong and yet oddly gentle, and then Ivan was smiling again. "Out here, everyone has to know how to treat hypothermia. Even children. It's so cold here, you know. This happens a lot."
His head was killing him.
Ivan seemed bright enough, though, now that the needle was in, and added, "Say! You survived the snow again. Maybe you were meant to be born Russian."
Him? Russian? He didn't know why—god, he couldn't think—but Ludwig laid back in the pillows and started to laugh. Ivan hovered over him the whole time with that constant smile, whispering words of encouragement and admiration in his ears, and even though Ludwig had spent his entire life being taught to hate the Soviet Union...
It was funny. He felt something close to comfort.
No one had ever spent hours telling him how strong he was, how brave and fearless, how he was better than all of them, whoever they were, and how beautiful. No one had ever really seen him and had thought he was worth going through trouble for. No one had ever spoken to him the way Ivan did. No one had ever shamelessly complimented him for no damn reason.
Ivan was watching him. Watching him. He never looked away. Always watching him.
It was alright.
The fingers continued to massage his heart. The fire in his veins was dulling. The unbearable heat was dissipating. Everything was cold again. The mist was thinning.
He could get used to the cold. He had always liked the moon more than the sun, anyway.
Ivan fell in beside him, placing the bag of fluid on the wooden head of the bed, as the shiver returned with a vengeance, and Ivan was quick to soothe, "Don't worry. That means your body is waking up again. Don't worry. It'll be alright. I won't let anything happen to you."
Ivan wrapped him in his arms then and held him to his chest, and oh, god help him...
Ludwig pressed forward, burying his numb nose in the collar of Ivan's shirt, because it was so cold and he was so lonely and there was no one here that he knew and Gilbert was gone.
The delirium of hypothermia slowly began to fade, and he hated himself for being so reliant on Ivan for survival, and he had never been meant to be born a Russian. He was a German. He was not made for this cold. Hadn't ever been, but he would bear it nonetheless, because it was for Gilbert. To keep Gilbert safe.
He had made a deal, to stay in this snow.
And he remembered, finally, as Ivan ran rough fingers through his hair and the fog began to lift, that it had been him, all those years ago, who had dropped the gun.
Gilbert had placed it in his hands and came around behind him, and when he had held it the correct way, Gilbert lifted his arms up straight, his chest pressing warmly into Ludwig's back, and he had raised his hands up, up, until it had been level.
Aim.
His heart had been racing the whole time, and when Gilbert had gripped his hands tightly and screamed, 'Bang!' in his ear, Ludwig had jumped so hard that he fumbled the gun straight to the floor.
Fire!
Gilbert had laughed, as he knelt down on the floor and picked it up, and Ludwig had been annoyed, but then Gilbert had come over to him and slapped him on the back, his eyes more serious, and he had whispered, 'I'm glad. I don't ever wanna see you have to hold a gun. You won't ever need to. That's why I'm here, to protect you. I'm all you need.'
Gilbert could not have known that there would come a day when a gun would be of absolutely no help, when he would not be able to protect. Gilbert had cared for Ludwig more than anyone else ever had, in his own unusual way. Gilbert hadn't ever been perfect, hadn't been that great of a guy, but he had loved Ludwig, and Ludwig had loved him. Ludwig would never forget that.
He wouldn't run again.
There was only Ivan now. Only this cold. That was his decision. There was no one to blame but himself. It was not Gilbert's fault. It was not Toris' fault. Not anyone's. A mixture of bad decisions on all parts.
Ludwig fell asleep, as Ivan held him close, and when the IV was finally empty several hours later, when the threat of hypothermia was only a vague memory, Ivan sat him up and began to whisper in his ear, and was quick to remind him, just in case he had forgotten, who had saved him from the cold, again, and who had brought him back from the dark, again, and who had stayed at his side while he recovered, again, and who had kept him safe.
Again.
His decision. He wouldn't run again. No good ever seemed to come of it, and Ivan's patience might not have been without limits. Always failed, every time. Ivan always won. He was tired.
It was too cold outside.
Ivan's hands were always warm.