Chapter 22
Butterfly Room
White.
The first day wasn't so bad.
His head ached from the unrelenting light, and it was cold and the air was stale, but it wasn't so bad. It was almost nice, actually, to be able to be alone for a while. To finally have some space. To relax a little.
Ludwig spent the first day pacing around, hands in his pockets, squinting in the light, and he was glad that he had some time to think. To be able to walk around without someone holding his hand and whispering in his ear.
The circular room wasn't that big. The size of a large bedroom, maybe, and everything was white. The walls were painted white. The smooth stone floor was white. The ceiling was white. The sealed door was white. There was no doorknob. The endless walls were corner-less, preventing shadows from playing. There was a very small sink, painted white, on the right of the door. And there was one very small window, no bigger than a shoebox. Iron bars (white) stood before it, and behind, a pane of glass. And he didn't understand why, because behind the small rectangle of glass there were only cinderblocks. Painted white.
What was the point of a window at all, if the outside world was not visible?
White.
The hours passed by, slowly, and he couldn't tell what time of day it was, for the constant light. No fresh air could get in past the sealed door, and there was no heat. It was cold, and when he felt his strength waning, he sat down on the hard floor, leaned against the wall, and tried to sleep. And he just knew, as he buried his head in folded arms and drifted, that Ivan would come to get him soon, because in the morning he would wake up, sober, and maybe he wouldn't even remember any of Ludwig's mistakes at all. Ivan would come for him.
But he didn't.
Ludwig waited.
Most of the time, he slept. It was great to be able to sleep, as his body tried to recover from its near-death experience only two days earlier. He caught up on needed rest, and, anyway, the white hurt his eyes when he was awake. He waited for Ivan, when he woke up and couldn't get back to sleep.
Still, Ivan didn't come.
The headache started soon after.
But he would be strong.
The second day, if his guess was correct, was worse.
The hours ever slowed. The pain in his head was ever intensifying, and there were no colors for his eyes to distinguish. The white walls and white floors began to blur, and then there was just a great white haze, like he was walking around in a blizzard.
Strange, how a lack of color could play tricks on the mind.
Sometimes, when he found himself staring ahead, something began to shift. Sometimes, there were movements. Ripples in the white horizon. He closed his eyes, and put his palms above them, knowing that his brain was just tying to compensate because of the bright, monotonous surroundings. He was just hallucinating. That was normal in this kind of circumstance.
Right?
He tried to sleep as much as possible, if only so that he would not have to see the white, and by now, he no longer wanted his alone space. Didn't want to be alone anymore. He was over being able to think. The solitude had worn out its welcome. It had been enough. Where was Ivan? He should have come back by now. He wasn't still angry, was he? Surely not.
Ivan would come soon.
White.
Hours seemed like days. Days seemed like years. Never ending. The light was so bright. Relentless. Unforgiving. His eyes hurt from constantly squinting, and there was no way of telling what the hour was. It could have been morning. It could have been noon. It could have been the dead of night. Who knew? It was getting harder to sleep.
The white was starting to move around. When he buried his head in his arms now, sometimes he was certain that he heard someone whispering.
Maybe it was just Ivan.
And yet when he looked up, the door still stood closed. Ivan had not come for him yet.
He leaned his head back against the wall, and, to distract himself, thought back on memories. For whatever reason, it was hard to pull them up. He couldn't really think. His head felt muddled. Bleary.
When a memory finally did come to him, it wasn't really one that he wanted.
He remembered standing there in front of the university every day, staring at it, knowing that he could never set foot inside. Standing under the sun, watching students go in and out, and dreaming, dreaming, about how life would have been for him if his real parents had kept him. If he knew his real name. Who he really was. Standing out there in front of the university had been some of the loneliest days of his life. The most miserable.
...where was Ivan?
His head was throbbing. The hours passed. He tried to be strong. The ache behind his eyes was almost unbearable. He felt a little ill. Dizzy.
By the time the third day, or whatever it may have been, lurched in, Ludwig realized that he had overestimated himself when he had shrugged off Ivan's words so casually back in the car.
Because this was torture. Felt so awful.
He could barely open his eyes, and he almost didn't want to, because when he did, the odd movements from before had become shapes. And sometimes when he glanced over, he could swear that there was someone walking. Someone was always whispering. Even though he knew he was alone.
Damn.
He rubbed at his eyes, but the rippling didn't stop. He shook his head, but they stayed. Maybe he had just been caught in a particularly vulnerable state. If Ivan had thrown him in here straight off, he was confident that he would have been able to ride it out. He could have stayed above the water. Not now. His confidence in himself had taken too great a blow. He had been so confused, so close to breaking, so close to having a panic attack, before he had been chucked in here.
Couldn't think.
Where was Ivan?
The hours passed, creeping by as years. Still, Ivan had not come for him. Goddammit. Why had he been so stupid? Hitting Ivan like that. This whole damn thing was his fault. Ivan didn't make mistakes. Should have known better. It was his fault. How did he always end up in these predicaments?
Oh god, it hurt his pride, it did, but he couldn't bear it, and when he finally managed to pull himself up to his feet, staggering over to the door against the blinding white, he threw himself against it, and knocked.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was deep and scratchy from disuse, "Hey, are you there? Ivan, come on. Open the door. Hey, Ivan, come on."
He waited, ear pressed into the door, but there was no sound. Nothing stirred. His desperation was growing. He wanted out. He couldn't stay here. He knocked again, louder.
"Ivan! Are you out there or what? Come on, let me out already! I'm... I'm sorry. I am. Please. Let me out."
Still, there was nothing.
He lost his temper, and drew up his fists, slamming them down onto the door as hard as he could, because someone was whispering in his ear, and he had to get out now, "Ivan! Open the goddamn door! Open the door! Ivan! I know you hear me! Let me out! Ivan! Open the fucking DOOR! Come on! Please!"
His voice nearly died from screaming, dry as it was, but it got him nowhere. There was no movement from outside, and he could only sink down against the door, pressing his palms against his ears as the whispering grew ever louder.
"Please."
Christ.
Don't be scared. That was what Ivan had said. Just don't listen. It was hard. Hard to ignore it.
Then, as his fists ached from the contact with the door, he recalled a sudden memory that had long since been forgotten.
It came out of nowhere.
He had been fourteen. Maybe he had been foolhardy, or maybe he had just been a dreamer like Toris, but when Gilbert had pulled on his coat, ready to go into the city, already wild-haired and sloppy from alcohol, Ludwig had tried to reach out and grab a hold of him to prevent him from leaving. Gilbert always went out, always. Couldn't he have just spent one night at home? Couldn't they ever just sit there, together?
Gilbert's temper was unpredictable at best, and when Ludwig had reached out and grabbed his coat, he had whirled around like a viper, and had shoved Ludwig backwards so hard that he had fallen, throwing his arms out backwards at the last second to save his head from hitting the floor. Gilbert had stared down at him, and had looked horrified. He'd extended a hand. Ludwig, hurt and angry, had slapped it away and pulled himself up, shouting at Gilbert to just fuckin' go already.
Just leave.
Gilbert was gone, leaving him alone, with only throbbing wrists and a bruised arm for company.
He hardly even remembers you now.
Gilbert hadn't come back until dawn.
...he hadn't thought of that in years. Why now?
The static was growing louder.
Gilbert.
Gilbert was supposed to protect him. That's what big brothers were for.
The hours passed.
And yet...
It was so easy to remember all the great times between him and Gilbert. It was easy to remember the nights when he had been a child, and Gilbert had held him close in bed and told him stories. It was easy to remember Gilbert's hands, when they had ran through his hair or caressed his cheek or grabbed his hand. It was easy to remember Gilbert's smooth voice, confident and sure and adoring, as it had whispered in his ear and told him, over and over, how much he loved him, and how they would always be together, forever. It was easy to remember Gilbert's eyes, bright and expressive and easy-going, and how they always followed him protectively no matter where he went. And it was easy to remember Gilbert's presence, always hovering over him, surrounding him with the support and the care and the encouragement he needed to thrive.
What kind of brother is that?
He had tried so hard not to remember the other things.
It was easy to remember how much he loved Gilbert. It was even easier to try and forget how much he had hated him sometimes.
So why, now, was he thinking of these things? Oh, god. He had tried to forget.
Why was he suddenly remembering all of the terrible times between him and Gilbert? Why was he remembering the nights when he had sat up by the window, watching and waiting for Gilbert to come staggering home? Why was he remembering Gilbert's hands, when they had lashed out at him in random moments of anger and drunkenness, pulling at his hair and slapping his cheek and shoving at his chest when they had fought? Why was he remembering Gilbert's voice, loud and harsh and spiteful, when it had screamed at him in fits of rage and told him how useless he was, and how he didn't understand anything? Why was he remembering Gilbert's eyes, dark and angry and wrathful, and how they had stared him down when they argued? Why was he remembering Gilbert's presence, overwhelming him, dragging him down with so many problems and so much stress and never any rest?
Gilbert would always be his big brother.
But that didn't erase the nights when Gilbert had come home drunk, or high, or both, when he had flown into rages and fits, when he had domineered and controlled.
It didn't erase the time that he had brought a girl that he had met on the street home when he had been thirteen, just because she had been nice to him and he had never had friends, and Gilbert had been so furious and so jealous that he had promptly kicked her out and slammed the door in her face, screaming at her so terribly that she had run home crying.
It didn't erase the time that he and Roderich had been talking on the phone, and Gilbert had heard Roderich ask if he would like to come up and stay with him for a while, and Gilbert ripped the cord right out of the wall and had thrown his drink into Ludwig's face, accusing him of going behind his back and betraying him and that Ludwig didn't really love him, not really, if he was still speaking to Roderich.
Gilbert.
Oh, god, he didn't want to remember all of this. Gilbert couldn't help it. There was something wrong up in his head, always had been. Gilbert couldn't help it.
That didn't make it hurt any less.
Digging his heels into the stone floor, Ludwig squinted his eyes shut, and then Gilbert was whispering in his ear, and he shook his head to clear it.
Why was he here? He didn't want to speak to Gilbert right now. Not in the mood.
Fuckin' Gilbert.
'Ludwig, look what you've gotten yourself into now!'
"It's your fault," he grumbled, grabbing handfuls of his hair, and Gilbert laughed, coarsely.
'Oh, man, I shoulda known that you can't take care of yourself. See, I always have to protect you. Just look where you're at now. I told you.'
"It's your fault," he repeated, more forcefully, and now suddenly the pain in his head was enhanced by a rush of anger.
It was Gilbert's fault that he was here in the first place. Stupid, stupid Gilbert. Reckless. Without Gilbert, he'd be sitting back in West Germany right now, with Roderich and Alfred, where he damn well belonged.
'You can't do anything without me. I'm your big brother, remember?'
...he had been sixteen, and in the heat of an argument he had told Gilbert that he was a terrible brother, that he was the one who could never do anything right, and Gilbert had stood still for a moment, chest heaving in fury, and then he had drawn back his hand and punched Ludwig across the face, and when Ludwig had fallen Gilbert had burst into tears.
He had been seventeen the first time he had hit Gilbert back.
The day he had moved out.
Gilbert had been so angry, screaming about how the whole thing was Roderich's fault, that they would be better off if Roderich were dead. And those words had been too much, because Roderich meant so much to him. So much.
'It's not his fault!' Ludwig had said, and Gilbert had just kept on.
Saying awful things about Roderich. Roderich had been his idol, as much as Gilbert had been his brother. It had been too much, and he had been hurting too, at the thought of leaving Gilbert for the first time. They were supposed to be together forever, but Gilbert was too much sometimes.
Ludwig couldn't help it; he had turned around, and punched Gilbert in the nose. As Gilbert had laid there on the floor, blood spilling between his fingers and in shock, Ludwig had grabbed his things and stalked out. He and Gilbert hadn't spoken for months after that.
Gilbert's voice was getting louder.
'If you could just listen to me, none of this would have happened. You don't ever listen.'
That jerk. That arrogant, presumptuous, self-centered jerk.
He had done all of this for Gilbert. Because Gilbert was the one who couldn't ever listen. He had surrendered himself, for Gilbert's sake. Because Gilbert was the one who couldn't take care of himself.
Gilbert didn't know anything.
"Gilbert," he spat, as he threw his hands up again to cover his ears, kicking his legs irritably, "Go away! Go away! I'm so—I'm so angry with you right now! Oh, god, Gilbert, go away! Shut up, I can't stand to hear you right now!"
And for a second, Gilbert's voice died down, just a little, and Ludwig just wished that Ivan would come and get him and take him out of this nightmare. He had not wanted to disturb memories that had been buried for years.
The burning spite in his chest was painful.
At least Ivan did everything right. Ivan never made mistakes. Gilbert made so many there was no possible way to count them all. At least Ivan didn't pick fights with him. Gilbert took everything so personally. At least Ivan had never hit him before that night. But Gilbert had, on several occasions.
Their relationship had always been volatile. To say the least.
One minute Gilbert would grab his waist and pull him in and kiss his cheek and croon words of brotherly affection, and then the next he was angry again, thinking that the world was conspiring against him and that nobody understood him and that he was better than everyone, and that Ludwig could never have anyone else in his life because Gilbert was the only one that was good enough to be around him.
Oh. Where was Ivan?
He had thought he would welcome Gilbert, but now Ludwig just wanted him gone.
Where was Ivan?
Gilbert's voice was back, louder than ever, and now Ludwig was so irritated that he could feel his heart pounding in anger in his chest, and he drew back his fist, slamming it into the wall as he shrieked, "Gilbert, go AWAY!"
There was short silence.
He squinted his eyes. Whispers in his ear.
And then the light went out.
The sun above died, and everything was cast into night. The light went out. The whispers stopped, and the pitch-black and the sound of silence was so beautiful that he fell forward, collapsed onto the floor, and slipped into unconsciousness.
The hours passed.
His headache subsided, if only a little. He laid on the cold floor, and slept. He lost track of the days.
The dark had been appreciated at first, much like the solitude had, but it quickly wore out its welcome. The bright light of before had hurt his eyes, but at least he could see.
Now, as he pulled himself to his feet, he could not see a thing, not a thing, even if he waved his fingers before his face there was nothing. He reached out, blindly, staggering here and there are he tried to figure out his surroundings, and his head hurt worse than ever.
The darkness was suffocating. Maybe worse than the light.
When he found the wall, he leaned against it, and even though it was cold, he reached down and clumsily took off his boots and his socks, if only because he needed to feel where he was going, and it helped him gather his bearings more easily when he was barefoot. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned from Ivan's earlier attempts at laying hands on him. He hadn't even considered buttoning it back up.
Ivan might get angry again.
Only darkness.
He was hungry. His chest hurt.
Time passed.
Then, after who knew how many days, he started seeing things again. Only this time, in the dark, they were excruciatingly clear. Times past.
He looked up at one point, and saw himself.
As he was before, standing there in clean clothes, hair whipping in the wind, staring up at the university. Oh, what he would have given back then, to be a part of it. He had idolized Roderich, and had wanted nothing more in the world to follow in his footsteps and become an ambassador. But he couldn't. He didn't even know who he was. What his name was. Where he had been born. Nothing. Where could he get in this world, with no identity?
Roderich, sensing his melancholy, had tried his best, and had taught him so much, everything about the world of diplomacy, and Ludwig had hung on his every word, drinking it in and wishing, above all else, that Roderich had really been his father. Why couldn't they have adopted him? Given him their name? It wasn't fair. Who could choose where they were born? How different his life would have been, had he truly been born to Roderich and Erzsébet.
Oh, right... He remembered.
Roderich was going to adopt him, had said so, but Gilbert had done everything in his power to stop it.
If Gilbert hadn't gotten in the way, Roderich would have adopted him.
The darkness dragged on.
He tried to sleep, but failed, and when he opened his eyes again, suddenly everything was white. It didn't hurt his eyes this time, and when he stood up and tried to walk and bumped into a wall, he realized that he was just hallucinating again. Everything was still dark.
Not in his mind.
He walked around in circles, muttering to himself to fill the silence, and then, as he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper, he suddenly turned around, and realized he was not alone.
Gilbert had come to visit him.
Standing against the crackling white, silvery hair shining and eyes calm, he stood there with crossed arms, and for a moment, Ludwig could only stare at him, too disheartened to move. Gilbert wasn't real. He knew it. Even so, when Gilbert took a step forward and dropped his arms, his air loose and relaxed, Ludwig couldn't help it; he stumbled over to Gilbert, quickly, and took his hands.
Cold.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier," he said, beseechingly, and Gilbert smiled.
Oh, thank god that at least Gilbert had come in one of those good moods. The way he was when Ludwig loved him. Gilbert was the best brother in the world when he was thinking straight. When he wasn't going crazy. When he wasn't drunk. When he wasn't high. When Gilbert was clear-headed, Ludwig loved him more than anything on earth.
'It's alright,' Gilbert said, casually, and shrugged a shoulder, 'It's my fault.'
Gilbert's hands were cold. And even though his body knew that there was nothing within his hands, his mind said that there was, and he could feel a strange numbness, a tingling almost, as they fought it out, but it was enough. Better than nothing.
'Hey, West, sorry I hit you earlier! Oh, man, I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't mean to.'
That was nothing new. Gilbert had always regretted his actions later on. Not that it stopped him from repeating them. But Ludwig was too tired to be angry, and he was so grateful not to be alone anymore. He had missed this Gilbert. The good one.
Ivan still hadn't come for him.
Gilbert fell in and pressed his cold forehead against Ludwig's, hands resting on the back of his neck, and for a minute, he could swear that he was back in Berlin, and that all of this had just been a bad dream.
He missed Gilbert.
'See? I told you we'd always be together forever.'
A dream? Was he dreaming?
His head hurt, that much was certain. He felt confused, even as Gilbert's thumbs ran over his skin in circular motions.
Had Ivan not been real, then? Ivan's warm hands.
'I'll always be around to protect you. No matter what.'
It hadn't been a dream.
...maybe he was crazy.
Gilbert wasn't real. Ivan was. Why hadn't Ivan come back for him yet?
Gilbert was whispering. He listened.
'Ludwig, I love you. But I'm so mad at you, you know. How could you? You know that we're supposed to be together forever! How could you? He tried to kill me, and you held his hand.'
For a second, he bowed his head in shame, and it was true. Maybe he had betrayed Gilbert. Betrayed Gilbert by letting Ivan run his fingers through his hair, and say those words to him when no one else should, by letting Ivan pull him in, by letting Ivan press him down into the bed, by giving in. But it wasn't his fault.
It wasn't his fault.
Ivan was so overwhelming. He had no control here. And it was almost entrancing, to no longer be in control. For someone else to make all the decisions. When it really came down to it, Ludwig was weak, always had been, and Ivan knew it. He couldn't fight off someone like Ivan.
"I'm sorry Gilbert. I couldn't help it."
He was no match for Ivan.
Gilbert had backed away, shaking his head, and the disappointment in his eyes was almost too much to bear.
'How could you?'
He was weak.
"I'm sorry."
'...oh, it's alright. I still love you. I always will.'
He wanted to burst into tears.
It hurt, to love Gilbert so much and still sometimes hate him. Conflicting, and confusing. He loved Gilbert. Why couldn't things ever work out for them?
'You still love me too, right?'
He nodded his head, fervently.
"Oh, of course I do, Gilbert. I really do."
'I'm glad. Let's not fight anymore.'
All he wanted.
If Gilbert would just stop drinking.
...he had been fifteen, and had decided to track Gilbert down through the vast city. Poking his head in and out of bar after bar, he had finally found him after hours, and had gone inside, where Gilbert was slumped up in a corner, laughing with some woman and staggering in drunkenness. Ludwig had slunk inside and snuck over to him, trying not to be seen as he wound through the rowdy crowd.
He had finally gotten over to Gilbert and grabbed his arm, hissing, 'Let's go home!'
Gilbert had squinted over at him, and then smiled, as he had cried, in a slur, 'Ludwig! Look at you! Never thought I'd see ya in here!' He had laughed, and when Ludwig had tried to pull him away, he had stood his ground.
Then he had reversed the tables, and with one yank, it had been Gilbert who was dragging Ludwig, into a dark corner.
Ludwig could smell the alcohol on Gilbert's breath as he had pinned him against the wall, heavy against his chest, and there had been a smile on Gilbert's face as he had leaned in and whispered, 'I'm glad you came out. Let's have some fun together, eh? You're old enough.'
It had scared him a little, then, the way Gilbert's hand had grabbed his jaw, the way Gilbert's lips had brushed against his own as he said, 'Open up.'
In his hand, he had held a little piece of paper.
Ludwig remembered feeling so helpless, and so trapped, as Gilbert had tried very hard to coax him into opening his mouth so that he could put the paper under his tongue.
'Come on, it's alright! It's just a little bit. Your tongue gets a little numb, that's all.'
He remembered the way his heart had raced as Gilbert's hand had run up and down his neck, whispering in his ear in a soothing, adoring manner, and he remembered, more than anything else, that he had very nearly done it. He had almost opened his mouth.
He had just wanted Gilbert to be proud of him. More than anything.
But in the end, drunk and high Gilbert had staggered, and Ludwig had used the opportunity to slip out from beneath him and drag him off. Gilbert didn't remember any of it the next day. Maybe that was for the best. Gilbert wasn't himself when he was intoxicated.
All that mattered was that Gilbert loved him.
'Come back home, Ludwig. I miss you.'
He looked up.
Gilbert flickered, as though he were suddenly standing behind a shield of static, and then somehow he was at Ludwig's side, whispering words in his ear that he could not quite grasp.
Someone else was here now. He could feel it.
More static.
'Ludwig, look.'
He squinted his eyes and, standing there where Gilbert had been, there was Toris. Toris, who always left him when Ludwig needed him the most. Toris, who he both feared and admired. Toris was here now. Guess that was enough.
Toris stood there, a bit pale and dressed in white and smiling, the dark circles visible under his eyes, his hair messy and loose and uncombed, unshaved, somehow looking worse than Ludwig had ever seen him and yet at the same time more handsome, and he waved a hand, beckoning Ludwig over. 'Ludwig, come here.'
Toris.
Ludwig was glad. He felt better when Toris was with him, even though Toris always ended up snapping at him. Felt less lost.
He took a step.
'Look!'
Toris held up his hands. Blood was dripping everywhere.
Shivering, Ludwig watched with a lurid fascination as Toris walked over to the tiny window. He reached his hands out through the iron bars, laying his bloody palms on the pane of glass.
'I broke the glass,' Toris said, and Ludwig braced his feet and stumbled over, groping blindly through the dark, even though the images in his head were a burning, blinding white, and when he felt the bars, he gripped them.
Toris turned to him, and when he looked over too, Toris' nose rested against his cheek. He was cold.
He felt better when Toris was with him.
A shatter.
Gilbert watched silently from behind.
Ludwig looked down, and then suddenly there was a shard of glass in Toris' hands, and he raised it up, and with one great blow he stabbed it into the cinder blocks that shielded the window from the outside world. He did it again, and again, and the glass buried itself into his palms; a spurt of liquid shot out and fell onto Ludwig's face.
Blood everywhere.
Toris struck once more, and then fell still. The blocks stood strong.
'I tried to dig through the wall,' Toris whispered, and now he threw the shard down on the floor and reached up, his shredded, bleeding palms cupping Ludwig's face. 'Anything to see outside. To see color.'
And then Toris pulled back, and Ludwig could only watch as Toris walked over to the glimmering white wall and put his hands against it. Then he stepped to the side, and slid his palms against the white, leaving streaks of dark red and small pieces of flesh. He walked until he had circled the entire room, and then he turned, arms in the air as he met Ludwig's wide eyes.
A circle of red.
'See? Color. I beat it. I beat it. I won. He tried to get me, but I won.'
Toris fell to his knees, and held out his hands. Ludwig didn't waste the chance and fell too, crawling over to him, because he missed Toris, missed Gilbert, missed the world, and Toris gripped Ludwig's hands within his own. Toris was so damn cold, despite the blood running down his arms. He leaned in, pressing his forehead into Ludwig's just like Gilbert had, and Ludwig closed his eyes as Toris' weak, static voice filled his ears.
'Don't look. Don't look. Just close your eyes. Don't look. Don't look—'
A blinding pain in his hand. A shatter of glass.
He opened his eyes.
Toris was gone. Gilbert was gone. He was alone, in the dark, and in his delirium he had reached through the bars, just like Toris, and had shattered the glass with his fist.
He could feel blood dripping down his hand.
Don't look. Don't look.
He groped around, and took up a shard in his hand. But he didn't take it to the cinder blocks as Toris had; gripping it tightly, he pulled it back, and it was with a smile that he staggered backwards and fell against the wall, clutching the shard in his hands and holding it to his chest. Everyone was gone. Didn't want to be alone. Felt good to have something in his hands. Anything at all.
Don't look.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, where was everyone? Where was everyone? Where had Toris gone? Why had Gilbert left him? When would Ivan come back?
He was alone.
When would Ivan come back? Ivan. Where was Ivan? Ivan. Oh, god—
Wanted Ivan. He sat there for hours, in the dark, and he wondered if Ivan had forgiven him yet. How much longer before Ivan wasn't angry anymore? He hadn't meant to hit him. It had just happened.
He slept, fitfully, and never for a second did he let go of the glass. He needed to have something in his hands.
Darkness. His head was on fire.
Hours and days and years passed, and a noise suddenly startled him from his sleep.
The shard was digging into his palms, and he looked up, wearily, and then suddenly everything was white again, and someone else was kneeling before him. He squinted his eyes to focus, and smiled, eagerly. Oh!
"Alfred."
His best friend. The first person to ever see him.
It was Alfred, crouched in front of him, palm resting against the wall to support his weight as he hovered above Ludwig, golden hair alight and eyes nearly silver in the bright white, and he was dressed in white, too. His glasses were gone.
Missed Alfred so much, so much, couldn't even stand it.
Alfred wasn't smiling this time.
'Oh, Ludwig. How could you? Red. It's all red.'
Alfred's eyes bored painfully into his own, and Ludwig was ashamed of himself.
Red.
Alfred reached out, and ran hands down the fabric of his shirt, his brow stern. Ludwig looked down, and realized he was still in the Soviet uniform that Ivan had given him, and he could no longer meet Alfred's eyes for the shame. Alfred had told him, over and over again...
"I'm sorry," he moaned, and bowed his head, and Alfred's hands were suddenly around his own, and he raised them upward.
'I told you, didn't I?'
"Sorry."
Ludwig let Alfred lead his hands up and up, until they had reached the level of his collarbone.
The glass was still clutched in his grasp.
'I told you that you had to be careful around them. They're dangerous.'
A silence, as the edge of the glass came ever closer to his skin. He didn't notice, having eyes only for Alfred, wishing that he would just smile.
Please smile.
Alfred's smile was so comforting, always had been from the moment Ludwig had laid eyes upon it. Was Alfred so angry now that he couldn't smile? Did he hate this uniform so that he couldn't just sit down and loop their arms together and rest his head on Ludwig's shoulder as he had done so many times before? Couldn't Alfred look past this? Ludwig would have looked past anything at all for Alfred. There was nothing on earth Alfred could have ever done that would have turned Ludwig against him. Ludwig loved Alfred, would have died for him, and had always thought that Alfred felt the same.
Ludwig's hands were trembling when he finally whispered, beseechingly, "I know. I know. Better... Better dead than Red. Right? I'm sorry. I tried not to. I really did. Please, don't hate me. I— You're my best friend. Please."
He had tried so hard.
Alfred finally smiled at him then, that friendly, easy smile that he had missed, and slowly he began to push Ludwig's hands backward. Ludwig was caught under his gaze.
The shard of glass pricked the skin of his chest.
A drop of red.
'It'll be easier,' Alfred whispered, and pushed the glass again, 'It'll be easier this way. Trust me. Trust me. You have to trust me. A little more.'
He trusted Alfred.
The prick turned into a warm throb. Alfred pushed his hands.
'Come on! That's it! Just a little farther. I don't hate you. I just hate that color. Trust me.'
He trusted Alfred with his life. Trusted Alfred with everything. He trusted Alfred, just because Alfred had seen him. The first friend he had ever had in his life. The only friend. Trusted Alfred blindly.
The glass dug in deeper.
A terrible, burning pain, and Ludwig suddenly cried out as a flood of warmth ran down his chest, and then Alfred was gone. He looked down, dumbly, at the shard of glass sticking out from beneath his collar bone.
Aching.
A moment of confusion, and then he pulled it out. The blood spurted.
He held the shard of glass in his left hand, and covered the wound with his right.
Why? Why? Alfred had never tried to hurt him before. Never.
He kicked out his legs, as the blood ran through his fingers, and he looked around. The blinding white was gone. Everything was dark again. Alfred had left him, like everyone else did. He couldn't stand being alone in the dark. He could smell the blood, heavy around him. Resting his head against the wall, he closed his eyes as his body began to tremble from the stress.
Exhaustion.
Oh, god, he was going crazy. He was going crazy.
Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy crazy crazycrazycrazy.
Oh, god, he would never make Ivan angry again. Would spent the rest of his life doing everything to make Ivan happy, anything at all to never be in this room again. Anything Ivan wanted, he would do.
The hours passed. Everything was dark. He could feel himself getting weaker and weaker as the time went by, and with every second his thoughts were getting stranger. Darker.
He felt further away from himself than he had ever been.
And then Gilbert came back to see him again. This time, it was not as welcome as the last, and Gilbert was in one of those moods. When Ludwig hated him.
The white light lit everything back up, and he pulled himself to his feet as Gilbert marched over to him, wild-eyed and shouting, and it was with a numb sense of lethargy that Ludwig kept his back to Gilbert. Anything to not engage him. Couldn't stand it when Gilbert screamed at him.
'Where are you going? You turned your back on me, didn't you? First you left with Roderich—'
He didn't want to fight.
'—and now you're out here, in Russia! Wearing that stupid fuckin' uniform! How could you? You left me, just to be with him? You think he's so great, huh? Do you? Are you stupid? You can't have anyone else, Ludwig! We're supposed to be together, remember? No one else will take care of you like I can. How could you? You look so stupid! You look so fuckin' stupid, you don't even know.'
One hand over his chest and the other gripping the glass, Ludwig walked this way and that, and Gilbert followed him like a hound, reaching out every so often and shoving at his back.
Gilbert was always like this. Couldn't they ever just be normal?
"Leave me alone, Gilbert," he finally managed, but Gilbert didn't.
'I raised you better than that, didn't I? What have I told you about them? Look at you! What are you wearing? So stupid.'
"Go away."
'You're no better than they are! You can't do anything right. You're so stupid! Traitor.'
Traitor?
Oh—but he only wore this uniform for Gilbert. Why didn't Gilbert understand? It was all his fault. He had put this stupid uniform on so that Gilbert would be safe. Had given up everything for Gilbert.
"Gilbert, go away."
He clenched the glass in his hand, his patience waning.
'You know what he wants, don't you? He'll fuck around with you for a little while, and then what? He'll shoot you.'
Ludwig closed his eyes, shoulders slumped as he shook his head stubbornly.
Gilbert didn't understand. He never had. How could Gilbert have ever understood Ivan?
"He's not like that. He won't hurt me."
'You're out here, for what? To be his whore? Is that all you are? You don't ever listen to me! You don't know anything about the world! You never did. You're nothing to him. Don't you get it? Think about it! Why would he ever want you for anything other than that? Who ever would? No one could ever love you, except for me. Ah, hell! What do I care?'
What did Gilbert know?
How could he know anything about the world if Gilbert was always hovering over him? If Gilbert never let him out of his sight? If Gilbert was always so possessive. Obsessed.
Something had never been right up in Gilbert's head.
"Leave me alone! I'm so tired of you, Gilbert. Just leave me alone."
'You got yourself out here. So what! You did this to yourself! See what I care! Let him fuck ya, then, and see what I care! You're nothing to him. He doesn't love you. How stupid are you?'
No, no, that wasn't right. Ivan had said those words, hadn't he? Ivan wasn't like that. Ivan had said that he wanted him to stay, and no one had ever said that. If all Ivan wanted was that, he could have already had it by force. Hadn't. Hadn't hurt him.
Oh, god, his head hurt so badly.
"You don't know anything about it," he spat, and now he was shaking, and Gilbert was behind him, so close that he feel him, but he just kept on.
Sometimes...
He hated Gilbert.
'You're so stupid, Ludwig! He doesn't love you, you're so stupid!'
"Shut up!" he screeched, and without thinking, he gripped the glass in his hand and whirled around, aiming for Gilbert, too angry to consider the possible consequences of his actions. He had never been so angry.
So angry.
Fuckin' Gilbert never let him be, even after he was gone. Never let him go. He was so sick of Gilbert. He was so tired of only living for Gilbert. Gilbert always had to kick him when he was already down and out.
Hated Gilbert.
He swung. The glass gleamed in the bright light.
But nothing happened. The glass passed right through Gilbert's neck, and he flickered again like static, and only shook his head.
'Look at you.'
It struck Ludwig like lightning, what he had done—what he could have done—and the glass fell from his fingers as he began to tremble. Oh, no. Oh, Christ, if Gilbert had been real he would have killed him. He would have murdered his own brother. He would have become everything he hated. He would have fuckin' killed him.
He had never known that he was capable of this. Something like this.
'Look at you. Who are you? You're so stupid.'
Ludwig fell to his knees, and moaned, "I'm sorry!"
Who was he? He didn't know sometimes. Couldn't ever think.
"I'm sorry, Gilbert, I'm sorry!"
Too late.
Gilbert had left him. It was dark again. Oh, god, what had he done? He had the potential within him to be everything Ivan was. He would have killed Gilbert. Was this who he really was? So many things had been coming out of him lately. Didn't recognize himself anymore. Was this who he really was, what he had been born to be?
His parents—hadn't ever known them.
Where was Ivan? Had these things been there within him all along? Ivan brought out the worst in him.
...or maybe it was Gilbert who brought out the worst in him.
If they could just stop fighting.
...he had been ten, and Gilbert had held a bottle of alcohol in his hand. Ludwig had stepped into the room, and when Gilbert had seen him, he had set the bottle down, looking a little abashed. And then Gilbert had called him over, and he had crawled into Gilbert's lap, reaching up to play with his hair as Gilbert arched his neck up to kiss him upon the nose.
'You know what?' he had said, and Ludwig had looked into his eyes when Gilbert grabbed his chin. 'When my mom and dad died, I started drinkin' this stuff. But now that you're here, I feel a lot better.' Gilbert had kissed him again, and added, 'I'm tryin' to stop. I think I can, with you here. I really love you, kiddo. You're all I've got. I'd do anything for you. I'm trying to be better.'
And Gilbert had tried his best to stop. He just hadn't been able to. After a while, he had just given up.
His throat was dry.
How long had he been here? Weeks? Months? Years? Had Ivan forgotten him? Maybe Ivan didn't really love him, like Gilbert said. It had been so nice, hearing Ivan saying all those things, because no one else ever had. Ivan had said so many things, so many things, and Ludwig had started believing it, he really had.
Just wanted someone to love him. He had loved everyone in his life unconditionally, because he was so grateful to them for ever being with him in the first place. He had never felt worth it, had never understood why anyone would ever want to love him, and for that he was always so uncertain about how everyone truly felt about him. Loved them all, but was so scared that they didn't really love him back. Not really. That they just pitied him.
He was alone again.
He fell forward, pressing his face into the floor as he whispered to himself just to fill the silence, and the hours passed and passed and passed, and it occurred to him that maybe the glass had passed right through Gilbert because Gilbert was real, and maybe he wasn't. Maybe Gilbert was locked in this room, and he was just a hallucination. Maybe he had died, and Gilbert was seeing him as a ghost.
Maybe.
He was cold. He was alone. He didn't want to be alone anymore. If only Ivan would come back.
He was falling again.
His mind felt like it was struggling through a thick fog. It was getting harder to breathe. The air was stale. And right when he could feel himself starting to slip down again, Roderich and Erzsébet came to visit him.
Oh, thank god! He was so lonely.
A hand on his arm.
He needed someone. Anyone.
'Come on, Ludwig, get up,' Roderich whispered in his ear, and then Roderich pulled him upright onto his knees. Ludwig looked up, and oh, Roderich's face was so damn beautiful, lit up by the white lights and smiling down at him. The closest thing he had ever had to a father. Roderich had been his hero. Idol.
Roderich had been close to everything.
He reached out and wrapped his arms around Roderich's waist, burying his face into his shirt and nearly bursting into tears as he clenched fistfuls of fabric. Roderich placed a hand on his head, like he had so many years ago, and then someone else said, at his ear, 'Look at you, Ludwig! You're so pale!'
He looked over, and Erzsébet was beside him, on her knees, and their noses touched. Roderich reached out his other hand and rested it on the top of her head, and Ludwig was suddenly eight years old again, lost and cold and alone on the streets. Roderich and Erzsébet had come to his rescue again. Like they had before.
He smiled as Erzsébet lifted up and kissed his damp forehead.
His parents. They had been his parents.
'Let go, Ludwig. Just let go.'
Roderich ran his fingers through his hair.
'It's alright. To just go to sleep. Close your eyes. Look at you, you're so tired.'
He was, so tired, so tired, and he closed his eyes and held on to them for dear life, and they were warm and close and loving, and oh god weren't they real? Was he real?
Ha.
He remembered.
He had always wondered why Gilbert had never let him go a real school. Why he had to be homeschooled. But he had given it his all anyway, and had let Gilbert sit there on the floor with him and help him with his homework, and then mail the tests off. The papers came back days later, fully marked and edited.
Gilbert had always smiled at him, and said, 'You're so smart!'
He had done the work dutifully. Years later, when he was fifteen, he had learned the truth.
The 'teacher' that had marked his tests? Roderich.
They had just wanted him to feel like a normal kid.
Ludwig had gone to Roderich and sat down before him, and asked him why. Roderich had just looked so sad. He had tried to explain to Ludwig that he had had little recourse. With no birth certificate, no papers, no name. What else could they have done? Roderich had tried so hard, and surely, as powerful as Roderich was, he could have done more, but Gilbert always seemed to get in the way. Roderich had wanted to adopt him, but Gilbert's fury always stopped every venture short. Roderich, for whatever reason, hadn't used the full force of his powers to get around Gilbert.
Ludwig remembered that first day he had moved out, after that awful fight with Gilbert, when Roderich and Erzsébet had helped him settle into his first apartment.
Roderich had been beaming the whole time.
'I'm so proud of you,' Roderich had said, and Ludwig hadn't understood then why. What had there been to be proud of? He couldn't have done it alone. The apartment was in Roderich's name. Roderich paid the bills. Roderich had done everything.
Ludwig had just stood there, as Roderich placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he had just wanted to cry. Why be proud of him? He wasn't anyone. No one. Nobody.
He was nobody.
In his own country, and still very much alien.
Ludwig had finally said as much that day, still upset over hitting Gilbert for that first time, as he bowed his head and moaned, miserably, 'Why do you do all of this for me? I'm not anything to you. You don't even know who I am. How could you ever be proud of me? I'm nobody.'
And it was true, but Roderich had grabbed his arm all the same, and had shaken Ludwig so that he would look up.
He couldn't ever remember seeing Roderich looking so stern and yet somehow so vulnerable, and his eyes had glistened behind his glasses as he had said, in a very strict, if not thick, voice, 'You're not nobody. Don't ever say that. Ever. I love you, and I'm proud of you, because... Because you're the only son I'll ever have.'
Roderich had hugged him. Ludwig had cried then. All he had ever wanted was a real family.
He was so tired.
Roderich's fingers ran through his hair.
That apartment was gone. He was in this little room now.
'I missed you so much when you left,' Roderich suddenly lamented, as his hands ran down to take up Ludwig's face and force his eyes up. 'I wanted you to stay. We could have been a family.'
"I'm sorry. Gilbert was all alone."
He had always hated being torn between Roderich and Gilbert. How could he ever take sides, when he loved both of them? When he would have given his life for either one of them? He wished that they would have taken his feelings into more consideration when they had fought. That they had thought about how he felt when they screamed at each other.
'I'll always be here when you need me, Ludwig. Always. Don't let Gilbert wear you down.'
The fingers were suddenly gone.
And when Ludwig looked up, they were gone, too, but he could still hear Roderich's voice, as though it were right next to him.
'International negotiations are so fragile, Ludwig. Just like you. Here. Let's study a little. I know how much you like this kind of stuff.'
Everything was black again.
He dug his heels into the floor, scraping the skin on the stone, and he pushed back until the had hit the wall. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in them and began to rock back and forth, as Roderich tested his knowledge of foreign sympathies and ethics, and he blurted the answers aloud.
Even though he was alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
He spoke until his voice was hoarse and rough and his throat sore, and then he fell still in exhaustion and slipped into unconsciousness.
The days passed. Every hour was agony. Every minute was torture. Every second was hell.
No one had come to visit him again.
He felt sick. Strange. He walked around in circles in the room, cutting his feet raw on the shattered glass, bumping into the walls every so often, and when he could take no more monotony he grabbed up another shard of glass and held it in his hands. He spoke to it, but it did not speak back. But it was sharp, and when he pressed the edge of it into his arm, the pain made him feel much more real than he thought he was.
He was getting weaker. He had stopped drinking. Even though his body was screaming for water, his brain was just too blurry and lethargic to fumble around in the dark for it. It hurt to breathe.
His brain hurt, all the time. Like a fire that he could not put out.
The days passed.
He couldn't remember what anything looked like; there was only black. He could not remember what anything smelled like; the air was stale and getting thinner and thinner. He could not remember what the world sounded like; there was only a crushing silence.
Sometimes, he couldn't remember who he was. Ha! Funny. He had never known who he was. How stupid.
He was stupid.
He struggled to catch his breath. The air was becoming spent. The door just wouldn't open. The end was getting closer. He could feel himself slipping down the slope towards complete insanity.
Days passed. Ivan had not come for him.
He laid on the floor one day, on his side, completely spent as he came close to his limit, and finally, mercifully, Gilbert came back to see him. In a good mood. He had forgiven him for his earlier trespass.
'Lutz, why didn't you come visit me?'
Ludwig opened his eyes after a great struggle, and the bright light was back.
Gilbert laid next to him, head propped up on his hand, and he was watching Ludwig with those expressive eyes that Ludwig had always loved when they were calm. His other hand ran up and down Ludwig's side, affectionately.
"I'm sorry," Ludwig whispered, voice barely audible even over the silence, and he tried to reach out, but his hand fell short.
He just couldn't move. He had nothing left.
Finished.
Maybe Gilbert had just come to see him off.
'You didn't finish your homework, did you?' Gilbert chided, and he could only twitch his head.
"Sorry...big brother."
Hadn't called Gilbert that in years.
'That's alright. I'll finish it for you.'
He tried to smile.
Gilbert had done his best. Even if his best hadn't been very good. Gilbert had made so many mistakes, but he was only human.
A hand on his face. Gilbert was above him, whispering in his ear. He closed his eyes. His chest hurt.
A cool, gentle kiss upon his lips.
'Ludwig, I love you.'
"I love you too," he managed to moan, and when he tried to reach his hand up farther towards Gilbert, suddenly he was gone.
Gone.
I love you.
He couldn't bear it.
Gilbert was gone. He would never see him again. Never. Everything was gone. No one left.
Why did you leave me?
Resting his face on the floor, Ludwig dug his fingers into the stone and gave up. Complete and utter surrender.
He burst into tears.
He couldn't remember the last time he had cried before this whole mess, not like this, crying so hard that his entire body shook and ached with the effort. He gave up. Sobbed so hard that he almost blacked out from the exertion.
It was time to let go. He was ready for it all to be over. If he could have done things over again...
If he could have gone back, he would have tried harder to make Gilbert go back to the doctor. Tried harder to make Gilbert calm down. Tried harder to figure him out. So they would have had more time together. Gilbert had been everything. His life. He had lived for Gilbert. Gilbert was gone. Why bother anymore? Gilbert had left him.
As he lay there quivering and trembling and sobbing and crying out to no one, suddenly the light on the ceiling came to life like the sun.
The door began to creak open.
A split second of incomprehension, immobility, and then he could only shriek and bury his face in his bloody palms as the force of the light tore his deprived eyes and brain and lit them up like an inferno. It was too bright.
It was too bright.
Turn it off.
He writhed this way and that on the floor, cutting himself on the fallen glass, screaming and kicking his legs, and oh god, he could have died right there from the pain in his head. Never had he felt such pain. Not ever. It cut through him like a knife, felt like he was being stabbed over and over, and it was not until someone had knelt down next to him and pushed his face into their chest that he finally came down enough to realize what was happening.
Pain.
He breathed in a familiar cologne.
Ivan.
Ivan had come back for him. Like he had promised.
Oh, fuckin' Christ, that pain—
Shaking so hard that he couldn't breathe, he grabbed handfuls of Ivan's shirt, sobbing and doing everything he could to keep his eyes away from the merciless light, and Ivan leaned down and kissed the top of his head.
"It's alright. It's alright. I've got you. See? I told you I would come back."
A voice. A real voice. It was music to his ears.
He tried to speak, but only a high-pitched whimper came out, and Ivan was suddenly running a soothing hand up and down his back, and whispered in his ear, "You're alright. How do you feel? It hurts, doesn't it?"
He nodded into Ivan's coat, unable to speak, and barely able to think. Couldn't think, couldn't do anything, not a thing, it hurt so fuckin' bad.
"You don't want this to happen again, do you?"
He shook his head.
White-hot pain. He could have died.
Couldn't stop sobbing.
"I don't want that, either. I hate seeing you like this, but I had to do it. You know I had to do it, don't you? It's your fault. I didn't want to, but you forced me. But it will all be alright now. I'm here. And you'll behave from now on, won't you? So that I won't have to put you in here again."
Again?
Oh god, no, no, no, no. He could not do this again. Not again. Oh god, he would do anything Ivan wanted, anything at all, to avoid going through this again. The worst moments of his life, on a constant loop? He'd stick the glass in his neck.
He nodded again, and he realized now, as he clung to Ivan's shirt blindly, unfathomable pain shooting through his brain as his neurons tried to piece themselves back together, why Toris was so deathly afraid of the slamming of a door. The slamming of a door was more horrifying than a gunshot. The slamming of a door was to look into the face of oblivion. The slamming of a door was to forget who you were.
Couldn't ever be in here again.
Ivan held him firmly, and then pulled him to his feet, and it was with gentle whispers in his ear that he was led away. Couldn't really walk, and Ivan eventually just scooped him up and carried him easily out.
Out of the room, and the air was cool and fresh and breathable.
He prayed that this was real. He could not bear it if this was a hallucination. He couldn't.
Ivan never stopped speaking to him. Ludwig clenched Ivan's shirt for dear life, not letting go of him for anything in the world. Ivan didn't leave his side, even for a second, and when he felt the softness of a bed beneath him, he held his palms over his eyes, as the awful pain in his head made him want to retch.
"Here, look, I turned the light down. See if you can open your eyes."
He didn't want to try, but he did anyway, and it was with reluctance that he tried to squint them open.
A moment of blackness, and then dancing lights, and then finally his vision cleared.
He was in his bedroom. No more endless white.
Ivan sat on the edge of the bed, and the lamp of the end table was on the lowest setting, casting out a dim yellow light. It was still too bright, and he shielded his eyes from it, and finally Ivan reached out, and touched his shoulder.
Turn the damn thing off.
"Look here," Ivan whispered, and Ludwig finally met his eyes.
Ivan was real.
Ivan was real, he was sure of it. Oh, god. Ivan was smiling.
"I missed you. Did you miss me too? See, I told you I'd come back for you. Didn't you believe me?"
Ludwig could only stare at him, overwhelmed.
Ivan.
Ivan was the most terrible and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in that instant. Ivan, who wielded power over night and day, over sense and sanity, over life and death. Who could push him to the absolute brink of insanity and then pull him back.
Ivan came back for him. Ivan was real.
Had never seen anything like Ivan.
Ivan sat down beside of him on the bed, pulling him up tightly in his arms as he struggled to piece back together the broken shards of his sanity, and this time, when Ivan pressed his lips against his ear and whispered, "I'll protect you. I love you," it sounded strangely reasonable.
Because, after all, Ivan had saved him from the dark.
Ludwig only clenched fistfuls of Ivan's shirt, burying his face in Ivan's chest, trying to get as close as possible, and the horrible memories that the room had brought back to the surface were slowly fading away.
The past didn't matter. He had to live in the present to survive.
He tried to pull Ivan ever closer, even though he was already practically in Ivan's lap, and Ivan just snorted, and stroked his hair.
"Miss me?" A nod. "I missed you, too."
When the shooting pain in his head dulled down into a throb, Ludwig looked up, and when he met Ivan's eyes, he asked, huskily, "Hey. You're real, aren't you?"
Ivan only smiled. That was enough.
He could have sat here and hugged Ivan for days. That man.
He wasn't alone anymore. No more whispering.
Ivan sat upright, suddenly, and for a horrible, heart-racing moment, Ludwig thought that he was going to leave, and he couldn't bear to be alone again, but Ivan only reached over down onto the floor and hauled up a bag. A first-aid kit that he must have put there days ago in preparation, and when Ivan sat it on the bed and leaned forward, pulling the shirt from Ludwig's shoulders gingerly, he began to speak again.
"I'm so impressed with you, you know. I've never had to turn the light off before. For a while there, I thought you might die! You're so brave." He pulled a bottle from the bag, and Ludwig only watched as he uncapped it and whispered, "This will sting."
Brave?
A cotton ball was soaked in the liquid, and then it was pressed against the wound on his chest. It burned like fire, and he winced, but Ivan's hands would not let him flinch back. Ludwig bowed his head at the pain, but Ivan's soothing words made it bearable, and then the liquid was rubbed against the cuts on his hands, and then his feet.
Ivan never stopped smiling.
He hadn't been brave. Hadn't felt that way at all.
"I still can't believe it! I knew you were something special, you know, as soon as I saw you. But I admit that you surprise me sometimes. You Germans, you have to act so tough all the time. Ha. I like that. I do. You're really great. Ah, I wish my German were better, so I could say what I really mean."
Good enough.
Ludwig could only lay there, and let Ivan croon words of endearment as he pulled out a needle and thread and then he looked up, saying, coolly, "I've got to stitch them. It will hurt a little. Which one should I do first?"
Which one? Did it matter? They would all hurt the same.
He only shrugged a shoulder, and Ivan's smile widened. "You're right, it's better for me to decide." He threaded the needle, and Ludwig clamped his jaw shut as he began to stitch up the deep cut on his chest. "See, it's better for me to do all this for you. I can make the decisions for you. You don't really need anyone else, do you? Isn't it nice, having someone take care of you?"
Well.
Yeah, actually. It really was. Everything he had ever wanted, just to rely on someone.
A short silence, as Ivan's eyes bored into his own, and Ludwig could only nod his head, helplessly.
Ivan's smile then was almost more of a smirk.
"Glad we understand each other."
Ivan's voice was smooth in his ears.
Only Ivan's voice.
Where had Gilbert's voice gone? Now that he was out of the room, it was gone. Like smoke. He could not hear it. He used to hear it so frequently in his head, no matter where he was. Now he struggled just to get a second of it; he struggled to remember the pitch and the tone. The inflections and the accents. Gilbert's voice.
Couldn't hear it.
And every time he thought he had it...
"I won't let anything happen to you."
...only Ivan's voice.
He was falling. He couldn't seem to climb back up.
And honestly, the further into the abyss he fell, the less he was sure that he wanted back up. Felt so good to have someone that he could put himself on. Someone into whose hands he could entrust himself.
Ivan set the bag aside an hour or so later, and pulled Ludwig up onto his chest, laying them side by side together. He let Ivan do as he would, and rested his head, and suddenly the blanket was pulled over him. A shift beside him, and then the light was off.
Ivan stayed with him the whole night. He was glad. He didn't want to be alone.
Right before he faded into unconsciousness, Ivan leaned in and whispered, in his ear, "You'll stay here with me forever. We were meant to be together. I can tell. Can't you feel it? I've looked so long for someone. I never found anyone. Until you. I was in Berlin for a reason now, I know it."
Forever.
Gilbert had been wrong. Ivan did love him. No one else had ever spoken to him like that. Gilbert was wrong.
For the first time, he felt his guard dropping, and he was so sick of worrying and fighting. He just wanted to be with someone who cared about him. Gilbert wasn't here anymore, but it wasn't so bad, because Ivan had stepped up to take his place.
Barely conscious and desperate to be reminded that he was no longer alone (and very much real) he reached up clumsily and threw his arms around Ivan's neck as tightly as he could. In doing so, he threw away his resilience. His pride. His independence. As if it mattered. He had none of that left now, anyhow. He was spent.
Ivan had won. Ivan always won.
Ludwig had never been any sort of match for a man like Ivan. Had never stood a chance.
There was a silence, and then Ivan gave a deep noise of contentment, and tightened his embrace, resting his chin on the top of Ludwig's head. The moon streamed in weakly through the curtains, and Ludwig finally fell asleep, Ivan tucked firmly into his side.
Going with the flow was so much easier.
He gave up. Ivan won.
Gilbert was gone, and that was that.