Chapter 25

Through the Door

It wasn't such a big deal.

It was just a simple relocation. Not even a difficult one. It wasn't like he was moving to a different house, or even switching numerous possessions from one bedroom to another. All he was going to do was sleep in a different bed. It wasn't a big deal.

So why did he feel so sick?

It had been a long day.

Could still feel the gun heavy in his hands, long after it had gone. Could still see the tiger in his mind, long after it had gone. And he could still sense Ivan's hand over his eyes, long after it had gone.

Somehow, he felt back in the dark.

Night was coming, and Ludwig was now forced to look back and regret upon his precipitous decision to 'move into', as Ivan had put it, Ivan's room. Didn't want to be alone, yeah, and he had sincerely meant it when he had agreed, but with every minute that ticked by, anxiety was building up in his chest. Oh, why had he ever agreed to such a thing?

The sun was getting ever lower, and as he sat now at the kitchen table in between Ivan and Irina, the mounting dread squirming in his stomach was so strong that he could not even take up his coffee. They did not seem to notice his distress.

His chest hurt. The stitches were starting to itch. Did that mean they were ready to come out?

He glanced at Ivan out of the corner of his eye, and Ivan smiled. Waiting. Anticipating.

Ludwig was terrified of being alone, but was somehow more terrified of being in Ivan's bed.

It was too late now. He could not back out of something that he had agreed to. Not with Ivan. Ivan did not allow such relapses. Ivan didn't make mistakes; Ludwig was not expected to, either.

Ivan stood up abruptly, and Ludwig somehow knew it was time. Ivan twitched his head for Ludwig to follow, and he did, feeling so ill. Cold and clammy. He trailed behind Ivan through the halls, like a dog, and as he went he looked around, helplessly, for Toris. Hoping that Toris would appear out of nowhere and come to his rescue and tell Ivan that maybe it wasn't such a good idea for them to share a room, that maybe it had been too soon.

Toris just wasn't anywhere to be found, and finally the sun was gone.

Why wasn't Toris ever there when Ludwig needed him? Toris never helped him. Nowhere in sight.

His head hurt.

He smelled faintly of gunpowder. Couldn't stand the smell. Made him think of a woman in a blue dress.

Ivan glanced over at him, and asked, "Ready for bed? It's a bit early, but you must be tired."

Leaping on a slight delay, Ludwig asked, weakly, "Can we walk around a bit?"

A twitch of irritation in Ivan's brow.

Ludwig added, weakly, "I was in bed so long. It's...nice to walk."

It wasn't. Hurt like hell, but he was afraid to walk into Ivan's room, because he felt as if he would never leave it again.

Still, Ivan's brow came up, he looked a bit calmer, and he lifted his chin and started walking aimlessly through the halls. Ludwig followed him, and the entire while they walked his mind whirred away. Trying to think of a way out.

Couldn't think of one.

The hour grew late, his chest ached with the effort, and yet every time Ivan asked him if he was ready to call it a day, Ludwig would only shake his head stubbornly and force himself to move forward. He was ready to drop, honestly. The dread in his stomach fueled him on. The little voice of warning in his head told him to put this off for as long as possible. His common sense, however, was alerting him that Ivan looked more and more annoyed every time Ludwig refused to go to bed.

Not safe either way, and Ivan's patience was not endless.

As soon as that thought passed his mind, it was almost instant. Before him, Ivan fell to a halt, so suddenly that Ludwig nearly crashed into his back, and when he looked over his shoulder, the sternness in his pale eyes was a clear indicator that the time had come.

"It's been a long day," Ivan said, pointedly, as though this game of cat and mouse had suddenly bored him, and as Ludwig's headache intensified, he added, strictly, "You're tired. You need to rest. Come on. Follow me."

Oh, god. There was no getting out of it.

What could he do? He would occupy Ivan's bed tonight.

Giving in to his fear and without really thinking, Ludwig said, lowly, "I'm not so tired. Not really."

He pressed too far.

There was a silence as Ivan turned around to face him, and his look was so severe and his voice so stern that Ludwig wondered if the ice had broken beneath him as he snapped, angrily, "Who was asking you? I stayed with you all day, didn't I? You asked me to, so I did. I don't have time to waste like you do. I do everything for you. You don't have to worry about anything. I have responsibilities. I have work to do, and when I put it off, it's an annoyance. The army never sleeps. Everything's so easy for you, you know! I take care of you. I told you I had work to do but you wanted me to stay, so I stayed. Now it's your turn to do what I say. I don't have any more time to spare. Stop being childish and come on."

Then Ivan turned and stalked off down the halls, and for a horrible moment, Ludwig could only stand there.

His heart was hammering. Head aching. Nausea.

Childish. The words stung, and the dread in his stomach was replaced with something worse.

Guilt.

Because it was true, the things Ivan had said. Ivan did do everything here. Ivan took care of everyone, and he did not ask for much in return. Only that everyone listened to him when he spoke; that they did whatever he told them to do. And he remembered that moment in the morning, when Ivan had made to leave him, and hadn't Ludwig been the one who had asked him to stay? Maybe he was being selfish. Ivan did everything for him. He was being disrespectful, perhaps.

The guilt mingled with a strange terror. Was Ivan angry? He had sworn to himself that he would never make Ivan angry again.

God—

Finding his feet, Ludwig struggled onwards after Ivan, trying to catch up to him. Ivan had already made a turn and was scaling the staircase, halfway up the top, and Ludwig could only bolt after him, spurred on by adrenaline and fear.

If Ivan was angry...

Couldn't be angry, oh, god, couldn't be angry. Couldn't be in there again, not again. Couldn't be angry.

Dizzy and desperate to prevent a dark calamity, Ludwig finally reached Ivan, several steps above him, and managed to grab the end of his sleeve. Everything fell still, and Ivan stopped where he was. Ludwig waited, breathlessly, fingers tangled in the fabric of Ivan's coat and fearing that it was far too late.

He had just gotten out of that room. He did not want to go back. Please, please, couldn't be angry—

Finally, Ivan turned back to him, and the eyes that he had expected to be dark were actually quite calm. Ivan's cool smile returned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred, as if harsh words had never been uttered, and when he spoke this time, his voice was soft and pretty.

"Are you alright?"

Ludwig stood there, immobile and terrified, and then he nodded, dumbly. Confusion crept up.

His head hurt.

Hadn't Ivan just been angry?

That little voice was screeching something in the back of his mind, and he struggled to make out its warning; he grasped, however vaguely, that he was being played, being conditioned. Hadn't this been how Gilbert had gotten his way? Calm one minute and then so angry the next, shouting and screaming until Ludwig had just let him do as he pleased in exhaustion. It was just one of the scare tactics of people like them, wasn't it? They weren't really angry (well, maybe Gilbert had been sometimes), and to get their way they wielded anger as easily as someone else wielded a gun. Anger, or guilt-tripping, or blaming everything on him.

It was all the same. Emotional manipulation.

Ivan hadn't really been angry. He had just wanted Ludwig to do what he said.

"You look so tired," Ivan suddenly whispered, and when he reached out and placed a firm palm down on the top of his head, Ludwig shut the voice down and tried to smile as the haze in his mind returned.

Who cared if Ivan's anger had been an act or not? It was still frightening. It still had consequences. Didn't matter.

Ivan took his hand, and gripped. "Come on. You should lay down."

This time Ludwig didn't protest, far too scared to do so, and allowed Ivan to drag him off to where he would, as the voice of warning was stifled by the mists of Ivan's presence. Ivan pulled him along at his side, and as they roamed the second story, Ivan suddenly leaned his head down, and murmured in his ear, "I'm sorry I shouted at you."

Before, such a comment would have made him scoff, perhaps, and think, 'No you're not!'

But his head hurt, and he was so relieved that Ivan was not angry that all he could do was squeeze Ivan's hand and whisper, weakly, "It's my fault. Sorry."

Sorry.

It had been his fault. He had been inconsiderate.

Ivan stared down at him with a smile and an expression that looked like a mixture of pleasure and triumph, and he said nothing more.

The halls were dim, lit up by wall lamps whose bulbs were far too weak, flickering in the last throes of life, and the shadows cast around were eerie. This house was so huge, and so empty. How could even Ivan know everything that went on in here? Maybe the house had a mind of its own. The shadows appeared and disappeared with the flickering of the bulbs. Ivan didn't seem daunted by the low light and the chilly air, and when they rounded another corner, there was a short hallway, and at the end of it stood an unassuming door.

He felt faint.

Ivan's room. His room.

...their room.

He shuddered, but Ivan didn't seem to notice, and the door had suddenly been pushed open.

A moment of darkness, and then Ivan flipped on the light. And somehow Ivan was suddenly behind him, and pushed him through the doorway, and into the room that he would now call his own.

He tried to take it in with a blurry mind.

Maps.

This room was far larger than the others he had seen. The ceiling was high and arched. A huge chandelier hung above, and he could not help but wonder whose frightening job it was to climb up a ladder and change those light bulbs when they died (Toris, no doubt). The curtains were red. The carpet was white. A desk was off to the left, covered in folders and papers and a cup full of pens. In the middle of the floor was an expensive rug, Persian maybe. The four-post bed was straight in front of the door, up against the wall. The sheets were red. The thin curtains that fell down around the bed were white. Above the bed, pinned to that cloth that covered the posts, there hung a huge map. So that Ivan could stare up at it and fall asleep owning the world, no doubt.

On every wall, actually, there were maps. Different continents, different countries, states and counties.

Rather overwhelming.

The closet stood off to the right. The door was shut.

He could see Ivan's shadow looming out against his own. He should not be here.

The bed stood before him.

A wave of fright washed over him. Dread. Those maps, for whatever reason, scared him, if only because there were so many. He took a hesitant step backwards. The adrenaline was making him sick.

He should never have come here. Silent danger. He took another step back.

Get out.

Another step backwards.

It wasn't safe here. He was on the verge of flight.

Go.

His foot lifted.

Then Ivan slammed the bedroom door shut behind him.

He inhaled so hard that it hurt his chest, jumping into the air and whirling around so fast that he was afraid he would fall, flooded with a horrible panic that he had never known, because, oh god, if Ivan had shut the door and left him alone with only his own fragile mind as company—

Not alone.

Ivan was still there. He stood before the closed door, arms loose at his sides and smiling amicably, as though all was right with the world, eyes cool and casual. Even though Ludwig knew, somewhere inside, that it was just another scare tactic, like Ivan's anger, even though he knew that he was being bullied and manipulated, god help him, it worked.

"Do you like it?"

A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and Ludwig was so nauseous that he was sure he would faint, but he smiled palely and weakly at Ivan nonetheless, and managed to whisper, "It's... It's pretty."

It worked. His head was spinning.

The door was shut. Ivan stood before it.

Dizzy and dazed, Ludwig just smiled then, because he didn't know what else to do. Could barely breathe. Anxiety was something he was becoming accustomed to. No more pills. Had to learn to manage it alone.

The maps loomed out. Long, bold, black marks were scribbled over most of them, creating lines that cut through borders and sometimes fell on top of towns and cities. There were occasional scribbles in Russian. Thumbtacks marked destinations and maybe targets. On some of the maps, there were great black 'X's over little cities, towns, villages. Ludwig could only imagine what had happened to those towns.

A calendar sat between two maps. He squinted to make out the date.

January the fourth.

He lowered his brow in thought. Only January? Barely the new year. He had thought it would be so much later.

Ludwig turned to Ivan and asked, with a tremor, "How long was I gone?"

Gone from the world, lost in oblivion, and Ivan knew what he meant.

"Eleven days," was the cool response, and he felt faint. Horror.

Eleven days?

It had felt like months. Months. Not eleven days.

Ivan snorted at his expression, reached out a hand and ran in down Ludwig's cheek, and said, "A record. I knew you were brave, but I didn't think you would last that long. You impressed me. And I know you're tired for it. So. Go lay down."

Oh.

His heart was racing again, as Ivan began to push him gently backwards towards the bed, and that panic was back. Because the last time he had laid down in a bed with Ivan, something that should have been simple, there had suddenly been the barrel of a gun against his forehead, and who could say if this time would be any different?

He dug his heels in the carpet, and tried to stop himself. Ivan stared at him, and then tilted his head.

"What? Aren't you going to lay down?"

He couldn't seem to find his voice, and something in Ivan's eyes was sharpening.

"You don't want to sleep here?"

He didn't know why he was so frightened to lay down in that bed.

He couldn't answer.

Ivan stopped in his tracks, and his smile was almost a leer.

"What's wrong?"

Helplessly, Ludwig looked over his shoulder back at the bed, and Ivan must have sensed his trepidation and nervousness, and acted upon them, taking charge like he always did. Suddenly he had changed direction, and now they were parallel with the bed rather than in front of it. Ludwig was frozen under Ivan's gaze. He knew that he should submit, because it was just a bed, and resisting only brought worse things. Such worse things.

He just couldn't find his voice.

"What?" Ivan asked, almost breathlessly, as he reached out and grabbed up Ludwig's collar within his hands, "What's wrong? Huh? What is it?"

Ludwig didn't realize that with every word, Ivan was pushing him steadily backwards.

"What's wrong? Are you scared or something? What? It's just a bed. Didn't you say you wanted to sleep here?"

Ivan's leer was almost knowing. They fell back another step.

"Well, then. Here's what we'll do. If you don't want to sleep in the bed..." A hardness from behind. Ivan pushed him back until his shoulder blades dug into the wall. "...then you can sleep in the closet. How about that? Does that sound alright?"

Ivan's voice was gentle.

"Is that alright?"

The closet?

Dumbly, Ludwig looked back, and realized that he was pushed up against the closet door, not the wall. Ivan was pressing him against it mercilessly, and before Ludwig really knew what was happening, Ivan had reached beneath him and grabbed the handle of the door. A swift movement, too fast for his foggy mind to comprehend, and the door was pulled open. And then he realized that Ivan was pressing him back again, still holding his collar.

Darkness fell over him.

He was dangling in the threshold, held up by Ivan's strong hands in his collar, half in and half out of the closet, and Ivan's eyes were churning with what could have been excitement. Tormenting Ludwig like that seemed to give him a kick.

"Well? What's it going to be?"

Ludwig looked over his shoulder, into the small, dark, murky closet, and shuddered. He couldn't bear to be cast in there. Woulda died the very second that Ivan had shut the door.

"Oh, come on," Ivan coaxed, gently, "Is that really where you want to be?"

The closet was dark. Who knew what lay in wait within. In the darkness. A shift of shadows. Reaching up in a moment of godawful anxiety, Ludwig grabbed Ivan's warm wrists within his hands, and shook his head.

Ivan's smile loosened.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, and Ludwig could only shake his head again, and smile, wearily.

...it hadn't been so hard. An obvious choice. He should have realized it immediately.

Ivan's hands unclenched from his collar and fell down to his shoulders, and when strong fingers dug into his muscles in a strangely comforting vice, Ludwig slumped in something that almost felt like submission. A strange feeling, and yet somehow it was liberating, to let someone else be in charge, and he tried to relax. If he could just relax, everything would be so much easier. So much easier to submit to Ivan.

Ivan was watching him expectantly, and finally Ludwig managed to whisper, "Sorry."

Just like that, he was ripped away from the looming void of that dark closet, and when Ivan reached back and shut the door, quietly, Ludwig suppressed his sigh of relief, and was grateful. Too close. He was still being too careless. He would have to learn more quickly what could and could not be done. Resistance was not accepted. Defiance was not permitted. Hesitation was not tolerated.

Ivan expected immediate submission, and Ludwig was damn close to giving it to him.

"Don't worry about it," Ivan crooned in his ear, hands falling heavily on the back of his neck, "It's alright. I just can't stay angry with you. Maybe because I love you so much. My weakness."

The words were smooth in his ears, and the anxiety was evaporating.

Ivan was patient.

Ludwig didn't open his mouth again, for fear of saying the wrong thing, as Ivan led him to the edge of the bed and forced him gently to sit, and from there, everything passed in a dull haze. Ludwig crawled under the blanket, laying down in utter exhaustion, and he watched through blurry eyes as Ivan turned off the overhead light, flipped on the lamp on the end table, and after grabbing up a thick stack of papers, Ivan settled in next to him, resting back against the headboard. As Ludwig began to drift, Ivan took up a pen and set to the paperwork he had neglected to complete earlier.

And that was it. What had he been afraid of?

The great map hung from overhead. The closet door was shut.

He fell asleep, as Ivan's pen scratched the paper.

He didn't dream.

Yet he could feel the looming darkness of the closet, even as he slept. He awoke hours later in the black of night at a movement in the dark, in a panic. But it was only Ivan finally laying down to sleep, and when Ludwig's eyes adjusted to the moonlight, he stared at the closet door.

It was still shut.

Ivan threw an arm over his chest, pulled him in, and he didn't move as Ivan whispered in his ear until he drifted off. Ludwig found it hard to go back to sleep as Ivan's soft words ran through his head.

We'll always be together.

As Ivan slept away, Ludwig only stared up at that great map up above, tracing the rivers and the roads that cut across the landscape, and no matter how hard he tried not to, his eyes always fell back to Berlin.

Berlin. Berlin was just a memory now. This was the closest he would ever be to Berlin again; staring at a map. From this bed. Well. At least he could see that dot that he had once called home, and take some kind of quiet comfort in it until he fell asleep. He could memorize the roads, even though he would never again use them. He could envision his street, even though he would never see it again. The forest beyond.

The longing ache in his heart was painful.

Berlin.

Ivan slept so easily. Without a care. Confidence and self-satisfaction were easy to fall asleep to. Self-doubt and apprehension were not, and neither was longing. But, after hours of restlessness, Ludwig slept again too, held up inescapably against Ivan's chest. It was alright. It was nice, even, somehow, to have someone holding him after so long, after all of those years in solitude in the West. He turned at some point in the night, without realizing it, and embraced Ivan around the neck. Ivan's grip upon him tightened. In a way, held like that, he almost felt safe.

Safe. Couldn't remember the last time he had felt safe.

It was nice.

The night passed uneventfully, and when the morning broke, he awoke to the sound of Ivan's pen. When he opened his eyes, Ivan was sitting there next to him, waiting patiently for him to come around. He was glad that he did not awake alone. Ivan was always with him.

He realized suddenly that he was making everything stressful and difficult. Not Ivan. All he needed to do was relax and cooperate, and he wouldn't have to worry about being held in between light and darkness, in the threshold of some door. He was making things difficult. Ivan didn't ask so much of him, not really. Maybe he had been being selfish. He would try to be less difficult.

Ivan glanced down at him between papers, and finally asked, voice husky, "Are you ready to get up, or do you need more beauty sleep? It's almost noon."

Abashed, he lifted himself up at the waist, and squinted his eyes in the pale sunlight that streamed in, chest heavy with sleep.

"Sorry," he rasped, and Ivan was smiling.

He never used to sleep in so late.

...it seemed that lately, all he had been saying was, 'sorry, sorry, sorry'.

A heavy hand fell atop his head, and Ivan only said, easily, "Don't worry. You can sleep as long as you want. I don't mind sitting here with you, really I don't. I love spending time with you. I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

Ludwig smiled then, too, because it felt good to have someone say that they didn't mind sitting there with him, no matter how boring he was or how silent. Gilbert never stayed.

Gilbert? Strange. He hadn't thought about Gilbert at all the night before. Not even once. He had thought about how much he missed Berlin, sure. But not Gilbert.

...strange.

He shrugged it off, and when Ivan stood up and extended a hand, he took it, and went about the day as normally as could ever be expected. It was better not to think about Gilbert at all.

The day passed. Ivan's mood was good. By the time the sun was setting again, his mood wasn't so bad either. He could make things easier. All he had to do was try.

The second night, when it came, was just the same as the first. Ivan sat up and worked silently until Ludwig fell asleep, and then Ivan came to bed hours later and threw an arm over his chest, and they slept. The third night passed the same. With every calm night, Ludwig was grateful that Ivan was acclimating him to this room, to this bed, to this world, so patiently. When he did what Ivan wanted, everything went so easily and so smoothly that it was almost astonishing.

So it had been him, after all, that had been the difficult one.

Everything went on without great event, until the calendar marked the seventh.

And then when he woke up in the morning light, it was Irina, and not Ivan, who was sitting there on the bed next to him, watching him with a fond smile until he came into consciousness.

A Saturday morning.

"Good morning!" Irina chirped, merrily, as soon as she saw him looking up at her, and when Ludwig cleared his throat and responded politely, pulling the covers up to his chin in slight embarrassment, he was surprised at himself.

Because he was disappointed that it wasn't Ivan who was there with him.

Irina saw him looking over this way and that, and her smile was bright.

"He's gone. He went into town to get some things for tonight."

Tonight? What was happening tonight?

Anxiety.

Before he could ask, she held out her hand, and said, "Here! This is for you! I thought I'd give it to you early. I'm forgetful sometimes, so its better to do it now before I start drinking." She laughed, loudly, and he sat up, staring down.

She held out a book.

"What's this for?" he finally managed, and she sent him a strange look, and shook the book in the air, waiting for him to take it.

"It's your Christmas present, silly! What did you think?"

Christmas? He had missed Christmas.

Staring down at the book in her hand, he asked, dumbly, "What's today?"

She smiled, cheerily, oblivious to his confusion.

"The seventh, of course!"

As he furrowed his brow, she stared at him, and then she suddenly laughed again.

"Oh! That's right! You guys do it differently, don't you? Ivan told me, but, like I said, I'm forgetful sometimes! I'm sorry. Well, Christmas is on the seventh here, so that's why. And we get to have two New Year's days! Isn't that great? Of course, sometimes Ivan drinks too much, but then again, I do too, so I guess I shouldn't say anything."

Her fast words and loud voice and casual smile were almost too much for Ludwig to understand, and finally, he reached out and took the book.

So, then, tonight was when the Russians would celebrate their Christmas, and Ivan was out in town. His stomach squirmed with nervousness. He wasn't accustomed to normal Christmases. Usually, his Christmases ended up with a drunk Gilbert erupting into an argument with a tipsy Roderich. And when they were both drunk? Forget about it. Screaming. Shrieking.

God only knew how this one would go.

"Do you like it?"

Finally, Ludwig looked down at the book, and his brow lowered.

A Russian dictionary.

A thoughtful gesture, no doubt, and how could she have known that such a gift would just be another silent blow to his independence? A painful reminder that Russia was his home now, not Germany, and if he really wanted to fit in, if he really wanted to survive, to move onward, then he had no choice but to learn Russian, a language that had once made him shudder just to hear it spoken.

But he smiled weakly at her nonetheless, and said, "Thank you," and was ashamed, because he had nothing for her. "Sorry. I didn't know, or I would have..."

He trailed off, as she held out arms.

"It's okay. I'll accept a hug."

He sat there for a moment, embarrassed, but he finally fell forward, and granted her a quick embrace. He pulled back after a second, awkwardly. She didn't seem to care at all about his awkwardness, and suddenly she had pulled out a pair of scissors from her pocket and snipped them threateningly in the air.

"Get up," she said, as she leaned towards him. "You need a haircut. Badly."

He obeyed, knowing that it was true, his damn hair all in his eyes and already down the back of his neck. He fell into the chair near the desk, holding the book to his chest, and as she hovered above him, snipping here and there and speaking aloud about nothing, he opened the first page.

A pang.

Seeing those strange letters on the paper, he was filled with something that felt like a mixture of despair and resignation, sadness, and as strands of platinum fell atop the page, he brushed them away, and began to study.

She seemed pleased. He felt somewhat ill.

As she groomed him, he would place his finger upon a syllable every so often, and as she leaned over his shoulder and pronounced it for him, he would fumble over it, and with every terrible attempt, he was steadily losing heart. The tones and vowels felt so strange on his tongue. It was difficult.

She saw his look of defeat, maybe, and prodded his shoulder gently, saying, "Don't worry! It looks scary at first, but it'll get easier after a while." As an afterthought, and seeing his look of hopelessness, she added, "You know, Ivan never thought he would learn German. He used to sit there and look at the book like that, too. Some words are so long, and when you were sick, he called me over sometimes and made me pronounce everything for him." She laughed, and ruffled his now neatly clipped hair. "That's about the only thing I could ever help him with. He's so much smarter, but he used to hate Germans so he never wanted to learn. But he did. So he could talk to you."

Ludwig could feel the warm flush on his cheeks, and the thought of Ivan sitting and studying German with such determination just to speak to him was somehow thrilling. Ivan, who hated Germans.

Well, Ivan had done it for him. He could at least try.

Spurred on by the desire to prove himself, he kept the book close to his chest the entire morning, as Irina dragged him around the house, and every spare moment he tried to memorize a new letter.

He could do this.

The morning passed into the afternoon, Irina stuck with him every second (had Ivan told her he did not want to be alone?) and finally, after days of not being in sight, Toris reappeared, as if from thin air.

Ah, Toris. Where had he been?

When Irina led Ludwig back to the kitchen for lunch, Toris was already in there, that boy at his side, and they sat at the table, a great bowl of water sitting there between them. When they saw them there, they looked up, and Toris smiled at Irina as he greeted her quite easily. Then Toris' eyes fell on Ludwig, and his voice was much lower and somewhat unfriendly, as he said, "Hey."

Ludwig gave a weak, "Hi," and felt a bit hurt as Irina went over and fell into conversation with Toris, who seemed to be ignoring his presence.

What had he done now? Toris, always so unhelpful. Always angry with him, it seemed.

A crack caught his attention, and he looked over to the boy, who was shelling walnuts. The empty shells were handed over to Toris, who aligned them in a neat little row. Curious, Ludwig came over, even though Toris was in an aggressive mood. Out of the corner of his eye, Toris watched him creeping forward with lidded eyes and crinkled nose.

"I haven't seen you for a while, Toris," Ludwig tried, tentatively.

Toris sent him a quick glance, and snipped, "I've been around."

"Oh."

Ludwig furrowed his brow, and lowered his eyes to the floor, feeling stupid.

Irina pulled out a seat for him, and when he sat, she supplied conversation that Toris was denying. "Here, look, Ludwig! This will be nice for you! This is something that Toris does every Christmas. It's pretty neat! It's kind of like fortune-telling, I guess." She pointed to the little walnut shells, and then to the water, and added, "See? Each shell is like a little boat! You put a little candle in it and set it in the water, and if it makes it to the other side, then you'll have good luck all year!"

Toris rolled his eyes, and took up a long taper candle, cutting it into small portions with a knife. From the look on his face, he was probably envisioning Ludwig there beneath his knife.

There were four shells, though, and Irina suddenly said to Toris, a bit pointedly, "Don't you think you need one more?"

Toris glanced up, catching Ludwig's eye, and it was apparent to Ludwig that Toris had had no intention at all of involving him in this odd little Christmas tradition. And that was fine with Ludwig, but Irina's look had become stern, and Toris finally grumbled something to the boy, who set merrily upon cracking another walnut.

"Ludwig," Irina said, "You haven't even really met Raivis, yet, have you?"

Ludwig's eyes fell upon the boy, and he shrugged a shoulder. "Yes. No. Well, not officially."

"Well," she continued, obviously intent on lightening the mood, "This is Raivis! I know you can't understand each other, but he's sweet. You'll get along."

At Irina's direction, the boy held out a hand across the table, and Ludwig took it, the boy gawking up at him. Raivis. He was strange and crazy as the rest, young teenager or no.

Toris' brow was ever lowering.

The boy leaned in to Irina and whispered something in her ear, and she smiled. Turning to Ludwig, she said, "Raivis says that he really likes your uniform. He wants to know if maybe you'll let him try on your hat one day."

The boy was smiling away, chin up in his palm and looking so excited, and despite himself, Ludwig couldn't help but smile too. A little pride.

He had straightened up without realizing it, and said, "Sure."

Irina nodded, and the boy broke into a wide grin, and blabbered away happily, eyes on Ludwig the whole while. That felt kinda good, honestly. Someone looking at him like that. Wasn't used to feeling that, that odd self-satisfaction. He had never had anything to be proud of.

Toris scoffed. Buzz-kill.

Ludwig asked, "So, how does this work?"

Toris sat quite still, and after a second, Irina spoke up.

"Well, like I said, if the boat makes it to the other side, then supposedly it will be a good year for you. If it doesn't make it across then you'll have bad luck all year."

"What if the candle goes out? Or if it sinks?" he asked, and Toris sent him a severe look.

"Oh, well," Irina began, strangely, "I'm not sure! That's never happened before."

Toris was quick to supply, and said, simply, "You die."

...oh. Great. Toris was probably going to sink Ludwig's boat like a battleship.

Irina's hand suddenly fell upon his own, and she shoved a shell into his hand.

Suddenly, Ludwig realized he was actually bored as hell. He didn't believe in this, and only Ivan controlled his fate. He tapped his foot, glancing at the door as he waited for Ivan to come back.

The strike of a match, and suddenly a little lit boat was floating on the surface of the water. Ivan's, as Irina explained, since apparently he, like Ludwig, had no interest for this and was never present for the sailing of his boat. Toris gave it a little shove with his finger, and it set out. It made it across with no problem. That didn't surprise Ludwig, because Ivan was impervious to fate. Ivan made his own fate.

Raivis' boat sailed next. Like Ivan's, it made it across without a hitch. Irina's went. No problem.

Toris set the match and lit the candle on his own boat, and pushed it forward. It got stuck in the center.

Toris leaned forward, watching it with a low brow, and when it became apparent that the boat would go no farther, his shoulders fell, and he plucked it out of the water with a heavy look. And, for whatever reason, Ludwig thought he felt himself sneering. Well, bad luck for Toris, then. What he deserved, the bastard.

"Well," Toris said, casually, to Irina, "At least I didn't sink!"

Jerk.

Finally, after a second of carving up a new candle, Toris held out his hand, and Ludwig placed the empty shell in his palm, watching with only polite interest as Toris sat the candle inside and lit it, and set his boat down. A push of Toris' finger and the boat set sail, and somehow, Toris was more interested in his fate than he was, leaning forward and watching with intense eyes as the shell floated across the water. A minute of slow chugging, and then the shell hit the other side.

A silence. Toris shifted his weight.

"Well. You made it," Toris finally said, with a scoff. Looked very disappointed.

With that, before Ludwig could think too much about it, Toris dumped the water out, Irina made lunch, and Toris was very quick to vanish once more without sparing Ludwig a single word or glance. Ludwig was annoyed about it, but maybe that was because he was a little hurt.

Wished Toris would talk to him. Missed him when he was gone. Hated Toris but liked him, too, and that Toris was so angry all of the time with him was disconcerting.

The high afternoon sun began to lower.

He found himself glancing up at the clock, and wondering why Ivan still had not returned. If Ivan had found more interesting ventures out around town, without him. That hurt.

The sun vanished. It started snowing again. The fierce winds picked up, so loud and unforgiving that the windows rattled in their frames, and he sat there on small sofa with Irina, huddling into her side for warmth as he waited. As he waited, he studied. Irina tried to help him, and sometimes she would stop and gush about how happy Ivan would be to see him studying Russian, and that only made him all the more impatient.

Ivan still had not returned.

Night. The snow stopped, but the wind grew stronger.

He zoned out above the book, staring off into space as his fingers drummed the arm of the sofa, and he barely even noticed when Irina stood up and said, quickly, "Wait here, I've got to go check something. I'll be back."

He obeyed, mindlessly, because where would he go anyway, without Ivan? Without Toris.

He was alone.

Shutting the book and placing it in his lap, he looked around at the dim room, as the shadows played in corners and the windows shook from the fierce wind and the high ceiling and long walls seemed to close in, and he shuddered. He didn't want to be alone.

Whispers. He didn't want to talk to them.

The moonlight suddenly broke through the curtain as it fluttered, and he felt a cold dread flow through his veins like a river when he could swear that he saw a flash of silver in the darkness, a familiar voice close to his ear, and someone reached out and brushed the hair at the back of his neck—

Reaching up, he whirled around, certain he would see fuckin' Gilbert, coming back to torment him some more, but there was no one behind him. There was only a great cat, massive and brown, its golden eyes glowing in the light, and it stood upon the top of the sofa, kneading its claws into the fabric and watching him.

Watching him.

Uncomfortable, he stared away, and the cat leapt to the floor and scurried to the door. Ludwig didn't know why, but he stood up, and followed it. He didn't want to be alone. A cat was better than nothing.

It darted through the halls, its bushy tail alert in the air as it weaved this way and that, and Ludwig kept close behind, clutching the book to his chest and trying to ignore the exceedingly eerie echo of his footsteps in the empty hallway.

Everything was dark. Where was everyone?

The windows were shaking, it was so cold that his breath puffed out visible in the moonlit air, and all of the doors were shut. So where, then, had Irina gone? Where was Toris? Why wasn't anyone in the hall? No lights streamed from under any of the doors. The alarm was rising. The cat sped up.

He could feel himself starting to panic.

A ray of golden light suddenly cut across the hall, and it was with indescribable relief that he could see light coming out from under a door. The great cat fell before it and reached up, clawing the door as though it were beseeching him, somehow, to open it up for him. Ludwig came before it, and reached out, gripping the handle in his hand.

After a moment of nervous hesitation, he pushed it open.