Chapter 26

Barely Gripping Reality

The door opened.

Bright light. Warmth.

The cat darted through, and he shoved the door open the rest of the way, and stood in the frame.

He nearly sighed in relief. Everyone was there.

The fireplace roared ahead, drowning out the wind from outside, and the room was warm and lit up with the fire and the lamps, and before him stood Irina, speaking loudly in Russian, and there was Ivan.

Ivan—god.

They did not see him there, until Ivan glanced up, perhaps sensing he was being watched. A lifting of Ivan's brow, and he straightened up, tucking his hands in his pockets and smiling as he caught Ludwig's gaze.

Ludwig smiled back. A damn beautiful sight, Ivan. Hadn't left him.

Irina turned around, then, and suddenly huffed, as though Ludwig had walked in on something he was not supposed to. Ludwig looked over to the side of the room, to where Toris and Raivis were trying to finish up the decorations on a tree. Toris looked over his shoulder, saw Ludwig, and shook his head.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he realized that Irina was in front of him, speaking. He tried to listen, as Ivan's eyes bored into his own.

"Aw," Irina began, in disappointment, "I was going to surprise you!" She sent the cat below a halfhearted glare, and then sighed. "Oh, well. It's no big deal. Sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone."

Ludwig barely heard her words, as Ivan stood back in front of the fireplace, watching him with a pleased smile and smoldering eyes, as though he had been gone and had not seen Ludwig for days. Somehow, he felt that way too.

Irina had suddenly taken the book from his hands, and as she reached towards an end table and tucked it away in a drawer, she sent him an almost devious smile, as though he should not let on to Ivan that he was studying Russian. Ludwig tilted his head in compliance. One last pat on his shoulder from Irina, and then she left his side and went back to Ivan.

Ivan. He looked different then, somehow. Looked tranquil and subdued, calm. Not that cool composure he always had, but an actual look of serenity. His hair was combed back, neatly, dressed in casual clothes that were this time not wrinkled and messy. A bright red wool sweater that matched so well the shade of his skin. Not so frightening then, seeing Ivan out of uniform, and maybe that was the first time Ludwig could look at Ivan and remember he was actually just a man and not a god. His cheeks glinted with stubble, smile crooked and eyes lidded. Calm.

The cat was rubbing at his ankles. The fireplace crackled. Ludwig wandered a few paces to the side, and then back, in circles, uncertain of what to do without Ivan telling him. The tree was finished, suddenly, and Toris walked straight past Ludwig with no word and to the corner.

Toris took a seat at the table across from Raivis, and Ludwig stared at him. Toris was dressed more loosely than he had ever seen him, not so stuffy and strict, hair let loose and tousled and wavy as though he had not combed it. A button-down shirt and slacks. No tie. The first time Ludwig had ever seen Toris out of uniform. A strange sight, but not an unpleasant one. Made Toris feel more in reach. Looked like a normal man. Wasn't so scary. Still looked horribly foul, though, angry, and so Ludwig didn't go over to him.

Ludwig could see a bottle of vodka in between Toris and Raivis, and it was with shock that he saw Raivis fill up a glass and put it back like water. Damn. That kid could drink.

Everyone here could, actually.

Turning his attention across the room, he could see that Irina and Ivan were much more lively, passing a bottle back and forth. Irina was loud, as she always was, and Ivan watched her patiently. She suddenly held out her arms affectionately, but instead of embracing her, Ivan took her face gently within his great hands and kissed her quickly upon the lips. Ludwig smiled.

It seemed that with every passing day, remembering that fear he had had was harder and harder.

Seconds of wordless devotion on both parts, and then Ivan pulled away and kissed her forehead. It passed Ludwig's mind that Irina had been the only thing, so long ago, that had prevented Ivan from slipping completely over the edge of insanity's cliff, because she had loved her little brother and had tried her best to protect him, even if she had failed. That was why Ivan would never harm her, why he would do anything for her, why he was so protective of her, and maybe Irina was the only person on the earth that wielded power over Ivan. If only because he allowed her to.

The only woman Ivan had ever loved.

Ludwig's thoughts were interrupted when the great cat suddenly stood up on its back legs and used his thigh as a scratching post.

Gritting his teeth, Ludwig glowered down at it, but did not shake it off, as Ivan had broken away from Irina and was steadily approaching him. The smile on Ivan's face was evident, and when he was so close that Ludwig could feel Ivan's warmth, there was a sudden movement, and for a dizzy second he thought that Ivan was going to kiss him in front of everyone.

But he only reached down and took up the massive cat under his arm, and Ludwig didn't really know why he was a little disappointed.

Ivan had been gone all day. Just wanted to be paid attention to, perhaps.

"Sasha," Ivan said, as he straightened up, the cat's paws kneading air in contentment as Ivan carried it, and Ludwig could only manage a dumb, "Huh?" as Ivan's scorching eyes burned into his own. "Sasha," he repeated, moving his arm to indicate the cat, "His name is Sasha. He's spoiled because of Irina."

"Oh," was his simple response, and some part of him wished that Ivan would just set the damn cat down and take up his hand instead, and they could ditch this crowded room and go to bed so that his head would stop hurting and so that Ivan would be with him.

...where had that come from?

Ivan just smirked, and turned to the tree. "Do you like it? We never bother putting up a tree. Too much trouble since it's just going to get thrown out, you know." He looked over his shoulder, and when he caught Ludwig's eye, his expression was fond as he added, "But Christmas trees are a German thing, aren't they? I thought it would make you happy."

It did make him happy. If that warmth in his chest was any indication, anyway, although to be honest he wasn't sure if he was happy because of the sight of the Christmas tree or just because Ivan was back. Couldn't tell.

Didn't matter. Happy was happy, and he was happy then.

Ivan handed the cat off to Irina, who took it with a coo, and when he turned around, Ludwig fully expected to be embraced, like he usually was. Ivan only smiled, though, and took up a glass from the coffee table, filling it to the brim with vodka and shoving it into his hands.

"Here," he said, coolly, "I want to make sure you have a good time."

Then Ivan walked off, drinking as he looked around the room and observed his efforts, and Ludwig was left to stare after him with a furrowed brow, feeling somehow that he was being played again.

Ivan was suddenly denying physical contact. Why?

He narrowed his eyes as Ivan glanced back and sent him a smirk, and he realized that Ivan was either trying to see how long he would last without grabbing his hand or was trying to deprive him until it was time to sleep so that he would be more responsive. Ivan, with that wolfish sixth sense, was just playing another game.

Well, he was not alone in this room, so Ludwig could survive without Ivan's hand around his own.

He would play along.

Time passed. His glass was half empty.

The vodka was flowing.

Raivis put back almost an entire bottle by himself. Ivan was on his fifth glass. Irina drank just as much as Ivan did, maybe even more, and to see her put back shot after shot after shot, drinking in those little glasses more than Ivan had in his cup, her cheeks red and eyes bleary, and still be able to stand was astounding. She was more of a tank than Ivan was, plowing through that vodka with no problems.

Even Toris was drinking, and that was something Ludwig had yet to see. Toris was always so guarded, so stern. It was fascinating to see him take a glass up, throw it back, and then slam it down on the table with a wince. The steady lidding of his pretty eyes, as he murmured away to Raivis as he refilled Toris' glass.

With loud laughter, Irina suddenly leaned over clumsily and flipped on the radio, and the room was filled with very cheery music. The atmosphere was ever lightening.

Ludwig started his second glass.

Time passed, and he felt less and less out of place as the vodka ran through his veins.

The hour grew late.

Raivis fell first, and when Ludwig looked over, his head was on the table and he was out like a light, leaving Toris to drink alone.

Toris was probably the next to go, if that precarious swaying was any indication. His cheeks were red and his stance quite loose. Didn't look so angry then, didn't seem to be in such a bad mood anymore, drunk as he was, so Ludwig finally gathered up the courage to go over to him.

"Hi, Toris."

Just wanted Toris to talk to him. To stop ignoring him. To tell him what he had done wrong this time.

Toris looked up at him with bleary eyes, and after a second of hesitation, he smiled. As usual, it was more of a sneer.

"Hey, Ludwig. Having fun?"

"Something like that," he said, as he sat down at the table, mindful of the unconscious Raivis. Suddenly a realization hit him, something that he had not noticed earlier but should have, and he added, almost guiltily, "Your cast's off. How does your arm feel?"

Clumsily, and with a proud look, Toris lifted his left arm up and flexed it in the air.

"Just about as good as new."

Ludwig scooted his chair closer to Toris, closer and closer, because he had missed the son of a bitch and Toris was the only one here that could really understand him.

Just wanted a friend.

Toris saw him coming closer, despite his drunkenness, and suddenly sent Ludwig a look of distaste. Annoyance.

"So," Toris began, very quietly so that no one else would hear, "What's it like in Ivan's bed? I was going to ask you earlier, but..." He laughed, thinly, and followed up with, "I thought you'd be so proud that you'd tell everyone on your own."

A pang of anxiousness. That was why Toris had been ignoring him, then, these past few days. Just because of that? It wasn't his fault. He hadn't asked to move into Ivan's room. It had just happened. He had no control here. Ivan did everything. Why was Toris angry?

Toris watched him expectantly, as though just waiting for Ludwig to retort, waiting to fight with him, but Ludwig didn't say a word. He didn't want to fight. Didn't want to argue. Why couldn't Toris just understand?

Ludwig lowered his eyes at last, and there was silence.

Finally, Toris snorted and looked down at his glass, muttering lowly, "Didn't think you'd be ashamed."

He wasn't ashamed. Well. Not for the reason Toris thought, anyway. Was ashamed that he was too afraid to sleep alone. Was ashamed that he was scared of the dark suddenly. But he wasn't ashamed that it was in Ivan's bed that he now slept. Hell, would have taken anyone's. If Toris weren't such a jerk, Ludwig would have gladly occupied his, too, to not be alone.

Toris continued to glance at him, irritably, as though there were many more things he would like to say, but finally he only heaved a sigh, and stood up. To get away from Ludwig, no doubt, Toris staggered drunkenly towards the unoccupied couch.

Ludwig followed.

He liked Toris. Was trying so hard to befriend him. Wanted Toris to stop looking at him like that.

Needed Toris.

Tossing himself down on the couch, Toris rested his head back, and seemed annoyed when Ludwig sat down next to him.

"Will you stop followin' me?" Toris grumbled, voice thick and slurred, and when he tried to pull himself back up, he succeeded only in falling back down. Ludwig reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him, and at his touch, something shifted in Toris' gaze.

Looked tired suddenly, so tired, and Toris ran a hand over his face, groaning against intoxication and muttering in Russian under his breath.

Sitting there together on the couch, Toris' arm still in Ludwig's hand, there was an awful rise of longing.

Alfred.

He and Alfred, sitting on the couch together every night, drunk and happy and chatting away. Alfred throwing an arm over his shoulders some nights. Ludwig propping his feet up on Alfred's lap on others. Snatching drunk Alfred's glasses off his nose and falling backwards, pressing his foot into Alfred's chest as he tried to crawl over for them. Always together. Days long gone. Alfred was gone, and suddenly it was Toris there beside of him. Maybe Ludwig wasn't entirely aware of that on some level.

Must not have been aware, because suddenly Ludwig had turned himself sideways without thinking, hauled Toris over, and the next thing Ludwig knew he had fallen backwards against the arm of the couch, Toris' back pressed into his chest. Wasn't Alfred, because Alfred hated the color of these uniforms.

Toris was frozen up so stiff and rigid at the touch that he had stopped breathing, hands clenching the couch for balance, and Ludwig felt pity, suddenly. The way Toris locked up like that at being touched.

Hard Toris had just been made that way, hadn't he? Toris was just like Ludwig, underneath it all.

An awful silence, stillness, and then Toris started breathing again when Ludwig reached up and pushed Toris' hair out of his face. Toris muttered something, tried to sit up, and when Ludwig held firm they came to a compromise of sorts. A very awkward moment of squirming, that culminated with Ludwig sitting up straight and Toris lying back across him, head up on the arm of the couch and Ludwig's arms using his stomach as a cushion.

Toris stared up at Ludwig with a look that he couldn't place because he had never seen it before, but Ludwig recognized Ivan's look, when he glanced up and saw him from across the room.

Distaste. Utter disdain.

Yet Ivan didn't move, didn't speak, and eventually scoffed and shook his head. Like a parent who watched their precious child playing with a very dirty stray dog, but did not have the heart to tell them to get away from it. An awful rush of panic, as Ludwig prayed that Ivan wasn't angry. Didn't come barging over, didn't start screaming, and eventually Ivan looked away altogether and back to Irina. Ludwig relaxed.

Ludwig turned his eyes back down to Toris, who was still blearily staring up at him from beneath his lashes.

If there was anything nice that Ludwig could say about bitchy Toris, it was that he had the prettiest eyes Ludwig had ever seen. ...now that Gilbert was gone, anyway. That deep bluish-green, mottled as they were with flecks of lighter blue specks within, and those thick, dark lashes. Didn't make him any less scary in uniform, those eyes, but they were pretty.

And then, suddenly, Toris heaved a long sigh, and seemed to concede a little to Ludwig. His rigid stance slumped, he threw his head back on the arm of the couch, and he gave a short, low laugh.

A whisper.

"You bastard. How have you been, huh? You feel okay?"

Ludwig responded, simply, "I'm okay."

"You're really brave, you know," Toris said, and from the way he said 'brave' it was clearly a mockery of how constantly Ivan said it. "Ha. Guess you are, though. You handle everything so well. I think I'm jealous of you sometimes. How sad is that?"

Ignoring the jab, Ludwig just whispered, "I don't feel very brave, Toris, if it's any consolation."

It must have been.

Toris was the brave one.

"Ludwig," Toris suddenly slurred, "Hey, listen— I'm sorry about earlier. I wasn't tryin' to be such a jerk. What can I say? I get mad. I shouldn't... I don't mean to take it out on you. I don't. So if I ever say something stupid, it's not because I hate you. I say things I don't mean. When I said I wish you'd died— Well. I don't know if I really meant that. You know? I'm just a big dumbass, sometimes. I'm an asshole, what can I say? I don't think I really hate you."

Drunk Toris was just babbling, and Ludwig accepted the half-assed, not-entirely-sincere apology, because it was the best he would ever get from a man like Toris. Would never hear anything like this again, likely, so took it for what it was.

Toris closed his eyes, and Ludwig suddenly felt as exhausted as Toris looked.

Might have fallen asleep there, but didn't have the chance. There was a blur before him, movement, and Ludwig barely had time to look up before Ivan had suddenly marched forward and grabbed Toris' arm. A horrible silence, as Toris went completely stiff and still, like he had earlier, and when Ivan wrenched Toris up, and not gently, Toris looked a breath away from a coronary.

"Get off him," Ivan grunted, and Ludwig sat up straight in attention.

Ivan shoved Toris away, Toris staggered and caught himself at the last second on the end table, and was very quick to suddenly vanish, despite how drunk he was.

Ivan's blazing eyes calmed the second they fell upon Ludwig, and then he extended a hand, saying, "Come with me. Spend some time with me."

No hesitation; Ludwig took Ivan's hand and was pulled to his feet.

Toris vanished entirely from his mind, as everything else did when Ludwig found himself caught in Ivan's pinning gaze.

For a minute, Ludwig felt a rush of pride in his chest, because he had won the game that Ivan had started without even trying to. Ivan had not wanted to touch him, so he had touched Toris, and Ivan would not stand it. He had won, and it was Ivan, in the end, who had taken his hand. Ludwig considered that somehow a victory.

Ivan was tugging him out of the room suddenly, out of the warmth and safety of the others. A scaling of stairs, Ivan's hand squeezed his own, and then the bedroom door was ahead.

His heart raced. Oh, damn—his sense of victory may have been a little misplaced. Wasn't sure, suddenly, about the kind of 'time' Ivan wished to spend with him.

He was dragged into the room. The door quickly shut, and this time Ivan did not flip on the light, and before Ludwig could utter a word he found himself whirled around and thrust up against the wall. A moment of crushing heaviness and thick air, as Ivan pinned him in place by placing inescapable arms on either side of him, and, with that closet door looming in the darkness behind, it was easy just to stand there as that strange new submissiveness took over.

Ivan leaned forward, resting his face in Ludwig's hair, and it was obvious from how he struggled to maintain his balance that he had drank too much again.

The atmosphere was not so frightening this time, though. Ivan seemed safe right now.

Ivan suddenly kissed his temple, and whispered, "I missed you today. Did you miss me too? Ah, I know you did. But Ludwig! You should not be so nice to Toris. You're just wasting your time. Don't bother with him. Waste of time. He always was. You're better than that. Toris is Irina's job, not yours."

Too close to this situation to be aware of Toris' needs, the only thought that crossed his mind was that when Ivan said his name, 'Ludwig' sounded more like 'Lyudovik'.

Pleasant.

Ludwig stood there, silent and still, as Ivan muttered lowly in that drunken mash of German and Russian that was almost completely incomprehensible. Another kiss to the side of his head, and the warm contact was welcome after a day of nothing.

"Oh!" Ivan suddenly cried, pulling back, "Your present. Here, I have it here."

Ludwig was dragged over to the desk in the corner, and Ivan flipped on the lamp. As Ivan pulled out the drawer and rummaged through, Ludwig took careful steps forward, keeping a very alert eye on the closet door. Just in case.

Finally, Ivan found what he was looking for, and looked up. He was smiling.

The nervousness was back.

"Here, this is for you," Ivan said, quickly, and before he could react, he had thrust an envelope into Ludwig's hands. "I hope you like it. I wanted to get you flowers, too, but damn town shops didn't have any." Ivan swayed, smiling lopsidedly as he watched Ludwig.

Ludwig looked down, at the inconspicuous manila envelope, and could only imagine what lay within it. Who knew what Ivan's idea of a Christmas gift was?

"But I don't have anything for you," Ludwig finally muttered, meeting Ivan's eyes.

Ivan shot him a stern look, and his voice was sharp and cold as he said, "What could you possibly give me? I have everything. I don't need you to give me anything. Did I ask you for something?"

That now familiar rush of panic, anxiety, terror.

Must have looked like a deer in headlights then, eyes wide and not breathing as he clenched the envelope and waited for the heart-attack his racing pulse was about to cause. The closet was just waiting there behind him.

A scoff, and Ivan swayed a little, held the desk for balance, and his face softened.

"I don't need you to give me anything," Ivan repeated, much more gently, "I just want you to stay with me all the time. That's all I want."

Air came back as his chest unclenched. He turned his eyes down, and took a breath.

The envelope was light in his hands.

"Well?" Ivan asked, eagerly, "Aren't you going to open it?"

After a hesitation, Ludwig did, reaching up with clumsy fingers to pull apart the seal at the top. When he reached in, he pulled out a stack of papers.

Ivan watched him intently.

Papers. Just papers, but they hit him harder than any bullet ever could. Air was gone yet again, this time from utter shock rather than fear.

The first paper that he held caught his attention immediately, and it was no surprise why; there was a photo of himself there. He recognized a horrible picture that Gilbert had snapped of him on his seventeenth birthday, where he had looked so serious and so much older than he was that Gilbert had picked on him for months afterward. He studied the document, after a second of complete disbelief, and then he realized that it was a housing form from the GDR. He had never resided in the GDR as an adult, and he had never had any homes in his name.

How?

With trembling hands, Ludwig moved it to the back, and there was another paper.

Two pages. Two languages. German and Russian. Reading the German side, he could see that it was an official form of relocation, with the visa stamp and the diplomatic seal needed to authorize a change of residence from the GDR to the USSR.

He flipped to the next paper.

That same photo of himself, and there was a name at the top. Müller, Ludwig. It was a military record from the GDR. Credentials, his rank (colonel, of course), his school records (falsified), the length of time in service, recommendations, even false psych evaluations.

He turned to the next paper. The false school records that had been in the military document. He flipped to the next. Medical records. Next. An authorization of legal immigration into the USSR. A false address. The paper that made him a resident, if not yet a citizen, of the Soviet Union. Every single page had a duplicate, in Russian.

A tiny card, clipped to a paper. A national identification number. A Russian driver's license was clipped to another.

And then there was one last paper, and as soon as he had laid eyes upon, Ludwig had to cover his mouth with his hand and inhale to keep himself from bursting into tears.

Oh—a birth certificate.

Everything he had never had was suddenly before him. A name. Müller, Ludwig. A birth date. Born May 9th, 1944, in the University Hospital in Dresden. Parents. Johann and Helga Müller.

He knew it was just a fake, he knew it, but god. To see it. To have it in his hands. That was remarkable, astounding in every way, because no one had ever wanted him. He didn't have any parents. They had not wanted him, no one had wanted him. Hadn't even given him a name.

Knew it was false, knew it was just a trick of papery, Ivan's very skilled and clever lie, but it was it still real in the sense that he was holding it and could feel it and honest to god he didn't even know real from fake anymore. His head was a mess, an absolute wreck, and 'real' seemed to be a concept that was harder and harder to grasp each day.

He could see it. He could hold it. It offered him everything he had ever wanted. A life. An identity.

A name.

"I looked all over Berlin for records of you," Ivan whispered, as Ludwig clutched the birth certificate tightly to his chest, "But you didn't have anything. Like you never existed. It was easy. I just made all new papers for you. Do you like them? See, look, my parents were Ivan and Olga, so I just changed it to German, see, because we're really just the same. You and I."

Ludwig couldn't speak; if he opened his mouth he would have burst into tears.

He had never been anyone. He had never belonged. Just a lost soul, plucked up off of the streets at Roderich's whim. Nameless. Parentless. Alone.

The paper was fake. It didn't matter. You and I, Ivan had said.

"Now, we can always be together."

Ludwig only heard, 'Now you can't ever leave me.'

All of a sudden, that suppressed part of Ludwig that contained his logic and distrust and self-awareness raised its ugly head, and he could see it as plain as day in his mind : Ivan, sitting at his office desk when Ludwig had been locked in that room, researching and calling favors to his people in Berlin, and when he had all the information he had needed, he had probably laughed to himself and said aloud, 'Too easy!' Because it probably really was too easy for someone like Ivan to take advantage of someone like him, someone without parents and without a strong sense of identity. He had called Toris over and gloated aloud as he had ordered Toris to wherever to acquire these illicit documents, and that was where Toris had really been those days he had been out of sight, and Ivan had always known that he would be playing a very powerful psychological wild card—

I always win.

Creating Ludwig an identity anew, to instill loyalty and win his allegiance. To create unwavering, unquestioning devotion. Ivan had given him his own parents' names, to create between them some kind of invisible bond. Ivan was playing the role of savior, guide, mentor, rescuer, the knight in shining armor, whisking him away from such volatile, uncertain, lost territory and bringing into a very still, frozen world, and giving to him a new name and new family and proclaiming that he was loved and needed here.

Ivan had given him the birth date of May 9th. The day Germany had surrendered to the Soviet Union. Like he had surrendered to Ivan.

The voice of reason said this new identity and all that came with it was the beginning of the end, the final breaking of the ice, because Ivan was dangerous. Unpredictable. Deceitful. Ivan lied.

Ah—

He could feel the paper in his hand. The voice of reason in his head was just a voice. It was never there when he really needed it. It had abandoned him in that room. It had abandoned him in his time of need. Fuck it. He didn't need it. So what if Ivan had had some kind of ulterior motive for this gift? So what if Ivan lied? Everyone lied. Everyone. He wasn't stupid. He knew it.

Just didn't care.

No one had ever given him anything with more meaning. Ivan said he wanted him to stay. That was alright. He wasn't going anywhere. Suddenly, with the feel of that paper in his hands, he didn't want to go anywhere.

He had never been anyone.

Ivan was beside of him suddenly, reaching out and taking the paper with gentle hands. "Here," he said, as he tried to pry them from Ludwig's fingers, "I'll put them somewhere safe."

Ludwig held fast. He did not want to let them go.

Ivan snorted.

"It's okay. I won't let anything happen to them. I promise."

Promise. Ivan always kept his promises.

Reluctantly, he finally let Ivan take the papers, and after Ivan turned unsteadily back to the desk and tucked them away in a drawer, he looked up, and said to Ludwig, "I don't care who you really are. Why would it matter? Maybe it's better not to know where you came from. We're together now. That's all I care about. Names are just names. I'd love you, no matter what you were called. No matter where you came from."

No matter what. An offering of unconditional love.

Hit him so hard.

A nobody his whole life. Why would a man like Ivan have ever wanted him?

Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes as he struggled to keep himself together. He didn't want to cry in front of Ivan.

He could feel Ivan's eyes upon him, and he could feel too the changing of the tide, even if he couldn't put a name to it, or even understand it. He was aware, however vaguely, that he wouldn't ever need to go back to Berlin, because there was nothing in Berlin for him now and everything he had ever wanted was suddenly right here in the place he had least suspected. In the freezing ice of Siberia. In Ivan.

In this older, dangerous man who had once been his worst enemy and was now suddenly his savior.

Finally, after a moment of forcing his throat to unclench, Ludwig opened his eyes, met Ivan's gaze, and managed to mutter, voice thick with the effort, "If— If I ever go back to Berlin, I won't even..."

Ludwig cut himself off abruptly then, but it was not because he was threatened by tears. Not because he lost his train of thought. Not because he fumbled his words.

He lost his voice because the second the word 'Berlin' had dropped from his lips, something shifted in Ivan's expression. His eyes had snapped over, focused and sharp as they had been that night, and it was that same expression, the very same, that had crossed Ivan's face when Ludwig had slapped him. That incredulous fury.

Danger.

That storm.

He could have heard a pin drop for the crushing silence, and Ivan stared at him suddenly with that look.

Ludwig realized immediately his mistake. It was an innocent one. He had meant to say, 'If we ever go back to Berlin, it won't even mean anything at all to me,' because it was true, but it had come out wrong. Ivan had misunderstood. He had tried to articulate his feeling of gratitude. He had said it wrong. And Ivan, in his state of intoxication, had only heard, 'One day I'll go back to Berlin'.

Ivan heard a declaration of desertion. That one day he would abandon Ivan, even though Ivan had promised never to abandon him.

The storm clouds burst.

He remembered once again how foolish he was to feel secure in his position around Ivan, how foolish he was to ever think that Ivan's moods could be predicted, because everything could suddenly turn on a dime, and Christ, he should have remembered that from the first time.

There were no truly 'safe' moments. Not around Ivan.

"Don't ever," Ivan began, and never had his voice been so terrible as it was now, as he slammed his fists on the desk and screeched, not screamed, but screeched, "Don't ever say that word again! Don't ever! How could you—all I've done for you since you've been here! I do everything for you! I've given you everything you wanted, haven't I? And all you think about is going back there! I've been kind to you, haven't I? I've taken care of you, haven't I? Didn't I save you? Twice? You keep betraying me, but I keep forgiving you because I'm the only one that will care for you! I've made so many problems for myself just to go after you!"

The lamp was swept furiously to the floor.

The bulb flickered.

"What more do I have to do for you? Tell me! All I've done for you, and for all I get I should have just let you die there in the snow! I should have just shot you and saved myself all of this goddamn trouble! I made those papers for you, didn't I? For what? So you can take them back there and pretend like you're really someone? You're nothing without me! No one else even remembers you exist! No one else will have you! I'm the only one that loves you! You don't have anyone else! How do you repay me? By wanting to go back there? You live here now! You can't ever go back there! I'd hate you forever if you ever went back! You're just like everyone else! They always end up running! I shouldn't have ever taken up a German! Traitors! I've done everything for you! How easily you forget! You're nothing without me! You're nobody back there! You don't even have a name! So, what, I've given you a name now so you want to go and use it there? I won't ever let you go back there! You'll leave me like he left you? He doesn't want you, so why would you want to go back there? No one will ever love you like I do! Only I could love you! You're nobody without me!"

Ludwig stood frozen, speechless and not even daring to breathe.

The words hurt, because they were true.

I'm the only one that loves you.

Ivan was the only one he had now. Ivan had created from nothing a history. He was nobody without Ivan.

What had he done?

Ivan reached forward suddenly in his wrath, sweeping his hand out and sending the rest of the items on the top of the desk flying to the floor, papers fluttering, and god, Ludwig wanted to cry out and say, 'Please don't hurt my papers!' because it would damage him beyond repair to have that identity suddenly ripped away from him, but his voice caught in his throat.

He couldn't move.

He was nothing without Ivan, that was true. Nobody. Didn't wanna be nobody again.

Those papers.

Ivan left the desk and started pacing the room as a wrathful hurricane, retreating into himself as he began to whisper in Russian, barely keeping himself from bumping into walls as his rage and drunkenness guided his feet.

Ludwig stood utterly still.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt sick with nervousness and guilt and a horrible fear, and above all, he was so confused. So confused. He was certain that he said Ber—that word in front of Ivan before. He was sure of it.

...hadn't he?

He hadn't meant it like that. It was just a word. He had said it before. So why now was Ivan so furious? Had he really hurt Ivan so? Was this anger false? He didn't think so. Not with that look.

Ivan was upset because he had given Ludwig those papers, and no doubt those papers had been meant to erase that word from his mind completely.

Ivan continued to storm across the room furiously before him, muttering incoherently to himself, brow low and eyes wrathful and so dark, and for a terrible moment, Ludwig was certain that he had lost Ivan again, just as he lost him that night he had put the gun to his head.

What could he do to extinguish this fire he had started?

Anxious and scared and hoping to avoid another round of darkness, Ludwig gathered together whatever bravery he possessed, which was hardly any, took a great, deep breath, and leapt forward. As Ivan stalked across the room like a whirlwind, all Ludwig could think to do was to reach out and grab a hold of his arm, and say, weakly, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!"

He hadn't. He hadn't wanted to leave. Ivan had misunderstood.

For a second, Ivan's arm wrenched up into the air, breaking Ludwig's grasp and hovering above as though he were seconds away from striking, and Ludwig, desperate to prevent this dam from breaking and not knowing what else to do, reached out again, and threw his arms around Ivan's neck, burying his face in Ivan's collar and moaning, voice muffled, "I'm sorry! I don't want to leave. I don't. Please. I'm sorry."

Sorry.

There it was again. All he ever said.

A twitch from Ivan beneath him, and Ludwig could only tense and prepare himself for whatever was coming as he could feel the muscles tightening in Ivan's shoulders, but there was only a still silence.

Ivan did not strike him.

Then Ivan's shoulders slumped, and maybe he had come back from whatever dark he had gone off into, for he reached down and grabbed up Ludwig and embraced him so tightly that he was lifted clean off the floor, and Ludwig had never known such relief when he heard Ivan's voice soft in his ear, low and almost despondent, "You can't ever go back there. You'll stay here with me, won't you? I don't want you to go away. I hate it when you're gone."

The dark was gone. The dam stood strong.

He would have to be so much more careful.

Ivan's arms were tight around him, and Ludwig stayed completely still, hardly daring to breath, let alone move, until Ivan finally released him minutes later and grabbed up his hands. Now Ivan was smiling again, as though nothing had ever happened. As if everything was just fine.

"You'll stay here with me, won't you?" Ivan asked again, and Ludwig could only return the grip upon Ivan's hands, and nod, feeling so sick.

He hadn't wanted to leave. Ivan had misunderstood.

Ivan's brow came up, and his shoulders relaxed, and Ludwig could see that the danger had passed, at least for now. His new papers were tucked safely away in the desk. His new identity was secure. The passport to stay here with Ivan. He wasn't going anywhere.

Ivan tightened the grip on his hands into a painful vice, pale eyes bleary and lidded, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle again as he whispered, "I knew you would. See, you were meant for me, you know. That's why I know you won't think about going back there."

The words were more of a very serious suggestion, as though something terrible would happen if Ivan discovered that he had, after all, still been thinking about going back there.

Ludwig shook his head, and Ivan's painful grip slackened.

He would never say that word again.

Ivan pressed forward, kissed his forehead, and said, "You can't go back. Never. They don't want you over there anymore. I've made a soldier of you. They'll call you a murderer. Don't you remember what you did?"

The words cut.

...murderer?

The woman in the blue dress.

No, no, no, he hadn't pulled the trigger of the gun. The blood that had filled that room had been on Ivan's hands, not his—

I did that for you. I would do anything for you.

But Ivan had done that for him, and that made it his fault, one way or the other. And even if it hadn't, Ludwig wearing that uniform would have been too much, just too much. Alfred would never be able to distinguish Ludwig from the Reds and would be distant and distrustful. He would lose his best friend, and his mother, because Erzsébet would never hug him again.

His father, because Roderich would turn his back, and say, 'I should never have brought you home'.

And Gilbert...

His papers were all new. In Russian.

Gilbert would have told Ludwig to just go back over the wall and back where he belonged, with all the other Reds.

"Hey, it's alright," Ivan murmured, gently, "Who cares about them anyway? You don't need them anymore. They must not have cared about you in the first place. They haven't even been looking for you, or trying to find you. They don't miss you. So don't miss them. You have me, don't you? Just forget you ever knew them. You've got a new name now. You belong here now. Forget everything else."

Forget.

Ivan was erasing his former life out from beneath his feet. Wiping the slate of his memory.

And the most frightening part was how easy it was to forget. It was easier to think of Ivan than it was to think of them. It was easier to feel Ivan's embrace than it was to remember Erzsébet's. It was easier to hear Ivan's soft voice than it was to remember Roderich's comforting one. It was easier to stand under Ivan's possessive eyes than it was to remember Alfred's protective gaze. It was easier to reach out and grab Ivan's hand than it was to try to remember how Gilbert's felt.

Out here, in the cold and mist, forgetting was very easy. He could forget even them, he was sure, in time.

In the meanwhile, he would just have to be careful to never say that word in front of Ivan again. Ivan's wrath was more frightening than any storm could have ever been, than any explosion or any night. He couldn't stand the sound of Ivan screaming.

He would never say that word again. He wouldn't upset Ivan.

And it didn't matter anyway, because he would never go back to—

That word, that word, that word, that word—

—again. So it didn't matter.

He would never go back. Ivan was the only one that accepted him. He was dead to the outside world. They wouldn't have him anymore.

He could forget, in time.

Ivan pulled him into the bed, and when Ivan fell atop of him and pinned him down, heavy and warm, Ludwig threw his arms around Ivan's neck, and god, he would have done anything, anything at all, if Ivan would only have reassured him that he was wanted here and that he was needed and that he was not a murderer.

He would have done anything.

But Ivan only collapsed above him, constricting his chest with his weight, and crooned, "I won't ever leave you," and passed straight out. Pinned to the bed and immobile, Ludwig could only cling to Ivan and stare up at the map past Ivan's shoulder, just like he had those other nights.

This time, he forced himself to keep his eyes on Russia. He didn't look over there. Ivan would have gotten angry.

Russia was home. Wherever Ivan was, that was home.

Ivan slept above him the whole night through.

Siberia was home now, because really...

Murderer.

He had never had a home at all.

They didn't want him anymore.