Chapter 30

Dead On Arrival

The hotel was nice. Fancy.

Thrilled and pumped with adrenaline and struggling to keep a straight face at the giddiness that threatened to come, Ludwig let his composure slide only when they stepped into the elevator, saving face and dignity if only to uphold Ivan's honor and imposing air. As soon as the elevator doors shut, Ludwig exhaled a great lungful of air and broke into a breathless smile, and without even thinking he reached out and took Ivan's hand within his own.

Ivan, leaping upon the opportunity, whirled around and pushed Ludwig back against the elevator wall, quickly and harshly kissing him, his hands gripping Ludwig's upper arms so forcefully that bruises were only inevitable. For all of his coolness, it was obvious that Ivan was just as excited as he was.

Plinky piano music wafted inside, almost humorously pale and bland in comparison to the exceedingly heated way Ivan was shoving his tongue down his throat.

Seconds of Ivan's hands raising from his arms up to cup his neck and practically lift him up off his feet, and then the elevator lurched up, and then fell still.

A 'ding'.

When the door opened, they were standing perfectly straight and composed, not a hair out of place or an item of clothing disheveled. Strolling out, all business. Maybe his cheeks were a little red. Even so, he held up his head and kept his shoulders squared when they stepped through the halls, doing his best to keep stoic as Ivan's brushing up against him threatened to make him crack.

It wasn't really a great surprise that the when they rounded a corner, there was only one door. Another one of those high-end luxury hotels, where there were only two or three rooms per floor.

Well, nothing less than Ivan deserved.

The click of the key in the lock was eerily loud in the quiet, empty hall, and when they stepped inside, the room was cold and the air was a bit stale. The flick of the light, and everything was visible. The room wasn't as big as he had envisioned. Two beds, a small living room and a smaller kitchen, not a house, but far bigger than the average hotel room. A cozy place, in comparison to the grey, gritty city that lay on the outside. The carpet and curtains were gold.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Ludwig's legs finally gave out, and he fell down into the closest seat, at the kitchen table, and buried in his face in his hands. Ivan only snorted, and began to rummage. His heart was still hammering.

Jittery.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Ivan called back, and for a moment, Ludwig was too stunned to answer.

Splitting open his fingers to stare up at the ceiling, he heaved a great sigh, and tried to compose words to describe it. In the end, he found none, and stayed still, leaning back into his chair and tapping his boot on the floor.

Eloquence had never really been his strong point.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

The heater was turned on.

"Hungry?" Ivan asked, as he abandoned the dresser and moved into the kitchen.

"Not really."

He might not have been hungry, and he might not have been able to the find the words to explain how he was feeling, but there was one thing that was present on his mind :

"Are we going to go back out?" he asked, a bit hopefully, but Ivan only shook his head as he poked through the cabinets.

"Not tonight. I think we should celebrate, yeah?"

"Celebrate what?"

Ivan looked back at him, and the leer was obvious.

"How well you did, of course! I never thought you'd look so good out there. I should have known you'd be able to do it right off. Ha! I think you were born for the military, like me. Men like us, it's where we belong. Owning the world."

Ludwig opened his mouth, but Ivan came over to the table and sat down with a loud thud before he could speak, and it didn't really surprise Ludwig when he set the bottle of vodka upon the table, along with two glasses. After ten days dry on the train, Ivan was surely going through a little withdrawal, and now didn't seem like a bad time for a drink.

Ludwig lowered his arms and scooted his chair forward in a wordless acceptance, eager to keep the feeling of belonging going strong.

Ivan, smiling away, uncapped the bottle and started to pour. And he didn't stop, not when afternoon turned to evening, or when evening turned to night. They spent hours drinking with each other, kept sober only by the late lunch they tried to make together with laughter. The first time they had been completely alone with each other like this, without Ludwig half-dead or Ivan going crazy.

One of his favorite times in recent memory.

It was getting quite late by the time Ludwig could say for sure that they were finally drunk.

The hapless vodka bottle had been replaced earlier by a second. Poor thing hadn't stood a chance. Not against Ivan. Ludwig was getting better. Six glasses down. With every one of them that was consumed, Ivan's hand became a little more errant, stretching across the table to fall atop his own as they chatted quietly. Ivan did most of the talking, and he usually just nodded his head and smiled.

Every time Ludwig looked up, Ivan seemed to be a little closer. Maybe that was just his mind playing tricks.

Ivan's boot bumped into his own.

Maybe not.

"So," Ivan began, cheeks red and voice beginning to slur as the vodka started to take over, "Tell me! Didn't you like the tank?"

Swaying a little, Ludwig managed to perk up, and say, too eagerly, "Yeah! I did. I didn't think it would be so...so—"

"Powerful?"

He nodded, although that hadn't exactly been the word he had been searching for, but it was close enough. Ivan only smiled, visible canines glinting in the dim light of the kitchen.

"You looked good up there on top of it. Did you see how they were so careful? Not to make you angry? They were afraid of you. Didn't it feel good?"

He looked up at Ivan through bleary eyes, and tilted his head.

Good?

"That's control," Ivan whispered, suddenly so close that Ludwig could feel his breath hot on his cheek. "That's respect. It felt good, didn't it? To stand up there before them and have them salute you like that. Afraid of you. It felt good, didn't it?"

Why deny it? It had felt good. God, it had felt great.

He met Ivan's eyes, and said, voice rough with alcohol, "Yeah. It did. I liked it."

He was somebody here, made so by Ivan, and he had suddenly gone from being completely invisible to someone that people jumped out of the way to avoid on the street.

A Red Army soldier.

Even though it was a carefully crafted lie of Ivan's, it didn't matter. They hadn't known he wasn't really a colonel, not with that uniform and the meticulous training of Toris and the supreme authority of Ivan. They hadn't known anything was out of place, and they had respected him. Feared him. No one had ever been afraid of him before, no one, hadn't ever even noticed him at all.

Nothing Gilbert had ever done had given him a rush like that—

Gilbert?

Gilbert.

A bolt of lightning.

Hey! That was his name! Gilbert. He'd almost forgotten. How could he have forgotten? How stupid. Had his memory gotten that bad? Forgetting really was easy. Maybe he actually was a goldfish. Ivan's pet.

He couldn't help himself; he raised his hand up to his mouth, but it didn't get there quick enough to stifle his breathless, cracking laughter. Even through his mounting intoxication, some part of his mind was still able to realize, past the fog, that he didn't recognize his own voice. Was that his laugh? Sounded different. A strange, high-pitched giggle.

Then again, he'd never really laughed all that much. Maybe he just didn't know what his own laugh had ever really sounded like.

"What?" Ivan finally asked, huskily, when he couldn't really seem to stifle the titters, and Ludwig only shook his head.

Dumb Gilbert. Probably passed out in a street somewhere right now, drunk and high and grabbing people's pant-legs as they passed. Gilbert would never be able to wear a uniform like this and have the presence of mind to behave so properly in front of an army. Gilbert would never be able to hold his composure and make Ivan proud. Gilbert was useless, always had been. Couldn't do anything right.

Good riddance.

His head hurt again. First time in days.

Ivan snorted, rested his chin in his palm, and said, huskily, "I love it when you smile. You're so pretty. I'm glad you came out here with me."

...what had he been thinking again?

He lost his train of thought, elated and caught under Ivan's slanted smile, and once more that man vanished in the fog. Forgot all about him again, as Ivan's eyes ran over his face.

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, legs splayed and breathing through his mouth, and realized how drunk he was actually getting.

Spinning.

Ivan reached out, and clapped his rough hand heavily over Ludwig's upon the table, saying, "Tomorrow, I might take you out to see the cathedral. The Red Square. Would you like that?"

"Sure," Ludwig drawled, surprised that he could still speak at all, and Ivan snorted.

"You're not really afraid to do anything, are you? Is there anything I could ask that would make you say 'no'?"

Warm and flustered, Ludwig thought for a second, and then tipsily settled on, "If you asked me if I wanted to leave. I'd say no."

It was true.

The look that Ivan sent him then was worth anything in the world. No one had ever looked at him like that. Everything he had ever imagined that love would be.

The minutes ticked on by.

The vodka started to have trouble going down, stopping halfway down his throat and threatening to come back up. Ivan was still putting them back like water. Ludwig tried to keep up.

For a moment, his arm fell lax upon the table, the shot glass gripped weakly in his hand as he hung his head and squinted his eyes. He was ready to call it quits when he heard a giggle, and looked up, blearily.

"What?" Ivan grunted, as he slammed his glass on the table fervently, pale eyes locking onto Ludwig with something that could have been amusement, "Is that all you've got, kid?"

Kid? Ivan had never called him that.

Despite the doubling of his vision and the burning warmth in his veins, he knew a challenge when he heard one, and even though he knew that there was no chance he could ever hope to out-drink Ivan—not Ivan, who could devour vodka by the bottle and still stand up—Ludwig furrowed his brow, steadied his hand, and took up the glass nonetheless.

A challenge. Ivan's challenge. Couldn't back down.

Ivan was watching him. He sought to impress. The vodka burned his throat, and it was threateningly close to one too many, and for a moment, Ludwig placed his hand above his mouth to make sure that it would go down.

Shit.

It finally went, and he coughed a bit, and Ivan recapped the bottle and set it aside, saying, primly, "I think that's enough for you. You're a bit of a lightweight."

Another challenge, but Ludwig was too close to vomiting then to even bother. Anyway, Ivan had already pulled himself up to his feet, and staggered back behind Ludwig's chair, casting a shadow above as he rested very warm, very heavy hands upon Ludwig's shoulders.

A tingle of exhilaration. Hot breath on his ear and a nose nuzzling the back of his neck.

"So tell me, Ludwig—"

Lyudovik.

"—how did it feel when they were all looking at you out there?"

No time to think; Ivan's fingers splayed outward, pressing into his throat with gentle pressure as his thumbs dug into the muscles of his shoulder blades.

He could only answer, honestly, "I liked it."

"Did you! I guessed so. I saw the look on your face when you were up there! I'm glad. You'll do so well out here, I can tell."

Oh. Ivan had a way of making him feel like the most important person in the entire goddamn world.

And yet...

"Did you see the way some of them looked at me when they saw I was German?" Ludwig grumbled, despite himself.

With the burn of alcohol and the burn of excitement came the burn of aggression. And some of the looks from before that had been unable to dampen his mood were suddenly gnawing at him.

Most of them had been respectfully impassive. Some of them had been eager to interact. Fewer still had been excited. Others...

Looks like that burned him. Hated those looks—made him think, for some awful reason, of a woman in a blue dress.

Couldn't shake it.

"Most of them really don't want me here, do they? We're not supposed to be around each other. Germans and Russians. Ha. They can barely even look at me. They won't ever think that I'm just one of them, no matter what I'm dressed like."

A strange, unnerving silence.

He could practically hear the wheels grinding in Ivan's head. And when wheels grinded in Ivan's head? The result was not necessarily safe.

His damn mouth.

"I take care of you, don't I?" came the low, rough whisper in his ear, and Ivan gave his shoulders a firm shake that was an odd mixture of massage and throttling. "Don't I? You do everything I tell you to. And I'm telling you now, don't ever let them forget who you are. You're up above all of them, because I say you are. They can't touch you. Don't let them forget it. Don't just stand there and keep quiet. If they give you a look you don't like, put them in place. Trust me, you don't need to speak Russian to do that."

Ivan's fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, in a painful and yet oddly comforting vice.

"Once, a long time ago, when I was still a major, this sergeant out of Moscow—some son of one of my father's friends—went around the ranks telling all of the troops under my command that I'd never make general, not ever, because my mental evaluation advised much caution."

A quiet giggle from above. Ludwig shuddered.

"He told them all I was crazy! Just like my father. And a madman would never make it up to general, not someone like me. He told them all. All of my comrades. My superiors. My friends. And when I walked around them the next week they all stared at me, whispering to each other. I could hear them! But I took care of it."

Frozen and feeling a shudder of thrill and fear, Ludwig asked, weakly, "How?"

Ivan's fingers began to massage his shoulders in a slow, languid, sensual pace that was at frightening odds with his quick, breathy voice and high tone.

Insanity.

"I brought him out in the yard and shot him! Just like that. It was easy enough to brand him a traitor. Toss a few papers under his bunk and buy off a few willing, ah, what's the word—witnesses. Easy, right? Ha! I shot to protect the security of the motherland. Perfectly legal. And after that, no one whispered anymore."

Ivan's mouth was suddenly against his ear.

"Don't ever let them talk. I tell you what to do. You're above everyone else. You only listen to me. Understand? Only me. If you hear one of them talking, if one of them looks at you like that, don't worry about why. Just shoot them. They'll know I don't carry any fools or cowards on my arm."

A silence, as Ivan's words sank into his muddled, intoxicated mind.

Just shoot them. He couldn't let them use his heritage against him, for the sake of Ivan's reputation. Ivan's reputation was above all else, and it was his duty, as Ivan's chosen companion, to uphold that reputation. No matter what needed to be done.

A German was only a German until he shot you.

Bang, bang.

Then he was your superior.

With that thought, he couldn't help but giggle again. Helplessly.

Oh, those poor sons of bitches that found themselves in the path of Ivan's storm. Could he be part of it? Maybe a typhoon to Ivan's hurricane. The wind to go with the lightning. Become a whirlwind because Ivan had stirred him to.

Ivan put him into this uniform. He was who Ivan told him he was. It was as simple as that. If Ivan told him to shoot, he would shoot. He and Ivan stood above the others. Their own world and their own rules. Together.

Him and Ivan. A team. Always together.

Would people wonder about them?

General Braginsky and Colonel Müller are just alike! Always together!

I hear they've formed a new non-aggression pact in the barracks, if you know what I mean.

His giggles turned into hysterical laughter. He couldn't even breathe for his sniggering. Maybe he had drank too much. Far too much.

He was someone when he was with Ivan.

Ivan snorted at his tittering and wheezing, and added, as an afterthought, "Start with the feet first. Every time they mess up, just aim a little higher. Trust me, they don't ever get above the knees. Then they'll be your best friend."

Best friend? He had already had one, once. Couldn't remember his face now.

No matter. He had Ivan. That was all he needed.

"Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it before long, as smart as you are."

Ivan's hands kneaded his shoulders firmly, and Ludwig could barely keep his head upright as the alcohol and something else ran through his veins, and everything started to slow down. Ivan's fingers were dragging up and down the sides of his neck.

Start with the feet.

His stomach squirmed, and suddenly Ivan was leaning down and breathing in his ear, "Are you still awake?"

He raised his head up and tossed it back against the top of the chair to prove that he was, indeed, still awake, and Ivan stared down at him with alarmingly scorching eyes. The unnerving air of ruthlessness had gone. Only the sloppy grin of drunkenness remained.

Loved that crazy man.

"You're so drunk!" Ivan observed, quite happily, and Ludwig opened his mouth to retort, but found himself immediately silent when Ivan's hands grabbed his neck, firmly, not hard enough to hurt or cut off air, but hard enough to slow blood flow; an act of dominance, maybe a gentle reminder of who was in charge here.

As if he could forget?

Ivan leaned down, and his husky voice was persuasive as he said, eagerly, "So drunk. You should come to bed." And that didn't seem like such a bad idea, until Ivan added, lowly, "With me."

With Ivan's hands still gripping gently his neck and the alcohol in his veins, it seemed like a good idea.

He was still on a power-trip. Felt invincible.

"With you?" he managed to rumble, as Ivan leaned down dangerously close, and he could not help but smile at how red Ivan's cheeks were, and how unkempt his hair.

Ivan was attractive when flustered and aggressive.

"With me," Ivan confirmed, now so close that he could feel Ivan's warm breath on his eyelashes.

Then, as the squirm in his stomach turned into an ache when Ivan's strong fingers fell from his neck down to his upper arms in a vice grip, it seemed like a great idea. He had already done things today that he had never once imagined he would do, so why not extend the list? The warmth running through him was pleasant, and the slight slur in Ivan's voice was charming as he fell heavily against his back and said, "Come on. Can you, ah, walk, you think?"

Another subtle challenge.

"I can walk!" he said, defensively, and pulled himself to his feet as Ivan's strong hands kept that iron grip on his arms. And that was for the best, because his words betrayed him, and he staggered so terribly that Ivan was the only thing that kept him from crashing down onto the table.

"Didn't say you couldn't," came the teasing response.

Alright. Maybe he needed a little help.

Ivan scoffed and grumbled in Russian, and dragged him upright, and he clung to Ivan's shirt as he swam through the sea of intoxication. "I've got you," Ivan breathed, heavily, as he tried to pull Ludwig eagerly along, and Ludwig did not resist, staggering on unsteady feet.

Ivan must have decided that the bed was just too damn far away, and stopped halfway through the room, throwing Ludwig up against the wall so hard that his head spun and his chest ached.

"Close enough," Ivan grunted, and Ludwig could not help but agree, as Ivan's heaviness pressed him back into the wall and the pain in his back lit a fire in his veins.

Ivan fell against him and ran rough hands below his shirt, muttering words in Russian that he wished he could understand. He should have studied harder.

Pressed against the wall, woozy and dizzy and far too warm, Ludwig could only grab handfuls of Ivan's shirt to steady himself as Ivan suddenly assaulted his neck.

And then suddenly, from nowhere, there was something going off in his head; that voice of reason again, goddamn thing, and it was almost more of an annoyance than a help, as it told him to shove Ivan away before he got in too far over his head. Before he got himself into another mess.

Why did it show up at the worst possible time?

The urge to suddenly squirm away. Fear. Anxiety.

But, as his bleary eyes stared out over Ivan's shoulder, the closet door loomed in the distance, and the last time he had broken away...

What was even the point of resisting anymore? What good would it do? It only made things worse. Ivan was dangerous, but he wasn't afraid of danger. Ivan was violent, but so was Gilbert, and he could be violent too.

He wasn't a child.

The pleasant warmth in his chest and stomach won out, in the end, and the little voice was successfully stifled. Who needed it? Why couldn't he do something risky for once? He no longer needed that voice of reason.

This realization came not a second too soon, as Ivan suddenly grabbed his tie and ripped it off, hectically unbuttoned his collar, and then leaned down and sank his teeth into Ludwig's shoulder hard enough to make him bite his lip to stifle a cry.

He'd gone too far. He wouldn't struggle. If anything happened, it was because he wanted to. Not because he had to. Ivan hadn't ever hurt him.

He finally shut down the voice, and threw wobbly arms around Ivan's neck as he struggled to keep balance. Ivan was murmuring away. Russian. The language of passion.

He wanted to. He would have done anything to keep Ivan looking at him like that.

Heat. Hands fumbled out and somehow grabbed the cord of the lamp.

Darkness.

Ivan's hands were suddenly tangled up in the loop of his belt.

Ludwig had just gathered the courage to grab Ivan's face—

And then the fucking phone rang.

For a moment, Ludwig almost didn't realize what that annoying, shrill shrieking was, and quite honestly, he didn't much care; what mattered was that Ivan's warm hands had fallen tragically still.

It must have been an act of extreme bravery and extreme idiocy to call General Braginsky in the middle of the night in a hotel room in Moscow. A suicide mission, no doubt. The curling of Ivan's lip and the hiss of annoyance all but said it, and the warm hands abandoned his belt as Ivan pulled away, leaving Ludwig to totter helplessly for balance as Ivan stalked towards the phone. Better have been good. Otherwise...

A rough, infuriated, "Tebe pizdets—"

Reaching out, Ludwig grabbed a hold of the dresser, and steadied himself as Ivan plopped down onto the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. Muttering in Russian. Suddenly, the whispered words weren't so arousing. Quite the opposite, in fact. This sound was dangerous. Like the hissing of a stick of dynamite just waiting to go off.

Even in the dim light from the moon outside, Ludwig could see it. A horrible passing of darkness through Ivan's eyes, and Ludwig felt that icy dread mingling with the heat when Ivan gripped the phone so hard that it creaked, and he fell still.

The closet door was suddenly far more visible, even in the darkness. Couldn't stop glancing at it, breathing through his mouth as panic stirred.

Pauses and lapses of silence, and then Ivan speaking, and then more silence, and then a click. Dial tone.

The lamp came back on.

And the look on Ivan's face was terrifying. That old calamity.

Every minute his alertness and senses were dulling as he fell into outright drunkenness, but Ludwig was still so startled that he gasped and jumped when Ivan suddenly picked up the entire phone unit and pitched it into the wall with a shriek.

Broken plastic sat on the gold carpet.

Ivan was pacing now.

Ludwig couldn't move. Didn't dare—in these moments, a breath or footstep could cause a catastrophe. Better to wait it out, and let Ivan figure out exactly how far he would let his anger go. Oh, why did these stupid things always have to happen when times with Ivan were at their best? Now there was only peril.

His wobbly feet betrayed him, and Ludwig swayed so far to the left that he lost his balance and staggered straight over onto the floor. Ivan looked down at him over his shoulder, with that tilted head of contemplation.

Ludwig sat there where he fell, and didn't try to move, fingers digging into the carpet and feeling ill. Fuckin' closet was just waiting back there in the shadows.

Finally, Ivan moved. Heavy steps, and then a hand wrenched itself in his shirt, and he was hauled to his feet. The dread was overwhelming.

But he wasn't chucked into the closet.

Instead, Ivan held him steady, both hands grabbing his shirt, and then he asked, "Do you feel sick?"

He did, but not because of the alcohol, and so he answered, "No."

"Good. Come on."

Ivan's hand left his shirt and gripped his hand in a vice, and he could feel himself being pulled along. The heat from Ivan's hand had become blazing. Maybe from anger.

He stumbled along at Ivan's side.

The door. He remembered cold air.

The events between the hotel and the next destination were blurry at best, completely forgotten at worst, as the alcohol suppressed his memory and senses.

All that was really certain was that somehow, he wound up inside another building. He couldn't say what it was. A room. Maybe a different hotel. Maybe a house. A large bedroom, with a king bed in the center and a closet door off to the side. A table with a phone.

Curtains.

When Ludwig saw his reflection in front of a mirror, he barely recognized himself. The pristine uniform was disheveled and half-unbuttoned, messy and damp, and his hair was plastered to his scalp with melted snow. He was white as a ghost, save for his cheeks, which were flushed a deep red with intoxication and cold.

Passing blurs.

When he gathered himself again, he heard voices, and after a second of struggling he managed to scope the room and pinpoint the source. Ivan was talking to someone.

Voices faded in and out. Lights danced. Where was he? His head was swimming. The sounds around him were garbled and distant, like he was pressing his ear into a conch and listening to the ocean. He had to close his eyes and furrow his brow and tilt his head just to gather himself. Deep breaths. Steady.

When he opened his eyes, his double-vision steadied a bit and he could see the man that Ivan was speaking to.

It was the same officer from the street. The stir of agitation was undeniable. He'd been interrupted from a very personal moment and thrust into possible danger just so this jerk could finish up the conversation he'd started back on the street?

With the vodka running the show, Ludwig opened his mouth, and very nearly cried, 'What do you want, you idiot? Don't you know what time it is?'

But the man beat him to the punch, and before Ludwig's voice came out, another interrupted.

"Ah. Colonel Müller. Have you been alright?"

The shock was enough to hold his tongue.

Who was this man? What did he want? Ludwig fell back a step, squinting his eyes through the haze in his head as he tried to place the face and voice. He seemed so familiar. Think.

Ivan stood back, and stayed silent.

He tried to focus. Cigar. Ushanka. The gritty voice. That voice—

Fashisty.

It struck him suddenly like a train, and he realized with a horrible lurch of something that almost felt like horror who this man was. Pavlov. That was his name. Major Pavlov, the man that had extended his hand in kindness and tried to make him feel less awkward and helpless when he had found himself caught up in the tide of Ivan's great military ball.

The only one who hadn't looked at him like he was an unwelcome guest.

The whooshing in his head started to die down, as intoxication gave way to the adrenaline of fright and a gnawing feeling of dread. Ivan just stood there, and the passing of shadows across his face was alarming.

The air was thick. Pavlov kept a fair distance from Ivan, his cigar clenched firmly in his hand and shifting his weight back and forth in a very anxious manner. Something didn't feel right.

When Ivan started speaking, his voice was low and strange, a barely audible murmur. Something wrong; Ivan and Pavlov just crooned away, and yet they kept their distance and their stances very tense, and every so often Ivan's fingers twitched down towards the gun in his belt. Pavlov didn't move, a silent appearance of resignation on his face.

They looked at odds. Sniping gently from afar. There was that awful feeling of a pending disaster. Like the calm winds that blew right before a tornado formed.

He didn't understand what was going on. He did not understand the darkness upon Ivan's face. Hadn't they been so friendly with each other earlier in the day? Hadn't Ivan professed that he trusted this man? What had been said over the phone?

He wanted to raise his voice and ask Ivan if they could just go, but he couldn't move. His arms felt like they weighed a ton. Oh, he wanted to go. He didn't want to know what was going to happen.

Pavlov, looking over, saw him glancing back and forth between them, and maybe his eyes were wide with alarm or maybe he was shaking, or maybe Pavlov just needed to talk to someone, for he caught Ludwig's gaze and said, simply, "I called it off."

Ludwig stood still, hardly daring to breathe let alone move as Ivan took steps towards the side, settling in close beside of Ludwig as if keeping guard.

What?

"Huh?"

"I called it off," Pavlov repeated, his harsh, raspy voice low as he held his cigar firmly within his hand, "Your raid, Colonel. I called it off. I decided against sending my men into a waiting ambush, although I will not deny that I admire your determination. But, ah— I'm tired of killing students, and children. I'm tired of tanks running over old women's houses. I wanted to teach my soldiers to act differently. I didn't want to do this anymore."

His raid.

His raid.

That was right! That long stretch of darkness—those dark moments that he couldn't really place. That was what had happened then. He could feel the marker between his fingers.

At his side, Ivan scoffed.

The thoughts started coming in through the mists. Beyond the massacre of students, beyond the casualties of children, beyond the destruction of old houses, one thing struck him above all else :

It was his fault. It was his fault that Pavlov was standing before Ivan now, staring straight at the veil and on the line of life and death.

His fault.

He should have only chosen one town. Just one. Not all three. He had tried too hard to impress. It had been his decision. If he hadn't have made that decision, if it had just been one group he had singled out, then someone else would have led the soldiers, someone lower and unimportant, and Ivan would never have called in this man that he had trusted. None of this would have happened.

Ivan muttered, lowly, "You won't have to worry about it anymore."

Pavlov only smiled.

Wait. This could be fixed.

"I-I can think of something else," Ludwig was quick to supply, when he saw that horrible passing of shadow through Ivan's eyes again, and he said it only in an attempt to extend verbal aid to Pavlov as Pavlov had once done for him.

His voice sounded strange; thin and strained and unsteady.

But there had never been any hope, and Pavlov's next words made it obvious why.

"I also told him," Pavlov began in an odd, cool tone, "to take you back wherever he picked you up from. You surprised me. You can be a dangerous one, colonel, when you try. You don't need to be out here. With him." A quick glance at Ivan, and Pavlov smiled, cigar-stained teeth visible in the light. "You two together could be a problem, don't you think? It's best if you go back home before it's too late."

"This is home," Ivan said, sternly, before Ludwig could finish comprehending the words.

Home.

Pavlov didn't understand; he didn't have a home to go back to. There was no one waiting back there, no one opening the door and looking outside just to see if he was coming. No one remembered him by now. Not even Gilbert. Traitor. He was a traitor, and Gilbert was a liar, so how could going back there have possibly been any better?

Ivan was right. This was home. Wherever Ivan was—that was home.

Ludwig stayed silent, and Pavlov, seeing Ivan's hand fall down onto his shoulder heavily, only shook his head.

"I see."

Just like that, Ivan and Pavlov returned to their intense staring contest, and Ludwig wondered if Pavlov really understood what might happen. Because he wasn't shaking. He didn't look scared. But no; anyone who had known Ivan long enough to call him 'friend' would have to know exactly what would happen if any direct order were disobeyed. Pavlov wasn't stupid. He knew.

Brave.

"Ludwig," Ivan suddenly said, through the crushing silence, and he was caught under Ivan's vice grip squeezing his shoulder. "Do you want to leave?"

Pain.

A throwback to his earlier statement, and Ivan was using his own words to his advantage. What could he do?

"No."

"You see?" Ivan said to Pavlov, voice high and a bit slurred. "See? Don't waste your time. What were you ever thinking?"

Pavlov watched the hand that was gripping Ludwig's shoulder with a grimace of distaste, but eventually only shifted his eyes back to Ivan, keeping his shoulders straight and firm and unmoving even though there had to have been some part of him that was terrified, and when Ivan caught his gaze, he shrugged one shoulder and drawled, "It had to happen, sooner or later."

Ivan tilted his head, a ghost of a smile on his face as his hand fell back down to his side.

"Didn't have to."

Oh, why were they speaking in German? Let them speak in Russian. He didn't want to understand them. Not now.

Ivan's voice was almost mournful. As though he had lost a great friend.

The major laughed, mostly to himself, shaking his head as Ludwig fell back another step, his subconscious urging him to retreat before he witnessed something he did not want to. Ivan saw him slinking away, and reached out with those impossible reflexes, nicking the edge of his loose sleeve and pulling him back over.

He felt sick all of a sudden.

He knew it now; Pavlov was not going to leave this room alive. There was no way. Disobeying an order was one thing. Telling Ivan to get rid of something that he cherished was something else. Too much.

Pavlov spoke again, reverting into Russian (mercifully) as he stood at attention before Ivan, rigid as a board in respect even now, and now his voice trembled. Ivan only shook his head, as though he just couldn't understand. Ivan couldn't understand why Pavlov had had the slightest of reluctances to massacring a town.

Ivan couldn't understand.

But Ludwig could, and to see Ivan suddenly reach into his holster and pull out his gun was like witnessing the destruction of a childhood home. Utter despair. Hopelessness. Helplessness. He couldn't stop it.

The steel flashed in the lamplight. Pavlov didn't even flinch.

Just when Ludwig was certain that things couldn't get any worse, a shift of the shadows; Ivan turned to him, that smile of adoration upon his face, and he reached down to take up Ludwig's hand within his own and force open his fingers. The gun was set into his palm.

"Here."

The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand.

"It's alright!" Ivan crooned, seeing the look on his face, "It's not hard. Remember how I showed you? You can do it."

It didn't need to be said. It was obvious. Ivan wanted him to shoot Pavlov. Ivan wanted him to commit murder, this time directly.

His head split open, and for a moment, all he could was reach up with his left hand and cradle his forehead in an awful moment of uncertainty. His heart thudded so hard that he was sure he was going to vomit. He inhaled, hissed, and thought he was going to start crying.

Couldn't breathe.

What could he do? Ivan's hand was on his shoulder again.

"You'll do fine."

The heat of alcohol was all but gone. The room was far too cold.

His hand moved up of his own accord, in a faint echo of how Ivan had held his arm up when teaching him to shoot. He couldn't see straight. His hand was shaking again. Ivan should not have trusted him with his; his hand was trembling so bad that he'd probably miss altogether if he did somehow manage to fire the damn gun.

Pavlov made no move to escape. He just stood there.

Ludwig could barely see him. Just shadows and blurs as his head threatened to explode. He was going to faint. Lightheadedness.

Pavlov smiled at him as he tried to focus his gaze.

"You know," he began, as he turned to Ludwig, sturdy and strong despite the gun pointed at his chest, "I can still see something there, in you. Something I used to have." He raised his hand up, in a slow, steady salute, and Ludwig felt shamed, because he was not military and he had done nothing to deserve being saluted.

That ego of before was gone, replaced with a horrid chill. He felt a bit sick at having been proud of being saluted earlier in the day. Shame.

Pavlov ignored his paleness all the same, and the horrible trembling of the gun in the air, and continued, "Something valuable. Men like us, you know, we lost that long ago." At Ludwig's wide-eyed stare, he elaborated, with a weak smile, "Feelings." A dry laugh, and his eyes met Ludwig's with alarming intensity. "I advise that you do everything you can to hold on to them."

"Hush, now, Dima," came Ivan's gentle voice. A calm, tender chastisement. "Don't lie to him. There was never any hope for men like us. Ha, next you'll tell him that we weren't born bad, either."

Pavlov smiled, and Ivan did too, and Ludwig's hand shook more fiercely than ever.

The air was cold.

Men like them.

Silence.

...was he one of them? Was he? Didn't know his parents. Maybe he had been born bad, too.

"Ludwig."

The sound of his name dragged him from his stupor, and he looked over at Ivan blearily. Was it alcohol or tears that made him so unable to see? Was he crying? Couldn't tell.

"It's alright. Do it."

Do it. He could do it.

Ivan was watching him, and so was Pavlov.

A quiet observation. "Hold on to yourself." A warning. "I was like you once. Be careful. Soon..." The click of the hammer. "You'll be me."

Ivan's voice melded in.

"Do it."

He had finally gotten the hammer back. He could pull the trigger. He tried. Nothing happened. He was frozen. He had thought it earlier, hadn't he? If Ivan told him to shoot, he would shoot.

But his finger was stuck.

Pavlov waited, at perfect attention and chest puffed out, the very vision of pride and dignity. Waiting his execution.

Ludwig tried to pull the trigger again. Nothing.

It hit him.

He couldn't do it. Oh Christ in heaven, he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't. He couldn't pull the trigger.

He couldn't.

The gun fell from his numb fingers, landing on the carpet with a thud. He was shaking. Numb. Everything was numb. Failure. He had let Ivan down. Useless. Couldn't even shoot a gun.

Frozen still and unable even to breathe, he could only stare at the man before him, trembling like a leaf in a breeze, as Ivan's boot made a soft sound upon the carpet as he came forward. A blurry movement. Ivan picked up the gun.

Murderer.

Everything was blurry.

Pavlov smiled bravely. Or maybe he had no emotions left, and smiled because he just didn't know what else to do. Fake it.

Pulling himself unsteadily back upright for the vodka, Ivan took up the gun in his hand in a moment of bleary observation, squinting to focus, and then found the hammer. He pulled it back.

Ludwig stood still, heart lurching and adrenaline racing as Ivan looked over his shoulder and caught his eye with a sloppy smile.

A fond whisper.

"Hey. Don't worry about it. It's alright."

Time stopped, as Ivan stared at him with that unwavering, intense gaze, even so drunk, and for a moment, in that quiet air, Ludwig felt a rising of hope within his chest. Ivan stood still. Wasn't aiming.

A thought crossed Ludwig's mind, and it brought with it a wan smile. Ivan wasn't going to do it! Ivan had just wanted to scare Pavlov. Ivan had known all along that he wouldn't be able to do it. He couldn't pull that trigger. Just another game, was all. Now they could just go back to the hotel and go to sleep and forget this whole night, because Pavlov had learned his lesson, and by god! So had he! Ivan wasn't going to do it. It was just another game. Ivan didn't want to do it. He could see it just in that strangely somber look. Ivan didn't want to kill this man that he valued and admired and perhaps called 'friend'. Just another game—

A motion.

Ivan whirled around, still capable of those tiger speeds even while so intoxicated.

A gunshot.

Ludwig jumped so hard that he nearly fell backwards, arms flying up in a strange twitching next to his head, an automatic mechanism of defense, and he fell back, catching himself against the wall at the last second.

The sound of it was like an explosion in this tiny, quiet room. Then an eerie silence, broken only by a strange gurgle. A rattle.

And then nothing.

With a great breath, Ludwig finally lowered his arms, and opened his eyes.

Ivan was standing in the middle of the room, scratching his head with the barrel of the gun, as he stared down at the floor. A 'tsk' of disappointment. The sharp smell of blood came next, metallic and strong, and from where Ivan stood, Ludwig could see the stain spreading out across the carpet. The gun lowered back down to Ivan's side, and he tilted his head again; the dog, staring down at his kill as if trying to remember why he'd killed it in the first place.

A great sigh.

Giving in a bit to his intoxication, Ivan staggered back and forth as he hung his head and whispered to himself, tapping the gun on his thigh as he muttered under his breath, voice low and despondent, "Dima, Dima, druzhba druzhboi, a sluzhba sluzhboi."

Then he stumbled over to the end-table that held the phone, passing by Ludwig and leaving him to lean against the wall and breath so hard that he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Ivan took up the phone in his hand.

Now that he had moved, Ludwig could see Pavlov. Lying there on the floor, above a pool of blood. A single shot to the heart. Pavlov's fingers were still twitching with the final firing of nerves, the poor son of a bitch. Stupid. Hadn't he known this would happen? Couldn't he have just done his job? A stark reminder that this was where a conscience brought you in Ivan's world.

Off to the side, Ivan was cursing.

"Ludwig!"

He looked over, dumbly.

Ivan was having difficulty.

"Shit," Ivan grumbled to himself, as his finger poked clumsily at the numbers on the phone as he swayed back and forth, squinting his eyes to focus them, and it was obvious that he was far too intoxicated to dial the number he wanted. Ivan was still drunk under the table. Ludwig was crashing. Hard.

The smell of blood.

"Ludwig, come here," Ivan finally mewled, voice high with frustration, "Dial this damn number for me! ...can't get it."

Numbly, Ludwig wobbled over and did as he was told, feeling like a ghost, punching numbers blindly as Ivan said them aloud, and he didn't even stop to think about who he was calling. It didn't matter.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or throw up. His head was spinning. Confusion.

Oh, he hated that smell.

The call was going through. A few seconds of ringing, and then a click, and then, after a hesitation, a rough, sleepy voice said, mechanically, "Allo?"

For a moment, he stood still, uncertain of what to say to this person, and finally Ivan said, "Did he pick up?"

Ludwig could only nod.

"Took long enough! Tell him—tell him to get that shitty little Ilyushin out of the snow and to get his ass in Kyiv by tomorrow evening."

"Allo?"

Ludwig stood frozen, and then finally managed to whisper, "The...the what?"

"The Ilyushin! The plane, the plane, that little piece of shit cargo thing, tell him to get out there and meet us tomorrow."

Dazed and still feeling horrifically numb, Ludwig raised the phone up, and when he heard the voice on the other line say, apprehensively, "Allo? Ivan?" he realized finally that it was Toris. Just Toris. Oh—needed Toris now, needed him so bad, so bad and he wasn't here, wasn't.

Alone.

"Toris," he finally said, voice so low and rough that it cracked with the effort, "It's me. It's me, I—"

"Ludwig!" Toris interrupted urgently, "What are you doing? What's happened? Are you alright? Where are you at? Where's Ivan? Are you alright? Huh?"

He fell silent under Toris' panic, and when finally he was given an opportunity to speak, he wanted to say, 'No, I'm not alright! I need your help! Please come get me!'

But he didn't. Instead, he only droned, mechanically, "Get the plane. You need to be in Kyiv by tomorrow evening."

"Wha—but, what's happened? Oh, Ludwig, are you okay? Won't you—"

Slowly, he set the phone down. Click. He didn't know what else to do. Maybe Toris had been right all along. He should have kept that stupid rock.

"Is he coming?" Ivan asked from behind, and Ludwig nodded.

As if Toris would ever say 'no'. Ha.

Blood.

Hands were suddenly on his shoulders, and Ivan whirled him around, the smile still on his face. Croons of comfort, and Ludwig was vaguely aware that he was being led over to the side.

The creak of a door. Shadow and darkness.

Once again, he looked up, and found himself in the threshold of a closet.

He didn't bother to try and get out of this one, because he'd messed up. He hadn't shot Pavlov, like Ivan had instructed. He'd failed. There was no excuse for failure. Ivan demanded perfection. He would accept his punishment as any soldier would have been expected to accept a reprimand.

Ivan leaned forward, and placed a firm kiss upon his forehead.

"Sleep," he commanded, gently, as he held Ludwig in between light and dark with firm hands. "We're going to Kyiv in the morning to fix this mess. We can do this. You'll do better than he ever could have. And don't worry, I'm not mad at you! It's alright, you're just working up to it, is all. You just need some more time."

More time. Was that what he needed? Would time make this awful feeling go away?

"I'm really proud of you. You did so well today! I was right, you know? This is where you belong. Remember that."

He nodded, and when Ivan let him go, he stood there, taking in as much of Ivan as he could before the door finally shut.

Darkness.

Immediately, the shadows started to stir. Whispering in the dark.

"Sleep."

Ivan's voice was muffled and distant.

A moment of silence.

Then there was the dull, hollow thud of Ivan collapsing back against the door, and a heavy whisper, as Ivan breathed to no one just outside, "Idiot. I can handle this myself. Who ever needed him? I could have done it all myself..."

German faded into drunken Russian. Ivan faded into sleep.

A faint whisper, barely audible :

"Ludwig?"

Falling forward in the pitch-black, Ludwig rested against the door, pressing his ear desperately against the thick oak as he struggled to hear Ivan's soft voice.

"I'm here. Don't worry. I won't leave you alone. I promise."

He wasn't worried. He trusted Ivan. Ivan wouldn't leave him here.

"I know," was all he could manage, as Ivan's deep breathing through the door kept the whispers at bay.

"We'll go together. We can do it. You'll be fine."

The metallic smell of blood was creeping under the door.

He waited, ear against the wood, but Ivan spoke no more. Only the sound of his own breathing, and the rustling of his clothes as he shifted. When he spread out, his legs bumped into the wall. No room to lie down.

Something was moving. He could hear something. Voices. Coming to torment him now that he was alone in the darkness.

Pressing his back into the door, he pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his ears with his palms, bowing his head down and struggling against the horrible voices in his head.

Just voices.

Murderer.

Just voice, that was all. Ivan was real, and Pavlov was dead. Nothing would change that. Why worry about it? Pavlov had brought it on himself. Idiot. Ivan was a murderer.

But so was he.

He didn't sleep that night, palms ever over his ears as he blocked out the whispers.

They slept in Pavlov's room that night. Ludwig leaning on one side of the door, Ivan leaning on the other, and the motionless body off in the center. Ivan was as good as his word; he did not leave Ludwig there, and as soon as Ivan drifted back into consciousness in the morning light, the closet door creaked open.

Ivan grabbed his hand, and they left.

They left him there. No one ever came knocking to see what the commotion was.

His second murder. It was easier somehow than the first. Not during the act itself, but afterwards. It was easier afterwards, and when they stepped out together into the streets, he didn't feel guilty. He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel remorse. Actually, he didn't feel anything.

Anything at all.

They left him there, alone.

He'd brought it upon himself.