i feel like i havent heard from you in months .. wondering if youre still doing well
oh i'm fine!! I've just mostly moved on to twitter and other fandoms etc. It's pretty dead here on tumblr and especially this fandom after all and i'm kinda tired. How about you, anon? Hope you're doing well too
In fact culture is like a palimpsest in which the new characters never entirely efface the old, or a patchwork in which fragments of different age and material are brought together in a single social pattern.
Christopher Dawson. 1947. Religion and Culture: Relation between Religion and Culture. p56
dima is such a manic pixie dream girl. he's funny, he's pretty, he's popular, and he exists to be ivan's best friend - and also a throwback to imperial russia, but that's neither here nor there. tldr he's a two dimensional bitch
you know that one tumblr post about how adulthood is three months of absolute boredom and then a single week of 81 different things happening at once and you're just running around like a headless chicken?Yeah, it's an experience.Anws it's all well, no worries! I hope you're doing fine too, anon. Drink lots of water and have a good week!!
i love shutter hues!!!!!!!! this is my motivating message from my sweaty hands to ur inbox. obviously at the end of the day you can do whatever you want,,,, but im already too invested in this story to NOT cry if you dont. i mean... i HAVE to know if Gilbert is a Good Guy™️ or not!!!!
HAHAH no worries I've always planned to finish shutter hues, it's just that i'm so reluctant to actually sit down and write that i instead started three other oneshots and it's starting to look to me that i'll never write it. But i know how frustrating cliff-hangers are so i promise i'll do my best to sit myself down and get it out
Not really an Ask, just wanted to tell you that I adore every FF you write, especially the ones regarding RusPrus. Your worldbuilding and writingstyle gives me life and your ideas are unique. Good to see that there are still some creative people in this fandom; creators like you, who give thought and heart into their content. The point is, that I just wanted to thank you :)
Oh um thank you, that’s real sweet to hear :) i think a lot of ppl have left the fandom for some reason or another, and it’s nice to hear that there are ppl still ard
Just in case, Liz is Hungary, and Mads is fem!Canada. This happens after the existing three parts of the installment.
The thing about love is that it always hurts.
(“I - I just - argh I don’t know how to say this, but it’s -”
“Is it because you’re gay?”
“What? What, no. I’m - we’re not going to be a fucking cliché, ok?”)
It hurts so fucking bad.
-
Some retro shit from Spotify; he tosses off his earphones and let it continue playing in the background. It’s summer, so it’s rainy: the sky outside the window is dull and grey and wet with humidity, heavy like it’s choking. He sits on his bed because he never bothered to get out of it.
He’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. His jaw is sore - the bruise is still healing. He pokes at it, because he can, and because the pain grounds him, grounds him into reality, into living, into existing. Closes his eyes because the world feels like it’s ending and he is caught in a slow decay, except his life has never truly began so how can it end when there’s no beginning? Huh? Anyone gonna try and reason it out to him? Oh wait, he’s got no friends, he’s all alone, right now, everyone’s got something better to do and here he is, wasting his fucking self away because he’s fucking trash.
He just wants to decompose. He just wants to evaporate. It must be nice being a plant: you live, you grow, you die, you decompose. No thoughts, no choices, just sunlight and water. How nice.
Oh my fucking god I’m such an embarrassing mess -
-
“Can you even feel anything? Or is this all a joke to you? You know what, you’re a fucking toxic person to be around, you know that?”
“Look, sweetheart -”
“Don’t sweetheart me, Gilbert. Just - just stop.”
-
A long time ago, when he’s still dating this darling from his high school class, he got drunk and kissed Ivan.
He told Ivan he doesn’t remember this. This isn’t true. Gilbert remembers, but he doesn’t want it to mean anything. He never wants his relationships to mean anything, in the end - half-loves and full-loves and relationships are not his forté, ok? He’s never been in relationships much because it takes out a chunk of him, rips his heart apart and spills it like warm blood on hot sand, and he fucks up every single one of them because he can’t give what they want.
Also, he’s still in the closet then, but that doesn’t fucking matters now.
Ivan’s on a trip back to Russia. Family, Ivan explains, and kisses him on the temple. Sunshine on ice, Gilbert feels that Ivan is, is cold sunshine on burning ice, and grammar is an incoherent piece of shit unable to connect his fragmented thoughts together. He dreams in pieces and wakes up angry at dream-versions of people he knows and that is so unfair, what the fuck, Gilbert, they didn’t fucking say that, you dreamt it.
It’s so easy to pine and forgot to love. He walks in dreams as he stumbles into the kitchen to pour out a glass of orange juice. Sour and sharp in his tongue, this is a prep course to eventually swallowing acid - oh fuck your brain, Gilbert, fuck it to Mars - and he leaves the mug on the table, he’ll refill it when he finally gets himself together to make himself lunch anyway.
Ivan’s patient with him, he knows. Ivan’s patient because he’s gotten half-loves all his life, and Gilbert is stunted, in some ways, feelings swallowed down and squeezed from existence and never fully capable of love except when love turns back around like a multi-headed hydra and rips his lungs out.
He misses Ivan. Fuck. Fuuuuuck.
Smushes his own face together. Wince as he irritates the bruise too much. This is what you get when you go looking for fights at bars because you start to feel like you don’t exist, because you’re just stuck in your own head, unstuck from reality, looping in circles dreaming in fiction, Gilbert is a fucking mess who does not know how to love someone who loves him but knows how to love someone who doesn’t.
Then there is Ivan.
Gilbert does not know what to feel.
He returns to the bedroom, changes before putting on his headphones and heads to the washroom to freshen up. Grabs his backpack and tosses a bottle of water and his wallet and his phone, even though no one’s going to text him, and if he gets calls then it’s only when shit’s really bad.
His brain goes on autopilot, and he’s at Ivan’s apartment. Unlocks the door to feed Ivan’s fat fucking cat. Gilbert doesn’t even likes cat - dog person through and through, please let the neighbour’s bullmastiff eat it - but Nastya will probably stare the bullmastiff into submission. Gilbert knows. Gilbert has seen Nastya stare down a chihuahua, and chihuahuas are fucking rabid.
Waters Ivan’s plants, because Ivan can be strangely functional. He sets up a sleep timer before leaving the television running, and leaves. Stands at the street staring at nothing until a friendly storekeeper comes out asking are you ok? Do you need help to cross the road or? and Gilbert jokes about waiting for a date before making his escape as soon as possible.
He returns home and pulls out his earphones so that he can blast the music instead. Thinks about calling Ludwig, just to see how he is, but that’s just so uncharacteristic of him. Also, if he needs to put in more energy into pretending to be the caricature that everyone thinks he is, he’s going to cut off his ear just to be contrary. Or maybe that’s playing into the mad reckless character that everyone sees him as too. Gilbert doesn’t know. Gilbert doesn’t fucking care, god, whoever thought it’s a good idea to leave him alone?
He grabs his unwashed mug and tosses it at the wall. The crash sounds distant, a world away, not loud not destructive enough, before it splatters across the floor. It is not satisfying at all, and Gilbert breathes once, twice, thrice, a millennium and an eternity, and gets to cleaning.
-
“Gilbert, look,” Ivan says over Skype, holding up his baby niece. “She’s so cute.”
The toddler stares wide-eyed at him, and then babbles excitedly as she wriggles her arms. She’s insanely cute. Gilbert wants to pinch her button nose. “Hey, kid.”
Ivan’s vibrant as he blows a raspberry against the left cheek of his niece. Her giggle is sweet and vibrant and delightful, like peaches in the peak of summer. “Her name is Alisa.”
“Hey Alisa,” Gilbert amends dutifully, and snorts when Alisa pukes milk all over Ivan. Ivan wrinkles his nose, but there is a certain familiarity and apathy as he wipes Alisa’s mouth.
“Give me a few minutes to get her sorted out, ok?” Ivan turns and calls off-screen - for Alisa’s mother, probably. Gilbert vaguely wonders which of Ivan’s crazy relatives are responsible for a child as sweet as Alisa, but children tend to be mischievous sweethearts until they grow up and develop a mean streak. Gilbert blames society.
Ivan comes back in a new tee. His face is ruddy and he looks more vivacious than he ever does in years. Gilbert does not know what to think about that. “Sorry for that. Babies are messy.”
Alisa is lovely, but Gilbert doesn’t say that. “It’s fine.” He wipes the webcam. His webcam has been broken and dirty for ages, and it would normally be a bitch to deal with, except Gilbert has a bruise on his face and he’s borrowed Liz’s concealer to temporarily cover it up but there’s only so much her sheer coverage can do for a bruise this size. “How’s things on your side?”
“Good.” Ivan turns to smile over his shoulders. “Really good. It feels kinda weird to see things working out so well.”
“But this is the, the maternal side of the family, right?”
“Yeah.” Ivan pulls his chair closer in. “I guess they've always been more understanding than the paternal side.”
“Which means Ivan is still disowned from the other half of his family for coming out gay and that's - “And they have cuter kids too.”
Ivan laughs, hearty and carefree, and it does things to Gilbert’s stomach. “I thought you don't like kids?”
“Wrong: I don't like bad parenting, and I am bad with kids.” He's better with older ones that are easily impressed with dinosaur trivia and stupid stunts.
Oh, and don't forget precocious kids like Ludwig once was who'll grimly take it upon themselves to reverse babysit him. That kind of kid, Gilbert can entertain for hours.
“Mmhmm, then maybe you ought to complain less when Liz tells you to watch her kid while she runs off to stuff down an energy bar.”
“Oh fuck no - her son is the devil. Not the incarnate, the original one.”
Ivan masks his chuckle with a cough. “I'll tell her you say that.”
“Do it - she agrees.”
This time Ivan can't suppress his bark of laughter. “I’ll tell that to Roderich, then.”
“Fuck, don’t do that.” Gilbert wets his lips. “Look, I’m not supposed to be telling anyone, but there are some, uh, problems with their marriage. They’re currently separated.”
“What? But they married last year -”
What do you know? Love is transitory and love hurts, and marriage always always exposes the worse of a person, and their marriage has been fragmenting for a long time. Gilbert shrugs. “Relationships don’t always manage to work through life changes.”
Ivan exhales sharply. “But I thought they were happy.”
“Roderich has never been able to give Liz what she wants.” This is a fact that everyone can see and that to which Liz has willingly blinded herself. Many women are like this, in a way: they grow up wanting their own grand romance so much that they forget that even the grand romances of the movies eventually end. Gilbert thinks of Mads, and he says, “It’s better that she gets out of it now rather than later.”
“Maybe,” Ivan agrees, “but I thought that they will have a happy ending. Happily ever after.”
“Happily ever after,” Gilbert echoes. “Yeah, I thought so too.”
-
After he got together with Ivan, two things happen:
One. Ludwig calls for the first time. This is a coincidence, and they never managed to talk about Ivan until the second time when he does and Gilbert blurts, “By the way, I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” This is Ludwig’s shocked voice. It takes Skills™ and years of living in the same house to be able to tell it apart from his other I-don’t-want-to-seem-rude-so-I’m-keeping-my-voice-as-flat-as-possible voices. “When was this?”
“Two months ago.”
“Oh.” This is his thoughtful voice. “I never knew you were…”
“I never knew too.”
“Oh.” Then this is the awkward voice. There is white noise on the other end, a muffled thank you as a bartender chirps about a triple shot espresso. “Congratulations. Do I know him?”
“Yeah, it’s Ivan.”
Ludwig chokes on his coffee. This reaction does not need commentary. “I’m sorry?” he manages when he calms down.
“I’m dating Ivan.”
“I thought - never mind.” The sound of chairs being pulled. “How is he?”
“He’s been better.”
“I see.”
And that’s the end of it, for a while. It went better than expected, and the relationship has not combusted in flames, and Ludwig still occurs once in a while, so there’s - that’s it, really. Things are good.
And then there’s two: he meets his ex.
He’s never had much relationships - he can count them on one hand - but none of them ever ended well. It says something about him, he thinks. He tries not to think too hard.
This one, luckily for him, is one of the better breakups. She wrings her hand like she does not know how to react, and they stand on the pavement for too long until Gilbert awkwardly offers, “Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” she answers hurriedly, “sure, why not?”
They sit at a table by the window, and they both stare down at their cups for the longest time until she clears her throat. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Me too.” She takes a sip. Gilbert does not. “Are you, uhm. Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s good,” she hurriedly adds. “I’m actually meeting my boyfriend here later, and if it’s going to make things uncomfortable, I thought -”
“Mads,” Gilbert interrupts, “it’s fine. It won’t be an issue at all.”
She deflates. “I’m worried,” she admits, “when we broke up, I thought, I thought that I was unfair to you, that maybe I shouldn’t have dated you because I know what I am getting myself into, and that when it ended like that, we both got hurt, and that’s so, so not fair.”
“You are not wrong to get out of a relationship that’s hurting you.”
“I know,” she insists, “but I am still sorry. Maybe in another life, it could have gone another way that’s less - I’m sorry.”
Gilbert sighs. He finally drinks his coffee. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I do,” says Mads, “I know you aren’t the man I need, but I still wanted to believe that it could work. That was selfish. I’m sorry.”
And isn’t that the core of the issue, after all, that Gilbert can never be what people wanted, what people needed? Which - ok, stop, what sappy bullshit is he thinking, to care about what other people want or need?
“Guess I’m sorry too.” Gilbert kneads between his eyebrows. “All the best for to you and your boyfriend, yeah?”
She folds her arms on the table and rubs above her elbows. She’s smiling. “Thanks.”
And that’s it, that’s how Gilbert does relationships. Let go let go let go and stop hurting. Let go.
-
(“I thought it would be harder for you to let me go,” Mads has said, at the coffee shop, a long time ago before they meet again.
“I’m sorry,” Gilbert mutters, and can’t bring himself to meet her eyes.
Mads simply shakes her head. “I didn’t know what I expected.” There are tears brimming in her eyes; Gilbert wants to scream. “For a clean end, or for you to actually give a reaction.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Does sorry even mean anything to you?” Mads hisses, and stands up to leave.
Gilbert waves over a waiter to clear his untouched cup of coffee away. The foam art is a gorgeous, layered heart, dark cocoa center like a hollow in his chest.)
Gilbert does not pick up Ivan because he simply… forgets. Forgets time, forgets to keep track of the date, forgets what day of the week it is. He doesn’t have a car, anyway, and Ivan has a thing for flights with weird hours because he has a strangely strong immunity against jet lag and wants to save up the extra bucks.
Nevertheless. Gilbert still feels like shit when he opens the door to Ivan’s apartment and is startled to find Ivan feeding his cat.
“Huh. You’re back,” he says, and fuck, someone really should stop him from sticking his foot in his mouth.
“Yes.” Ivan’s face does not reveal any emotions. He’s good at that, Ivan - masking emotions. Not in the way that Gilbert does, and not in the way that Ludwig does, much less the way Liz does, except in his very own special way.
I missed you, Gilbert doesn’t say. Sorry I fucked up, Gilbert also doesn’t know. “Do you want your key back -”
“No, it’s fine,” Ivan hurriedly answers. “You can keep it.”
“Ok.”
“You spend a lot of time over anyway,” Ivan adds.
That is true. At first, it used to be for work, but after he quit, it’s straight out just. Sex. Somehow Ivan’s place feels a lot less dirty and illicit as compared to if they fuck in Gilbert’s apartment. Ivan likes to blame how sparse Gilbert’s apartment is that results in the general atmosphere that what is supposedly home feels more like a temporary barrack, but Gilbert knows it’s because their house resembles who they are: Ivan always trying to set down roots and find himself friends and family, while Gilbert is always trying to leave, trying to figure out who he is, lonesome but always failing to reach out.
He pockets the key and flops onto Ivan’s armchair. Cracks a grin because that’s expected of him - caricature. “So, bought any gifts for me?”
“I have some varenye.”
“Berries flavoured?”
“Well, this year we bought bananas and walnuts to mix with it.” Nastya jumps off Ivan’s arms. With a beckoning of his hand, Ivan steps into the kitchen. Gilbert rolls his shoulders and trails along. And alright, there are a few new jars in the refrigerator that Gilbert hasn’t seen during his last few visits. Ivan picks up one tied with a yellow ribbon. “Babushka made it for you because she heard that you’re not a fan of berries.”
“I - yeah, thanks.” He accepts the jar from Ivan. He’s seen Ivan’s Babushka once - Skype is a godsend or a curse, depending on perspective - and she is, to put it lightly, a hell of a woman. Gilbert lowkey thinks that Liz is going to grow old into someone like that. “Have you tasted it?”
“It’s less sweet than the usual varenye.” At that, Ivan snickers. “She has a lot of things to say about that, but I told her that your family has a history of diabetes.”
His family history also has a mixture of obesity, hypertension, high cholesterol, cardiovascular diseases, and cancer - like all other countries in the world in this age of modernisation. However: “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing much.” Ivan smiles. “I think she’s taken a liking to you. She says your swears are very creative.”
That is a result of Nastya suddenly jumping onto his lap and punching a particularly sensitive spot that starts with a d and ends with ick during the same Skype session. “Christ, is that how she sees me now?”
“It’s not that bad.” Ivan moves over to switch on the electric kettle. “My last boyfriend, he accidentally dropped her jar of varenye in front of her. That did not end well.”
“Ok but did he grovel?”
“He can’t lower his pride enough to do so,” Ivan admits, “I guess that’s the first sign.”
“First sign?”
“That he would be too prideful for the relationship to work out,” Ivan divulges, digging through his box of teabags. “Coffee or tea?”
“Just water, actually.”
“Ok.” He grabs two mugs - it’s ugly and the paint is peeled and Ivan probably got it cheap from the bargain section - and drops the tea bag into one of it.
Gilbert is suddenly furiously aware that he’s run out of conversation topics. He’s got nothing to say - I spent my whole two and a half weeks being a pathetic waste of space is too fucking miserable. I got into a bar fight because I was bored sounds like he’s trying to vie for attention. But he did nothing else, because he’s a fucking mess, and -
Ivan raises a hand, hovers, and drops it. He peers closer. “What happened to your face?”
Gilbert mentally curses his body’s slow healing period that prevents the bruise from fading away completely. “Nothing much,” he lies, and then figures that ending it there sounds suspicious, embellishes, “look, it’s just fucking stupid, ok? Don’t make me repeat the story.”
Ivan frowns. He reaches out again, and when his thumb rubs at Gilbert’s jaw, Gilbert carefully does not flinch away. “You need to eat more of Babushka’s varenye, then. It’s rich in Vitamin C. I hear that it helps bruises recover faster.”
“You will not conspire to make me eat more berries.”
“It has banana and walnuts in it,” Ivan defenses, and it’s all so domestic that Gilbert fucking can’t, alright? He can’t take this. It’s so sweet and sugary and so perfect like Ivan’s Babushka’s fucking varenye and holy shit, what is he doing? It’s not going to end well. In fact, it’s going to be a fucking trainwreck waiting to happen, and it’ll be worse than it ever has been, because every time Gilbert rips out his heart for someone, it’s never enough, and the more he gives the more he hurts them in the end, he’s got a track record, what is he -
“You’ll help me finish it,” Gilbert bargains, instead.
He doesn’t want this to end, please don’t let it end, please please please, fuck - he’s so pathetic, he wants this so much, but. But when Ivan leaves, will Gilbert ask him to stay? Will he grovel? Or is he too prideful like Ivan's ex because that's not the case, at all. Because he hasn’t done this in the past, hasn’t done it for Mads and all the other girls, because he dare not be selfish but Ivan is -
Will he dare beg him to stay?
“Maybe.” Ivan’s eyes crinkle at the corner. The water kettle ticks off. The water settles, Ivan pours the hot water onto both cups, pours cooler water to chill it down, and holds out his hand for Gilbert’s jar of varenye. “Please?”
Gilbert hands it over. Ivan opens the jar, scoops out a healthy dollop, and plonks it into the tea. Stirs. “Now this is for you.” He hands Gilbert the other mug. “This is for you too, when the sweetness gets too much.” He seals up the jar and put it back into the fridge. “I’ll keep it with me, so that I can make sure you finish it instead of pouring it away into the bin.”
Sweet tea and water to wash it down. If this is a fucking metaphor, Gilbert is going to combust.
Nonetheless, that would have been a, a nice metaphor, he thinks. A nice way to live and handle this relationship, this - whatever this thing with Ivan is. He takes a gulp of the tea. “It’s sweet.”
Ivan laughs, hearty and fond. “Of course it is,” he says, and it’s going to hurt so fucking much when Ivan leaves, but it’s good now, it’s so goddamn good, and that’s all Gilbert wants.
I used to have this anon who would once in a while come around and send me uplifting things in my inbox. I know that after i accidentally deleted my account + due to a series of circumstances that leads to lapsed replies = very little hope of finding that anon again, but to this anon, i just want to say, you are rlly cute and i hope that whoever u are, you be happy
hi!! i jus wanted to know what your username means
mm a few years back when i was too embarrassed to post any content online, i hogged a few sideblogs for me to shitpost/reblog, incl one for aph. then, 2++ years ago i finally decided to post drabs and wanted a clean slate. so i grabbed that url, blanked out parts of it, and created a fic sideblog titled orsfri.
tldr it is the result of me trying to come up with the most generic, unspecific username that can be pronounced/easily remembered
Today's highlights include: German bros being bros, background/past RusPru sadly does not actually appear in this chapter, and Ludwig's PoV reveals that local German is a sad, sad boy who needs a break. Like seriously really.
-
Gilbert has always been a skilled liar where it matters, and that’s how Ludwig knows that Gilbert’s not lying.
Gilbert... Gilbert’s false bravado and egoistic exaggeration have always been so transparent: teenage stupidity so obvious even to people who don’t know where to look. But when it comes to things that matter, truths that truly hurts -
Ludwig presses the heels of his palms against both eyes.
There is no way Gilbert can pull off staging the past day, anyway, Ludwig reasons, hands trailing against the edges of the vanity. Unless it's all a psychedelic acid trip and Gilbert's drugged him... but no. His brother’s changed, but he couldn't have changed enough to drug his own brother, can he?
Or maybe Ludwig’s dreamt it all up. But Gilbert knows what he dreamt about - and perhaps Gilbert only knows because Ludwig’s still dreaming, even now, his brain spinning stories - then isn't it best to abide by the dream’s logic and see where it takes him, since there's no consequence anyway?
But that doesn't explain Ivan.
(Ivan, Ivan , strange and terrifying, a chunk from his brother’s life never meant to be seen; calm and confident, a predator toying with prey as he smiles down at them. Smiles when he draws the pistol at the café, smiles when he delivers a shot meant to miss, the quick flash of teeth when Gilbert manages to trip him over the railing.
Smiles down from the roof of the car, shadows of snakes swirling behind his eyes, strange melancholy in the curl of his lips.)
Ivan is a man that Ludwig can't create, no matter how whimsical his brain may be in dreams. He has too many dimensions tucked over each other for a simple dream-character.
The logical conclusion is that either Ludwig is going mad, or this is true, and he needs to analyse all his facts.
Gilbert’s not telling him a lot of things, Ludwig decides, straightening his back. His explanation is a fumbling mess, but even then Ludwig can spot the holes in every sentence.
But Ludwig knows Gilbert well enough to know that there are things Gilbert won’t talk about, and Ludwig is his brother’s charge. Conversation... is not his niche. If it’s important, Gilbert will come to tell, in time. A benefit of a doubt.
He pulls open a drawer and pockets the letter-opener that he’s spotted while searching the room. The edges are blunt, but in a pinch and with the right pressure, it may be useful - at least, until he finds something more practical. Ludwig pockets it; it clinks against the pair of dice he’s found in his trousers when he first woke up. Ludwig doesn’t know why he keeps them, except that he’s got a hunch that he should.
There’s a knock on the door. It doesn’t sound like the rap that Gilbert makes from just now. Ludwig hesitates - but if they are in the past, will it seem suspicious if he doesn’t get the door? He lingers by it. Grabs the blazer from the coat rack, because Ivan has been wearing one and Gilbert is holding his own on his arm, and that seems as much a hint as anything that Ludwig should attempt to fit in.
“Evening, sir,” says the stranger when Ludwig creaks open the door. “This is room service. May I enter your room, sir?”
There is a little something off about the man, something about how everything does not quite fit standard operating procedure. Ludwig tightens his grip on the knob. “I’d rather not.”
The man nods, his expression unchanging. “As you wish.” He steps back and raises the tray from the trolley with great familiarity, and perhaps Ludwig is being paranoid. “Here is your dinner, sir.”
Ludwig inches the door a little wider. The man continues smiling. For a moment, it reminds him of Ivan: the polite smile that does not reach the eyes, the calm detachment that unnerves Ludwig so much when he first sees Ivan in the crowd because Ivan simply feels less human, his every action practised and scripted.
And perhaps this is the source of the apprehension that has Ludwig watching a little more closely for any hint of judgement or frustration at Ludwig’s idiosyncrasies as Ludwig accepts the tray. “Thank y-”
The man smiles wider, and there are shadows of something swimming in his eyes.
Ludwig lurches back and tries to slam the door shut, but the man hurriedly wedges his foot against the door arch. He does not flinch. It is as though he does not feel pain.
But Ivan has personality, emotions and feelings that rears its head ever so occasionally. The man trying to squirm himself into Ivan’s room does not.
Ludwig wrestles to force the door close, or at the very least, trap the man by the door. The man’s face twists with ugly fury that does not reach those blank, swirling eyes, and when Ludwig tries to shove him back the man claws at the air, makes for Ludwig as he squeezes himself a further inch in.
hi im an anon from ao3. literally just came to say that your writing blows me away every single day wow. you have no idea how many times i’ve reread your eve of the hour series. its not even funny. and i never. get. bored. of. it. maybe this is my own sort of neurotic thing but... idk i just really like your writing and it gives me feelings and for a gal who has not been able to feel things for a while (bulimia will do that to ya) ,,,, its a blessing .
oh hello! um i think this is the first time anyone left a comment for the eve of the hour series, so thank you!! you’re so sweet and im very, very flattered
also i do hope things will get better for you, anon! stay strong and stay cute 💪
Summary: RusPru, German bros being bros; Gilbert steals something he really shouldn't have, Ludwig is TiredTM, Ivan is Arnold Schwarzenegger from Terminator 2 not paid enough for this, bad science, and there are tensions of all kind.
Today, I want to say that
1) Murphy’s law is absolutely real, and
2) @lyf: you've done it, you sapped me dry
-
“Well fuck,” says Gilbert.
Ludwig leans forward to peer over the railings. “Do you think he’s dead?”
“Of course not.” He peers too, anyway, in a rare feat of optimism. The roof of the car is dented, the anti-theft alarms blaring as frightened passers-by gather around it, and Ivan seems like any old corpse sprawled over the metal. “We better leave before he gets back up.” Ludwig is frozen, eyes wide and fingers clenched tight around the metal; shock, Gilbert knows. “Come on.” He pulls at Ludwig’s arm. “We got to go now.”
Ludwig lets himself be pulled away, and they break into a run towards the back-door the moment they step out of the elevator. The hair on Gilbert’s neck is standing as though they are watched by a phantom, but Ivan can’t have gotten up already. Not yet. Not based on what Gilbert does know about him, anyway, and Gilbert knows a lot these days. He knows enough to get both of them hunted, and that’s where it all went wrong, isn’t it? Ignorance is fucking bliss, and Gilbert’s not blissful, Gilbert’s fucked up big time, and look where they are now?
Look. Just look: what are they going to do now?
-
“Drive,” Gilbert orders, glancing skittishly towards the back.
Ludwig doesn’t look too happy to be ordered around. That, or he’s still a stickler for the rules even in such nerve-wracking times and does not want to drive a stolen car that Gilbert hotwired, but men pursued by one of the most notorious killers on the market can’t be fucking choosers, can they? Some stupid top-twenties pop song starts blaring from the radio; Ludwig switches it off before it can thoroughly ruin the mood. He locks the car doors.
“Put on your seatbelt,” he reminds, and for a moment it all feels so perfectly mundane that Gilbert wants to scream.
He doesn’t. Men pursued by one of the most notorious - yeah, you get the point. Men on the verge of death don’t have time for nervous breakdowns. He clips on his seatbelt and digs his nails into his knee as he watches Ludwig pulls out on the road, gradually picking up speed until they are on the expressway and out of the city.
“Where to?” Ludwig asks, jaws tense.
Gilbert doesn’t know. “Just drive,” he says, and that’s answer enough.
Ludwig drives.
-
They drive in silence until they are two cities away and the car complains that it is running out of fuel, because apparently they have the worse luck and stole from an owner that doesn’t keep their petrol tanks full.
Gilbert makes them pull over at a gas station. He waves away the jockey and releases his seat belt. “Ok,” he begins. “Ok ok ok. You’re going to wait here while I grab some stuff. See that guy over there?” Ludwig squints at where he’s pointing. “See, he’s leaving now to go into the minimart while that boy there takes care of his car. After the boy’s left and before the man’s back, I will steal his car. You’ll be lookout. Are we clear?”
“Brother,” Ludwig frowns. “I don’t think we should be doing this. What if -”
“Fun fact,” Gilbert interrupts, “if you want to live, you don’t have a choice. I know you’re a good citizen and you love rules and shit, but for once, do this for me.” He opens the car door, ignoring Ludwig’s attempt to protest. “Come on, I trust you, ok? You can do this.”
Ludwig thins his lips. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose; finally, he nods. Gilbert quashes the relief he feels as he closes the door, jogging towards the minimart to grab some perfunctory snacks and bottles.
He walks past the mark and slips his car keys - and his wallet too, just for kicks. He returns the wallet with only twenty bucks stolen. When he sees the jockey does his final wipe down, Gilbert rings up only the water and a packet of chips and slips out towards the car.
He’s almost to the car when that prickling feeling of being watched caused him to hesitate in his approach.
