Chapter Text
"He doesn't fucking love you. He just likes what you look like!"
"You're hurting him. If you actually cared—"
"Do you understand what you're doing?"
"You have no idea how many times I've had to stop him from killing himself!"
Ludwig couldn't do anything but sit and stare as the soft, obsessive, dinging of the car told him the door was open. Francis walked around the vehicle, opening the passenger door, attempting to get him to come out.
"You said you wanted closure," he muttered. His tone had grown harsh over the last two weeks, though it didn't help that he was found at the gambling table every waking moment of it.
Ludwig just continued to fixate his gaze downwards. Beyond the dinging car and the French man's tone were waves. They crashed against a faraway shore, bashing rocks into sand, Italians into memories. Nothing had ever hurt Ludwig more than this. The guilt replaced whatever used to beat in his heart. It was his fault Feliciano was dead.
Lovino's bellicose screams still gnawed away at his psyche. He had been the one that continuously pushed for Feliciano to remember. Being under order didn't excuse anything. He should have been stronger, should have said no. He didn't, and now that kid that talked too-much about nothing and liked his cooking and was so climactically broken was dead.
Francis had been the one to affirm it. He had watched the Italian fall, had tried to save him but was ultimately unable to. Ludwig knew that Francis couldn't put past the Vargases deaths. He had been under direct orders from Roma Vargas to make sure neither one of them got hurt.
Ludwig wondered when the hitman would come. It was strange that Francis spent so much time publicly gambling, knowing that any second a gun would be pointed at his head and he would be dead. Maybe the publicity made him feet better. Maybe he felt that Antonio would save him.
Antonio was in no better shape than the rest of them. He had been so angry when Feliciano had run off, torenting around town, sitting on the verge of debasement of his name. If it hadn't been for Francis, he would have threatened a cop.
Gilbert had beckoned for him. Alfred was in a stable condition, and when he was ready to move out—which could be a few more months, though the American didn't do boundaries well, it seemed-Gilbert planned to track Braginsky down in Russia. He had told Ludwig that he was awaiting his arrival. Now that Feliciano was dead there was no reason for Ludwig to stay here.
Gilbert was right.
Ludwig should have never come to the cliff. Somewhere down the line Ludwig had become everything that he hated.
Stepping out of the vehicle, Ludwig strode over to the cliff. He looked down. The setting reminded him of something out of Lord of the Flies by William Golding. He could only imagine what Feliciano had been going through, screaming at the tormentors in his head before falling over, brain matter spilling over the rocks before being facetiously licked up by the snickering waters. His knees were weak.
There was no way out. Ludwig pressed his palm against his eyes. The train rumbled beneath him melodically. He needed to stop thinking about it—stop thinking about everything. Lovino's note was secured in his pocket, burning something of a hole in his pants. It didn't make any sense. From what Lovino had told him to what he wrote—had he been hoping Feliciano would kill himself?
He was able to stay on this line of thought for a while, pushing down the foreboding thoughts of his own. He knew, was uneasy about, what his mind would traipse to when it was quiet. When he wasn't thinking about the pair of dead Italians or taking up estranged conversation with strangers. He never used to do that before. Books just weren't sufficing it.
Gilbert picked him up from the platform. His expression read that of worry, but Ludwig knew that Gilbert was rarely worried about anything outside of the mob business.
Francis was dead by the time he had made it to Germany. Antonio was on the run.
"No, please," Ludwig yammered halfheartedly, looking down at the floor. Roma sat in front of him. He had made a trip all the way to Germany. His brown eyes were black in the lighting, messy hair neat and back, gun ready at his hip. "I tried, but your orders are what pushed him to kill himself."
Gilbert hissed something of a warning. It was so quick, so contradictory, but Ludwig didn't care. He was too tired to care. Too angry. He lifted his gaze, hoping his glare didn't fall flat, not really caring if it did.
"You should have listened to Lovino," Ludwig screamed. His martial attitude didn't phase Roma, the aged Italian glared right back. "If you're going to kill me then just do it," Ludwig sneered, standing from his kneeled position on the floor, "because I'm done here."
Gilbert screamed at him the rest of the night. He shouldn't have walked out on Roma Vargas, he shouldn't have said those things, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. He was too angry, but he didn't know at what or why or how to fix it. He just knew that Gilbert was screaming at him.
He bit something back, telling Gilbert to mind his own business, or something along those lines. He wasn't sure because he just couldn't care about what was happening. He didn't care how this could affect the Beilschmidt business, he didn't care if his life was at stake. He was just so confused and angry and there was no real way to say that it was anything else because it was just that—a festering irritation that bound his shoulders and chest.
He burned Lovino's note after tearing it to shreds. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense! What had Lovino been thinking? Why did he do this?
But Ludwig knew, somewhere deep down, that he didn't care about such trivial things.
At least it kept the big questions from fevering his thoughts.
What was the meaning of life?
Why was he here?
Why did he always follow orders—what did it mean to live?
How could he escape the Beilschmidt name?
He stayed close to Gilbert as they walked, but not close enough for it to be obvious that he was doing so. He had been in Germany a month now. Loud noises still caused his anxiety to spike, and in the city one just didn't escape from the noises; people talked, things crashed, cars let out bursts of exhaust. He just stared forward, his lips clamped shut as he did so. Occasionally, he would see someone seemingly following them—maybe it was just his paranoia—but didn't turn his head to look. He told himself it was good to do this. To make his stalkers feel that they had the upper hand with surprise, to ready his gun in case battle ensued, to not alarm Gilbert.
None of his plans panned out. They made it back to the apartment complex without any drama.
What was he doing? What did anything matter?
He had sought an answer with a German philosopher. Pulling the man from a Berlin university, he had asked him one simple question: What is the meaning to all this? He had inquired, trying not to sound as detached as he felt. What is the meaning of existence.
The philosopher had rattled off a few different theories that he probably taught to his classes. He explained Kant's Theory of Perception, A Marxist philosophy, delving into materialist approaches, the Greek views of form and mind and body, but none of it hit. Even Descartes "Cogito, ergo sum," though soothing in its ideals, left Ludwig feeling empty. Even emptier when he realized that there could literally be no meaning, that everything could be an illusion. So, sitting over a cup of coffee, ignoring the bashful hums and bangs of the industrial coffee maker, Ludwig asked him what he thought.
He thought that life, like beauty, lay in the eye of the beholder.
Ludwig decided that this was ludicrous, a cop-out to not believing anything.
So, he respectfully thanked him and left.
Three more philosophers he sought before he stopped.
One believed that life should be lived for a higher power—the people, or a religion, or even a macro idealism of oneself. Ludwig hated this. He didn't want to live for others. He was done being told what to do, never coming up with the right words to say because he always played on a script.
Another told him that life was irrelevant. That the thought of a material self should be forgotten, for our minds should be the main-focus. They shared that dualism denotes a binary opposition, that life was no larger than a moment-to-moment scale, but spirituality, everlasting, could be achieved—and that was the only reason life existed. To achieve some other form.
Finally, the last philosopher told him that life was just shit. Ludwig had laughed at this, barely, but it felt nice. He explained that he believed that consciousness was a by-product of the bain, practically meaningless. Ludwig could feel himself sinking a bit deeper when he said this, but the man hadn't noticed. He continued:
"To figure out the meaning of life you first have to define life," he shared. "That means that you are either stuck between something foolishly religious or maddingly realistic. We're either Gods or animals. Of course, such a statement is a straw man, over simplified, a fallacy, but I'm sure you will be able to follow my line of thought if we leave it at that."
"If you believe us to be Gods, then you have already latched onto a meaning. You have decided to live for a higher cause, for a form of immortality. This is the easiest meaning to fall back to. It's comfortable. It means that death is just a scary thought. Of course, people searching for a way of power can morph this comfort into a thing of power—a way to build empires. Control the God and you control the people that pray to him. So, it must be handled carefully. If you believe that your life is just part one to an everlasting one, then the meaning is to find peace. You are looking for some sort of closure to the drama of being human, to enlighten yourself with knowledge and philosophy, while also always working. As human beings we find it very hard to give up all conflict. Buddhist seem to strive for a reality without any worldly conflict, so they must stick to schedules and rules. That is the life of a God. You must follow the rules. The question that plagues this group now is who exactly gets to write the rules. Because script is scratched by a human hand."
"If you believe us to be animals, then you're going to have to live with the obscurities. You must question everything, always, and never really know if anything you come up with is right. You get to come up with your own morals, but there will always be room for criticism—both foreign and personal—there will always be another way to do things, and if it is all simply material you can't be certain that any of it matters because the material world will end. You will die, the world will die, and nothing will matter. It's a void. So, to feel better about being an animal you must take yourself out of a macro mindset or else you'll kill yourself. You'll push yourself so hard, attempting to leave some mark on a ticking bomb, and drive yourself insane."
"If you believe us to be animals you have to realize that you are then based on your experiences. If you want to figure out the meaning of life you must first figure out the meaning of yourself. You are not a soldier for a God, some sacrifice, you are human. You are a who, not a pawn. So, who are you? You are a creation of your society, your peers, and your make-up. Your consciousness is not a part of some big scheme, it is just the product of your brain, a list of neurons and their activities. It's depressing put that way. That's because being an animal is depressing. There's no bigger than life cause, no chosen ones, no elation. There's want, need, and death. A lot of work for only a fraction of a reward."
"But that doesn't mean it doesn't matter. Sure, you may not be a part of some pretty picture, sure you'll burn out, but at least you can't fuck up, right?" He laughed at this. Ludwig watched him. His mien was unbothered, as if all these things had become fact in his head. Something of a comfort, even. "There is of course no free will in either theory. If you're a God you are controlled by a God and do as you were written to do, if you are an animal you are morphed by your own make-up, hormones, and experiences and it can be argued that none of you is originally you. Even if you walk out of here today and decide to change something about yourself because of this information, it will only be you acting on an experience. You are a product as an animal, a soldier as a God."
"But meaning still lies in both. To be a soldier is to be painted in a higher light. Its euphoric, fighting for a cause greater than yourself. Most importantly, it produces a clear goal. Meaning is often tied in with goals. What are you doing and for what? When you march to war you are fighting for your country, for a brighter future for the next generation, for an ideology. Being a soldier is good. It's admirable."
"To be a product means to proliferate. It is a life of continuous discovery. Voyagers do not loath the land they discover because the land already existed before they discovered it. They bask in the completion of a goal as they share their knowledge with the world. That's what being a product means. It's giving to a whole world of knowledge that will only matter whilst it exists. You get to develop, you get to raise, and you get to change things. I think that's the biggest difference. One is already set in stone, the other is a lump of clay. You just must decide whether you're a rock climber or an artist. Whichever you choose puts you in the place of a teacher, though."
"So, decide. Which one are you? God or animal. What are you living for? If you draw a blank, then ask yourself what you admire about those who are already living. Everybody has a goal. Goals are what keep society running and cause kingdoms to rise and fall. What is you goal? That is the meaning of life." He sent Ludwig a prudent wink. "Coming from an old fart, anyway."
Ludwig hated everything that all the philosophers said. None of them made exact sense—none of them were a science. He could think through every argument or explanation. Slippery slopes fogged his head.
Was he God or animal? Why did he have to choose?
Midnight had long since settled over the mind. The window shut off the world outside, the people chanting something Ludwig was oblivious to. He just stared at the reminiscence of ashes in a can. Of course, they were long gone. The note was destroyed. The Italian who wrote it was buried under the statue of Mary, memorabilia of his brother nestled right next to him.
Ludwig tried to mollify the flare of distinct exasperation that attempted to snuff out his nonchalance. "Why did you do it!" Ludwig screamed suddenly, standing from his place and kicking the can as hard as he could. It crashed against the wall, upsetting a bookshelf beside it. "Why did you kill yourself! Why did you say those things? Why! What was the point!" He screamed at the can, unable to share his profundity with the object. "If we are separated between soldier and product, what are we if we kill ourselves?" He demanded aggressively. "What is the point! Why—Why did you do it?"
He was so broken, Feliciano was. At first Ludwig hadn't believe what they told him. Well, he did, but not when he met the man. He had seemed so happy just to have someone to talk to. He mourned his mother, he talked of a higher power. When Gilbert performed the public execution, he had been so strong with his disapproval. Even if he sobbed through the whole thing, he had stayed strong through that.
He had stayed strong when he was kidnapped. When he was forced into battle, when Ludwig himself pressed a gun to his head. Repudiate to the world of the mafia. He was strong until he wasn't.
"You killed yourself because you're a coward," Ludwig cried, staring into the floor. "You didn't have a goal, you weren't strong. You were no better than Lovino, against everything and anyone."
No matter what he said, the guilt in his heart never subsided.
Gilbert's sagacious words played in his mind. "Get the fuck over it. They're dead, you're not." They had been insolent when he had said them, when he had barged into Ludwig's room to yell after Ludwig's outburst. The older German was getting tired of Ludwig's attitude, his silence. Now, though, as Ludwig filled his schedule with busy-work, as he prepared the final list of his crew, they rolled around like rocks.
They're dead. He's not.
They're dead.
The thing about being God or animal is that, no matter which side one lies one, which place on the greyscale one chooses, they will die. Everyone dies.
They were dead.
He wasn't. Yet.
He would be dead one day, so what did all the trivial things mean, really? What did this empire, being built in the shadow of his grandfather, only to fall like his grandfather—a shoot-out in the middle of the street fueled by a satiric grudge—mean? In the end it would mean nothing. In the end it would be a superfluous grab at money. Inflation would make them look like fouls. Empires fall, people die, what was the point?
Ludwig opted for a day in bed, leaving Gilbert to pick up his slack.
The day turned into a week. He didn't want to move. He just stared. Gilbert had come in to berate him once or twice, but Ludwig had hardly listened to what he said. He was tired.
"You look like shit," Gilbert said when Ludwig came out. Ludwig scrubbed at his eyes, the brightness of the rest of the apartment a bit too much to handle.
"You're here?" Ludwig asked.
"Yeah, Frank is handling the new recruits," the albino mused over his paperwork.
"Is anyone coming over tonight?"
"Yeah, Watts and his wife along with their kids," Gilbert scribbled something down. "They're going to be staying with us for a while, actually."
"What do you mean?"
"Their place is being surrounded by cops. I'm moving them out. We have an extra room the squeeze won't be impossible."
"But—"
"You don't get a say in this," he sighed, giving Ludwig another once-over. "We're offering our hospitality to our brethren, Ludwig."
Gilbert must have had some sort of family complex. One was either his brother or his enemy. It made Ludwig feel dismal, just another part of a spectrum.
Watts and his family were kind. Mrs. Watts was a stiff-lipped woman, but she never had anything bad to say. The children, three—Gloria, Shawna, and Wilhelm—were a change of pace. It had just been Ludwig and Gilbert—though there seemed to be someone over all the time—but now there was a family. They fought, a mother scorning her children when they got out of line, the coffee growing stronger every day. The children were personally escorted to school every day, on days off they cluttered the small television to watch cartoons and fight over toys.
Soon Watts grew to become the Beilschmidts' underboss. He was good at his job, ruthless when it was needed, calm and collected everywhere else. Never once did he breathe a word of the business to his kids. Gilbert enjoyed his humor, Ludwig his collective conduct.
"Why don't you raise them for it?" Gilbert asked as he, Ludwig, and Watts walked. He was referring to the kids, that much was obvious.
"It's not a life I want them to get caught up in," he admitted. "If they end up being part of the mob, it will be because they decided to be part of it. I will warn them then, try to convince them to change their mind. This isn't a profession anyone should be pushed into, and I am not going to do what my parents did with me."
"It's dangerous, though, not warning them. Cops are in and out of the area all the time. What if they get picked up and questioned?"
"Then they get picked up and questioned. Business stays business. When I get home it's family time." He fixed Gilbert with a stubborn smile. "That's the way I run my family. I will not change my ways, ever."
He threw the gun in his glovebox. It was still warm.
"What to get something to eat?" Gilbert asked, climbing into the driver's seat.
Ludwig frowned out the window.
The day that everything went to hell Ludwig was feeling better than he had in a while. Having kids in the apartment kept him out of bed, kept him moving, kept him busy. When it became a nuisance he always had work elsewhere to wrap himself up with. Slowly he was able to concentrate day-to-day, philosophers forgotten and Italians evanescent.
A small satchel hung loosely from his hand, wrapped once or twice around his wrist just-in-case a thief was so bold. It was filled with nothing important to the moment. Nothing important to him. He was just playing messenger.
The train platform bustled. People pressed this way or that, talking in rushed languages—some German, others not, tourism common in the early summer months—over phones and to companions beside them. The train was a few minutes from arriving, so Ludwig waited patiently, standing, staring at the ad, graffitied to the point of disguise, across from him.
The distant throttle of an oncoming car shook the walls. Ludwig readied himself, straightening his posture and looking away from the tags. He stood on the west end of the platform, the train arriving from the east. Lights basked in the tunnel, blinking, staring forward.
It all happened so quickly. The platform was so big, so full. Before anyone could stop her, a woman jumped the railing, throwing herself in front of the train. Ludwig stared. Stared as the train came to an abrupt stopped. Stared as people were rushed off the train, as police filled the area. Ludwig stared as he was run into from thirty different directions.
What had happened?
Batter splat the wall, a white bag and a stretcher was brought in. The platform was so big and Ludwig stared.
What had she been thinking?
Was she feeling the same as Ludwig was? Did she question the meaning of the universe, of her place in the world? Who mourned her death? Was there a note? Did she regret it in the last moment?
Ludwig turned and left. He couldn't be there at that moment, couldn't watch as they cleaned up the body. He would take the long way.
That night he couldn't take it. He couldn't take his thoughts, the flashing memories, the doubts. He wanted to scream, but he knew his words wouldn't matter anyway. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered!
The kids were asleep. He couldn't yell. So, he did the only other thing he knew how to do: he picked a fight with his brother.
Gilbert seemed to have grown used to Ludwig's snide comments when the younger of the two was down. Tonight's was no less harsh than what it had been the last time. "Ludwig," he hissed, "stop being a child."
"Oh, you're one to talk!" They stood outside the apartment. A cigarette was clamped between Gilbert's lips, Ludwig twirled his own in his fingers. "The most immature person I know!"
After a while Gilbert reacted. They scuffled, falling to a yelling and punching battle in the streets. Both had venom on their lips. Their aggravation hot air.
"Ever since we came back from Italy you've been a wreck!" Gilbert screamed. "So a kid fucking killed himself!"
"I helped!" Ludwig cried. "I helped!"
"No, you didn't!" Gilbert pushed him away. They had been circling, wrestling, pushing and punching. Both panted but neither was ready to stop.
"I did! He needed my helped but instead I listened to you!" Ludwig barked. "You don't believe in family! If you did then you would care more about this! You used to tell me that the Vargases were our family. Grandpa used to say it too. But when it comes down to it you don't care!"
"Family is everything," Gilbert snapped. "The Vargases were our family, but they went off the rockers. I can't help that. You need to stop living in the past! Leave it be!"
"The Abbes used to be our family. The Hoffmans and the Russos. What happened to them, Gilbert? What happened to that part of our family?"
"They betrayed us! You're really grabbing at strings, now!"
"You don't care!" Another punch replied to with a swift kick in the younger German's stomach. "You don't care about anything but money and power!"
"Ludwig!" Gilbert sneered, fully flying at him and knocking him off his feet. "Shut up! You don't know the half of it! You don't think right! You think that I don't care about family? That I rather money? Money means nothing when you've isolated yourself, Ludwig! You know this! How was the fucking six months away from us? Were you lonely or did you try and find another god damn basket case to fawn over? Being alone fucking sucks, Ludwig. No amount of power could make up for it!" Ludwig tried to speak, Gilbert spat at him. "I don't give a shit about the fucking business. I did it because that's what our family wanted for us. Do you understand? You're not the only following fucking orders. I just find something along the way to focus on."
"You act like an angsty fucking teen lately, you know that?" Gilbert continued. "You mope around, and when you're not doing that you go all soldier on me. Life isn't that bad. Do you think someone is out there doing what they want all the time? No! People make sacrifices. I grow our name and influence so that I can make our family proud and strong. What sacrifices are you making? What have you done for anyone else? You're a selfish brat and I'm getting sick of it!"
"This isn't about the Vargases," he decided. "This about your own inability to grow up. Stop blaming yourself for Feliciano's death. I knew him when he was a kid. He's been wanting to kill himself for years now. Every time he remembered that his life wasn't out of the fucking bible he went for a gun. Without Lovino there was nothing holding him back. Especially not you. So, unless you're going to fucking blame the way you look, get over it."
"Maybe I don't want to be a part of some stupid family," Ludwig screamed. "If it means this? I would rather be alone! What are we doing? What do we matter! We're just killers. Loyalty isn't everything!"
Gilbert stepped back, looking over his younger brother. "Yeah," he murmured. "What does family matter when you can kill yourself instead?"
"You said this wasn't about the Vargases!"
The older German turned. "It's not," he said, walking away, leaving Ludwig completely defeated in the road.
Gilbert's goal was family, that much was clear, but he cared so much for some idea of family that he didn't care about his own blood.
Ludwig paced the streets, not giving Gilbert the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Gilbert was right. Ludwig was being too impulsive. He was either yelling or taciturn. Finding himself at a local bar he decided that he would throw back his feelings.
It had been the wrong decision. At first, he felt great. One too many caused the fog in his head to become poison. Three too many after that had him throwing up in the ally way.
Everything spun around him. He couldn't walk properly, and the pungent smell of his own vomit wafted in the air. He fell against the bricks.
"What am I doing?" he asked himself, staring at his hands. Putting his head back he closed his eyes. He couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but sit there. He had given up all control over his body, his mind only flashed with drunken images of his fucked up life.
At some point he woke up. The streets were filled with more than just drunks and gang members, now, and the sun was starting its rounds again. Ludwig stood.
He decided that this situation was pitiful. The headache, the vomit stained clothes, and tear streaked eyes. It was all so pitiful, but it helped ease the pain. The pain of what? Was Gilbert right? Was him clinging to the idea of the Italians just him running away from whatever his mind decided was worse?
Somewhere along the line, Ludwig had decided Feliciano was his ticket out. Feliciano wouldn't be able to take the mafia business much longer. If Ludwig was able to convince him to leave, if Ludwig was able to figure out a way to leave, then Feliciano would have run with him. They would be out of the business, they would have fled to Greece or something and been happy. But, Feliciano killed himself, killing all of Ludwig's hopes of ever escaping.
He was miserable because he was trapped. Trapped in a life of drama and crime.
Alfred was finally ready to leave. Gilbert, Ludwig, and the American met in a bustling Berlin airport, suitcases ready.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" Ludwig asked. "Business is still unstable."
"We're avenging our grandfather. Business can wait." Gilbert snapped at him before turning and picking up a conversation with Alfred.
Alfred looked anxious. He had to take six months before he was able to do anything. Gilbert said that he wasn't in great condition, but he looked together. He talked with Gilbert with a smile. Their conversations meant nothing.
Russia was amazing, scary, cold, and then all together too hot. Their journey had taken them all over the vast country. There were too many crews, too many trafficking stations, it was impossible to find one Russian. He seemed to be in hiding.
Alfred had steadily grown more and more distraught over the course of the journey. He killed quicker, spoke with a sweeter manipulation. His goal was to kill this Russian and he made it so personal that it seemed to be eating him from the inside out. Anyone that stood in his way was the enemy.
"Maybe we should give up," Ludwig sighed, collapsing on his bed.
"We're getting close," Alfred decided. He threw down his bag. It had been a while since he stopped covering up the three tattooed tears with makeup. Now they played with the shadows on his face, making him look beyond exhausted. "We just have to stay strong."
Stay Strong. It was what Ludwig had written on the cross he had Gilbert make for Feliciano. Feliciano had been stronger than him.
He sighed into his hands. The trip wasn't doing him any good. If anything, being locked in a series of rooms and transportation means with an American and his brother for months on end was making things worse. They were all irritated beyond vocabulary, none of them wanted to look at each other, and anytime they moved location or met someone new it seemed to come out fruitless. If they weren't fighting they were ignoring each other.
Ludwig decided that he wasn't in the mood for a fight and rolled over.
"Let's go, Ludwig." Gilbert demanded.
Ludwig followed orders.
What did he aspire to do after they caught this Russian? It seemed that today and tomorrow he was stuck being bossed around, but what about the day after that? What was he going to do then?
He was playing soldier. Just had to soldier through it. What was that one thing about soldier working for a higher cause? He was never good at painting.
Ludwig ran his fingers through his air. He was tired. He was just…so tired. Alfred was getting worse. There was more fighting between the three than ever. Still, the lot of them kept going.
They made friends with a Vasiliev bratki in Yekaterinburg. They gave the trio the first clue that didn't fall flat.
Ludwig had a tight smile on his lips. The head of the Vasiliev family was talking to Gilbert about the course of action they were to take. Ludwig would never know why they decided a brothel was the best place to discuss. He stared forward the whole time.
From what it sounded like, they had a lot further to travel before they found him. There were too many webs.
They were in Russia for four years before, in an obscure snow ridden mountain side, Ivan finally fell. The journey to catch him had seen too much action, too many new friends that fell, too much war. But, it was over. It was finally over.
"Where are you headed now?" Ludwig asked Alfred.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess back to America."
"What are you going to do there?" Ludwig pressed. He felt like he was looking for the American to give him some sort of grand idea, something that he could latch onto and use for himself.
Alfred shrugged, shaking his head. "Nothing. I just want a peaceful life. I have some family in Oklahoma. They've been wanting me to take over the farm." He looked so much older than the thirty-four years he was supposed to be. "I think I might take them up on it."
Gilbert chuckled. "Get some poor country widow to fall in love with you?"
"What about you guys?" Alfred asked. The three of them had grown so close over the last four years. Ludwig was almost sad to realize he would likely never see Alfred again. "Back to Germany to continue business as usual?"
"With this under our belt I'm sure the Beilschmidt name will grow like never before!" Gilbert boasted.
Ludwig didn't say anything. The two of them talked more, but Ludwig sat just staring at the floor. Was he really going to be stuck in the mafia again? Sure, here he was a part of the mafia, but it was different. Like being a bodyguard, a day job. It kept him busy, made it so that he didn't really have to initiate much. He could just follow orders.
Was he really going to have to go back? He had tried to come up with a goal along the way. He thought of becoming a writer. Perhaps he could do what Alfred did and become a cop. He could go back to school to become a teacher, a doctor, a scientist. All he would have to do was be in a place that wouldn't recognize him.
His goal was to get out of the mafia. Still, Gilbert was right, he didn't want to be alone.
There was a drive that was lost when he no longer had an American to spew sappy inspiration at him. Ludwig fell into the daily life of a German mob boss. It was a strange change; talking orders to giving them.
A man asked him where he was going. Turning, Ludwig told him to mind his own business. The man was one of his recruiters, he had no right to ask a higher up something he had no business to know. Ludwig swiftly left the small meeting, his underboss capable of controlling things from where they had left off. A new boss in Italy was finally giving then Beilschmidts a chance. Their cocaine trade would be back to what it was—if not better—from a time when they had ties to Roma Vargas.
He quickly found himself at a small store. Mrs. Watt's, with her serious expression, stood at the front. The Watts had finally found a place and they had started a small business. The children had all aged, both girls now in secondary school while the boy, Wilhelm, still stuck in primary. Ludwig smiled at Mrs. Watts.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello," she offered politely. "What can I do for you today?"
He always came by to buy from them. It was a small store filled to the brim with arts and crafts. The girls were quite the artists, and Mrs. Watts, though she didn't look like it, was quietly skilled herself. Ludwig purchased a small tin boat.
"Turn the key," she told him.
Confused, Ludwig turned the boat over. Nevertheless, a small key sat on the bottom. Ludwig wound it.
"It's a religious tune," she shared. "One of my favorites."
"It is beautiful."
He found himself at a local church a few of his crew members frequented the next morning. He would give it a shot. Maybe it was what he was missing.
The musical tin boat rattled on. He sighed, flipping a page of his book. His head hurt especially today. There was a strain on his conscious that he hadn't expected to come from deciphering the religious text.
He decided a few weeks later that religion wasn't what he was looking for. He didn't need people to coo at him that he was alright even though they didn't fully know what they were preaching.
Gilbert looked so happy. He had finally found his family, a woman bearing his child. Ludwig wondered if it would come out albino, too.
Ludwig wondered if romance was what he was missing. Maybe he, like his brother, needed to find a family.
It took him a bit longer to decide that wasn't it. He had never been one for complicated sentiments.
If he couldn't find happiness through a higher power or others or himself, then what was the point of striving to be happy?
Another one of his men had been gunned down. That made four in the last month. Someone was either moving in or extremely pissed by the Beilschmidt name. Ludwig had work to do, he had no time to be thinking about such trivial things.
His goal was to get out of the mafia, but he had to finish what was started.
His nephew was growing up quicker than any child Ludwig had ever seen grow.
"He's just as crazy as you," Ludwig laughed. Gilbert grinned at him.
"He'll be a wonderful boss one day."
Ludwig found himself buying from Shawna today. She smiled up at him, babbling on about the tests that came with grade 10. Their crafts had slowly become something of a masterpiece, the girls eager and quick learners. Shawna said that she planned on going to school for arts so that when she was older she could take over the shop. Gloria was quick to pitch that she was older.
That made it seven, then; seven men dead in the last week.
The police were biting down on crime. Ludwig knew he was being followed every time he left his apartment.
A fun voice in the back of his head told him that police was an easy way out. No, business would thrive in a prison filled with mobsters.
He couldn't stop dreaming of the paroxysms of the Italians. Murder done in anguish, impulsive. Ludwig wondered if that was how this new Norwegian boss was killing. Or perhaps it was more like Alfred. Was there something personal Ludwig didn't know about?
His goal was to get out of the mafia, but it was impossible.
Gilbert sighed. "Please, Luddy, just for, like, a week." He begged. The small boy attached to his hand pulled at Gilbert's hand. The boy cried.
"Fine," Ludwig caved. He really wasn't a father-figure, but Gilbert needed to go to Japan for a while and the kid was too much of a burden to take anywhere.
His nephew was fine for him. Ludwig had an itching suspicion that he ran off of his father's energy—and the sugar Gilbert no doubt fed him.
Ludwig watched him, stacking blocks and muttering something before knocking his stack down and trying again. He didn't talk much, Ludwig was finding out, but instead screamed when he want something. Sighing, Ludwig made it his goal to teach this child how to behave properly.
"Thank you so much!" Gilbert chided. "Come here, buddy!"
It was impossible for Ludwig to get out now. There was too much. He was facing a war, and once that ended he would either be dead or controlling a whole lot more than what he already was.
Still, there was something the nagged at him every time he saw the girls at the Watts' business. Their father had been murdered. Their store was shut down for a few days before Mrs. Watts reopened it under a new name. Ludwig went to visit them, to give them his condolences.
There was a dinner held in the Watts' honor. He was an underboss. He was to be respected in death.
It was his goal to get out of the mafia, and sitting here, three children mourning their father and a stern-faced woman swallowing tears only secured that thought. Still, he couldn't get out. It was too late. This was a lifetime job.
His nephew took a great liking to one of the girls' necklace. She laughed as he tugged, muttering under his breath all the while.
He wasn't sure when he decided to confront Gilbert about it, but he did.
"What do you mean?" Gilbert demanded.
"I'm just saying that maybe you should give him the chance. Like Watts did."
"Watts had his own way to do things, Luddy. Leave me be with mine."
His goal had been to get out of the mafia, but now it was to get his nephew out before it was too late.
"It's called vicariously living," Mrs. Watts sighed. "I may not agree with your brother, but he's right, his decision is his."
"What would you have done if your husband tried to force them into it?"
"I would have left him."
"You went behind my back to try and make my wife break up with me?" Gilbert yelled, slamming the door of Ludwig's apartment.
"No! I just wanted her to see both sides of it!"
"You are not turning my son against me, Ludwig!"
The war would be coming to an end soon. Either the police would get those in their custody to talk or there would be so many casualties that recruiters would run out of men and women to recruit.
Ludwig was arrested in September. He was released in October, but Ludwig knew that the police wouldn't give up that easily. He was looking forward to three life sentences.
He sighed, scrubbing his cheeks. Maybe he would finally be able to have some quiet time.
Gilbert was the next to get arrested. Ludwig showed up to his trial but was refused access. It was a private trial. He paced outside the courthouse the whole time.
Gilbert wasn't going to be released. He was off to prison.
"Damn it!" Ludwig screamed, kicking his wall. Gilbert was locked up, he was next, and there was still so much to do! The Norwegians were making a name all around Germany and Ludwig couldn't keep up with them. He needed to fix the Beilschmidt ties with the Italians, he needed access to whatever this new drug on the street was.
He groaned, throwing himself into an armchair. He needed to lower his prices to keep up. He needed to convince more businesses that his crew would protect them. There was so much to do, he didn't have time to get arrested.
The fun voice was back, telling him to just let the Beilschmidt name die. If there was no legacy his nephew would be saved, wouldn't he?
"Do you understand?" Ludwig begged.
His sister-in-law shook her head. "No. I promised Gilbert that I wouldn't. He wants his family to stay strong."
"What does it matter when he's behind bars!"
She shook her head again, turning and closing the door.
What had Ludwig learned growing up in the mafia? He learned that he hated it, sure, but what else? That betrayal was more common than real loyalty? That people looked out for themselves first? That there was an evil only man could create within it?
What had that philosopher said to him? What was the meaning of life? How many people had been lost in these petty wars?
He imagined Lovino as he wrote. Was he in a similar situation? Booze helped clear his mindset as he scribbled.
The only question now was whether his nephew would get it.
"So, it's finalized?" Ludwig demanded.
"Yes, your will is set, sir."
Ludwig nodded, sitting back.
He wasn't going to kill himself. He wasn't a coward, and he didn't need to run from anything anymore. He had found a goal. Sure, it wasn't some lord or something big, but it was his. Gilbert spoke of loyalty and of family, and yet was too blind to know what those things truly meant. This business was not one to be forced into.
Was Ludwig God or animal?
It didn't matter. Both players were teachers. Ludwig didn't strive to sit in a classroom, he didn't want a woman and his own heir. He just wanted to get out of the mafia.
He wasn't going to kill himself. He was going to go after the Norwegian asshole that was destroying his brother's legacy. If he died trying, well, at least he knew there was something of importance behind him.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
This is long, whoops.
Okay, I know that this chapter feels out of place from the rest of the story, but there is good reason for that. I don't want to spell it out, but I'm sure someone gets it. Hi, someone, isn't it clever? I feel terribly clever.
Thank you, guys, for being cool and hating the alternate ending. I was afraid that I was the only one that despised it.
I apologize for the bits in Russia being a little bit rushed. It's just 1) that's Alfred's story to tell; and 2) I don't have all of it planned out and would hate to shoot myself in the foot.
LET ME BRIBE YOU
So, we need more Hetalia shit being created. If you check out my profile I offer a wonderful bribe for people willing to create