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Ludwig is tired.
It's not work. No, while that is tiring and time consuming, it's a habit. Something natural that he does and he doesn't think much on it.
As long as it doesn't pile up ( and it doesn't ) he is fine. No, what is tiring are the distractions. The moments in his life that are taken by others, his friends, which he doesn't mind. There's one distraction in particular that just gets under his skin. It fills his body and leaves him memorized. Caught in a trap and he gets all the more tangled as he tries to free himself. Digging deeper into the hole of his sins he's created for himself. He can't blame anyone but himself for getting him there and as much as a distraction it is. The deeper he goes, the more he loves it. Craves it and can't simply get enough.
It's creamy skin, small lingering touches. They're innocent, he knows. Just the warmth, the weight of a hand on his shoulder; steady and safe. A pat on the back, a hand on his arm. And the eyes--- oh, that gaze. It's so distracting. It commands his attention and he can't, can't look away when he meets it. Frozen on the spot from the emotion he can see. Fiery hot and yet so cold. Unyielding and, help him, he's ensnared.
Ludwig is tired.
He creates distractions himself. Lost in the sea of his thoughts. Attention had been given and given and given. And he takes and takes and takes it. Each look, touch, word that spills from those sinful lips he drinks up like a starving man. Drinks it all up and soaks it all in. He is lost. And he doesn't care. Hands move on their own, robotic as they scrub at dishes but he's gone. Gone to his desires, drowning in a mess of thoughts. Thoughts of skin, pale, exposed. Marred in red from his own hand, his own doing. He wants it. He wants it. He wants---
"Ludwig."
Ah, again. There he is. Taking in the word, the voice that speaks. Sweet and low and dangerous. Commanding his attention and he gives it.
"Hm? What is it?"
There's a shift in the air as it's silence that meets him. It falls over the kitchen and them. He can hear the clock on the wall, hear his heart pounding, his blood rushing. And it's a moment, again, ensnared; twisting, creeping around him and clinging like a vice. His breath catches, as it always does. The hand on his arm feels so warm, so heavy. So promising. Blue hues meet red and he can feel a wet, soapy hand cupping his face and-- a glance, quick, those lips---- yes, yes! It's everything that he imagined, everything he knows. It's careful, hesitant, dry and yet so warm. So welcoming. So distracting and just want he wants. The dishes are forgotten, the blond is reaching, pulling forward for more. wet hands grasp at silver strands, anything to keep kissing him. to keep him close.
And there at his hip, Gilbert's other hand; wet, warm. Steady, pressing and at his back he can feel the sharp line of the counter, the cold metal at his back but it's nothing. Nothing to him as he fights with his brother. He feels hot. Inviting. Intoxicating. And Ludwig is drunk. Floating and it's so good. So, so good. He barely catches his breath before he's back. So eager for more. Close. Closer, the heat of his brother pressing against him, so welcoming. He feels like a coil. Pulling tighter and tighter in on itself, like he'll spring any second because of this distraction.
He snaps quicker than he thought he would. Tighter he grips, and oh, he's rewarded. The noise that pierces his ears fuels his fire. Encourages him to keep taking. Taking whatever he can get, whatever he can milk out of this. Drag Gilbert deeper with him into this trap. The fingers that dance at his hip are cold now, such a contrast to his heated skin and he takes that too.
Vaguely, a voice tells him to finish their chore but he can’t focus on that.
Falling deeper and deeper into this pit and loving every minute of it.
Ludwig is so very tired.
And it’s all his own doing.