Chapter Text
Ludwig sees Gilbert’s face fall before it happens.
Naturally. His brother’s always had an uncanny sixth sense at detecting danger before it arrives. Some habit he caught from his early years, before East Germany and Prussia. Or else I’d end up like the slop Austria serves for dinner, Gilbert told him when he was younger, trying to make Ludwig laugh, as always. And as always, he succeeded.
Or for a few decades, at least. One night at a bar, Gilbert miraculously ducked out of the way seconds before a wasted man’s glass could shatter his skull. If Gilbert hadn’t dragged Ludwig away by the collar, there would have definitely been a lot more blood, because Ludwig saw red, uncharacteristically furious. Gilbert could have died. Whoever Gilbert is, he sure as hell isn’t Prussia anymore.
Sometimes, Ludwig doesn’t know who he is, exactly.
Afterwards, Gilbert had waved away his worries, elusive as a cat in the cool Berlin night and just about as mischievous as one. Ludwig’s brain flashed back to that moment with Austria's dinner, wondering what else Gilbert could do because of his past.
Regardless. Gilbert’s face falls, and Ludwig’s eyebrows furrow because it’s been a while since he’s seen Gilbert truly alarmed. Tense, Ludwig tears his attention away from his documents and America’s voice dulls in the background. Luddy, he reads on Gilbert’s mouth, and gott, it’s a nickname he hasn’t heard in ages. Ludwig automatically reaches back, cursing at his past self for insisting they sit on opposite ends of the conference room because of Gilbert’s incessant chatter.
Then, the double-decker doors burst open and it’s pandemonium.
Gunpowder and rubble dust fill the air. There’s thudding footsteps like the whole city is rushing up the stairs and a whine of overhead alarms accompanied by flashing red lights. Screams and anguished shrieks bounce off the walls. It’s not any of the other nations - they’re far too used to gore and pain to react so vocally - but Ludwig’s face drains upon realizing that it must be the security guards he passed earlier. A brief higher pitched voice sounds despairingly like the secretary that directed him to the coffee machine yesterday.
The voice is soon silenced and replaced by a chorus of other guttural, unintelligible sounds.
Ludwig instinctively drops behind the table, yanking the closest person next to him down too. He quickly fumbles for his handgun before grimacing in frustration. He stopped carrying firearms in the 1990s.
Beside him, Feliciano is as white as a sheet. “You don’t have a weapon either, Germany?” he whispers desperately. Ludwig swallows and shakes his head. “What do we do? I don’t even know - what’s going on? Did you hear the screams - “
Amidst the chaos, another shout rings louder than others. It’s rougher and deeper.
“France,” Feliciano whimpers, hand covering his mouth. “He’s hurt. What if the others are, too? Wait!”
Ludwig manages to restrain him before he jumps out from their hiding spot. “You idiot! Are you trying to die?”
“Romano,” Feliciano says shakily. A round of gunfire drowns out their conversation. From underneath the desk, all Ludwig sees are hurried footsteps and a red substance that looks suspiciously like blood. The distinct sound of flesh being ripped. Groans and cries -
Ludwig slams his eyes shut. He rubs his temple. “We need to get out of here first. This time, just peek outside. Do you see him?”
“I - no. He went to the bathroom before America’s presentation,” Feliciano says.
“Then all the more reason to leave this room.” Ludwig thinks a second longer, then shifts into an offensive stance, fists clenched. “I’ll cover you. Run to the doors when I say so.”
Feliciano looks like he’s going to argue, brown eyes wide.
“It’s fine,” Ludwig says, a bit more gentle this time. “I need to find Gilbert.”
He doesn’t let Feliciano think any longer and hauls both of them out. “Now!” he shouts, and Feliciano sprints for the door. A figure is about to knock him down before Ludwig tackles them. They wrestle for a bit, unceremoniously knocking into shelves and other bodies before Ludwig finds a metal water bottle. He brings it down and doesn’t wait to check if they’re dead. There’s not much to see when most people around him are blurs, mingled together with sounds of snapping bone and more bullets.
There’s a familiar blonde trapped between a chair and the table.
“What’s happening?” he demands, freeing Feliks.
“Fuck if I know,” Feliks yells back, grabbing a book and hurling it at someone rushing towards them. “Get out of here!”
“Where’s my brother?”
“I don’t fucking know!”
“What happened to Francis?” he tries again. Felik’s eyes get watery. Before he can respond, he screams. A person - something - is biting his arm, and Ludwig stumbles back when they raise their head. Behind matted black hair and cracked lips stained with Felik’s blood are empty, empty eyes, glazed and deadly, and the thing snarls. It rushes forward and Ludwig punches it back desperately.
When the creature pins Ludwig down with unnatural strength for something of its size, Ludwig blanches. Kiku. It can’t be. It certainly looks like him, though. Same nose and skin and clothes. Only, the white suit is slick with human fluids, and he smells like something rotten.
Another gunshot.
The thing collapses to reveal Gilbert with a smoking pistol. A flash of his signature grin. “Fuck me, West. Looks like this thing still works,” he says.
Relief floods into him like a breaking dam. “Bruder.” Momentarily speechless, Ludwig just stares. “Guns aren’t allowed in government meetings,” he says stupidly.
Gilbert rolls his eyes. “You stick in the ass. I pity Herr Stick, he probably never sees the light of day.”
Gilbert’s lightheartedness doesn’t match his sharp movements. Efficiently, he kicks the creature off and takes Ludwig’s hand, pulling them towards the door. Gilbert’s calloused grip is unfamiliar, Ludwig realizes with a jolt. When was the last time they hugged? He’d moved closer unconsciously and stops from practically gluing himself to Gilbert’s side.
With the marksmanship of a sniper, Gilbert shoots a few more creatures each time they try to attack. Ludwig almost pities them. Gilbert’s always been the sharpest aim on the field. Without a weapon himself, Ludwig uses his fists whenever he can.
“Don’t let them touch you,” Gilbert shouts over the noise. “Not even a scratch. They’re contagious - think zombies.”
“This isn’t one of your video games,” Ludwig snaps incredulously. Then he remembers the Kiku-lookalike, and bites his tongue.
“Just fucking listen to me!”
They reach the exit and run towards the side door, which is tucked to the side and hides a corridor that is usually forgotten. Ludwig hasn’t used it for the entire week they’ve had conferences in this building. For what is definitely not the first time, he mentally thanks Gilbert for being such an insistent explorer.
They slam the door shut, but leave it unbarricaded. Maybe the others will escape, if they haven’t already.
Ludwig shrugs away the grim thought and focuses on the pale man beside him. They’re both panting heavily, the adrenaline dissipating. Ludwig quickly gives Gilbert a once-over, scanning his torso and legs and blood-splattered cheeks. Other than the blood, he’s still the same. Feathery hair and crimson eyes. On some days, Ludwig swears they’re more purple than red, that hints of blue, uncomfortably similar to Ludwig’s own eyes, swirl in Gilbert’s irises. He jolted when he first noticed, panic striking him deep in his lungs.
Luckily, this time they remain red, and are currently flickering up and down for injuries on Ludwig too.
“Are you hurt?” Gilbert asks harshly, reaching up to examine Ludwig’s head. His voice of forced calm betrays a note of concern.
“I’m okay. Are you?”
Gilbert nods. “What the fuck,” he says with a sharp laugh. “What the fuck are they? Is this The Walking Dead or something? I always thought zombies would be more musical, like Micheal Jackson. You know, nice voice and smooth moves and that shit.”
“Forgive me for not understanding your pop culture references,” Ludwig replies distractedly. "We have more pressing matters to deal with."
Gilbert uses part of his shirt to wipe blood from Ludwig’s face, ignoring muffled protests.
“Leave it, I’m fine,” Ludwig says, but Gilbert gives him a look. Ludwig shuts his mouth.
Although they're only similar in height in his memories, Ludwig is stuck by how much smaller Gilbert is. He always forgets just how much he’s outgrown his brother.
For all his complaints and self-pity, Gilbert had looked at Ludwig delightedly when he had grown tall enough to have to bend down for Gilbert to ruffle his hair. Ludwig was happy, too, pride shining when people looked at him, the Deutschland, the fruit of his country's labours, and his strength was undeniable. When he finally proved them wrong. He supposed it was nice to finally catch up to Gilbert as well, who was always larger than life.
But now, his grip engulfs Gilbert’s narrow wrist. A chord of something in Ludwig’s chest twists.
“Come on, you musclehead,” Gilbert finally says, nudging Ludwig off. He hadn’t realized he was holding on. I don’t realize a lot of things, don’t I? Ludwig thinks. Wonder who I learned that from. But that's not even an insult, since there are plenty of airheaded nations and for all of his arrogance and impulsiveness, Gilbert is not one of them.
“You’ve been de-bloodified. The opposite of slasher films. Courtesy of the sluttiest magician in the world,” Gilbert winks.
“England wouldn’t like the sound of that,” Ludwig answers offhandedly. “And you don’t look like a prostitute to me.”
Gilbert raises a brow at his shredded outfit. His shirt is torn just enough to show his stomach and chest, tantalizingly present so that there's no guessing as to what's underneath and somehow even more improper because of the fact that it is hidden nonetheless.
Ludwig whips away. A deep flush. He must be more rattled than he thought. “There’s spare clothes in the car,” he replies finally.
“Onwards, then. I don’t really want to be molested today. ”
“Good luck with that, because I’m pretty sure France is one of them.”
Their laugh quickly dies down.
"Fuck," Gilbert says.
They fall into an uneasy silence.
“Did you see Antonio?” Gilbert finally asks.
Ludwig frowns. “No. Although, that’s probably a good thing.”
“He said he was going out for some air,” Gilbert says. “Let’s just hope it wasn’t a balcony.” He cackles, a little insanely. “Well, I’m sure he’d prefer one, if it came down to that.”
“Not funny,” Ludwig snaps.
On second thought, his brother’s laugh sounds more wet than Ludwig would prefer. “I know.”
“Why did he leave?” Ludwig asks to break the awkward pause.
“Some shit about Arthur. Apparently, the UK’s been pestering him like a flea-ridden mosquito.”
Ludwig makes a surprised noise. “I didn’t know you talked.”
“We’re friends.” Gilbert spins around, hurt and irritation battling in his eyes. “What, like it’s weird for us to still be talking?”
Ludwig’s jaw clenches. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t need to,” Gilbert responds. His voice is quiet. Not knowing how to respond, Ludwig keeps marching on, falling into the rhythm like he’s in the military again.
Their footsteps echo in the winding staircase until they reach the final door to the parking lot. Ludwig glances at where they came from briefly before shifting his attention away. In the previous minutes, they made some unspoken agreement to focus on their survival first. He just hopes Feliciano found his brother, and that Francis and Feliks are okay. A hollow throb in his side from when Kiku had slammed into him. His hope dies before it can bloom.
Ludwig starts when a gun is thrust into his hands. Gilbert marches resolutely to the door. “No. Take it back, Gilbert,” Ludwig says. “Dammnit, Gilbert!”
In less than the blink of an eye, he’s held against the wall, concrete digging into his back. There’s nothing more paralyzing than the intensity of Gilbert’s eyes. They keep Ludwig still more effectively than anything, ever.
“Fucking hell. It wasn’t a goddamned request, West. You’re so soft,” Gilbert snarls. “We’re like the moon and stars, or the sun, or however the fucking analogy goes. I don’t need it. Take the gun.”
And because he’s a coward, Ludwig does.
“We’ll be fine,” Gilbert says as they mentally prepare to open the door. Ludwig wants nothing more than to stay in the quiet staircase, but the thundering past the doors are getting harder to ignore.
“Japan wasn’t fine,” he blurts.
Gilbert tenses momentarily before he relaxes into his confidence stance again. “He’s not me, is he? I’m fucking awesome, and I have a just as an unstoppable sidekick.” Ludwig goes to roll his eyes before Gilbert pets his sweater pocket, and Gilbird peeks out.
A relieved laugh escapes him. Gilbert grins, apparently glad at making Ludwig smile, and scratches Gilbird’s chin before the bird hides again. But the stifling sensation remains as heavy as a boulder, and Ludwig can’t stop his brain from going haywire because Kiku wasn’t fucking fine.
Gilbert’s wince snaps him out of it. Ludwig lets go of Gilbert’s hand, apologetically rubbing the reddened skin. “Sorry,” he says hurriedly. He hopes it doesn’t bruise. Gilbert’s not delicate, never has been, and likely would behead anyone for thinking so. But he’s not Prussia and Ludwig doesn’t know if East Germany exists, and while Gilbert has been gutted to venus and back, slashed and tortured and maimed and bent, Ludwig doesn’t know if he’d survive now. Not when he could be human.
Kiku flashes in his mind again. Then again, there are fates worse than death, Ludwig decides. And it’s not just Gilbert anymore.
But god so help me, don't let him die.