Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Travelling through almost the entirety of Europe by train had been oddly satisfying. While Arthur wrote in his diary, attempting to capture everything that had happened in the past few months he had travelled from England, then to Austria, and finally through to Moscow, he had plenty of time to catch up on what his previous self thought of the journey. Now he was on his way back, having organised a stay with Francis so as not to completely isolate himself. Heartbreak was one thing, but being built up and then shot down was a whole other story. His fault. As he looked through his many pages of writings, he was overcome with annoyance. Such a petty creature he was, so jealous. Who thought it would take just one little incident to send him over, and really, why didn’t it happen sooner?

The journey so far had been long, given him plenty of time to reflect on his actions. He was scheduled to change in Germany and take his final train through Belgium, according to his time tables, he should have enough time to buy his ticket and hop on the train as soon as. Having left so quickly, he barely had the time to organise his journey to it’s entirety, really, he couldn’t wait to be somewhere comfortable with good food and wine rather than the strong vodka turning stale in the flask kept in his pocket.

Soon, the train pulled into the station, the small area of Koblenz, sat directly on the River Rhine. Staggeringly beautiful, he found himself rather excited to get off and explore, although the next train through Belgium wouldn’t be for another few days, if he missed this one he would have to find somewhere to stay for a while – as well as inform Francis that he would be late. He didn’t have much money to get around, his wallet a mixture of currencies at the moment, but he knew he had enough for the ticket. Or perhaps enough for a cab somewhere.

He had been to Koblenz once before, a long time ago, and he remembered it fondly. Long walks along the Rhine and grassy fields to run across, sailing on the river. The air was always lighter away from London, making for a smoother wind in the sails. Surely, it couldn’t hurt to stay a little while, if he could find someone to let him stay. Looking at a map inside the station, Arthur trailed a finger across the river, following a path he remembered until he settled, his finger pad tapping lightly on the collection of large houses printed for ease of travellers.

A risky move, but the war had been over for at least seven years. And climbing into the back of a cab, it wasn’t like he could quite stop now. He wouldn’t have enough time to catch his train, even if he had bought the ticket. He was hopeful that he would be well received, but if he would be received at all was in question. Even as he watched the river they drove beside, he didn’t want to think of the possibility of a door slammed in his face. Not only that but he still had to call Francis. God, he didn’t think this through at all.

But it was too late, soon enough they were pulling up to the large house that stood on against a hill, looking over the river just away enough from the town centre to be unbothered by the ruckus of city life. The cabbie left with his pay, leaving Arthur no choice but to climb the steps and face his own impulse decisions.

After a little while of waiting, the door opened and the man who looked towards him had a barely hidden look of distain on his face.
“Ivan not work out for you then?”
“Roderich.” Arthur put on the sweetest smile he could, “I thought you would have gone back to Austria by now.”
“I’ve been back and forth.” Roderich shrugged lightly, though made no move to invite the other in. After a long pause, he crossed his arms, an eyebrow raised as if asking for an explanation.
“Ah, why I’m here. I was travelling back to England, and thought I’d stop by.”
“Well you have.”
“See that’s the thing…” The Englishman let down one of his cases to rub the back of his neck, “I’m afraid I’ve missed my train.”
There was a silence, Roderich’s eyes closing slowly and a sigh leaving him, his annoyance clear as day. “When’s the next one?”
“Four days I think.”
“There’s a hotel in the town.”
“I don’t have the money for it.”
The annoyance grew until the Austrian scoffed and turned, the door widening. “Fine.”
Arthur kept his smile, happily stepping inside the large home.

It was very dark, the woods rich and varnished, though surfaces held a layer of dust that looked as though no one had the time or care to clean. A red carpet led up a set of stairs, following towards a pair of shoes and a cane, then legs, a torso, and finally a face. Arthur wasn’t sure a face could possibly look at him with more anger in it than Roderich had, but this anger was red, a fire burning as he looked down at their guest.
“He missed his train.” Roderich spoke without looking,
“And he thinks he can stay here? I thought you were off gallivanting with Ivan, how kind of you to take a break from your libido to visit us.” Gilbert stepped down the stairs, using the rail to steady him.
“Shouldn’t you be in the east?”
“Much like you, I decided to visit.” Though he came down, he didn’t leave the stairs, keeping himself on a higher ground, “Did you think you could just turn up unannounced and expect to be welcome?”
“It’s been seven years- “
“That’s not what I meant. War happens.”
Arthur swallowed, finally averting his eyes from that angry red, “My next train is in four days, I need to call Francis to tell him I’ll be late meeting him…”
“You’ve looped Francis into your circle jerk too then?”
“The phone is on the side.” Roderich cut in, giving each of them a look, “You can call him from here. Gilbert, I need your help in the kitchen.”
Gilbert gave one last warning gaze before stepping down, limping his way towards a door leading further into the house, soon followed by his brother. And then Arthur was alone.

He lingered at the stairs for a moment, all of this somewhere deep in his memory. He had to wonder who else might be up there. With a quick look at his watch, he set his cases down - being particularly careful with the smallest of the two - and went to the side table where a phone had been installed, proceeding to push in the number he had called back in Russia when he was both drunk and more than upset. It wasn’t Francis who picked up the phone, but a woman who informed him Mr Bonnefoy wasn’t home and she could take the message.
“Tell him I’ll be a few days out.” He mentioned to the woman, running a finger over the dusty surface to inspect the extent of filth, “Went exploring for a bit, he’ll understand. Give me a couple of days or so.”
She agreed, but he didn’t wait to say pleasant goodbyes before setting the phone down, looking towards the door his unwilling hosts had gone through.

Curiosity wasn’t something he was known for ignoring. Perhaps it had gotten him in far more trouble than it should, but there was always that little itch to scratch, that little part of him that needed to know everything. His eyes moved between the door and the stairs, trying to gauge how much time he would have, what would happen should either of them walk out as he planned on snooping. The longer he stood there in thought, the sooner he would be caught. And so, was there really time to waste?

Slowly and stealthily, he crept up to the stairs, taking care to step onto each one with as little noise as possible. Old stairs creak and groan under the feet, but ones with carpeting seemed a little easier to bare. He kept his eyes very much glued to that one door, hoping they would be far too busy with themselves to notice their guest moving swiftly through their house – well, it wasn’t theirs. Soon he got to the landing, not letting his body relax from it’s tense state quite yet as he looked around.

Dust particles fell, visible through the afternoon light beaming in from the large windows, highlighting the hall with a soft haze. Had he not met the two claiming to live there, he would think it abandoned. Though it still retained its deep wood charm and red accents, the air felt stale, almost clinical. It reminded him uncomfortably of the war hospitals he had found himself often cooped up in, only less cold hard floors and more… well, German.

As he walked along the sunlit hall, he took time to pass his eyes over every decoration, the elegant side tables, the smart roll of carpet that led through it, leaving some dark wood showing either side, all so perfectly designed and set out – though none of it touched. Not for years. And something more unusual for the house of your average nation – No portraits. Even he himself was guilty of it. Back home he owned several paintings of himself, most hung around his home proudly, showing himself in various eras. As someone who enjoyed reminiscing and took the time to catalogue his past in diaries and collect photos, those portraits were something he much enjoyed having. But here – Nothing. There was, however, a slightly miscoloured piece of wall that perhaps at one point did hold a frame, not clinging to the dust just as well as the rest of it. He reached out, running his fingers lightly over the shape. Where did you go?

“I see you got right to snooping.” Roderich’s sharp tone caused him to turn, but he didn’t tense or panic at the notion of being caught, he expected it really.
“Guilty.” He threw on a smile, holding out the hand that had touched the wall as if to show he hadn’t taken anything.
The Austrian huffed, “You may eat with me and Gilbert tonight, but you are to leave as soon as there is another train heading in the direction you need. If you will grab your bags, I will show you to your room.”
“Yes of course.” Arthur nodded, chancing a look behind him. One large door at the end of the hall where the carpet ended. No plants or décor, just a hard wood door, illuminated by a soft beam of light.
“I don’t have all day, Kirkland.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” He rolled his eyes, using the motion to begin stepping away and back down the stairs, leaving that door unexplored.

Dinner was as expected. Awkward. The three sat oddly at a table, almost as if they were trying to intimidate him into picking up his meal and eating it alone in his room. As preferable as it sounded, said room wasn’t very clean and suffered from the same dust problem as the rest of the house, the only rooms that seemed mildly used were the kitchen and this dining room that unfortunately held company. Which party was finding it unfortunate was anyone’s guess.

Arthur dug about his food, something awfully bland and quickly thrown together. Had he stuck with the original plan, he would be in France, enjoying fine wines and cold meats, but instead he had some strange sausage and unsalted potatoes to enjoy. Curse his impulses for bringing him here, but honestly he had something completely different in mind.

Finally, something interesting happened. And by that, Roderich cleared his throat and stood, taking his and Gilbert’s plates - as both had finished their food - back through towards the kitchen. With him gone, the red stare was far more intense.
“You really came here, huh?” Gilbert spoke up as if he was waiting for the chance,
“Like I said, I missed my train.”
“So, what were you doing in Russia?” He leant forward, a pleasantly sarcastic smile painted onto his face,
Arthur paused to evaluate before answering, “Ivan asked me to help with something.” He spoke slowly and clearly, trying to remove the tension in the air as calmly as possible,
“Yeah, Rod told me you were showing off that he sent you some cute little letter.”
“He wanted company to keep his head clear for the journey.”
“Ya’know. I find that kind of funny.” Gilbert almost barked out, pressing an accusatory finger against the table between them, “’Cus last time I saw the pair of you being friendly, it didn’t exactly end in sunshine and roses. If I remember correctly, he beat your ass black and blue. Imagine my surprise when you waltz up here all neatly pressed.”
“That matter wasn’t relevant.”
“It’s about to be relevant.” The former nation stood, his palms against the wood of the table as he leant down, his glare an imposing force that pushed Arthur further into his seat, “So help me, I will carry on his work if you even think about what you came here for.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Arthur was cut short by a fist slamming into the table, making him jump half out of his skin,
“Ludwig.” The Prussian growled, “I’ve known you long enough to know you only ever have one thing on your mind. You play around with people and think you can have your little bit on the side, you take advantage of anyone who comes your way, and I will not let you inside my brother’s head for a second time so you can have your little fun and run off back to Francis in a couple of days. Not again.”
“You’re talking about something from the last century, Gilbert.”
“I don’t give a shit if it happened last week or 300 years ago, you haven’t changed. I can tell by how you waved about that fucking letter like a kid at Christmas because you thought you were entitled to someone’s ass.” He straightened out, eyes still burning with the threat. With one last tut and a curl of his lip in disgust, Gilbert turned to leave, giving a choice set of parting words at the door, “You touch Lud, and I will kill you. Or at least get as close as I can to the damage Ivan did when you chucked him aside the first time.”

And then Arthur was alone. He sat there for a time, staring at the food he had yet to finish and grimace at his very sudden lack of appetite. Eventually, he just made his way back upstairs, the confrontation tiring him out enough to need some time alone in the comfort of a bed he had never slept in. As he reached the landing, he looked down the hall, immediately met with Roderich’s calm yet judgmental stare as he stood just outside the door at the end, holding a tray with little food on it. They lingered there until the Austrian nodded a short greeting and slipped into the room with his tray. Something told him that Roderich was far more tolerant of him being there, despite the silence and strange looks he got.

Arthur stepped into his own stuffy room a little ways down from the final room at the end of the hall. He assumed the doors between them were where the other two had taken up lodgings, unless Rod had been sneaking food for himself. Unlikely.
After opening a window so he could actually breathe in this room, Arthur sat at the desk beside it, diary out and pen at the ready. He held his face in his hand, staring at the blank page and wondering how he would begin to form the words to describe this entirely interesting day. Perhaps he would pick up again where he left off on the train.

--

8:47pm. Koblenz, Germany.

I got off the train and made the impulse choice to visit an old friend. Of course in this instance, the term is loose. We haven’t spoken since I last saw him back in Windsor some time in the 1850s. 100 years of silence. Something I am not entirely unfamiliar with unfortunately.

Peculiarly, this old friend of mine doesn’t seem to be in charge of his own home. I have not seen a cook or maid present once – and apparently neither has the house. It is dusty and stuffy, something I wouldn’t imagine Ludwig would usually allow. But his brothers seem to have taken the baton, though they’re not doing much. Gilbert walks with a limp, Roderich with a dull look on his face, different to his usual sharpness. It lingers with me what he told me back in Austria before I left for my Journey with Ivan. The Nazis attacked their own people first. I can’t help but wonder and fear.

War often takes a toll on a nation, seven years on it seems they are still feeling the effects, more severely than the rest of us. My eyesight has yet to clear from the gas, and Francis still speaks of the nightmares of the trenches. One must wonder why we are alive if not to take on the burden and suffering of our people. If what Roderich told me is true, then I can only begin to imagine the kind of special hell they were all put through.

Neither of them are kind towards me, though not because of war. Gilbert still holds ill towards me for my sleeping habits. I’ll admit, they’re not entirely customary. We’ve lived for such a long time, we’re all comfortable with that sort of thing. Though I don’t imagine some queer in his house is what’s bothering him. The 1800s were certainly an open time for me, I have a nasty habit of throwing myself at anyone who mildly shows interest. It’s unclear to me if that is why I left the station this afternoon. The comforts of sex – something I lean towards almost as much as drink. But, despite my interest, Ludwig had never allowed me so close. But, our time together then was… calming. He was younger then, not a fully fledged country, almost human. Now I fear what these wars have done to him, if he is still the kind young man I once met all those years ago.

--

Arthur set down his pen, his tired eyes straining against the light of the lamp beside him. He set down his glasses to rub his eyes, sore and irritated. It had gotten late as he sat down to write, he hadn’t even unpacked yet and still the dusty silence that floated through the air fell heavy on his shoulders, he found himself quite over tired. Though he wasn’t sure if he would much be able to sleep, he didn’t want to move but remained restless.

As he sat, his eyes wandered, unable to find a place to settle and allow his thoughts to clear. But then, they found place at the door. He knew this house was bigger than he’d seen, somewhere there was a library, a garden, a greenhouse. Ludwig always enjoyed the plants, he had to think what had become of them now.

Something broke him away, a distant tapping, light and barely audible. As he concentrated on it further, he soon realised where it was coming from. One of his cases lay on his bed, chucked there with little care or thought before he got on with the rest of that night, forgetting just what – or indeed who – was in it. Hesitantly, Arthur got up and stood by the case, the tapping growing a little more annoyed before he finally flicked open the clasps to let loose an explosion of his own clothes that almost forced him to the floor. A bright light zipped around, trying to orientate itself before crashing onto the bed. There, surrounded by pillows and a sock or two, was a very tired and dizzy Faerie.

“Welcome back to the surface.” Arthur huffed a strand of hair out of his face before pushing off of the draws he had been shoved against,
“You shut me in there!” The shrill voice cried, one set of its two pairs of arms crossing while the other pair slammed down to emphasise its point.
“Quite frankly, you deserved it.”
“That’s no way to treat someone you owe a favour to.” Puck’s leg’s crossed as he looked around the room, “Where are we, anyway? You said we were going to France to see your boyfriend.”
“Eugh.” He grimaced at the suggestion, beginning to place his clothes back into the case messily, “He’s an old friend. Not my boyfriend, nor will he ever be.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Why’d we stop here?”
“To visit… someone.”
The faerie’s pointed ears twitched in interest, his black eyes sparkling, “A Friend?”
“Don’t.”
“Oh come on, Artie.” Puck rose, bug like wings fluttering to hover him over, “It would be easier for me to count off the people you haven’t slept with.”
“That’s not why I stopped. I just wanted to see him is all, but I haven’t and I don’t think I will. The next train is in 4 days.”
“From now or this morning? Is it 4 days and then we go, or we go on the 4th day?”
“4 nights including tonight, does that clear it up?” Arthur shut the case, placing it to one side, “There’s a greenhouse here, I was going to go look at it. If you behave, I might take you with me.”
Those beady eyes looked at him with excitement as his teeth flashed, sharp and blackened, “I like plants…”

Chapter Text

“When you said greenhouse, Arthur, I was expecting a little more... I dunno, green.” Puck huffed, placing himself on one of the old wood shelves that once harboured bright collections of plants. Now all the shelf seemed to hold was wood rot and a few sparse pots of dried and withered flora. Arthur held one of the brittle leaves between his fingers,
“Last time I was here it was quite a bit more alive.” He mused as it crumbled to a fine dust.

What wasn’t dead and dried in the old greenhouse was overgrown and in the process of joining its fellow flora in inevitable death. Through cracks in the glass panes, other plant life had begun to climb inwards and suck the life out of what remained. It was a sorry sight from the past of its careful care, now left to be eaten or outgrown.
“Some of it might be salvageable.” He looked around, letting the moonlight guide him as he begun to walk through the narrow spacing, “Nothing really useful. Ludwig preferred sight and smell to medicinal properties.”
“You sure?” The faerie fluttered on ahead, stopping occasionally to touch or sniff a few things,
“Well, a few herbs maybe. But things for cooking, not potions you and I are familiar with.”
“Then what’s this?”

Where Puck had landed sat a collection of small pots, hidden away on one of the lower shelves behind some tools. The plants in them had barely survived, on the cusp of losing their battle. The Englishman recognised a few, a frown falling on his face as he crouched down in the corner, moving a stray watering can.
“Nightshade, May Bells, Hemlock… poisons. All of them.” The frown only deepened,
“Why’d he be growing poisons?” Puck asked what the man beside him had been thinking,
“Why indeed…” Without a second thought, Arthur took out a small leather notebook from his pocket and it’s accompanying pen and began to scribble down the name of each he saw, “They’re common ones, something anyone would find and easily remember from a book they read, nothing complicated.”
“Don’t you have one of those?”
“I have lots of books on plant life, probably several of those are on poisonous ones…” He placed the pen under a wilting flower of a May Bell to further inspect, “This might call for further insight…”
“You’re not gonna start eating them are you? ‘Cus as funny as that was last time-“
“I mean why they’re here, Puck. I know what they do.” He stood, wiping the pen on his trousers before shutting up the book and pushing the watering can back with his foot.

With the faerie twinkling after him, Arthur entered back through the kitchen, wiping any mud off of his shoes as he went. It was eerie and dark, and every step felt like it would wake anyone in a mile radius until he hit the carpeted stairs. The creaking he could deal with.
“Why don’t you talk to him?” Puck’s voice sounded from his shoulder as they reached the landing,
“Talk to who?”
“Him.” He pushed off, gracefully making his way down the hall before settling in the centre of it, looking over his shoulder as the wings folded neatly around his body. He stood between Arthur and the far door, inviting him to come along.
“He’s why you came isn’t he? Why don’t you?”
“Because…” Arthur struggled to find a reason, but after a longing stare to the door, he broke away, a hand on the wood of his own, “Not tonight…” He sighed, stepping into the solace of his own room, leaving the faerie to follow him before the door shut him out.

The Englishman rubbed at his eyes as he sat back at the desk. What on earth had come over him? It was true, he did stop in hopes of seeing Ludwig. He wanted to be greeted at the door by stern blue eyes that melted away with a smile, and off handed smart comments mumbled under some personal need to remain proper. Yet faced with the idea of actually being there, Arthur felt those images fade. War had torn them all apart, Feliciano had only recently made his presence known again and Kiku was still picking up the pieces from the atomic bombs that had hit him. He could only imagine. 7 years was nothing to them, a mere blink. Not enough time for the scars to fade.

“Quit rubbing your eyes.” Puck’s high pitched voice sounded from in front of him, “You’re only gonna irritate them more.”
His own scars. The burning of mustard gas still stung at his vision, leaving it blotchy at best. He stood, ignoring the flooding wave of numbness sent over his body, tingling at his fingers.

Liverpool. Bristol. Plymouth. Hull.

Of course, late at night is when he would remind himself of these things that haunted him, the cold spreading over leaving only patches of heat burning at his back.

Leeds. Portsmouth. Manchester. Birmingham.

“Hey, you okay?” The voice was a little further away now, muffled by a pounding in his ears. He held onto the bed post in time to feel delicate hands catch him.

London.

“I’m fine.” He spoke quickly, waving them away, “This happens.”
“You look like you’re gonna faint.”
“No I just… remembered.” Arthur took a deep breath, urging his muscles to relax and stop seizing, fingers gripping at the sheets and wood until his knuckles turned white. He gasped in more air before they seized up again, twisting under his skin. Eventually, they eased up, allowing him to fall onto the mattress and slide to his knees on the floor. Bloody hell.
“That hasn’t… happened for a while.” He spoke once he could breathe steadily again, watching the blurred figure of the faerie come into view,
“I’ll save you the trouble and won’t ask.”
“Cheers.”

---

The morning was quiet, breakfast made up of some watery eggs and a bit of toast. Arthur was once again sat at the table with two very quite hosts who didn’t seem to be all that into eating either. He had taken to aimlessly picking at his teeth, the soft click of his nail against bone the only sound other than the distant clock in the hall and the occasional clack of a fork against china.

“You look like shit.” Gilbert piped up when the silence had gotten too much for him,
“Thanks.” Arthur replied. He hadn’t really done much to wake himself up that morning, the effects of his attack the night before leaving his muscles aching. Had he not been as polite as he was, he had half a mind to stay in bed.

More insults seemed to hang in the Prussian’s throat, though he held himself back for a moment too long as Roderich stood with his plate and teacup, only the sound of him clearing his throat as he left. He never stayed long. And with that, Gilbert felt more open to speak his mind. Or, was about to until the Englishman he was hell bent on tormenting stood as well, “Is the library locked?”
“No…?” He pulled a face, confused and halfway insulted, “Why would it be?”
Arthur shrugged, “Thought I’d ask before going there.”
“And you want to go in there why exactly?”
“There’s nothing else to do other than sit here and be glared at.”
“You could get on a train literally anywhere else.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The Englishman tapped the wood of the table before turning, heading out of the door before another exchange could take place, he had more important things to concentrate on.

The library of the house wasn’t all too big. It consisted of a single room with a window facing the back of the house, from there he could just about see the edge of the greenhouse he had visited the night before, and the wide stretch of grass sloping over a steep hill that made the rest of the property. The sun shone just over it, casting a brilliant light onto a single cushioned chair and side table sat in the room’s centre. Tall walls held a vast collection of books, mostly in German judging from the spines, but few in English, some in Italian, and one or two in French and Russian. He had heard of books being burned during the war, but this collection felt entirely untouched and preserved.

“What we looking for?” a head peaked out from his breast pocket, Puck shaking his antennae out,
“Plant books.” Arthur spoke as he closed the heavy wood door, “Something that’ll tell me at least where he got the idea to grow them from, then I’ll know they’re at least his.”
“Him being…?”
“You know who.” He stepped forward, picking the pesky Faerie out of his pocket to place on the table as he began to look over the titles.
“Was just checking. What, can’t you say his name now?”
“Ludwig is very particular.” He began, “The books are ordered alphabetically. My German’s a bit rusty though, might have to peruse a while.”
“German words for plants…” Puck hummed, stepping in circles around the table for a little before spinning on his heel, wings unfolding to lift him into the air, “Gartenbau.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“Horticulture.” Puck corrected, fluttering his way over to what looked like the G section.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he followed, “Since when did you know German?”
“I like plants.”

In the relatively small section of books only one was about horticulture and care of plant life, however this book didn’t seem to cover any of the poisonous flora that had been found, only what used to be in the greenhouse. A different route perhaps, he didn’t want to spend all day flipping through books he didn’t couldn’t make heads or tails of.

They tried a few different translations, coming across more books that could hold the answer. But again, none seemed to focus or even have a section on poisons
“What if it’s hidden?” Puck rose again, this time standing on the book the Englishman held. He jumped away just about quick enough to escape being squished in the pages as it was slammed shut,
“What makes you say that?”
“The poisons were hidden, why wouldn’t the book they were about be?”
Arthur paused, making sense of it in his head before pointing the book at the faerie and hurrying to replace it, “You’re having far too many good ideas recently. I know somewhere it might be in that case.”
“I have good ideas all the time.”
“Drowning people doesn’t count as a good idea.”

With that said, he swept out of the library, leaving the faerie to catch up. When he did, Puck chose another pocket to hide in, keeping his stature just small enough not to be too noticeable. At least, in theory. Arthur had specifically brought various creatures to meetings with him, even a whole unicorn once, no one noticed or even bat an eyelid. So Puck’s need to hide seemed futile at best.

He turned, about to enter the open doors of the kitchen when he heard voices, speaking in hushed German. Quickly, he shot to the side of the doorframe, body pressed right up against the wall in hopes that none of him was visible.
“Why’d we stop?”
“Sh.”

The owners of the two voices were clear; the harsh, bitter tones of Gilbert’s often obnoxious voice, and the nasally, proper spoken voice of Roderich. Though they spoke a language he couldn’t understand, he could hear it was some kind of heated discussion. They went back and forth, Gilbert becoming more frustrated until letting out a long sigh.
Arthur’s ears pricked at the sound of a name. Ludwig. They were talking about him.
“I don’t suppose you know what they’re saying?” He spoke as quietly as possible to the creature in his pocket,
“I only do flowers. Sorry.”

His disappointment was cut short by footsteps; there was no limp or cane, but a slight heel, coming towards him. A quick escape was needed. There was a door beside him, a cupboard of some kind, and so he made the quickest decision of his life to fly through it, just in time for the footsteps to pass him and make their way towards the stairs. He didn’t dare breathe.

Arthur wouldn’t leave that crammed cupboard until he was sure Gilbert had also vacated the kitchen, so he could snoop to his hearts content.
“There was a loose tile.” His voice remained low as they entered, “He used to hide things there as a child. Showed me it when I stayed here.”
“What kinda things would a kid need to hide?”
“I don’t know. When I was here he was older.”
“Raunchy stuff?”
“Shut up.” Arthur huffed, beginning to kick lightly at random tiles against the wall until one shifted. “This one.”
“Neat.” Puck fluttered down taking it upon himself to yank the tile out of the way despite the strain and hop down into the little hole that was made.

For his part, Arthur played look out. There was no telling when or if his hosts would return to the kitchen to see him rifling through their things. He stood by with his hands in his trouser pockets, eyes keenly switching between the three doors anyone could walk through.
“I found something.” The little voice under the floor spoke, “it’s not what we’re looking for but it’s something.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, giving one last check of the doors before he crouched down by the hole the tile left. He could hear the shuffling of papers as Puck moved around in the darkness and waited for him to resurface.

Before he could, one heavy footstep landed beside Arthur and all to quickly, he found himself lifted and slammed into the nearest cabinet.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Gilbert’s eyes burned into his own as he lifted the man up. The Englishman kicked out, trying to pry the hands off of his collar, “Nothing! Get off of me!”
“Nothing? What a crock of shit, Kirkland! Who told you about that place? Why are you here?”
“I just found it! calm down, Gilbert!”
“Gil.” A sharp voice cracked between them. Roderich stood behind the counter, his arms crossed. The albino in front of him snarled and threw the other away from him, leaving Arthur to land quite painfully on his shoulder. Not another word was said, just the tile kicked back into place and the Prussian stepping over him before slamming a door behind him.

For a moment he panicked, thinking the faerie that had been following him was still under the floor, but was reassured when he felt a scurrying under his fingers, Puck lifting his hand up to give a reassuring nod. When Roderich stepped around to look down on him, the Englishman took his winged friend and quickly tugged him in his inside pocket.

“I apologise for him.” Rod held out a hand to help him up, “He’s just a bit on guard recently.”
“No no…” Arthur brushed himself down once he was up again, “I shouldn’t have been snooping.”
“How did you find that?”
“Find what?”
“The tile.” The Austrian gestured with his head,
“Oh. Just um… intuition.” He lied with what he hoped was a charming smile.
“Right.” Unconvinced, Roderich moved, taking the kettle from it’s stand and filling it with water, “Tea?”

---

He skipped dinner that night, something told him he wouldn’t be much welcome anyway, but as Arthur lay on his bed staring at the ceiling with his notebook on his chest, he piped up. “What did you see under those tiles?”
“Huh?” Puck surfaced from digging through his case for something to amuse himself, “I dunno. Some papers all in German, some book.”
“Not on our poisons though, I assume?”
“No. it was like a black book. Kinda like yours with some etched symbol on it.”
“Anything magical?”
“Nope. Looked human to me. But I don’t really know much about human history.” The faerie shrugged pulling out a sock and looking through the various holes. “It was recent enough. Looked like a bird.”
“An eagle…?”
“probably.”
“Great.” Arthur huffed, sitting up to look at the small creature making a mess of his socks, “No wonder Gil was so mad about me finding it. It was probably something to do with the war.”
“Oh. Not our poisons then?”
“Well I don’t know that. Still don’t know who was growing them.”

Arthur swung his legs over the edge of the bed, a great sigh leaving him. Everything since he’d been here had felt off; having not seen the person who supposedly owned the house, finding poisons in the greenhouse, mysterious papers under the floor. It was unsettling at best, and yet piqued his curiosity to a point where he found himself not in a hurry to leave. Perhaps he should stop reading so much Agatha Christie and leave the poking to someone who was much better adept. Again, he couldn’t quite rest this urge tingling at his fingertips to learn more. So much to think about.

His stomach growled loudly, catching him and the magical creature inspecting his underwear quite off guard. They shared a look before Puck’s face contorted, “Gross.”
“Hunger is natural.”
“There’s nothing natural about the noise it makes.”
“You know what, I’ll take that.” Arthur stood, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and partially fixing his waistcoat. Dishevelled was one way to put it. “Do you want to see if you can find... whatever it is you eat?”
“Bugs.”
“Gross.” Now his turn to make a face as he fixed his collar.

Over this trip, Puck had become more than interesting company, if not a little irritating at the best of times. He likely didn’t expect to be travelling half way over the world when he snuck himself into the Englishman’s case. It wasn’t like while he was here he had anyone else to talk to or any way to get back home, so when a hand outstretched, he fluttered over to land on it and gladly accepted the lift into a comfortable pocket. Flying around everywhere was such hard work for someone as small as him, and while he seemed to be able to differ his size enough, he never made the effort go become bigger than a hand.

“They’re all asleep this time.” The faerie poked his head out of his spot, “Maybe snooping at night is the way to go.”
“Perhaps.” Arthur muttered in return as he made his way down the stairs, “Though I have to stay quieter than you.”
“‘s fair.”

They reached the kitchen without trouble, finding it much like it had been the night before. The moon was so bright it illuminated the entire room, allowing him to move around with ease and search for what food there was. As Arthur searched, Puck flew out of his pocket and made his way towards a crack in the window he could slip through to explore.

Arthur settled on an apple in a fruit bowl he saw as there wasn’t much hanging around in the first place. He had to wonder if the pair trying to keep up this house ever actually went shopping in the town. With that thought on his mind, he sat on the floor behind the counter, directly facing the tile he had disturbed previously. There was something oddly peaceful about sitting on the floor.

He stared at the tile for a moment, still not quite correctly in place, before biting into his apple and moving forward across the floor. That damn nagging curiosity of his caused him to reach under and retrieve what Gilbert had been so keen on protecting. As he sat back in his place against the counter, Puck fluttered his way back to his side, each pair of arms holding some insect. He sat with his legs crossed and begun to tuck in to the closest – a cricket – first tearing its head off to get at it’s insides.

It was disturbing to say the least, watching those little razor sharp teeth devour the poor thing, shredding it to pieces in his blackened mouth. Such a strange little creature he was, giving off that slight pinkish glow to show how pleased he was with the meal he’d caught.
“You got the papers.” He spoke, wiping away the remnants of the cricket’s crunchy outer casing from his lips,
“Yes.” Arthur replied, finally able to look away.

With the apple in one hand, he spread the papers out first. Some were stapled together to keep them organised and some were loose. He could identify two of the grouped pages as identification papers, one set with Ludwig’s name, and the other Gilbert’s. Each had a space where a photo might have once been.
“What are the numbers?” Puck asked, handing his second bug up to the higher set of arms,
“SS.” He replied bluntly, “High up in the Nazi party.”
“The bad guys?”
“I don’t suppose they had much of a choice. As representatives during war, our jobs are often put down to shut up and look pretty when we’re not on the front.” Arthur gave a shrug, it wasn’t like he could say he did much better, assuming this was exactly what Gilbert didn’t want to be seen. He moved on, stacking the identification papers and some of the others that looked unimportant to his quest. The little black book however, seemed entirely more interesting.

It was pocket sized, but relatively thick, as if papers had been added in as time went on, some of them warped with damp. From the colour of the pages, he ruled out tea or coffee being spilled and settled on rain. As something so well worn, he could imagine it being pulled out whenever notes had to be made.
Like Puck had said, the front was etched an eagle. One the world knew by now all too well. It only held the dust from under the floor, otherwise it’s cover was clean.

Upon opening it, the first page held a name in a cursive he recognised from various letters, always so smart. Ludwig Beilschmidt. 1935. Before the war had officially begun. Inside was all in German as was to be expected, pages and pages of writings, none of it rushed and all perfectly spaced. He flicked through to a particularly thick page, and found a flower pressed with a page of writing and annotations around it. It was a May Bell, one of the ones seen in the greenhouse.

He frowned for a moment at the words, not German at all. “These are in Gaelic.” He noted to the faerie beside him, who was still biting into a particularly tough bit of cricket meat,
“Weird.” Puck blinked, “Which one?”
“Can’t quite tell, looks like an attempt to mash Scottish and Irish.”
“Why write in Gaelic?”
“Like you said before.” Arthur bit into his apple, “To hide it.”

Scattered within this little notebook were multiple pages of the poisons he had been growing, all with the same broken Gaelic. He could just about make sense of it, but it was mostly notes on what the plants did to the body and annotations on where the poisonous parts where, or if the whole thing was toxic, descriptions on how each differed. It would be fascinating had the grammar not been so poor.

His thumb brushed lightly over the page for Hemlock, a dark red stain soiling the otherwise crisp page. It seemed to tell its own story, however horrible that might have been.
“That’s-“
“He was testing them on himself.” Arthur cut in before the stain could be confirmed.
“But…” The faerie paused his eating, beady eyes quite wide with concern, “Won’t that kill him? It almost killed you.”
“It takes a lot to kill us. Your best bet is suffocation; the lack of oxygen doesn’t give us the chance to heal at the speed we usually do…”
“Hemlock...”
“Shuts down the respiratory system.”

An unusual silence fell over them as they both stared at the page before Arthur made the decision to close it. They had been fumbling over it for far too long, they had their answer. Ludwig planted them, took care of them, tested them. And yet there was still no indication of why. Why had he caught this sudden interest, why hide it, and why make himself the dummy?

After replacing the book, he set the tile right, if only to for Gilbert’s peace of mind. He and his small winged friend, made their way back to the stairs. This landing had become a place to pause. Every time looking toward that door. If who he thought was behind that door was indeed in there, it could offer just as many straight answers as perhaps questions. He would be crucified if he was caught meddling in private matters for a second time. But that twitch in his fingers tempted him enough to turn, finally facing it head on.

“You should.” Puck poked his head round his shoulder, “He’s why you came.”
“You often tempt people places they shouldn’t?” Arthur tried a smile, a jab at his faerie friend but an obvious one to hide his nerves. But an answer didn’t come. Just a faint tinkling beside his ear. Damn his mischievous and convincing ways. And so, the Englishman stepped forward, slowly and carefully so as not to wake those in the rooms between him and the door he had longed to look behind the entire two days he had been here.

When he got to it, he tried the handle, surprised and almost disappointed to feel it locked.
“Let me try.” Puck rose, shrinking himself down as he floated towards the keyhole. So that was how he snuck everywhere. Despite knowing the faerie changed his size, it hadn’t occurred to him that it could be used to sneak places and not just to be annoying.
A latch clicked and the handle turned, on the other side, Puck steadily returning to his pocket sized self to sit comfortably on his larger companion’s shoulder.

The room they were greeted with was dark and carried the distinct sterile smell of medical supplies and disinfectant. Unlike the rest of the house, it was free of dust and seemed to be cleaned regularly, almost too much in fact.
The only light source was a single lamp beside the bed, as Arthur closed the door, he could see just how it bounced off the heavy closed curtains and illuminate the room as best it could. And beside it, under the rasping of breath, was a large man. Bandages over his eyes and chest, and an oxygen mask by his side to be used when he felt at his worst.

Ludwig moved his head slightly to the door at the sound of someone entering, disturbed from his rest.

Chapter Text

Arthur found he couldn’t do much as he stood in front of the door, despite knowing that the man in front of him couldn’t see, he had the urge to remain in the shadows the best he could. He couldn’t quite describe the feelings taking over him, all he knew was this was uncomfortable and the more he stood stock still, the worse it felt.

A small nudge to his shoulder reminded him of the magical creature resting there, urging him to start forward. What on earth was he supposed to do? To say? And so he managed to move forward into the room, his footsteps practically echoing around him. Ludwig didn’t move much, but he was listening as the steps made their hesitant way towards him, trying to identify just who they belonged to. It was then Arthur put some thought to it, he didn’t wear the same slight heel as Rod, and he certainly didn’t have the assistance of a cane like Gil. He was essentially a stranger entering the room of a sick man, unannounced and uninvited.

A chair was placed already beside his bed, supposedly for his brothers to sit and talk with him during the day or to properly care for him. It was when Arthur got there he managed to find the words to speak. “Ludwig…” he began, keeping his voice low and soft. He saw the man’s ears twitch, interest passing over his face. This was new after all.
“It’s um… it’s me. Arthur.” He tried a grin, letting it falter slightly when he remembered that the other man couldn’t see him.

Ludwig shifted, a weak attempt to sit up slightly. The pillows surrounding him offered some support, though he didn’t manage to get up very high before grunting and settling down again. “You’re here?” He spoke finally, his voice somewhat strained as if he hadn’t used it in a while.
“Yes I… came to visit you. I didn’t really expect…”
He looked away for a moment, a frown on his face. Arthur stopped talking. Trust him to mess it up before it even began.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”
The faerie on his shoulder gave a puzzled look, and the Englishman he sat on could only return it. “You… dream about me often?” he joked, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. He always made stupid jokes when he was nervous, apparently now was no exception.
“Sometimes.” Ludwig turned his head back, his features relaxed but clearly tired.
“Well. Thank you, I suppose.”
“So this is a dream?”
Arthur paused, looking over towards the side table to see what looked like various pain medication lit up by the lamp. “Sure. We’ll call it that. Just don’t tell your brothers.”
“I won’t. My dreams aren’t that interesting.”
“Oh, cheers.” He couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling the nerves begin to lift from his shoulders. As uncomfortable as it was to see Ludwig like this, it was nice to know he was at least conscious.

“It’s been a while.” He spoke, pushing himself closer on the chair, “How have you been? Other than the obvious.”
“I’ve been… lots of things.” Ludwig rested his head back to cast his bandaged eyes towards the ceiling, “Mostly in bed. Other instances I don’t care to mention.”
“Hm… The world moves on.”
“Does it?” The way his voice changed was unsettling, staying level and calm but the tone shifted, a venom creeping behind it. During the silence it left, Arthur chose to avoid the subject. He didn’t want to cause stress, and he certainly didn’t enjoy the bite in his already deep voice.

Different thoughts go over someone’s head when they sit by a sick person’s bed. That difficulty finding words or a subject to talk about that wasn’t their current situation. It was a feeling Arthur had felt many times, being immortal it was by now a very commonplace experience. And yet, here he sat. Struggling. Perhaps it was entirely different when it was another supposedly immortal being beside you. It was hardly comforting on his own views of mortality.

He looked up when a light cough sounded from Ludwig, accompanied by an unfortunate sounding wheezing before he settled again. If it was unbearable for Arthur to sit there in silence watching, he couldn’t imagine what it was like to be the one in bed.
“Do you need some water?” He asked quietly, a gentle suggestion,
“It’s fine.” Ludwig sank back, swallowing quite thickly.

As the pair sat in mostly silence besides the occasional awkward comment, Puck flew over to the lamp on the bedside, examining the bottles he found there and occasionally holding one up for Arthur to read. Painkillers he’d seen previously, antiseptics he assumed were for the bandaged wound on his chest. Basic things you might find in a first aid box. The Faerie began to shake one of the bottles half his size vigorously until Arthur put his hand on it to weigh it down, giving him a disapproving look before catching sight of the label.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” The Englishman began in his hushed voice as he tugged the bottle away from the little creature on the nightstand, “What happened to your eyes?” It was asked as gently as he could, but there was hardly any dancing around the subject.
Ludwig visibly bristled up at the mention of it however, “It’s a long story.” He wheezed,
“Can you see?”
“I don’t want to.”

His voice held a tightness as his entire body seemed to tense. This was something Arthur knew well, watching the man in front of him bite into his cheek in an attempt to keep in control. A memory. His hands twitched and gripped at the sheets, forcing them to stay at his sides. But unlike Arthur’s attacks, the tightness of Ludwig’s muscles had triggered the beginnings of a coughing fit. From light chokes to more violent hacks, the sounds not only raised Arthur from his seat, but within the hall, a door opened.

Arthur grabbed the oxygen mask at the side, though he wasn’t entirely sure how to work it, as soon as it pressed to the other’s nose and mouth it seemed to be doing its job. A hand grabbed his wrist, a little too tightly as he whispered. “Breathe, Ludwig.”
The footsteps stopped just outside the door as the German’s coughing subsided, leaving him somewhat shaking as his breathing began to steady out again. Arthur watched the door, the shadow under it slowly turning and heading back the way it came. He gave a short sigh of relief, his wrist still held in place but the grip on him relaxing.

“You’re alright…” he hushed, “I’m sorry, just breathe, okay?”
The hand loosened with every deep breath, soon finding it’s place on the back of his own. Arthur gave a soft sigh of relief. Although the man in front of him still shook slightly as he calmed, it wasn’t likely he would get back to a fully rested state.
“That was my fault.” Arthur tried a smile, hoping it showed through in his voice. His hand remained on the mask, held there until Ludwig finally directed his head towards the sound,
“Your hand is cold…” He spoke, voice shaken and muffled from the mask,
“Oh. Sorry.” But as he tried to move it, he felt the hand on his enclose and entwine between his fingers. Ludwig was oddly warm, not feverish or clammy, but a soft, cosy kind of warm. He found himself doing his best to hold the hand back.
“Will you stay?” Ludwig asked, “Usually in my dreams you leave so quickly…”
The Englishman blinked for a moment, sharing a short look of confusion with the fae that still sat on the nightstand before pulling the chair back to him.
“I’ll stay.”

He had sat there, occasionally replying to Ludwig’s tired mumblings until the hand that held his relaxed completely, the German man slipping away to sleep – to his real dreams. While a pang of guilt hung over Arthur as he left, he knew he wasn’t in control of whatever his bedridden friend dreamed up in his head, and why he seemed to disappear so often in such dreams.

Puck sat on his shoulder again, having been quite quiet, not knowing if he spoke whether he would be heard. “We didn’t ask him much.”
“He wasn’t in the right way to be asked.” Arthur replied, quietly turning back to his own room. He was glad to be back into the comforts of this room he had managed to spread himself out in. The window had remained open during his entire stay, the soft, cold breeze coming over him as he entered was refreshing and did well to centre him in his thoughts of what now? He had seen who he came to see, and yet he was overcome with a need to be of some help.

“What was on that bottle before?” Puck asked, fluttering his way over to the soft pillows where he could sink in and let his wings fold neatly away around his body. Ever the curious thing.
“It was a saline solution. I assume it was for his eyes.”
“You think they’re like yours?”
“No.” He shook his head, picking up his smallest case and bringing it over to the desk beside the window, “Mustard gas needs to be washed out immediately. It doesn’t have a continuous treatment.”
“Whatcha doing now?” The faerie didn’t get up, simply rolling to the other side of the bed in hopes he could get a better view from an angle.
“Tomorrow night, I hope you can do me a little favour.”
“Oh?” Puck sat up, “You already owe me one, are you sure you want to add to that list?”
“I’ll sneak you out some milk.”
“Deal. What do you need?”
Arthur gave an amused breath at how easy it was to win the little creature over. Milk was a luxury to Puck’s sort, anything sweet or creamy they could get their hands on was a sure fire way to get them to do small jobs for you.

“The greenhouse.” He began, opening the small case to reveal a portable work station. Compartments and shelves all folded out neatly, the perfect place to practice what magicks and potion making he needed. It still had the remnants of some of his previous lapses in judgement on their past trip. Love potions were tricky business after all.
“What good’s the stuff in there? It’s all dead.”
“Get some samples of the poisons we saw. They might come in handy for figuring out a remedy.”
“You can only guess what’s wrong, you know that.”

It was perhaps one of the smarter things he had heard Puck say in their time together. He was a known trickster, always interested in mischief and the like, but he was an old soul who knew when to stop. Arthur, however, wasn’t one to give in.
“I have two more nights to find out. Tomorrow we’ll search the library again, a book on Gaelic he might have some notes in, and while you’re gathering what I asked, I’ll try figure out someway to help that isn’t just pumping him full of drugs and hoping for the best.”
“It’s dangerous to impeach when you don’t know the full story.”
“I just want to help, Puck.” He looked over, placing a few small, empty glass vials on the side, “We’ll see where this leads. But if it helps him, I want to do it.”
The faerie’s face was very serious before that sharp black smile peeled over his lips, “Then I will assist.”

The morning rolled around sooner than he would have liked, today was another day Arthur would skip a meal with his hosts. He still felt uncomfortable, and surely so did the other two what with his unannounced presence already causing stress around the house, he would much prefer to sleep in some and head back to the library quietly, his little faerie friend napping in his waistcoat pocket.

He swept around the bottom of the stairs, hoping to hurry his way straight to the library without being too much of a presence, but as he went to open the door, the weight of it’s resistance fell on him. Locked. There went his plan for the day, unless he could ask Roderich for the key; he would undoubtedly be more kind towards him.

Defeated, he turned to find some other way to spend this day – what else could he possibly do now? Seeing Ludwig during the day would be difficult, he imagined his brothers would be on care duty around the clock considering how little they would appear aside from meals. Otherwise, he felt entirely alone in this house. With no one else to talk to, he would have to reside in his room to talk to a creature that often housed itself in his pocket. Such is life. As irritating as that might be.

Not two steps away from the library did he run face first into Gilbert, who didn’t jump or falter at the sudden appearance of his guest, he simply looked directly into Arthur’s eyes with one cold eyebrow raised.
“You missed breakfast.” He said once the Englishman had stepped back for more distance between them,
“I didn’t want to intrude more than I already have.”
“You’re well past that by now.” He muttered before stepping around, using the cane holding him steady to pull him forward, “Library?”
“It’s locked.”
“I know.”

For a moment, Arthur was puzzled before he spotted the beginnings of a smile on the Prussian’s face as he reached for a key in his pocket. Bastard.
“Why did you lock it?”
“I dunno.” Gilbert shrugged, “Spite.” As the door unlocked, his hinted smile became a fully wicked grin, pushing the door wide open, “Maybe I just get a kick out of making things difficult for you.”
“You and the rest of the world.” Arthur’s eyes rolled, carrying himself into to library. But as he entered, the Prussian behind him didn’t make a move to leave, simply leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed. He noted as he looked over that the leg he had been supporting now relaxed completely.

The longer he stood, the less opportunity there was for him to make some snide remark; every time he opened his mouth, it would close again shortly after until the smile had been completely replaced with that cold look he had given at every meal they spent together. Silent loathing. Arthur didn’t let this distract him, but he didn’t want what he was looking for to be too obvious. Whether Gilbert knew of the poisons or not was in question, if that was what he was protecting or their papers, he couldn’t quite say. But it wasn’t as if he was able to get an answer any time soon. For a nation with such a large and often obnoxious mouth, Gilbert knew when to stay quiet and what information to hide.

What he didn’t notice as he distracted himself looking for the book he needed, placing a few on the table as both an excuse to look at the man in the doorway, and to avert suspicion, was how the angered expression seemed to grow sadder with time. Every book placed down pulled it closer, until he finally spoke.

“He’s just a kid, you know.” The voice – while characteristically harsh in nature, held a soft quality to it, something that made Arthur pause in his search.
“I’m sorry?” The Englishman cleared his throat, trying to get back to the books,
“I don’t mean like, physically. But he’s still young, younger than you’d think.”
“I don’t know what you’re-“
“Ludwig.” That silence hung after his name, something that only Gilbert seemed to be able to achieve, “He’s sick. If you’re wondering why he’s not here fawning all over you.”
“Sick?” Arthur attempted to sound surprised, but he didn’t stop looking over the spines of the books,
“It happens. When war hits hard, we keep our heads down. But he’s not just sick like that. The shit he went through; things he saw… he’s just a kid.”
He stopped finally, hanging on to one of the shelves lightly, as if it would catch him should he fall. He knew. He’d seen after all. He’d seen how just that slight hint at a memory caused the sudden reaction he knew far too well. The teeth grinding anxiety just in one tightly gripped hand.

“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur spoke as he turned, letting his hand fall from the shelf,
“Because.” The man in the doorway shrugged, his eyes averted towards a crack in the floor. As his mouth opened again, those intense red eyes locked again on to the Englishman in front of him, “It wasn’t his fault and he doesn’t deserve what he got.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“Sure you don’t.” Before another word could be exchanged in the agonising silence, Gilbert turned on his good leg and began to walk down the hall, calling as he went, “You’re not special, Kirkland. You can’t fix people.”

---

“Can’t fix people- what the bally hell does that even mean?” Arthur paced around his room having found himself lingering in the aura Gilbert had left behind, his room was more private; somewhere he could digest both the words he was given, and the few relevant books he had found. But, for now at least, he couldn’t concentrate until this feeling had passed.
“You woke me up for this?” Puck groaned from his place on the pillows, “I was dreaming so good.”
“Who does he think I am? This isn’t a matter of making people happy, it’s me trying to help his damn brother get better.”
“…so… fixing him?”
“I’ll show him.” Arthur seemed to ignore the creature, finding an end to his relentless pacing at the desk he had left his case open on.

With some digging, he pulled out a leather bound book, stuffed with papers and notes.
“Please don’t start cursing people again. We already did this.”
“Not at all.” He began to flick through, eyes darting over the words and pages he had written before settling on some stuck out papers folded in jammed between some pages. Unfolding them and separating them, he placed them neatly side by side. Medical forms. One already filled out, and another, blank.
Puck sat up, and after a little time trying to crane his neck to see what was on the desk, eventually folded out his wings and fluttered over, standing on the top of one of the pages as Arthur started to fill in the blank sheet.

“You’re going to treat him? Shoulda guessed that. This your one?” He lifted his foot to read the name, soon stepping all over it to devour the information until he got to the outline of a person. Here, he decided to lay down, giggling at the perfect fit – aside from the extra pair of arms. But his companion was too invested in filling out the second form to find it in any way amusing. So he grumbled, flipping over to look at the markings on the diagram.
“Didn’t know you had so many scars. Wassat?”
Arthur glanced over from circling the eyes and chest on the new form, “A pirate brand.”
“Neat.”

He looked up, a little frown on his pointed features, “So what about the books?”
“Books?”
“You said there might be notes in the Gaelic books. Don’t forget about that.”
“Oh. Right no, of course. Let me do this first.”
The faerie’s face twisted. Something told him the prospect of petty grudges was already getting in the way. So, with a fierce little stomp, he marched his way over to Arthur’s resting hand, picked up the thumb, and bit down as hard as he could. His little needle like teeth were sharp enough to draw blood and hang on as the Englishman at the mercy of his jaw jumped out of his seat from the shock of it.

“Get off!” He insisted, shaking the little thing about until he relinquished his grip, dropping down back onto the desk with a small thud, both sets of arms crossed.
“You’re getting distracted.”
“And you’re getting a taste for blood. Christ, Puck.” Arthur squeezed his other hand around his thumb in an attempt to stop the little bubbles of blood beginning to prick to the surface of his skin. It was evident in the faerie’s face that he wasn’t interested in apologising, simply puffing up his cheeks and sitting with his legs crossed.
“Fine. We’ll look at the books. I don’t see how it makes a difference from what I’m doing now.”
“You’re poking your nose in the wrong things.” Puck spoke sternly, an odd tone for his high pitched voice, “You wanted to know why, you didn’t say nothing about fixing him.”
“Why exactly shouldn’t I help?”
“Because you’re too busy on the hows and the whats. Not why he hurts.”
“I don’t know, war. Poisoning himself.” Arthur shrugged, his thumb still stinging, made worse by the frustration growing over his tiny companion,
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why hurt himself to test poison? Why did you do it?”

For a moment, he wanted to answer, his mouth opening and yet no words coming out. He bit down, teeth clenched. This stupid little creature had no idea what he was talking about, how could he possibly understand the decisions of humans – let alone nations who were entirely more complicated. It was so long ago that Arthur put himself in danger like that, and yet the whole time he had all of these creatures picking him up after each one, ready for the next. It was like they didn’t know that he couldn’t…

He blinked, relaxing as he began to understand. “Because I couldn’t die.”
“When you can’t die, why poison yourself?”
“To poison other people…” The pair shared a look, somewhere between confusion and vague understanding. That understanding being that questions would have to be asked, what they couldn’t get out of the books and greenhouse, would have to come from the man himself.
For now, Puck flew up, landing beside the books that had been thrown onto the bed in frustration, “I guess we better start seeing what your friend left behind.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you can go in alone?” The small voice of the faerie on Arthur’s shoulder spoke as they both stood outside the door. What he had to do in there wouldn’t exactly be easy, find out what happened while also dancing around the subject with little grace or aim.
“I still don’t know what I’m asking.” He admitted, “Not the depth of it, what it means, or even really… what this will accomplish.”
“You want him to feel better. Isn’t that what people do? Talk about their problems?”
“I was never good at that.”
“Well just… try not to make too many jokes.” There was a reassuring pat from a very tiny hand before Puck pushed away from his shoulder, “I’ll go to the greenhouse then. You just remember to bring me some milk afterwards.”
“Yeah yeah.” Arthur rolled his eyes, motivated by such little luxuries, the life of the fae was a simple one.

He reached into his pocket, taking out three of the small vials he had shown earlier in the evening. “You sure you can carry them?”
“Yeah, easy as, innit?” The faerie took each vial under one arm, leaving one free for convenience sake.
“I’ll see you in the morning then.”
“Seeya.” With that, he started down the hall, weighed down slightly by the glass,
“Oh, and Puck?” Arthur turned, trying to keep his voice quiet. His friend stopped, hovering by the stairs.
“Do be careful.”
A little grin spread over Puck’s face, “Rodger that!” And then he was gone, darting through the banisters with relative ease. Oh to have wings.

Arthur took a breath, returning his gaze to the door. He knew Gilbert and Roderich were in their rooms and it had been long enough since they went in for them to have fallen asleep if luck should have it. He gripped onto the small case in his hand before moving forward and turning the handle, relieved that Puck had snuck in to unlock it before.

It was much like the night before, still that one lamp lighting the room and a nice warmth to it. Curtains drawn to block out any light from outside, and that harsh smell of disinfectant, it was like the war hospitals all over again. He wouldn’t let it distract him, this time he didn’t hesitate at the door, Arthur took in his surroundings and stepped with all the confidence a man being reminded of the depths or mortality could.

Tonight, Ludwig was surrounded by a few extra pillows, he was sat up comfortably and breathing lightly – it was safe to assume he was asleep. So, trying not to make a sound, the Englishman invading his room began to set up his case, the same he had placed on his desk earlier. If he couldn’t figure out just what was keeping Ludwig in this state, the best he could do was to ease the pain in the only way he knew.

Some would call it homeopathy, others who had more of an understanding might notice the properties of these remedies he had. Years of experience, gathered and eventually analysed under a scientific microscope showed that they weren’t as much bullshit as the roman’s remedy for choking. With what he had learned, Arthur had adapted finding what could work on the resistant bodies of nations.

He unfolded the small compartments of the case and soon had it set up how he wanted it on the nightstand – medications and painkillers pushed aside to make room, but not altogether ignored. He needed them for a few small experiments to find out how they might work and interact with his own, more traditional remedies.

A small burner was at the centre of this case under a clamp that could hold what container he had, usually some form of glass or metal – anything he could get his hands on usually when times were tough. The strike of the match was a little louder than expected, and as he lowered it to the gas flame, Ludwig stirred slightly, his head raising to look towards the sound.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” Arthur spoke, keeping his voice soft. A small smile cracked over the German’s dry lips,
“You’re back.”
“That I am. Apparently I couldn’t stay away.” He shook the match to put out it’s flame and set it to the side, continuing his set up by placing a clear glass bottle above the burner. It was round and very used with scorch marks coming up from the bottom. He would need a new one soon.

“You’re in luck.” He began confidently, “I have decided after our event yesterday that I would like to help you back on your feet.”
“Just hearing your voice already makes me feel better.”
He almost dropped the glass he was holding, barking out a short, nervous laugh. Not his best moment, but what can be expected when taken so much off guard by someone on this amount of pain medication.
“Well. I’m happy to hear that…” He cleared his throat, suddenly in need of a stiff drink, “But, you’ll have to tell me what’s wrong. Think of it like a visit from the doctor.”
“I don’t think you have a medical licence, Arthur.” There was a strained chuckle that formed in Ludwig’s throat, but he seemed in far higher spirits today.
“What I lack in formal education, I make up with experience.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Shut it.” His voice was sharp, but kept its edge of humour, gaining another soft laugh in reply.

“You’re awfully chatty today.” He noted, pulling out the same leather bound book from before. It was such a disorganised mess of things, he had to flick through the various pages to find what he actually wanted. While he didn’t expect to find any remedy for lingering poisons, he knew he had a few somewhere that might ease the pain at least.
“I was told not to talk much.” Ludwig shrugged in reply, “I don’t usually anyway. Words have to be calculated…”
The Englishman hummed, taking his seat once he had found the page he was looking for and begin mixing up little pieces he had stashed away in the various little compartments of his work station. A dash of this, a sprinkle of that, mix it in with a bit of hot water, let it brew…

Silence of course, was not what he came for, and although the company as he worked on his little potions was welcome, Arthur was indeed heavily aware of his time limit. Two more nights he had said, and after tonight; only one. Between that he had to sleep, act as if everything was normal to the other two and solve this mystery behind the scenes with as little damage as possible.

“Like I said before, I want to help you in what ways I can. Medically or otherwise.”
“Company is enough.” The German’s voice became quieter than before,
“I understand, but you’re sick.”
“Don’t.” The hands in his lap tightened their grip on each other, “You sound like Gilbert…”
“You just have to tell me what’s wrong.” Arthur sighed, he didn’t want to push too hard, though it seemed like just mentioning that the other was hurt caused him to go on the defence.

“I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals.” The Englishman admitted, “I know that when we have wounds, they heal up within the next week or so. But, when that wound has a significance, it doesn’t heal easy. We slow down because it’s tied to something… Maybe if you talk about it-“
“You’re just a dream.” The words stung a little more than they ought to, but if there was one thing the British were known for, it was stubbornness.
“If you’re right and this is a dream or some painkiller induced hallucination,” He began, back straight and voice firm, “wouldn’t that mean that somewhere inside of your head, there’s some part of you that wants to talk about it? Even if it’s just to the air beside you.”

Ludwig remained tense and uncomfortable, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth. He had become so tight that he began to shake. The sight was heart breaking. And so, Arthur took a mental step back, softening his voice to some degree, “You don’t have to give me the story. If it really is that painful for you to speak about, just tell me how you got hurt. I will give you something to treat them.” He stood, gently laying a hand on the German’s own. In return, Ludwig seemed to relax by a fraction, his head turning to where he sensed the other man beside him.

“Okay.”
“Okay.” The Englishman couldn’t help but give a soft smile, it wasn’t seen or registered by the man in front of him, but he hoped it would give off it’s own energy. “Do you mind if I start with your eyes?” He asked, waiting first for a hesitant nod of consent before raising his hand to his face. The skin on his face was smooth, as if he had just shaved that day, warm and soft. Arthur didn’t quite know what he had expected, his brothers clearly kept him well groomed. Carefully, while paying close attention to the other’s breathing, his hands tightening, he hooked a thumb under the bandages over his eyes and pushed them up, just enough for him to see.

What met him made his heart sink to his stomach. That once clear blue in Ludwig’s eyes was not only misted over, but hardly recognisable. Deep scratches tore down from his brow over his eyelids and stopping at his cheekbones. Not just one set, multiple wounds on each eye, some deeper than others. His left eyelid had been split almost entirely in half and stitched back into place by the top layer of skin so as not to disturb the cornea. Although, that in itself already sustained damage. Despite the intense damage to his skin, it was easy to tell there had been more to his actual eyes themselves, deep markings and burst blood vessels; he could see they had at least mended themselves to the degree of staying together. But even without that bandage, he was completely blind. There was fear in his eyes.

Still so sore, their healing had no doubt been slow. Arthur didn’t know how to react other than to inspect them as close as he could, his hand gently against the other’s temple. He tried to think what he could do to help it; if he was already getting saline washes for the wounds, what other treatments might he need?

He felt the hands he still held grip tightly on him, nervous of the silence and reassuring himself that Arthur was indeed still there. And he was. To prove that further, the Englishman leaned forward, placing a small kiss onto his eyelids, as gentle as he possibly could so as not to disturb the wounds too much.
“It’s okay…” he soothed, stroking his thumb over the back of his hand, “I’ve seen worse. You’re alright.” He continued to coo and hush quietly, replacing the bandage and pressing another kiss against the German’s forehead before taking a step back.

“I may have some eye drops to help them feel less sore, would that be useful?” He asked, keeping hold of Ludwig’s hands and giving them an encouraging squeeze. When he gave a short nod and just the slightest hint of a smile, Arthur felt just that bit more at ease. Perhaps he could be of some help, and maybe get the answers he needed.

He learned little, but enough. The bandage on Ludwig’s chest hid a short range gunshot wound from a weapon with enough spread to create a wound roughly the size of a loosely made fist. It couldn’t be stitched up as the damage had left little skin to work with, leaving a glossy, fleshy hole in the centre of his chest. Arthur felt he knew much more about treating these kinds of wounds; the hard work had already been done for him in removal of bullets of shrapnel, all he found himself doing was crushing up some bits into a fine paste and spreading it around the edges. This would encourage the skin to repair – and would hopefully sink in before either of his two carers noticed it had been applied.

It was only after he had given Ludwig a leaf to chew on to distract him from the slight burning of his skin attempting to heal that he felt he could truly relax. Though he still had plenty to ask, this was enough for him. Every so often, the German would cough through his chewing, clearly not enjoying the taste too much.
“I know chewing leaves sounds silly, but it’s where modern medicine comes from.”
“It’s not that.” Ludwig swallowed before taking a large breath, the air obviously having a little trouble.
“Oh, do you need the mask again?”
“I think so…”

No rest for the wicked. Arthur thought to himself as he stood, leaning over the large man in the bed to grab the mask on the other side. It was quite the reach and he couldn’t help but think there was a much easier way than leaning over the sick man in bed so far. Luckily he didn’t stay stretched for too long, but as he moved back up, his arm was grabbed. It was a shock at first, but the grab didn’t stay firm. Instead, Ludwig let him move, keeping his hand loosely on his arm until he got to the wrist. Here, he guided, pulling the mask to his face while keeping Arthur’s hand under his own. Just like the night before. Endearing was perhaps the word the Englishman was looking for. Comfort seemed more likely to be what was on Ludwig’s mind. And they stayed there until he could breathe properly again. Which one of them had truly lost their breath was a mystery. Arthur had to blink away the idea. He was here to help, not fall head over heels at the slightest touch.

“How about we talk about something else?” Arthur suggested once he was allowed to sit back in his chair.
“What is there?”
He hummed in thought for a moment, “What about your greenhouse?”
“The greenhouse?” Ludwig gave a huff, resting his head back onto the soft pillows, “I suppose I haven’t seen to it in a while.”
“When was the last time you did?”
The German paused, mulling over the words in his head, “Before the war… that was the last time I really cared for it.”
“Sounds like it suffered a bit.”
“I haven’t seen what it looks like… obviously.” It was nice to hear a joke, short and sweet. While Ludwig was a serious man who kept humour to a minimum, he needed to amuse himself somehow. Stuck in this dark room constantly – a miserable existence if there ever was one.

“Were you stationed away?” Arthur asked, a curiosity that he hoped wasn’t stepping over a line already. He wasn’t the one who brought it up.
“For the first few years maybe, but I was ordered back here. I didn’t have the time to tend to it…"
“That’s a shame.” The Englishman nodded, trying to piece it together in his head.

Boldly speaking, this made sense. The majority of the greenhouse had been left to whither and die much as you would imagine something left completely abandoned would. Although the small hidden pots had told him a slightly different story, the notes in his book, the pressed flora, the blood spots. Time seemed to be all he had if he could indeed use the poisons on himself. It took said time to grow the plants, test each one by one, not to mention the recovery time he would need for the particularly nasty poisons.

He decided to keep this conversation going, looking for a slip in the German’s story.
“I used to really like it in there.” He smiled, “It was calming to help you water them.”
“Yes. I know you like things like that as well.”
“I do. Though, for different reasons.” Arthur managed a small laugh,
“Your potion making” the man in the bed huffed an amused air, “I never understood that.”
“Ah, few people do.” Even as they spoke about it, he became immediately hyperaware of the work he was doing bubbling away. He really did like making things.
“But… it was fun.” Ludwig’s face cracked into a soft smile, “I feel I learned a lot, even though I don’t know what half of the things were for.”
“Really? What could anyone possibly learn from me?” This he laughed off, keeping the air as light as possible.
“Well, lots… You always have a book for everything.”
“Among the story books and vast collection of magick.”
“Even that held it’s uses…”

A pause. His eyebrows raised at the possibility of this clue. He remembered introducing Ludwig as a young man to his library, one far larger than the one of this house, allowing for his collections upon collections of books to be stored. Fairytales and romance novels, spell books and history – anything he could get his hands on usually. The then young German man was immediately enamoured, digging his nose in what he could despite knowing little English. It couldn’t be out of the question considering the lack of material in his own home, that he would have remembered something read on one of his visits over.

Arthur kept his smile, letting its softness sound through his voice, “You have a few plants around the house.” He began, removing the bottle from it’s heat to stir it and strain the twigs and lumps from the hot liquid, “You managed to keep those alive. Though, they’re looking a bit dry right now.”
“Gilbert isn’t very good at plants.” Ludwig replied with fondness, “He’s better with bugs.”
“He doesn’t exactly strike me as the entomologist type.”
“Other than battle strategy and beer, it’s one of his few interests.”
“Plants and bugs… quite the pair you make.”
At this, the German laughed. A proper, hearty laugh that was interrupted by a few coughs, “I suppose we do.”

During the slow process of creation of his little potion in the background, the pair had chatted, trailing off into conversations that weren’t entirely relevant to what he had came to ask. But Arthur did manage to get some information; it seemed his friend wasn’t all too against speaking about the war – as long as it wasn’t too direct. Nothing personal to him, only his country. When asked something that directly involved him, he would mumble and wave it away quickly. Understandable to say the least, but Arthur wasn’t there to expose him for a war that clearly caused discomfort; he was there to find how he now ended up on this bed – blinded and wheezing.

So he continued the short and sweet questions, catching up on what they had both been doing as the Englishman sat in wait for his potion, embroidering to busy his fingers. Ludwig sat there and picked at his nails, but seemingly happier for the company. It was late, but neither showed symptoms of exhaustion. It was perhaps as if they had simply been talking through the day, and not the dead of night. He began to wonder if Ludwig was even awake during the day or if he just slept as his brothers tried to take care of his wounds.

“You’ve been in wars before…” Ludwig started unprompted, “Do you get homesick?”
“Homesick?” The Englishman cocked his head slightly to one side, pausing mid stitch for the moment to mull it over, “Sometimes.” He shrugged before continuing his sewing, “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I suppose I have only taken part in few.”
“You said yourself you were stationed home.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.” He sighed, “This house feels different now. I find myself yearning for somewhere different, yet familiar. There’s somewhere else I’m supposed to be.”

The thought ran over Arthur’s head for a moment, creasing his brow slightly. This was not an entirely unusual feeling, after experiencing trauma of sorts, it was only natural to want to escape. And yet, among all of the things he pondered within their kind, this feeling had never caught his attention quite as much. He was a homebody, lived in the same house since George IV had insisted he have his own on a royal estate – just opposite on the lake to one of the royal family’s holiday home. The calm and secluded area, the forest and lake, all became such a comfort. Of course he missed it whenever he left. But he missed a great number of things as well, and soon he had decided that wherever there was water, he would be home.

“Home is subjective.” He finally spoke, “Only you can choose where that is.”
“As long as it’s not here.” Again, that bitterness edged Ludwig’s voice, causing him to swallow it down.
“Hiraeth calls.” Arthur spoke with wisdom, although it came out as more of a mutter, his eyes cast towards the man in front of him, glittering in the lamplight as they watched his eyebrow twitch in interest.
“Hiraeth?”
The Englishman hummed as if he had to think on the translation, dropping his embroidery to his lap, “It’s a Cymraeg word – Welsh. Doesn’t translate all to well into English. It’s a bit like homesickness and nostalgia wrapped into one, deep longing for one’s home. Wherever that may be.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Welsh.”
“I speak a lot of languages from my nation.” He began, leaning forward, “English, Cymraeg, Gaelic…” It was, admittedly, a bit of a trap. While he was versed in words and sayings in each, his overall knowledge was rusty at best. But, to strike the idea into Ludwig’s head, the memory of the things he had wrote before, it was worth the little lie.

“Ah, but don’t tell any of them that.” He laughed it off, part of his little tactic, “My brothers might kill me if they knew. Something to do with the whole banning their native languages debacle.”
Ludwig huffed in amusement, but it was clear the mention of it had pushed him back a little into whatever thoughts perused his head. A distinct nervousness seemed to pass over his fingers as they fiddled around with the sheets under them. “I don’t know too many languages, just pieces I picked up.”
“You speak English just fine, better than when I first met you.”
“Mm. I would like to learn more. It would be nice to talk to others in their own languages to make them more comfortable.”
“What about you then?”
“What about me?”
Arthur gave a small, yet amused frown, “If it makes people more comfortable to speak their own language, what about you? Shouldn’t you be comfortable as well?”
The other man looked down to his hands, sore from his constant picking and scratching at them. Though he couldn’t see, he could feel the sore skin and the roughness it left behind.

“Comfort is not something I need.” He finally spoke. It was different, something new in his voice. It was bitter – yet undeniably held such a sad tone to it. Before the man next to him could speak, he looked over to where he sensed he was, “I don’t think I deserve it. If I can make others comfortable around me, then I will be happy with just that.”

Words caught in Arthur’s throat. What on earth was he even supposed to say to this? All at once his heart melted yet tightened in his chest, conflicted there with his gaping mouth trying to recall what he wanted to say in the first place. Little care for himself. He was not only selfless, but careless. Should this attitude be carried to the extremes, Arthur began to certainly worry about those poisons he found.

“Ludwig… that’s very sweet of you.” He wanted to say more, warn against it. It’s okay to be selfish, you can do things for you. But he held back. This wasn’t an attempt to talk sense into him, this was figuring out his motives.

Ludwig nodded lightly, his head resting back onto the pillow. “If you’re a dream, you should know these things, shouldn’t you?”
Back onto this subject are we? “Quite possibly, yes.” He sighed. No harm in playing along, perhaps it was easier than admitting he’d been here the whole time, “But it all depends on your perspective of what I would know. If your projection of me knew everything about you already, the conversation would be pointless and boring.”
“I see. You’re saying I would want to have someone who doesn’t know so I can tell them.”
“That’s right. Your subconscious might just be giving you an easy way out.”
Ludwig swallowed, wrapping his head around the situation.

Truth be told, the Englishman beside him didn’t much like the idea of being put down to nothing but a dream. His confirmation of it the night before was out of panic and nerves, and right now it felt as though it left him nowhere, as much as he may persist and attempt to twist it to some advantage. Ludwig remained quiet, never elaborating on his situation. This comfort he so denied himself, the true comfort – his friend just being there was no adequate way to properly heal.

“Lud…” Arthur started with the shorter nickname, hoping it would relax the atmosphere in some way to a point he could get some kind of answer, “You know I won’t judge you, whatever happened. Whether I’m your subconscious or not.”
“You know what happened.”
“No. No I don’t.”
“You know what they did.”
The sentence hung in the air, stopping time momentarily. Arthur bit his own tongue, feeling the muscles in his legs tighten. He didn’t dare answer.
“So many of them got away. It’s easy to disappear after war, easy to lie about your name. A change of uniform, new papers. They slipped through the cracks and ran away like the cowards they are.” His voice was level, though the anger in it rose, eventually giving way to the strain left in his lungs, “I stood by and did nothing. I am no better than them, and should be punished the same. For that reason, I do not want to get well.”

Arthur would describe himself as a patient man, especially in these kinds of situations when he wished to only help a friend, but the words out of his mouth were not those of hard love, but a creeping annoyance, an anger brewed from the distaste of the man in front of him talk in such a way. There was being selfless and there was completely disregarding any sense of care for himself.
“You’re too proud.” He spoke clearly, should his eyes be seen by the other, they would show a flame. He felt disrespected, this was a personal insult that Ludwig should ever think himself so low and yet hold himself to such a standard. The anger made his jaw clench, watching as Ludwig looked him over with blind eyes.

“You did as you were told. You are not responsible for your people’s actions; they are independent from you.”
“I let them-“
“No one man can stop an impending war, Ludwig.”
“He can try.” The German snapped back, his breathing shallow, “Or blind himself to the pain his negligence left…”

Soon after that, the pair stopped their talking and chatter, sitting quietly beside each other. Although they felt miles apart, at two different ends. Their frustrations left the air heavy and words immobile for a while. Arthur tried speaking softer, but he couldn’t hide the annoyance in his voice as it clung to him. Ludwig simply ignored it, going so far as to turn his head away. And eventually, he stopped trying. The Englishman packed up his case, corking the half made potion as he went.

He was upset, of course he was – more than angry in fact. And he could tell that in some way, the anger in Ludwig had also faded to something more melancholy. One more night. As Arthur made his way to the door, that was all he could think about. Tomorrow night was his last chance to get a proper answer. Perhaps Puck would be of some use – if not for brainstorming, just as a very small shoulder to cry on.

It hurt to leave the room, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He muttered quietly, not expecting an answer,
“I won’t. But I’ll hear you just fine.”
Arthur smiled as he left the room, some of that sadness lifting away from him with a terrible joke. Who knew that even someone who refused to accept that they had worth would leave an argument in such a way.

Chapter Text

That night as Arthur had retired to bed, exhausted from his time with Ludwig, he hadn’t seen eye nor extra arm of his magical companion. Though he fell so quickly to sleep, at the time he didn’t think too much of it. However, in the morning while he was brushing his teeth, mindlessly talking out loud, he noticed there was no high pitched witty reply. He was concerned of course, this was a foreign country to the little faerie after all, how could he possibly get lost at the greenhouse?

For now, the thought was shrugged off. He’d turn up. Maybe he was just out partying with some German creatures he found, or had woken up early to go off somewhere. But there was no denying it. The lack of annoying faerie was keenly obvious, and entirely uncomfortable.

Arthur dressed as usual, this time looking in each of his pockets and carefully inspecting each sock expecting to find Puck snoozing. When he didn’t turn up, he did his best to put out any disturbing points from his mind. As long as he got those samples out of the way, today they had brainstorming to do, and while talking to himself wasn’t something unfamiliar to Arthur, having someone to bounce off of was much easier.

The growling in his stomach led him downstairs to the kitchen, here he could also grab the milk he would owe Puck for his work, but as there was no sign of the creature, he decided his stomach came first.

He was greeted in the kitchen by his two hosts, chattering away in German. Gilbert sounded in higher spirits, and upon entering the kitchen, he could see why.
“Kirkland!” The Prussian grinned widely, leaning on one of the counters with his arms crossed, beside him a jar with a gauze lid on top of it. All Arthur could do was stare at the jar.

“Ha! See. He likes her.”
“He looks horrified.” Roderich sat at the table, coffee to his lips and paper in hand, “As am I.”
“What is it…?” Arthur asked, stepping forward to look at the contents of the jar more closely. There, hanging on to a stick, a soft pink mantis looked towards him with large, beady eyes.
“She’s an Orchid Mantis.” Came the proud reply,
“it’s a bug.”
“Insect. Bugs are the ones that suck blood and stuff, Rod.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to insult the thing you picked up off the dirt.”

Arthur swallowed, a sudden fear washing over him as he looked into the jar. He recognised this, and he most certainly was not happy with it. Every inch of his brain began to hatch out as many plans to steal the poor thing out of it’s jar, free it back into the open.
“What are you going to do with it?” He asked, best to know before making rash decisions.
“I think I’m gonna study her for a bit.” Gilbert nodded, “Then I’ll put a proper lid on the jar, wait a while and pin her.”
“Pin…?” He could feel the colour drain from his face.

“As long as you don’t bring it into your room again. I don’t want to deal with an infestation.” The sound of Roderich’s newspaper straightening tore his eyes away.
“Yeah sure whatever. I’ll go to the library or something.”
“You’ve already tainted one of the counter tops, why not use all of them?”
“Whatever, fussy pants. I’ll study her right here then and your precious kitchen will get covered in bug stuff.”
“I thought bugs sucked blood and stuff?”
“Yeah well shut up.” Gilbert huffed, crouching to be eye level with his catch, marvelling at it with a big grin on his face.

“Dunno how she got here though, these things only appear in southeast Asia. To think I just picked her up in the greenhouse last night.”
“What were you doing there?” Arthur frowned, trying to brush away his distress at seeing the insect by looking for food. Breakfast hadn’t been made today, perhaps something to do with the jar on the counter.
“Couldn’t sleep. Heard you wandering about thought I’d try find you.”
He swallowed, grabbing some milk from the fridge, “I was indeed wandering…”
“Guess I got distracted.” The Prussian shrugged, finally looking up from his catch, “Why were you out then?”
Arthur returned the shrug, “Couldn’t sleep.”

He returned shortly to his room, the glass of milk and some biscuits on hand, hoping to greet his little friend as he entered. Silence. Nothing. Arthur set down the food and glass, hoping to entice the faerie, finding himself checking under the bed and in extra drawers. He wanted to turn around and see that smug little pink face somewhere, fluttering above him to play some kind of trick. But no matter how hard he looked, Puck was no where to be seen.

Panic set in. Arthur sat himself on the bed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses to think, think. Where the hell could he be? Anywhere but that damn jar. It had been a while since he’d seen Puck out of his usual form, the more comfortably human looking body and small stature, the idea that he could have possibly pulled himself into some disguise wasn’t out of the question. Faeries were tricky. But in his surprise, Arthur did worry.

He got up, pacing the room up and down to get his mind going. Before jumping to conclusions and working on a plan to free the insect Gilbert had trapped, he would need to look in a few places, see if Puck had simply gotten stuck somewhere. It pained him dearly to think of him hurt. Damn those parental instincts.

The greenhouse was his first bet, that was where he had told the faerie to go. So, he pulled on his jacket and swept back down the stairs, two at a time, back through the kitchen.
“Oi, where are you going?”
“Smoke.” Arthur replied as he passed the pair again, chancing a short glance at the jar unmoved on the counter. The insect inside seemed to follow him around and he was struck with guilt. He couldn’t chance it now. As he moved outside, he quickly found himself pressed against the brick of the house, as if something was pinning him down. It wasn’t a person, nor any kind of force. As he slid down, he tried to take in some air. Slowly, calmly, no need to panic. All will be okay.

He sat there for a moment, getting his breathing under control before he succumbed to the creeping panic attack. This was his fault, he thought as he let his head roll back against the brick with a groan. Had he not told Puck to get samples, he would not be missing – or worse. It couldn’t be helped. Right now he needed to stay calm until he could get at that jar, preferably before the lid was securely put on it.

After being sat against the wall for a while, Arthur let out a long breath. No use letting himself get in a panic. Puck was strong willed and had certainly been in worse situations. He used that idea to calm down, silently cursing at how quickly he let that take over him. The thought of losing someone now was just a little too much while still making up for the loss of soldiers.

Arthur stood again, slowly, brushing off the dirt from himself. No one had followed him, thank god no one saw that display. The greenhouse was in sight, perhaps if he couldn’t find his little faerie friend, he could at least clear the evidence of him being there until the night, when it was safe to explore – or so he thought. If Gilbert also had plans to be wandering, who knows what he might run into.

As he entered the greenhouse, he struck a match, lighting the cigarette he had promised himself. If he wasn’t a creature of bad habits, there would hardly be much to describe him. It was empty in here, as much as to be expected for the abandoned plant pots, their company lacking in conversation or life, he made quick work getting to the only living things he was aware of that weren’t original. Behind that one watering can, he kicked it aside looking down at the glass vials, poking out from the shelf where they had been quickly abandoned, much like everything else here. And, again much like this greenhouse, it’s swift evacuation only spelt bad news.

Before Arthur could crouch to inspect further, a voice cleared its throat, causing him to spin so violently that the wind resistance might have put out the embers of his cigarette. Roderich stood in the doorway, preferring not to dirty his boots inside, with his hands neatly behind his back and nose held high as if he had better things to do that look at dried up plant life.
“Be careful not to catch anything on fire.” He commented, a light gesture to a particularly dry twig like plant beside the Englishman, “This place is practically kindling.”
“My apologies.” Arthur didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his smile, deciding not to waste the nicotine floating from the cigarette by taking a light drag.

“You followed me?”
“Mildly.” The Austrian nodded, never moving to much from his spot. These damn German speaking countries and their uptight ways. “You ran out quite quickly. I don’t recall setting a rule saying you can’t smoke indoors.”
“I was just being polite.”
“I didn’t imagine a derelict greenhouse to be quite the smoking spot. Do you share Gilbert’s strange interest in bugs?”
“God no.” He laughed, shifting his weight between his feet, “I was just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” Roderich suggested, never letting his voice sound overly threatening.

Arthur tried another laugh, acting friendly and calm as he stayed in front of what he had previously been looking at. It didn’t seem to land well.
“I should hope you don’t think I’m an idiot, Arthur.”
He faltered, his smile now a little shakier on it’s feet, “Whatever do you mean?”
“You came here for Ludwig. And you’ve discovered his little project.” The Austrian gestured behind him to the collection of small plants, an eyebrow raised.

For a moment, perhaps one a little too long, Arthur thought about defending himself. No no, he only just saw this, he’d been in his room the whole time. But, he sighed, deciding the attempt would be futile. “How did you figure it out.”
“The wandering, hours in the library, talking to yourself.” Roderich reached into his pocket, “Oh, and you left this in his room.” He chucked the item over, allowing the other man to catch it. A small glass stirring stick.
“Bugger.”
“Quite.”

The Austrian straightened himself out again, smoothing his shirt down and adjusting his ascot briefly, “I discovered it while giving him his breakfast this morning. I thought he’d been in higher spirits than usual, turns out there’s a reason.”
“What kind of spirits is he usually in?”
“I would prefer you not investigate so much, your presence is intrusive. I was not here and cannot give you a run down of everything that happened. You can make an educated guess.”

Arthur sighed, pocketing the glass stirring stick and looking back to the plants behind him. Some confirmation would be nice, he didn’t much like the conclusions he was coming to.
“I know he tested poisons on himself, it’s why that I can’t get my head around. Or how he ended up like… that.” He looked back, scuffing the sole of his shoe on the concrete floor.
“There’s more than just this project to look at, a bigger picture. From what I understand, most of it is self inflicted. And he was shot to subdue him.” Roderich remained tight, unmoving and lacking in any emotion, either not wanting to show weakness, or simply preferring the facts be clear and consistent.
“What happened to make him do that?” he pressed,
“That’s a guess you can make. Whatever it was hurt him deep enough, and whoever did it seemed worth poisoning himself for.”

Wind seemed to move between them in the broken down windows of the greenhouse. One in too deep and the other preferring to remove himself entirely from the idea of it, each still not clear, neither knowing enough. If Arthur felt comfortable or confident enough, he might ask the Austrian to continue helping, perhaps they could find these answers together. But both had too much pride running through them that fought back against concern, and pushed them apart, as wide as the space between them and just as full of death.

Night couldn’t have come quick enough, truly. Most of the day had been spent waiting for Gilbert to finish with his study of the insect he found, popping in and out of the library to return and gather more books, occasionally peaking over his shoulder at the sketches of it’s wings and various limbs. If he hadn’t been so aware of what was to happen next to the thing, he would stop to admire the work.

But now, Arthur waited at the door of his room, ear to the wood to listen for when he hosts retired to their rooms. This was his final night. But before he could go see Ludwig and press for the answers he wanted, he had to free that mantis from it’s certain doom – suffocating alone in a glass jar for all to see.

Finally, Gilbert’s footsteps were heard in the hall, making their slow way towards his room and inside. No time like the present, he thought, snaking out of his own room to the dark hall, keeping his movements as quiet as possible. As his door closed, all he could see was the beam of light, shining from the Prussian’s partially open door.

He was quick on his feet, the carpet muffling his footsteps to prying ears. Until he heard the sound of a whistle, making him freeze in place. It was only a quiet kind of whistle, a little far off, but it still made him turn slowly, half expecting Gilbert to be in the doorway looking at him. But, he was faced with just the cracked open door, light flooding from it as he heard some quiet speech and chirping.

Once again, Arthur was at the will of his curiosity, and despite much more pressing matters, he couldn’t help but move slowly and quietly towards the doorway, each step as wide as he could make it until he was peeking inside the room. He kept himself planted firmly to one side, though his peeking was still obvious, the door was open wide enough.

Inside, within the golden glow of light, he saw Gilbert sitting on a desk, wearing not much but his shirt and – thankfully – underwear. In front of him, a perch sat by the window as a little yellow bird bounced along the wooden bar, tweeting and chirping playfully at the man in front of it. In return, Gilbert would whistle a short tune, replying to it’s noises and flutters with a loving smile. He outstretched a finger, petting under the bird’s beak softly as he cooed to it, “It’s bed time, kiddo…” he hushed, letting the bird hop onto his hand, “You ready buddy? I’m sorry you gotta be all cooped up in here.”
The bird chirped again,
“I know, I know. Don’t worry, when we get home, you can fly all you want.”

It was an endearing sight, seeing him be so careful with the little bird as he began to walk it over to it’s cage beside his bed, limping slightly without the use of his cane. It became apparent when he turned as to why. A large, heavily bruised gash marred its way up the back of his right calf, stopping just before his knee, making it difficult to bend as he walked. He used surfaces around to steady himself, but ultimately, Gilbert never once sat back down. Even as he opened the cage, urging the little bird to head inside with a few more whistles; he kept his weight mostly on the left, but seemingly forcing the other down in a way that couldn’t be helping it heal.

Arthur had been so distracted by the large wound, that he had failed at first to notice that the little yellow bird had in fact refused to enter its cage, preferring instead to hop along onto its owner’s shoulder, tweeting towards the doorway.
“What you up to...?” Gilbert asked, following the bird’s line of sight.

The Englishman who had been spying felt he had never moved so fast in his life, spinning to pin himself flat against the nearest wall and hopefully out of sight. As footsteps moved closer, he covered his nose and mouth, trying desperately to shallow his breathing. Somehow, the last thing he wanted right now was for Gilbert to catch him not only wandering about the house at night, but spying on him, and gawking at his leg – a sight that would not leave his mind for a while.

“You’re so fussy.” He heard Gilbert’s voice as he reached the door, “Making me walk all this way to close a door. I’m a cripple you know!” With that, the door shut, the cooing words now muffled by the wood. Arthur let go of his breath in relief. What was he doing here again?

The realisation hit him a little harder than he would have preferred. That time spent staring at Gilbert’s leg was precious time he could use saving his friend, so with panic giving him a sudden rush of adrenaline, he hurried back to what he was doing and down the stairs.

Without shoes on, his swing from the bottom bannister and onto the hard wood floor, had less of an impact, and thankfully sounded nothing more than a dull thud. Even then he didn’t spend much time cringing over the sound, nor looking up to see if anyone would rush out to find the source of it. He hurried towards the kitchen, feet barely touching the ground as he practically leaped through the doors, only turning to catch them before they hit the wall and close them gently so as not to make a sound.

Now in the kitchen, he took a moment to look around, his eyes settling on the jar, now moved slightly against the wall and out of the way. The lid was firmly on, and inside, the insect seemed to be barely clinging to life, it’s legs weakly clawing at the sides of the jar. Arthur bolted over, immediately forcing the lid open, trying not to jostle the jar too much and hurt it in the process.

The lid popped off and was swiftly swept across the counter, his hand now inside the jar, tilted to almost pour the thing out onto his palm. It began to crawl up his hand, clawing onto his shirt sleeve and continuing, catching its breath. He stepped back until he was against the nearest wall, watching as the insect slowly gained more human appendages, body, and a face. Somewhere between his usual, more human look, and a strange kind of insect, Puck clung onto his saviour’s shirt and hugged him, wings pushed back, and pointed fingers gripping.

Arthur slid down the wall, his hands up to support the little thing and return the hug to the best of his ability. As he sighed in relief, he found himself whispering a soft song in a language unknown by history, a song his mother would sing to him. A song of the Fae.

---
When he got back to his room with a more than worn out faerie kept snuggled against his collar, he had placed him neatly on the pillows pulling the blanket up to cover his small frame. He was breathing, but clearly tired, the milk that had been left out for him had suffered over the day, and Arthur threw it out, promising all the fresh milk and cream he wanted when they got home. Puck seemed glad to hear it before falling asleep, still retaining his mantis like attributes with his twitching antenna and fluttering wings.

Arthur had grown quite tired himself what with the moderate stress of saving his friend from near suffocation. Gilbert would have to suffer without his latest specimen to pin to a board and study, he had plenty of research down. The only thing that kept the Englishman awake currently, was the knowledge that this was the last night he had for answers. And he was in need of something warm to hold onto.

He now stood in front of Ludwig’s door, feeling the shock of his near loss still weighing down on him as he contemplated his reason and a plan of action; what questions he would ask, what he already knew. He couldn’t leave here tomorrow with nothing but speculation. And so, he opened the door, finding it unlocked. Perhaps Roderich was always the last in, and their silent agreement had allowed him some access.

As he entered, he was met with that sterile smell, but today it held a warmer undertone, like a dark polished wood. The room was cleaner and the sheets were new, leaving the man in them quite comfortable, still propped up with pillows, but his head somewhat to the side as he slept. To wake a sick man and demand answers for something that clearly caused him more pain than necessary, he had to be mad.

Instead, he walked around to the opposite side to where he usually placed himself, sliding onto the empty space left beside the German and snaking his way under his arm. That warmth, the slightly ragged breaths as his chest moved softly, all of it things he himself would easily fall asleep against. His movement against the man seemed to disturb him, light confusion coming over his face as he didn’t quite understand the feeling now under his arm. Sick he may be, but his sharpness hadn’t left him.

“Arthur…?” He spoke, still not quite awake.
“I’m sorry.” Arthur replied quickly, hiding his face in the soft bandages over the other’s chest. He didn’t really want to get up and move, and he couldn’t find a worthy explanation. The arm he had pulled around himself tightened slightly and a hand took his. Shifting down to reach, Ludwig pressed his warm face against the other’s hair, taking in the familiar smell of smoke and nature. It was comfortable. It felt right.

“Something happened.” Arthur began, the comfort he felt being held allowed him to relax, forgetting the questions he had planned at the door in favour of his own problems.
“My friend… he got into a rough spot and it was my fault. It almost killed him.”
The man against him stayed silent for a moment, listening as his hand lightly rubbed the other’s shoulder, taking in what was said and formulating a reply in his damaged throat. “What happened?” He asked, voice crackling with the strain,
“I asked him to do something for me, and he got trapped… in a jar.” Arthur had to pause to go over that, but if he still held the status of a dream, was there a point in skipping over details?
“A jar?” Ludwig questioned, brow knitted lightly together,
“He’s quite small.” The Englishman huffed in amusement, tangling his fingers with his. But the humour faded again, leaving him to sigh, “If I had left him any longer, he would have suffocated in there. He’s been my friend for this long, I couldn’t bare losing him.”

Ludwig hummed, having to clear his throat mid way and give way to a few coughs before looking up to the ceiling. “But you got there in time.”
“I could have been quicker… or not let him get involved at all.”
“If he is your friend, he would be glad to have helped. You’re not at fault.” The sentence was punctuated with a long, gentle kiss pushed into his hair, and Arthur felt his heart flutter in his chest, his cheek pressed against the warm skin of the German’s shoulder.

He didn’t reply. The contact was enough to keep him consoled, god knows how long it had been since he’d been so intimate with anyone. After a while of them held together, he found his fingers running over the dressings on Ludwig’s chest, mind wandering back to the questions he had, yet never quite settling on one. It could be easily be summed up in the most simple question of all, somehow, one that had escaped him whenever he was here.

“Ludwig, what happened to you?”

The German man gave a long, ragged sigh, the hints of a whine at it’s edges as he tightened again. But with his face pressed against the other’s hair, he composed himself, thumb tracing over his hand for comfort. “You said that my subconscious would know, but it would withhold some information from you to let me open up… right?”
“I suppose.” Where the idea of him just being a dream was brought up again stung his heart, he pushed the feeling down, choosing instead to listen, just as Ludwig had for him.
“Then, what do you already know?”

Arthur thought it over, piecing together what he already had gathered, what Roderich had told him, the poisons, the book. With an intake of breath, he relayed what he knew, be it out of order or not.

“I know you were testing poisons on yourself. The issues you have breathing are hemlock that’s stuck itself to you because it shut down your respiratory system. I don’t know why or who for, but I know whoever it was had something to do with your eyes… and you were shot to stop you from causing more harm.” He looked up, trying to gauge the reaction on Ludwig’s face where the bandages let him. It was stoic, but his heart beat fast upon hearing the events, eyelids moving under the dressings.

“That… sounds about right…” He muttered with a slight cough, clearly trying to calm his nerves.
“Would you tell me the full story?” Arthur pressed, voice hopeful but quiet, “I’ll listen…”
“I have no doubts you will. You’re kind like that.”
The Englishman fought back a small smile, choosing instead to press his face into his shoulder, chancing a little peck or two.

“Alright…” Ludwig sighed, keeping hold of the other man for comfort, “I’ll tell you what I remember. Not that I could entirely forget.”

It took another few moments for him to start, trying to keep his composure as he thought back, his words shaky at best, “When I was station back here, there were four soldiers in charge of taking care of me. But they were… horrible people. They would sit around and drink, discussing with laughter the benefits of their roles in the war. After so long, I grew bitter. The continuous loss and their gloating brought something up in me, and I decided that if anyone were to lose their life in this war against people, it should be them.”

“You wanted to poison them…?”

“Not just that.” Ludwig’s jaw clenched, speaking through his teeth as he pushed back the anger he felt, “I wanted it to hurt. Quick wasn’t enough… But I failed. I went too far and ended up with more damage than I thought possible.” He brought the Englishman’s hand to his cheek, allowing his jaw to loosen at the touch and relax into a softer, melancholy tone.

“I was sick for a long time. Gilbert found me and had to assist as I got my strength back… but I still had to work. All I had to see, and everything done in my name, I no longer wanted to see it. I watched those men shoot innocent people, and I lost control. I think back to it now and realise it was stupid to have lashed out, even if it was mostly at myself…”
“Who shot you…?” Arthur found himself asking, the implications of this tale twisting uncomfortably in his gut.
“I don’t know.” Ludwig bit his lip, “It was a blur, I had already tried to gouge out my eyes.”
“Then what of the soldiers?”
“I never saw them again, though I briefly recall throwing one into a wall. Good riddance…”

The Englishman hummed, something between agreement and thought. As much of it as he had expected and deduced from his findings, it still came as a shock to hear from the mouth of the man who had experienced it. But it had already happened, and he couldn’t change any of it. There was only really one thing he could do, and that was to be a comfort. A grounding rock, if not just for this moment.

So, he moved his hand that still rested on Ludwig’s cheek, slipping his fingers under the bandages on his eyes and pushing them back, a large hand still comfortably over his wrist, allowing him to remove the dressing. As they came away, he was met with those wounds again, and now he saw the desperation behind them.

Before the bandages had even hit the sheets, their mouths had already connected. Ludwig’s mouth was warm and soft, much like the rest of him. He returned it with a tightening of his arm around the other, pulling him closer into it. And when they finally parted, Arthur felt the breath leave him, heart beating hard inside his chest.
“Do you feel better…?” He asked, pressing his forehead against his as he looked into those eyes, still misted over, but glistening. Healing.
“Yes… just a little bit.” A small smile fluttered over Ludwig’s lips before he dipped them down for more.

---

“I would thank you for coming, but you were entirely uninvited.” Roderich stood in the front doorway, watching as Arthur loaded his case into the boot of the cab that had been called for him that morning. As the Englishman walked up the steps to take his last case from the doorway, he smiled brightly,
“I think we had a good time despite it. Thank you for putting up with me.”
“A trial, I assure you. Will you be heading to France then?”
“Yes, I think so.” He nodded, “Just for the next few days and then I’ll get right back home, not to bother the rest of Europe again for the next month or so.”
“I’m sure we will all be glad to hear it.”

As Arthur pushed the last case into the back of the car, he looked up at the house, aimlessly reminiscing not only on the past few days, but the past this house had seen. Laughter and the horrors he had heard. No wonder Ludwig was so eager to get away. Soon, his eyes met with a window on the top floor and the figure that stood in it. He smiled brightly, waving up to it before climbing into the car.

It was a long ride back to the station, at least it felt far longer as he sat in the back of the car, watching the river Rhine pass by. He would be glad to get home, curled up in his own bed with his own food and his own home. But he wouldn’t mind someone to share it with. He found he already missed that place under Ludwig’s arm, and disappointed he couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep there.

He had been given the money for his train, it seemed that his two hosts couldn’t wait to get rid of him. And so be it, he wouldn’t refuse a free train ride. Though he was so distracted the whole way, he had barely registered that he was on his way until the train had started pulling out from the station, taking him away from that one little slice of heaven. At least he could relax, no more conspiracies to think about or uncover.

Yet he went back to his notebook, flipping through the various little notes he had made while trying to figure out what had happened. Now he knew, but it wasn’t his story to tell.

Puck sat on the small table set by the window of the small cabin, they were alone for the journey, and so he had deemed it safe enough to come out and munch on a few slices of apple he had been given, teeth easily biting through the tough skin and into the soft flesh of it.

“How long are we stopping in France?” The little thing asked with his mouth dripping,
“Just another few days. Can’t be exact, Francis never wants me to leave.”
“Then we stay home, yeah? Don’t like all this travelling stuff.”
“Yes.” Arthur nodded, “We’ll stay home for a bit after that. I have nowhere else to go.”
“I don’t know whether to say that’s great or that’s sad.” The faerie sniffed, looking back out of the window, licking off his sticky hands.

Arthur watched him for a while, endeared by the little thing sitting with his legs crossed, forgetting all about being almost suffocated, only having promised flat beers for a very long time on his way out. A special kind of friend. One that didn’t mention his near death for the sake of helping.

“Sehnsucht.”
“Wassat?” Puck turned, frowning.
Arthur merely huffed, tapping his pen onto the notebook, “Hiraeth.”

---

Ludwig stood at the window, his eyes uncovered and vision still blurred. But he could make it out, just about. The man waving towards him as he got in that car. He waved back, a dumbfounded look on his face. He watched the car go until he could no longer make out anything but random blotches of colour, taking his heart with it.

He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it as he made an unsteady way back to his bed, but soon, there was no room for questions. His hand held the side table to keep him steady as he began to climb back into the bed, his fingers brushing over something unfamiliar. First, it was something small, glass. He let his hand explore, still not entirely used to his eyes, and found the long glass stick set on the side. He looked at it, his eyes just about focusing on it enough to see the bottle set next to it. He took both as he climbed onto the bed, curious to find out what they were both doing here.

The sound of the door opening caused him to push them under his pillow for now, just managing to pull the covers over himself as Gilbert entered the room, smiling his usual harsh smile, and walking strong on his cane. He made no effort to hide it – at least he didn’t try too hard.
“Your bandages are off, huh?”
“Yes… I think I’m starting to see better.”
“Awesome!” He seemed more positive than usual today, pulling up his chair to inspect his brother’s eyes, “The scratches have gone down a lot. That’s good. And you’re walking.”
“I am.” He could barely hide a smile,
“That’s my baby brother! You keep trucking!” in return Gilbert pinched his cheeks, laughing like this was all nothing.

Once they had settled down slightly, the Prussian now organising the medicines on the table. The mood had lessened, and Gilbert found a new place to speak. “Look… I’m really sorry about everything. Just, ya’know… don’t scare me like that again.”
“It’s okay… I’m sorry for scaring you.” The German’s hand reached subconsciously to his chest, touching the bandage under it, “it was necessary at the time.”
“Yeah well, you got me back good, huh?” he tapped his damaged leg with a laugh, “I’m still limping!”
They each laughed, quietly to each other, lightening up the subject of how each of them got such wounds. What they both went through to inflict them. At least now they could smile about it, as sombre as it may be. The last resort of having to shoot someone to subdue them, and the blind attempt to catch one last attack to the leg. Memories best left under silence.

Gilbert was older than he acted, and often spoke in their early years of scars. Sometimes, when something felt personally significant, you could choose for a scar to form, or you could allow it to heal away completely. The Prussian was littered with scars, each with a story he would tell, a victory, or maybe a loss. Now it seemed, that it would be Ludwig’s turn.

“I think… I want to keep it.” He spoke, fingers brushing over the bandages on his chest, “how would I do that?”
“Your body will know.” Gilbert replied, now happy with how the bottles had been ordered. He glanced over with a smile, “That better not be about me.”
“No, not at all.” His brother returned the smile, his face somewhat apologetic as he scratched his head, “Just… thought I should have something. And really, I’d like to be able to see.”

He watched his brother’s expression go through some change, that cheeky smile becoming a little softer, something like pride in his eyes. “Well, that’s makes a change.”
“I… I guess.”
“C’mon.” he set his hand down on the German’s arm, his skin rough but familiar, “You’re sounding a bit hoarse. I’ll get you some water.” With that he stood, struggling a little on his bad leg, but guiding himself round towards the bathroom. “I gotta take a piss as well.”
“Wash your hands.”
“Who are you, my mother?” He scoffed before closing the door, leaving Ludwig once again alone in his room.

He sat there smiling for a moment until remembering the bottle under his pillow, and it’s matching glass stirrer. Taking them out, it was the bottle that caught his interest most. A clear liquid swirling around the spherical glass, bubbles quick to disappear after a light shaking. Ludwig’s eyes still weren’t working to their best, but he could make out the label just about.

Are you sure that we are awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream. – A. H. K.

Chapter Text

London was cold this time of year – colder than usual. So, a small group pulled on their coats and began to leave their friend’s gated home, their cab waiting outside to drop them back to their hotel. The four chatted and laughed, each having a little too much to drink. But one stopped before the door closed, the warm light of the house still on.

Ludwig held his jacket in one hand, looking into the hallway as if contemplating.
“Hurry up, Lud. It’s freezing out here.” His friend called, bundling himself up in a large coat,
“Here, borrow my scarf.” Francis quickly wrapped his scarf over the other, grinning as he went, “Couldn’t let a little thing like you get too cold.”
“I’m not as little as I used to be!”

“You go on ahead.” Ludwig looked back to them, “I’ll catch up, I think I left something in there.”
“Oh.” Feli blinked before being quickly tugged back, “Well, hey. Don’t take too long!”

He waved them off, three other countries all chatting away as they left, leaving him on the step. The cold edged him back inside, door closing with a soft click. All that could be heard in the house was the ticking of a clock, and a cat somewhere purring away. The soft light poured through the hall and illuminated the path towards the kitchen. This is where he knew he needed to go.

Something about tonight felt off, Arthur – the owner of this overly large house. As usual, he had gotten far too drunk far too fast, and some things he had said struck a chord, things he shouldn’t quite know. Until Francis had to force him to rest in bed, he had mentioned and asked Ludwig questions about plants and poisons, leaving the German feeling unsettled at best when he thought back to his past, even a few stray coughs came through at the memory.

As he walked, he looked towards the stairs that the Englishman had been dragged up earlier that night by Francis and Alfred, just as the pale round face of a cat looked up from it’s basket. He stopped, taking a moment to smile at it gently. don’t get up, he thought, not wanting to trouble it. For a little bit, the cat seemed to consider him before settling its head back down with a contented purr, folded ear twitching. That could be what Ludwig would consider a blessing, the go ahead.

He continued, one hand still gripping onto his jacket. He wouldn’t be long, he couldn’t be. To snoop around someone else’s house while they slept seemed far too rude, and more than intrusive. Guilt and nerves already seemed to come over him as he walked through the kitchen, turning to the door of the cellar.

It was a wine cellar for the most part, classy stone walls, a chilled air. But beyond the bottles of vintage wines, a turning revealed where they had spent some of the night. Something like a sitting room hid down here, and beside the bar, a locked door. Before, it had been hinted in Arthur’s drunk ramblings that this was where he kept his records. Diaries and photo albums from various time periods, everything he had collected. And while locked under a passcode, it wasn’t hard to guess.

6, 3, 2. 3, double 0, 3

“Red frame, white light…” He muttered to himself as the door latch clicked open and allowed him access to the room. It was amusing, Arthur wouldn’t be Arthur if he didn’t manage to sneak some kind of music reference into every aspect of his life.

The room was overall rather dark and small, the light barely reaching the far corners from it’s place high up in the centre of the ceiling, not bright enough to make much of an impact. The walls were readable, three of them lined with shelves upon shelves of journals kept, and a table and chair in the centre. The oldest began high in one corner, shown by their desperately worn covers and various states of deterioration. Some looked to have been copied onto better paper, although the process may have been given up half way through. The dates covered the spines of newer books, giving way from hand written to print in later copies as the books became more uniform.

Ludwig lightly followed the dates with his fingertips, scanning for what he was looking for. Some years were skipped, but it seemed to follow the pattern of at least one journal per year. The Englishman keeping to his routine keenly, noting down times of interest. They were diaries, Gilbert kept similar records so he wasn’t too unfamiliar.

He reached the 40s and paused, unsure just how he felt. They were a little lower, towards the floor of the third book case or so, forth shelf up. Something about how they looked, the energy radiating from them gave something harsh and medical, it twisted something in his stomach and burned slightly at his chest.

On the end of them, they skipped, jumping from 1945 to 1948 and continuing again with one per year. The gap was jarring, a three-year skip in his keen note taking and record keeping. The books stayed thin until 1951 and 52, both being in the same, thick journal. Despite his interest in what had happened to Arthur during the war, this was what he had been looking for. And so, carefully so as not to ruin the original pages, he slid it from it’s place on the shelf and knelt on the floor, flicking through the pages until he got to the summer of 1952.

For context, perhaps he skimmed some of the pages, some trip to Russia, gushing somewhat embarrassingly about Ivan, then cursing him on the next page. He wasn’t all too surprised, these were less like documents and more akin to the writings of a teenage girl who had a teacher crush. Until it all seemed to crumble, and the words at the top of the page made him stop.

8:47pm. Koblenz, Germany

He flicked through, notes and stuck in pages of plants and scribbled down words. One page fell out, a loose bit of fragile paper. Ludwig picked it up from the floor as delicately as he could, unfolding it to scan its contents. A medical form, the diagram circled around the eyes and chest, annotations around it. Hemlock. Gunshot. Scratches. And his name, written messily at the top, smudged slightly.

“Do you still dream about me?”

The voice made him jump, Ludwig hadn’t noticed a figure appear in the doorway, far to involved in what he was looking through. As he looked up, meeting Arthur’s bright green eyes, he struggled to find the words, mouth gaping while looking between the writings in his hands and the tired, half drunk man in the doorway.
“I’m... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry in your things.”
“It’s okay.” Arthur stepped forward, a little unsteady as he entered the room, and quite painfully dropping to his knees in front of him.

“I think about that a lot.” He muttered, a hand reaching forward to rest on Ludwig’s own. It was cold, but familiar. He brushed over the pages, his eyes not quite focused. “Those few days… I didn’t know what you would think if you knew I had actually been there.”
“I…” words tried to form, Ludwig had to look away, down at the pages and the hand that caressed his own, “I had some inkling. You never came back after I watched you…”
“Hm…” The Englishman smiled a sideways kind of smile, “I think Gilbert might have killed me if he found out.”
“So you were there… and you knew everything…”

It took a while to process. He had some memory of the bottle that had been left, but when he had moved away if had gotten lost, along with it’s message. Since then he had no proof of him every being there, and was left imagining it as a dream. Their conversations, their kiss, all shoved to one side in his head for so long and dismissed as painkiller fuelled dreams of a past crush. To think he had let such a thing leave him without much of a second thought.

“I tried to help all I could.” Arthur’s voice brought him back, allowing him to look at those green eyes once more. He had never seen them when he was sick, never seen them shine like this. How had he looked at him in those nights by his bed side? Did he have pity?
“You helped more than I think you know.” The German spoke quietly, earnest pushing its way through, “Gilbert doesn’t like being serious, and Roderich didn’t want to know. But you let me talk, and I didn’t know how much that would help until I did.”
“Opened the jar.” Arthur huffed with a smile, “Let the air in…”

He didn’t expect it, for the smaller man in front of him to push up, pressing his mouth against his. But after the initial confusion, his eyes fluttered closed and he found himself pressing back, tasting the stale alcohol still on Arthur’s tongue. Their finger’s entwined over the book, a hand rested on his cheek, a forgotten memory bubbling up in his heart, making him eager to pull the other man close.

A nudge at his arm stopped him, and he moved to see what was pushing its way between them. A cat, with its folded down ears and round face, purring between them.
“Oh.”
“Damn.” Arthur rolled his eyes, but leant comfortably on the German’s shoulder, reaching down to pet the cat’s head, “Really, not the time.”

They both chuckled as the loving creature pawed its way onto the diary, finding a warm spot on Ludwig’s lap.
“Maybe he has the right idea.” Arthur muttered, planting one last kiss on his jaw before looking at him, eyes sparkling, “Bed sounds great right about now…”
“B..bed…?” The larger man spluttered slightly as he was pulled up from the floor,
“Mmhm. Don’t get shy on me now, Beilschmidt, I’ve been waiting 80 years for you to remember.”