This House Is Not A Home {Germancest}

Chapter 3

A/N: Hey guys. I haven't posted on here in a really long time... which makes it even worse that I've had this last chapter posted for months on Ao3. I'm so sorry guys. I'm working to be more active on here. But here's the last chapter and don't worry -- there's more to come in this series!

Ludwig wasn't sure what to call Gilbert's sort of... flash back? Emotional breakdown? Episode. He krnew it must have been something to do with PTSD. Gilbert had always called it "soldier's heart," or "battle fatigue," though Ludwig had never bothered to research if they were all the same thing. Regardless, it was after this episode that the albino retreated once again. Whenever Ludwig did see him, he was hostile—even paranoid, as though no progress had been made at all in their relationship. There was a raw ache in the pit of Ludwig's stomach—the kind of ache made when an old wound is torn open so many times that it never truly heals.

He knew that Gilbert was going through some things. Of course—he'd been going through some things—things that Ludwig probably couldn't even imagine. But because Gilbert refused to communicate, refused to lean on him or trust him (and God, that thought was poison racing through his veins, into his nerves but it was so fucking cathartic and even vindicating because while he didn't deserve Gilbert's trust, he deserved this—) Ludwig couldn't possibly know what was on his mind. But he'd always been like this in some capacity—private, licking his wounds in the dark quiet of his own rooms where no one else could see him coming apart. No one else could see him pick up the pieces of his broken body, mind, soul, patching them back together like a child might mend a broken doll.

That all being said, it was always a bit of a surprise when Ludwig ran into his elder brother in the house.

It was nearing mid-May. Ludwig was pretty sure that while Gilbert may have avoided him, he had been in contact with other nations. Ludwig knew Arthur and Magnus had continued to come around every once in a while, with the addition of Sigfried. The Saxon annoyed Ludwig endlessly, but he had a good head on his shoulders, so Ludwig didn't have to worry about him—a refreshing occurrence. Then the whole thing with Arthur had blown up, and Ludwig was unfortunately put in the middle of that fiasco when the albino and the Englishman were screaming at each other on Ludwig's front lawn.

Apparently, Arthur was trying to tell Gilbert that he had turned back to his pagan roots, and that wasn't exactly going over very well with the man who had been a warrior monk and priest before converting to Lutheranism (forcibly and with a lot of bitching and moaning, but that was another story).

Anyway, Arthur hadn't been over for a few weeks.

But now, staring at Gilbert after they'd practically collided in his hallway, he didn't see the fervently zealous vitriol he'd spat at Arthur. There was no more slow return of a lively, passionate personality. In fact, he couldn't see the man who had raised him at all. In front of him, there was a shell. Gilbert blinked owlishly up at Ludwig, his pupils tiny pin pricks against a backdrop of dull, brick red, and the blond noticed even though Gilbert looked at him, his gaze was distant and almost unseeing. His appearance was unkempt—there was at least three day's worth of stubble along his jaw, and his dull, unwashed hair was longer than military regulations allowed. He smelled of stale sweat and blood, and Ludwig had wrinkled his nose before he even registered where the stench was coming from.

He was wearing long sleeves.

Ludwig's breath hissed through his teeth on a sharp inhale. He felt weak and dizzy and his breathing was becoming shallow and he thought Gilbert was better, but he'd seen the spiral. He'd noticed but he didn't see it and he'd done nothing. Of course there would be a relapse—how could he not have been watching more closely for a relapse? What had Ludwig even been doing this whole time –