Go the Distance (Gilbert)

Ludwig held The Old King's Testament in his hands, flipping the pages idly while sitting on his creaky futon. He closed the book and looked at the cover, the light shining at the golden embroidery engraving of the author's name.

Gilbert Beilschmidt

It was a nice read, and Ludwig had read the entire thing during his plane trip to London. When his parents had found out Gilbert was alive, and well off with a name for himself, his mother nearly collapsed with relief, and his father's face was graced with a smile, though Ludwig didn't quite remember how rare of an occurrence that truly was. The two had waved him off, giving him their best prayers not only for his career but for him to find his brother.

And now he was here. Only a floor away from his life-blood and yet he had no idea how to approach him. His parents had told him Gilbert ran away after he left for college, but by the time they were going to tell him he had his accident, and the news hadn't dealt as hard of a blow as it would have before. His brother was a hazy memory.

Ludwig stood. It couldn't remain like this. He had to meet Gilbert again. If not for himself then for his parents, even though he really wanted to know also.

Ludwig went outside and up the stairwell determindly. He coiled on up for a flight before making it in front of Gilbert's apartment. He took a deep breath and knocked once. Twice. And thrice.

It was funny how everything almost always looked better from an outsider’s point of view. When he had only been in the middle of fixing up his first manuscript with his first editor, he had believed that after putting out a groundbreaking newcomer piece, he would be set for life. Obviously he had been too ignorant and underestimated the industry. Consecutive successful works by a single author were a rare case, and outsiders were led to believe that the rest was a matter of ‘hit or miss’, though in reality it was more like ‘hit or miss or miss or miss or miss or...’ and so on. There was also the surprisingly true cliché of editors nagging and yelling and practically tearing down your door to force you to work and fucking please get it done by the deadline.

But it wasn’t too bad, Gilbert could admit. It was more enjoyable and (sometimes) less tiring than going around doing all kinds of odd jobs. An individual work of his doesn’t cash out for much though(his readership, while a loyal bunch, was small and consisted mainly of avid historical fiction readers and members of the academia), so Gilbert had made it his goal to instead be consistent with his awesome work quality but at the same time be prolific. He took on all sorts of other projects outside of his novels such as short stories for anthologies and journals, and also occasionally helped with academic papers.

However, it was the start of the weekend. Glorious rest days for most, but such days didn’t seem to exist for writers. It didn’t stop Gilbert from wanting to just stay lie in bed and stay there until Monday morning though. And he was just about to shut down his laptop and get with his plan, but a couple of knocks on his door made him stop. He sighed before sluggishly approaching to answer it, ready to utter a brief ‘fuck off’ to whoever was on the other side.

The words died in his throat as soon as he saw who the person was, and for a long while he could only stare, mouth hanging slightly open and eyes wide in shock.

“L-Lutz.”

It was a weak, unawesome stutter, but Gilbert didn’t even notice. It had been years since he had last said that childhood nickname out loud. In a word, it felt heavy. Memories of Nuremberg and of his family which he had shamefully tried to lock away resurfaced all at once. He wasn’t sure what to do now that they were real again and solid in the form of his younger brother who stood right there in front of him. He was struck completely speechless, and he felt legitimately scared, possibly for the first time in his life, as he waited for Ludwig to say something.

Ludwig stuttered out a mixed greeting; his words jumbled incoherently as a mix of German and English.

Seeing the face, the hair, and especially the eyes brought some sort of monochrome pictures to the forefront of his vision. The warped images were stacking, fighting, blending, anything to be seen, but together it was a mass of negative colors, and none of it was really understandable.

The name itself had landed a small clip: he was waking up and something was jumping around him, and--

Ludwig was snapped back into the present, realizing his eyes were narrowed and his brow furrowed. He looked back at Gilbert, trying to relax. At the sight of him he wasn't sure what to say, or what was appropriate or anything. "I'd like to talk, please," he managed, his voice much more soft than intended, "May I come in?"

Gilbert could feel his heart thudding faster in his chest. He supposed the greeting should have helped him relax, letting him know that Ludwig was just as nervous about the situation as he was, but it only made Gilbert more anxious. The onslaught of memories seemed to intensify at the sound of his brother’s voice, and somehow, he became even more conscious of the fact that his brother, who he hadn’t seen in many years, was right there.

He caught himself before he could start reminiscing then and there, just in time to catch Ludwig’s words. His expression softened at the inquiry, and he nodded, pushing the door further ajar and stepping aside to make way for Ludwig.

For a moment, he managed to calm down at the familiar, comforting sight of his home. He almost chuckled as he briefly glanced at Ludwig, wondering how he’d react to his grand mess of an apartment. At how everything from his bed to his book collection was disorganized while in plain sight.

“Do you want something to drink...or anything?” he asked, glad that he had succeeded in keeping his voice still. He wasn’t sure about Ludwig, but Gilbert was pretty certain that he won’t be able to get through the upcoming conversation with his brother while fully sober.

Ludwig chided himself for his lack of force as he went inside his brother's apartment. "No, I'm fine, thank you..."

The sight before him almost frayed the edges of his soul. This apartment was messy. Truly, out of sorts. Which, for Ludwig, meant he was sure a nuclear bomb went off somewhere near the bookshelf. Or possibly the couch, considering that pile of clothes. Yes. It was most likely the couch.

By his mission was far too important to worry about the poor, battered landscapes along the way.

Ludwig stood in the living room, shutting out his surroundings and focusing on Gilbert. He decided that he should start the conversation, and get right to the point. He had no familial courtesies he could exchange now, but they might come later. The more blunt this encounter was, the less likely it was going to be painful for either of them. "Please, don't let me impede you from getting your drink, but let me start this off.

"Correct me with anything that I have gotten wrong. From what I know, once I left for college you and father weren't getting along as well because you both were stressed. You had some sort of idea, or, father just went too far, I can't guess which, and you left. You moved straight out of Germany, because they searched for you and you couldn't be found. I don't know whether or not you moved somewhere else before England, but I would guess not, because of when you published your first book." Perhaps his hypothetical narrative lacked tact, but he got it out with a straight face. His parents wanted as much information as they could get. He father was guilty, according to his mother, and thought he was the reason Gilbert left.

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((If there is anything pretentious about the post or assumptions I made I can go back and change it. Just PM me.))