Ludwig:

Sometimes a light glimmered out of the German's eyes, burning blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Ivan's awful doorway in the snow, and quivered on his face.

"Why do you think..."

A phone call and a box of chocolates solved nothing.

"... That only Feliciano knew about this?'

Days on the calendar marked each failure with a giant red 'X.'

Days had passed and Feliciano's condition only worsened with little to no possible hope of how to stop it. He himself had visited the once quirky Italian every other day, thinking the other days should be spent with the remaining family he had.

It was heartbreaking.

A failed attempt to walk across the room, little trails of blood, a broken voice...

A soul dying.

Feliciano was dying. There was no way to deny it. Each hitch of the young Italian's breath lead to yet another tear on his or Romano's face, a beautiful stream cried over the length of these few days.

Lovino even showed signs of death. Not of his body, but of his soul. His heart. Each day broke a little more inside of the Italian...

And him as well.

As Feliciano's health deteriorated into nothingness, he felt himself lacking that same soul and morals he had had before, gripping a limp and pallid hand his face pressed into it as he sobbed on what he would have once pushed off as another hug was given. Oh, how he wished for those long ago embraces of the flighty individual known as Feliciano.

This wasn't Feliciano anymore, but it seemed to be just a figure. A figure who had taken the form and name but yet wasn't Feliciano.

Oh vast is the ocean of a human emotion but ever so violent can ye be!

Even at home, the process of this peculiar illness haunted him and ate him away as if he had got it. Even the slightest cough of his brother caused him to panic, sending him into a frenzy that would end in an out of character motion of a worried 'I love you' and an overzealous hug, of which Gilbert would usually respond in such a way that would cause the younger to avoid him until the next occurrence happened. As these 'coughs' became more and more frequent however, added with other symptoms, Ludwig got more and more skeptical and concerned of it, forcing him to stay in bed.

This happened in only a mere three days.

And now, he peered over his brother's sleeping figure with a certain somber attitude. And again, as with Feliciano, took the pale hand in his, although limp for a different reason, and cried softly on it until those pallid eyelids lifted and looked at him with a smug yet dazed glance. Through tears, he merely retorted to anything his brother would say with that same, simple 'I love you, Bruder.' before taking Gilbert into a tight embrace and releasing the remainder of his tears.

I will still love you even when you are gone from this earth.

Gilbert:

Why do you think that only Feliciano knew about this?

He received no reply to the question, not that he had expected one. That was okay; an answer would come—that was what he told himself, what he hoped, because how were they supposed to help, supposed to save Feliciano when they had no idea what they were up against? Gilbert asked himself these questions, turning them over again and again, coming up with theories, rejecting them, exhausting his mind, and becoming increasingly distracted—something that concerned West greatly. He knew exactly what his brother was thinking (if it was Feliciano now, who said that Gilbert couldn't be next?), and yet he couldn't stop. Feliciano... Feliciano had to be saved, there had to be some way of righting this horrible, horrible mistake and every day that Gilbert didn't come up with a solution was a day closer to Feliciano's disappearance. And once that happened, there was no way to undo it. Time was against them.

As if to add insult to the injury, every day spent by Feliciano in his deteriorating state, West became increasingly paranoid. A single cough or a sneeze was sufficient to send the nation into a frenzy, fussing over Gilbert, hugs and confessions of 'I love you'—treating him like some delicate object in danger of breaking. Eventually, West seemed not to be able to take it anymore, and demanded that the albino stay at home and remain in bed as much as possible.

That put a stop to his visits to the Italians' home, to his prodding at Feliciano in hopes of receiving an answer, to asking Lovino the same thing only to be met with a small shake of the head—Feliciano also refused to tell him what was going on. Gilbert had protested West's idea forcefully, anger pulsing through him in waves (he could handle himself perfectly fine, who did he look like? Roderich? did West think that Feliciano was only important to him? he wasn't dying... Dammit, he wasn't, couldn't be, but West had given him that look, that look that seemed to be on his face all the time now, the one that Gilbert couldn't stand because it made his brother look so lost, helpless, weak and it hurt Gilbert so much to see his brother looking like that, and what he would do only to wipe it off the other's face—

He gave in.

He obeyed most of his brother's requests, if only to offer him some form of comfort—West would know that for now, one of those he loved was safe, or at least as safe as he could be. The obedience, however, was only exhibited when the person he was putting on the show for was present—when the nation was absent, Gilbert would get out of bed, place a call to the twins' place, hoping for some bit of news though the telephone now went more unanswered than the opposite. From time to time, he'd sneak out of the house, sometimes to buy beer or junk food, other times simply to reassure himself that he was alive, that his limbs still worked, that the sun didn't burn him, that he could still run and shout and not be afraid of falling apart, and yes, yes, he was okay, fine, brilliant, he wasn't dying now, and that was enough.

If West suspected anything of Gilbert's escapades, the younger never said anything.

Gilbert didn't remember what the dream was about. As soon as he began to stir into consciousness, the memory of it began to slip and fade, and by the time he had turned onto his side to be met by the image of his little brother crying into his hand, any recollection had disappeared into dust, leaving him with only a vague sense of having missed something important. Not that it mattered just how the impression had been lost—Gilbert would have forgotten the dream when he faced his brother anyhow, regardless of whether or not it had faded during his attempt to grasp the vestiges of wakefulness.

The albino groaned, rubbing his eyes before lazily opening one to focus a bleary gaze onto his brother. "Wha' izzit?" he slurred, tongue still not quite agile as he tried to shake the remnants of sleep threatening to pull him back into blessed oblivion. He managed to read the red numbers on the digital clock standing atop the night-table after a few blinks. "West..." he muttered, "'s only three..."

For awhile, he received no answer from the other, who continued weeping into Gilbert's palm. Each harsh sob sent the albino himself a little more into the depths of despair (West, West. Stop it, please. Don't cry like that. You have no idea, no idea how fucking hard it is to see you so damned broken. I'm your brother for fuck's sake, I'm not supposed to let you cry like this... You're not supposed to be crying for me). He managed to maneuver himself into a sitting position (even now it was so obvious that West was taller), and reached out with his free hand to drag it through his brother's hair. Dimly, he realized that the blonde strands had not been combed back, and they had not been for awhile. "West..."

The nation suddenly reached out and Gilbert found himself crushed against the other's chest with the words 'I love you, Bruder' ringing in his ears. The albino closed his eyes. He wasn't an affectionate person—the number of times he had kissed Ludwig when he was young could be counted with his fingers, and yet, the frequency of which he'd now been offering such actions had drastically increased. He supposed that he didn't care much anymore. Who would he impress? What did he care to impress when a close friend was dying? When his brother was being slowly consumed by despair? When he needed to hold up—for both of their sakes—when he wanted nothing more to be told that it would be okay, Feliciano would be okay, he would be okay?

Things were different now and the war he fought wasn't one that he completely understood. He knew, however, that right now, his brother was seeking comfort in him, as he had been doing since Feliciano's (admission, turn for the worse, whatever word you used, it just didn't fit)—he was the only one who could offer it. The irony was laughable, really. But he was more than disposed to offer what he could.

Gilbert leaned upward, and gently placed a kiss on his brother's forehead. "Me too." The words, no matter how softly spoken, sounded strained. These confessions were foreign to him. Such tender, passionate words—he had said them not many times, and neither were they often said to him. But he meant them. When he murmured "ich liebe dich" in his brother's ears, when he moved lower, softly pressing his lips against the other's, he meant them. He meant these actions, true- and whole-heartedly, because West was his precious little brother.

He pulled slowly away, red eyes locked with those clear, blue ones, and gave the blonde a small grin. "Let's go to sleep," he suggested lightly. They were both tired—had been for awhile. "Tomorrow..." Gilbert trailed off, bit his lip, but he was resolute. "Let's go see Feli tomorrow. Both of us," he added. I'm not going to die, West, and he hoped that the other understood, because right now, for the moment, that was the truth. His people still remembered 'East' and that kept him alive.

For how long though, he didn't know.

Frowning, but pushing such morose thoughts aside, Gilbert shifted, moving towards the opposite side of the bed and leaving a space open—an unspoken offer to Ludwig as he slid down the mattress to settle with his back to the other.

Tomorrow. He knew that, for now, it would come for him. That was enough.