By the time he made it back up to the floor Gilbert was on, Ludwig was composed. He had washed his face and rinsed the acid from his throat. He was ready to tell Gilbert that his wife was dead; when he woke up. The doctor had told Ludwig before they had parted ways that Gilbert was on some pretty powerful painkillers (He’d need them).
But when Ludwig finally reached the open doorway of the second room from the end of the hallway, Gilbert was not asleep. In fact, he was already sitting up, and if there wasn’t the matter of his legs (one in a cast, one missing) then Ludwig might not have been able to tell why Gilbert needed to be in the hospital at all.
He looked like he always did. All smirks and laughter and irresponsibility.
Gilbert noticed him standing there. It was only a matter of time. “…Ludwig? Is that really you Wessie?” his brother chuckled to himself. “Oh, I get it now. It takes a car accident for little Wessie to visit big brother Gilbert. Some little brother you are.”
He didn’t know.
Ludwig entered the room and choked out a greeting. He wasn’t sure which, but it was probably something very polite and unnecessary, like “Good evening” or “How are you doing?” The same old phrases that always seemed to annoy Gilbert.
Apparently they didn’t bother him today. “They told me I shouldn’t be awake yet, but when have I ever done the things I was supposed to do?”
He didn’t know.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up already.”
“Heh, yeah. That’s what the nurse said.”
“You should have listened to him.”
There. Gilbert rolled his eyes at him and for a moment it was normal. Ludwig and Gilbert were young again, bickering. Gilbert wasn’t listening. Ludwig was preaching. It was just like it always was between the two of them, which was one of the main reasons that they hadn’t spoken in years. But then Ludwig remembered the body in the morgue. The body that Gilbert didn’t know about. That Ludwig was supposed to be telling him about.
The doctor had thought that it would be best if Ludwig was the one to break the news to Gilbert. Ludwig had no idea why; weren’t doctors trained to let families know about a loved one’s passing? But Gilbert had asked for him, when he had first woken up. Ludwig had not expected that. He still didn’t know what it meant. It had given the doctor the impression that they were close, which was false.
They hadn’t spoken in over two years.
He didn’t know.
“So where’s Veta? No one would tell me if she’s still in surgery or if she was even hurt badly enough to need to be in here or what.” Ludwig didn’t say anything. He just stood next to Gilbert’s bed, hands by his sides. “You know what, Wessi? I bet she’s the one that complained and made me get transferred over here. It’d be just like her.” It would have. “Or maybe she’s out there chatting up some doctors. Tsch, woman needs to remember that she’s married already. It’s been long enough.”
“It… yes. You were married five years ago.”
“Five years in June, yeah.”
He didn’t know.
Ludwig couldn’t do this; he didn’t know how the doctor ever thought he could. He needed help, a doctor, a book, anything. He needed Dr. Zwingli. She always knew what to say, and she knew just the right way to make people understand. It was what she’d gone to school for (But had Dr. Zwingli ever needed to tell someone the person he loved was dead?).
“Hey, Wessi, what’re you spacing out for?” Gilbert’s hand was in his face. “Can’t stand being in the same room as so much awesome as me? I bet your resistance to it’s faded over time, huh?” He laughed again, “Get it? Get it? Can’t stand,” and gestured to his leg and the air where his other leg should have been. “God, I’m a riot.”
“We will speak to the doctor about physical therapy and prosthetics, brother. Medicine is very advanced now. I’m sure you will be able to stand again.” Good. Every second that Gilbert was preoccupied with his leg, every second where he was laughing (his already pathetic laugh), was a blessing.
“You can’t take a joke, Wessi. Why are you so serious all the time?”
Ricette d'amore [3b/13]
But when Ludwig finally reached the open doorway of the second room from the end of the hallway, Gilbert was not asleep. In fact, he was already sitting up, and if there wasn’t the matter of his legs (one in a cast, one missing) then Ludwig might not have been able to tell why Gilbert needed to be in the hospital at all.
He looked like he always did. All smirks and laughter and irresponsibility.
Gilbert noticed him standing there. It was only a matter of time. “…Ludwig? Is that really you Wessie?” his brother chuckled to himself. “Oh, I get it now. It takes a car accident for little Wessie to visit big brother Gilbert. Some little brother you are.”
He didn’t know.
Ludwig entered the room and choked out a greeting. He wasn’t sure which, but it was probably something very polite and unnecessary, like “Good evening” or “How are you doing?” The same old phrases that always seemed to annoy Gilbert.
Apparently they didn’t bother him today. “They told me I shouldn’t be awake yet, but when have I ever done the things I was supposed to do?”
He didn’t know.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up already.”
“Heh, yeah. That’s what the nurse said.”
“You should have listened to him.”
There. Gilbert rolled his eyes at him and for a moment it was normal. Ludwig and Gilbert were young again, bickering. Gilbert wasn’t listening. Ludwig was preaching. It was just like it always was between the two of them, which was one of the main reasons that they hadn’t spoken in years. But then Ludwig remembered the body in the morgue. The body that Gilbert didn’t know about. That Ludwig was supposed to be telling him about.
The doctor had thought that it would be best if Ludwig was the one to break the news to Gilbert. Ludwig had no idea why; weren’t doctors trained to let families know about a loved one’s passing? But Gilbert had asked for him, when he had first woken up. Ludwig had not expected that. He still didn’t know what it meant. It had given the doctor the impression that they were close, which was false.
They hadn’t spoken in over two years.
He didn’t know.
“So where’s Veta? No one would tell me if she’s still in surgery or if she was even hurt badly enough to need to be in here or what.” Ludwig didn’t say anything. He just stood next to Gilbert’s bed, hands by his sides. “You know what, Wessi? I bet she’s the one that complained and made me get transferred over here. It’d be just like her.” It would have. “Or maybe she’s out there chatting up some doctors. Tsch, woman needs to remember that she’s married already. It’s been long enough.”
“It… yes. You were married five years ago.”
“Five years in June, yeah.”
He didn’t know.
Ludwig couldn’t do this; he didn’t know how the doctor ever thought he could. He needed help, a doctor, a book, anything. He needed Dr. Zwingli. She always knew what to say, and she knew just the right way to make people understand. It was what she’d gone to school for (But had Dr. Zwingli ever needed to tell someone the person he loved was dead?).
“Hey, Wessi, what’re you spacing out for?” Gilbert’s hand was in his face. “Can’t stand being in the same room as so much awesome as me? I bet your resistance to it’s faded over time, huh?” He laughed again, “Get it? Get it? Can’t stand,” and gestured to his leg and the air where his other leg should have been. “God, I’m a riot.”
“We will speak to the doctor about physical therapy and prosthetics, brother. Medicine is very advanced now. I’m sure you will be able to stand again.” Good. Every second that Gilbert was preoccupied with his leg, every second where he was laughing (his already pathetic laugh), was a blessing.
“You can’t take a joke, Wessi. Why are you so serious all the time?”
He didn’t know.