Dr. Wang hadn’t needed to tell Ludwig that Gilbert would need a new place to live and someone to help him with daily tasks for a long time to come. The bookstore had informed him as much, had been much more helpful on that topic than on how to handle whatever it was that Ludwig was feeling. He supposed it was grief, but… he didn’t know. And no one was telling him that.
While Gilbert had still been in the hospital, in the days after Ludwig had been suspended from work, he had spent every waking moment searching for the perfect new apartment for the both of them. For the perfect recipes for a person recovering from major injuries. For everything and anything Gilbert could possibly need after leaving the hospital.
What Ludwig had found was acceptably close to perfect, although he had hoped for a larger kitchen. It was a first floor apartment, fairly spacious, with wide doorways and ramps and automatic doors at every outside entrance. The bus line ran not too far from their front door, and there was a market only four blocks away, should Ludwig need any certain ingredient at a moment’s notice.
It was wonderfully quiet as well, even better than Ludwig’s previous apartment. The only noises that Ludwig had heard as he had unpacked two lives’ worth of belongings were the sounds of birds chirping and the faint tinkling of a piano.
Not perfect, but as close as the brothers were going to get.
Gilbert first saw the apartment on the day of Elizaveta’s funeral. Ludwig had hoped there would be more time. More time for him to unpack, more time for him to get Gilbert used to the idea of living together. More time to breathe.
Instead, Gilbert had let himself be rolled inside, had taken one look at the stark white walls and had pronounced the place “a total dump. Seriously, Wessie, how do you always manage to find the most soulless places? Do they call to you?”
That was just Gilbert being Gilbert, so Ludwig hadn’t paid him any mind. They had gone through the last few boxes then, an odd assortment of magazines and baskets and instruments from Gilbert and Elizaveta’s tenth floor apartment on the other end of the city. Ludwig had set aside his own belongings first; it hadn’t taken much time. He didn’t own many things.
Gilbert, on the other hand… Ludwig couldn’t stand his brother’s penchant for clutter. And not just clutter, because Ludwig could forgive that some people enjoyed having many possessions. No, Gilbert had to have his things spread out and everywhere. Like a cloud.
Within minutes of their arrival, their new, not-quite-home-yet was a total mess, as Gilbert tore through Ludwig’s weeks’ worth of painstaking organization.
“The hell is this doing here? This doesn’t belong in this room, it belongs by the other instruments.” Ludwig had stopped listening to the various thumps and clinks of Gilbert inflicting a whirlwind of damage on his (their) living room.
He had already cleaned. He had already organized everything. Everything was in its proper place. Why did Gilbert feel the need to change things without any substantial reason?
“And what’s this? A diary? I thought you stopped being a teenage girl when you got out of cooking school, Wessie. What does it say…”
That was quite enough. “Please set that back where it belongs, brother. It is my… journal. I am to write in it.” Ludwig crossed the living room, slowly picking his way through the piles of belongings that Gilbert had decided were inappropriately placed.
“Obviously.”
“I will take it then.”
“Then do that.”
“Fine. I will.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”
“There is no door to this room!”
“It’s a figure of speech, you literal freak, but don’t let that stop you from leaving the damn apartment!”
“This is my apartment too. And you will respect the order within it.” Ludwig grabbed several of the books Gilbert had tossed onto the floor. “These belong on their shelves, by genre and author’s last name. Why did you take them out?”
Gilbert swatted the books from his brother’s hand and tossed a pillow at his head for good measure. “Because they’re mine. They should be in my room. Not out here.”
Ricette d'amore [5c/13]
While Gilbert had still been in the hospital, in the days after Ludwig had been suspended from work, he had spent every waking moment searching for the perfect new apartment for the both of them. For the perfect recipes for a person recovering from major injuries. For everything and anything Gilbert could possibly need after leaving the hospital.
What Ludwig had found was acceptably close to perfect, although he had hoped for a larger kitchen. It was a first floor apartment, fairly spacious, with wide doorways and ramps and automatic doors at every outside entrance. The bus line ran not too far from their front door, and there was a market only four blocks away, should Ludwig need any certain ingredient at a moment’s notice.
It was wonderfully quiet as well, even better than Ludwig’s previous apartment. The only noises that Ludwig had heard as he had unpacked two lives’ worth of belongings were the sounds of birds chirping and the faint tinkling of a piano.
Not perfect, but as close as the brothers were going to get.
Gilbert first saw the apartment on the day of Elizaveta’s funeral. Ludwig had hoped there would be more time. More time for him to unpack, more time for him to get Gilbert used to the idea of living together. More time to breathe.
Instead, Gilbert had let himself be rolled inside, had taken one look at the stark white walls and had pronounced the place “a total dump. Seriously, Wessie, how do you always manage to find the most soulless places? Do they call to you?”
That was just Gilbert being Gilbert, so Ludwig hadn’t paid him any mind. They had gone through the last few boxes then, an odd assortment of magazines and baskets and instruments from Gilbert and Elizaveta’s tenth floor apartment on the other end of the city. Ludwig had set aside his own belongings first; it hadn’t taken much time. He didn’t own many things.
Gilbert, on the other hand… Ludwig couldn’t stand his brother’s penchant for clutter. And not just clutter, because Ludwig could forgive that some people enjoyed having many possessions. No, Gilbert had to have his things spread out and everywhere. Like a cloud.
Within minutes of their arrival, their new, not-quite-home-yet was a total mess, as Gilbert tore through Ludwig’s weeks’ worth of painstaking organization.
“The hell is this doing here? This doesn’t belong in this room, it belongs by the other instruments.” Ludwig had stopped listening to the various thumps and clinks of Gilbert inflicting a whirlwind of damage on his (their) living room.
He had already cleaned. He had already organized everything. Everything was in its proper place. Why did Gilbert feel the need to change things without any substantial reason?
“And what’s this? A diary? I thought you stopped being a teenage girl when you got out of cooking school, Wessie. What does it say…”
That was quite enough. “Please set that back where it belongs, brother. It is my… journal. I am to write in it.” Ludwig crossed the living room, slowly picking his way through the piles of belongings that Gilbert had decided were inappropriately placed.
“Obviously.”
“I will take it then.”
“Then do that.”
“Fine. I will.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”
“There is no door to this room!”
“It’s a figure of speech, you literal freak, but don’t let that stop you from leaving the damn apartment!”
“This is my apartment too. And you will respect the order within it.” Ludwig grabbed several of the books Gilbert had tossed onto the floor. “These belong on their shelves, by genre and author’s last name. Why did you take them out?”
Gilbert swatted the books from his brother’s hand and tossed a pillow at his head for good measure. “Because they’re mine. They should be in my room. Not out here.”