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Request and Part 1: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13125.html?thread=33391941#t33391941

(Direct to part 1: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13125.html?thread=34015813#t34015813)

Human!AU based on the movie "Bella Martha"/"Mostly Martha" ("No Reservations" = American remake of that movie), in which Ludwig is a perfectionist chef, Feliciano is not a perfectionist (but still a chef), and they fall in love. Along the way, Ludwig learns a little about living.

In the master bedroom of the fourth floor apartment of one Ludwig Beilschmidt, the bedside alarm went off every day, without fail, at 05:40. Five minutes later saw Ludwig Beilschmidt out the door of his apartment, ready for his daily morning run; one hour later saw his return. By 07:00, every morning, Mr. Beilschmidt was washed, dried, pressed, starched and ready to make his well-balanced, nutritious breakfast in the largest room of his apartment.

The kitchen.

Ludwig’s life revolved around cooking; partially because he wanted it to, and partially because he had nothing else. He worked every evening as the head chef in a four star restaurant called… well, called The Black Magic. Despite the strange name (the owner was British, what could you expect?), The Black Magic was one of Köln’s most popular restaurants. Because although it was small, and had a rather eclectic staff, The Black Magic could boast some of the best Italian cuisine in the world.

Ludwig was very aware, and incredibly proud of this fact.

The late morning and early afternoon of his schedule had once been devoted to Ludwig’s perusal of produce and the other necessary purchases a true restaurant’s kitchen needed to make every day. That had ended after his boss, Mr. Kirkland – no, Arthur (“You sound like you’ve got a meter stick halfway up your ass, Beilschmidt! We work together for how long every day? Seriously mate, give it a rest. We all have first names: use them.” his boss had not seen the irony.) had banned Ludwig from these activities. His claim was that Ludwig had been scaring the suppliers.

Ludwig was unaware if that was a fact, but he was not the sort of man to disobey an order from his boss, no matter how ridiculous it felt.

Nowadays, the time between Ludwig’s breakfast and the time he went to work was devoted to the regular tasks necessary to keep a household running. Ludwig cleaned his kitchen, of course, promptly after both breakfast and lunch.

He also dusted his sitting room.

He vacuumed the front entryway.

He cleaned just about every available surface.

Time permitting, he balanced his checkbook and set in order any other pressing documents.

Sometimes he read (novels, because a good chef was well rounded even outside of the kitchen, and because he usually finished the newspaper during his breakfast).

If there was extra time, Ludwig would clean his kitchen again. Just to be sure.

And when all of his household tasks were done, he left for work.

Ludwig arrived every day at The Black Magic at 15:00 sharp. He didn't have to be there so soon, especially as Arthur himself rarely arrived until a half hour later. But somewhere back in the depths of time, Ludwig had decided that arriving at exactly 15:00 (with a 5 minute margin of error in either direction to account for late trains and traffic) was necessary in order to properly prepare his kitchen for that evening's work. So far, Ludwig's scheduling had succeeded, so he never entertained the thought of changing his routine.

Things that aren't broken don't need to be fixed.

By 16:00, more or less, the rest of the restaurant's staff had assembled by the bar and Arthur had finalized his decisions of desserts and daily specials. Customers weren't allowed through the doors until 18:00, and the two hours in between were supposed to give the staff time to loosen up, chat and prepare. Outside of the kitchen, in the regular world where The Black Magic was owned and operated by Arthur Kirkland, the time was busy but relaxed. Arthur often kept to his office (well away from the food), and the head waiter, Tino, told jokes as he folded napkins and directed his subordinates in their placement of silverware and decorative flowers.

Ludwig approved of Tino's work, and did not mind the light atmosphere he kept up in the main room. Just as long as the same frivolity did not make its way over to the kitchen.

Ludwig’s kitchen.

This continues to be beautiful and poignant and hilarious and awesome all at the same time.

This is wonderful, anon.

Regulars knew the unspoken rules of The Black Magic. For instance, they knew that the chef would be annoyed regardless of the reason if he was called out of the kitchen. However, they also knew that if he was called out for a compliment (and why wouldn’t it be?), Chef Ludwig would merely issue a very red-faced “Thank you, sir” and disappear, pleased, back into his chaotic domain.

New patrons sometimes made mistakes. Some of these mistakes were fairly harmless. For instance, it was always very awkward whenever someone felt the need to point out that:

"Hey! Hey! Isn't it ironic? You've got this great Italian restaurant here, really nice, but it's staffed by a bunch of Germans and Scandinavians and owned by a British guy. Hey, how does that work? And can I get some fries with this?"

But depending on how far along the evening was, the damage could be minimal. Because, as he was the head waiter, Tino’s breaks didn’t happen until later in the evening. Which meant that he didn’t have the chance to slip in a few drinks until most of the dining crowd had passed. Which meant that when he had to deal with rowdy customers that made stupid observations, he was still perfectly sober. And really, as a waiter, Tino didn’t have access to the big knives anyway.

Ludwig wasn’t quite sure that it was fair that he was the only one being sent to a therapist, since he hadn’t been the only one to… well… have an argument with a customer. His argument hadn’t even come to blows! Arthur might have held back one of his arms, but what had truly kept Ludwig in check on that blasted evening was his pride.

Ludwig Beilschmidt would never strike a customer. No matter how tasteless their palate was. Or if they sent back one of his dishes. Twice.

In comparison, it had taken Mikkel (the easily excitable Danish roundsman), Jan (the stalwart Norwegian expediter), Ari (the best sommelier Iceland had ever produced), and Berwald (Ludwig’s sous-chef) to hold Tino back before he practically murdered that stupid American tourist. Apparently the American had asked Tino if it was true that all they did was put their fingers in dikes and dance around in clogs with reindeer back home in Sweden.

Where Tino had gotten the steak knife from no one had ever been able to figure out. The nearest tables had all been at the desert stage. But not only had the American not pressed charges (“Wow this place is great! You’ve got dinner theater and everything!”) he had even tipped all five men involved in the struggle an extra 50 Euros because “Your guys’s stunts are really good!”

Ludwig had heard about this after the fact, because unlike some people, he had not left his position in the kitchen just because of a silly ruckus out in the main dining area. The best Italian food in Germany didn’t prepare itself.

He hadn’t been so calm when he had heard about the incident, because just the day before Arthur had threatened to fire him if he didn’t start going to weekly therapy sessions. Ludwig had calmly and respectfully wondered aloud, at that point, that if he had to go to therapy, why Tino didn’t have to go too (and to alcoholics anonymous).

“Imagine it from a customer’s point of view, Beilschmidt. Would you rather have a big sweaty (“I am very clean”), meaty (“I beg your pardon?") German man who probably eats bricks for breakfast (“My breakfast consists of muesli and—”) bearing down on you, or that?” Arthur pointed over to Tino. “No offense intended.”

From where he sat on the edge of the bar, swinging his legs and folding a napkin into a rose, Tino waved him off. “None taken, Arthur. None taken.”

And that had been that. Ludwig had been sent to therapy, and Tino had been sent home to top off a few drinks with his boyfriend, the sous-chef. And injustice ruled the world.

The restaurant closed its doors at 22:00, and theoretically, Ludwig should have been home and asleep every night by 23:00. But he always found excuses to stay behind. He double and tripled checked the clean up jobs done by Berwald and Mikkel, respectively. He quadroupled-checked his own. No pot, nor pan, nor clove of garlic could be a millimeter out of place by the time Ludwig would finally take off his apron, put on his coat and leave.

He assured Dr. Zwingli every Wednesday that the five hours and fourty-five minutes of sleep he got every night was all his body required to properly and healthily function. But she would have none of it, and had suggested (threatened) that his hours be cut if he couldn't manage a solid eight hours every night.

And so Ludwig Beilschmidt's days passed him by, until late one evening when a little blinking red light ruined his life.

He had left the restaurant that evening at 22:30, as per his new routine, and had entered his apartment complex with enough time to be safely in bed by 23:00. Through a little mangling and rearranging of his morning schedule, Ludwig had managed to pencil in seven hours of sleep per night, which in his opinion, was quite close enough to eight. He had been reflecting on whether or not that counted as cheating, when he had noticed something out of the ordinary.

A little blinking red light was disturbing the uniform darkness of Ludwig’s otherwise still apartment. As he would discover, the little blinking red light belonged to his very neglected answering machine.

The landline in his apartment was the only phone that Ludwig Beilschmidt owned. Arthur had requested that he buy a cell phone, just in case, back when Ludwig had first started working at The Black Magic. But it hadn’t been an order, and Arthur had soon learned that the addition of a cell phone wouldn’t have made much of a difference to his new head chef anyway, so he hadn’t pressed the issue. In Ludwig’s mind, such things were unnecessary. If he was at work, then he was devoted to his work. He did not need some little plastic box disrupting his concentration.

Ludwig did not allow phone conversations to take place in his kitchen. He did not allow the kitchen staff to keep their phones on and step outside to use them, unless they were on break. When they were in the kitchen, the staff of The Black Magic was to be focused.

And during the rest of the day?

It wasn’t any of Ludwig’s business what his coworkers did outside of work. He had his own routine, and he kept to it. If he wasn’t at home, and he wasn’t at work, then Ludwig was usually doing something that required his full attention anyway. Were he to have a cellular phone, it would spend most of its time turned off as Ludwig did his errands or exercised.

And if Ludwig was at home?

That’s what landlines were for. Ludwig Beilschmidt did not need a cell phone, which was why he did not have one already. Thank you. (”Blimey, did you have to print out a bunch of charts just to tell me all of that? I thought you’d be the type to like playing with all these newfangled gadgets... Wait... My God, man, that’s perfect! Anything to cut the restaurant’s expenses! Good show.”)

Since he didn’t have a cell phone, the only way to contact Ludwig Beilschmidt when he wasn’t at home was to leave a message. And that night, someone had.

Ludwig listened to the message (a stranger's measured voice), carefully deleted it, calmly walked out of his apartment and locked his door, before racing off helter-skelter into the night.

Between a bad internet connection and Vista, it'll be slow going tonight. But I'm trying my best to get another part or two polished and up as soon as I can. And thank you, to the anon that got the jump on me.

"You are the next of kin?"

For a moment his heart stopped, although Ludwig knew that was an exaggeration. Because if his heart had really stopped, then he would be dead and not standing in the bright white hallway of a busy hospital, talking to a nurse wearing scrubs patterned with chicks and bunnies.

"Oh, excuse my choice of words, Mr. Beilschmidt. It's been a long night... You are Ludwig Beilschmidt, correct?"

"The message said he was in critical care, but stable" was rightly taken for a 'yes'.

"If you’re Gilbert’s brother then that’s true. Or was true, several hours ago.” Ludwig’s heart… “Your brother has been released to a quieter ward; he was released from surgery a few hours ago."

So Gilbert was alright? Ludwig's face didn't betray how relieved he was. Gilbert had probably just done something stupid, maybe he'd gotten his head stuck in a banister again. Ludwig's older brother was at the heart of every disturbance of Ludwig's life; this would be no different. "Gilbert was annoying the other patients, wasn't he?"

The nurse laughed, and motioned down the hallway. "I suppose that's one way to put it, Mr. Beilschmidt." The man's smile faded as his pager let out a small series of beeps. "I have to go. Your brother is just down there, the second room from the end." The nurse began to walk away. "Someone will be in to see the both of you soon, Mr. Beilschmidt. Have a good day."

And Ludwig was left alone.

The hallway was slightly cool, as well as clean and bright. Three things that Ludwig normally greatly approved of. Three things that at the moment, really weren’t helping. But there was no turning back now, so Ludwig took careful, measured steps toward the second room from the end of the hallway. He made it all the way to the fourth room from the end before a woman stopped him. Her coat and clipboard revealed her to be another doctor.

“Oh, are you here for Mr. Beilschmidt?” How could she tell? Did doctors just know these things, like Ludwig knew when the blend of spices in his sauces was just right? Or was it so obvious that he was the brother of an incorrigible troublemaker?

“Yes. I am his brother.”

The doctor sighed and motioned Ludwig away from his destination. “I know everyone’s so busy these days, but I really wish you had gotten here sooner.”

“I was busy, yes. But I am here now. And the nurse told me Gilbert’s room was that,” he pointed behind them, “way.”

“You can’t visit your brother just yet, Mr. Beilschmidt, although I promise you will be able to. Right now I’ll have to ask you to wait in my office for a moment before the authorities return.”

“The authorities? What did Gilbert do?”

The doctor blinked at him and then patted him on the shoulder. “I see. The nurse didn’t tell you, then.” She didn’t say anything else until Ludwig was safely sitting down on the spare chair in her office. And then she spoke.

About a man that had been drinking and driving and driving so fast that he drove into another car before he could realize it.

About a couple that had been driving back from their trip to have lunch with an old professor.

About an accident.

About two ambulance rides, one racing, speeding, fast.

One slow.

And then the doctor, after asking Ludwig if he was going to be alright, picked up her phone and called downstairs to the morgue to see if they were ready for Mr. Beilschmidt to come and identify the body.

It was colder in the morgue. It was cleaner too, practically sterile. It was well lit and the walls were white. Ludwig didn’t understand how such sensible things could come together to form something so horrible (The kitchen staff at The Black Magic had quickly gotten used to walking in on their head chef just sitting in the cold storage. He did it to relax. They still looked at him strangely. Now he could see why).

There were three people waiting for Ludwig when he arrived. And a body.

“Mr. Beilschmidt?”

“…please.”

The officer nodded and pulled back the sheet. “Is this Elizaveta Beilschmidt?”

“Yes.” The body had been. Once.

Ludwig felt a tear run down his cheek. It hit his nose and ran down his lips. The salt mingled with the bile that rose in his throat. His sister-in-law was dead.

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?”

He didn’t know.

Ludwig couldn’t tell him, he couldn’t, he didn’t know what to say, this was wrong, it shouldn’t have happened, it shouldn’t be happening, he couldn’t, he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t, “Elizaveta is dead.”

He did.

Gilbert stopped laughing. “Veta better have paid you to say that to me, Wessi, or else I’m not gonna hold her back when she finds out.”

Ludwig shook his head and found that he had started crying again. This was strange; he was not a crier. No one in their family was, the Beilschmidts just weren’t like that. But by the time it settled in, both men were sobbing, alone. Elizaveta was gone. Not spending the summer in Budapest gone. Gone gone. Forever gone.

Ten minutes later when the physical therapist entered the room, Ludwig and Gilbert weren’t speaking and weren’t even facing the same direction. Ludwig couldn’t look at Gilbert. Gilbert couldn’t look at anything; he had closed his eyes and was pretending to be sleeping again.

“Asleep? The nurses told me the patient in 233 was heckling the daylights out of everybody, aru.”

Both brothers turned at the sound of the stranger’s voice; it was surprisingly loud and strong for the man’s slight frame. “What’s this? So you’re awake now Mr. Beilschmidt?”

Gilbert glared with red, puffy eyes. “No. I’m not.”

The stranger frowned and jabbed a pen in Gilbert’s direction. “Awake or asleep: pick one.”

“I said I’m not awake, so leave me alone!”

Ludwig tried to make his brother see reason. This man was probably there to help them. “Gilbert, please. He’s a doctor, listen to him.”

“You shut up.”

“Aren’t you two supposed to be adults? I just came from a children’s ward that had more sense than either of you two. Than of both of you combined! Don’t make me give you the ‘Importance of Family’ speech, aru.”

If Ludwig was miffed by the reprimand, then Gilbert was furious. “You!” He pointed at the newcomer. “Who the hell do you think you are, and what do you think you’re doing here!?”

“I am making a note on your chart, Mr. Beilschmidt. ‘Cranky, put low on list for PT, he’ll be too busy mouthing off to notice.’ I’m marking it in pencil right now, but I have a pen in my pocket and it’s got your name all over it, aru, if you don’t calm down.”

Gilbert crossed his arms and kept glaring. “Fine. Fucking fine. What do you want?”

The doctor turned the clipboard he had been holding around. All he’d really done was date the page and sign his name. Dr. Yao Wang. “I am going to be your physical therapist for a very long time, aru, so let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “My name is Dr. Wang. I will be helping you with your PT, which we will be beginning as soon as we possibly can. You’ve proved yourself to be freakishly resilient.” He said it like it was something to be proud of.

Ludwig held his breath. Gilbert normally would be proud of being called freakishly resilient. In any other circumstance he might have warmed up to Dr. Wang's frank good humor.

But it was still too soon. “I don’t care.”

“Brother…”

“Mr. Beilschmidt, it’s completely up to you what you want to do at this point, but let me remind you that you are still very young, aru. You’ve got a long life ahead of you if you play your cards right. Don’t squander the second chance that so many other people don’t get to have.”

Eventually the doctor left.

Ludwig stayed, in silence. And through the soft background noise of a busy hospital, the brothers Beilschmidt thought to themselves about chances, and those who would never be able to have them again.

That’s enough for now. I have excuses for why I seemingly dropped off the face of the internet, but none of them are particularly interesting so I'll leave it there. I’ll try to get at this more regularly from now on. Man this was draining.

I hope this part wasn’t too much? I don’t know. Writing it made me start to feel really sad (and angry, when one of my suitemates started laughing. I felt like ‘how could you be happy right now!’ before I realized that the only reason I was getting emotional was a story. That I was writing).

To OP: no USUK, yes Old Fritz. You’ll see more of him.
To cookingnon: any general hints or tips I could just throw in the story to make it sound more believable?

Cooking!anon here. Yay! Update! Even if this part is so sad, dawww. Poor Gilbert and poor Elizabeth and... well, poor everybody, actually, including Ludwig. Now I wonder who the nephew could be... You're a really good writer thought, both at sad/angsty and funny.

About cooking: you're doing well, until now. My father had a restaurant for a while (noting fancy, more like a trattoria) and the description of the kitchen works imo. Chefs are usually really anal about their instruments of work, especially knives (good sets are pricey, and hard to come by!).

Anything more specific? Recipes, etc.

I suppose I should have made it clearer, but I decided not to have a nephew at all. Or rather, Gilbert's the nephew; he'll hardly be able to live on his own after this. And I'm sure he has it in him to be as much of a pain as the little girl in the movie was. So you're going to get to see the grieving process from the POV of two brothers, instead of an aunt and niece. I hope it still works!

I'm so used to writing funny that sad isn't really in my comfort zone, so I'm really happy to hear that the sad bits worked for you.

Ah, specifics. I guess I have to reveal my embarrassing secret: I don't even know what to ask because I can barely manage warming up Eggo waffles in the toaster (they're on par with cockroaches, on a live-through-nuclear-winter scale. And I still manage to ruin them). I guess... is there a restaurant quality dish that you really like? Frankly, if I asked you for a specific recipe it'd be because I browsed through a google search of "italian dishes that are difficult to make" right beforehand. (My cooking fail is a large part as to why I was hesitant to take this prompt)

Yes, I got it just after I posted actually (it makes sense and I love the German bros being bros, so it works really well for me).

Hmmm... Lemme see... Some basics!

- Base for sauces (battuto): carrot, onion, garlic, parsley, celery, everything cut in pieces (not minced!), let it cook in olive oil (a couple spoons every two people) until the onion and the garlic are golden. You can fish the pieces out then, they're just for flavor and not for eating. Then pour the rest of the ingredients in the oil (eg. passata). Watch out, boiling oil hurts! With passata, don't use garlic. Garlic and onion need to have the 'skin' peeled off.

- To take the edge off the taste of garlic: cut it in half and cut the green part off. Or: cover it in milk and boil it. Or: cover it in water, boil it, change the water, repeat five more times (always start 'a freddo', with the water cold). Or use shallot ;) (but if you use shallot, don't use onion!).

- Meat: in a nonstick pan with a drop of olive oil (or butter, but I don't like it). If it's 'fat' meat (bacon, sausages) no need for oil. When it's warm enough, pour some wine (red for red meat - pork, beef, white for white - chicken, turkey). Cooking wine need not be 'good' wine - a mediocre one is ok. The wine makes the fat in the meat evaporate.

- Pasta: salt the water, a small handful for person. The water should fill three-quarters of the pot and be enough to keep the pasta a couple centimeters under the surface. But don't put the pasta in the cold water! Wait until the water is boiling and then put the pasta in it, about 80-100 gr. for person. Quantity changes according to the type of pasta - short pasta like penne, mezze maniche etc. 'yields' better, so you need less. Stir it with a wooden spoon every once in a while. If you cook spaghetti, carefully push it under the water surface without breaking it. The cooking time is usually written on the pasta's box, but...

- ... Italians know it's often uncorrect. The only way to judge is to fish a sample out of the water and bite it. If it still has a 'soul' (anima), that is, there's a white part in the middle, it's undercooked. If it yields no resistance to the tooth or it breaks easily, it's overcooked. Al dente (lit. 'to the tooth') means it resists to the biting 'just enough'. It's a rather elusive concept.

- Pour the pasta in a colander, drain it, then put it in a bowl and pour the sauce of choice in it immediately! If the sauce is not done, pour some olive oil in it and stir! If you don't, the pasta will become glue!

- Basic pasta sauces: just olive oil and pepper. Or olive oil and butter. Or olive oil, butter and parmesan - I think Americans call that last one alfredo, but Italians don't use that name (and don't use that much butter!). With oil, parmesan and pepper you do a cacio e pepe - typically Roman sauce. Aglio, olio e peperoncino: cook garlic in oil until it's golden, then mix it with minced chilli peppers.

- Basic pasta sauces/2: carbonara. Cut some bacon in small cubes, cook it in a pan. Take a raw egg for every couple people, whisk, spray with salt, pepper and (if you want) nutmeg. When the pasta is done, put everything (bacon, egg, pasta) in a pan, stir, cook until the egg is a bright yellow and it's not runny anymore.

- Basic pasta sauce/3: battuto as described (no garlic!), pour passata, cook for a while (uncooked tomato is sour!), stir often (or it'll stick/burn), adjust for pepper and salt (always!), when done wash some basil leaves, rip them in big pieces (don't use a knife!) and mix it in. Don't cook the basil, cooked basil is bitter! If you want, add grated parmesan or mozzarella.

- Olive oil: use only 'extra-virgin'! Greek is good, Spanish is good, Tuscan or Southern Italian is better.

Hope it helps!

I should add...

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-08 14:29 (UTC) - Expand

Ok, mum says (whew, that was fast)...

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-08 14:51 (UTC) - Expand

Wow

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-09 06:41 (UTC) - Expand

Never underestimate mothers when it comes to cooking.

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-09 10:31 (UTC) - Expand

There's going to be 13 parts? Be still my heart! *_____*

This is so perfectly IC. You rarely see fanfics that emphasize Ludwig's 'efficient' side (and by that I mean anal retentive) without making him into a caricature, but you managed to capture it perfectly while still keeping him believable.

So far, I really love the universe you've set up. I SO love your decision to replace the niece with Gilbert--mostly because I think kid characters are annoying, but also because I think that their brotherly relationship can be very, very interesting in this context.

I cannot wait to see what you do with Feliciano *_____* Keep up the good work, author!anon!

This whole story is... gorgeous... but I'm going to especially congratulate you on Yao's character - he is freaking spot-on PERFECT. I mean, I've read Yao-centric stories that never get it right, but here he is a SIDE character and I"m totally floored....

A two Euro coin was tossed onto the pile. “I bet he snapped and ran off to Brazil to get a sex change.”

“Mikkel. Have I told you that you’re an idiot yet today?”

Mikkel winked. “Naw, but Ari did when you were in the bathroom at lunch, so it’s been covered.”

A ten cent piece joined the growing collection of coins. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“That’s a boring reason, Ari.”

“Perfect for Ludwig, then.”

Another member of the kitchen staff joined the group. “’s not a nice thing to say.”

A cloth napkin was thrown over the pile, and the head waiter glared at each and every person lounging around the mass of tables that had been piled together. “Berwald’s right, even though he’s just subconsciously sucking up because he’s the sous-chef. And besides, Ludwig’s never sick.”

“Probably ‘cause he freaks even the germs out.”

As Mikkel was simultaneously shoved off his seat by Jan’s arm, Ari’s foot and the spoon Tino was holding, Arthur sauntered over to inspect the ruckus. His employees were a lively bunch, especially the five that had immigrated to Germany only slightly before Arthur himself had. They were all from Lapland—something like that.

“Oi! No damaging the furniture. And have any of you seen Beilschimdt? It’s half past five already.”

Berwald stood up a little straighter. “Haven’t seen him.”

Mikkel picked himself off the floor by yanking on Berwald’s apron strings, causing the other man to stumble. “Yeah, nobody’s heard anything from him,” he gestured to the assortment of waiters and cooks gathered nearby, “so we’ve been betting on what he could possibly be doing. Your best chances right now are on either ‘he’s sick’, which is boring, or ‘he finally decided that he couldn’t handle his giant man-crush on Italy any longer and moved’. Personally, I think that last one’s way more likely. You want to chip in? Have any guesses?”

Betting in his restaurant? The Black Magic was not that sort of establishment, no sir! “Put me down for ten Euro on ‘he moved’. And another five on ‘he’s down at the docks, hassling the fishmonger again’, if no one’s suggested it yet.”

A little notebook, the kind used to write down orders, was tossed over to Mikkel from the waiter that had been designated the unofficial bookie. “Good one, Arthur,” he noted down his boss’s wagers and new guess. “Come on guys, anybody got anything else to add?”

The suggestions came fast and furious, as even the kitchen assistants began to get in on the action.

“Maybe his head exploded from all the criticisms he had to hold in when there was no one to bitch at.”

The front door opened, but no one noticed the accompanying chime.

“Maybe he got into an accident. No, even better, maybe he’s scheduling an accident. Like, ‘I am sorry strange motorist, but I have to work this evening. Perhaps I can schedule you hitting me next Thursday.’”

The footsteps, not quite as steady as they usually were, were drowned out by the chatter and laughter coming from one of the far corners of the restaurant.

“Maybe he’s dead.”

CRASH

Ludwig, because the latecomer was indeed Ludwig Beilschmidt, had tripped over a chair. When he didn’t immediately stand back up, Berwald strode over to lend him a hand and Tino went back into the kitchen to fetch some ice.

Ludwig managed to get back onto his feet before Berwald could reach him. “I’m fine, thank you.” He then turned to Arthur, who was sitting on top of a table and stuffing his wallet back into his pocket with a guilty expression. “I am sorry that I am late. The hospital is farther away than I had expected.”

Side conversations halted as one, and Arthur motioned his head chef to take a seat. “Hospital? What in the world were you doing at the hospital, Beilschmidt?”

He didn’t know what to say. Should he tell them about the accident? Should he tell them Gilbert might never walk again? Should he tell them that he’d spent most of the day at the hospital, staring at the smudge on the wall just past his brother’s shoulder? Should he tell them about Elizaveta? “My brother is currently a patient there.”

Tino raised his eyebrows in surprise as he offered Ludwig a bag of ice. “Gilbert’s in the hospital? What did he do this time?”

That was right. Tino knew Gilbert, because Tino knew Elizaveta. They’d both belonged to the same book group. Or was it the same gardening club? Ludwig didn’t know if he didn’t remember or if he’d just never bothered to know in the first place. But Tino had definitely known Elizaveta, because her connection to Ludwig had gotten Tino his job at The Black Magic in the first place (Just because Ludwig and Gilbert didn’t speak didn’t mean Ludwig and Elizaveta were also estranged).

“There was an accident.”

The concern on Tino’s face was real. “Is he alright?”

Ludwig thought about how he could answer. He could say that Gilbert’s world had been destroyed. He could say that Gilbert was refusing to speak except to curse, and was refusing to eat except to spit in the mashed potatoes the nurses brought him, so as to make them inedible for anyone else. “No.”

Arthur spoke. “Beilschmidt, get out of here.”

Was he being fired because he was so grossly late? That was unfair; his track record had been perfect up until today. Ludwig’s fuzzy, sleep deprived mind jumped between excuses for his appalling tardiness and harsh reprimands. It wasn’t like Arthur hadn’t stumbled into the restaurant five minutes before opening before, reeking like cheap scotch.

“I don’t understand.”

Arthur motioned for him to stand and began to lead Ludwig towards the door. “There’s nothing to understand, Beilschmidt. I told you to go home and get some sleep, and that’s what you’re going to do. That’s an order.”

It was an order?

“Now, just between you and me… how bad is it?”

Ludwig’s mind was still reeling from the fact that he was being sent home. “What?”

“Your brother? How bad off is he?”

What was he supposed to say? “Dr. Wang said he may be able to walk again, someday.”

Then Arthur asked the question Ludwig had hoped no one would think about. “And your sister-in-law? Lovely girl, if I remember correctly. How is she holding up?”

He spoke before he could stop himself. “She’s dead.”

For a moment, Arthur just stared. Then he reached his arm up and placed it on Ludwig's shoulder. For another moment he didn’t say anything, and Ludwig was thankful. Finally, Arthur muttered something under his breath and sighed. “Right then. Get out, and don’t come back until everything’s settled.”

“What?”

“I’m putting you on an indefinite break, Beilschmidt. Take care of your brother. Take care of yourself. We’ll manage without you; I’ve been meaning to hire someone to share your workload anyways. It’s not normal that you come in every single night.”

A break? Don’t come in to the restaurant? The Black Magic was Ludwig’s life. He needed this, he needed the order and activity and regularity and normality and everything more than ever now. Left alone in the silence of his apartment, the static in his head had almost driven him insane. The hospital was little better.

As Ludwig was about to protest, another voice cut him off. “In all the years you’ve worked here you’ve never taken a day off.” It was Tino. “I know for a fact you came in last Christmas even when we were closed.”

He didn’t see what was wrong with that. Arthur did. “Oi. How do you know that?”

Jan stepped out from behind the potted plant he had been lingering behind. “Mikkel left his keys here. None of us wanted to put him up for the night, so we came back and broke into the restaurant to get them.” He walked past Tino to put his hand on Ludwig’s other shoulder. “The point isn’t that we want you to leave, or that we think someone else will do a better job than you. The point is that you have other places to be right now.”

Every time Ludwig had to put up with flighty or confused new waiters during the afternoons, he was thankful that The Black Magic employed an expediter. He was even more thankful that their expediter had the personality and the temperament that Jan did. Ludwig trusted Jan’s judgment on most things outside of the kitchen, as Jan trusted Ludwig’s judgment on most things inside of it.

Ludwig let out a deep breath and let his muscles relax. He hadn’t noticed them get so tense. “Alright. I will take some,” he said it distastefully, “time off.”

Arthur stepped back. “Good decision, man. Berwald can keep things together until I hire someone else. And before you say anything, no you cannot help with the interviews, and no Berwald doesn’t over-salt everything. That’s all in your head, you nutcase.”

For the first time, Ludwig entertained the thought that Arthur’s daily parting insult might be intended to be affectionate. Probably not.

With the assurances of the few sane members of the restaurant staff that he and his cooking would be missed, Ludwig left The Black Magic, and headed home.

“And then? What did you do after you left the restaurant?” Dr. Zwingli had left her seat on the opposite chair halfway through his story, and was currently sitting close next to Ludwig on the couch in her office. Just holding his hand.

“I went home. Arthur told me to go home.” She didn’t say anything, she just waited for him to finish. A lot of Ludwig’s problems had to do with his communication skills, she found. Most people didn’t give him enough time to think over and say everything he needed to put to words. “I made Gilbert dinner. Just some simple pasta. Do you know the kinds of things they try to feed patients? I was not surprised he had been turning his nose up at the slop the nurses were bringing him. Usually I would assume Gilbert was just being difficult, but I don’t think you could really call that food.”

Lili was always happy when Ludwig began to talk of his own free will, when she didn’t have to prod him into a discussion. Except for when the discussion became a rant about food. She tried to steer her patient back in a more constructive direction. “It’s good that you were thinking about your brother. How have the two of you been doing?”

“He refused to eat it. He threw it at the wall.”

“I see. Have,” she hesitated, trying to find the right way to say it, “have you and your brother talked yet? About… Elizaveta?”

“She asked me to teach her how to cook, once.” Ludwig’s eyes were far away. “She did everything wrong. First she put the pasta in before the water had begun to boil. Then she didn’t cook it long enough. Then she tried to make the process go faster by turning up the heat again… I can’t remember how many times she scalded herself. In the end, she was left with a gelatinous mass stuck to the bottom of the pot.”

For once, one of Ludwig’s food lectures (no, this was more like a story) was taking him in the right direction. Lili didn’t interrupt.

“She just laughed and agreed with me when I told her it would be inedible. After that, I tried to show her how to make a simple sauce. Just olive oil and pepper. I assumed it would be too easy for her to do incorrectly.” He looked her in the eye. “She managed to pour an entire tin of pepper into her… dish.”

Lili smiled, and remembered her childhood, and her own culinary attempts. “Do you think, by that point, she was just playing with you?”

Ludwig blinked once. Twice. “I had not thought of that. I just assumed she was a terrible cook.”

“And?”

“And so I corrected her mistakes. She… she didn’t mind.”

Good siblings never showed it, even if they did. “And how did the meal taste?”

His face closed off again, and he broke eye contact to resume staring at one of her potted plants. “I do not know. She had to leave by then, so she took it home with her. Their home is not close to my apartment.”

Ludwig always closed off when his brother came up. “Did Gilbert eat it?”

“Of course not. No one could have.” Gilbert definitely wouldn’t have tried. “He laughed at her when she showed it to him, and she hit him.”

“I have a question. You don’t have to answer it, but… you said you and your brother don’t speak. And yet you know so much about him…?”

“Elizaveta is—was a perfectly good person to talk to. Unlike Gilbert. She wrote to me. She listened. And she put Gilbert in his place. I—(miss her wish she was here don’t know what to do). Yes. Elizaveta was a good listener. And she had good taste in food. Even if she couldn’t prepare it.”

“Did you love her?”

He turned his attention fully back to her and blushed. “Dr. Zwingli. You know about my preferences…”

She smiled. “Lili, please. I didn’t mean it like that, Ludwig. I meant exactly what I asked.”

A pause. “Yes. Yes, I did love her. Sometimes…” his voice quieted at his confession, “sometimes I loved her as a sister more than I loved Gilbert as a brother.”

“Then I think you owe it to Elizaveta to try again with your brother. You both need each other right now. More so than ever.”

He didn’t respond. Their discussion, while so important, had been too much, too fast. He began muttering under his breath again (“Carrot, onion, garlic, parsley, celery… cut in pieces, do not mince, cook in olive oil…”). She recognized it as an attempt to hold back tears. Lili wished he would just allow himself to feel.

“Oh Ludwig…” she squeezed his hand. “I think we got very far today. In fact, how about we end today’s session here? You can go home early, I think the rest would do you good.”

He did not protest. Surprisingly, not because he wanted to escape Dr. Zwingli’s sympathetic gaze and precision questions, but because all of a sudden, he felt tired. More tired than he’d even been after coming home from the hospital, on the night of the accident.

Ludwig stood and collected his overcoat, all the while refraining from looking at Dr. Zwingli. He could tell that she was watching him.

“I’ll see you out.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

There was a man in the waiting room. It was the same man that was always in the waiting room when Ludwig left his sessions. Ludwig had assumed that he was the next patient. Except Ludwig’s sessions with Dr. Zwingli were usually an hour and a half long, but today Dr. Zwingli was letting him leave after only thirty minutes. And the stranger was already there. Waiting.

He was truly a strange man. Ludwig had walked past him many times, on his way out the door, but the man had never acknowledged that anyone else was in the room. All he ever did was tap his fingers on the coffee table in front of him. It was as though he was trying to play along with the piped in piano music Dr. Zwingli insisted on having in her shared waiting room.

“Oh! Ludwig, let me introduce you.” Dr. Zwingli walked up next to the stranger. She waited until there was a small pause in the music, and put her left hand over the stranger’s right. “Roderich? There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

His right hand struggled to keep tapping out the pattern indicated by the music, but he didn’t move his gaze from the blank wall in front of him. “You cannot allow me to halt prematurely. I must continue for forty-nine more stanzas. I must.”

Dr. Zwingli let go, but only on the condition of “Seven more stanzas, Roderich.”

Roderich looked visibly calmer once Dr. Zwingli stepped away from him. When she was about a meter away, he muttered “fourteen” and continued to ‘play’.

Ludwig looked on, confused.

Finally, Roderich’s fingers stopped moving. He slowly placed both of his palms flat on the table in front of him. Several seconds passed. And then he spoke “It is not time for us to depart yet?”

The doctor shook her head. “We can leave early today, because Ludwig is leaving early.” She smiled at Ludwig. “Ludwig, this is Roderich Edelstein. He’s a close friend. Roderich?”

Roderich had begun tapping his fingers again, in time with the music.

“Roderich, are you listening?”

He did not look at her, but he replied. “Indeed.”

Dr. Zwingli nodded. “Roderich, this is one of my patients. Mr. Ludwig Beilschmidt.”

Ludwig considered offering his hand. While he felt it would be rude not to, and he was not a rude person, it was obvious to him that this Roderich wouldn’t take it. He had not looked at anything besides the wall once throughout the entire exchange with Dr. Zwingli. Ludwig wondered what was wrong with him, but didn’t want to ask. Not when Dr. Zwingli was looking so happy.

She nodded again, this time at Ludwig. It was a dismissive gesture, for all that it was undemanding. Ludwig could recognize that. “Good afternoon, Dr. Zwingli. Mr. Edelstein.”

“Get some rest, Ludwig. Until next week.” She lightly tapped Roderich on the shoulder. He didn’t say a word. “Roderich wishes you a good afternoon too,” she chided. Roderich just kept tapping, kept staring.

Ludwig left.

He did not have anywhere to go that evening. Arthur had banned him from lurking around the restaurant on his ‘vacation.’ Ludwig considered ‘lurking’ too strong a word. He had just been trying to see his replacement. Undoubtedly his kitchen was in disarray without him; they could barely even manage when Ludwig was with them.

As Ludwig made his way along the street, heading home, he was barreled into by a stranger. The man was smaller than him, and therefore took the brunt of the collision. Looking at the new stranger sprawled over the pavement, Ludwig could appreciate that he was… well… ah… he was a very aesthetically pleasing person. Indeed.

Until he began to speak.

“Ve! Ouch!” Ludwig would have apologized and helped the man to his feet, except the moment he bent down to help, the man jumped up, speaking a mile a minute. “Oh, I’m sorry for running into you, ve, it was all my fault that I wasn’t looking where I was going it’s just that I’m really excited because I just moved into this city and ve, my new job looks really exciting and I can’t wait to go back there because the people are so nice!”

Ludwig waited. He hoped the man would not start speaking again. He did not like people that spoke too much. Usually, he found, they never had anything substantial to say (Gilbert…).

“I am alright. Good day.”

The stranger obviously did not understand a dismissal when he heard one. Either that, or he ignored it. “Alright then!” he shouted and waved. There had been no need to shout, because Ludwig hadn’t been able to get more than a meter away before the man accosted him again.

“It was interesting meeting you, Mr. Stranger.” The man grabbed one of Ludwig’s hands between his own. Ludwig blushed at the contact. “I really do hope you have good day, ve, and I’m not just saying that. Because you look so frowny right now, but I bet you’d look so much nicer if you smiled!”

This… this was one of the strangest days Ludwig Beilschmidt had ever had. So he pulled his hand back, turned and walked away as quickly as still could be classified ‘walking’. The stranger smiled and waved after him. Not that Ludwig checked.

Thank you to everybody who commented. Characterization is really important to me, it’s what I try the hardest to get right. So I’m really really really can’t really express it through text really happy that you like the characters. I hope I didn’t botch the Nordics after attempting them; I wanted to contrast their familiarity and easiness with Ludwig’s isolation. And bonus points to anyone who gets what I’m trying to do with Roderich.

And I owe all of the little food details to your awesome helpfulness, cookingnon. If some of the wording seems familiar to you, well… my eyes, they are shifty.

Re: Ricette d'amore [4e/13]

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-11 14:14 (UTC) - Expand

OP doesn't know if she's crying or laughing

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-11 14:18 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ricette d'amore [4e/13]

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-11 17:33 (UTC) - Expand

Author Here

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-11 21:21 (UTC) - Expand

Passerbynon here

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-13 00:27 (UTC) - Expand

Passerbynon here: take 2 (/3)

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-13 00:28 (UTC) - Expand

Passerbynon here: take 3/3

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-13 00:30 (UTC) - Expand

Cooking anon checks this regularly for updates....

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-17 01:05 (UTC) - Expand

...but should go to sleep and stop being dumb. Sorry!

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-17 01:15 (UTC) - Expand

Re: ...but should go to sleep and stop being dumb. Sorry!

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-18 02:49 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ricette d'amore [4e/13]

(Anonymous) - 2010-04-14 04:33 (UTC) - Expand

Gilbert had looked half dead himself as he watched them lay her casket into the ground. He’d been spending every ounce of energy he had trying to get well, get better, at least get out of the hospital. And somehow he had done it, because today was the day of Elizaveta’s funeral, and there he was, sitting to the side in his wheelchair. He had even been the one to throw the first handful of earth back into the ground.

He hadn’t celebrated the amazing physical accomplishment. He hadn’t wanted to do it. When they’d given him the dirt, he’d wanted to throw it back at them, pull himself out of his blasted chair, drag himself along the ground and throw himself down next to his wife.

Ludwig had been standing right behind him, gripping the handles of his chair. Preventing him from pulling any stunts. Gilbert was too tired even for hate.

The weather was perfect for a funeral. Not raining, because as much as people loved to write about burials in the rain, the mud just made mourners even more upset. Not sunny, because the writers had gotten that one right; sunshine made widowers bitter. No, the sky was a uniformly drab gray. The air was choking and still, and the temperature was just a little too cold. Perfect for a funeral.

If he could, Gilbert would have stayed by Elizaveta until everyone else left and he could finally be alone with her again. But Ludwig had wheeled him towards the cars as soon as the work was done. As soon as Veta was trapped, for real and for good, underground.

Gilbert hadn’t said anything throughout the service or the burial. He refused to talk to Ludwig and most of the other guests had been content to hang back and whisper about “Poor Gilbert, that girl was the best thing that ever happened to him… what must he be feeling?”

Halfway through the reception Gilbert had lost track of Ludwig (coward was probably hiding somewhere). But someone else had gained the courage to confront the angry, bandaged invalid that had been wheeled into his corner and left there.

“Gilbert, I cannot convey how sorry I am for your loss.” The voice was deep and steady. Gilbert didn’t make eye contact immediately, but a sidelong glance was enough to confirm the identity of the other mourner. An old university professor. “I feel… if you had not visited me that day, then perhaps none of this would have happened.”

The reason why Gilbert was still in contact with one of his teachers was because he deeply respected the man. And the reason Gilbert respected Professor Hohenzollern was that Old Fritz treated him like an equal. “It wouldn’t have.”

The retired professor sighed and placed a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “Forgive me. If only I had delayed your journey for a moment longer. If only I had agreed to that last photograph…”

And in a strange moment, both men smiled. They’d known Elizaveta well enough to know that if you didn’t stop her sooner rather than later, there was never a last photograph. “There’s nothing to forgive, Prof. She’s gone. Being sorry won’t bring her back.”

“That is true…” For a distinguished professor of music theory and a respected composer, Friedrich Hohenzollern had no idea what to say. “Words mean nothing here. Gilbert, know that if there is anything I can do for you, you have only to speak the word.”

“Need a cripple?”

In school, the young Gilbert Beilschmidt had thrown every one of his professors for a loop every time he spoke. Even years later it only took him a few words to surprise everyone else into silence.

“W-what was that now?” Professor Friedrich Hohenzollern II was not ‘everyone else’, although he wasn’t much better.

Gilbert snagged an apple slice off of the table next to him. At least Wessie had had the foresight to leave his brother by the food before disappearing off like a coward. “They’re making me live with Ludwig. ‘Cause apparently I can’t take care of myself anymore.”

“I see… forgive an old man, Gilbert. As it is, I can barely take care of myself.”

“That’s what you always say.” But there wasn’t any malice behind Gilbert’s words.

“Then you should have learned it a long time ago. If I remember correctly, you were a fantastic student; has your brain really rotted so in your old age, child? Hmph, I blame that trash you call music.”

“Fluteboxing’s where it’s at, Old Fritz.”

Friedrich was glad to see his former pupil smiling again. Even if it was over something so trivial as his favorite form of ‘musical’ expression. “That’s what you keep telling me, and I have yet to see the concrete fruits of your efforts. There are no concertos for,” his voice arched in disdain, “fluteboxer and orchestra.”

“Not yet.”

They could have gone on forever like this, the only strangeness being that there was no melodic voice telling them to shut up and come into the kitchen because lunch was ready. And that the zither could kick their precious little metal pipe to the ends of the world and back. Many long afternoons had been devoted to these little arguments. And longer evenings had been devoted to thinking up ways to get Veta back for the ‘pipe’ thing, because that was just blasphemy.

“She would have wanted you to play today. In any way that you chose.”

Gilbert hummed noncommittally. “Veta would have gotten a kick out of me playing my newest piece, yeah. And I bet she would have cried if I played something mushy. But I don’t want to.”

“You will play again, though, will you not?” Gilbert had potential, for all that he often squandered his talent.

“I don’t know.”

Ludwig spent the majority of his sister-in-law’s wake in the cemetery, in front of her gravestone. It probably wasn’t fair. It probably should have been Gilbert standing there. Sitting there. Being there. But instead, Ludwig stood and was. The doctor was always telling him to try explaining himself more often. Don’t just expect people to know what seems so obvious. It may not be obvious to anyone else.

This seemed pretty obvious.

Gilbert shouldn’t be alone, not right now. Ludwig had read that, that people who had lost someone shouldn’t be alone. Gilbert had lots of friends, and was always busy. Ludwig was doing the best thing for him, even if Gilbert couldn’t see it quite yet. It was obvious.

He tried to say something. But the rectangle on the ground wasn’t Elizaveta, and he couldn’t find any answers there. No memories, no mistakes, no stories. All he could see was a perfectly gray slab and a perfectly manicured lawn. They had replaced the turf after the funeral party had left. They’d had to move some of the flowers to do it, leaving them in odd bunches around the grave.

Ludwig tidied up a few of the fallen bouquets, made sure the vases had enough water and left. He did not say goodbye.

By the time he got back to the reception, most of the guests were gone. In fact, the last was just leaving as Ludwig entered the main room. He was an older man, one that Ludwig recognized from Gilbert’s wedding and a few of his photographs. He gave Ludwig a sympathetic smile before he left. But the man didn’t linger, and soon he was gone.

Which left Ludwig and Gilbert alone.

“Where were you.” Gilbert hadn’t moved from where Ludwig had left him. It was difficult for Ludwig to swallow after he completed the thought. The words ‘left him’ reverberated in his brain.

“I was finalizing our arrangements.” That was not quite the truth.

Gilbert didn’t catch it, because he assumed his brother was too boring to lie. “I don’t need you. I haven’t needed you for years and I don’t need you now. Just go back to your precious restaurant. I’ll figure things out.”

He attempted to wheel himself away. But he couldn’t manage it. “Brother, stop. You are still too weak for that. Let me do that…”

Ludwig saw his brother’s face crumple in frustration but didn’t know what he could do. It was true; Gilbert couldn’t wheel himself. He needed Ludwig. Ludwig didn’t understand why Gilbert wouldn’t accept that.

“Whatever. Just get me back to the apartment.”

“Yes, brother. And then I’ll make you something proper to eat—”

“Don’t talk to me.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence.

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.”

The books had come from Ludwig’s apartment. But slowly he realized they had only been there in the first place because Elizaveta had loaned them to him many months before. So that was what this was about. “Gilbert. I am aware that you are in pain at this moment. You are hurting. Right now, you should—”

“Don’t give me any of that shit that you probably picked up out of the library, or so help me God I will find a way to walk over there and throttle you. You have no idea how I’m feeling right now, little brother. Do you ever even feel? So just shut up and get out. I’ll call for you if you’re necessary.” He went back to browsing the books on the shelf, occasionally tossing one or two behind him. “But don’t hold your breath.”

Ludwig left.

Living with Gilbert was… difficult. Far more difficult than Ludwig had expected. Gilbert refused to eat at the same times as Ludwig. He refused to eat the same things Ludwig ate. For a week, he refused to eat anything at all, except for a jar of marmalade and some old crackers that Ludwig didn’t recognize.

It was even worse than that.

Not only did Gilbert not nourish himself properly, but he deemed it necessary to make Ludwig’s life a living hell as much as he possibly could.

He instigated fights.

“You son of a fucking whore!”

“That is quite enough!”

“Yeah? Then make me stop!”

“We have the same mother.”

“And yours was uglier.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, brother.”

“Neither does your face. Now gimme the remote!”

He woke Ludwig up at odd hours.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“This is the Beilschmidt residence.”

“Hey Wessie, it’s three in the morning. Guess where I am.”

“You are outside my door, in the hallway. Brother, I can see the lights under my door.”

“Fuck yeah I’m in the hallway!” Click. The sound of a soft tire tread lulled Ludwig back to sleep on those nights, as Gilbert slowly made his way back down to his room on the other end of the hallway.

He insulted Ludwig.

“You pansy-ass faggot think you can order me around? Well I’ve got news for you. You can crawl back into your hole and die, because I never want to see you again. Leave me alone!”

“Leave me alone!”

“Leave me alone.”

He made messes, messes that he never never cleaned, no matter how many chore charts Ludwig stuck to the wall. Not even if they were well within his ability. The worst thing was when Gilbert didn’t do anything at all, and that was how he spent most of his time. Just sitting there, ignoring everything. Wasting away.

Ludwig was ashamed that in his heart, he could not wait until the day he could return to the restaurant and escape from his brother for glorious hours at a time.

Thank you everyone for your responses. They’ve given me lots to think about, especially the ones from passerbynon. I’ll say straight up that I'll be handwaving some of the therapy. Most importantly: Ludwig doesn’t think anything’s wrong with him, other than maybe other people don’t understand him. He’s found a private therapist to go to because Arthur double whammy ordered him to / said he’d fire Ludwig if he didn’t go. This is possible because I say so (I hate having to use that excuse, so I hope it doesn’t ruin the story for you guys). There are 2.5 more therapy sessions planned, and you may notice Lili being stricter during them (also, the journal idea? Really good. Yoinking). This is what I get for putting more of a focus on the sessions than the movie did, huh? Anyway, next time Ludwig’s back in the restaurant, but things seem a little different than before…

[Random people on the internet may not be 100% accurate? Next you’ll be telling me not to trust Wikipedia! :)]

Another thing, I checked in on the comments today, and I liked reading them. Is that weird to say? I think it’s interesting hearing what you guys’ve got to say. (I kinda want to give you a hug, passerbynon. Whether you need it right now or not.)

Learned some interesting things looking up Old Fritz. Anyone who wants a reason why Prussia still exists? Well, according to the House of Hohenzollern, he’s still got royalty…

One last thing: fluteboxing is real!

Cooking anon is moved! Both by this part and by passerbyanon recalling his/her experience. I did a year of group therapy (for social anxiety - payed by the uni!) but I never had an experience as complicated and long as yours. I imagine that the chaos can do nothing but worsen any problem you may have. Sorry again for failing at reading comprehension.

Back to the fill (I feel like I'm ignoring the poor author!anon, but I love you, really!): I knew this part was going to be painful, and I knew Gilbert would have come off as kind of an ass, but it was still really powerful. Especially because you decided to not sugar-coat it, since you went with the idea of the two of them being estranged in the first place. And Gilbert's violent grief is made even worse by how Ludwig is simply unable to understand it. Really, I couldn't tell who's more trapped, if Gilbert in his wheelchair and his pain or Ludwig in the walls he built to preserve his mental order and his absolute inability to express his feelings.

It's just so sad. The only thing that keeps me from bawling is the fact I know things will get better, if slowly and painfully.

I have had the shitiest day imaginable. First off my mother woke me up at 12:30 am to make fun of me on speaker phone so everyone else at her job could as well. I had to work a 10 hour shift with no break, it was super busy too, I missed my bus, and may I add that it's also my birthday (and I will be spending what's left of it babysitting). So when I saw that this was filled I was so excited. Basically you kind of made me whole day better.

Also you're therapy sessions are wonderful. They remind me a lot of the ones I was required to take for school (why because in fifth grade the school thought I needed professional help) though mine weren't because I had OCD or anything like that, I just get in these moods that last like a week at the most and happen very rarely and the school thought I was going to kill myself or someone else ~~yeah I know sounds insane~~.

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