Chapter Text
Arthur was missing.
It wasn’t hard to notice. Ludwig had grown used to the snarky remarks from the back of the class. The ones correcting everyone’s English and complaining about the utter lack of read books his detention mates wore like a badge of honor. Or the secret live soccer broadcasts the teen could never quite hide from Ludwig’s keen ears, even when listened to through earphones beneath a dark hoodie.
But today, there was none of that. Not yesterday, either. And Arthur still hadn’t called in sick, like Ludwig had ordered them to.
No, Arthur’s seat—carved with short English poems, each one glummer than the last—was empty. And while Ludwig’s method of dealing with problems was instantaneous (he had had his poster of “The Only Way Out is Through” since he was fourteen), he didn’t have the time to dwell on Arthur’s absence. Not when he had spent the entire night on the floor of his room, compiling a binder full of empty pages and lists. All that was left was to fill them. To test his theories.
And his first guinea pig had just skulked into the room: Vash.
The Swiss scowled as he made his way to his seat by the window. His bag hung off one shoulder, straining the teen’s spine as if it weighed a ton of bricks. It might have, given all the unauthorized goods bulging inside—items he knew he wasn’t allowed to distribute during detention hours. He didn’t utter a greeting or even nod when he passed the chalkboard. Throwing his bag onto the table, he only glared at Ludwig, who might not have been doing a great job of hiding his excitement.
After writing the day’s timetable on the board, Ludwig started toward Vash but stopped when something tugged at his sleeve.
Or, rather, someone. “Ludwig?”
From this view above, Feliciano looked even shinier than usual. Or perhaps it was just his jewelry, which jingled with every movement the Italian made. Their first week together had shown that Feliciano liked to move a lot. Perhaps because sitting still was a chore even greater than solving algebra problems. It was a miracle to Ludwig that his ever-loving Nonno hadn’t yet taken it upon himself to test his grandson for some kind of attention disorder.
Still, at the end of the day, it was none of Ludwig’s business—at least, not when it came to Feliciano’s private life. The detention classroom was a different matter entirely. Here, he was the one in control. And since everything about Feliciano was distracting, from his ever-growing collection of jewelry to the way his amber gaze pranced around Ludwig each time he stood by the blackboard, Ludwig knew he should have done something about it long ago.
Yet all he did, once again, was pull his attention away from Feliciano’s bright face and down to the notebook his delicate finger grazed.
“Did I do the homework properly?”
Ludwig cocked his head to skim the Italian’s calculations spread out across the desk. It was an uninterrupted block of scribble, and he was already mentally setting aside time to teach Feliciano proper penmanship. The last thing he wanted was for Feliciano to lose points because an examiner couldn’t decipher his handwriting.
“You forgot transposition.”
Feliciano poked his tongue out in thought. “What was that again?”
“When you move a term from one side of an equation to the other, you change its sign.” Ludwig had produced a red pen and altered the first equation to demonstrate. “A positive becomes negative, and a negative becomes positive.”
“So that means…” Feliciano circled his hand across the entire page. “All this is wrong?”
“Well, yes, but—”
The pained moan that followed was loud enough to make the entire class think the Italian had been shot. “I worked three hours on this!”
“Three hours?” Ludwig echoed back, flapping the single page. “But I only gave you two exercises—"
Feliciano wasn’t listening anymore. He rolled across the table in lament, sending his pencil case and water bottle flying, which Ludwig barely managed to catch. If the floor had been any cleaner, he would have rolled on that too.
Thankfully, Lovino was in the restroom. Ludwig had a little more time to calm Feliciano down before his brother returned and murdered him in cold blood. At least, that was what Ludwig told himself. It was sheer self-preservation that made him take a seat next to the Italian, not the slim hope of making the other smile again.
“I’ve been reading up on coaching and stumbled across the art of motivating others,” Ludwig mumbled. Every resource he looked at had the same advice: discipline was more important than motivation. Still, motivation creates discipline in the first place. It was all very confusing, but it showed Ludwig that if he wanted his detention mates to succeed, he needed to account for motivation. And, more importantly, the inevitable dips in it.
And right now was one of those dips. At least Ludwig didn’t freeze at the sight of the Italian’s tears like he had yesterday. He even reached out hesitantly, unsure whether to offer a consoling touch. “It looks to me that you could use some motivation right about now.”
It turned out Ludwig didn’t need to worry about overstepping. Feliciano leaned into his palm as a cat might nuzzle an affectionate hand. “Yeah.” He sniffed and rubbed his eyes dry. “I think so too.”
“Apparently, all good motivation should be tailored to the recipient,” Ludwig recited with a saintly nod. “Crafted for them specifically, if you will.”
“That makes sense,” Feliciano said. Since when had they been sitting this close? Their thighs were brushing, which Ludwig suddenly became very aware of. Feliciano, however, didn’t seem to notice as he leaned in closer, eyes fixed on Ludwig’s face—specifically his lips. “And I already have something that might really motivate me.”
Ludwig hummed. “We might be thinking of the same thing right now.”
The perpetual flicker in Feliciano’s eyes danced. “We are?”
“Yes.” Heat rose to Ludwig’s ears, and he pinched them with cold fingers. “This is my first time… uh… motivating someone else.”
Feliciano’s smile was dazzling. “Glad to be your first.”
Both teens prepared themselves: Ludwig by sitting straighter and Feliciano by closing his eyes and leaning in. That meant he didn’t see Ludwig’s hand that would clasp his shoulder, nor notice the haunted look the German put on before he began:
“If you fail algebra, you fail your exams. If you fail your exams, you don’t graduate. And if you don’t graduate, you won’t get a job. Without a job, you can’t pay rent. Without rent, you live on the street. On the street, you start befriending pigeons. Pigeons don’t pay taxes, but they also don’t share their crumbs. Soon, you start fighting pigeons for those crumbs. You lose. The pigeons mock you. Rain becomes your shower, and cardboard your blanket. Eventually, even the rats leave. The maggots eating away at your skin grosses even them out. The winter is just as biting and since you have no snow boots, you slip and break your hip bone. Paralyzed and lonely, you get washed up into a gutter in which you spent the remainder of your miserable life.”
Being an early bloomer, Ludwig already had a deep voice, but he lowered it even further to finish with: “A slow, painful death is the only mercy left for you.”
His expression changed instantly, and he smiled. “Hope that helped. It never fails to motivate me to get up in the morning.”
While he stood and waved Vash over, Feliciano stayed frozen in his seat, staring in terror. “W-wait.” He reached for Ludwig’s sleeve again. “H-how do you do transpositions again?”
“Later.” Ludwig gently plucked his hand away and set it back on the table. “You’re on break now.”
“But—”
“Break!”
Feliciano let go immediately, rooted in place and likely not hearing Ludwig’s reminder to please drink enough water. But that was fine. Ludwig considered his work already done.
He smirked. Motivating people was easier than he had thought. Or perhaps he was just really good at it.
Vash did everything in his power to show Ludwig that a private session with him was the last thing the Swiss wanted. He took as much time as possible dragging himself toward the front of the class as though each step were a feat of its own. Ludwig waited patiently. If Vash thought his speed would crumple the German’s determination, he was dead wrong. Ludwig had grown used to waiting on his classmates during excursions to interesting museums. Well, interesting to him, which explained the snail pace of his fellow students. So Ludwig had learned to adapt. Either by bringing a book with him, or staring at the culprits with such displeasure that they had no choice but to walk faster to escape it.
Thankfully, none of that was necessary, and once he grabbed his backpack, Ludwig steered them out of the classroom and past the gym. Vash shot him a perplexed look, to which Ludwig explained that his plans didn’t involve the gym at all, but outside the building—specifically, the stretch right beside it.
As expected on this particular Tuesday afternoon, the school’s parking lot was completely empty. Ludwig had done his research and found that this was usually the time when most teens preferred keeping up with the newest public brawls rather than huddling in random corners of concrete. And since detention hours usually fell after school, the way the breeze swept through the empty lot, uninterrupted, gave the place a strangely peaceful feel.
If it hadn’t been for Vash’s impatient grumbles. “Why the parking lot?” The Swiss kicked an empty soda can underneath a nearby car. “If you’re going to fight me like you did Sadik, can’t we do it in the gym too?”
“I’m not going to fight you,” Ludwig said, and not even he could miss the way Vash’s shoulders slacked in relief. “In fact, we’re not going to do any martial arts.” He placed his backpack onto the floor and zipped it open. “Since you like skiing—”
“Woah!” Vash glared down at the other, offended. “So just because I’m Swiss, you assume I like skiing?”
“Am I wrong?”
Vash said nothing for a beat. He sucked his teeth and glanced at the graffiti-covered wall beside them. “Okay, maybe my family owns a ski resort in the Alps, but I haven’t been there for five years, so it doesn’t count.”
“Five years?” Ludwig reached into his backpack. “Maybe this will help.”
“What, you’re going to let it snow now?” Vash’s eyes rolled a full circle before landing on the item in Ludwig’s hold. “A skateboard?”
Perhaps it was Vash’s incredulous tone that drained Ludwig’s confidence. His planning last night had promised this would be much easier. “It’s not the same as a snowboard, I admit, but I think it’s close enough.” Ludwig set the board down and gave it a light tap. It rolled toward Vash’s pricey-looking sneakers. “Try it.”
Vash didn’t move, only regarded the board with mild disinterest. “No sprints beforehand?” He asked, raising a brow. “Or a gazillion jumping jacks?”
“Do you want to do them?”
The skateboard was in Vash’s hands immediately. His lime-green eyes studied it, though Ludwig had no idea what there was to scrutinize. It was a generic wooden board, worn around the edges and plastered with suspicious stickers Ludwig hadn’t managed to scrape off. “But you should still do warm-up stretches,” Ludwig reminded him. “And wait.” He dug into his backpack again and pulled out a helmet and guards. “Safety first.”
With every piece of gear Ludwig strapped onto him—wrist, elbow, knee, and shin—Vash’s patience thinned. He refused the mouth guard outright, no matter how many times Ludwig assured him it was brand new. And just as Ludwig turned to grab the hand gloves, Vash pushed off and skated away, rolling across the sun-dappled concrete of the parking lot.
He was quite talented. What had taken Ludwig weeks to learn seemed to come easily to Vash, even if that simply meant staying on the board while it rolled. But the Swiss teen moved past that first step quickly and soon began trying a few tricks of his own, like a Manual or a Shove-it. Railings were no match for him either. After a few attempts, he managed his first nearly perfect Boardslide.
Ludwig celebrated each small win, though Vash always tried to hide his smile whenever Ludwig clapped for another successful trick. Another exercise completed. Ludwig would never tell him, but the only thing the German truly cared about was Vash’s cardiovascular activity.
And it was through the roof. Every jump, every spin, every fall came with heavy breathing, and after only thirty minutes, Vash was drenched in sweat and panting. He even downed an entire water bottle when Ludwig called him over for a break. 600 ml all at once. His pulse was at a healthy height too—145 bpm—which Ludwig discreetly checked while offering to adjust Vash’s loose wrist guards.
All in all, it was a good workout, and Ludwig found it deeply satisfying to record it in his binder as such, well away from Vash’s prying eyes, of course. And when the Swiss teen asked what he was scribbling, Ludwig fumbled out something about a grocery list.
“How do you have a skateboard?” Vash shot right after as he took off his helmet, freeing his chin-length blond hair. It was Ludwig’s helmet, which was apparently too “girly” for the Swiss teen’s liking, given that it was lilac in color. But it was a hand-me-down from a distant cousin, and Ludwig had always had trouble telling his mother no when she acquired things for him through mystical means.
Turned out, she wasn’t the only one susceptible to a good bargain: “My dad thrifted it a while ago in hopes learning to skateboard would get me friends.”
Vash gave the other a slow once-over. “I assume it didn’t work.”
“Worse than that. I broke four bones.” Ludwig shivered at the memory. Not so much the pain, but the consequences for his father. “My mom was furious. It’s been in the garage ever since. You can have it.”
Weighing the skateboard as though it were merchandise at an auction, Vash said: “What do you want for it?”
“Nothing. It’s yours.”
A glare. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I hate owing people. Just name a price, Beilschmidt.”
The perfect pronunciation of his surname caught Ludwig off guard. Still, it made sense; Vash likely spoke German. He simply never used it, as if he didn’t want to be associated with the culture or its people. The same was probably true for French. Either way, Ludwig only shook his head and gathered the guards into a plastic bag. “All I want is for you to practice during detention hours. After the examination is done, you can do whatever you want with it. You can even sell it, since you’re in need of money.”
“I’m not—!” Face flushed, Vash snatched the plastic bag out of Ludwig’s hands. He continued in a low grumble: “I have money. Just not… enough of my own. So this—” He jutted a finger toward the school building, specifically the window of their detention classroom hidden behind a decaying oak tree, “—this better works so that I can earn more than selling cheap cigarettes to broke students.”
Ludwig perked up at that, like a hound at the scent of fresh blood. It seemed like the perfect time for some more ~motivation~: “That’s an excellent goal.” He nodded saintlike. “Financial security for yourself is always a good idea.”
“Not just myself.” Vash huffed and placed the skateboard back on the ground. He wheeled it back and forth with his foot. “I’m not that self-absorbed.” Hands balled in his pockets, he stilled for a moment. He must have lost the internal battle he had with himself, because he pulled out his very sleek iPhone, toed closer to Ludwig and woke the screen.
His wallpaper showed a photo of a young girl, who looked strikingly similar to him, except for her much more mellow expression and bow in her hair. “That’s my younger sister. Lilli. She lives in Switzerland with my dad. Well, for now.” Vash puffed his chest and held his chin high. “Once I graduate, I’ll work and save up enough to fly back to Switzerland for her. And together, we’ll move to Liechtenstein.”
The photo had been taken in a meadow, perhaps somewhere in the lush Alps. The greenery surrounding Lilli matched her frilled dress and the bouquet of edelweiss in her hands. Not to mention her sweet smile, which vanished the moment the Swiss clicked the screen dark.
“Why are you staring?” Vash challenged. “Hm?”
Ludwig blinked. “I… you showed me—”
“She’s thirteen, so you better not get any ideas.”
“I assure you I’m not interested—”
“Oh, so she’s not good enough for you?” Vash barked back. “You think she’s ugly?” He thrust his wrist toward the other so the corner of his phone dug into Ludwig’s chest, forcing him backward. “I’ll have you know she won her school’s beauty pageant when she was only seven years old. She could be a model if she wanted. But she won’t, because her passion is anthology. She wants to open her own flower shop in Liechtenstein, sell home-grown peonies, and donate her income to starving children in Africa, because she has the most precious heart the world has ever seen.”
Ludwig found himself backed against the wall, trapped by the peeved Swiss teen. He had an inkling that if he didn’t want to go home today with skateboard-induced head trauma, he should choose his next words very carefully: “You said she’s thirteen. Would your parents be okay with you taking her to a different country?”
In a heartbeat, Vash’s expression changed. Not back to its usual sourness, but to a deeper, thunderous glower. Fierce enough to battle Mr. Schmidt on a bad day. “Who cares about those two idiots?” Vash growled and took out his anger on a nearby bollard. He kicked it once, twice, careless of the damage to his trademarked shoes. “They wouldn’t even notice her gone. They’re too busy fudging their divorce papers and shopping for lawyers to go to war for them over every little fart.”
Ludwig might have gasped out loud. “Idiots?” As scandalous as everything Vash spat out in a single breath was, this part was the one that made Ludwig clutch his chest in shock. “They’re your parents.”
Which was probably why Ludwig had never fought with his own. His mother still proudly recounted the story to anyone who would listen: when Ludwig had just started middle school and was called on by his teacher to tell the class about his friends, he—so nervous he nearly peed himself—blurtingly gave the first names of his parents and older brother.
“So that means they can’t be absolute morons?” Vash melted the memory with the acid in his tone. He tore the strands of hair sticking to his forehead out of his eyes. “Let them kill each other over their “shared assets” for all I care. The sooner I get Lilli out of this mess, the better.”
“But you’re still a teenager yourself.” Ludwig’s mind reeled with all the possible pitfalls and dangers. “How would you—?”
“Are you an older brother?”
The question startled Ludwig. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” Vash crossed his arms, suddenly much taller than Ludwig had guessed him to be in his notes. “Are you an older brother?”
“No?”
Vash’s response was simple: “Then shut up.” He assembled his belongings—old and new—and flung them around his back. He pivoted toward Ludwig, who still stood in place, confounded. “Talk to me again once you understand what it’s like to want to protect your younger sibling. Even if it’s from your own parents.”
Despite being packed and irritated enough to spend his break time as far away from Ludwig as possible, Vash didn’t leave just yet. “Still…” He wouldn’t meet Ludwig’s eyes. “Thanks… for the board… and stuff.”
The Swiss didn’t wait for a response and dashed back into the building.
Ludwig stared after him, deep in thought and frozen in time until the sound of two voices broke his reverie.
They came from a nook behind the back of the building. Ludwig would have ignored them if it hadn’t been for the first voice, whose accent was unmistakably pointed. “The price will still stay the same. Thirty if you want a C, forty for a B, and sixty for an A+.”
After saddling his backpack, Ludwig crept closer to the illicit-sounding conversation. That meant treading over a small patch of grass along the edge of the building and wincing at every broken twig under his shoes. The moment he peered around the corner, his suspicions were confirmed.
He might not know who the first teen in the varsity jacket, with caramel-blonde hair and glasses was, but he certainly recognized the shorter student beside him, cloaked in a thick dark hoodie and even thicker eyebrows.
“I think I’ll go for another C this time,” the other said. “Wouldn’t want Mr. Severson to get suspicious.” Once realizing he was the only one to laugh, he quickly covered it up with a cough and scratched the back of his head. “And about the math homework… you think you can finish it by tomorrow?”
“Hmm.” It was hard to make out from this angle, but Arthur lifted a hand to his face—likely to take a drag from his cigarette, given the curl of smoke that drifted out when he exhaled the words: “I’ll see what I can do. On such short notice, it’ll probably be a B+ at best, though. That is… if you hold up your side.”
The other teen nodded with double the enthusiasm he received. “I will. You’re the best.” He tackled Arthur into a hug so tight, it made the other choke out a gasp.
In the distance, a car honked.
“Shoot! I have to jet.” The boy let go and jogged backwards, out of their little nook and towards the flock of students now gathered by the school’s fence. It was a miracle he didn’t see Ludwig while slipping right by his nose. “Thanks for everything. Till tomorrow, Artie!”
With a snort, the British teen called after him: “It’s Arthur, you twat.”
The moment the boy was gone, Ludwig emerged from around the corner.
Arthur jumped, dropping his cigarette. “Bloody hell.” He grasped his heaving chest. “Warn me next time you materialize out of thin air.”
Ludwig was in no mood for jokes as he slipped on one of his many iterations of a serious face. This one, in particular, was his disappointed one. “What was that?”
After catching his breath, Arthur swung back up and batted his lashes. “Business, good sir.”
“Selling homework to students is not only academic fraud, but also punishable by expulsion.”
“It is?” The British teen cupped his cheek in mock dismay. “Well, blimey. Why didn’t you say so sooner? Would’ve saved me a lot of income.” He kicked the now-extinguished cigarette butt right in front of Ludwig’s shoes. “And by the way, that was sarcasm in case you missed it. S-A-R-C-A-S-M. Want me to repeat it? Or will a simple definition of what a joke is suffice?”
Ludwig frowned at the blatant littering. With a sigh, he dug into the front pocket of his backpack and pulled out a small plastic bag. “I have an accent, used to wear braces, and my name rhymes with ‘big’ and ‘pig’,” he said as he crouched down. There wasn’t a garbage can nearby—he knew the school’s layout inside and out—so he picked up the butt and slipped it into the bag. “So, trust me. There’s nothing you can say that a) I haven’t heard before and b) will hurt my feelings. That’s what twelve years of school and an older brother who hit puberty when you had your first growth spurt do to you.”
Arthur tipped his hand up, like one might do for a cheers. “We have that in common.” He patted his pockets, front and back, while slowly making a break for it. “By the way, have you seen Vash? I need more cigarettes—”
Ludwig rarely used his size to intimidate, but this moment felt like a valid exception. He marched right up to the other teen and blocked his path with broad shoulders. “And what about the math homework you just promised?” He leaned in, his ‘displeased’ expression simmering as it clashed with Arthur’s vexed one. “I hope for your sake you weren’t planning to pull those solutions from our lessons.”
“That sounds like a lot of work,” Arthur complained. “Why would I do that when I can sit down for ten minutes and do it myself?”
Ludwig reeled back, as if seeing Arthur from a different angle would make the pieces click faster. And then they did—flashes of the Brit sleeping through class, arriving late, playing FIFA on his phone, and still managing to outdo everyone.
“You already know all of this.”
Arthur gave a single, dispassionate clap. “You catch on quick. If you’re interested, my specialty is English essays. But I also dabble in the sciences, history and economics and even German, French and Spanish. Though you would have to pay me a fortune to even speak the latter two. Habe ich etwas vergessen?”
It all happened too fast for Ludwig to keep up, let alone comprehend. He must have looked like a suffocating fish, mouth palpitating as he fumbled for anything else but: “You—”
“Oh, and I almost forgot to mention.” Arthur had clearly been dying to say it, given the way the next sentence burst out of him. “I will no longer be joining you in detention.”
“B-but Marcus’ guys—”
“No longer a problem. See that dapper chap over there?” Arthur gestured toward the throng of students still lingering at the far end of the lot. The boy from earlier hadn’t left either, chatting and laughing with his mates, loudest of them all. “That’s Alfred Jones, quarterback of the school’s American football team, despite only being a first-year.” Ludwig didn’t miss the disdain in the way he pronounced “American.”
“Anyway, in exchange for doing his homework, he agreed to be my personal bodyguard. With his connections and reputation, Marcus wouldn’t dare send someone to lay a finger on me. Neither would Lovino,” Arthur added under his breath.
“Isn’t it great?” The way Arthur regarded Alfred was strangely parental. “A sweet fellow, really. A bit daft and too green around the ears, but he means well. He is perhaps the only closeted athlete I don’t have to sleep with to get what I want. Yay.”
With Arthur’s hood down and the light hitting his face just right, a scatter of freckles sprouted across his nose and cheeks. It was rare to see him this unguarded, and in that moment he looked… familiar. As if Ludwig had seen him once before, years ago, back when the Brit didn’t have dark circles under his eyes or the perpetual urge to disappear inside oversized clothes.
“Now I remember where I’ve seen you before,” Ludwig said, and the longer he studied Arthur, the more the images resurfaced. A bright boy in photos, smiling beside mountains of trophies and ribbons. Of course Ludwig didn’t recognize him when they first met. Current Arthur looked nothing like his former self. The ‘wunderkind’, as the reporters had called him. Someone ‘Oxford and Cambridge will fight over when he’s grown up’, the headlines declared. Ludwig used to stare at his TV screen, amazed at the young mind he so desperately wanted to emulate.
The same admiration bled into his voice when Ludwig realized: “You used to win international Spelling Bees at just three years old.”
The light drained from Arthur’s face. He yanked his hood back up, though his snicker betrayed the hollowness settling over his features. “Always honored to meet fans—”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Arthur stilled, then wrenched his neck. There was a glint in his forest-green eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“For someone so brilliant, you resort to selling your intelligence for a quick buck instead of investing it in your future.”
Arthur’s response was biting: “What I do with my intelligence is my business.”
Ludwig schooled himself. Getting upset wouldn’t help. If he had learned anything from the motivation books he had read, it was that patience and understanding were key. So he reined in his thoughts and feelings, as passionate as they were, and said the very thing he imagined the Brit needed to hear: “I beg to differ. We—the world—need people like you, Arthur—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about what the world needs, alright?” It was probably Arthur’s ingrained English politeness that kept him from spitting directly in Ludwig’s face, but it didn’t stop him from belching out the next words with equal spite. “Nor do I give two shits about what you think of me.”
“Fine.” Ludwig felt his pulse quicken. “What about you, then? What do you think of your current actions?”
Arthur didn’t want to hear more, stomping away with a “Oh, sod off—!”
Too bad the cramped nook didn’t allow him to escape, but face the truth head-on. “Are you proud of yourself?” Ludwig shot at the Brit’s turned back and watched the other's fingers dig further into his crossed arms. “Rotting away in school, repeating year after year while the people you sold your brains to are out there living their best lives?”
He threw a hand toward the fence, where Alfred was currently trying—and failing—to climb into a jeep. The attempt sparked an uproar of guffaws, which the jock soaked up with a grin right before the car sped down the road, its blaring music lingering long after the jeep disappeared.
“For someone so smart,” Ludwig continued, flagging the other’s entire being that reeked of alcohol and smoke. When was the last time he had showered? Or at least did laundry? “Did you really never once picture a future for yourself that doesn’t end with alcohol poisoning at twenty-eight? How can you care so little—?”
“You want me to care?” Arthur whirled around and his screams sent nearby pigeons to the sky. “You want me to fucking care about my life? Where did that get me, huh? Where did all those hours spent training for spelling bees get me? Let me tell you something about the world that matters so much to you:”
He rose onto his toes, eye to eye with Ludwig, close enough so that the German could see the veins pulsing beneath his bloodshot stare. “One drop, one mistake, and you’re out of the picture. You can kiss every scholarship and grant goodbye. Because who cares that you couldn’t get a full hour of sleep for two months straight, because your panic attacks kept you up all night? Who cares that you had to be hospitalized because you lost so much weight you collapsed every time you stood up? Who cares that every time you shut your eyes, all you could see were your parents’ lifeless, bloodied faces, frozen no matter how hard you begged them to move?”
“It’s been a year, Arthur, ever thought of joining the chess tournament again?” He mimicked, then cackled like a hideous witch. “You used to be so well-behaved, Arthur, now you’re just a brat,” he imitated next, much deeper. “Your parents cared about your future, Arthur, why can’t you do the same—?”
The teen’s throat gave out, conquered by a single sob that broke past his lips.
A wail later, and Arthur collapsed entirely. Ludwig wasn’t quick enough to catch him and could only wince as a stone slab absorbed the fall.
He suddenly looked so small, curled up in a quivering ball of sobs.
And he cried.
Cried for what felt like ages. Probably for the first time in a long while. His body didn’t take it well, spasming so violently that Ludwig debated whether to pry him out of the fetal position to check for injuries or possible first-aid.
In the end, he did none of that. Instead, the German lowered himself next to Arthur on the cold, hard stone and draped his jacket over him.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches above and spilled across the fabric of Ludwig’s chinos. As Arthur’s quiet snivels filled the air, Ludwig stretched out a hand, letting the rays warm his skin. He hadn’t checked his watch, so he had no idea how much time had passed while he tracked a trail of ants marching off to find their lunch. For such tiny creatures, they were astonishingly organized—working together, supporting one another, moving like a well-oiled machine.
Ludwig used to love watching nature documentaries, especially ones about social insects like bees, ants, and wasps. He often wondered what it would feel like to be raised in a hive. To have your entire life decided the moment you were born, your purpose prewritten. To belong to something without ever having to earn it or figure it out…
“What are you still doing here?”
When had Arthur turned to watch him offer breadcrumbs to the ants? Ludwig stopped, meeting the other’s swollen eyes spying over his bent knees.
“Waiting to apologize,” Ludwig said, then straightened his spine. He fixed his gaze straight ahead and recited what he had been mentally scripting all this while: “I didn't know... I had no idea and—" He shook his head. No, he needed to do this right: "I assumed things I shouldn’t have and made snap judgments using insufficient information. Not to mention I grossly overstepped boundaries. I thought I was being objective, but I let my personal opinions get in the way. All this was wrong, and I’m truly sorry.”
His apology didn’t seem cherished, but it also wasn’t outright rejected. After examining Ludwig for a beat, Arthur sniffed and raked a hand through the messy tuft of wheat-blond hair poking out of his hood. “Well, you’re not the drunkard who raced into my parents’ car, so…”
Ludwig nodded. They delved into silence once more.
A breeze swept through, rocking the weeds at their feet. It was impressive how they still found ways to force their way through the cement.
Arthur’s nose still ran loudly, so Ludwig offered him a tissue. “You’re welcome,” he said when the Brit thanked him.
More silence. Then: “Have you heard of the gifted child syndrome?”
There was something refined in the way Arthur blew his nose and dabbed his eyes dry. He shook his head.
“It’s an informal term used to describe patterns of behavior, emotional challenges, or social difficulties that can develop in children who are academically or creatively advanced,” Ludwig said.
A snort. “Is this your attempt to relate to me?”
“Not at all. I’m not a gifted kid.” Ludwig scoured the expanse of his pants for lint to brush off. “In fact, in elementary school, my teachers were convinced I had a learning disability. That’s why I had to repeat grade five.”
Arthur’s eyes widened, then narrowed, like Ludwig was a puzzle he couldn’t yet quite crack. “Then how…?”
“I don’t know. It just… clicked for me around four years ago, and I’ve been top of my class ever since.” Ludwig rested his chin on his tucked knees and closed his eyes. A helicopter flew overhead, its rhythmic whirring grounding him as he skimmed through that particular file of memories stored in his mind. “I remember locking myself in my room when my brother and parents were fighting and just… read. I read all my books. Once I ran out, I tackled every textbook I owned. And when I finished those too, I copied them by hand—once, twice, sometimes even three times. Eventually, I had them all memorized.”
Ludwig would never forget the day he came home with his first A. The surprised glee on his mother’s face immediately dried the glassy sheen in her eyes and the tears that had been streaming only moments before.
“I mean, studying still takes a lot of effort,” he confessed for the very first time, and it felt oddly freeing. “But I’ve found methods to make it a bit less taxing.” He allowed himself a small smile and lifted his face toward the sky. “I guess I’m pretty good at making people think it all comes easy to me.”
“Indeed. You play the “nerd” bit quite well.”
“Thank you.” Ludwig realized he had been talking about himself far too much. This was about Arthur, not him, so he steered the conversation back on track: “But no, I’m not a gifted kid. No matter how much I wished I were. That’s why I read up on it. Studies say that gifted children face a lot of unique challenges in early adulthood, especially when they’re hit with life tragedies.”
He halted. Where was he going with this again? Ah, yes. He refocused on Arthur, praying the Brit would understand what he meant, even though he fumbled his next words beyond recognition: “A-all I’m trying to say is you’re not alone… yeah. I might not be able to relate… but there are countless people out there who can.”
Pulling out his phone will forever be Ludwig’s go-to method when he doesn’t know what more to say. “Here.” He showed the other the website he had bookmarked. “This is a forum I browse sometimes. It’s full of former gifted kids sharing their stories. Some of them lost family members too.”
Arthur hadn’t uncurled from his balled-up position, but he did crane his neck for a better view. “What is the forum called?”
“Selfhelp4GiftedKids. Let me write it down for you.” Ludwig jotted it on a sticky note and handed it over. As he wrote, he caught a glimpse of his wristwatch and nearly had a stroke at how much time he had spent here instead of in the classroom. Hopefully, Arthur didn’t sense his alarm as he slowly rose and took his jacket.
“I just had our daily PE lesson with Vash." He slung his jacket over his arm. “You’ll be next in thirty-two minutes. I’ll be waiting in the classroom.”
With that, he pivoted and walked away, feeling the weight of Arthur’s gaze on him.
Thirty minutes had passed, and there was still no sign of the British teen.
Ludwig tried not to let his restlessness show, though he probably failed, as he constantly checked the windows, peered into the empty hallway, opened the door, and glanced at his phone in case a message came in. Soon, his unease had infected the students, and the bickering in the classroom skyrocketed.
To prevent further damage to morale, he decided to set up his equipment on the desk by the door, giving him a clear view of the open hallway. And when he wasn’t zeroing in on every ghostly moment outside like a hawk, he was staring at his binder.
At the empty page titled ‘Arthur’.
He stared for a while, as though the A4 sheet would finally break its silence and tell him whether or not it wanted to be scrunched up and thrown away. And even though Ludwig had never had much of a grasp on his own emotional landscape, he knew the feeling gnawing at him wasn’t the expected worry about how Arthur’s absence might jeopardize his deal with Mr. Schmidt. Surprisingly, that was one of the last things on his mind right now—
“That’s a cute binder.”
Since Ludwig had been so distracted, he hadn’t witnessed Feliciano’s decision to pack his things and move across the classroom to the spot right next to Ludwig. Under the Italian’s curious gaze, he slapped his binder closed. “I-it’s for my grocery list.”
“I’m on your grocery list?” Feliciano held his hands up, grinning. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Ludwig’s cheeks warmed. He cleared his throat and fingered the page marker with the Italian’s name on it. “They’re just little observations I put down about everyone.”
“Oh, I do that too!” Feliciano bowed to the side to retrieve a notebook so drowned in stickers, it looked like the average traffic light pole at a junction in Berlin. “I have a sketchbook that I sectioned off for all my classmates. Look.”
He flipped through it, tossing page after page of drawings. Some were mere sketches, others more defined and even colored. One showed Vash at his desk, listening to what might be a voice note, a smile on his face. Another depicted Feliks napping on what looked like Sadik’s backpack. Lovino appeared on a different page, staring out the window in a picturesque, daydreaming way. And then there was Arthur, blissfully reading a book at the back of the class with his hood down.
“And that’s you.” While the drawings of Feliciano’s classmates took up more than half of the sketchbook, nothing compared to the amount of art the Italian had accumulated of Ludwig alone.
He had captured him in every possible pose and situation: sitting at his desk, standing by the blackboard, writing on the blackboard, cleaning the blackboard, trying to convince Lovino to solve a math problem he didn’t want to…
“I drew you as though you had style.”
Ludwig took a second look. Sure enough, despite the art reflecting the lessons perfectly, Feliciano had added his own personal touch—dressing Ludwig in all sorts of outfits whose names he didn’t even know. He flicked through the pages, one more intricate than the last. Feliciano had even captured the quirk of his brow perfectly. Was he really frowning this much? The Italian had likely drawn him at the exact moment he was deep in concentration. Still… he didn’t hate the way he was portrayed. If anything, these new fashionable clothes made him look rather… good.
“Those…” Ludwig should have berated the Italian for clearly trading study time for drawing. But all he managed to say was: “Those are amazing.”
Feliciano vibrated with excitement. “You think?”
“I do.” Ludwig could hardly tear his attention away from the sketchbook and the way all the clothes fell so life-like. “Do you enjoy designing clothes?”
“Oh, yes. When my cousin Felicia got married last spring, I made her wedding dress.” Feliciano showed Ludwig a picture on his phone. It was hard to make out through the cracked screen, but the young woman in the photo seemed elated to twirl in the extravagant white dress so sparkly it could rival a starry night.
“Impressive. Did you ever consider doing something with design after you graduate?”
“I’ve never thought about it before.” Feliciano fiddled with his pen, spinning it around his thumb like it was second nature. “I mean, I always knew I’d be Lovino’s right-hand man once he takes over Nonno’s ‘business,’” he said, punctuating with air quotes.
“But is that what you want to do—?”
“Oi.” To seize the attention of the room, Lovino scraped the chair he was balancing on backwards. “What’re you two chatting about?”
Feliciano paled, then quickly called over his shoulder: “Nothing! Ehm…” He faced Ludwig again, looking lost until he pointed at something sticking out of Ludwig’s binder. “What’s that?”
Ludwig had no idea, since he could have sworn it hadn’t been there yesterday evening. Upon pulling it out, he found a small envelope, rubber-duck yellow, and he already dreaded opening it. “It’s from my brother.”
“How cute!” Feliciano said, turning the envelope so Ludwig could see the little drawing on the back. A small bird, wearing oversized gym shorts and riding a bee, with the caption ‘Bee-lieve in yourself.’ “Your brother’s pretty good at drawing too.”
Rolling his eyes, Ludwig plucked out the folded five-dollar bill squeezed inside. According to Gilbert’s note beside it, he was supposed to spend it on “getting some candy” for himself. “He has this… character he imagined as a child. It’s a canary named Gilbird.” The longer Ludwig studied the bird, the more certain he became that it was making fun of him. “He’s always wanted to be an animator and create his own cartoon show set in the former state of Prussia to teach children about the former German Empire. It’s all very silly.”
Feliciano only smiled, his attention on where Ludwig rubbed the pad of his thumb over the ridiculous-looking Gilbird. “We hang out after school,” he suddenly said. “Lovi, me and the others. You want to come too? I could show you more of my art.”
“I can’t.” Ludwig tucked the dollar bill into his wallet. “I have to work out, do my homework, and…” He glanced around. Everyone was either still working on or finishing their math exercises. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t overhear him, so he lowered his voice and beckoned Feliciano closer. The Italian complied immediately, and Ludwig showed him the papers he had been filling. It was only fair, since Feliciano had let him peek into his private pages first.
“I’m actually tracking everyone’s cognitive and physical performances in here.”
“Oooh.” Feliciano’s face was just inches apart from Ludwig’s. “That’s smart. What does that say?”
His finger traced along the German sentence on the first page meant to inspire Ludwig’s journey. “It says: a Beagle is no Retriever. As in… you’re all different dog breeds.”
“I beg your fucking pardon?”
Ludwig and Feliciano snapped upright, like children caught red-handed by an adult—though in this case, the adult was Arthur.
“Oh!” Feliciano bounced on his seat. “Can I be a Bolognese? They are so cute!”
“Why are you calling yourself a dog?” Lovino grumbled from behind. “If anything, you should be a wolf.”
Sadik laughed. “Why be a wolf if you could be an Anatolian Shepherd is my question.”
“Polish Greyhounds are much better,” Feliks said while applying his eyeliner. “Not to mention better looking.”
“Aren’t those the ones that crumple at every breeze?” Ivan’s smile was deadly. “The Russian Black Terrier would eat you for breakfast.”
Disputes burst forth, but Ludwig didn’t intervene. He didn’t even register any of it. He had only made it past Feliciano’s legs before he stopped in his tracks, staring at Arthur, who rather looked everywhere else. “So—” Hands in his pockets, Arthur swayed on his feet, —will we head to the gym so that you can duel me in peace like you did with Sadik?”
“Why does everybody think—?” Sighing, Ludwig grabbed his backpack. “No, I have something else planned for you. You and I—” He scooped out the round object that had been sleeping in his bag for way too long, “—are going to play some football.”
Arthur crossed his arms. “I'm going to crush you.”
“I’d love to see you try.”
With Arthur’s hood down, Ludwig could see the slow stretch of a smile. One that tickled out the freckles on his face.