Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sneakers shrieked against the polished floor, each step a desperate sprint, each breath a gasp that cut through burning lungs. The teenager tore past rows of lockers, then the water dispenser before making a turn by the bathrooms. The flickering fluorescent lights above tracked his every movement, catching the sweat dripping down his temples until his dark hair was all but glued to his forehead. As he ran, he whipped around for the fifth time, pulse pounding, his veins thrumming with adrenaline.

He wasn’t being followed… yet.

A devilish smirk broadened his lips as he turned back around. The hallway ahead yawned empty. A sliver of hope. Freedom lay just beyond the next turn. He lunged around the corner—

And pain exploded through his body, spreading from the side of his head. His vision blurred. The world tipped sideways.

Then—darkness.

And in its depths, a single thing remained:

The memory of piercing blue eyes.

In a world ruled by chaos and fueled by disorder, there was only one thing Ludwig could still count on: that he always had a plan.

Some might call that contradictory. Arrogant, even. How could a single person impose order on something as unpredictable as life? What kind of hubris led him to believe that entropy itself was irrelevant?

But it had never been about certainty. Not really. It was a process—a methodical weighing of possibilities, an endless calculation of the countless paths life could take at any moment. And with each possibility, a plan.

Or rather, many. Some stretched across decades, while others simply guided his morning routine. Ludwig took pride in his preparedness; if there was a will, there was a plan, so to speak. There had never been a moment when he didn’t have at least a rough idea of what to do next.

Until now.

Ludwig wrung his fingers one by one. He shifted on the impossibly hard chair beneath him. He would have preferred to stand, but he feared that the moment he so much as lifted his head, Mr. Schmidt would finally give in to his urges and bite it off.

For now, the man only paced, arms folded, his expression facing the single window in the office.

So Ludwig kept his gaze low, skimming the surface of his principal’s desk. Reading the bronze name plaque over and over again kept him sane.

Professor Volker Schmidt, Ph.D.

It was strange how he still clung to the title. Probably a relic from his former life. Professor had a certain weight to it—Principal of a Public High School in a Remote City No One Cares About on the other hand didn’t quite have the same ring.

“I’m sure you know why I called you here.”

Ludwig hesitated, but eventually dared to look up. Icy blue eyes locked onto him, pinning him in place. However, Mr. Schmidt’s gaze always carried a certain severity, so maybe Ludwig had nothing to worry about.

“Not really,” he said at first. Clearing his throat, he sat a little straighter because the crunched pose hurt his perfect posture. “I mean, if this is about my valedictorian speech, I can assure you I’ve been working on it tirelessly.” He grabbed his bag and began rummaging through it. “I was even thinking of giving a little shout-out to the animal rescue at the end. Maybe hand out some flyers for the pets that need homes. But I have it all in my rough draft. I can show you if you want—”

A shadow engulfed him, infused with the smell of sandalwood and ink remover. Ludwig looked up again and gulped at the glare drilling into him.

“A student from our sister school was admitted to the hospital yesterday,” Mr. Schmidt gritted out, standing uncomfortably close. “Three facial bone fractures, two dislodged teeth and a concussion. And all you think about is your speech?”

Ludwig dropped his bag. In shock or admission, he wasn’t sure. “N-no, of course not.” He shot up halfway, then thought better of it because he didn’t want to brush noses with his principal. “I just wasn’t sure why you…” His hands flailed. “I do care about…” He trailed off, blanking.

“Marcus Costa.”

“Right. Marcus.” Ludwig palmed his knees, leaning closer as his voice dropped. “H-how is the doing?”

“How dare you ask me how he is doing,” was shot back. Ludwig fused further with his chair. “Beating a young man to a pulp and then asking me this? Have you got no shame, Beilschmidt?”

Ludwig paused. He blinked. “I… I did what?”

“Oh.” Mr. Schmidt laughed. A chilling, unsettling sound from a man who rarely smiled. He tipped toward Ludwig and his loose, long blond hair fell like a curtain meant to pull the student into his menacing expression. “You want to play dumb now too? You really can’t remember what happened yesterday? How you maimed Marcus Costa with the same hands you use to ace calculus?”

Staring at his hands, it all rushed back to Ludwig. Every single detail of yesterday flooded his mind like a busted dam. The sweat… the fluorescent lights… the ambulance… and, of course, the pungent smell of blood that hadn’t disappeared since. “There must have been a misunderstanding,” he realized, then balled his shaky fingers into fists. He loosened them immediately under the tense scrutiny of his principal. “I didn’t hurt…” Ludwig corrected himself: “I didn’t beat him up. I didn’t even lay a finger on him.”

Mr. Schmidt only scoffed and turned away.

“You have to believe me!” Now Ludwig shot up from his chair. “Didn’t you read the report I sent you afterward?”

Taking his time, Mr. Schmidt meandered around his desk. He said nothing as he threw on his reading glasses along the way. Ludwig sighed in relief at the sight of the familiarly formatted, neatly clipped stack of documents on the principal’s desk. He toed closer, trying to peek over the man’s shoulder. “Am Ende steht auch ein Glossar wenn Sie nachlesen möchten—”

Blue eyes flashed back. “Are you speaking German to suck up to me?”

Flinching, Ludwig withdrew. “Um… no?”

“Good. Because it wouldn’t have worked anyway.” Mr. Schmidt pushed up his glasses. “It’s already bad enough that everyone thinks we are related. But since the student body at this school has more lice than brain cells, I am forever cursed by association.”

His frown deepened as he skimmed the document. It unnerved Ludwig. He had always known Mr. Schmidt wasn’t fond of him, and the reason was clear from the start. But sometimes, he wondered if the source of his principal’s foul mood went beyond Ludwig’s surname. What had turned him into such a bitter figure? Would Ludwig act the same if he lost his job as a distinguished Professor of Philology and Germanic Studies when his university closed for good? Would he also come to hate the world if he ended up as a German-teaching high school principal instead?

The more Ludwig thought about it, the more unlikely that seemed. Everything pointed to poor life planning on Mr. Schmidt’s part.

Maybe Ludwig was safe after all.

“I did read this yesterday,” Mr. Schmidt concluded, setting aside the report. He slowly removed his glasses and angled them into his tailored grey suit. “Very detailed.” It wasn’t a compliment. “If I understand correctly, you were at the school’s gym until 4:53 PM, after which you left due to a training accident. One of the speed bags hit you in the face, causing you to bleed from your nose. You rushed to the bathroom, and in your hurry, flung open the hallway doors and hitting Costa in the face, who had been running toward them. He lost consciousness immediately.”

On instinct, Ludwig’s fingers rose to his nose. It still stung under his touch. He nodded.

“So, Mr. Gibson’s account of the aftermath was correct?” Mr. Schmidt continued. “He found you sweaty, panting, with blood spilling from your nose and smudges on your fists. And below you lay Costa, with an equally bloodied nose and marred knuckles.” Mr. Schmidt tilted his head, staring almost wistfully into space. “But it was all just an accident.”

Closing his eyes, Ludwig took a deep, leveling breath. “Exactly. Thank you for understanding. For I second I was worried you would—”

A fist slammed on the desk, making Ludwig’s heart leap into his throat. “Willst du mich für dumm verkaufen? This is a criminal offense, Beilschmidt! I could expel you for this!”

It probably didn’t look good for students or visitors who happened to pass by the principal's office and hear two deep, German-accented voices shouting at each other, but Ludwig didn’t care. Not that he could. He didn’t remember the last time he talked so fast, grasping for any words that would aid his innocence, no matter how far-fetched.

“Sir, I swear, I never meant to hurt him! I’ve never hurt anyone! Not even animals. Every time my father and cousins went hunting, I stayed home to prepare for my Mathlete competition.” An idea came to him. He loosened his frustrated grip on his hair. “Just ask Kiku Honda, the Japanese student who transferred last year.” He had been the only person Ludwig could consider somewhat of a close acquaintance, which made their parting somewhat difficult. “He can vouch for me. I know he can. But I don’t have his phone number, so you would have to check your archives for it.”

Mr. Schmidt did, in fact, not check the archives. He remained where he was, a single eyebrow raised at what he must consider a ridiculous request.

Defeated, Ludwig slumped back in his chair. “Just objectively speaking,” he tried to reason, “why would I beat up another student when I’ve never even got in trouble before? What would I get out of it? I’m about to graduate at the top of my class with a perfect GPA, and—”

“That is why I won’t expel you.” Mr. Schmidt lowered into his chair as well. It was wrapped in quality leather and tipped back smoothly. No doubt another memento from his university days. “But that doesn’t mean I believe your ridiculous story. There had been enough cases of ‘good’ students turning rogue just before graduating. All to prove something.” He clicked his tongue, glaring into the distance. “And it’s not like you don’t have a role model to emulate.”

With one graceful motion, he flipped up again, snatched a pen, and scribbled what Ludwig believed to be his death sentence:

“Detention till graduation.”

It knocked the air out of Ludwig’s lungs. He felt lightheaded and grabbed the sides of his chair for support. “Will that go on my permanent record?”

Mr. Schmidt won’t look at him. “What do you think?”

With one last desperate attempt, Ludwig nearly crawled toward his principal’s desk. “Please,” he begged, pleaded, hoped his principal understood he would sell his soul if need be. “I can’t leave this school branded as a delinquent. That will ruin everything.”

And he wasn’t the type to generalize.

“Well, then you better show me that you’ve learned something from the experience,” was all Mr. Schmidt answered as he capped his fountain pen. “I expect you to do better than the others you will join in detention. The ones I can’t get rid of.” He growled under his breath: “Especially if their name is Vargas.”

The room pressed down on Ludwig’s shoulders like a collapsed building. He barely managed to stand upright. Clamming his lips close, he forced his spine into place, wrestled with himself to stay calm. Stay collected. And his struggle didn’t go unnoticed.

The next words burned like acid on his tongue, but they needed to be said. Because at the end of the day, intentionally or not, he did hospitalize someone and should face the consequences, no matter how unfair he deemed them. “I accept my punishment. But before I leave—” He met his principal’s gaze head-on, “—is there anything more I can do? Anything to fix this?”

For a fleeting second, Mr. Schmidt’s hard features morphed into something close to mellow. To respect. A quiet moment passed between them, void of antagonism for the very first time. The principal was too preoccupied studying Ludwig in his entirety: his tall posture, raised chin, and unwavering determination in his eyes.

Mr. Schmidt paused, deep in thought. Ludwig might have never seen him so torn before.

But their fragile bubble of rapport plopped when the door to the office flung open.

“Hallöchen!”

Just like that, the corners of Mr. Schmidt’s mouth took a nosedive. All because of one young man who strolled in like he owned the place.

Ludwig didn’t need to turn around. He didn’t have to see his brother to feel his overbearing presence behind him, despite his shorter height. And he certainly didn’t need to look to know there was a smirk plastered across Gilbert’s face when he drawled: “What up, Grandpa? Remember me?”

“How could I forget?” Mr. Schmidt replied, his voice glacial. Ludwig had thought the man’s demeanor couldn’t get any colder. Gilbert’s mere existence proved otherwise. “You and your friends made my life a living hell for three years. My therapist is now in therapy because of you.”

“Aww.” Gilbert sauntered past Ludwig toward the oak desk, tossing his silvery head to the side in mock flattery. “I missed you too.”

The tension between them cackled. Mr. Schmidt’s eyes raked over Gilbert’s appearance: a worn-out T-shirt, sweatpants, and zero regard for the school’s dress code.

“I believe I asked to speak to your parents when I left the voicemail.”

“They’re on a business trip,” Gilbert replied. “And until they get back—” He hopped to Ludwig’s side, standing on tiptoes to ruffle his hair. “—I’m this little stinker’s legal guardian. Which had been super easy.” He threw his head back with a haughty laugh. “I don’t know what everyone keeps complaining about. Maybe I should become a parent.”

“Do the world a favor and get a vasectomy,” Mr. Schmidt deadpanned. “I will personally pay for it.”

Gilbert batted his crimson eyes. “That’s very generous of you, but I’m not in the market for a sugar daddy right now.” He gave his former principal a slow once-over. “Or a grand-daddy, in your case.”

Mr. Schmidt didn’t so much as blink. “Get the hell out of my office. Both of you.”

Ludwig barely had enough time to gather his belongings and walk out the door before it slammed close behind him.

All Gilbert offered as a response was a chuckle. “Ah,” he mused. “Good ol’ Schmiddy. Still acting like someone pissed in his morning coffee. Wow.” He scratched the back of his silvery head, staring at the door with awe. “Has it already been seven years—hold it right there, Ludwig.”

With a wince, Ludwig froze mid-step. So much for sneaking away to face his punishment in peace and a little less shame. Why was Gilbert’s hearing so hawk-like? Clutching his bag to his chest, he turned back to his brother, gaze lowered.

“I listened to the voicemail he left.” Gilbert pivoted his neck just enough to narrow his shrewd eyes at Ludwig. “You got into a fight with another student?”

Pure lament marked Ludwig’s tone when he cried for what felt like the hundredth time: “There wasn’t a fight! Yes, I did hurt him, but—”

Two hands shot out, trapping Ludwig’s face and yanking him closer until he was but an inch away from Gilbert’s serious expression.

“Finally.”

Ludwig wasn’t given the time to ask for clarification. His brother had taken full creative liberties with his face, tilting it side to side and examining it with the thoroughness of a forensic expert. “Let me get a good look at you.” His finger jabbed Ludwig’s nose and he hissed in pain. “Oof, he got you good on the nuzzle. But apart from that, not much. Huh, was hoping for some battle scars. But it makes sense when you say there wasn’t even a fight. So you finished him off early. ‘Atta boy. Oh, is that a mustache you’re growing?”

“Yeah, it definitely is,” Antonio said, cocking his head to catch a better angle of Ludwig’s upper lip.

“Are you sure?” Francis countered and trailed a finger along Ludwig’s jaw. “It’s so pale it might just be peach fuzz.”

Three people crowding Ludwig’s personal space was three too many. He jerked back to gesture accusingly at the newcomers—who, at this point, might as well be his brother’s extra limbs. “Where did you guys suddenly come from?”

Of course, he would never get a proper answer to that. “They are here for support,” Gilbert said as Antonio and Francis nodded along. He wound them in a side hug. “To escort you to your very first detention.”

God knew that was the last thing Ludwig wanted. But the mere mention of the word detention had already taken such a chokehold on him that resisting the hands dragging him away was impossible. Nor could he, in his frozen state of shock, stop the onslaught of commentary as he was death-marched toward his impending doom.

“And that for putting the top bully of another school in his place,” Antonio said and nudged Ludwig’s shoulder affectionately. “Now that’s badass.”

Francis hummed. “A few girls told me that he had been causing trouble on both school grounds.” He looped an arm through Ludwig’s in a grand gesture and winked at a couple of staring guys by their lockers. “You’re a hero, mon ami. And will probably be hunted for sport by his goons.”

“I’ll be what—?”

“So how did you serve the final blow?” Gilbert asked, now walking backward in front of him, completely oblivious to the students scrambling out of his way. “A quick uppercut to crack his jaw?” He raised his fists, slipping into a fighting stance. “A shovel hook? Or a feint to break his focus first—?”

Suddenly, Gilbert stopped in his tracks, and Ludwig crashed into him.

They had arrived.

Ahead loomed a set of heavy steel doors, scuffed and dented from years of abuse, both accidental and deliberate. Rust flaked around the edges, and someone had scrawled cryptic messages in red marker, which had since been half-scrubbed off, leaving behind ghostly smears like dried blood.

This was it. The most infamous part of the school. The detention center.

Or, as teachers and students alike had so lovingly dubbed it: Sodom and Gomorrah.

Ludwig felt faint again. And it didn’t help that, at this exact moment, Francis and Antonio decided to let go of him, skipping ahead to join Gilbert in waltzing right inside.

He had no choice but to follow.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, like it hadn’t been refreshed in decades. A damp, musty smell curled through the hallway, a mixture of sweat, rotting paper, and something vaguely resembling spoiled milk. The walls, once painted a neutral off-white, were now a chaotic canvas of old graffiti, peeling posters, and questionable stains.

While Ludwig wished for a gas mask, Gilbert breathed in deeply, spreading his arms as if embracing an old friend. "This brings back memories."

"Wow," Francis murmured, running a finger across a locker and inspecting the grime it collected. "This place hasn’t changed one bit. Literally.” His gaze flicked to a familiar set of etchings. “And look, my detailed depiction of Mr. Thomas’ genitals is still here."

"My gum too!" Antonio exclaimed, poking at something fossilized beneath an out-of-order water dispenser. "I wonder if it’s still good…"

Gilbert, meanwhile, had zeroed in on something on the ceiling. "And… The Pizza."

They all looked up.

Except Ludwig. He didn’t want to look. He couldn’t. Being in this place for less than a minute already showed him everything he would ever need to know about it. So he stayed in place, jaw clenched and looking everywhere but the ceiling. If he didn’t see The Pizza, which the others treated like some sort of ancient relic, it couldn’t haunt his dreams.

"The fact that it is still here is very disturbing,” Francis commented.

Gilbert agreed—before flinging his phone in Antonio’s direction. "Quick, take a picture of me with it."

After an absurdly long photo session, Gilbert paused, lowering his phone. He stared at it for a long while, his fingers tightened around the device, but his interest in it had vanished.

Antonio noticed first. "What’s wrong?"

Gilbert exhaled through his mouth, shaking his head as if that could keep the memories at bay. "I just remembered our first detention… We were right here, too. Late as hell." He took in every inch of the hallway, visibly letting that fateful day play out in his mind again as his gaze cruised his surroundings. It stopped at his friends, then softened. "Antonio,” he said. “Remember when you slipped on a jalapeño slice and I laughed so hard that my milkshake came out of my nose?"

"I remember." Smiling wistfully, Antonio placed a solemn hand on his chest. “Though I did break my hip bone and you were still laughing."

Sighing with nostalgia, Gilbert gestured at a lower locker whose hinges had come undone. "And Francis, wasn’t this the very locker you lost your virginity in? Which traumatized Antonio and me so badly we couldn’t watch porn for an entire year?"

Francis closed his eyes in somber reflection. "Technically, it was my third virginity, but yes."

Gilbert's voice caught, overwhelmed by the sheer gravity of the moment. "And yet—" he choked out, "the fact that we are still friends after everything… after all this time…" His shoulders trembled. His lip wobbled.

Without hesitation, Antonio and Francis pulled him into a tight embrace.

"It’s okay," Antonio cooed.

"Let it all out," Francis murmured, rubbing small circles on Gilbert’s back as Ludwig remained where he was, shifting from one foot to the next so that his shoes wouldn’t get stuck indefinitely.

"I’m okay," Gilbert finally croaked, swiping at his eyes before straightening up. In an instant, the sentimental moment was gone, replaced by an entirely different air. He took a step toward Ludwig, clapping both hands down on his shoulders. "Now,” he declared like a king about to bestow his reign to a worthy successor, "it’s time for you to carry on my legacy. But first—”

He whipped his phone out again, “—we need to commemorate the moment.”

Antonio and Francis whooped in agreement, flanking Ludwig before he could protest. After a few rapid-fire photos with several featuring Gilbert’s bunny ears behind Ludwig’s head, they got back to business. "Alright.” Gilbert clapped his hands together. "Let’s get you ready.”

Antonio began sagely, helping to put on Ludwig’s backpack and adjusting the straps like a proud father sending his child off to war: "remember to play nice with the other kids. And don’t forget: a jab to the face is just a distraction, a cross to the body lowers their guard, and a hook to the head—" he made a swinging motion, "—is for maximum impact."

"Open communication is key," Francis added and smoothed out Ludwig’s collar with the love and care of a doting mother. "Except when it comes to your weaknesses. Sharing those will get you dismembered. They can smell fear. So make sure you always threaten first.”

Sighing, Gilbert shook his head. "Guys. While I appreciate your advice, let’s not forget the most important one.”

Ludwig, against all logic, perked his ears. Maybe it was instinct—sheer survival instinct. “That being?"

With a wide grin, Gilbert seized his brother’s shoulders.

"Don’t die."

Everything after that happened too fast. Gilbert stepped aside, dramatically presenting the classroom Ludwig would be condemned to for the next half hour. Francis took hold of the doorknob. Antonio, with far too much enthusiasm, pushed Ludwig’s reluctant body forward.

But just as he was about to be shoved through the door, a voice stopped him.

"Ludwig, wait.”

Ludwig crumbled in relief. Had Gilbert’s voice always sounded this… angelic?

He fully expected his brother to pull him back. To call it all off. To reveal that this was nothing but an elaborate prank, complete with hidden cameras. Yes, a silly, silly prank. And Ludwig wouldn’t even be mad. He would laugh along because they really got him this time. They really made him believe his entire future had been ruined by one stupid, unfortunate accident.

Gilbert stepped closer, looking him dead in the eye with a solemn expression, only to say:

“Can I borrow twenty bucks?"

"Ah, never mind," Gilbert waved it off when Ludwig only stared at him with a wide hung mouth. "I’ll just take it from your David Hasselhoff-shaped piggy bank you’re hiding under your bed. Don’t forget to make lots of friends. See ya!”

And with a final slap on the back, Ludwig was catapulted into the room with a force that nearly sent him sprawling. The door slammed shut behind him, sealing his fate. The resulting draft brushed against his neck, raising every hair on his body.

He barely had time to adjust before he realized—

Everyone was staring at him.

Heart pulsing, his gaze immediately dropped to the floor, which was littered with discarded soda bottles, crumpled paper, and gum wrappers. He swallowed, trying to remain unnoticed as he made his way to the front of the classroom, where an array of empty seats awaited him. It was a stroke of luck, all things considered—he had always preferred sitting in the front. To hear the teachers better.

The tables he passed were carved up like ancient ruins, layered with years of etchings: names, insults, crude drawings, and tally marks that hinted at just how long some students had spent in here. The chairs were no better with their missing screws, wobbly frames, and stuffing peeking out of torn seats. A lone ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, creaking as if every rotation might be its last.

Everything was sticky, from the thick air with the smell of stale chips and cheap cleaning products to the chairs Ludwig now needed to choose one of. He went for the one in the second row by the window, thankful that at least one spot was relatively intact. The first row was missing a table entirely, and he didn’t even want to imagine the history behind that.

Ludwig placed his bag carefully on his lap and took a slow, deliberate breath (cautiously, of course, since he didn’t want to breathe too deeply, afraid of inhaling whatever diseases might be lurking in the air), doing his best to ignore the distant murmur of voices behind him. The noise of his detention mates felt muffled, like a backdrop to his own spiraling thoughts. But he caught himself in time and with his slowed breathing came a much clearer mind.

Yes, he was going to get through this. He had to. He had to prove to Mr. Schmidt that—

He frowned, eyes still shut. What was he really going to prove? How was he supposed to get out of this? Mr. Schmidt seemed determined to permanently stain his record with this detention, and that meant Ludwig could kiss his scholarship goodbye. And didn’t that rip at the strings of Ludwig’s sanity anew? Add fuel to his re-quickening pulse?

Unless…

No. Worrying about it now was a waste of energy. He needed to focus on making it through the day. Planning for a solution would come later. One step at a time. And most importantly: avoid making any more mistakes that turn to fully-fledged accidents and peeved principals.

A sudden shift in the air made Ludwig open his eyes. A pair of legs swayed past him, clad in tight shorts that left little to the imagination. His heart skipped a beat when someone lowered themselves into the chair directly in front of him.

Bright amber eyes met his, assessing him with a curious glint.

“Hey,” came a soft greeting.

Ludwig fumbled with the hem of his backpack, trying to gather his bearings. He muttered a low: “Hello.”

“I’m Feliciano.”

An awkward nod. “Ludwig.”

“I know,” Feliciano replied, absentmindedly toying with a lock of his shiny bronze hair. “You’ve kind of become a celebrity. Is it true that Marcus threatened to kill you and came at you with a knife?”

Ludwig’s resolve to avoid eye contact with the pretty boy crumbled. He whipped his head up, aghast. “I’m sorry—?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter how it happened,” Feliciano mused, his expression thoughtful. His smile was back. It looked quite comely on his naturally pout lips. “I’m sure you were amazing anyway.”

Denial would have been the honest reply, but Ludwig rather fingered his backpack some more. Then, without warning, Feliciano leaned forward over Ludwig’s desk—so close now that the German could feel the heat from his body, see the glimmer in his gaze. In the same casual tone one might use to ask about the weather, the boy said:

“So... want to make out?”

Ludwig choked on his own spit. Blood rushed to his face and he tipped back, close to falling. “Hah? W-what? What makes you think I’m… not…” His voice dropped to a whisper, “...straight?”

The other teen didn’t seem at all fazed. He blinked in confusion instead. “Oh. Well, Feliks texted me that you stared at my ass before I sat down.” He pulled out his phone to show the message, but his cracked screen made it impossible to decipher anything. “He is right over there,” Feliciano deemed important to add as he pointed to the person Ludwig assumed to be Feliks a few rows back.

The boy with blond, shoulder-length hair waved, smiling with feigned innocence.

“Right!” Feliciano perked up as if nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just caused Ludwig’s brain to fissure. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

With a theatrical flourish, he gestured toward the back of the classroom. “Like I said, that over there is Feliks. He’s in here for indecent public behavior.”

Feliks, dressed in pink fishnet tights and a leather jacket, sat cross-legged on his chair, absorbed in his own reflection. He expertly traced a line of black eyeliner across his already feline-like eyes, pausing only to smirk at Ludwig before returning to perfecting his look.

“Behind you,” Feliciano continued, “is Vash. He’s here for possession and distribution of contraband.”

Turning, Ludwig caught sight of the boy a few rows back. Vash lounged in his chair, tipped back at a precarious angle, arms crossed, green eyes locked on Ludwig with an intensity that sent a prickle down his spine.

“If you ever need something—anything—Vash is your guy.”

As if on cue, Ludwig’s phone vibrated in his pocket. A message flashed across the screen: ‘Need some quality Swiss cigars?’

Ludwig’s head snapped up, and Vash was still watching him, unblinking.

“How did he get my number?”

Feliciano had already moved on. He jerked his thumb toward a figure slumped over a desk at the other end of the room. “The one sleeping is Arthur. He’s here for underage drinking on school grounds—and arson, which tends to go hand in hand.”

Arthur’s face was buried under a battered jacket, his body completely still except for the occasional twitch. The only sign he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his back.

“Next to him—” Feliciano pointed, “—is Sadik.” At the end of Feliciano’s finger sat a guy with tanned skin, messy hair, and a mask covering the upper half of his face. He scrolled idly through his phone, radiating the kind of indifference that came from either being extremely secure or extremely dangerous. And of course, it was latter: “He’s the only one of us who’s actually been to juvie for assault and battery.”

Ludwig wanted to ask if Sadik was the only one guilty of assault and battery, or the only one who got caught, but the words died on his throat when the other teenager glanced up from his phone. Their eyes met for a brief, loaded second before Sadik returned to scrolling.

“And at the back over there,” Feliciano chirped and gestured toward a pair sitting in the last row, “are Ivan and Natalia. They’re siblings from… Russia, I think?” He lowered his voice. “They don’t talk much. But they know a lot about weapons. That’s why they’re in here—violence and disorderly conduct.”

Ivan and Natalia, eerily similar with platinum-blonde hair and sharp noses, sat hunched over their desks, their fingers moving in tandem beneath the table. Their whispered exchange was just barely audible over the hum of the failing ceiling fan. Whatever they were fiddling with, Ludwig decided he definitely didn’t want to know.

“And last but not least—” A fond smile spread over Feliciano’s face. He nodded toward the other side of the room, “—Lovi. My brother. Though, he hates it when you call him that. His real name’s Lovino.”

It took a bit of craning his neck to glance around Sadik and spot the much shorter boy sitting beside him with his legs crossed atop the table. Ludwig believed Feliciano’s claim of them being brothers. They looked strikingly alike, save for the glare he suddenly shot at Ludwig, sharp enough to cut through steel.

Ludwig looked away, then had to ask cautiously: “So, you and your brother... what are you here for?”

He hadn’t meant to pry, but at this point, he needed to know exactly who he was sharing a confined space with. Call it safety measures.

“Oh, you know, the usual.” Feliciano dragged his finger along the carvings in Ludwig’s desk, tracing old initials and knife-scratched tally marks. “Mr. Schmidt hates us but can’t expel us because we’re the grandchildren of Don Vargas—who he owes “favors”. So they compromised by letting him send us to detention. That way, people don’t notice his involvement with the mob—”

Feliciano abruptly froze. His amber eyes flickered with realization. “…Actually, I probably shouldn’t have told you any of that. Whoops.” A chuckle slipped past his lips. “Well.” He dared to wink at Ludwig’s terror-stricken face. “I guess you better sleep with one eye open tonight.”

The beep of Ludwig’s wristwatch couldn’t have come at a better time. The familiar sound was music to his ears in a time like this, making him momentarily forget his surroundings and with it, the overwhelm. His body began to move on its own. With a steadying sigh, he reached into his bag and pulled out a textbook, a notebook, and a pen, setting them neatly on the desk.

For a moment, he managed to lose himself in the comfort of the routine. The scratch of pen against paper, the structured lines of his notes—it was enough to dull the noise of the room.

It didn’t last long, however.

Feliciano’s interested voice cut through his focus: “What are you doing?”

Ludwig glanced at him, still hovering close, then back at his notes. “Studying anatomy.”

It wasn’t an invitation, but Feliciano took it as one anyway. Before the German could object, he had already gathered a chair and positioned himself right by the other’s side, peering over his outstretched arm. Ludwig tensed, fully aware of how their arms brushed. His face heated.

“Oh, wow!” Feliciano skimmed the page with fascination. “All our body parts have names?”

“Yes,” Ludwig muttered, forcing himself to concentrate on his book instead of the way Feliciano’s open collar dipped slightly as he leaned in. He noticed something else, too: Feliciano’s arm, wrapped in an elaborately painted cast. It blended so well into the background that Ludwig had almost missed it. Despite already being used as a canvas, the cast didn’t look too old. Ludwig hesitated, then shifted back to safer ground. That being his studies. “Didn’t you ever take biology?”

Feliciano shook his head. “Not in high school. I always skipped it. But when I was little, I loved it. We used to be homeschooled, you see, by this lovely teacher who used to come by. I liked her a lot. But one day, she didn’t come back... because she got tortured and shot. I couldn’t get into biology ever since.”

Ludwig’s pen stilled mid-word.

“I’m—” He struggled for something appropriate to say. Something that didn’t reveal his growing concern for his own life. “I’m… sorry about that.”

“That’s okay.” Feliciano didn’t seem bothered by the awkward silence that followed. His attention drifted back to the textbook. “So, what are you studying for? Aren’t exams over?”

“I’m studying for university, actually. Trying to get a head start on medical school.”

Feliciano perked up. “You want to be a doctor?”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“Oh.” Amber eyes widened. “So, you’re, like, really smart then?”

Ludwig cleared his throat and tipped his nose up. “I—I don’t know about that. I just learned how to study well.”

“Study, huh?” Feliciano hummed in thought. “Lovi says studying is for people too weak to survive on their wits alone: pansies. He thinks they’re at the bottom of the food chain. But he probably didn’t mean, like, real food, but more people, you know.” Not waiting for a reply Ludwig couldn’t give, Feliciano gave him a slow once-over, his gaze lingering on his defined biceps.

“But you’re clearly no pansy.”

As Ludwig sputtered at that, the scrape of a chair and the heavy stomp of boots tore their attention away. Lovino stormed past their table, his glare searing when it found Ludwig. He clearly didn’t want to as much as acknowledge him, and his focus quickly returned to the blackboard at the front of the room.

Ludwig's phone on the table buzzed. He flipped it over. A message from his mother with an image attached. It was a photo of his father holding up a dress shirt he could easily slip into himself. ‘What do you think of this white shirt for graduation? We found it thrifted. It looks just like the one you wanted’, his mother texted as the caption.

Ludwig’s stomach dropped into pure acid.

His parents.

How was he going to explain any of this to them? Ludwig's pulse quickened at the mere thought. He should probably be honest. They were the ones who had taught him that philosophy anyway. Maybe if he explained everything—the whole mess—they would believe him.

He began typing: ‘Looks good. If it fits Papa, then it probably fits me.’

Hesitation hit and his thumbs hovered over the screen for a while before he added:

‘I got in trouble today. I accidentally—‘

He stopped. His gaze lingered on the screen, on the face of his father, smiling mildly as he hoisted the dress shirt up with pride.

One press of a button, and the text vanished, letter by letter until nothing remained.

Ludwig closed the app.

“Is this your dog?”

Startled, Ludwig glanced up to find Feliciano leaning in even further, peering at his phone.

“Yes, she—”

“It’s a girl?” Feliciano’s eyes lit up. “Do you have more pictures? You know, I had a cat once. His name was Gino. He was the absolute cutest.” His smile faltered. “But I had to leave him behind when we moved and changed identities again.”

Ludwig had a strange inkling that he didn’t have much of a choice in this if he didn’t want to make Feliciano even sadder. And so, he opened up the photos app and flicked through the vast array of pictures he took of his Dachshund.

“Oh, how cute,” Feliciano gushed.

It had been a while since Ludwig had looked at them again, and couldn’t help but agree as they browsed through all the times he had dressed her in Christmas, Halloween, and Easter attire. He smiled at a short video of her running across a meadow as fast as her stubby legs could provide. “We named her Bonnie. She had—”

A hand shot out and ripped the phone from his grasp. With no preemption, Lovino hurled the device against the wall. And that with a force that made the phone slap against the concrete before tumbling to the floor.

Lovino smirked, but it quickly faded when he saw the phone was still on. A new message from Ludwig’s mother popped up on the screen. Gritting his teeth, he picked it up and threw it again. The phone bounced off the ground, still unscathed.

A muscle twitched in Lovino’s jaw. He snatched it up and slammed it against the desk. Then the chair. Then the floor, even stomping on it for good measure. His frustration grew with each failed attempt to wreck it.

“Why won’t this stupid thing break?”

“It’s the case,” Ludwig said slowly. In his fury, Lovino had kicked the phone away, right back to Ludwig’s feet. He picked it up and brushed off the dirt. “Spigen's Tough Armor. It’s a combination of soft TPU and hard polycarbonate materials. And with the tempered glass screen protector—” he rapped his knuckles against the back of his phone and a satisfying knock sounded, “—not much can destroy it.” It was the sole reason his phone had remained in pristine condition for over three years.

Feliciano gasped. “That’s amazing!” He fished out his own phone—cracked, battered, looking like it had survived an apocalypse. “I need one of those. Where did you get it?”

“Amazon,” Ludwig replied. “I can write the name down for you if you like.”

“Yes, please.” Feliciano whirled around to his brother with a beaming face. “Isn’t he so great?” Humming a happy tune, he watched Ludwig pull out a scrap of paper. “Oh! Do you think the case could absorb bullets too?”

Ludwig threw him a side stare. “Um... I’m not sure.” He decided to jot down the name nonetheless and reached for his pen.

It immediately vanished the next second. With a scowl still fixed in place, Lovino had snatched it, now gripping it tightly in an attempt to snap it in half.

It didn’t break.

His glare darkened. He twisted it. Bent it. Grounded his teeth as he really put his strength into it. He even searched for a way to disassemble it and destroy each part individually. But no matter how much he tried, the pen refused to give in. About minutes later, Lovino stood there, exhausted and panting. “Let me guess…” He huffed. “This is made of the same TPU and whatever other shit is in the phone case?”

Ludwig gave a short nod. While Feliciano picked up the pen to marvel at it, Ludwig tentatively said to Lovino: “You know... if you wanted to make an announcement and get me to stop talking, you could’ve just said so.”

Lovino’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Instead, he spun on his heel and stalked toward the blackboard at the front of the room. But not before kicking Arthur’s desk on his way by. The boy jolted awake with a colorful string of curses and glaring green eyes.

With a forceful tug, Lovino slid the folded blackboard open. Ludwig’s eyes widened when it revealed a sprawling mess of notes, maps, and diagrams scrawled in every available space. Names were crossed out, areas were circled, and crude blueprints of the school grounds were sketched out with routes, escape plans, and strike points. In one corner, there was a tally of past victories and failures—failure currently outweighed success.

Mesmerized, Ludwig tilted to the side to get a better view, but Lovino positioned the board to prevent that. He grabbed a piece of chalk and tapped the board. “Alright, listen up!”

Groggy murmurs build up in the room. Arthur groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pulling out a book from his bag. Vash pocketed his phone. Sadik put his feet down, Feliks his makeup. And Ivan and Natalia only lifted their heads.

“We don’t have much time left until the end of the semester,” Lovino announced. “That means we need to make every move count. Marcus’ guys are still out there, and this time, we crush them. Without casualties.”

Next to Ludwig, Feliciano flinched and pressed a palm against his cast.

A shadow passed over Lovino’s face, but he pushed forward with a firm voice. “If we strategize right, we can take them all down.” His narrowed gaze flickered to the back. “Vash?”

Vash crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “That would be easier if the damn teachers weren’t breathing down our necks.” He gestured to a section of the board marked Supply Lines, where his name was written in bold letters. Underneath, the words confiscated three times this month were scrawled in red. “I can’t even get anything past the front doors anymore, let alone anything useful.”

Arthur snorted as he flipped through his book. “You think you’ve got it bad? Every time I stash something, some nosy bastard finds it. It’s like they’ve suddenly grown a conscience about students setting things on fire.” He shot a glare toward Lovino. “Gee, wonder why?”

Rubbing his temple, Sadik sighed. “Forget smokes and fire hazards. You think I can actually do my job when the teachers are patrolling like they expect us to start an underground fight club? Every time I even get close to Marcus’ guys, some hall monitor pops up out of nowhere.” He jabbed a finger at a section labeled Operations, where multiple planned strikes had been scribbled over, then crossed out with big, angry Xs.

“Let’s face it,” Feliks said and fingered his makeup brush again, “Marcus may be gone for now, but he’ll come back. And then it will be the same rodeo all over again.”

With his attention back to his mirror, he didn’t notice the chilling mood shift, nor when Lovino appeared right in front of him. And whatever expression Feliciano’s brother must have been wearing, it was enough to make Feliks shrink into his seat.

“So, that’s it?” Lovino growled. He addressed the entire room. “You’re just going to give up? After everything those bastards did to us?”

Each student he targeted with his glare dutifully looked somewhere else. Lovino scoffed. “Cowards. All of you.”

“Hey,” Sadik barked in offense. “We’ve been doing your bidding for fucking years at this point. What more do you want us to do?”

Lovino whirled around in a flare. “To stop acting like a bunch of babies and finally come up with a strategy that will actually make them pay!” Raw wrath surged through him, which he channeled into kicking a single chair around. Once done with his fit, he began pacing, murmuring to himself: “What are we missing? What have I not thought of before?”

He halted in his step.

A sinister smile crept onto his face. “Although, we might be more lucky than we realize. Just yesterday, someone managed to do the exact thing we never could: touch the untouchable.”

He turned excruciatingly slow until his sharp eyes fixed on Ludwig.

“So… Potato Bastard.”

Ludwig stiffened as every pair of eyes in the room zapped toward him. A crushing weight settled on his chest, aided by the intrusive stares coming from all directions, making it impossible to breathe.

“How did you do it?”

Chapter Text

“How did you do it?”

Ludwig gulped, aware of the many gazes closing in on him. There was no way around it. No place to hide. And so, Ludwig plucked up all his remaining courage to rise, slip out of his seat (and graze Feliciano’s exposed legs on the way) and take a stand next to Lovino by the blackboard.

“I’m going to be honest,” he began, curling and loosening his fingers in a shaky rhythm. His heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t let the sensation overwhelm him. It was one of the few things he remembered his brother ever teaching him:

‘Picturing everyone in their underwear is overrated… and perverted. Just pretend you have it all figured out. No one is holding a stethoscope to your chest and finding out that that’s far from the truth.’

Ludwig stood straighter and cleared his throat. “I didn’t beat Marcus up.” He leveled his gaze onto anything and everything that wasn’t a person. And yet, it wasn’t enough to completely hold his composure. Before he knew it, his speech had quickened and it all burst out of him the same way it did in the principal’s office: “I didn’t even touch him. All I did was open the gym door. He just ran against it. But Mr. Schmidt won’t believe me and now I am stuck here with—”

Thankfully, he caught himself in time. Heaving in a deep breath, he concluded with: “What I want to say is that I am not supposed to be here. All this has been a huge misunderstanding.”

If he had an analog watch, its ticking might have kept him company, counting out the endless seconds until a response finally broke the silence.

“So, basically,” Lovino began calmly, winding his fingers in a diplomatic manner, “what you’re saying is that you just wasted my time.”

He wouldn’t allow Ludwig to respond, silencing his grasp for words with a slice of the hand. “And not only that, you’ve now put a target on all our backs because Marcus’ guys will think we’re behind all of this. That we’re the ones who sent you.”

It was nearly instant how the air shifted. All it took was a finger-snap from Lovino for his companions to menacingly rise to their feet like trained soldiers. Breath catching in his throat, Ludwig shuffled backwards, but there was only so much space between him and the blackboard behind. Even finding a route sideways was impossible because Ivan and Sadik had crept up on him, blocking his way.

“Wait—!” Ludwig tried, but Sadik had already grabbed hold of his collar to shove him into the hard wall. Ludwig coughed in pain. “I’m sorry!” His gaze flickered to Ivan’s impassive face right before he shouldered into the German’s chest. “I really am! It was an accident. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—!”

“Really?” Lovino’s tone was sickly sweet. Then—he shrugged. “Too bad I don’t care.” He gestured the Russian and Turk to continue.

“What about the teacher?” Ludwig struggled against the throttling grips on his arms and neck. “Isn’t there someone supposed to come and supervise? Fighting on school grounds is prohibited and you will get in trouble when the detention supervisor comes!”

“You mean Mr. Collins?” Feliks said, perfectly innocent. “He already came.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the sealed-shut cupboard right beside the door. “He’s in there.”

Ludwig choked out a gasp, mainly because Sadik had fisted his throat to hold him still. Ivan approached on the other side, cracking his knuckles.

Ever since he learned to walk, Ludwig had tried nearly every sport at least once—martial arts being among them. Not that the knowledge was any use to him now. The shock stripped him of any control over his body. At some point, he even accepted his fate, flinching only slightly and shutting his eyes as Ivan’s fist pulled back to gather momentum.

But the punch wouldn’t land.

The bell rang—and the clench around Ludwig’s neck loosened. He collapsed onto the floor in a fit of coughs.

“What?” Lovino stalked after Ivan’s and Sadik’s retreating forms. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” Sadik said nonchalantly as he threw his belongings into his backpack and put on his headphones. “Gotta cover my father’s shift in the diner.”

Arthur joined the Turk on his way out. He stretched his arms in the air with a yawn. “I’m going to lie down at the library. And it’s at the diner,” he told Sadik, who rolled his eyes. “Not “in” the diner.”

Nose twitching in annoyance, Lovino turned to the Russian.

“We have…” Ivan’s accent was thick and slow. He waited for his sister to join his side. “…somewhere to be.”

“Anyone up for a shopping spree?” Feliks announced. He latched onto the nearest person’s arm. “Vash?”

“Don’t touch me. And I won’t lend you any more money for your fish tights.”

The students tickled out one by one, uncaring of Lovino’s demands for them to stay. “But tomorrow,” he called after them in a last attempt, “we regroup! We won’t let him get away with it! We’ll do whatever it takes! You hear me? Whatever!”

With everyone gone, Lovino gave an irritated huff before he also packed his bag. At the door, he pivoted to the other remaining person in the room. “Feli.”

Feliciano’s unsure eyes flickered to Ludwig. He even gravitated further to the German still crumbled on the floor.

“Feliciano!”

Wincing, Feliciano hurried to gather his backpack. He left the pen on Ludwig’s desk and, with a final, sad look, rushed after his brother.

Only when the footsteps in the hall quietened did Ludwig fill his lungs with air. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying not to dwell on how close he had come to swollen eyelids and split lips while fighting back wave after wave of trembling.

The sound of a shuffle made him jerk up.

“Oh, God!”

He sprinted toward the locker. It wasn’t locked, but once Ludwig pried it open, he understood why Mr. Collins didn’t escape. The scrawny teacher had been tied up by all sorts of rope-like items the students had probably found lying around: cables, string and what looked like two rolls of glittery adhesive tape. He hadn’t called for help either—not that he could. His mouth was sealed shut with tape, and a pair of earplugs stuffed into his ears had blocked out any chance of hearing someone nearby.

Under Mr. Collin’s frightened gaze, Ludwig freed him of his shackles before helping him out of the locker.

“Are you…” Ludwig tilted his head to catch a glimpse of the other’s twitching face. “Are you okay?”

Mr. Collins wouldn’t look at him as his lips moved, mumbling a faint: “One more year.”

“What—?”

Suddenly, two hands flung to Ludwig’s collar, yanking him close. “One more year!” Mr. Collins bellowed into the German’s eardrums. “I’ll have to survive them one more year!” He let go to fist his hair and pace back and forth. “Should I just leave the city, change my name? What do I have to do to escape this? Maybe become the pumpkin farmer my aunt always wanted me to be.”

Of everything the man had said, Ludwig still fixated on the beginning of his mental breakdown: “They won’t graduate?”

Mr. Collins whipped around to throw him a bitter glare. “How if all they are interested in are gang wars and terrorizing their teachers?”

But Ludwig couldn’t ask more. The teacher’s gaze had gone vacant again, and the horror settled back in. “I’ll have to call my aunt,” he said in a rush before wobbling out of the classroom.

Ludwig watched him hurry off until his crazed mumblings faded and silence took its place once more. It prickled up Ludwig’s spine. And adding the sight of the mutilated tables and chairs surrounding him in an eerily sacrificial manner, he too hurried to pack his backpack and cycle home.

The journey was a blur. The feel of Ivan’s hands around his neck still burned when the silhouette of his house scraped the horizon. The sensation of the blackboard digging into his back had remained when he veered into the familiar driveway to park his bike. The lights were on inside. But Ludwig was still too preoccupied with the sadistic grin on Lovino’s face to notice the person in the living room as he stumbled in.

“There he is!” Came Gilbert’s voice, prompting Ludwig to raise his still-frozen glance off the floor. His brother sat on the couch by the coffee table. Papers sprawled over the surface, all vying for the man’s attention, but Gilbert’s focus had locked in on Ludwig. He grinned and hopped to his feet. “Francis and Antonio wanted to congratulate you in person, but they had to leave early, so it’s just me. How was your first day? Tell me everything—oh! Wait!”

Gilbert snatched his phone from the sofa and jammed it into Ludwig’s vision. “I posted the pictures we took today on Instagram.” He scrolled down the screen to what looked like the comments, but it was hard to make out with the man vibrating so much in excitement. “Who knew you would become this famous? Thousands of people wish you the best and are proud of you! FreedomEagle1776 even says it’s p-o-g, or is it pog?”

He drew his phone back to check. His pale brows furrowed. “I didn’t know what that meant. So I checked and apparently it is Gen Z slang meaning awesome or something like that. Ha! Guess who will be using that from now on.”

“A-ne-way—” Gilbert threw his phone backwards. He probably meant for it to land on the couch, and not take a dive into the nearest plant pot. “This calls for a celebration!” He announced loud enough to accidentally invite the neighbors too. “And I just know how: let’s watch a movie. But not any movie.” He grabbed Ludwig’s shoulders and leaned in close. He paused for dramatic effect, then dropped:

“The Lego Movie.”

Ludwig breathed in deep, then pried Gilbert’s grip off. He slipped out of his backpack, which weighed like a ton of bricks, and set it onto the floor. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Oh, come on,” Gilbert moaned. With Ludwig kneeling by his backpack, he couldn’t see his brother’s face, only his socks patterned with tiny sausages hopped each time he jiggled his feet. The text on them reading ‘The Wurst is Yet to Come’ felt fitting. “You love that movie! You even memorized whole dialogues from your favorite scenes."

“Yes.” Ludwig took out his empty Tupperware and water bottle and set them aside. “When I was seven. Now I am older and just came back from detention,” he gritted out.

“Right.” Gilbert’s feet tapped again. “Where are my manners? We still have to address that first.”

What came next was the last thing Ludwig expected. But then again, maybe that was exactly the kind of question he should have anticipated, considering who he was dealing with:

“How much fun was it?”

Ludwig’s eyes zapped up, fixing Gilbert with a long, burning stare. His blood began to seethe when his brother responded with nothing but a goofy grin. He sprang to his feet, pointing at himself. At his entire self—from his undoubtedly messy hair to crumbled dress shirt and the colored chalk remnants on his entire being.

“Do I look like I had fun? And no—” He raised a hand, cutting off whatever Gilbert was about to say, “—before you ask, I didn’t make any “friends” either! The only thing that happened was me getting falsely accused of something I didn’t do and shoved against the blackboard, just seconds away from a black eye! I was literally saved by the bell before my face got punched in! And the best part? I have to go back tomorrow for round two!”

He now stood to his full height, hovering inches above Gilbert, who had yet to show any reaction. A few beats passed before Gilbert puffed out a slow breath. The grin was back, more mellow this time.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” His palm circled Ludwig’s bicep in a manner that was supposed to be affectionate. “It’s a process, Ludwig. And no one said it was an easy one. When I met Francis and Antonio for the first time in detention, they were trying to set my hoodie on fire.”

He tipped back to examine Ludwig’s stiff form from head to toe. “You said you got pushed against the blackboard? Look at the bright side. Francis did tell you your outfits need a bit more color. Get it?” He chuckled. “Because the chalk…”

Ludwig didn’t laugh along. “My whole life is falling apart and you’re turning it into a joke.”

“Woah.” Gilbert’s palm shot up. “Okay, first: I turn everything into a joke, you’re not special. And second—” He flicked up another finger. “—I think saying your life is falling apart is a bit of a stretch. I already deleted Schmiddy’s voicemail. So, why don’t we sit down, drink the non-alcoholic tequila Antonio brought specifically for you, order some takeout because I’m too lazy to cook, and spend some time together, hm?”

He nudged Ludwig’s arm with an expression that was… near sincere. “It feels like ages since we did that. Just the two of us.”

Ludwig scowled at the touch. “How does deleting Mr. Schmidt’s voicemail change anything?” He pinched the bridge of his nose as though it could contain the sizzling dread rising in his throat. “What about my scholarship? What about Mama and Papa, who are relying on it?”

Soon, dread morphed into panic as Ludwig paced on the spot. To most, it must have looked like he was marching, a self-soothing habit he had picked up from his Junior Officers' Training Corps days. “Not only are they going to find out that their son is a criminal,” he realized, clawing at his neck, “but they now have to scrape even more of their non-existent funds to support him until they have nothing left for themselves and—”

Two hands caught his wrists to stop him scratching ridges into his skin. “Now, hold up a second—”

The sight of Gilbert sparked a whole new sensation in Ludwig’s core. He wrung himself free. “You,” he spat at his brother.

Gilbert blinked, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“You don’t get to talk. This is all your fault!”

Crimson eyes flashed. “My—?”

“If it hadn’t been for you, Mr. Schmidt wouldn’t hate the mere sight of me!”

“Hey!” Gilbert hollered back for the first time, though it wasn’t nearly as venomous as Ludwig’s tone. “I’m not the one who beat that Marcus kid up!”

“I didn’t—!” The pained groan that followed must have been heard by the entire cosmos. Maybe that was why it sucked all the life-force out of Ludwig.

As always, the familiar beep of his wristwatch couldn’t have come at a better time. Ludwig swept it a quick glance before he gathered his belongings and stalked toward the kitchen. After placing his Tupperware and water bottle into the dishwasher, he filled up his second bottle with filtered water. A cringe crossed his face at the sight of the three beer bottles on the counter. Likely the remains of Gilbert’s friends’ visit.

Ludwig would clean that up later.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Gilbert had called after him.

Ludwig headed out again, passing his brother with a simple and deadpan: “To study.”

A feigned chuckle followed. “I don’t think so, buddy,” Gilbert said and pursued the other up the stairs and through the corridor. “We are not done with this conversation.”

Unfortunately for Gilbert, Ludwig was very much done with the conversation. He reached his room and scribbled on the whiteboard hanging off the door.

It could have been his long legs that gave him the speed advantage. Gilbert struggled to keep up. “Ludwig. Oi—!”

The last part cut off when Ludwig slammed the door shut, right in his brother’s face. A few seconds ticked past, likely spent with Gilbert reading what was on the board. “You think you writing ‘Do not disturb till 8:45 pm’ is going to keep me out?”

Ludwig locked the door.

“Okay, well,” came from the other side. “I’m just going to have to stay right here, then! Until you come out and talk to me like the adult you always tell everyone you are! Oh! And I guess I’ll have to watch the Lego Movie without you—!”

Ludwig didn’t hear the rest of it. He had put on his headphones and turned up the volume of his favorite 10-hour-White Noise audio. It drowned out Gilbert’s protests, offering Ludwig the space to release a shaky sigh. It took a moment until he managed to step away from the door and lower his backpack to its usual spot by his desk.

He flicked on the light and the room lit up with a warm glow. He wanted to sink into his bed, bury his face in his hands and take a four-minute break before he would study—but there was something off about his mattress. Or, rather, the bedsheet on top of it. It was the same marine blue sheet he had laid out this morning. The only difference being that it wasn’t as perfectly even and smooth as he had left it.

No, there was definitely a crease in the fabric. Shaped almost like the crook of an elbow.

Ludwig’s gaze lowered. Soon, he found out why an arm had been perched there. He dove down and yanked open the drawer at the bottom of the bed.

His David Hasselhoff-shaped piggy bank was not where he had placed it last.

Eye already twitching, Ludwig plopped open the lid. A small, yellow note immediately fell out, reading:

Remind me in a month to give u back the 20

- your awesome brother :)

And at the bottom of the note, the man had sketched his signature yellow canary wearing tennis shoes.

Ludwig had to take deep breaths. Jaw locked, he buried his piggy bank back underneath the pile of clothes, closed the drawer and did the only thing that could bring him catharsis in such moments: play the song Bills, Bills, Bills by Destiny’s Child. The harpsichord played and slowly, Ludwig rose back to his feet.

~ At first we started out real cool

Taking me places I ain’t never been

But now, you’re getting comfortable

Ain’t doing those things you did no more ~

He trekked through his small room, past the posters featuring Hasselhoff, the vast galaxy, puppies, the national German football team, and protein shake ads whose bodybuilder models he liked to use as inspiration.

~ You’re slowly making me pay for things

Your money should be handling ~

Changing out of his clothes, he caught himself in his full-body mirror. How he hated the way his blond hair fell into his eyes. He would have done something about it much earlier if it hadn’t been for Ulrich. His older cousin living in Saxony had somehow convinced Ludwig’s father that lending his teenage son his hair gel would be even more fodder for potential bullies.

And Ludwig still wasn’t sure what he had meant with “more”.

Pushing his fringe back, he squared his shoulders and huffed in pride at his reflection. That is, until he spotted a red dot on his forehead. He drew in closer.

“How?” He hissed into the mirror and at the forming zit that hurt when he touched it. His diet was perfect, planned and weighed to the gram. His bare abs flexing back at him certainly appreciated it. So why hadn’t his pores gotten the memo yet?

Discreetly, Ludwig lowered his fingers again, letting his fringe fall back over his forehead. He continued changing into a more comfortable t-shirt, humming along to the next verses of the song. It was near criminal how well they reflected his current sentiment:

~ You triflin’, good-for-nothing type of brother

Silly me, why haven’t I found another? ~

He lowered himself into his chair and rolled to the edge of his desk. It was still sparkly clean. Not a pen out of place. At least Gilbert hadn’t messed with this part of Ludwig’s sanctuary. But that wouldn’t stop Ludwig from fishing out a piece of paper and a marker and asserting in all caps, yet again, that everyone was forbidden from entering his room uninvited.

~ A baller, when times get hard

I need someone to help me out

Instead of a scrub like you, who don’t know what a man’s about ~

It took him too long to realize what he was writing: that exceptions to his privacy rule included dogs.

All anger drained out of him. He chanced a glance to the side. Right by his desk, where a dog bed lay—empty.

Ludwig turned back to his paper. Instead of coloring in the red stop sign he drew, he lowered the marker for good. With a sigh, he set the warning notice aside and finally prepared for what he actually came to do.

The problem was, he couldn’t concentrate. The terminology of his anatomy textbook danced across his vision, the words refusing to stand still, to cooperate. He chewed on his lips, fidgeted with the pen in his hand, dribbled his foot on the floor. Not even listening to Erfolg ist kein Glück by Kontra K managed to motivate him just a little. He even tried chewing gum, which he always judged his classmates for. It was all pointless.

Maybe that was the issue.

It was pointless. And subconsciously, he probably already knew that—knew better than to waste time on something that had now become uncertain. Circumstances in his grand plan have changed, and not adapting would be foolish.

He lifted his gaze to the wall in front of him. A massive sheet of drafting paper hung above with thin, ruler-straight lines crisscrossing the page in a lattice of interconnected boxes and arrows. Pushpins secured the corners, but additional tacks—color-coded and numbered—dotted key junctions, anchoring handwritten notes on yellowed slips of paper, some curling slightly at the edges.

These slips were mainly reminders and words of encouragement he had left himself over the span of… what was it? Ten years now? But one particular slip caught his eye, reading:

‘Do whatever it takes.’

Shockingly, Lovino’s voice, harsh and high-pitched, invited itself back into Ludwig’s mind:

“We’ll do whatever it takes!”

Ludwig bit down the shiver that thrummed through him. The young Italian was the last person he wanted to think about right now. And yet, his last statement refused to leave Ludwig’s thoughts. Perhaps it was the determination that had marked each and every word.

He glanced back up at his note, then the stethoscope propped at the center of it all—like the trophy it was. Just barely out of reach.

“Whatever it takes, huh?”

It started slowly, like gears catching after a long idle. Quiet at first, then gaining purpose, momentum. An idea began to take shape. Ludwig reached for his laptop and flipped it open. As expected, the report he had sent yesterday filled the screen.

He copied the address from the CC field and started a new email.

After a steady inhale and a sharp crack of his neck, he began typing:

‘Dear Mr. Schmidt…’

“This is quite the proposal.”

Ludwig nodded and shifted on his seat. Thankfully, he didn’t have to abuse his spine and make himself smaller like he did yesterday. Probably because no screams tore through the principal’s office and no wrathful glares shot at him like bullets.

In fact, today, Mr. Schmidt wasn’t looking at him at all. He was too busy clicking away at his computer which looked older than the internet. Maybe that was why he had to lean in so close—despite wearing glasses—or why he swung the mouse across his entire desk like it could impale an enemy.

“You know,” Ludwig said after a while of quietly observing a mouse being repurposed as a sword, “you can scroll by turning the little knob at the top with your finger.”

Mr. Schmidt stared at him, expression stony. Then he tried it. It worked, but the principal acknowledged that with nothing more than an impassive sniff. “Mr. Collins quit yesterday,” he muttered into the screen and pushed up his glasses, “so I have yet to find someone new to print documents and save me all this… tech-y hassle.”

Not sure how to respond to that, Ludwig steered the conversation back to topic: “About my proposal.” He swallowed and wrung his fingers. “Will you accept it?”

Mr. Schmidt rolled away from the computer and slipped off his glasses. “If—” he began, tipping his glasses in Ludwig’s direction to underscore each word, “—and only if you succeed, I will clear your record and not mention any of it to your parents.”

Ludwig deflated in relief. But it was short-lived. He knew better than to let it hinder him from asking carefully: “And if I… don’t?”

“Simple.” Mr. Schmidt leaned back in his chair, his tone a touch too casual. “Your record stays unchanged, you remain in detention, I will invite your parents to a meeting when they come back, and you will not be giving your valedictorian speech.”

No contract was signed. Not even a handshake followed. All the Germans had at their disposal was an exchange of nods—a silent, informal agreement, but an agreement nonetheless.

However, Ludwig wasn’t done. Not yet. He withheld his nod for just a moment longer. His grip curled around his backpack perched on his lap. “I accept your terms, but I would also like you to accept mine: If I do succeed, not only do I want my record cleared, I would also like you to write me a letter of recommendation for my scholarship.”

Mr. Schmidt’s brows furrowed. Or rather, deepened further into the harsh expression the principal already wore on a daily. “Are you trying to strike a deal with me, Beilschmidt?”

“Isn’t that what we are already doing?”

The principal’s gaze swept his dimly lit office, where the blinds were drawn tight and their voices low and measured, as if the walls themselves might be listening. The scene it painted was already sketchy enough without Ludwig having to point it out. “I suppose so,” Mr. Schmidt said. “It just surprised me that you put a price on getting rid of the Vargases for me.” His expression turned bitter. “Not that I wouldn’t do the same.”

He sighed. “Fine. I will write you a letter of recommendation.”

Elated, Ludwig wanted to smile, but curbed it in time. Lips drawn straight, he nodded. “Thank you.”

“I wish you luck,” Mr. Schmidt said, watching Ludwig rise from his seat and tense mid-way when he added: “You’re going to need it.”

The chair creaked when Ludwig stood to his full height. He swallowed, then gave a single tip of the head before turning and heading toward the door. He didn’t leave, though. The moment his fingers grazed the doorknob, the principal called him back.

“Beilschmidt.”

Pivoting back, Ludwig faced the man who had drawn back into his comfortable chair. A few seconds loitered by, each tick courtesy of the clock mounted above. The rhythmic sound didn’t seem to only calm Ludwig.

Mr. Schmidt retrieved a cleaning cloth and rubbed the lenses of his glasses with slow, deliberate movements. “Are you familiar with the colloquial term 'Try-Hard'?”

“Yes,” Ludwig said simply. “It was my nickname in middle school.”

More rubbing. Mr. Schmidt didn’t look up. “And I suppose that doesn’t bother you.”

Ludwig shrugged with one shoulder. “I jumped two grades. I never saw the students who called me that ever again.”

The tiniest chuckle escaped Mr. Schmidt’s lips. It was more of a mildly amused huff. “You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger,” he said, studying his reflection in the shine of his glasses. “Disciplined, determined… young. Thinking that the world and all its opportunities would just open up to you if you just tried hard enough.”

As fast as it came, the minuscule smile was gone. He looked up at Ludwig again, and the hardness in his gaze was back, open and raw. Just like the thinly veiled bitterness that overtook his tone. “But then you grow up. And you realize: all that trying and you still fail for reasons outside your control.”

He might have expected Ludwig to heed his words, maybe even duck his head in reverence.

“You misunderstand, sir,” Ludwig said instead. “I don’t try. I do.”

And with that, he stalked out of the office, spine as straight as a rod. He half-expected Mr. Schmidt to call him back yet again, given how slowly Ludwig slipped out the door. But the principal let him go, his only response being a long stare directed at the student’s back.

Ludwig had barely closed the door behind him before he crumbled against it. “I should not have said that,” he realized in absolute horror. “What was I thinking? I wouldn’t even talk to my own parents that way!”

But drafting an apology would have to wait.

First, he had to find a certain Italian.

Ludwig loved his school’s race track.

It was one of the few places untouched by graffiti, litter, or loitering teens. Perhaps because there were better spots for that sort of thing. Places that weren’t so open and accessible to prying, authoritative eyes. Or so perfectly oval and clean, with nothing but the fresh smell of grass and rubber granules that grated just right beneath the fingertips.

And suddenly seeing Feliciano there, in his favorite place on campus, somehow completed the picture more than Ludwig had thought possible.

Bronze curls reflected the sunlight, radiating under the beating heat. Yet Feliciano didn’t seem to mind. He and Feliks sat cross-legged on the grass beside the track, content to stay camped there. While Feliks lazily braided sections of Feliciano’s hair, the Italian held a sketchbook in his lap, scribbling in it now and then.

But neither the doodles nor Feliks’ meandering monologue held his attention for long. His gaze stayed fixed on the runners circling the track. Each time they passed, Feliciano perked up, watching them intently, especially the blond ones. He would smile, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, but the moment he saw their faces, he sighed in disappointment and returned to his sketching.

It was a shame Ludwig couldn’t join the school’s (American) football team for their usual afternoon run. Not that he had ever actually spoken to any of them, which might explain why no one seemed to notice he was missing, despite him showing up like clockwork every week.

Ludwig decided not to take it personally. He had more important matters to attend to. Those being in the form of a lone teen perched on the bleachers.

While Feliciano bathed in sunlight, Lovino shrouded himself in the shadows. He sat a good distance away from his younger brother, dwelling in the shade of the maple trees bordering the track. It made little sense for him to be wearing sunglasses, but not even Ludwig could deny how well they matched his umber dress shirt tucked into black, tight-fitting pants that hugged his figure each time he swung one leg over the other.

It was irritating how easily the Italian got away with it. Ludwig lost count of how many people have told him that kids his age ‘aren’t meant to dress like they’re going to a job interview’.

But unlike Ludwig, Lovino didn’t seem interested in sporting a tie to complete the look. In fact, the first two buttons of his shirt were loose, so maybe that made a difference—

“Ludwig, was it?”

Startled, Ludwig snapped straight. Had he really been staring at the teen’s exposed collarbone all this while?

Lovino shouldn’t have seen him, given that Ludwig stood just outside his peripheral vision. And yet, he repeated his question without glancing behind him once.

“Er—yes.”

With one swift motion, Lovino summoned his phone and began typing.

Ludwig inched closer, hesitantly peering over the Italian’s shoulder. “Who are you texting?”

“Ivan and Sadik. To let them know they can continue where they left off yesterday.”

Ludwig’s blood ran cold. “H-hold on!” He sprinted forward to finally stand in front of Lovino, blocking the clear view he had of his brother. “Listen, I’m really sorry that you now have a target on your back,” he rushed to say. “If I could rewind the clock, I would—but I can still offer a solution to this.”

Lovino’s fingers stilled, hovering over the screen. Behind his sunglasses, his dark eyes flicked up.

A pause settled between them, the soft rustle of wind through the branches filling the space. Ludwig took Lovino’s silence as a sign of interest—grudging, maybe, but interest all the same. He drew a steady breath, planted his feet, and gave himself the mental push to say:

“You graduate.”

Lovino’s response came as fast as a whip: “Did the sauerkraut-brine you’re huffing finally get to your head?”

“Think about it—” Ludwig said, wanting to sit beside the other, but the glare fired his way stopped him, “—once you leave this school, you won’t have to deal with Marcus and his guys anymore. Nor would they be able to get to you as easily because their school is just around the block.

“You can end it now by graduating and save yourself one more year of this mess,” he added, trying to catch Lovino’s eye. But the Italian rather scowled up at the blue sky. “Besides, you said you wanted your revenge. I heard that Marcus’ gang is definitely going to repeat a year.” He offered a small smile. “So what better revenge is there to rise above them?”

Again, Lovino only replied with a counter question: “Did you see that on some motivational poster of a dog wearing a cape?”

“I think that’s beside the point,” Ludwig said, not mentioning that the poster hung in his room. “I just want—”

“Look.” Lovino leaned back against the bleachers, spreading his arms wide like he was lounging on a sofa and Ludwig was an unwelcome guest in his living room. “You were annoying before, but now you’re starting to really piss me off,” he bit out. “This has nothing to do with you. And us repeating a year is none of your business either. Ever heard of simply “dropping out” of school, or is that term banned in your nerd circles?”

Working his jaw, Ludwig paused to school his expression. “If dropping out was really that simple, all of you would have already done it.”

For the first time, Lovino stayed quiet, his only retort being a tightening frown.

“And, yet, you still stay,” Ludwig went on. “For reasons I—yes—have no right to pry in. But I did look at your grades.” His tone softened as he drew just the tiniest step closer. “They have potential. None of you is a bad student. If you applied yourself, you really could graduate this year.”

He had replayed this moment in his head since yesterday. Granted, in his version, Lovino wasn’t slouched on a hard bench refusing to stand, let alone look at him. But even now, there was a slight easing in his shoulders, a quiet looseness in his posture. It was enough. This was the opening Ludwig had been waiting for.

“And I can help you.”

Of all the reactions Ludwig had envisioned and prepared for, a booming burst of laughter hadn’t been one of them.

Tears brimmed in Lovino’s eyes as he clutched his stomach, each guffaw shaking his frame. “You’re going to help us?” He crooned, palming his cheeks with mock affection. “Oh, aren’t you sweet, Mr. I-will-gladly-rig-the-biology-group-project-for-my-own-selfish-gains.”

Ludwig froze. He stared down at the Italian’s slowly emerging smirk. “How do you know about that?”

One graceful swing of his legs later, and Lovino stood. He began circling Ludwig like a predator sizing up its prey, smug and taunting. “You think you’re the only one doing background checks?”

Struggling to move, Ludwig could only twist his neck to track Lovino’s figure as it snaked around him. “What else did you find out?”

“Nothing. You live a pathetically boring life.” Lovino shrugged and stepped onto the bleachers. Now he managed to somehow meet Ludwig’s eye level. “So tell me—” he tipped forward, “—what happened a year ago? Why did you run away from the biology project?”

No. Ludwig will not take the bait. It was obvious what the Italian was trying to do, and he won’t succeed. It would take a whole lot more to ruffle Ludwig’s feathers. Gilbert and his friends have trained him well. “I did not run away,” he replied calmly. “I aced it.”

“By going against the rules. You were supposed to do it with your assigned group, remember?”

“Yes, but I didn’t break any rules. I asked to do the project alone and was given permission.”

“Because you’re a coward.”

Focusing on the trail of ants beside his shoe helped Ludwig’s composure, but didn’t stop his brow from twitching. “It became impossible to work and—”

“—you ran away. Like a chicken.”

“I did not run away,” Ludwig gritted out, raising his voice over Lovino’s jeering clucks. “I weighed my options and realized—”

“—you're just a big pansy who can’t handle people giving you the slightest bit of pushback.”

Neck pulsing, Ludwig pushed one step forward, glare locked on Lovino’s. “That’s not true.”

“Really?” Lovino bared his canines. “Then why did you decide to work on the project alone?” With every phrase, he jabbed a finger into Ludwig’s chest, shoving him back, gradually spurring his lips to curl into a snarl and adrenaline to surge through his arms. “Abandon the very people you were put in charge of? Why was it so easy for you to throw your entire group under the bus, expose all their flaws to the teachers and leave them to their own devices without a second thought—”

“Because they didn’t care!” The words ripped from Ludwig’s chest like a desperate scream, shaking the air and sending nearby birds scattering into the sky. “They didn’t care about anything! How was I supposed to get a good grade when all they did was drag me down?”

Even though Lovino was still perched on the bleachers, Ludwig towered over him—fury crackling through every inch of his body. But the Italian didn’t flinch. He let Ludwig’s ragged breaths settle before speaking, his voice low and lethal: “That’s all I needed to hear.”

He leaned in, too close. A hard, dangerous gleam burned in his eyes. “Come near any of us again, and I’ll give Marcus’ guys your home address.”

Ludwig didn’t have time to loosen his stiff body before Lovino hopped off the bleachers. Anger soon morphed into pure panic that barbed up his lungs when the Italian sauntered away. “Lovino, wait!”

Lovino didn’t turn—just raised a single finger over his shoulder. “Strike one.”

“Please, just listen!”

“Strike two—”

“What about Feliciano?”

Lovino stopped cold.

Ludwig caught up, finding the Italian rooted at the edge of the trees’ shade. He followed Lovino’s gaze across the track to where Feliciano still sat with Feliks, the two of them laughing, their giggles bubbling up in bursts. However, the light dancing across his expression didn’t match the cast on his wrist. One he couldn’t hide, no matter how brightly he painted it or how often he tried to tuck it behind his back.

“He got hurt, didn’t he? By Marcus and his guys?”

Lovino stayed silent. Not a word. Not even a glare when Ludwig emerged by his side.

“This is about his safety too,” Ludwig said gently, his gaze lingering a little too long on the other Italian, who had returned to watching the runners. Both sighed in unison. “So, just consider—”

The sentence didn’t make it out of his throat. A flash of silver ripped through the air.

Aimed at him.

Ludwig’s quick reflexes kicked in. He twisted aside to dodge, but his foot caught on the bleachers. He stumbled back, slammed into the metal, and hit the ground hard. Breathless, he looked up—straight into the gleam of a Swiss Army blade, hovering inches from his throat.

Hand clenched tight around the knife, Lovino stood over him. “You think I’m not considering that?” His voice splintered with rage. “You think I don’t think about that day every damn second? About letting him go to the restroom alone?” His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. “You think I don’t care? That I’m a bad brother?”

Ludwig’s mind screamed for calm words or strategic silence. Anything to de-escalate. But nothing in his life had prepared him for being actually held at knife-point. So perhaps no one could blame his mouth moving before his brain could catch up. “No! Not at all. You’re better than my brother! He got himself kicked out of the house and disappeared. I haven’t seen or heard from him for three years!”

It seemed to work. Lovino blinked. His grip loosened just slightly, one brow lifted.

Ludwig seized the pause and swallowed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, more quietly now. Yes, Gilbert had been gone for three years, but he was back now. So it didn't matter.

It shouldn't matter. 

Right?

“All I'm saying is that this could be your way out. For both of you.”

Unflinching, he met Lovino’s eyes.

“He won’t get hurt again. I promise.”

In the far distance, the football coach blew his whistle. The shrill sound cut through their tension. Lovino reeled back and stowed his knife back into his pocket.

“Heh.” A small smirk crept up on his face, like he hadn’t just threatened to cut Ludwig’s gullet out. “Stooping so low as to use my own brother against me,” he mused and tipped up his sunglasses. “I must say I’m impressed. You would do well in the mafia.”

It wasn’t the compliment Lovino believed it was. Ludwig recoiled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“—and you ruined it.” Lovino whirled around to toss Ludwig a disappointed glance. “Still a pansy. Anyway, how are you going to convince the others?”

Ludwig’s mouth fell open. “C-convince?”

“You thought just because you singled me out that the others would jump on your cuckoo train as well?”

“Aren’t you like… their leader?”

“And that means they have to just blindly do everything I say?”

“Right—I mean, no.” Hand raised to his temple, Ludwig rubbed it with a sigh. “I… I will think of something.”

“You better,” Lovino huffed. “It’ll probably be best if you already write the notes we can cheat off of and bring them tomorrow. Bullet points on tiny pieces of paper is enough. Don’t write a novel. It will make it harder to slip out of your sleeve.”

Ludwig stared at him. “If that’s supposed to be a joke, it’s not funny.”

“Hey! I’m a great cheater.” Lovino crossed his arms. “Took me years to perfect the craft.”

Of all the jabs and pointed knives Lovino had thrown his way, this was the one that finally knocked the wind out of Ludwig. It felt like his heart had just thrown up.

He had to sit down.

It took two rounds of mental first aid before he could find his voice again. The feel of the worn wood beneath his palms grounded him as he said, tone firm: “No. I will not give you something which, if it fails, destroys even more of my already disintegrated reputation.”

He looked up at Lovino and his resolve returned like a rising tide.

“I have something much better.”

Lovino’s narrowed eyes watched him stand again, his gaze locked forward, a slow smile unfurling across his face.

“A plan.”

Chapter Text

Chaos was in full swing when Ludwig stepped back into the detention classroom. It was astounding how easily a lack of supervision, too much free time and random items scattered around had turned the students into behaving like a troop of unruly monkeys.

Feliciano and Feliks tore around the room in a game of chase, while Sadik hurled random objects at Arthur, who was trying—and failing—to take a swig out of his flask containing suspicious liquid. Ivan and Natalia were once again tinkering with something beneath the tables, and Vash had taken it upon himself to decorate a wall with permanent marker, his “art” growing steadily more abstract.

With a straight face, Lovino headed in, undeterred by the mayhem all around him. Ludwig needed a bit more time to hype himself up—and narrowly avoid a flying ruler aimed at Arthur.

After setting down his posters on a nearby table, he positioned himself at the front of the class and cleared his throat. “Excuse me…”

No one paid him the slightest attention. Probably because, at that very moment, Arthur lost his temper and kicked a chair straight at Sadik, who barked out a laugh.

“If you would all just settle down…” Ludwig tried again, but Feliks’ high-pitched giggles drowned out his voice as Feliciano finally tackled him. Feliks clutched something to his chest, likely belonging to Feliciano, while the Italian clawed at him in an attempt to retrieve it.

“I have an announcement…”

Still, no one listened. Ludwig sighed and adjusted the papers in his hands. In the corner of his eye, Lovino quietly approached the blackboard and, with deliberate strokes, scrawled something on it in chalk.

Ludwig stepped closer just in time to see the word appear in large, aggressive letters:

‘P-A-N-S-Y’

His jaw clenched. The papers in his grasp creaked as he twisted them. Without thinking, he spun around to face the room and screamed:

“Hey!”

The force of his voice must have echoed through the entire building. The room stilled at once, and every head zapped toward him. Ludwig inhaled deeply, forcing the tension from his shoulders, only for it to jolt right back when Feliciano called out in glee.

“Ludwig!” The Italian let go of Feliks and frolicked from the back of the class to the front. He beamed. “You’re back! I was sure something bad happened to you. Like, really bad.” His voice dropped in tone, his expression eerily blank for just a split second—before lighting up again with his usual cheer. “But I’m glad that’s not the case!”

“Right…” Ludwig glanced over his shoulder, now very unnerved, “…anyway, please sit down.”

Feliciano obeyed with a bright smile, plopping into his seat and propping his cheeks in his palms. At least someone was paying rapt attention and not shooting him half-bored side-eyes like the rest of the class did.

“Alright.” Ludwig raised the papers in front of him. He resisted the urge to read directly from his script. He had watched enough TED Talks to know that eye contact mattered if he wanted to hold the room’s attention. “I have a proposition for all of you.” He fought to ignore the pulse pounding in his neck. The skeptical, hostile stare from Lovino certainly didn’t help.

“It has come to my attention that you’ve had a long-standing feud with Marcus and his guys for a few years now and that there have been… casualties.”

He meant to avoid looking at Feliciano, though his gaze flicked involuntarily toward the boy’s shoulders as they tensed.

“I think it’s time to move on. Not just from the feud, but from this school entirely. By graduating. And I can help you with that.”

Thankfully, no one laughed this time around. Only a few quiet, unreadable expressions pointed Ludwig’s way. He took it as a good sign; maybe they were actually thinking it over. But then Feliks spoke:

“You’re joking, right? This has to be some kind of weird German humor.” He plopped down next to Feliciano and faced the others for backup.

“I’m afraid he’s serious,” Arthur muttered and pulled a book from his backpack. Though old and worn, it was covered in football stickers. With a sigh, he flipped it open. “Which makes me wonder what he dreams about at night.”

Ivan snorted a chuckle. “Probably fairies—”

“—and unicorns,” Natalia added.

Arthur whipped around, offended. “Hey! Those are real!”

That kicked off a debate that quickly spiraled far from the original point. Ludwig tried to steer it back, but the conversation had already devolved into jumbled speculation about German humor and mythical creatures.

In the corner, Lovino smirked to himself, idly tracing circles around the word he had written on the blackboard earlier.

Ludwig frowned. He stalked over and hoisted the board upward. The metal screeched like a dying cat, drawing a collective wince from the class as they all clutched their ears.

“Sorry!” Ludwig hissed and let go of the blackboard. Though he would have preferred it a bit higher, he left it and reached into his pocket for a handful of magnets. “I know graduating may sound strange,” he began, glancing at his script again. “I mean, aiming higher always looks scary at first. But it is possible. And many before you have done it. Case in point, look at Bruce Lee—”

He pinned a black-and-white photo to the board. The man depicted wore a solemn yet resolute expression.

“One of the greatest martial artists and movie stars of all time. But at the start of his career? He was rejected and underestimated. Still, he kept going. And you know what he said? ‘Don't fear failure. Not failure, but low aim, is the crime.'” Ludwig didn’t even need to check the script for that part. His heart had memorized it a long time ago.

He moved on to the next photo, also securing it with magnets. “But back then, he was just a guy with a vision no one believed in. Same with Muhammad Ali. He wasn’t born a champion either. He started boxing after someone stole his bike. He could’ve quit right there. But he didn’t. He once said, ‘He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life.’”

A pause settled in, and Ludwig let the room soak in his words. He was quite proud of himself, given that he had written the script in under fifteen minutes just moments before returning to the detention classroom and with a very impatient Italian breathing down his neck.

The pride wouldn’t last, however. Vash soon cut in: “What comes next? You’re going to tell us how our struggles are similar to Martin Luther King Jr.’s too?”

Discreetly, Ludwig folded the photo of said man and tucked it behind his script. “No…”

Claps rang out, breaking the silence. One after another. Slow and deliberate.

Sadik lowered his hands, swung his legs off the table and stood. “That was quite the speech.”

Ludwig wasn’t exactly a master of reading body language or tone, but even he could pick up on the sarcasm. He stayed silent as Sadik sauntered over lazily. Despite the hair standing at the back of his neck, Ludwig saw no violent intent in the Turk’s body language. He even smiled crookedly. So Ludwig thought nothing of it when handing over his script because the Turk held out a hand to see.

With a single, effortless motion, Sadik tore the papers in half. Then he turned his attention to the photos on the blackboard.

Bruce Lee and Muhammad Ali, their once-determined expressions now split down the middle, lying in pieces on the floor.

“You just forgot a teeny-tiny detail while you were riding your high horse,” Sadik said, stepping in too close for comfort. “We’re not scared of failure.” His giant hand crept up Ludwig’s nape, settling right around the dip of his skull. He gave the German’s head a light shake, reveling in the fact that Ludwig was too frozen to do anything about it. “Ever considered we might just not want to graduate? Hm? Who shat in your brain to make you think we even care?”

“Oh, I think you do care, Sadik.”

Lovino hadn’t moved from his corner, still leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Or rather, you should. What was it your dad wanted?” He tapped a finger to his chin, pretending to think. “For you to get your diploma? I’m sure he’ll just love hearing you’re not graduating. Again. Knowing that all the money, hopes, and dreams he put into your future are a giant waste must be the best feeling.”

The fingers gripping Ludwig’s skull slackened, as weak now as the glare Sadik shot in Lovino’s direction. The Italian held it while Ludwig released the breath he had been holding.

From the back of the room, Vash chuckled into his fist.

“Yes, money problems are hilarious, aren’t they, Vash?” Lovino fired back. “Is that why your mom gave you that ultimatum? Graduate this year, or she cuts your credit card in half?”

Vash’s expression darkened.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Feliks chimed in, turning to the Swiss teen. “Be like the rest of us and finally get a job.” He cast a sneer in Ludwig’s direction. “So it wouldn’t matter if you graduate or not.”

“It does for you,” Lovino replied, quick and sharp. Feliks instantly stiffened. “I thought you wanted to leave this wretched town to finally be with your boyfriend. I’ve heard college changes people, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Toris decides to find someone whose life goals go beyond scoring the newest glitter eyeshadow.”

Unlike Vash, Feliks eyes widened, then clouded. He lowered his head, bangs falling to shield his face. Feliciano was at his side in an instant, placing a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder.

Lovino didn’t flinch. His tone remained cold as he turned to the Russian siblings. “You two already have enough charges to explain to immigration. Want to add ‘dropout’ to the list?”

No response came. It was clear they had already braced themselves for whatever Lovino would throw their way—and still, they said nothing.

“And Arthur—”

A hand shot up, cutting Lovino off. “I’ll stop you right there before you overexert yourself trying to guilt-trip me into this,” Arthur said, not even glancing up from his book. “I don’t have a sob story like the others. My parents are dead, and my brothers don’t give two fucks about me. So whether or not I graduate is no one’s business. Not yours—” he said, then jerked his chin dismissively toward Ludwig, “—and definitely not yours.

“So, go ahead and succumb to this fuckery we call the educational system,” he added. His prominent brows drew together in a look of mock sympathy. “But leave me out of it. I’ll be happy on my own.”

Ludwig’s lips parted, ready to defend said system, but Lovino stopped him with a simple shake of the head. The Italian stepped forward instead, halting in front of Arthur’s desk. He just shrugged. “Fine. Then have fun being the only one remaining in school. Marcus’ guys will have a field day playing Tetris with you and the basketball hoop.”

Arthur’s fingers tightened around his book.

Lovino turned back to Ludwig and gave a curt nod. For him to continue.

“I… uh… well, I’m glad you came around.” Ludwig attempted a smile, acutely aware of how much the room’s mood had shifted from earlier destructively peppy chaos to cold doomsday tension. “You won’t regret taking your education seriously. I’ll make sure of that. Speaking of: I brought with me a little something.”

He reached for one of the posters, unrolled it, and pinned it to the blackboard.

“What the hell is that?” Vash called.

Ludwig pulled out a pointer stick and snapped it to full length, as fast as a whip, startling Lovino in the process. “A master plan,” he declared proudly, tapping each weekly segment filled with detailed goals and milestones. “I spoke with Mrs. Whitaker, who will be conducting the exams. And it looks like math will be our best option.”

The entire room groaned. Ludwig didn’t understand why.

“Wait.” Feliks squinted at the poster. His nose was red and makeup smudged, with two neat streaks tracing down his cheeks. “The 25th won’t work. Everybody goes shopping for prom on that day.”

“Right! Prom!” Feliciano hollered and leapt up. “Ludwig! You and I should totally go together!”

Ludwig regarded him and Feliks in disbelief. “You’re seriously thinking about prom right now?”

“Yeah,” Vash said, pulling out his wallet and flipping through its contents. “It’s always a good day to make sales on breath spray and…” he paused, searching for a better word, “…substances.”

Arthur shrugged. “I just go to spike the punch.”

“Dancing,” Sadik added, as if that explained everything.

“To experience American culture in all its glory,” Ivan provided, with Natalia silently nodding beside him.

“Okay… How about we focus on passing the exams first, and then you can worry about prom,” Ludwig said in the most diplomatic tone he could manage. He wouldn't mention that, to him, prom always looked like a massive waste of time—if not outright offensive to his senses, with its blaring music, invasive swaying of bodies, and inevitable chuckles about the attire his mother had picked out for him.

With a swift flick of his pointer, he whirled back to the blackboard, tracing the goals he had written out by hand. “When it comes to studying, we have the standard topics: algebra, function-based graphs, geometry, trigonometry, probability, and a bit of calculus. You don’t need to know much, so I’ll keep it brief.” He turned back to the class. “Any questions?”

Blank stares met him. Silent and unblinking.

He glanced back at the poster. No, there was no mistake. Everything was laid out in meticulous detail. So why was everyone looking at him like he was speaking Latin?

A single hand rose.

Ludwig tried not to show too much relief at the simple gesture. “Yes, Feliciano?”

“Okay, first off—” Feliciano circled his palm over the plan, “—love the poster. Very aesthetic.”

Ludwig took a few steps back to appraise his own work through the Italian’s lens. He had spent a few hours on it, though “aesthetic” hadn’t been his goal. But now, seeing the color-coded highlights and clean layout… he had to admit, it did look kind of nice.

A flush rose to his face. “Thank you.”

“But I’ve always wondered something for a very long time…” Feliciano eyed a particular section of the plan, his tone drifting into something almost philosophical. “What are functions?”

Ludwig didn’t respond right away. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wasn’t sure how to answer. After a contemplative pause, he said carefully: “Functions are something you should have learned in middle school. Around age twelve to fourteen?” He added, remembering Feliciano had mentioned being homeschooled.

“Ah…” Feliciano bit his lip. “I think we were supposed to learn it, but our math teacher just didn’t come back one day. Lovi, you remember, right?” He turned toward his brother. “What happened to him?”

“He got himself pushed off a balcony,” Lovino scoffed. “Like an idiot. Fell on his head first, too.”

Feliciano nodded. “Oh… so that’s why brains were splattered all over the place—”

“You know what?” Ludwig cut in quickly to be spared more of the grueling details. He pulled out his notebook. “That’s fine. I’ll teach you all about functions privately so you can catch up.”

“Really?” Feliciano pumped his fist, whispering a triumphant: “Yes.”

Ludwig scribbled a quick reminder into his notebook. “Who else doesn’t understand functions?”

Every single hand in the room shot up.

“Oh!” Feliciano chirped when Ludwig failed to give a reaction other than shock. “And I also don’t know what the difference between functions and fractions is. I also need that explained.”

Ludwig opened his mouth, then shut it. Opened it again, yet nothing came out. Slowly, he slipped his notebook back into his pocket and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That’s... That's not a problem,” he forced out to keep the spirit alive. He stepped back to the blackboard and peeled off the poster. “I… I’ll just come back tomorrow with a new, revised plan.”

Meaning: throw everything out and start from scratch. Maybe he should stop by the town library on the way home. See if they still had any textbooks on seventh-grade math.

He gathered the torn remnants of his script and tossed them into a trash bin so full it had probably not been emptied for years. Then he rolled up his poster with an air of finality. “For the meantime, let’s head out. Follow me.”

The classroom erupted into a chorus of lackluster grumbles. Chairs scraped back and students sluggishly pushed themselves to their feet. One by one, they dripped out, dragging their feet through the fluorescent-lit hallway. The air shifted as they exited the detention center, away from the stench of stale gum, spilled soda, and fermented energy drinks clinging to every surface.

Ludwig followed, his posters tucked beneath one arm. He had barely been in that classroom for half an hour, yet already he missed the outside world and its fresh air.

“Lovino,” he called, picking up his pace to catch the teen further ahead in the hall.

Lovino only half-turned, barely glancing over his shoulder. He didn’t stop walking.

“Thank you… for persuading them.”

A huff. “I didn’t do it for you.” 

That was the end of it. Lovino peeled off toward Feliciano’s side without another word, falling into step with his brother, who hummed to himself and swayed a little as he walked.

“Here we are.” Ludwig stopped and beckoned everyone back before they could march out of the building.

Feliks squinted at the two heavy, metal-paneled doors in front of them. “The gymnasium?”

“Yes.” Ludwig’s voice held a note of enthusiasm. He reached into his bag and produced a small, jingling ring of keys.

Arthur eyed his every move. “You have the keys?”

“Mr. Webber sometimes gives them to me for safekeeping because I come here often anyway.” Ludwig thumbed through the keys with care, separating each. A smile spread on his face. “One time, he even let me take them home.”

While he still couldn’t believe the amount of trust he had been graced with that day, Arthur just stared, brow raised. “That’s…”

Ludwig found the right key and unlocked the door. He grinned. “Pretty cool, right?”

“Sad.” Arthur brushed past him to stroll into the hall. “I was going to say sad.”

The rest of the class wandered in, their footsteps squeaking off the hardwood floor. Ludwig entered last and pushed the heavy doors shut behind him. He had to lean into it with some force until the latch gave a solid clunk—the same kind of force he had used just two days ago to break Marcus’ nose.

The memory flared, brief and vivid: the crash, the snap of bone—and Marcus’ vapid eyes that rolled back.

Grimacing, Ludwig shoved it away.

He forced himself not to check if there were remnants of blood still stuck to the floor or walls. Instead, he focused on the scent that always greeted him here; faint rubber from the mats, a lingering trace of old sweat, and something sharply metallic in the air. The gym was cool and dim under the flickering lights, and the slight give of the polished floor beneath his shoes brought him back to the moment.

“Alright.” He flicked the remaining switches overhead. It flooded the gym with full light. Then he turned to face the group. “I suggest you all form a neat line—”

What he saw made the words die in his throat.

While his back had been turned, the gym had already descended into chaos.

Vash’s wiry frame had scaled halfway up the basketball hoop like a mountain goat, one foot wedged against the rim, both arms straining as he reached—and yanked—at the already rickety backboard. He fought tooth and nail to stay on, glaring at the two maniacs on the ground, Lovino and Arthur, who kicked Swiss balls high in the air. Not just at Vash, but also the ceiling lights, as if competing on who could take out the most.

Horrified, Ludwig ran toward them. “Don’t—”

Halfway, he caught sight of Ivan and Sadik in the far corner. Both commandeered medicine balls and were locked in some deranged gladiator contest. They lobbed them at each other, the sound of each impact echoing like cannon fire against the walls. One ball cracked against the floor so hard it ricocheted up into a wall bar with a bang that made Ludwig flinch.

“Please, if you break something, it will be my responsibility—!”

At the rope station, Natalia had claimed one of the climbing lines and swung it around her head like a lasso, eyes gleaming manically. “Yeehaw,” she muttered under her breath, swinging it toward anyone who got too close. That included Ludwig, who got hit square in the face in his attempts to stop her.

Near the center of the gym, Feliciano and Feliks had discovered the hula hoops. What started as an innocent experiment quickly devolved into lunacy—half the hoops were clumsily perched around their waists, the other half launched like Frisbees in all directions. One clattered off the folded bleachers; another nearly took out the fire alarm if Ludwig hadn’t caught it in time.

“Stop that—!”

Balls flew. Mats were dragged. Someone screamed. Possibly in joy, possibly not. The gym floor was now a battlefield of rubber and plastic. Somewhere, Ludwig’s voice tried to rise above the mayhem. No one heard it.

Of course, no one heard it.

So, Ludwig bolted to one of the side lockers, yanked it open, and rummaged through the clutter until his fingers closed around cold metal. A whistle. One blew into with every ounce of air in his lungs.

The shrill note sliced through the gym like a siren, bouncing off the walls and drilling straight into everyone’s eardrums. The chaos froze in place.

Ludwig glared them down, one impudent face at a time as the fury in his voice caused it to crack. “I didn’t bring you here to trash the place!” Who raised these people? “Gott!”

He needed a moment to muzzle his temper. Jaw tight, he inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly. “Please, form a line.”

With his eyes shut and back turned, he only heard the reluctant shuffling of feet. When he blinked open again, the class stood before him in a ragged—but real—line.

Finally.

He wheeled a whiteboard out from the corner and rolled it in front of the group. From under his arm, he unfurled the second poster and clipped it in place. “I’ve broken the weeks leading up to the exams into two parts: studies and exercise,” he said, smoothing the paper. “We’ll tackle both in spaced increments.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vash lamented. “You want us to exercise?”

“Your mind is only as agile as your body.” Ludwig secured the corners of his plan with two extra magnets. “If you want to pass, you can’t just study. A healthy diet, regular exercise, and proper sleep hygiene are just as critical.” With a snap, he extended his pointer stick again and smacked its tip against the printed chart. “Which is why we will follow this regimen.”

It took less than two seconds for outrage to ignite. Voices exploded over one another in indignant protest.

“There is no way I’m doing that!” Lovino cried, flinging his hands up as he scanned the poster. “Three sets of Romanian Deadlifts? Four-minute planks? Dumbbell shoulder presses and five reps of sprints at ten, twenty, and forty yards? You want to kill us?”

“This isn’t what you’re starting with,” Ludwig defended. “This is my regimen. I just wanted to show what you’ll be training toward.”

More outrage. “And why would we want to do that?” Feliks crossed his arms. “To become like you?” He gave Ludwig a slow once-over, then scrunched his nose. “Ew.”

Ludwig frowned and looked down at himself. Not taking offense was difficult, no matter how much his mother had told him that she found him handsome.

Feliciano seemed to share the sentiment. “Don’t listen to him, Ludwig!” He called out. “Your muscles are perfect just the way they are!”

“Then you shouldn’t mind looking like him when we’re done here, then,” Lovino fired back.

Feliciano’s lips puckered into a tight line. He stared off toward the gym’s far wall like he suddenly found it fascinating.

Ivan approached the plan, read through it and pointed out: “Russian twists with only twenty pounds? You’re too weak for more?”

Before Ludwig could answer, Sadik cut in with a smug laugh. “Probably. I could do all this in my sleep. No fancy equipment needed.” He flexed a bicep. “Just pure wrestling with my dad on the weekends.”

More arguments burst out across the gym, voices overlapping into a maddening crescendo. It didn’t matter what Ludwig said. Complaints, jeers, and taunts drowned it all out.

Heat flared in Ludwig’s neck, building fast—hot, tight, and blinding. He didn’t even notice how his fingers gripped his hair, literally close to being ripped out. More and more, he teetered on the edge of his own composure. And Arthur stepping up beside him, pen in hand, calmly circling his grammatical errors on the poster only shoved him further toward the brink.

This felt just like two years ago. The biology project all over again

Except this time, there was no teacher to assign him a solitary project. No authority figure to rescue him from the havoc.

This time was different.

This time, he couldn’t leave.

But that also meant he could finally do what he hadn’t back then:

“That’s enough!”

His bellow sliced through the noise like a cleaver.

He snatched the pen out of Arthur’s hand and snapped: “Your devil-may-care attitude is ending right here, right now! I’m in charge of this project, and you will follow my orders. And if any of you have a problem with that—” he jabbed a finger toward the exit “—there’s the door. Have fun teaching yourself!”

Not a single soul moved.

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what I thought.” He turned back to the board, voice steely. “We will stick to this plan. That means no mocking, no whining, and no changes. You’ve got three strikes. Be late, break equipment, or jeopardize progress in any way—and you’re out. Have I made myself clear?”

It felt good—saying all of it out loud. As did watching the students fall into stunned silence as he paced in front of them, hands clasped behind his back, footsteps measured.

“Crystal.”

The word came from the far end of the line. Ludwig halted and turned. While most of the students quickly diverted their gazes, Lovino didn’t. He met Ludwig’s eyes without flinching, his own burning with challenge.

Ludwig returned the glare, though he couldn’t help questioning it. Wasn’t Lovino the one who insisted he take charge? So why did the Italian act like this wasn’t exactly what he had wanted all along?

It didn’t matter. First, because Ludwig had already decided on the methods he would use. And second, because the bell rang.

In record time, bags were slung over shoulders, and the students rushed toward the exit like inmates released on parole. A few shot Ludwig dirty looks as they passed. Sadik even gave him a sharp shoulder check on the way out.

“Ludwig?”

The soft voice made the German pause. Feliciano had lingered behind, fingers nervously tugging at the drawstrings of his backpack. His face was hesitant, partially veiled in the shadows cast by the overhead lights. “I… I don’t really like running. And I was wondering if I maybe could—”

“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t like,” Ludwig snarled. “That’s life.”

The words sounded harsher than he meant them to. Feliciano winced and recoiled. His gaze dropped to the floor, and without another word, he turned and hurried after the others—head down, shoulders small.

Ludwig watched him go, and his chest deflated with every step Feliciano took. The tension drained from his fists, leaving his arms slack and cold.

A flicker of doubt stirred.

Should he have—?

He shook his head, and the scowl returned.

No. He had done nothing wrong. Because having goals to reach for wasn’t a crime. Ensuring no one would get in the way of said goal wasn’t a crime.

Caring wasn’t a crime.

Fifteen minutes later, the gym was restored to order. Mats re-stacked, equipment returned, floor cleared of the clutter from earlier commotion. Ludwig even fixed the backboard of the baseball hoop before locking the doors behind him. He made his way to the main office and handed the keys over to the secretary.

It was the exact moment Mr. Schmidt emerged from his office, buttoning the cuff of his sleeve.

Their eyes met.

Neither said a word.

They left the office together, walking side by side down the corridor with a polite gap between them. Mr. Schmidt’s presence was unmistakable, heavy and glacial. Just like his gaze that swept the hallway with the intensity of someone constantly on alert.

“Status report,” Mr. Schmidt said as his eyes pinned a group of loitering students to the wall. They flinched and scurried like rats caught under a floodlight.

Ludwig kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “They all agreed to it. We officially start tomorrow.”

There was the slightest catch in his voice. Barely there, but it didn’t escape Mr. Schmidt. The man seemed to have a nose for weakness and knew exactly how to sniff it out.

“Any troubles?”

Ludwig stiffened, the grim expressions of his detention mates flashing through his mind. Tension crawled up his spine, but he forced it down. “Not ones I can’t fix,” he replied, more for his own reassurance.

“Good.” Mr. Schmidt adjusted the knot of his tie with clinical precision. A strange ritual for someone supposedly heading home. Ludwig briefly wondered if there was someone waiting for him.

“This is the last time we will acknowledge each other in public,” Mr. Schmidt said.

“Agreed.”

They arrived at the school’s front entrance, where Ludwig pushed open the heavy double doors, holding them just long enough for Schmidt to pass through. A curt “Thank you” was all he got in return. The silence that followed was oddly pleasant. Calm, almost natural.

That was until they saw a familiar car parked squarely in front of the school. Its driver lounged against the hood, casually sliding down the sunglasses perched on his nose. Crimson eyes gleamed beneath white-blond bangs, matching the devilish grin that spread from cheek to cheek.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite Germans—”

Both Ludwig and Mr. Schmidt bolted in opposite directions.

Gilbert’s confused shout echoed behind them, but Ludwig didn’t look back. He left the campus at a brisk walk, head down and wishing he wouldn’t be so tall and therefore noticeable.

The sidewalk stretched out before him, cracked and sun-warmed, lined wutg patchy grass and crooked lampposts that buzzed faintly in the afternoon heat. Beyond the school perimeter, children’s bikes littered porches, windows were cracked open to let in the breeze, and the sky glowed a dusky blue.

But peace was short-lived.

The low purr of tires drew closer. Ludwig sighed.

Gilbert’s Audi A3 rolled into his periphery, keeping perfect pace beside him. The once-shiny silver paint had dulled with age, and even the bumper had seen better days. It wouldn’t look like much to most people, which included Ludwig’s parents, given that it was second-hand and manufactured over two decades ago. Worth less than a month’s rent, but still an “awesome” bargain according to its owner.

“What was that?” Gilbert called through the open passenger window. “I wanted to offer Schmiddy a ride home, but he just ran. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two are avoiding me.”

Ludwig kept walking.

“I saw that you left your bike at home today,” Gilbert just went on, cruising alongside the curb. “So I decided to come pick you up.”

Ludwig halted at a crosswalk as the traffic light flipped to red, despite the street being completely empty in both directions. The sun cast long shadows across the pavement, and a breeze stirred wrappers caught in the gutter. “I always leave my bike at home on Wednesdays,” he replied flatly. “I like to walk to and from school at least twice a week.” He cast his brother a sharp side glance. “People who actually know me are aware of this fact.”

Sure, that list only included their parents, but it was still satisfying to see Gilbert wince like he had taken a direct hit.

The light turned green. Ludwig resumed his path. So did Gilbert’s car.

“Well, can’t you make an exception today?”

Ludwig pretended to give it genuine thought, then turned his head to offer a crisp: “No.”

“I see.” Gilbert slung one pale arm out the window, sunglasses now in hand as he twisted them idly between his fingers. “You know, this situation reminds me a lot of yesterday, when you ran upstairs to study in the middle of our conversation. Which I’m still mad about, mind you. But, since I’m feeling generous, I’ll let it slide if you get in the car.”

Yes, it was exactly like yesterday: Ludwig trying to live his life, and Gilbert doing everything in his power to make that impossible. So, just in case his brother hadn’t grasped the message the first time, Ludwig answered in a language he might understand better:

“Nein.”

Gilbert’s grin twisted, now biting. “Get in the car, Ludwig.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Don’t test me. Or I won’t be the fun older brother anymore.”

“When did you start?”

The Audi jerked to a sudden stop with a squeal of the brakes. Ludwig might have celebrated the moment in smug silence—

If not for the soft click behind him.

Then came the voice, booming and unmissable:

“Ludwig Heinz-Phillip Beilschmidt.”

Ludwig froze. So did half a dozen pedestrians nearby, all turning in unison.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to leave the house without your protective underwear?” Gilbert hollered into a megaphone that had materialized in his hand. “The doctor specifically said that until you regain control of your bladder again, you have to stick to your incontinence briefs—which I won’t call diapers, because I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

Ludwig’s nostrils flared. He spun on his heel. “Are you serious right now?”

“Absolutely,” Gilbert replied without missing a beat. “I mean, I would have just brought them to you later, but—” his voice cracked with fake tears, “—I’m still hurt, you know. You just left today. No note. No heads up. Not even our usual brotherly kiss goodbye—”

If Ludwig had known he would dash like his life depended on it today, he would have skipped his morning run. He yanked the passenger door open and dropped into the seat. His glare could have burned through metal as he fastened his seatbelt.

“Happy?”

“You have no idea,” Gilbert said without an ounce of emotion. He tossed the megaphone into the backseat, and the car lurched forward, gliding into traffic.

“Why—” Ludwig tipped his head back against the seat, eyes closed in utter disbelief, “—why do you have a megaphone?”

Gilbert shifted gears and gave him a look. “The real question is: why don’t more people have one? I believe every citizen should be handed one when they come of age. Might even start a petition." He slipped his sunglasses back on with one smooth motion. But not even pulling down the sun visor could save him from squinting at the road. “Anyway, how was school?”

“Fine,” was all Ludwig said, shifting stiffly in his seat. The upholstery was warm from the sun, but the real discomfort came from the notebook jammed awkwardly in his back pocket. He fished it out and let it rest in his lap. Having nothing better to focus on, he flipped it open. His earlier note about teaching Feliciano functions stared up at him, almost accusatory.

The image of Feliciano’s crestfallen face resurfaced, even though just minutes before—no, the entire time—he had been smiling so brightly.

Ludwig gazed down at his notes, as if they might explain the sudden pit forming in his stomach.

“Who’s Feliciano?”

Ludwig looked up. Gilbert was leaning in across the console, eyes locked onto the open notebook rather than the road. Ludwig snapped it shut and clutched it to his chest. He shifted to face the window. “No one.”

“What are you writing, then?” Gilbert’s grin curled lazily. “Brainstorming your first prank?”

Ludwig narrowed his eyes. “What? No.”

“Maybe you should—with your friends.”

A shudder ran through Ludwig. “Not my friends.”

Gilbert didn’t hear his last mumbling. He let out a snicker. “Gosh, the things Antonio, Francis, and I did to Schmiddy’s car… It’s no wonder he got a new one, is all I’m sayin’. You think his insurance covered it?”

“Don’t know.”

Silence spread in again, punctuated only by the steady hum of tires over asphalt and the occasional flick of Gilbert’s turn signal—even when he didn’t turn.

“Ah, yes,” Gilbert said theatrically, as if narrating a nature documentary. “The typical one-note responses. Quite common for teenagers, as I’ve read. In fact, I learned that you don’t do it to hurt me, but because there’s too much going on for you to put into words.”

Ludwig, doing his best not to roll his eyes and thereby confirm every part of that ridiculous theory, slowly stopped flipping through the notebook. “You’ve read about what?”

“Glovebox.”

Reaching across, Ludwig popped it open and rummaged past half-crushed receipts and loose gum wrappers until he pulled out a garish orange book titled: Puberty, Pimples & Eye Rolls: A Survival Guide for Grown-Ups with Teens.

Ludwig scoffed. Of all the books Gilbert could’ve picked up, he chose… this? Shouldn’t he be reading self-help books to get his life back on track? And no, Ludwig didn’t count no-more-living-out-of-his-car as holding the same weight. “This is stupid,” he muttered, shoving it back in.

Gilbert kept his eyes on the road. He smirked. “You should see volume two, right underneath.”

Ludwig dug deeper and, sure enough, found it: Puberty, Pimples & Eye Rolls Vol. 2: What to Do When Your Teen Says This Book Is Stupid.

He pushed it back too. As he did, something on Gilbert’s arm caught his eye, just where the sleeve of his T-shirt had ridden up. Ink, dark and bold. The head of a bird, wings mid-spread.

It looked like an eagle.

Ludwig didn’t ask. He could already imagine Gilbert jumping at the chance to talk about it. Probably had some wild story lined up. But Ludwig wondered, quietly—had he gotten it before getting kicked out?

Or was that the reason?

A blur of unfamiliar buildings zipped by. Ludwig craned his neck to look out the window. “We should have taken a turn there.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t we?”

Gilbert didn’t so much as glance his way. His grin stayed plastered in place, eyes locked forward. “That’s a surprise.”

“I don’t want surprises,” Ludwig muttered. His gaze drifted up to the photos clipped to the rearview mirror. Polaroids of Gilbert with Francis and Antonio, grinning with drinks in hand, sunglasses crooked on their faces. He quickly looked away, afraid those two might somehow appear too, just to make this entire ordeal worse. “I want to go home.”

Gilbert ignored both Ludwig’s complaints and exhausted side-eyes as he guided the car into a parking lot painted in pastel stripes.

The establishment ahead was a bubblegum-pink building, with the roof shaped like a melting scoop of vanilla and rimmed with glowing LED sprinkles. A massive plastic cherry topped it off, spinning in lethargic circles; in tandem with the neon unicorns that frolicked across the windows.

It looked like something straight out of a twelve-year-old's dreamscape. Or a cavity-filling ad.

“Remember this place?”

Despite the over-the-top decorations, it did look vaguely familiar. Ludwig squinted at the spinning cherry, trying to piece something together from the recesses of his memory. The name, the colors, the exaggerated decor. It all tugged at something fuzzy. But that was all. A sense of recognition without meaning. Gilbert, meanwhile, was quaking with excitement.

“You serious?” Gilbert gasped when Ludwig failed to remember. “The two of us used to come here all the time when you were little! Well, not here-here, but they reopened the chain after being closed for years. I just saw it the other day while driving past. Isn’t that awesome?”

Ludwig stared at the nauseatingly bright facade as the car rolled to a stop. “You said we used to come here when I was little. How old, exactly?”

Gilbert tapped his chin, thinking. “Five or six?”

Ludwig turned to him with a deadpan expression. “And you’re wondering why I might not remember?”

“Well, visually you might not, but wait until you taste it and you’ll be transported right back to 2013.”

With a breathy exhale, Ludwig tipped his head against the headrest. “I don’t feel like it.”

Naturally, Gilbert didn’t acknowledge that in the slightest. He unbuckled and flung the door open. “Wait here.” And then he was gone, already halfway to the unicorn gates.

Ludwig did wait—mostly because he didn’t have anything better to do. As Gilbert bounded into the building like a man on a mission, Ludwig leaned back in his seat and took in his surroundings.

Despite the worn seat fabrics, faded from years of sun exposure, and the slight sag in the ceiling liner, the inside of Gilbert’s car was surprisingly tidy. A faint scent of old sunscreen and synthetic pine hung in the air. Ludwig blinked at the cleanliness, mildly impressed—and mildly confused. He had expected mess, clutter, some irreverent mix of fast food wrappers and questionable stains. But this? This was curated disarray. Lived-in, but not neglected.

Curious, he leaned forward and popped open the glove compartment again. His fingers brushed against the spines of pocket dictionaries—French, Spanish, and even Hungarian—wedged between two crushed but unopened travel-sized tubes of sunscreen. A handful of glossy, slightly bent photo booth strips were shoved into the side panel, all of them featuring Gilbert and his friends pulling ridiculous faces. Buried beneath it all were two thick notebooks, the covers worn and edges curled with age, their pages dense with ink and use.

As someone with a strong appreciation for notebooks, Ludwig reached for one—only to nearly jump out of his skin when Gilbert’s suddenly appeared at his window.

His brother flung the door open and immediately shoved a plastic cup right into Ludwig’s face.

“What is that?”

“Original German spaghetti ice scream,” Gilbert declared, his chest puffed with pride. “Well, probably not "original". None of the workers spoke German, and I’m 96% sure it’s a front for money laundering.”

Ludwig drew back to appraise the ice cream. The cup was overloaded with a mountain of vanilla “noodles” tucked under glistening red strawberry syrup, thick and sugary, made to mimic tomato sauce. A dusting of white chocolate shavings added the illusion of parmesan.

His lips crinkled. “And I used to like this?”

Gilbert laughed. “You asked to finish mine when you were done with yours. Here, have a taste.”

Ludwig evaded the spoon heading toward him. “That’s… a lot of sugar.”

“All right, Mr. Fitness,” Gilbert mocked and stuck the spoon back into the cup. “Ever heard of a cheat day?”

“This has nothing to do with that. If I eat this, my face will break out and I’ll have stomach pain for at least two days.”

“Then don’t eat everything all at once.” Did Gilbert forget that ice cream melting was a thing? “Geez. Come on, it’s not going to kill you.”

Ludwig eyed the syrup-drenched cup again. The longer he looked, the more surreal the moment became. And soon, the reality—and absurdity—of the situation hit him. “I asked you to take me home. Instead, we’re here with you force-feeding me something I don’t want to eat.”

“If force-feeding is what finally makes you do what I say,” Gilbert countered, leaning in with dangerous cheer, “then so be it.”

Anger surged through Ludwig. He swatted the ice cream out of his face. “Since when have I not been doing what you say? I’m in your car, parked in front of a sketchy ice cream shack, for God’s sake!”

“And how did we get here?” Gilbert barked and shoved the ice cream back toward him. “Simply asking nicely hasn’t really worked so far!”

Ludwig batted the cup away again—harder this time. The syrupy strands of vanilla spaghetti squished under the pressure. “I wonder why!” He growled, edged on by Gilbert’s incessant prodding, which clearly turned into provocation. “Stop!”

Gilbert hurled it forward again. “No, you stop—!”

“Gilbert, I’m serious!”

“So am I! God, I’m just trying to—”

Ludwig didn’t see it happen. One second, he was deflecting the cup; the next, it slipped from Gilbert’s grasp and dropped—right into Ludwig’s lap. Ice cream-first.

The cold punched through his pants, but his blood ran hot with fury. Without thinking, he grabbed the sticky container and hurled it down to the car floor. It landed between his feet with a splatter. He yanked his backpack off the seat and shot to his feet.

“It might not have occurred to you,” he seethed, “but I can live a fulfilled life without The Lego Movie, spaghetti ice cream, and—”

He didn’t finish. His hands, mid-gesture, dropped to his sides. But Gilbert had seen it—

—how they were meant to point at him.

His expression morphed into something unreadable. “Where are you going?”

Ludwig shouldered past his brother. “Home." He ripped open the backseat door to snatch up the megaphone. “And I’m taking this with me.”

He stormed away, ignoring Gilbert’s calls behind him.

“What?” Ludwig shouted over his shoulder, purposefully louder than Gilbert's volume. “I can’t hear you!” He switched on the megaphone and held it to his lips in dramatic spite. “Would you look at that? Can’t do anything without your precious megaphone, can you?” He yelled in German. “I’d like to see how you plan on embarrassing me now—!”

Too focused on Gilbert—and on his triumphant exit—he didn’t realize he was walking straight into something solid. Or rather… someone.

A police officer towered before him, arms crossed. His mirrored sunglasses reflected Ludwig’s wide-eyed face.

“Going somewhere, son?”

He was still waiting for an answer Ludwig couldn’t give. He stood frozen, mouth opening and closing like a short-circuiting puppet, producing a fractured noise that didn’t sound remotely human. His brain sputtered, caught between fight and flight, but his body chose neither.

He hated how, despite everything, there was a flicker of relief when Gilbert skidded up beside him, panting and grinning wide.

“Hello, officer!” Gilbert chirped, too cheerfully for the situation.

The policeman’s eyes narrowed behind mirrored sunglasses. His gaze flickered from Ludwig to Gilbert, then back again. “You know each other?”

“Yes,” Gilbert said. “And I have to apologize for my brother here.” He slapped Ludwig’s back with a little too much force. “He’s deaf, you see, but only in the right ear.” He looked up at Ludwig with a saccharine smile that turned razor-sharp. “And it always happens to be the one he turns toward me when I talk to him.”

It wasn’t enough to ease the officer’s suspicion. Ludwig wouldn’t have blamed him for doubting they were related. With Ludwig covered in half-melted spaghetti ice cream and gripping a megaphone like a weapon, he could’ve easily passed for someone who had escaped an asylum—while Gilbert looked like the unfortunate handler tasked with bringing him back.

The officer’s gaze dropped to the mic. “Where were you heading with this?”

Ludwig tried again to speak, but what came out was more whimper than word.

“I don’t think you’re mute too,” the officer said coolly. “I heard your screaming from all the way across the street.”

“He only speaks German,” Gilbert jumped in. It was almost disturbing how quickly he spun lies from thin air. “He hasn’t been here long, but he’s been learning English every day. Nicht wahr, Ludwig? Du lernst doch fleißig, oder?” He elbowed Ludwig’s side in a mock-affectionate jab. “He’s a smart cookie. Best in his class.”

Gilbert didn’t wait for a reaction. Instead, he smoothly looped an arm around Ludwig’s and began inching them backward, dragging them away with rehearsed nonchalance. “Now,” he said breezily, “if you would excuse us, he has a few English classes to attend—”

“Hold it.”

The officer’s voice landed like a hammer. Both brothers halted mid-step. 

“License and registration,” the policeman demanded and stepped around them.

“O-of course.” Gilbert pivoted on his heel. He led them back to the car and started rummaging through the glovebox, console, and sun visor with clumsy fingers.

Ludwig hovered awkwardly nearby, caught between staring at his brother’s shaking hands and watching the officer's every motion. The man looked to be in his mid-forties, tall and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair. His uniform was crisp, badge gleaming. A sidearm rested confidently at his hip—a standard-issue pistol, holstered but far too real.

It should have scared Ludwig. And it did. Sort of.

But the officer was also… kind of handsome. And that complicated things.

Damn hormones.

The officer turned his head slightly, clearly disturbed by the boy staring at him without blinking. He chose to ignore Ludwig and accepted the student ID Gilbert had dug from the teen's backpack. “You sure your underage brother had nothing to drink?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he examined the ID.

“Absolutely,” Gilbert said and handed over the license and registration with both hands, then chuckled too quickly. “I always make sure of it. We respect the legal drinking age in this wonderful country.” He laughed again. “I mean, this isn’t Germany, where every child’s milk bottle always has a bit of beer in it.”

The officer didn’t even glance up from the documents. “You often joke about Adolescent Alcohol Use Disorder, Mr. Beilschmidt?”

For a moment, Ludwig wasn’t sure Gilbert’s complexion could turn paler—but it did. “N-no, I just—” He clamped his mouth shut. The wisest choice he had made thus far.

The officer finally returned the papers and ID, his sharp gaze flicking between them. He addressed Gilbert first. “You’re going to drive him home. Safely.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the officer turned to Ludwig, who snapped even straighter than he thought possible. “And you. Learning the language of the country you’re in is important.” The man paused before adding, albeit awkwardly and strangely pronounced: "Das ist gut. English ist... gut." 

Ludwig could only nod stiffly, still incapable of forming an actual sentence.

Proud of himself, the officer turned and walked off, disappearing between a row of parked cars and melting into the quiet bustle of late afternoon.

Gilbert let out a loud, jittery breath. “Phew. That could’ve gotten ugly.” His voice was a touch too high as he turned to Ludwig with a grin, patting his shoulder. “I can’t believe you still freeze up in front of uniformed personnel. Are you scared they’re going to arrest you, or does your respect for them really run that deep? I remember you almost cleaning the entire theater at the movies because you didn’t want the usher to think you were dirty—”

Ludwig wrenched his shoulder out of Gilbert’s touch. Silently, he climbed into the backseat, shut the door, and focused on the one thing that couldn’t talk back: the window.

On the drive home, Gilbert kept trying. He babbled about random stories, made questionable jokes, and pointed out weird license plates like he used to when they were kids. But Ludwig didn’t respond.

Eventually, Gilbert stopped talking.

When Ludwig dared to glance at the rearview mirror, he caught his brother’s reflection—eyes dulled, voice absent, his usual erratic energy fading into something quieter. Something hollow.

Chapter Text

The first week had been… rough. Despite Ludwig’s detailed plans and lofty ambitions, his study group had only managed to hit half the milestones he had set. Algebra was dragging its feet, trigonometry had broken a leg, and calculus was having an asthmatic fit in the corner.

PE lessons fared even worse. The students behaved—mostly, which meant restraining themselves from trapping one another under the gym mats—but ambition was nowhere to be found. Every running set dissolved into a sluggish jog, no matter how forcefully Ludwig blew his whistle.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway, Ludwig toyed with the multi-functional keyring on his phone. He didn’t want to unlock it and check the plan again. It was pointless. Tinkering with the schedule, adjusting breaks, shuffling exercises, none of it would solve the core problem. Something drastic had to change, or the detention students would need far longer to earn their diplomas. Ludwig did the math: at this pace, it would take roughly six years.

Ludwig tossed his phone into his bag and craned his neck. He had deliberately chosen a seat just outside Mr. Schmidt’s peripheral vision. Some teachers might not notice an earthquake, too engrossed in their lessons or plans for dinner that evening, but Mr. Schmidt could hear every beep a phone made, especially ones he had explicitly ordered to stay silent. So Ludwig faced the classroom door, behind which Mr. Schmidt slid his chalk across the board in neat, cursive writing. Not a sound escaped the room. If the door weren’t ajar, Ludwig might have believed no lesson was happening at all.

It was impressive how Mr. Schmidt commanded the room with such authority without speaking a single word. This was exactly why Ludwig wanted advice from the principal. To give him some pointers on assertive leadership. Yes, they had agreed not to acknowledge each other in public, which meant Ludwig had to wait for the German lesson to end before approaching him privately.

The plan was simple: tell Mr. Schmidt that an acquaintance of Ludwig’s had a friend whose cousin was in charge of tutoring a bunch of unruly teenagers, teenagers who would rather pick their toes than solve math equations. The question Ludwig would bring was how Mr. Schmidt would handle the situation, or, more precisely, what he would do to (metaphorically) beat some sense into them.

The school bell rang, yanking Ludwig out of his thoughts. He jerked upright, rose from his seat, and watched the students trickle out one by one. Behind their bustle, Mr. Schmidt sat at his desk, skimming a few papers.

He was so close. All Ludwig had to do was wait until the students were gone.

But the moment the last student slipped out and Mr. Schmidt’s sharp gaze darted out the door, Ludwig had vanished behind it, out of sight.

Maybe he would wait just a little longer… And now that he thought about it, he needed to go to the restroom and wash his hands.

Yes. The restroom. A far more calming image than Mr. Schmidt asking where Ludwig’s confidence from last week had run off to.

Without any internal debate, Ludwig made a beeline for the restrooms. The door flung open just before he reached it, and a flock of boys tumbled out. Their devilish grins and hurried movements were strange, but Ludwig had come to expect nothing else from his schoolmates at this point. So he ignored their guffaws that bounced through the hall while they shoved each other and sprinted off.

Ludwig shook his head and pushed forward—but the moment he opened the door, he froze.

His mouth fell open. In the next beat, he bolted out of the restroom.

And he ran.

The janitor’s closet was at the far end of the building, but Ludwig’s long strides carried him there in no time.

He tore the door open. “Mr. Robinson!”

Mr. Robinson, huddled in the cramped, dingy closet with a bowl of instant ramen in one hand and a small iPad playing a Korean drama in front of him, looked up. Yet he continued chewing.

Panting, Ludwig gestured frantically in every direction. After a deep breath, he settled on: “You have to come see this.”

The janitor rose from his seat which was an overturned bucket, and groaned as his bones protested the motion. He paused the drama on his iPad, set the bowl of ramen aside, and methodically rummaged through the drawers near him. The calmness with which he gathered his cleaning tools was unsettling, given Ludwig’s panicked state. But the reason could simply be the fact that the janitor already knew what awaited.

Together, they made their way back to the restroom. Ludwig stopped dead in front of it, blocking the elder man. “You…” He swallowed, voice tight with sympathy. “You might want to sit down first.”

Mr. Robinson gave him a flat look before ushering the student aside. He entered the tiled room that was supposed to be white and gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Except, it wasn’t white anymore, but red.

It looked as though a massacre had occurred. Red streaked across the walls, stalls, and sinks. Yet it wasn’t blood. Instead of the crime scene of a slasher film, there was purpose here, a reason to the mess, a rhyme to the carnage. Drawings and letters sprawled across every surface, all pointed at a single target:

Mr. Schmidt.

It was all beyond vulgar. Ludwig couldn’t bear to look into certain corners, the details too grotesque. He shielded his eyes with his palm. “I think I remember their faces. I saw them come out of here. If we’re quick, we can catch them.”

Mr. Robinson simply stared. He rarely smiled, yet his graying mustache always curled around his plump cheeks, accentuating his stubby legs and sagging beer belly. He would make an excellent Santa at the fair. And the longer he held Ludwig’s gaze, the more those features seemed to dominate the room.

“If you really want to help,” the janitor said, reaching for his mop, “tell your schoolmates to use alcohol markers the next ten times they rhyme ‘Schmidt’ with ‘Dipshit'. ”

“This happened before?”

“You’ve never seen the toilets?”

“No. I don’t go into the stalls here. They’re gross.” Ludwig shuddered, then remembered who he was talking to. He quickly clarified, “But I’m sure only on the days you didn’t clean properly.”

Mr. Robinson paused, hand halting midway from reaching for the cleaning agents. He turned to Ludwig, brow raised.

“That came out wrong,” Ludwig realized. “What I meant—oh, sorry.” He was in the janitor’s way and toed aside so that Mr. Robinson could inspect the damage on the mirrors. To Ludwig’s horror, German words marked their entire surface with varying degrees of obscenity. In a twisted way, he couldn’t help but commend the students. They definitely did their research when it came to the more… graphic German vocabulary of insults.

Behind the crude scribbles, a young man in the mirror stared back, shock loud on his face. Shock and hurt.

He looked away. “But Mr. Schmidt is the best teacher in this school,” Ludwig said. “What do they have against him?”

Mr. Robinson gave a dry chuckle, and his stubbly double chin jounced. He produced a few clean racks from his cart. “Good ol’ Schmiddy is not the best at making friends, be it with students… or colleagues.”

Ludwig didn’t miss the sour tone in the end. “That doesn’t take away from his work ethic.” He gripped the straps of his bag, straining them as though they would give him purchase. The stench of markers and spray cans bit his nose, which had to be the reason his whole face scrunched up. “How much effort he puts into his lessons. Into this school.”

He only got a shrug as a reply. Mr. Robinson kneeled and amassed the discarded red pens, then mustered all of his core strength to push up again. “Well, at the end of the day, life is still a popularity contest.” He threw the pens in the bin and trudged toward one of the stalls. “And if Mr. Schmidt would put half as much effort into it as he did planning his lessons—” he pushed open the door to reveal a drawing on the toilet tank, “—maybe his nose wouldn’t be drawn as a pickle.”

Ludwig stared at the drawing, at the cartoonishly evil grimace of what was supposed to be his principal. He blinked when Mr. Robinson scrubbed it away with a lot of struggle.

“You missed a spot,” Ludwig said as the janitor prepared to move on. “Here, let me.” He grabbed what he needed from the janitor’s cart and squeezed into the stall. “Nail polish remover is actually a bit better than rubbing alcohol,” he said, pouring it onto a new rack, “but you can make it work just as well if—”

Suddenly, the rack in his hand vanished. So did the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“How many times…” Mr. Robinson’s nostrils flared and his cheeks flushed beyond their usual evidence of high blood pressure. He managed to steady himself, inhaled, and said: “How many times do I have to remind you to stop telling me how to do my job?”

His finger pointing out was a clear order, and Ludwig guiltily shuffled out of the stall. Mr. Robinson followed, but his expression had softened. “Go home, Ludwig.”

Ludwig skulked out, but paused by the door. He turned back one last time. “Will you tell Mr. Schmidt about this?”

“If I do or don’t.” Mr. Robinson removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his bald head. “He’ll find out eventually. He always does.”

Ludwig had no further questions. He let the janitor continue in solitude as he ambled home, making sure to avoid the route past Mr. Schmidt’s classroom.

The farther he biked from school—past the nearly empty parking lot, buzzing with more wasps than people, and over the rippling streets—the more he felt an itch. An urge.

To do something.

Or perhaps, more accurately, to clean something.

The sun had begun to hide behind the trees by the time Ludwig arrived home. He didn’t linger. He dropped his backpack in its designated spot, changed into a more comfortable button-up shirt and chinos, and headed straight out again. In the garage, he unlocked one of the utility cabinets and pulled it out: the Shark StainStriker.

Thankfully, Gilbert’s car was parked by the garage and its doors swung open without the key.

And there it was—the stain under the passenger’s seat was still there. Faded, but there.

After cracking his shoulders and neck, Ludwig hoisted the cleaning machine and got to work.

“What are you doing?”

The voice came from above. Ludwig poked his head out of the car, straining the awkward angle he had wedged himself into. Gilbert’s jeans came into view first, then his Rammstein hoodie, his pale hands balancing a plate, and finally his face—expression wary more than anything.

Ludwig didn’t blame him. They hadn’t spoken in a week, not since the ice cream incident. The quiet had been peaceful, something Ludwig usually appreciated, but it carried a heaviness, a discomfort in the way they exchanged stiff glances across counters. Antonio and Francis had tried to mend things, urging Gilbert forward, but Ludwig always retreated back into his room before his brother could utter a single word.

“Cleaning the ice cream stains from last week.” Ludwig set the cleaner down. He avoided his brother’s eyes, brushing lint from the seat instead. “I shouldn’t have thrown it. Your car didn’t deserve that. Also—” He climbed out and pulled a key from his pocket, focusing on it instead of Gilbert’s face. “Here’s the spare key to the cabinets in the garage. We keep the Striker locked in there.” He gestured toward the machine with its dark gray casing. He liked how the dirty water slushed in the tank and couldn’t wait for the satisfying act of pouring it away. “I was mad at you and hid the key. That was wrong. You should have access to it just like I do.”

“Ah. Thanks.” Gilbert accepted the peace offering. He twirled the key between his fingers. Then his gaze dropped to the cleaning machine. He quirked a smirk. “I don’t know how I’ve been coping without it in my life.”

Ludwig nodded with saintly gravity. “I wonder how most people do.”

A pause. Gilbert cleared his throat and lifted the plate in his hand. “I… er… made pancakes. No sugar,” he added, studying his creation with mild revulsion. “They're disgusting, but I figured you might like it.” He stepped closer, meaning to press the plate into Ludwig’s hands, but stopped short. Instead, he placed it on the hood of the car.

Choosing not to comment on how he wasn’t a fan of plain flour—which Gilbert had clearly used—Ludwig gingerly picked up a pancake. “Thank you.”

Silence settled again. As Ludwig nibbled, Gilbert’s crimson gaze wandered over the open garage. “What the—?” His eyes locked on a box in the corner. “No way!” He jogged over and tugged it out, the Lego inside rattling with the motion. “Is that our old Lego? What’s it doing here?”

Memories rushed back, of Gilbert and Ludwig crouched over the bright yellow plastic box, its edges tired white from years of use and sun, building castles from discolored bricks and pretending they were motorcycling astronaut ninjas on a mission to protect the queen. None of it made sense; the mash of cultures and eras was absurd. But what else could anyone expect from the joined creativity of a seven- and fourteen-year-old?

Ludwig’s smile faded. He swallowed the last of the pancake and leaned against the car. “Mama decided to donate it to the children’s hospital down the street when she comes back.”

Gilbert sifted his hand through the bricks. “But you could still play—” He cut himself off, glanced once at Ludwig, and turned back. The sad edge in his voice matched the look that followed. “I’ll miss it,” he muttered. “Speaking of missing things,” he immediately continued, absolving Ludwig of the difficult task of coming up with a response. He spread his arms wide, sweeping the neat garage into his scope. But there was something absent, something that should have been parked right where he stood. “Where is the car?”

“We sold it.”

“What? Why?”

Ludwig contemplated whether or not to take another pancake from the plate next to him. “To pay for Papa’s latest checkup.”

“Ah.” Jutting his hands into his pockets, Gilbert morphed into his hoodie. He regarded the empty garage. “So I assume you don’t get a lot of driving lessons anymore.”

“Yeah.” Ludwig decided to return the interior of Gilbert’s car to how he found it. The first step was to put the mat back into place. “I still only have a learner’s permit,” he said, his voice probably muffled from the cramped space under the dashboard. “It’s been a while, so I probably forgot a lot.”

“Well, it might be time to refresh what you’ve learned.”

“How, without a car?” Ludwig threw his brother a look. Gilbert stared right back with a smug smile, waiting until it clicked for Ludwig. “Oh.” He stepped out and pointed at the car. He must have looked so silly. “You… you want me to drive your car?”

“If you want to—”

“Yes!” Ludwig immediately schooled his excitement. He coughed, gaze to the ground as he muttered a cool: “I do.”

Gilbert grinned. “Great. We start next week.” His expression dimmed as he raised his face to the setting sun, twinkling behind the tree crowns. “How’s he doing? Papa, I mean.”

Ludwig didn’t answer straight away and let the past few months rush by him. It was such a simple question, and yet, he struggled to give an accurate account. One that went beyond the memories of their father’s pained face whenever he did as much as move. “His knee has been swelling up more than usual,” he finally said. “So, we’ve been looking into orthopedic doctors in Germany to get a second opinion.”

A hum. “So that’s why they’ve flown there.”

Gilbert stepped up beside Ludwig, who scooted over to let him rest against the car as well. “At first Mama didn’t want to,” Ludwig said. A breeze slipped past, tugging at his bangs until they tickled. He brushed them back with a grimace. “She doesn’t have enough vacation days left, especially after taking more hours at her second job. So we decided it would be best for her to negotiate with her bosses. They allowed it, but they weren’t exactly happy, so we’re hoping she won’t come home to two termination letters.”

To keep his mind from dwelling on it, Ludwig dropped his gaze to the pavement beneath his shoes. The slabs were clean, no grass pushing through; he made sure to trim them every week. Same with the lawn, pressed tight behind the white picket fence. If only his mother’s work could be as fixed as their yard, maybe he wouldn’t lie awake at night worrying about it.

Gilbert scoffed. “No wonder she’s been so cranky.” He blinked, his brows knitting. “Hold on, what do you mean with "we”? How do you know about all of this?”

“They tell me.”

“Tell you? Everything?”

Not sure why Gilbert sounded so surprised and his gaze had become so invasive, Ludwig shimmied toward the plate of pancakes again. “We discuss family matters every Friday evening, right before Board Game Night.”

“Discuss. With you?”

Ludwig was about to reach for another pancake, but stilled midway. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, voice hardening, “I’m not eight anymore. I can fully form my own thoughts and contribute to a serious discussion.”

“I’m sure you can,” Gilbert countered in the same tone, “as much as a teenager is capable of, that is.” In Ludwig’s peripheral vision, he winced the moment he said it. “That came out wrong. I just think—”

But the damage has already been done. “Do you want to know what Muhammad Ali once said about jealousy—?”

Gilbert’s mocking laugh startled a few robins off the fence, wings scattering into the air. “I’m jealous?” He spun around with all the flourish of an over-dramatic stage actor. “Of whom? You?”

Ludwig pushed himself off the car as well. “You and I both know there is a reason as to why Mama and Papa don’t tell you anything.”

They now stood toe to toe, glares clashing. But there was something else in that fiery gaze Gilbert had. Something much more brittle. “And you believe that?”

Ludwig threw his arms out. “The whole town believes that!” And hadn’t Gilbert made sure everyone knew about the fights he had with their parents? How else could he explain the countless evenings filled with screams and roars that only ended once Gilbert decided to slam the door shut and stay at Francis’ place?

As fast as the anger had spiked in Gilbert’s shoulders, it ebbed again. Wordless, he stomped away, away from the conversation.

“So it’s true,” Ludwig called after him.

Gilbert still wouldn’t turn. “I didn’t say that.”

His indifference boiled Ludwig’s blood. “Then why are you not defending yourself?” He rushed after his brother, knocking the Striker down on the way. The dirty soap water splashed out onto the lawn, but Ludwig didn’t care. He had spent too long listening to his mother’s recounts not to be awestruck and wondering how anyone could hate their own parents this much.

Ludwig swallowed down his anger to finally ask: “What really happened three years ago?”

Gilbert’s answer was wicked in its simplicity: “I’m not talking with you about it.”

“Why?” Filled with venom, the words forced themselves up Ludwig’s throat. “Because I’m just a dumb teenager?”

“No, stupid.” A rack flew Ludwig’s way. Gilbert tossed it to him as though it were a basketball. The anger in his gaze had dimmed. Left was only irritation. “Because you’re my brother.”

He didn’t explain further. Instead, he drifted toward the fence, leaning on its spiked top with a sigh. Folding his arms over it, he buried his nose in his sleeves and stared out at nothing, letting the distant shouts of playing children settle into the quiet between them.

Ludwig didn’t say anything either. He couldn’t—still hooked on Gilbert’s last words, which made little sense to him. But instead of asking for further elaboration, he took a stance next to his brother by the fence. His mind reeled, torn to endless angles until Gilbert broke it free with a chuckle.

“Look at those two goobers.” He jerked his chin toward the distance. A young couple—barely twenty, if that—were trying to teach their Beagle puppy a few tricks. The dog, true to Beagle fashion, was far more interested in everything but the ball it was supposed to chase. “If they wanted a Retriever, they should’ve just gotten one.”

Ludwig agreed. It was pointless trying to turn a dog into something it wasn’t. He meant to say his thoughts out loud as he folded the rack in his hold, but Gilbert already pushed himself off the fence.

“Right.” He didn’t look at Ludwig as he patted his pockets. “You think the Johnsons are home? I promised Mama I’ll take back the hoe they borrowed.” Without waiting for an answer, he was already gone, calling an offhand “Be right back” before disappearing behind the neighbors’ tall hedges.

It was strange how he pulled up his hood as he passed Ludwig. Almost like to shield his face.

Detention the next day came with its usual challenges. At least Ludwig’s threats had kept the classroom quiet, though that didn’t mean the students actually solved the math problems he’d left on the blackboard. For that, he needed to breathe down their necks, monitor every move, and confiscate every phone when needed.

Ruler snapped straight behind his back, he marched through the rows of desks where students hunched over their notebooks. There was progress—small, but progress nonetheless. Vash had finally realized the Pythagorean Theorem wasn’t just decorative scribbling in the board’s margin, and Natalia had grudgingly decided the Triangle Sum Theorem wasn’t “bullshit” after all.

Baby steps, Ludwig reminded himself again and again. Baby steps—even if the baby should already be sprinting.

Still, he had another plan up his sleeve to speed things along.

Ludwig stopped at the far-right desk in the front row.

“Feliciano.”

Curved over his notebook, Feliciano stiffened. His hand shot down to cover the page, but not fast enough to hide the telltale outlines of a drawing. Slowly, he looked up, wide-eyed.

“I hope you brought your gym clothes today.”

Feliciano acted like he had just been sentenced to capital punishment. He nodded, painstakingly so.

“Then I would like to see you in the gym.” Ludwig checked his watch. “You have ten minutes.”

With the time constraint, Feliciano tripped over his feet on his way out. Ludwig followed calmly, but made sure to remind everyone still in the classroom that he had a camera set up and, no, they still won’t be able to tell where, no matter how thoroughly they searched. A couple of eyes rolled, which included Lovino’s. However, the Italian held Ludwig’s gaze for far too long. A clear threat.

Ludwig ignored it and headed out of the classroom. He didn’t need nearly as long as Feliciano to change into his sports wear, those being a German national football jersey, sweat-resistant shorts, and a pair of running shoes that squealed against the gym’s floors the moment he stepped in. Underneath the spaced lights, the air smelled of rubber and cleaning detergent, so Mr. Robinson must have made his rounds again…

The sound of light patter tore Ludwig's attention to the gym doors. Feliciano rushed in, seventy-five minutes too late, as Ludwig’s watch said. And the German was debating whether or not to point it out, but Feliciano immediately blurted:

“I’m so sorry! I really am trying, it’s just…” He looked down at himself in exasperation. “I think my legs are too short, which is why I’m tripping over them so much—!”

“That’s why I called you in.” Ludwig stopped the other’s rambling with a raised hand. “To help solve your problem. Running is an important aspect of cardio and building muscular endurance.” He lifted his chest and straightened his spine. “So we will train until you have reached a satisfactory level of stamina.”

Feliciano was by far the worst student when it came to physical exercise. So if Ludwig could fix—help him, he would know how to assist the others too.

Apparently, Feliciano had expected Ludwig to react differently, given how his entire body faltered. But there was no time to mope, especially not when Ludwig used his whistle to spur the other teen on. Warm-ups were in order: arm and hip circles, bodyweight squats, lunges, and high knees. Feliciano kept up… somehow. It was satisfactory—

Until the running began. All Ludwig had asked for were a few sprint drills that ended in bounding. Nothing too difficult. Nothing too dangerous. So he didn’t think much of looking at his phone for a few seconds. That had been a mistake, though, because the next moment, a scream tore through the gym. Its source: Feliciano, on the floor, writhing.

Ludwig almost dropped his phone. He ran toward the Italian and fell to his knees. “Feliciano?”

With the teen curled up like a caterpillar, Ludwig couldn’t see his face. Only his shaking was an indicator that he must have been in pain. If so, Ludwig had to be quick, not to mention pull his first-aid knowledge from the corners of his memory. “Feliciano?” He tried again as he took hold of the Italian’s wiry arms. He pried them away. “Are you hurt—?”

Eyes thick with tears met his. Ludwig wasn’t sure what trembled more, Feliciano’s limbs or his chin, which twitched each time the Italian tried to hold back his tears. But it was a losing battle. Soon, they flowed without abandon, and with it, sobs and hiccups broke free from his throat.

Ludwig let go and stumbled backwards. For someone who always knew what the next step was, he was now fumbling his way back to the crying teen, trying, but eventually worsening the other’s state. All he could manage was to straighten Feliciano enough that he wasn’t lying on the cold and hard floor anymore, but slumped against the wall, nose running. Ludwig offered him a tissue, which the other didn’t take.

He gently placed it on his lap regardless. “I… um…” He wrung his fingers. “We’ll just take five, okay?” He didn’t expect Feliciano to respond. Not that he could do much than nod his head, which was buried deep in his angled-up knees.

“I’ll be right back with some water, okay?” Ludwig pushed to his feet. His attention didn’t leave Feliciano until he left the gym.

Once the doors closed, he released a breath so deep and long, it made his shoulders cave. He dwelled there for a moment, by the door, forehead pressed against it’s cool, metal casing. It took all his willpower to not slam his head against every hard surface he could find. He groaned and rubbed his eyes instead. The pressure he applied to his eyeballs didn’t help him think, nor did the frustrated yanks to his hair. But what it did do was bring the world around him to a dizzying tumble. He bumped against the wall and slid down.

He had tried all avenues of effective teaching, read every book on discipline, and had accumulated logs upon logs of planning.

What was he doing wrong?

What was he missing?

And why wouldn’t the image of Feliciano’s crying face leave his thoughts?

At some point, Ludwig quit wracking his brain. Sitting on the floor and wallowing in self-pity wasn’t productive, and it certainly wouldn’t solve his problems. So, he dragged himself upright and headed for the lockers. He grabbed a plastic water bottle from a pack, splashed cold water on his face, and returned to the hall. The doors were still closed, with no sign that Feliciano had called it quits.

But that didn’t make it any easier for Ludwig to step inside.

He gave himself a mental kick and tentatively pushed the door open. He tried to script his next words in his mind, but they always came out short. What does one even say in these kinds of situations? None of the trainers he liked to read about ever had their clients break down in tears. Or perhaps they did, but the trainer just chose not to show it. How would Ludwig or anyone even know…?

Either way, Ludwig squeezed the bottle in his hands tighter, bracing for the worst. He stepped into the hall and veered to the side—but Feliciano wasn’t there. The spot by the gym mats, stacked atop one another like a Jenga tower, was empty.

The Italian had moved to the equipment locker. At least he was standing and no longer a crumpled mess on the floor. The sniffling hadn’t stopped, though, only waned as he fiddled with something in his hands.

How long had Ludwig been gone? Apparently long enough for Feliciano to get bored and start fiddling with the jumpropes. It looked like he was checking them for his right size, which, of course, they weren’t, though Feliciano clearly didn’t know any better. He grabbed one of the longest ropes and looped it around his hips.

A wobbly jump, then another.

“Your form is slightly off.”

Feliciano froze. He whirled around, already guilt-ridden. “I’m sorry! I was looking for more tissues and found it, but I wasn’t going to break it, I swear!” His eyes followed every measured step Ludwig took toward him, like a terrified puppy bracing for punishment. Was that really how he saw him?

Ludwig winced as Feliciano shrank back the closer he came. He stopped at a respectful distance. “Don’t move your arms. Just your wrists.” He demonstrated, angling his wrists toward his hips. “Like this. That way, you conserve energy and get faster, more controlled turns. Also, relax your spine. Take a deep breath.”

One would think that breathing wasn’t rocket science, yet Feliciano clearly needed that reminder. His short huffs evened out, and he eased his tense shoulders.

“Now try it.”

The performance anxiety showed in Feliciano’s movements, but he pressed on. Angling his arms at his hips as Ludwig had shown, he jumped once, then twice, and on the third, the motion came smoother.

“Very good,” Ludwig said, and Feliciano brightened, just a little. Again, a stark resemblance to a puppy. “Remember to land on the balls of your feet, not the heels. And don’t look down, it’ll make you dizzy. Look at me.”

Feliciano followed Ludwig’s instructions—until the last one. He hesitated, his gaze drifting upward, lingering on Ludwig’s face.

A beat passed. The bright amber in Feliciano’s eyes sparked something inside Ludwig, a flicker he quickly snuffed with a cough.

Tongue poking out in concentration, Feliciano tried the new set of jumps. “Like… like this?”

“Almost. Here, let me show you.” Ludwig held his hand out, and strangely, Feliciano extended his own. It took him a moment to realize Ludwig wasn’t asking for his hand but for the jump rope. With a sheepish chuckle, he passed it over.

Practicing what he preached, Ludwig demonstrated: the proper stance, the rope measured to hip height, and arms angled back. One swing later, and Ludwig tore into rhythmically timed jumps. He picked up speed, feet barely brushing the floor before springing into the next skip. The rope slapped against the ground in a steady rhythm that blurred the faster he went.

Nearly a minute passed before he stopped, and the beating stilled with him.

Applause followed immediately. “Oh, wow!” Feliciano had mimicked Ludwig’s tempo with short, delighted hops of his own. He was still bouncing. “That was amazing!”

Ludwig nodded awkwardly at the compliment. He reached beside Feliciano into the locker. “Take this one,” he said and handed the other a shorter rope. He moved back into position with a small smirk. “Try to keep up with me.”

Feliciano’s eyes glinted. Ludwig hadn’t intended his words as a challenge, but Feliciano’s resolve pulled him in regardless. They focused, locking their eyes ahead. “Alright. Ready?” His voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial in the wide, empty hall. “One, two—three.”

At first, Ludwig planned to keep the pace slow, not wanting to overwhelm the Italian. That, however, wasn’t necessary, because Feliciano moved with surprising lightness, quicker than Ludwig anticipated. Each skip bursted with energy, flowing seamlessly into the next. By the time the minute was up, he didn’t even look winded apart from a wayward lock of bronze hair that had sprung free.

“Oh!” Feliciano’s enthusiasm reached new heights—literally. He leapt up the bench next to them. “We should do what the kids do in elementary school! Those cool tricks they do with the jump rope.”

That overpassed Ludwig’s scope of expertise. He scratched the back of his head. “I’ve never been invited to those.”

“And I’ve never been to elementary school.” Feliciano whipped out his phone and typed wildly. “So it will be the first time for both of us! Look! This looks fun!”

He shoved his phone into Ludwig’s face. The battered screen turned most of the image into static, but the outlines of children hopping were still visible, far too many for Ludwig’s liking. “We’re only two people. Unless…” His gaze swept the gym before settling on the basketball goals. Without a word, he grabbed two ropes of equal length and tied them to one of the poles. “There.” He stepped back and snapped the free ends off the ground. “What was it called? Double Dutch?”

A nod from Feliciano later, and the two took turns jumping and spinning the rope. Soon, they pushed into trick territory, each one pulled from YouTube and ranging in difficulty. From hopping in and out of the swinging ropes to facing each other and timing their jumps so the lines wouldn’t tangle—Feliciano and Ludwig tried it all. The Italian hunted down new tricks and even invented a few of his own, while the German found ways to raise the stakes, like slipping mats underneath to make every leap harder.

For the next trick, Feliciano wanted them standing side by side. Ludwig followed the instruction, lining his feet up with Feliciano’s. Their shoulders brushed. “And now?”

“Now—” Feliciano gave Ludwig one end of the rope while he held the other, “—we hold hands.”

It was such a simple command, yet Ludwig’s sweat glands sprang alive on his palms. He fumbled with the rope and rubbed his free hand on his shorts before finally gliding it into Feliciano’s. It was warm and soft, much softer than Ludwig’s calloused fingers could ever be. He blamed his woodworking hobbies for it.

The Italian squeezed his hand and smiled up at him, then giggled at whatever face Ludwig must have been wearing. “Ready?”

Ludwig gave his go, both angled the rope back and with a swing, the rope cracked on the ground. The first jump was clumsy and the rope nearly hit the back of Ludwig’s head, but with a few more tries came a comfortable rhythm and the steady beating of fiber on the polished floor.

Apparently, Feliciano didn’t appreciate the quiet as much as Ludwig did. “Li vuoi quei kiwi?” He called out loud. “E se non vuoi quei kiwi che kiwi vuoi?”

Ludwig gaped at him. “I’m sorry?”

Feliciano repeated the phrase a second time, then clarified between jumps: “It’s about kiwis. It’s a tongue twister in Italian. My grandpa taught it to me when I was five. Now you try it.”

Another sweep, another jump. Ludwig struggled to follow Feliciano’s near-religious recital, which he slowed down just enough for him. “Li vuoi quei—” He shook his head. This was beyond silly. “How is that important right now?”

“Doesn’t that, like, make your brain stronger?” Feliciano's voice oscillated with each jump. “You said that the mind and body influence one another or something. So, what if you train both at the same time? Shouldn’t that make you uber strong?” To underscore his point, he flung out one arm, taking Ludwig’s with it.

While inanely explained, he did have a point. “I guess…”

Feliciano picked up their pace. “Quick! Teach me a tongue twister in German.”

Thinking and jumping at the same time made Ludwig’s mind bend over backwards, but in a good way. Could someone feel gaining a few IQ points? “Alright. I have one. It’s about fish and goes like this—” He took a deep breath, “Fischers Fritz fischt frische Fische, frische Fische fischt Fischers Fritz.”

Feliciano directed an airy smile straight ahead. “You know what, never mind.”

A chuckle rolled up Ludwig’s chest. “You can’t back out now. You wanted me to teach you.”

“Well, that was before I heard that monstrosity.”

“Monstro—but your tongue twister isn’t a monstrosity?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Italian.” Feliciano made it sound like it was just a fact of life, an undeniable truth. And adding that cheeky grin into the mix was nothing short of fiendish.

It might have been a good idea a few minutes ago, but now, the smile directed at him… the tongue twisters… the jumping—Ludwig’s brain couldn’t handle it all. He misstepped, which caused a chain reaction of his foot catching in the rope, Feliciano following suit, and before he knew it, they both crashed to the floor.

Ludwig’s mental circuitry might have been fried, but his reflexes never failed him. In a split second, he swapped their bodies around so he could tumble first and break Feliciano’s fall. His back gave a dull crack at the impact, which echoed in the hall as one big thump.

When he came to, he immediately attended to the boy in his arms. “A-are you okay?” How could he have been so careless? How could he have overlooked Feliciano’s injury in all this? What if he had fallen, broken arm-first, or worse, Ludwig on top of him?

While Ludwig’s mind reeled at hundreds of miles per hour, Feliciano took his sweet time blinking awake. “I’m fine.” He lay on top of Ludwig, bronze head hovering over the German’s chest. He stared at it for a beat, probably because he heard Ludwig’s raging heartbeat. And yet, he still decided to nestle into it. “So fine.”

“So gross.”

Both teens glanced up. Lovino glared down.

Ludwig scrambled to his feet and helped Feliciano up as well. “We… we were just—”

“I don’t care.” It seemed like Lovino came in shortly after the fall, given how he merely crossed his arms instead of strangling the life out of Ludwig. After disregarding the German not only with his words but eyes too, he turned to his brother. “Come on, the driver’s waiting.”

Ludwig checked his watch. Have they really been jumping rope for forty-five minutes? “Right, um.” Feliciano had retrieved his bag from the bench and now stood in front of Ludwig. Maybe to await some sort of last word. “You’re dismissed.”

The corners of Feliciano’s mouth dipped the tiniest bit.

“Also, good job today.”

Feliciano’s chest rose, his smile rekindled once again. After one little salute that made Lovino gag, he rushed after his brother’s departing figure. “Till tomorrow!” He called with an inflated wave that took too long for Lovino. He had to drag Feliciano out the door.

“Yeah…” Ludwig’s wave was much shyer, dreamier, still rife long after Feliciano was gone. His chest felt impossibly warm. “Till to—”

Something yanked around Ludwig’s throat, cutting him off—and his breathing.

All Ludwig registered were tan, muscular arms before a voice rasped in his ear: “If I remember correctly, you forbade us from breaking any equipment.” The arms slackened, but only to twist Ludwig’s biceps into a suffocating hold behind his back. Immobilized, Ludwig could only flinch before being hurled against the wall.

Ludwig’s head spun at the collision. Groaning, he cracked open an eye.

Sadik’s smirk was devilish against the overhead lights.

“I like to assume that doesn’t include you.”

Before Ludwig could even think of a response, Sadik tore him from the wall and into the stack of mats. He cried out in pain, only to taste rubber bruising his gums.

“And I’m not late, am I?” Sadik chirped sweetly before throwing Ludwig against another wall. “Detention is over. So there is no way for me to jeopardize any progress.” He made sure to mimic Ludwig’s accent while slamming him into the climbing ladders. They and Ludwig’s teeth rattled at the impact.

Since he failed to wedge Ludwig’s head into the bars, Sadik bowled him into the wood over and over again, as if to underscore each of his next words: “I’m a free man. And so-are-you!”

Ludwig’s vision blurred as Sadik yanked him back and flung him to the floor like a broken toy. He hacked something up—it might have been blood, or his lunch—and it slid from his mouth as he struggled onto unsteady elbows. Through the haze, he could only make out the Turk’s towering silhouette closing in.

Sadik’s shadow fell across him. “Wow. You didn’t think those rules through, did you?” He laughed. “I must say I’m surprised.” Then he stepped back a few paces, and it clicked for Ludwig: Sadik was taking a run-up. He charged, building speed, then leapt—aiming to barrel into Ludwig. A Flying Body Press. “You sure you’re German—?”

The impact never landed. With the last of his strength, Ludwig rolled clear of the target zone. Sadik slammed into the floor, knees first. The crack rang out sharp, followed by Sadik’s howl of pain.

Ludwig crawled back toward the climbing ladders and pulled himself up. His arms quivered, but he persevered through the pain, just like Sadik, who slowly regained his footing as well. His chocolate brown hair shielded his eyes, much to Ludwig’s disadvantage. His expression didn’t give away that he would charge again.

It was a close call, but Ludwig managed to dodge again, leaving Sadik to now empathize with having his skull smashed against hardwood.

But just like Ludwig, the Turk was far too sturdy to be broken. Not to mention persistent. What followed was one failed tackle after another. Sadik would charge, and Ludwig would slip aside. Each time Sadik managed to grab him, Ludwig ducked under, using his momentum to send Sadik stumbling.

Once the Turk was disoriented enough, Ludwig stepped onto the mat he and Feliciano had used earlier and planted his feet firmly. He braced for another tackle, and when Sadik carelessly lunged, Ludwig dropped his hips, pivoted, and used a swift Hip Throw to leverage Sadik’s weight over him. Sadik hit the mat with a thud, momentum carrying him forward, limbs splaying as he landed. Ludwig moved quickly. He pinned the other just enough to keep him immobilized without hurting him.

Their ragged pants were the only sounds that carried through the hall for a long while.

“You’re overcommitting to offense,” Ludwig finally said, his grip unyielding. “How do you expect to control a match if you burn through your energy before your opponent even tires?”

Sadik’s breath shook as he chuckled. It tickled Ludwig’s arm that held him down. In their close proximity, every inhale Ludwig took carried a bit of Sadik’s scent. A mix of mint and bergamot. “You sound like my father.”

“Your father has a point.”

“I know.” With his free arm, the Turk tapped the mat.

Ludwig hesitated, skeptical, but eventually let go. Perhaps it was Sadik’s grin that gave him enough trust.

Both teens stepped back to inspect their bruises. “Not bad,” Sadik said, smirk still intact as he studied the soon-to-be black mark on his arm. He rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt to their usual position. “Not bad. Next time, I won’t go easy on you.”

Ludwig pulled his jersey back over his sore abs. Wiping blood off his lip, he cast Sadik a sidelong glance.

“I won’t either.”

Sadik’s dark eyes shimmered as he struck out a hand. Ludwig clasped it, pulling him to his feet. From somewhere nearby, a melody rose—bright, upbeat, and lyrical, soon joined by a male voice singing in a language Ludwig didn’t recognize.

The sound came from Sadik’s phone, which he tugged out of his pocket. Miraculously, it had survived their brawl. His eyes flicked to the screen as he silenced the alarm, then scrolled into his contacts. He tapped a name, and it flashed across the display: BABA, framed by a swarm of heart emojis. The phone gave its usual hum as the call began.

“As fun as this was,” he said, lifting the phone to his ear, “I need to jet. My dad needs me at the kebab stand—”

“No!”

Sadik jerked his phone away and ended the call in an instant. “What the hell—?”

“Don’t call him!” Ludwig had pressed forward, arms outstretched. Realizing how that looked, he drew back again. “What if he’s working right now?”

“So?”

“He could get hurt.”

Sadik’s brow remained raised. “Last time I checked, phone calls aren’t deadly.”

He raised his phone, ready to call again. And since Ludwig couldn’t stop him physically, he released an exhale, lowered his face to the light-dappled floor and began: “My dad used to be a mechanic. It happened two years ago. He was at work, rolled below a car he was fixing. I called and while we spoke, he got distracted and didn’t secure the jack properly. The car fell on his knee.”

Ludwig squeezed his eyes shut. His father’s scream still roared in his ears. The sight of his battered leg stamped into his mind. “He hasn’t been able to work since.”

When he opened his eyes again, Sadik stared at him with an unreadable expression. “All I’m saying is… ehm…” Ludwig fiddled with his fingers, attention on the array of basketballs in the distance. “…these things can be prevented. Yeah.”

Sadik huffed. “Well, the only thing that could happen to my dad is him accidentally chopping his fingers off while slicing the meat from the kebab skewer—which actually happened to his pinky.” To showcase, he wiggled his fingers. His face split into a proud smile. “But even if he were to lose an entire hand, it won’t stop him.”

Still, he ended up not calling his father and instead snatched his backpack from the ground by the door. He was about to leave, but turned around at the last moment. “Hey. Um. I know this isn’t any of my business,” he said, and the first time, he didn’t look Ludwig directly in the eye, “but if your father really loves you, he won’t blame you for what happened.”

He had disappeared behind the doors before Ludwig could respond. It was probably for the best, since Ludwig had no response. He still stayed rooted in the same spot, gazing at the door as though it could summon Sadik back. It all made little sense. Just like the fact that, once he finally moved, he went straight for his phone, sat on a bench, and looked up his father’s contact details.

Without thinking, he tapped the WhatsApp number. The phone vibrated as the call started. Ludwig studied the missing profile picture and the name he had assigned it: ‘Rainer Maria Beilschmidt’. He had even written out his father’s middle name. Was that normal? Should he have just written “PAPA” instead? Sadik did, so Ludwig decided to change it. He hesitated over the emojis. Hearts felt wrong; they didn’t represent him or his father. His father liked bacon and sausages for breakfast. Yet the longer Ludwig stared at the meat-decorated name, the less confident he felt. Maybe a bird emoji would work, his father had a canary growing up—

“Ludwig?”

Startled, Ludwig dropped his phone. He flinched and picked it up again. “Papa?”

“Ludwig?” His father sounded tired, the usual husk of his voice more pronounced. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes. I can hear you.” Ludwig noted fabric shuffling in the background. Maybe this was a bad idea. “Are you in bed already? Because I can also just—”

“It’s fine.” More shuffling, then a sigh. “I was about to, but something came up.”

Another voice sounded in the background—Ludwig’s mother. Ludwig couldn’t make out her words, but her tone for sure wasn’t happy. He swallowed. “I see.”

His father only scoffed, then held the phone closer again. “Do you need something?”


“Oh, um…” Did Ludwig need something? Why was he calling again? It all became a giant blur as to what propelled him to pick up his phone in the first place. “No, I just…” He got up and paced, one hand knotting the drawstrings of his shorts. “I just wanted to know how you were doing.”

“Ah, you know, the usual—everything hurts.” Despite it all, despite the ache so evident in even his speech, Ludwig’s father cackled. Ludwig didn’t. “They’re going to run some tests tomorrow, see if my leg is salvageable.”

Ludwig quit pacing and frowned. “What do you mean, salvageable? The doctors here said there was hope…”

“Apparently, they didn’t know what they were talking about,” his father grumbled bitterly. “A bunch of goobers, I tell you. So many of the tests were faulty and we have to do them all over again. You called it, didn’t you? That there was something off about the tests?” The grin he must have been wearing colored his voice. “I keep telling people that my son hasn’t even started med school yet, and he still knows twice as much as most doctors do.”

A flashy exaggeration, but Ludwig’s lips broke into a small smile nonetheless.

“Anyway, it’s been rough.” His father scratched his chin and a grating noise echoed. Looked like he hadn’t shaved again. “The doctor we spoke with today, Herr Stadel-something, mentioned amputation.”

Whatever flicker of joy Ludwig had vanished in an instant. Next to him, a window offered a view of students heading home as the day wound down, some even hugging each other, but he didn’t see them. He only saw himself—gaze wide, mouth agape, frozen in a stare he couldn’t break.

He remained in that state for a beat, long enough to miss the first few calls from his mother.. “Ludwig—? Ludwig? Are you there?”

Ludwig blinked back to the present. “Y-yeah.”

“How are you, bärchen? How is school?”

Thank God it wasn’t a video call. His parents would have been more than just surprised to see the gashes on his face and the blood staining his jersey. “Fine.”

“Is Gilbert treating you well?” His mother shot right after, ignoring the protest from her husband, whose phone she snatched away. “He hasn’t done anything irresponsible, has he?”

“Not really. I mean, he made pancakes yesterday—“

“And his friends? The ones from France and Spain? They don’t give you strange things to try, do they?”

The only things they gave Ludwig were way too many kisses. He grimaced, which was a mistake. His lip was more busted than he thought. “No. They are annoying, but mostly harmless.”

His mother didn’t hear his answer; a scuffle had broken out between her and his father. Sharp words flew—some sharper than others—and Ludwig felt trapped in the middle. He cleared his throat loud enough to draw their attention. “I think I’ll just—”

After the clatter of what sounded like a Tupperware box being slammed on a hard surface, his mother’s voice softened again, sweet as before. “Right. We were going to call you tomorrow for our usual Friday family meeting. There is some news from the doctors.”

“I already told him about the amputation,” came his father’s mumble from the background.

Only Ludwig’s mother had the ability to roll her eyes through her voice alone. “Well, there is still a lot to discuss. Like the finances and everything.”

Ludwig tried to smile. “I’ll do some research.”

“We all will. Have a good evening, bärchen.”

“You too.”

Ludwig ended the call before his mother could. Phone in hand, his arm sagged, lower and lower until his knuckles grazed the smooth floor. When had he sat down? His eyes stayed glued to the bobs of light reflected on the polished surface. Outside, crows cawed, car tires hissed, and an ambulance howled past with its booming siren.

Yet none of it could drown out the clamor in Ludwig’s head.

Amputation.

Ludwig hated entertaining the mere thought. He knew he wouldn’t be the same afterwards, so how must his father feel? A man who loved hunting and horseback riding with his drinking buddies on the weekend?

However, as horrible as it sounded, as horrific as the image seemed, there might be a silver lining. Maybe his father wouldn’t be in constant pain anymore. Maybe he could start a new profession. His mother’s workload might ease as a result. And most importantly—

—maybe it could save their marriage.

Yes. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.

So then why wouldn’t Ludwig’s chin stop wobbling so much?

A door slammed shut on the floor above, slapping some sense into him. He shook his head as if to scatter the ache, rubbed at his running nose, and forced himself upright. Because he still had work to do and a scholarship to secure. He glanced around. The gym hall lay in disarray: mats overturned, the floor streaked with sweat, spit, and blood. Ludwig set about cleaning it, then gathered the notes that had slipped from his binder during the brawl with Sadik.

His fingers traced his plan for today, still in prime condition, but its content suddenly left Ludwig doubtful. Sure, it was perfectly scheduled with enough breaks and variation of the material, both studies and exercise, but it encompassed the entire class.

A jumping rope lay next to the binder. The jumping rope Feliciano had first picked up.

Mind churning, Ludwig set the plan aside and pulled out a blank paper. He titled it with ‘Feliciano’ and started to write:

• Agile and coordinated ➞ shows strong rhythm, timing, and body control with the rope
• Good at plyometric skills, but less efficient in sustained running
• Endurance mismatch: quick fatigue in steady-state cardio, but thrives in interval-style work.
• Praise-driven. Responds strongly to encouragement, recognition, and positive reinforcement, but is sensitive to criticism, which lowers confidence and performance…

Feliciano’s face appeared in his mind’s eye; every expression he could muster spread out like the colors of a rainbow. Ludwig would have liked to linger on the image a little longer, but just like before, the memory of Sadik’s strong presence sliced through it like a knife.

He fished out a new paper and wrote ‘Sadik’ at the top, followed by:

• Strong build that excels in grappling and forceful moves
• Explosive strength but limited energy management
• Aggression-focused: prefers attacking rather than defending
• Hot-headed and confidence-driven, which makes it hard to discipline traditionally, responds better to earned respect than strict orders

That was… all Ludwig had. And it didn’t even cover Feliciano’s and Sadik’s performances in the classroom. He had even less to write on the papers he titled ‘Lovino’, ‘Arthur’, ‘Feliks’, ‘Vash’, ‘Natalia’ and ‘Ivan’…

Gilbert’s comment from yesterday rang through Ludwig’s contemplative silence. What had he said about the couple and their dog? The Beagle?

Of course.

After spreading the named papers out in front of him, Ludwig leapt to his feet to examine them all from above. Like an art piece and a detective board mixed into one. Slowly but surely, the puzzle pieces clicked into place, and he had it. This was what he had been missing. The blueprint for the next week. His project for everyone’s success.

Because, after all—

“A Beagle is no Retriever.”