Story Summary: Broca's Aphasia: noun. The impairment of language. The ability to think a millions words but only be able to say one. Example: Ludwig Beilschmidt. Side effects: self-hate, social inability. Possible help: Feliciano Vargas.

Warnings: Strong language, mentions of suicide/self-hate, neural/psychological illnesses

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. All disorders mentioned within are actual and have been researched, though any mistakes are purely unintentional. See bottom for more details.

-Broca's Aphasia-

My speech therapist's damning question: "Can you tell me your name?"

I stared at her for a moment. She always started the session with that question, a vague hope that maybe repetition would help me be able to say it. I could hear the answer very clearly in my head: Ludwig Beilschmidt. Yes, it was so clear in my head, crisp and mellifluous.

Yet, when I opened my mouth, it didn't come out. "Um, it, um, uh . . ." I stopped myself. Every day, for the past year, my name has been the mantra that has started my two-hours of therapy, yet not once have I been able to say it aloud without stumbling.

Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt Ludwig Beilschmidt . . .

"Um, it . . . um, Beilschmidt- uh no." I stopped myself and took a deep breath. I reluctantly uncapped my pen and started writing on my notepad. There were already a few words there already- my sorry failures for asking Gilbert to shut up or my father for the time. Still, writing was no easier, it was a stop and halt motion, but there were times when scribbling was better connected to my brain then my mouth. In a way, it became sort of a game- which technique was my brain going to agree with today?

This time, I was dotting my 'I' when my voice spilled. "Ludwig."

I frowned. I sounded like I had something stuck in my throat, something that made my name distorted into a suffocated noise.

My therapist smiled kindly. "Very good, Ludwig. Now, how have you been since our last meeting?"

How have I been? There were plenty of things I would like to say about that.

I have not been okay. I haven't been okay since that accident. I can't go to college with a fucked up brain. I hate that I can't speak to anyone. I hate how you always smile and never act as though this isn't okay. You treat me like I'm stupid. You smile too much. If I had a voice, I would scream at you to frown for once in your life, so yes. My life has sucked for the past year. What about you?

Instead, I stumbled over my words, more incoherent sounds permeating from me until I finally spat a strained "Okay."

My therapist nodded and started her job. She drilled me with the average sounds of English, trying to revive the dead area of my brain.

The very last words I said with ease: "Slow down, Gil-"

They were said on a clear, sunny day. Idyllic for the city. There was no reason to believe that anything was going to go wrong. Yet, maybe that was the reason why everything went wrong. The day was too careless. I was too careless. I should have told Gilbert to slow down sooner, to pay more attention to the road and less on his terrible joke. Maybe then, he would have noticed that the light was red.

We would not have plowed head first into a busy intersection.

I remembered there being a long scream of horns before we were hit by the oncoming traffic. Six different cars brutally smashed into the sides of our van until we spun out of the intersection and into the curbside. We banged around in our seatbelts, swearing as our bodies were smashed and failed wildly. The windows shattered, just like an array of our bones. Gilbert and I both hit our heads on the dashboard.

Gilbert went into a coma for two weeks and woke up with no memory of his two years spent in junior high. Seven hundred and thirty days lost forever.

I woke up with disconnected speech.

What the doctors called it: "Broca's Aphasia."

I cracked my skull and damaged a miniscule section of my motor cortex- my broca's area. It was the small part of my brain that controlled the muscles involved with speaking and communicating. The neural connections there were damaged and its ability to send electrical waves to the rest of the brain was lost. I could think all I want what I wanted to say, to write, but the words would never flow from my hand. They stalled like a broken car on my lips.

The doctors said that brain plasticity was higher in the young, so I could still salvage that part of my brain. But it would take years of therapy and I will never get back to the level of coherency I once had. It was possible that I would have halting words of idiocy for the rest of my life.

Since then, I spent every day on a stiff couch, facing the humiliation of not being able to use my voice. I would rub the pads of my fingers on the red printed fabric of the cushions, feeling my irritation grow as I practiced sounds and words. Numbers. Sentences too. Then, when my one hundred and twenty minutes were up, I nodded a goodbye and waited in the building's lobby for my father to pick me up.

His first words to me: "Wow, you look super sad."

Medical buildings are not the best place to first meet someone. They were always tall and dark and smelled like 409 cleaner. Dark blue marble decked the floors, ones that made echoes when I walked down corridors lined with doors, each marked by a white plate declaring PEDIATRICIAN or DERMATOLOGIST . The air here was gray, like the walls and stairs and doors. Even the chairs by the tall windows I sat in were that spoiled white. I folded my arms over my chest, sinking a bit in my chair as I waited for the red Camry to pull up to the curb. It always took my father a few minutes.

Somehow, during those few minutes, he decided to walk in. I paid no heed to him first- this lanky man with brown hair and large brown eyes. He held himself like a child, his hands held behind his back as he peered down at me curiously. That was when he spoke.

I glanced away from the window, giving him a narrow look. That took him back, making him look uncertain as an older man finally came in through the glass doors. They looked a lot alike, though this man had grays streaking his hair and crow's feet on the edges of his eyes. He looked between me and the younger for a moment before sighing. "Leave him alone, Feliciano. We're already late."

Feliciano spun on his feet, giving him a pleading look. "Just give me one minute, Grandpa." His grandfather looked ready to object again when Feliciano bounded to my side. His pale hand cupped my arm. They were warm, warm enough to be felt through my green jacket. "You really to look sad today," he said. "Wanna tell me what's wrong?"

I glared and shook my head.

His grandfather placed his hands on his hips. "Feliciano, leave the poor man alone-"

"Well it's fine if you don't want to tell me! It's probably because I'm a stranger, isn't it? Well here-" He held out his hand towards me. "-I'm Feliciano Vargas. What's your name?"

Advice my therapist insists is law: "Try talking to strangers."

She said that it'll help my brain recover. That is, talking to other people besides her. I did not know why she would say something like that. Maybe she suspected that I did not want to embarrass myself with my stupid voice. People didn't need to know that I was ruined.

Yet, I practiced saying my name every day. Maybe brain plasticity was more than a taunted idea. Maybe I really could say it. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. In my head, I could hear my voice clearly.

It's Ludwig Beilschmidt. It's a pleasure to meet you Feliciano.

Things, however, were different to real life. It always was. "Lu, um, Lu, er um . . . it Lud . . ."

Feliciano tilted to head to the side. "What?" he asked. "What are you trying to say?"

Just as I pulled out my pen to try writing the words, Feliciano's grandfather grabbed his arm and pulled him away. "Leave him alone, Feliciano," he ordered sternly. He flashed me an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. He can overstep his boundaries without even realizing it. We'll leave you alone now."

With that, he started to pull him away.

Feliciano twisted around, flashing me a wide grin. He waved a hand in the air. "Bye Mister! Sorry for being rude!"

What I yearned to say back: "You weren't being rude. I'm just broken!"

I mused over our meeting long after my father picked me up. I thought about it that night as I pushed around the peas on my plate, secretly praying that no one asked me to speak. I thought about it when I did my at-home speaking exercises and my chores. I thought about it when I listen to Gilbert talk about his own therapy sessions.

But I wasn't thinking of my envy for those who could speak.

Instead, I was thinking of longing.

In hindsight, I liked the way Feliciano spoke. It was like he was always singing, his pitch rising and falling with every word- speaking in song. I should have felt horrible for not being able to mimic it, but I didn't. Instead, it was a sort of admiration. I loved it. I wanted to hear it again.

When I saw him again: "Wow, you really remember me?"

It took two weeks for our schedules to finally overlap again. It was a whole fourteen days of actual wanting to go to therapy with that woman who smiled way too much. I waited in the lobby for an extra hour each day in hopes of seeing Feliciano again. When he and his grandfather first walked in, I thought that my eyes were playing a trick. But when he responded to my smile and wave, I knew that it was real.

I opened my mouth, yearning to cry out for him when I remembered my voice. His grandfather pulled him past me, going on about something miniscule and redundant. I sat in my chair in a dejected sort of silence. They were going to go right past me.

I needed them to see me.

I jumped to my feet, pulling out my notepad as I ran to them. The echoes of the floor announced my presence. I skidded in front of them, making a grunt as I motioned for them to stop. Feliciano shrieked, suddenly clinging to his guardian. "What's going on?" he asked frantically. "Why are you-"

I placed a finger on my lips before holding up my notepad.

My notepad said: "I can't really talk. I have Broca's Aphasia."

It took me a whole day of frustration to write out every message. It showed too. My letters were crooked like a child's and many of them were scribbled out. It was embarrassing, but I had to do it. I wanted to make my point clear to Feliciano, let him know that I wasn't mad. Let him know that I wanted him to talk to me.

Feliciano squinted his eyes, peering at the message seriously as his Grandfather raised a brow. "Um, okay. Thank you for telling us. Why are you-"

I held up another finger, another signal to hush. Then, when I was sure that Feliciano was done reading, I flipped to the next page. "That was why I was rude last week," it read. I flipped to another page. "I have difficulty speaking, but I can still understand you perfectly." Another. "So I'm sorry."

A hopeful look told them that I was done.

Feliciano was the first to react. "You shouldn't be sorry for something like that!" He exclaimed, bounding towards me. He wrapped his arms around my chest and hugged me. I stiffened considerably. Why was he doing that? "I mean, if we're all sorry for things that we have no control over then l'd be apologizing for Lovino all the time, but my therapist says that I shouldn't since-"

His grandfather cleared his throat, saying, "Speaking of which, we're late for your appointment." He smiled at me. "I'm sorry to hear that though. You're very brave for telling us that. And I really do wish that we can stay to talk, but his appointment . . ."

Feliciano pulled away, his mouth forming a feline grin. "We're going to meet again, okay? Then we'll really get to have fun."

Of course. We can talk about why therapy and appoints suck. Is your therapist a total liar like mine? Wait, why are you here anyways? A sense of dread filled me as I looked down at the smaller, yet older, man. What could possibly have happened to you?

I realized that, for once, someone worthwhile was waiting for my reply.

I smiled softly and nodded my head.

His departing words: "See ya again, Mister!"

This time, it was he who grabbed his grandfather's arm, nearly skipping as he pulled him away. I, however, stood in confusion. Why didn't he used my name? Did I not give it to him?

I didn't.

I snapped my head towards him, opening my mouth to speak. "It, uh . . . it um . . . um . . ." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I pulled out my pen and turned to a new page in my notepad. I wrote furiously, trying to summon the word. I just about looped my G when it was there on my lips.

"Ludwig!"

The echoes carried my voice, bringing it down to the other end of the hall- to Feliciano. About to walk inside an office, he paused at the open door and gave me a confused look. He shouted, "What?" I gesticulated largely, pounding my chest and pointing to myself. It took him a very long moment to realize what it meant. Then, he smiled.

He said: "Okay. Goodbye, Ludwig."

I mused over those words for another week, unsure of what I could call my relationship with Feliciano now. A strange, primitive part of me instinctively knew that when I saw him again, we were going to no longer be just strangers or a familiar face.

I wanted it to be friends, I realized. I wanted Feliciano to be my friend.

Friendship was a strange idea. A person finds another person who they enjoy spending time with and cling to each other like leeches. It wasn't like the maternal love of wife and husband, but rather, a connection of blood. Friends are when one person has the blood of another rushing their veins, but are not related by genes.

In that sense, I never had a friend before. When I was younger, I had neighborhood boys who played soccer with me and invited me to birthday parties. But I was alone most of the time, never letting myself get too close to someone. People smiled at me, but it was only for decorum. All conversations were pleasantries.

When the accident put me into the hospital, the gloomiest prison for man, no one from my graduating class visited me. Strange, wasn't it? I thought I meant more to them, considering that I was slated to speak at their graduation.

Feliciano, however, seemed like he would be afraid of hospitals. His bony legs looked like the kind to shake and bang against each other at the sight of a syringe. Yet, from what little I knew of him, I had the inkling that he would still buy me flowers and visit me. He would smile, ignoring how hopelessly chained I was to the bed. He'll do all the talking and laughing necessary and I would simply lay in silence and admire the way his lips moved and sang beautiful words.

If I had him visit me in the hospital, I'm sure the off-white walls would never have been bleak.

The words that confused me: "Who the hell are you, bastard?"

One week later, I was sitting in my usual seat by the door, staring at who I thought was Feliciano. This apparently different man looked similar enough- maybe Feliciano held himself differently -but one spill from the mouth made it flagrant that I had the wrong person. I grinned sheepishly and held up a hand. I learned that most people accepted that as a silent apology without question.

Not this man.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his brown eyes firing up in a glare. He paused and let his eyes bore a hole through my paper skin. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

I did not bother attempting to talk to him. Instead, I flipped open my notepad, scanning the pages for a something I might have written beforehand that could explain my apparent muteness. But before I could find one, a friendly face appeared. "Calm down, Lovino," Feliciano's grandfather said through hoarse breaths as he came swiftly inside. The poor man placed his hands on his knees, looking absolutely winded. He must have ran here from his car.

Lovino crossed his arms and turned up his chin. "Jesus Christ- what took you so long?"

"I couldn't find a parking space."

"Likely story."

I coughed lightly, attracting the elder's attention. I grinned awkwardly at him, shyly waving at him. Where's Feliciano? Is his busy today? Sick? And who's this guy here?

For a moment, he looked taken back. "Oh my goodness," he breathed, looking at me with wide eyes. I knitted my brows. Feliciano's grandfather cleared his throat, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he regained his posture. "I didn't realize that you were here today- Ludwig, was it?"

I nodded eagerly.

Lovino rolled his eyes and huffed. "Wow, a mute. Big fucking deal, Gramps. Can we just get going already?" He was ignored.

"Felciano is feeling unwell today so he's at home." Feliciano's grandfather motioned to Lovino. "But this is his older brother, Lovino. Lovino, this is Ludwig: the person Feliciano told you about. Remember?"

My heart jumped. Feliciano talks about me? What does he say?

Lovino huffed. "Of course I remember him, idiot, he's just not worth my time."

He sighed. "And you want to know what's worth your time?"

"What?"

"Therapy." Feliciano's grandfather grabbed Lovino's arm roughly and, ignoring his indignant snaps for release, pulled him down the hall. "C'mon. We've been late enough and you need to get better."

"Get off!" Lovino pulled and scratched at his arm. "There's nothing wrong with me! I don't need to go! Let go!" he shouted. Ludwig winced. He reminded me of a frantic dog with its leg caught beneath a rock. When will Lovino's animal instincts kick in and make him try to chew his arm off, I wondered.

"No, you do, so stop struggling!"

I watched in silence as the grandfather pulled Lovino away, cursing and damning him for being so difficult. I had never seen anyone so ill-tempered in my life. And his voice- his words sounded like Feliciano's, they rose and fell in that mystifying tune, but there was a rough, grating sound to it. They weren't beautiful like Feliciano's.

I spoke first: "Hi."

The next week, Feliciano smiled broadly, looking like a proud parent to his child. "You said 'hi!'" He exclaimed, jumping to my side. His grandfather came back in through the doors, looking ready to demand Feliciano make haste, but his words fell dead. His eyes slid over Feliciano and I for a moment before he smirked and took a step back. Why did he look so smug?

Feliciano placed his hands on my arm and he charmed me back to him. I chuckled humoredly as he laughed and gesticulated giddily like an idiot. "You spoke first!"

Even I couldn't help but to smile as I shook my head and shrugged. What could I say? I should at least be able to greet the guys I have been obsessing over for over a month now. Kneeling on the ground, Feliciano looked up at me with vibrant brown eyes. "You know, I did a lot of research on Broca's Aphasia," he said. "I had a little trouble understanding what my book was saying, but I think I get it now. You're only so silent because you want to be, right?"

Well you would be silent too if you can do nothing but stumble over your words like a broken record.

I shrugged again.

His eyes were wide in anticipation, as if waiting for me to do something. My main plan was to basically greet him first. From there, I was not sure what I should do. I could ask him if we were friends (just to make sure), but I didn't have any message like that already written in my notebook. I would have to say it aloud. A part of me questioned the necessity of even asking it, like maybe it was obvious but I was simply too dumb to realize it. But Feliciano and I could never get any closer if I didn't know where to start.

I coughed into my hand. Felciano raised his brow. "Yes?" he asked. "What is it, Ludwig?"

My name sounded great in his voice. I motioned between the two of us, waiting until he nodded in understanding. Then, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Um, we uh-" I slowed down, forcing myself to think. "We, uh . . . we ends- friends!" I took a deep breath. Caught yourself there, Ludwig. I pointed between us again. "Friends?"

Feliciano, who had been waiting patiently for me to finish smiled a warm smile. "Of course we are," he said. "Why wouldn't I want to be friends with you?"

My voice.

I shrugged.

"We should do a fun friend thing!"

I balked. Like what?

"We could play video games or cook or eat food or- how about this: you like movies, right? Let's go to the theater on Saturday. My treat."

My quick, instinctive response: "Yeah."

I barely thought about it. I simply nodded eagerly and let the word tumble out of my mouth. It was simple, one with little room to stumble with. Feliciano looked even more eager and leaped towards the idea. Somehow, we were able to agree on a rendezvous and exchanged cell numbers. His grandfather dragged him away then, promising him that we'll see each other soon.

My spirits were lifted and did not die again until the end of the week when I was standing in front of the theater- by the fountain in the heat- waiting for Feliciano to appear.

All around me was a rambling crowd, the bubbles in a boiling pot of water. I was the only rock in it, standing around awkwardly as I waited for Feliciano to arrive. I could feel sweat coat the back of my neck and make my shirt stick to my neck. I wasn't sure if it was from the intense rays of the sun or my quivering anxiety. Something told me that I was going to screw this up and, when that happened, Felciano was no longer going to be my friend.

I gripped my fist. I couldn't let that happen. Not ever.

"Ludwig?"

My spirits immediately fell. Reluctantly, I turned around and saw Feliciano's grandfather standing behind me with a frown embellishing his face.

Feliciano's grandfather said: "I'm sorry, but Feliciano's feeling sick today."

I stared at him for a long moment. Sick? Feliciano's sick? With what? I opened and closed my mouth a few times, trying to think of what to say. I knew a million words- a million complex sentences- I wanted to say, but my tongue felt dead in my mouth. So I only looked at him with wide blue eyes.

What is he sick with? Does he have the flu? Can I go visit him then? Are you just lying to me and Feliciano really just changed his mind about coming with me today? Is he just standing me up? Does he not want to be my friend anymore?

I shook the thoughts out of my head. That was garbage. Feliciano would straight out tell me these things, right?

But then again, how long have I known him? How many times have we even stood in the same room together? We never got into an actual conversation because I never spoke. I just sat there in amused silence as he rambled on about anything he desired.

I nodded at the grandparent in understanding and, his job done, he apologized again and left me in the boiling pot. I knew what I was going to do.

My new resolve: "Speak."

I said that word while I sat in the front seat of Gilbert's car. My brother, already surprised by my sudden text for him to pick me up, gave me a worried look. "What?"

"Er, uh help-" I pointed from me to him. "Me 'n . . . um you. Talk."

The young man with ghostly blond hair and equally pale skin frowned at the road, watching each car around him with intense concentration. "What do you mean?" he asked patiently. Maybe he guessed that something was different from usual- he wasn't his usual chirpy, annoying self.

I looked out the window, watching the cars zoom by us in a bleeding mix of colors. "Help," I repeated. "Um. . . us talk."

"You want helping speaking?"

At first, I nodded in reply, but then realized that he wasn't looking at me. Gilbert's eyes refused to rip away from the sea before him, making sure that we were not swept and destroyed by those waves again. I sighed and let the easy word slip, coating it in a hoarse voice. "Yeah."

Gilbert was silent for a long moment. Then, in the rear view window, I saw him grin." Alright then. Can I get a tongue twister from you?"

I spoke then in an uneven, shaky voice.

For once, I was not embarrassed.

Feliciano's first hurriedly spoken words: "I'm so sorry for standing you up."

I sat patiently in my seat as Feliciano waved his hands around like a drowning man, looking ready to cry as the excuses spilled from his tongue. "I had some really bad pasta the night before and I got really sick and you know how food poisoning goes- I hope that you aren't too mad! Grandpa says that you wouldn't be, but if I were you I would be, and-"

I shook my head and brushed him off. "F-f-fine."

Feliciano's words slowed in their tracks and, for a long moment, he simply stared at me. "Did you just speak?" He asked curiously.

I nodded. "Yeah."

He knitted his brows. "So you're getting better?"

I took a deep breath, preparing myself. I didn't want to be shameful of my stupid voice, but it was hard not to be bashful when a young man and his elderly guardian were watching you with intent eyes. I closed my eyes. "It, uh . . . well, um . . ." I sighed and pulled out my notepad. I started to write each word, only pausing when it came to me verbally. "I, um . . . uh try-ing."

Feliciano nodded eagerly, ignoring my flagrant mistake. "That's fantastic, Ludwig! I wish I could do that!" He sheepishly scratched the back of his neck, letting his eyes advert to the ground. "My therapist says that I still need the medication . . ."

Before I could ask, Feliciano's grandfather was taking him by the arm and escorting him to his appointment.

The single thought running through my head: "I've never seen him look like that before."

There was something in his eyes- a little ember of some emotion he insisted was smoldered. I could see it right there, staring me straight in the face, but by the almost pained look in his face, I chose not to. It wasn't my business.

Deep down, I've always really expected him to have some sort of luggage hanging from his fingers, but I had never put much thought into it before. He was going to a therapy office in a medical building, wasn't he? It was serious enough that he had to go weekly and take medicines.

For the first time, I did more than just vaguely wonder exactly what it was.

The landmark declared by my therapist: "It's been a year and a half since your accident."

In terms I would rather hear it, "It's been six months since meeting Feliciano."

As I went through my therapy for the day, I could hardly believe it. It seemed like half the time since that day we first met in the lobby. He and I were able to spend time together outside of this empty building at theaters and malls and houses- finally allowing me to declare each other friends without doubt.

Yet, some things have yet to change.

I still sat through two hours of therapy.

I still stuttered and generally fucked up my words.

I still loved Feliciano's words.

I still had no idea why he was in therapy. He always seemed to shy away from the conversation, either jumping onto the next subject of conversation or letting his grandfather drag him away to do something. It was some sort of secret he could not indulge me with yet. Even if I tried my best to speak quick and clear, I was still unworthy.

Some things really don't change.

The first word I would use to describe that day: "Hot."

No one could blame me for thinking otherwise. The summer air was a heavy blanket that laid over the buildings, making me choke on too thick air. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't go outside and risk suffering dehydration. All I could do was it at my usual chair in the lobby and look out the window, waiting for either my father or Feliciano to pass through the doors.

Unsurprisingly, Feliciano and his grandfather were the first to arrive. Wearing a sunburn proudly upon his fat cheeks, Feliciano immediately sprang to my side. "I went to the beach yesterday, Ludwig!" He exclaimed, placing his hands eagerly on my forearm. "It was really fun and there were a lot of really pretty girls and I dug for sand crabs- we have to go together sometime soon! He can go with us next time, can't he Grandpa?"

The man smiled softly and shrugged. "Only if he wants to."

Feliciano trained his eyes on me. "You'll come, wouldn't you?"

What else could I possibly say? I curtly nodded. "Yeah."

He grinned until his cheeks blocked his eyes from view. He said a few more things- hollow conversations that meant the world to me -before finally letting his grandfather drag him away. I thought nothing of the way he waved merrily before turning around and trotting alongside him.

What my father said on the phone: "There's a bit of traffic. It's gonna take a bit."

I sighed into the phone. "It, um . . . fine," I told him in reply, hoping that I was articulating properly. It wasn't the first time traffic delayed by rescue me from this cold building, but it was going to be a very long and very tedious wait. Whoever owned this place may have been gracious enough to leave out a few magazines, but they were all outdated issues of celebrity gossip.

There was nothing else left to do but resign myself to folding my arms over my chest and wait for him. It couldn't take that long, could it?

The hum of the air-conditioning filled the silence, making time stagnant. I eventually did pick up one of the magazines to read, but two issues later the stories started to repeat themselves. I eventually contented myself with watching the clock on the hall, seeing the minute hand to inch from the two down to the six.

He was late. Very late.

What was taking him so long?

The sudden ear straining scream from down the hall: "Fuck you!"

I shot my head towards the sound immediately. I blinked. I was sure that my eyes were deceiving me. There was no possible way that such vicious words could come from Feliciano's mouth. Yet, there the man came storming down the hall in a furry, swearing loudly as he flew straight for the door.

I wasn't sure what was going on. I knew that something must have gone wrong during his session today. I knew that if I interfered, I risked being the subject of Feliciano's rage. I didn't care. I simply knew that he was upset and that he should not leave.

I was on my feet in an instant, stretching my arms out as a barrier. Feliciano barely stopped himself from barreling right into me. His face was low, studying the ground below him. He was still, but I could feel the heat of his anger radiating off of his skin. I carefully cleared my throat. "Uh-"

His face shot up. Through the strands of his mud colored hair was a set of green eyes, vivid with hate. They bored through me loathingly. "Get the fuck out of my way, bastard," he sneered.

I shook my head. "No."

From down the hall, Feliciano's grandfather emerged from one of the doors. I watched as he slowly registered the situation before yelling and dashing towards us. Feliciano tried to duck around me again, but I held him back. "Stop that!" he screamed, nearly crying. "I don't know who the hell you are, bastard, but-"

My grip on him tightened. "W-what?" I misheard him, right? I grabbed Feliciano's shoulders and held him straight in front of me. Two dirty streams of tears inched down his cheeks, making his face look swollen and his eyes red.

What do you mean? Feliciano, I'm Ludwig, remember? You still remember me, right? There's no way you could have forgotten about me. Please tell me you're joking. This has something to do with your therapy, doesn't it? Feliciano, please tell me what's wrong.

But I couldn't say all of that. No matter how much my chest ached or my friend before me cried, the words would not come to me. I gulped and held him tighter. "Feli . . ." I whispered. That was all my mouth wanted to say. The rest would remain in my brain forever.

Feliciano glared at me. "I'm not Feliciano!" he screamed. He started to squirm in my hands.

I pinned him tighter, needles to a butterfly's wings. Even with the hoarse in my voice, I still sounded like I was pleading. "But—uh. . . you."

He looked me straight in the eye. "No it isn't," he sneered.

Said with all of the most conviction and truth anyone in this pitiful world could ever muster: "I'm Lovino."

In the less than three seconds it took for Feliciano's grandfather to finally reach us, I remembered the vulgar man I met all of those months ago. That was Feliciano's brother. I remembered going to his house and seeing pictures of Lovino on the wall-younger than he is now-but never seeing his face in real life. It was like he never existed outside of this lobby.

I suddenly realized why.

Feliciano's grandfather pried my fingers off of his grandson and, in a blink of an eye, he was cradling Lovino against his chest. "It's alright," he hushed as the person I previously called Feliciano burst into bone-chilling sobs. Lovino gathered his grandfather's shirt in his fists, holding it so tightly that his knuckles were white.

The elder started to hush something else, but I didn't stay around to hear it. This was not my conversation to hear. So I went outside then to suffer in the blistering heat. I tried not to think about it much, but it was glaring me straight in the face- Feliciano was gone, somewhere deep inside someone else's head. Hours seemed to pass before someone else stepped outside. To my surprise, Feliciano's grandfather was the one to smile at me apologetically, inviting me inside again.

"That must have been scary for you," he said as I reclaimed my seat at the window. He sat in the one across from, smoothing out his jeans with his creased hands. I tried not to look at the wet spot on his plaid shirt. "I'm sorry that you had to witness that. It's been hard on Feliciano."

I raised a curious, hopeful brow. "Feli?" My word was small.

He nodded. "Yes, that was Feliciano."

I moved my hands around in the air, trying to figure out how to say what I wanted to say. I had a million questions, but I simply had to let it be only one: "What?"

He nodded, pressing his lips into a tight line. He directed his gaze outside, seemingly lost in the moment. "I can tell you if you want," he said. "Your choice."

I leaned in eagerly, nodding.

Tell me.

It all started somewhere: "Antonio Fernandez."

When Feliciano was growing up, he had an older brother. According to his grandfather, Lovino Vargas was a deity in Feliciano's eyes. He could do no wrong. Along with their neighborhood friend, a strong boy named Antonio, they had a field day running down the chalky white slide blocks and causing a ruckus.

All of that changed when Lovino and Antonio turned twelve. Antonio suddenly couldn't run as fast as them, lagging behind and huffing with difficulty. For the first few months, he could only mention a headache off-handedly, like an old fly that buzzed around his head. But the buzzing grew more intense and by the end of the year, Antonio felt ready to burst.

He had a stroke in the middle of class. Standing at the front of the room, he was giving a presentation on a book he read when he felt a pain in his arm and fell over unconscious. The stroke was caused by a tumor in his brain. A malicious thing it was- if left to prosper, he would die. If surgically removed, he would die. Death signed his certificate and there was no going back.

Still, it took Antonio a full year to pass.

A full year to turn into an atrophied skeleton with drooping yellow skin. For the few week leading up to his passing, he started to forget meaningless details- faces, names, dates, locations. The last time Lovino saw him, Antonio could not remember who he was.

One thing Feliciano's grandfather said about Lovino: "He was not good at expressing his feelings."

His father yelling at Lovino to stop being so loud had caused him to give up trying to communicate with people and make meaningful connections with others. Yet, despite such measures, Antonio's death ruined his life. He moped around the house, barely acknowledging his brother or parents. At first, the distant way he regarded his parent's violent divorce not three months later made Feliciano and his grandfather believe that he didn't care.

He cared, though. He cared just enough.

Many months later, seven year-old Feliciano was dropped off home after school by a neighborhood friend. His house was quiet- Dad lived across the state and Mom was at work. He knew that Lovino was somewhere in the house, hiding from the world. His mother had told him to give Lovino space, but Feliciano wanted to play a game of cards. Leaving his school bag in the foyer, Feliciano then set off to find him.

He wasn't in the kitchen.

Or on the couch.

Or under the bed.

Feliciano supposed that he shouldn't had been surprised to find Lovino hiding in the closet- that was his favorite hide spots in hide-go-seek. He was surprised, however, to see him in his Sunday best, his feet off the ground and a leather belt around his neck. Feliciano stared at his for a long while, watching him sway back and forth like a pendulum.

No one is exactly sure how long he was there because when his mother came home that evening, she found Feliciano sitting at the foot of the closet, staring silently but curiously at his brother.

What the consequences were described as: "Swift and efficient."

A funeral was planned and given. Lovino was buried six-feet under at the ripe age of fourteen- a far too small of a number. His suicide note cited the death of Antonio, his bullying peers his family knew not of, his parent's divorce, and many other "unmentionable acts" for his loss of hope in life. After that, Mr. Vargas devoted himself to incessant business trips outside of the country. Mrs. Vargas suffered a mental breakdown a year later and tried to drown herself in toxic doses of pills and alcohol. Again, Feliciano came home to sight, but had the reasoning to call the authorities before it was too late. A few weeks later, she submitted herself to an institution.

That left Feliciano's grandfather to raise him. Having a grandson die, a daughter instituted, and a new charge to care for all within the course of a year was enough for him to seek help for himself. He and Feliciano attended therapy separately in hopes of coping with the sudden change in their lives squarely.

At first, it seemed to be working well. Save for a few times when he would suddenly grow quiet and aggressive, Feliciano was his usual chirpy self. His grandfather forgot to worry about him and a whole two years passed in a cycle of a happy-sad-happy Felciano.

Feliciano's therapist said: "It's normal."

One day, when in one of his moods, Feliciano uncharacteristically started yelling swears. Feliciano's therapist assured the grandfather that even though his concerns were justified, there was nothing to worry about. Feliciano was redefining himself. It was normal. He accepted it as such- a mistake he was sure to stress to me- and continued on with the routine for his life: eat, sleep, don't think of Lovino, sleep, don't think of his daughter, eat, don't think, don't live.

When Feliciano hit his puberty years, the cycle shortened. His periods of happiness were cut short by the ever lengthening times of brooding. Any concern for this was excused as hormones shifts, as Erik Erikson's adolescent struggle of identity versus role confusion stated. They now argued often, yet that was normal.

It was supposed to be normal.

During an argument one day, Feliciano threw his hands up in the air in defeat. "Why the fuck are you even calling me that anyways?" he demanded harshly. He stormed to his room to scream and kick before his grandfather could even ask him what was wrong. He simply asked Feliciano to be reasonable.

For months, that same question would reappear in different forms—"Who the fuck is that?" "Don't you know who I am?" "You have the wrong person." "That's not me!"

Feliciano was sixteen when he finally snapped. "For the last fucking time- I'm not Feliciano. I'm Lovino, dumbass!"

Naturally, Feliciano's grandfather thought that it was a simple slip of the tongue. After all, when they visited his daughter at the institution, she sometimes mistaken her youngest son for the dead one. But now, when the brooding had its terrible arms wrapped around Feliciano, he no longer responded to his name. His grandfather could scream and shout all he wanted, but Feliciano would merely glare and ignore him. Concerns taken to Feliciano's therapist warranted another lesson on teenage mentality and how a guardian's attention was often unwanted. But the brooding was getting longer, until the point where Feliciano wouldn't smile for a month at a time.

What's worse, when Feliciano was back to his normal self, he said that he did not even know that he was ever in such a mood. He never mentioned Lovino's name, he seemingly forgot he ever had an older brother.

For instance, there was a cold winter day when Feliciano woke-up his grandfather and asked when they were going to set up the Christmas decorations and if his parents were going to come home in time to open presents. He didn't remember where his parents went, merely contenting himself with believing Mr. and Mrs. Vargas had been away on vacation for the past few years. He didn't realize that the night before he was caught in one of his episodes that had started in early December. He didn't know that the date was the twentieth of January.

In the weeks before Feliciano's seventeenth birthday, his grandfather watched with sorrow as Felciano descended rapidly into his sullen trance. If this bout matched the previous, then the elder Vargas would not see the 'normal Feliciano' for five weeks. Desperation drove him to try a different technique: appeasement.

Feliciano's grandfather made pizza that night, a dish he knew Lovino had loved, and watched Feliciano's face light up. Then, while they ate their dinner, the man casually placed his glass on the table and asked, "How was your day, Lovino?"

After a month of barely conversing, Feliciano talked willingly. His mood was considerably brighter, but he was still rough to the touch. Any wrong move could set him off. Still, Feliciano's grandfather did his best to figure out what was going on. Treading on thin ice, he asked him if he knew where his brother was. "Feliciano's probably up in his room somewhere, messing around," Feliciano replied casually.

That was enough.

The next day, he brought his grandson up to his therapist and expressed his concerns. Even though Feliciano screamed and kicked that he was feeling perfectly fine- that he was not crazy -his mood suddenly switched off the moment he stepped into the office. He was back to his normal self with no idea why his guardian and therapist were staring at him.

The doctors gave it a peculiar diagnosis: "Dissociative Identity Disorder."

That was only after a false diagnosis of schizophrenia that lasted until its revoke a year later and an extensive investigation conducted by a Post-Traumatic psychologist. Yet, the professional opinions had little effect on the death sentence: Dissociative Identity Disorder.

When Feliciano was staring at his hanging brother, he went into shock. He knew that his brother was dead, but the trauma was damaging to his brain. He had to adapt or else risk damaging his mental self. So while he sat on the floor, he developed a second personality. At first, all he dared to do was push the event onto the other personality. Feliciano didn't have to deal with it, the other self did.

But then he found his mother drowning in pills. That went to the other personality.

He grew increasingly upset with his parent's divorce. Onto the other personality.

The other him grew angry with all of the bad lots he was being dealt. Why did all of these things have to happen to him? What did he ever do to deserve this? The anger molded itself into the first person Feliciano associated the emotion with, the boy he knew the best: Lovino.

Shakespeare one said: "God has given you one face, and you make yourself another."

Indeed, Feliciano crafted himself a second him for one reason: desperation. Desperation from isolation—abandonment.

Feliciano's therapist used the easy excuses to explain his behavior. Fear of dealing with the loss of someone special, like Lovino to Antonio, hindered Feliciano's ability to form personal connections with anyone his age. His parents had already abandoned him. The one guardian left in his life was preoccupied more with his own mental health than with the wellbeing of his charge. So as the years passed on, Lovino was slowly becoming the dominant personality with his own set of memories. Whatever happened to Feliciano never happened to Lovino and vice versa.

The notes I saw scattered around the Vargas home, labeled to both of the boys, were messages Feliciano and Lovino left for the other personality. It was a crude way of ensuring contact, a reasonable remedy for some of the confusing amnesia.

For years, it had been this strange cycle of back and forth between the two. Feliciano was not well and most likely, he never will be. Lovino would never go away for good. Lovino was permanent and he could only be tamed.

I said after a long pause: "Sorry."

I never knew Feliciano was going through something like this. Is it alright that I even know this or should I pretend that I heard nothing? But I really want to talk to him now. And don't worry, I'm not afraid. I'm not going to just stop being his friend over something like this. I mean, Felciano stuck around a practical mute, didn't he?

But I couldn't say half of those words. Believe me, I tried, but I was choking over my own inability within seconds. So I did my best sympathetic visage and gave a small "sorry." It didn't convey even a fraction of my true feelings, but there was little I could do.

Feliciano's grandfather, however, seemed to understand. "Don't be, Ludwig. It's my fault this all happened in the first place. DiD develops mainly from neglect and that's what I did." I shook my head.

I don't believe that.

"Really, it's my fault." He looked back out the window. "I hope that you can still be friend with him after this. He was really scared, you know? He was afraid that you wouldn't want to be around him anymore."

I reassured him: "Love."

I placed my hands on my chest and mimicked a pounding heart. "Being, um . . . Feli's. . . friend," I said.

Feliciano's grandfather smiled in warm gratitude. Even after my father pulled his SUV to the curb, I still waited within in the lobby until Feliciano came out from his session. I could tell immediately by his body language that Lovino was in control, scowling at the world as he marched to his grandfather. "Let's go," he muttered harshly. He was mad about something, probably his forced stay at his session.

I cleared my throat and rose to my feet. "I'm, uh . . . . Ludwig," I said, trying to keep the pauses between my words miniscule. I extended my hand towards him. "Pleasure."

Lovino looked ready to tear my arm off and turned his shoulder. I knew that he was not Feliciano, but at least I was trying to become friends with both of them. Both moieties will know that I was by their side for better or for worse.

I watched the strange family retreat into the torrid land outside, feeling hollow and hopeful all at once. I knew that I would never get my speech back completely. Feliciano would never have his own head for himself again. We were both doomed to live lives where our brains disagreed with the outside world. I knew that we would be judged, but we had each other, didn't we? I had depended on Feliciano for so long for beautiful words and a motivation to speak that now it was my turn to help him sort which side of him was the original one.

Feliciano and I had each other- with or without words, with or without Lovino.

The one fact that, no matter what happens in life, must come true: "We will get better."

MW: In hindsight, the narrative might have gotten a bit confusing at one point of time. . .

Anyways, this is the one-shot I was crying over on tumblr. I slaved for about two weeks over this. I got the idea when I learned about Broca's Aphasia in AP Psychology about two months ago. This was originally supposed to be a shipping fic, but the romance kinda just didn't happen. Hey, at least I wrote a GerIta. I hope that you guys enjoyed and please tell me what you thought of this!

On the Broca's Aphasia and DiD

Of course, both of these are actual disorders though of varying degrees. As stated in the story, broca's aphasia is caused by damage done to the broca's area in the motor cortex. The most common cause is a stroke, though the case studies I read did give examples of lesions caused by head injury. Ludwig's speaking patterns were strongly influenced by that of Sarah Scott (who can be found on youtube), his refusal to speak as frequently as her has been taken into consideration. In this, Ludwig is 19, which is an age where brain plasticity (the brain's ability to heal itself) is still high and, therefore, he still has a chance for an expensive recovery. But like many affected by broca's aphasia, his ability to speak, write, and count will be permanently damaged.

Dissociative Identity Disorder, on the other hand, is extremely rare. It usually is in people who suffered continuous traumas from an early age, most often sexual abuse, and convinced themselves that the terrors were happening to another person. These personalities often are of completely different demeanors with a different set of memories (hence, lapses in memory) and personal relationships. Without intervention, the personalities can go a life time without being aware of each other. There is no clear therapeutic treatment for it, though medications can be used to treat accompanying disorders, like Borderline Personality and depression. Children are typically mistakenly diagnosed with bipolar disorder (some afflicted with DiD have reported hearing the voices of other personalities) until their teen years. A famous example of someone with DiD is Kim Noble, whose story can be read online. There is, however, a controversy of whether DiD is real or not and if DiD can be accidentally caused by a therapist. It is implied in Feliciano's story that the latter may have been the case. It can also be noted that it is implied that Ludwig did not hear everything about Feliciano's past. Lovino was verbally abused by his father, their mother may have already been unstable before facing her breakdown, and Lovino's suicide note mentioned "many other 'unmentionable acts.'" This was done with the mindset that Feliciano's grandfather only told Ludwig what was relevant. DiD is usually never cured, but can be contained in a controlled system. Felciano's case was in particular was inspired by one that I read in a book. I would love to give the title, but since DiD is the plot twist, I will only give it upon request. DiD is very tragic and fascinating and I encourage you to learn more about it.

Thank you all for reading! Please tell me what you think!