Somehow, months went by. Getting used to being 'alive' again was a challenge, but fortunately he had his brother with him.

…Even when Gilbert didn't want him there.

Ludwig seemed hyperfocused on monitoring every aspect of Gilbert's life. They had a small argument about Gilbert going back to work - Ludwig said that Gilbert didn't have to anymore since he got money for scientific research and it was more than enough to cover them. Gilbert said that he wanted to work, because it would give him something to do during the day.

"You can help me with my research," Ludwig had said, "or find a hobby."

"I want to do something that doesn't have to do with you," Gilbert had said, almost too bluntly, and the hurt look on Ludwig's face was enough to drop the conversation right then and there.

Gilbert was grateful to his brother for working hard, for reviving him, for supporting him. For loving him.

That was what Gilbert had trouble with. He struggled with it, almost daily. Ludwig had no problems, it seemed, going about daily live with Gilbert as his 'boyfriend'. They kissed, they went on dates, they made love. Ludwig showered him with affection and gifts - it was almost suffocating.

His love was sincere, Gilbert knew that. That was the part that killed him - Gilbert's love was not.

They went into the bedroom, and they removed their clothes, and they had sex, and something about it was wrong. It felt good, yes, and Ludwig was a very good lover - but it was still wrong. Ludwig was good in bed but he was also his younger brother and that feeling, that passion, did not exist in Gilbert.

Every night, long after Ludwig had fallen asleep, Gilbert would rise from the bed, put some clothes on, and go outside with a cigarette. He would sit on the porch for a long time, pondering what his life had become. Before he died (it was still difficult for him to rationalize that), he worked full time, he had friends, he had his brother and supported him. Now, a whole year later, he had nobody and nothing but his brother.

The moon was full and the night was quiet and warm. Gilbert watched the smoke from his cigarette swirl gently above his head and dissipate into the atmosphere. In this moment he was alone, and he was able to think rationally without having his brother over his shoulder, trying to police his thoughts.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. You weren't supposed to slowly resent the person you loved. Maybe it wasn't Ludwig he resented - maybe it was himself?

"It'll come back to you," Ludwig had said. "Just give it time. You'll find your feelings again."

Gilbert closed his eyes and took another long drag of the cigarette.

"Kiss me, and you'll remember." "Make love with me, and you'll remember." "I'll do it to you, and you'll remember." "Fuck me hard, and you'll remember."

He kept saying that, but it never came. It was as if Gilbert's romantic feelings for his brother died when he did - and Ludwig was unable to revive it. He thought about telling Ludwig - he did, frequently, in the beginning - but he knew what would happen. Ludwig would blow him off, suggest something else for them to do as partners, and Gilbert would continue to swallow his bile and do it.

It was disgusting, he thought to himself. But he was just as disgusting.

A week later, Ludwig had to leave for several days for an academic conference. Gilbert wanted to take this time to go out with his friends and drink, but Ludwig left him with no money and no car, so Gilbert was homebound.

"I'll be back in a few days. Try not to miss me too much," Ludwig had said.

"I won't," was the easiest thing in the world for Gilbert to say in return.

The first night he relished in being alone by sleeping late and not having to worry about groping hands under the covers or lips on his neck when he was trying to sleep. However, by the second day, Gilbert was bored out of his mind. He couldn't exactly go anywhere and he had nothing to do, so he thought about being a rebel and, against his brother's wishes (like it or not, Ludwig did not actually control his life), he called up his old friends, Francis and Antonio.

They were overjoyed to hear from him, and agreed to come over immediately - with booze, of course.

Seeing his two closest friends was such a relief. Before they came over, Gilbert made sure to hide any photographs of him and Ludwig and make it look like only one person slept in the master bedroom. He didn't want any questions asked that even he couldn't answer.

Within an hour, Francis and Antonio were at the door, already half-drunk, and it did not take long for Gilbert to join them. When he was with them, he finally felt joy for the first time since this whole ordeal had began. He was happy, he was carefree, and he felt like his old self again. They raced around the house like children, they played drinking games and threw on some porn just for good measure.

The next morning, Gilbert woke up, shirtless, on the couch. Francis was hugging his legs, still passed out, and Antonio was on the floor with a lampshade over his head. He looked around the room and noticed that it was completely trashed. Sometime in the night he vaguely recalled a drunken dance party and an impromptu joust, so it was understandable.

He wiggled out of Francis's grasp and made his way to the toilet, and on his way back, something caught his eye - a large, full-length mirror that hung on the wall in the living room had been knocked askew, and Gilbert could see something behind it.

The outline of a door was visible to him, and he made his way over. At this point, Francis and Antonio had both awakened and saw where Gilbert was headed.

"What's that?" Antonio asked, standing up and shedding his lampshade headgear.

"I think it's a door," Gilbert said quietly. "I don't remember this being here before." Why the hell was a mirror in front of a door? Granted, Gilbert didn't remember the mirror being there before, however lots of things had changed in the year that he was gone, so he had never questioned it - until now.

The three of them moved the mirror from the wall and slowly pushed open the door. Behind was a narrow staircase that led down into darkness.

"I was wondering yesterday where the door to your basement was," Francis said thoughtfully.

Gilbert turned and looked at him in bewilderment. "I didn't know we had a basement," he whispered.

"Of course you did - when we were kids we used to play Legos down there all the time, remember?"

No. Gilbert couldn't remember. He couldn't remember the basement and he couldn't for the life of him think why it would be concealed. He quickly descended the stairs and flicked on the nearby lightswitch, to reveal - some kind of forgotten scientific laboratory.

This wasn't too surprising in itself, since Ludwig was a science and did scientific research, but usually that research was either at home or at one of the university labs - no experiments were done at home, at least none that he was aware of.

The three of them moved slowly through the cramped space, looking at everything - books, computers, vials of strange liquids. There was a metal gurney in the middle of the room, with monitors all around.

"What is this?" Antonio whispered, tapping at one of the vials and watching the strange liquid bubble at the movement. "This is like some sci-fi shit right here."

"I…don't know." He was at a loss. Ludwig had never mentioned anything like this to him. Was this even Ludwig's? Was it someone else's research?

He approached the gurney and saw on a nearby table a leatherbound journal. Idly, he flipped it open and saw it full of Ludwig's quick, short handwriting. So it was all his brother's. He picked up the book and turned to the front page, seeing in large letters, "MEMORY IMPLANT NOTES"

Memory implant?

He flipped through more pages, reading what Ludwig had written down. A lot of it was scientific and things he didn't understand, but some passages stuck out - memories. His memories. Detailed prose of things that he remembered the two of them together. Laid out in front of him, in word-form, like some kind of fanfiction.

Suddenly it all made sense. Everything made perfect, undeniable sense. The shroud over his eyes was removed and the world was clear.

"…I think you two should leave," Gilbert said. "Please. Please leave immediately."

Without any further communication, Francis and Antonio quickly turned and ran up the stairs, sensing the urgency of Gilbert needing to be alone, in that room, with those notes.

He frantically tore through the laboratory. He found the originals of photographs that Ludwig had manipulated - photoshopping one or both of them to look like lovers. He found items that were used in aiding the semantics of these memories - vials of smells, pictures of places and foods and people. Everything was here. It all made perfect, perfect sense.

He was so wrapped up in the discovery of his misery that he didn't hear someone open the door and descend the stairs.

"Gilbert." Ludwig's voice sounded short and piercing compared to the relative silence.

Gilbert immediately slammed down the book he had been racing through and turned quickly to face his brother. His eyes skimmed the man for a moment, taking in his image. His face was passive, impartial. His clothes were a bit wrinkled. The bottom of his shoes were wet, and he was tracking blood. His fingers too were stained red.

"…I thought you weren't going to be home until the evening," Gilbert said, as calmly as he could. His heart, however, was racing in his chest.

"I took an earlier flight home," Ludwig explained. "Because I missed you."

This time, Gilbert had no problems being blunt. "I didn't."

Ludwig simply stood there, in the middle of the room, and tilted his head ever so slightly. "You shouldn't be down here, Gilbert."

"Why are you tracking blood?" His brother countered back.

The blonde pursed his lips and looked over his shoulder toward the staircase. "There was a mess upstairs. So I cleaned it up."

Gilbert swallowed a lump in his throat. He had to get out of this situation. Before then, however — he needed to speak his mind. It might be the last time he had the chance. "You lied to me. All of this…that's why I haven't loved you. We were never lovers before all of this. You…you fabricated everything. Everything about us! About me! It's all a lie!"

"You will love me," Ludwig snapped, his bloody fists clenched. "Give it time, and you'll-"

Gilbert slammed his hand down on the table near him. "No! I don't love you, Ludwig! I hate what we do, I hate it! You are my brother, and I will never want to do the…disgusting things that we do. All this time I have been convincing myself that it would come to me, but it never has, and now I know why. I. Don't. Love. You."

He moved to storm past Ludwig, but the man held an arm out to block him. "You're mine, Gilbert," he said in a poisonous tone. "You'll see that. You'll love me."

The elder brother managed to struggle past Ludwig and turned to run up the stairs. He had to escape. He had to get out of the house, out of the situation, away from Ludwig -

He froze when he saw, in the living room, the source of the blood. Antonio and Francis lay face down in a heap - Francis had been stabbed in the back with a knife, and it appeared that Antonio's neck had been snapped.

Despite the horror of the murder before him, he heard Ludwig moving rapidly up the stairs behind him.

Gilbert tried to escape, but he didn't even make it to the open front door before Ludwig grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, placing a hand over Gilbert's mouth.

"You will love me," Gilbert heard the man whisper just before he felt Ludwig's hand cover all of his air passages. He struggled, trying to kick, beat, slap, and shove the man's hand away, but it was no use.

Spots danced in front of his eyes just before they overtook him completely.

Ludwig took a deep breath as he felt Gilbert finally stop struggling and turn limp in his arms. He then shuffled the body around to hold his brother in his arms, looking at his peaceful face. "I'm so sorry, Gilbert," he said quietly. "But I just can't lose you."

He turned and walked back to the basement, ignoring the other two bodies in the living room. He'd clean them up later.

The man wasn't worried. He did it once, he could do it again. And this time, he would do it better. Those memories were just a prototype - they were too synthetic. He'd perfect his formula this time.

Then, he was sure, his brother would never suspect anything wrong. If it still didn't work? Then he would just try again. And again. And he'd keep doing it, he resolved, until Gilbert loved him.