Divided

by kartashyov

(Cross-posted on AO3) The Berlin Wall begins construction on 13 August 1961, trapping people between the West and the East. Roderich and Gilbert have been separated for the first time since they've met, recalling painful memories of the Second World War that nearly took their lives. No one knows when, or if, the wall will fall.

Notes: This has been up on AO3 for a while now-I am just now getting around to posting things up here too. Some notes are included at the end as well for context purposes. I hope you enjoy and sorry if you've already seen it on AO3 :)

15 June 1961—West Berlin

The last drop of water to fall from the sink faucet is always the slowest. It lingers, almost helplessly, feeling far too attached to the metal pipe it clings to, only to hit the bottom of the sink with an undetected plop. Few people care to notice, but today it seems that it is all Roderich can pay attention to.

"What do you want me to do, eh?" The coffee mug hits the table with an alarming knock on the jilted wood, a dollop of the purely black mixture sputtering out in protest of the action. Gilbert, with a tenuous frown stuck to his lips, leans back in the old kitchen chair and rests his palms behind his head. "It's not like there's much work to be found here, and despite being a bona fide war hero, ain't no German government, Federal Republic or Democratic Republic, that's gonna recognize what I did."

Roderich does not say anything in response, partly because Gilbert is right, and partly because his lips have been sewn shut. The newspaper sits mockingly in front of him: 'Ulbricht claims 'there will be no wall' in Berlin'. It's not the first thing Ulbricht has claimed, he thinks with frustration.

"This isn't gonna be like another Blockade or anything. It's just crazy talk. Besides, the guy denied the wall, Roddy. He said it's not gonna happen. That means there's nothing to worry about!"

The faucet no longer dripped. It was dry. Roderich closed his eyes.

"Are you listening to me?"

"He's thinking," Ludwig chimed in from the corner of the room, his coffee cup placed firmly between his strong hands. He leaned so that the bulk of his weight fell to his good leg, as his other one still felt sore in the mornings. "You should be more aware of him by now, Gilbert, really."

"Oh, hush with you, little brother," Gilbert chastised with a smirk, standing from his position at the wobbly kitchen table to stretch out lazily. "Roddy's worrying himself sick over this dumb wall rumor. What are they going to do, build it overnight? Trap me in East, in my tiny little office with my creepy old boss?"

"You do stay the night sometimes," Roderich finally uttered, in a tone almost less noticeable than the dripping of the faucet. The two German brothers turned to look at him intently, wondering if he had some sort of intuition about these things, but seemed to quickly shun the subject in favor of the latest football match-ups. Roderich stared at the faucet, but nothing came out any more. It was dry.

24 June 1948

"The Russians did what?" was the first thing to come out of Gilbert's mouth that morning. Suddenly chewing a bit slower on the piece of bread he had been gobbling down, he stood in the middle of the kitchen entrance, listening in a trance to the droll of the radio speaker, who was merely repeating the same three sentences over and over.

"This is a new low, even for Stalin," Roderich conceded swiftly, his eyes rolling in an exasperated fashion. "Putting a blockade on food and fuel isn't going to drive people out of the West. People would rather starve than go over to Communist Germany."

"Yeah, sure, but do you know what this is going to do to our already horrible food options? Hell, I'm a hundred percent sure that bastard down on the Burgstrasse sold me ersatz coffee last week!"

Sighing curtly, Roderich gestured for his partner to take a seat next to him, to which the angry German complied. Taking Gilbert's hand in his to lovingly caress his small yet worn fingers, he murmured, "Let's see how this all plays out, hm? We still have so many American soldiers in the city, I'm almost positive that America will do something."

"What are you on yelling about?" called Ludwig as he entered the room with a limp, his tousled hair not yet brushed back, which normally was a cause for embarrassment around non-family members—but by this point, Roderich practically was family, as he was his older brother Gilbert's lover.

"You shouldn't be walking, you know! You're just going to make it worse!" Gilbert yelled as a protective older brother would, as Roderich felt Gilbert's heart beat faster in response to the sensed danger.

"It's always bad in the morning. Besides, it helps to stretch it out a bit, get the blood flowing, I think. Now why are you whining?"

"Our good friend Stalin decided to put a blockade on Berlin, cutting off our food and fuel supplies, in order to show the Americans whose boss," Roderich informed him, casually allowing Gilbert to slump into his left shoulder as he reached for his cup of tea.

Ludwig grunted in response, moving to the fridge to take out the pitcher of milk and pour it into a glass with sharp precision, failing to let a single drop deviate onto the counter. He took his time in crafting a response, straining his face as he struggled to articulate the words, before finally deciding on, "Haven't we Germans been through enough?"

Gilbert let out a stark laugh at that, his head rolling up to look at his younger brother tiredly. "Haven't we all been through enough? You got your leg blown off in Brussels and Hitler didn't give you shit for it, Roderich's parents were fucking murdered, and I fought hard against it all but got nothing for it because of who I am. So really, we're just a couple of homosexuals and a cripple living in a shitty apartment in Berlin because it's the best we can do. We've really all been through more than enough."

The silence that permeated the room following Gilbert's outburst was filled with tension, each individual caught up in the thought of their particular grievance. It was broken, however, with a small comment from Ludwig of, "My leg didn't get blown off. I still have it."

At that, everyone found the strength to laugh just a little, without it sounding too terribly forced. In reality, Roderich thought, it was all too true that their lives had been riddled with challenges. As a young boy living in Vienna, he could never picture himself living in anything less than the extravagant house he grew up in, maids and all; today, he was grateful that they could afford a two bedroom apartment, so he could share a room with Gilbert while Ludwig had his own space. Things had changed much in such a short period of time, from the absolute horror of the war to the current day political restructuring of Berlin, but in Roderich's mind, there was little Stalin could do to cause major harm—after the war, nothing could compare.

7 July 1961

"We're so old now, Roddy," Gilbert remarked from the relative comfort of the old mattress the two shared together, as his partner was enveloped in his arms. "Your hair is starting to thin a bit, in the back at least."

"Well, stop fussing with it," came the muffled reply, as Roderich's eyebrows furrowed in a familiar fashion at Gilbert's antics.

"You know what would be great? If we could get married. I know it'll probably never happen, but how cool would that be? I'd carry you like a blushing bride or an angry chicken, whichever you happen to resemble more, even if I'm 95."

"You won't be alive at 95," Roderich warned, smirking. "I'll have put a hit on you by then."

"Ooh, a romance for the ages that ends in violent death. It will make great movies, I'm sure. Possibly a great radio program, but the television will surely eclipse the radio by then, don't you think so?"

"Are you trying to tell me you want to listen to another show tonight?"

Sighing reluctantly, Gilbert finally removed his restless fingers from his lover's messy hair and yawned as part of an answer. "You know nothing would please me more, but I do have to make the trek into work tomorrow. Good ol' Ivan the Terrible has plenty of things for me to type up, I'm sure."

Drawing back a little, Roderich tried to hold back the emotions in his voice, but found that his resolve was not strong enough. "I really wish you would quit working over in the East sector."

"And what, go broke so we would have to live on the streets? It's not an option. You know Ludwig can't work because of his leg, and I know you don't want to give lessons anymore…unless…"

Flushing softly to reflect his distaste, Roderich rapidly shook his head, muttering, "Oh, I surely could not. I've forgotten all the keys by now, surely…and on the viola, I'm even worse, I'm sure…"

Gilbert snorted a bit at the justification attempt, but restrained himself from making too brash a comment, instead settling in closer to his partner as he spoke through half-lidded eyes. "I'm telling you, you're acting a bit ridiculous about it all. The Americans and the Russians are going to fight each other in space and in Cuba, not in Berlin."

Roderich removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand, which was garnished by a picture of the two of them immediately after the Germans had surrendered. They were tired and dirty, having been without a shower for days as Berlin was under siege, but it was over and they were happy. It was the purest happiness he had ever known.

"I'm just afraid to lose you, that's all."

Biting back a smile, Gilbert hugged Roderich in a bit tighter and mumbled tiredly, "You think the damn Russians could stop me from getting to you? Even if—and this is hypothetical—even if they trap me over in East and build an electric fence surrounded by armed guards, I'd still find a way back to you. I'd sneak through Hungary, I'd go up into Denmark and around, I'd even take a train to Siberia, then Japan, then America, then across the English Channel and through France just to get back to you! So don't you worry about a wall. They're never going put a wall between us."

Roderich's skin felt clammy and cold under the Berlin heat and the weight of Gilbert's words, and his anxiety only grew in strength, but somehow it was reassuring enough to put him to rest, even for just a few hours. Nie eine Mauer, nie eine Mauer.

13 August 1961

The emptier a mattress is, the harder it feels. So Roderich conceded to himself as his eyes opened warily at the sound of a woman's cry heard outside their third floor window, alarming and loud enough to rouse the heavy-hearted Austrian, who could find no better use of his time than to sleep the day away when Gilbert stayed overnight in the East sector. Gilbert found himself in a difficult economic position post-war; with his years spent as resistance fighter, he wasn't trained to do much other than drive fast through winding roads carrying contraband. He managed to sweet talk a Russian factory owner, who took advantage of the crippled economic condition of Germany to expand his business, into working a secretarial job, which paid slightly better than a factory worker. Roderich had heard countless stories about how Ivan wasn't the most pleasant of people to be around, inciting terror into his lackadaisical employees, but nevertheless a job was a job and the three of them came to rely on Gilbert to provide the steady income for their makeshift family.

All of this was running through Roderich's mind when a familiar voice shouted, "Gott!" in a distressed tone. Fearing that even some twenty years later Ludwig had managed to injure his leg further, Roderich ran from the bedroom, still dressed in his pyjamas, but found a much more grave sight: Ludwig had the radio on full volume, and the announcer read, "I repeat, the Soviet Union has deployed an East German military force to close the border between West and East Berlin."

Everything from that moment on seemed to move at lightning speed. Somewhere between the droll of the radio and the shouts from three flights down and Ludwig trying to coax Roderich to sit down, even have a glass of water, Roderich managed to dress himself to a presentable status, tame his unruly strands of hair, and remember that he was partially blind without his glasses before tumbling down the worn steps and running towards the border. They couldn't have closed it all by now, he tried to reason desperately, and they had to give warning…

A small crowd of people, of all ages, shapes, and sizes, had gathered to see the scene that had somehow conspired in the early morning hours. A makeshift fence of poles and barbed wire followed by a meekly constructed 'wall' of cinder blocks didn't look very threatening, but it was the armed guards on both sides who did. A sign that read 'Attention! You are now leaving West Berlin' had been erected close to the beginnings of a border, as if people could not tell that the barbed wire meant keep out.

Voices crowded around Roderich, commenting on various questions that lingered such as if this meant a war was coming or if the Russians would let out the West Berliners who worked in the East, but Roderich didn't hear any of it. His heart beat erratically through his chest, and if it had beat any harder, it would've surely popped through his shirt and splattered on to the ground. His brain, naturally absorbed in shock, had been turned off, and there was no second thought to what an appropriate action might be. Instead, he ran.

Roderich had never been the athletic type. His parents had known this, seeing him opt for the arts; Ludwig had known this, seeing him flounder in physical education classes; Gilbert had even known this, seeing him pant for breath after having to move shelters in the middle of the night, having gotten a tip that the SS were close to their location. Regardless, something in him—call it insanity, adrenaline, determination—believed that if he ran fast enough, and hard enough, he could surely jump the barbed wire border, at worst with only a small scratch, and run to find Gilbert and save him from all this mess. Insanity seemed to best describe it.

"Oh, mister, please, you can't cross," piped up a timid guard in an East German uniform, who held a rifle within his shaky hands and spoke German with a certainly Soviet accent, although Roderich couldn't quite decipher which country. His apprehension somehow was able to recalibrate Roderich's brain, as he now saw surmounting the wall as less of a physical challenge and more of a mental one.

"You don't understand," he argued, his voice coming out in rapid breaths, "my, my lov—my friend, my good friend. He's, he's West, but he works over there, and he didn't get out…I have to go find him."

"I'm very sorry mister, but no one is allowed to cross over. That's what I've been told…"

"No, you don't understand!" Roderich repeated louder, "I have to find him! It is imperative that he returns home immediately! His…his brother is disabled, and he needs to be looked after!"

Although that wasn't even true—Ludwig was completely capable of taking care of himself and his leg rarely got in the way of his daily life—Roderich was prepared to defend the fallacy to its last breath if it meant getting Gilbert on the other side of the barrier. But the guard did not seem to falter, although he continued to quiver like a wilting flower. In a markedly sad tone, he replied, "There is really nothing I can do…the orders are to let no one pass from either direction. I must follow orders, otherwise…"

Roderich quickly decided he could waste no more time trying to reason with this buffoon, ruling him out to be less of a threat than even his own pacifist self, before trying to shove past him. He ignored the man's plea of "Please, don't make me have to shoot…" and continued to march, almost automatically, towards the wall, without a real plan but an end goal certainly in sight.

The shot was actually not all that loud, but to Roderich and the growing crowd who had watched his defiance, it sounded like an atomic bomb. Stopping cold in his tracks at the shot that flew directly over his head, crashing into the makeshift wall with defeat, he could feel each individual artery in his body turn cold. He turned slowly, unaware of the exact sight he would be dealing with, to find the guard, barely able to stand still, holding the rifle directly at Roderich's face. Completely flushed, he garnered enough confidence to yell, "If you refuse to follow orders, I will have to shoot you! Do you understand?"

It was a foreign experience that was still somehow entirely familiar. All of the sudden it felt like he was 17 again, in the middle of Vienna, with Ludwig by his side…the memories were overwhelming…and just as quickly it all faded.

12 March 1938—Vienna, Austria

"Mutti and Vati said not to be worried, but I don't know," Roderich piped up quietly, knowing Ludwig could not be sleeping at this hour, under these circumstances. "Just listening to it all on the radio made it sound terrifying. They're going to be in Vienna in no time."

"Opa might make me come home," Ludwig sighed tiredly, running a hand through his shiny blond locks. Although they were not facing each other, the fear could easily be sensed in both of their wary tones—made even more frightening by the thought that if someone heard them from outside the door, they could be severely punished.

"I just wish the Chancellor would do something and not just let Hitler barge in and take Austria. It isn't his to take! It's not fair that he can just send his Wehrmacht over and just…and, and that…it seems that the Austrians agree with him."

"And it makes it no better that Hitler has them all wrapped up believing the Jews are to blame."

Roderich felt his throat tighten at that mention, but he was able to keep from bursting out into panic; after all, they had not reached Vienna just yet. "It terrifies me," he confessed softly, "to know that even though I haven't gone to the synagogue since my bar mitzvah, they still think I had something to do with Germany's problems. I am a seventeen year-old boy! And for that matter, my parents had nothing to do with it either, they were only teenagers during the war! But Hitler does not care. Do you know Jews have such strict laws in Germany? I hear Jewish children cannot even ride their bicycles around anymore. Is Hitler going to take my bicycle away too?"

"We won't let that happen," Ludwig said firmly, shaking his head at the notion that he would ever let Roderich or his family suffer. "You are my friend and even though I am German in blood, I will never fight for a cause championed by Hitler, not even if they force me."

At that Roderich laughed a little, mumbling, "I suppose we are lucky then." As he wiped a lone tear from his eye, inevitably trying to remain strong as he had over the past few months—enduring his and Ludwig's classmates slowly starting to regard him as more of an outsider, despite Roderich's immense talents in the arts making him a top student at the institution—while the world merely sat back and watched as his safety net slowly started to crumble. "We are lucky that it is not another war. At least, not yet."

6 September 1961—West Berlin

Another day, another bowl of uneaten muesli with a glass of watery milk to accompany it. The bed that had once been a place of solace for Roderich and Gilbert—a safe space, where they could exist together without the rest of the world to judge, touching and holding each other, laughing and crying and simply existing as humans do—had now become a prison. Roderich felt confined to his sentence and served out his term well. He only stood up out of necessity, but rarely felt bothered enough by his needs of hunger or thirst to fulfill them. Time was an enemy and every day was hell.

"You know he wouldn't like to see you like this," Ludwig offered weakly from his spot at the side of the bed, leafing through the newspaper with minimal interest.

Roderich didn't respond. What could he possibly have to say? The news from that point on was increasingly gut-wrenching. First they completely blocked off Brandenburg Gate, and within the week every crossing point was sealed off by a section of wall, surrounded by guards. Desperate mothers gave interviews to BBC reporters crying about their sons or husbands who went off to work that day to never return. World leaders decried the move, but no one took any official action; no one was willing to go to war over a wall.

Roderich felt his heart sear with pain once more. On the nightstand was that same photograph of them after the war; miserable, tired, dirty, but happy. It was a nice picture, he decided.

Reaching one hand out tiredly, Roderich tilted the photo frame so that it lay face down. Ludwig sighed deeply, and continued reading the newspaper.

20 March 1938—Vienna, Austria

Roderich had tried to insist to Ludwig that he would be fine making the trip to the tailor's by himself—even though the soldiers had stormed the capital following the Anschluß and the overwhelming Ja vote, he was going to a familiar neighborhood, he wouldn't be gone long, and he would keep to himself. Ludwig was smart enough to know that this wouldn't be enough.

As the two traversed through the history-laden streets, after finding a sign in the tailor's window that read Closed—"Unusual, he's always had good business," a nervous Roderich tried to reason—it was apparent that although the Germans had arrived and declared themselves in charge, most civilians had not bothered to notice the change. Many went about their day as usual, walking their children through the streets, purchasing groceries from the market, stopping on street corners to discuss the news—few seemed bothered by the presence of an army with the sole instructions to rid Vienna of its Jews.

Although he tried to appear confident without seeming overeager, Roderich couldn't help but feel queasy at the uneasy feeling of his stomach churning with every approaching person. Soldiers were all over the place, with their shiny boots and flashy red armbands. He did feel a bit better with Ludwig—an actual German Aryan, no less—but he wondered anxiously if his features stood out. Did his glasses give it away? The shape of his nose? His expensive clothing? "I am Austrian. I am seventeen years old and I am a student at the Vienna Fine Arts Academy. I am self-employed and I teach piano lessons to children," he rehearsed over and over again in his head, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out the words, the voice in his head commanding his feet to walk at a normal pace and not give it away, not to give any of it away.

He was so focused on trying to balance out the conflicting messages in his mind that he stepped on the pristine boot of the soldier who had stopped directly in front of him. Although he had practiced, he forgot everything in that moment, even making the mistake of gasping out loud. The soldier smirked smugly in response, gazing at his cohort and snarling, "Er ist ein Jude!"

In a series of uncomfortable stammers, Roderich's façade completely disintegrated before him, as he mangled out, "I-I, I'm not, I, er, I am sorry, I did not mean to…"

With an air of authority, the SA man reached into Roderich's coat pocket, pulling out his handkerchief and spitting profusely on it. Shoving it into Roderich's shaking hand, he barked, "How about you shine my boots for me, since you messed them all up with your stupid feet?"

Ludwig, who had been standing flabbergasted in the background amongst a growing crowd, saw this as his opportunity to step in and save Roderich from this mess. "Officers, you misunderstand," he tried to reason politely, "I am a good German citizen and this man is my friend. He meant no malicious intent, I assure you."

"Tell me, 'good German citizen', what could you possibly be doing here in Austria hanging out with filthy Jews?" The two soldiers laughed despite the stuffy air and one pulled out a cigarette to light. It almost seemed to be a form of entertainment to them. "Get out of here, will you, and go back to Germany, where they need you to volunteer for Hitler."

"I can't leave my friend."

"I said go!"

"But I can't—"

The emboldened officer withdrew his pistol and rested its head right in between Roderich's eyes, causing another sharp gasp to fall out of his mouth. "You will leave at once or I shall kill him! Now go!"

Ludwig wanted nothing more than to stay and fight for Roderich's sake, but the look in the man's eye and the anticipation of the crowd and the tears running down Roderich's face made him realize that everyone was completely serious. Turning with a shred of reluctance, he began to run the other direction, back towards the school; certainly the police would not care, and there were no other authorities he could go to for assistance. This was Germany, and it was now Austria.

"Wait are you waiting for, Jude? Shine my boots!" The officer clicked the pistol threateningly, and Roderich could feel it move slightly against his temple. Despite the embarrassment seeping through his body, he lowered himself to the ground holding the spit-covered kerchief, polishing the officer's boots as the pistol remained pressed into his head. He could hear laughter and cheering coming from the crowd that had gathered to watch him, and another unpleasant feeling came when he realized the soldier had spit on him as well. No matter how hard he tried, the tears would not stop coming.

That was the last time Roderich left the school dormitory.

19 December 1961

From their third-story window, Roderich saw a group of teenage girls flutter through the streets, no doubt off to buy trinkets to give to their parents or their boyfriends for the approaching holiday. A fresh layer of confectioner's sugar snow painted every vulnerable surface, and Berlin once more resembled the postcards they sold in the tourist shops. It was the happiest time of the year.

For most, at least. As the months had progressed, Roderich's depression showed no signs of leaving, leaving him bed-ridden and helpless for weeks on end. Ludwig, ever determined to keep them afloat despite his chronic pain, managed to find a job delivering packages, which kept him busy and tired but allowed them to still afford their apartment. He made no mention to the fact that their living expenses were practically cut in half now that Gilbert wasn't around—he always ate large masses of food, took excruciatingly long showers, and had a bad habit of leaving all the lights on. But Ludwig didn't mention it, of course.

Most days Roderich was fairly silent, Ludwig had observed, but he realized that it didn't mean he wanted the rest of the world to stop moving. He often listened to the radio—they were too poor to afford a TV, even though most homes now had them—because he seemed to enjoy the sound of other people's voices. Ludwig tried to tell him about how his day had gone, although he was never much of a talker in the first place, which made things difficult. Watching people gather out the window, passing through the streets like leaves falling from the shaking trees became somewhat of a hobby for Roderich, as he could only imagine the lives these people lived, the homes they were returning to, the love that never faded in their eyes.

And so it was quiet as Roderich spent his afternoon much the same as ever, although the stories he developed about the people outside in his mind were appropriately centered around the holidays this time. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ludwig enter the building, followed by a stranger, which piqued Roderich's curiosity—Ludwig was never much of an outwardly social person, and this person, with a wispy plum of auburn-tinted hair, didn't live in their building. Roderich was certain that for once, his afternoons were about to get interesting.

The voices grew increasingly louder as the pair descended up the steps, leading up to Ludwig opening the front door as his newfound companion practically fainted onto the aged sofa. "Oh my goodness, it's so cold out there! None of the guidebooks warned me about this! I swear I must've gone to the library a million times and I knew Berlin was cold, but nothing like this! Did you know it rarely gets below 4 degrees in Rome at this time of year? So you can imagine how shocked I was to find myself so unprepared for the German weather!"

Roderich raised an eyebrow with a touch of disgust at this frazzled stranger laying claim to his living room, but Ludwig did not seem anxious about the exchange, so he trusted that this person, no matter how interesting their English sounded, was not dangerous.

Sensing Roderich's discomfort, Ludwig cleared his throat and mumbled, "Ah, Roderich, I was heading to the market when I ran into this fellow who was rather lost and cold…so I invited him up for a cup of coffee. I hope you don't mind."

Roderich was just about to open his mouth to question the blush that had crept onto the German's face when his new-found friend hopped over to shake his hand with a bit too much gusto. "I'm so sorry to just barge in on your lovely home! Ah, where are my manners! Nonno would be horrified to say the least! My name's Feliciano Vargas, and I'm from Italy, but I just moved to Germany!"

There was a flash of silence for a moment, and Ludwig was ready to take over with introductions before Roderich found the courage to say, "I'm Roderich. It…it's nice to meet you."

"Ooh, what a nice name! Are you Austrian? You sound like it! The guidebooks talked about different German dialects and such. Me, I guess I sound pretty Italian through and through…my German is not too good yet, but I am working diligently, I hope you will trust…"

As Ludwig ventured off into the kitchen to start the coffee, Feliciano seemed more than happy to carry the conversation, much to everyone's delight. As he rambled on and on about various subjects, Roderich couldn't help but notice the look on Ludwig's face, one that seemed to show contentment and warmth even despite the weather. It certainly wasn't like Ludwig to invite just anyone up to their living space, and the two were complete opposites, Feliciano being loud and bubbly and Ludwig being stoic and silent. Something seemed amiss, but Roderich decided to ignore it, if not for the fact that Feliciano's energy was immensely uplifting.

Once the coffee had been served, Feliciano was quick to take a sip of it, regardless of its near-boiling temperature. He was even faster to immediately set the mug down, scrunch up his face in displeasure, and announce, "This coffee is disgusting. Is this what you Germans call coffee?"

And for the first time in a long time, Roderich laughed.

2 September 1938—Vienna, Austria

It rained frequently in Vienna at this time of year, and to no one's surprise, the water poured down from the heavens as a farmer pours the milk from his cows into neatly-lined glass pitchers. Thus most of Vienna's elite would travel by auto if they absolutely had to leave the house—but this year things were different. Besides the ever-vigilant soldiers, who never seemed to leave their posts at every street corner, the unfortunate souls who tried desperately to avoid getting their expensive clothing soaked through no longer felt safe driving through the city, and they now walked, despite the glares they received, as they were no longer entitled to the feelings of safety that citizenship provided.

That was how Ludwig found himself that day lingering in his slightly empty dorm room, packing the last of his belongings as he too had been recalled home—his grandfather was decidedly unpleased by the increasing violence in the streets of Vienna, and demanded his grandson return back home to a safer environment, even though Germany itself was hardly considered safe nowadays, least of all Hamburg. Roderich had left a few months earlier, withdrawing from the Academy by choice rather than by force later; they had already known that German Jews had been denied attendance to both public and private schools, and the change was sure to come to Austria soon enough. It was really quite heart-wrenching, considering how much Roderich deserved to be at the school; it was a well-renowned academy, and with his immense talents as a musician earning him accolades from many of the city's elite members, he could have gone on to continue with his musical studies. But no school with a high reputation was willing to risk everything to protect its Jews, no matter how talented they were.

Occasionally they met still so they could talk about what was going on in their lives, although the news was always bleak. Roderich's father had lost his license to practice medicine, and Austrian Jewish men were constantly singled out for arrest in Vienna, so the family now stayed at home and only left for necessities. Roderich had informed Ludwig that his parents had been antsy in the process of immigrating to the United States, as had many other families in the region. However, a much expected upsurge in the amount of people seeking visas was causing the process to be drawn out and more cumbersome than it already was, even without the interference of the Nazis, who nonsensically imposed taxes on any Jew who tried to immigrate. They didn't want the Jews to be there, but they intended to get the most out of them while they still were.

Ludwig was going to miss his friend dearly, but the way things were going, it was clear that Roderich was no longer safe in the city, no matter how big it was. The Nazis had access to every document that informed of one's heritage, easily being able to spell out who was Jewish—it would take them mere moments to rifle through the birth register of the synagogue to find Roderich's name listed. Nobody, no matter what connections you had or how much money you were willing to put down, could escape—as far as they believed, you were inherently, genetically flawed based on a science that determined certain physical features as stronger and more desirable than others.

Finally packed and ready to head out to the train station—a feat that could be easily accomplished, because of his appearance and nationality—Ludwig decided to stop on the way back to say goodbye to Roderich one last time, which he hoped would be only a short break, although he knew by the way things were going it wasn't going to be over any time soon. With his suitcase at his side, he strolled carefully through the streets of Vienna, taking in just how much had changed, and just how much had not. Most Viennese citizens continued to go about their business regardless of the soldiers posted at street corners, the occasional posters in shop windows proclaiming, "Jews not welcome", or the groups of rowdy youngsters wearing swastika armbands. It seemed that for everyone else, life went on as normal.

Upon reaching the house the Edelstein family resided in—an older 19th century-style home, emphasizing the family's wealth by its maintained gardens and looming stature—Ludwig was instantly aware of an eerie quiet that seemed to descend upon the compound. The small, functional buggy Roderich's father drove to town in was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't seen the car move out of the driveway since he had lost his medical practice.

Approaching the front door almost nervously, feeling as if he was about to uncover something he wasn't sure how to deal with, Ludwig found the door slightly opened, its worn handle cracked down the middle. His breath catching in his throat, he threw his belongings in the grand hall near the staircase and called out desperately, "Roderich!"

From the drawing room came a muffled sound, and Ludwig followed it to find his friend crumpled beneath the large window, its curtains tightly closed. Ludwig was immediately aware of the darkness of the large, once opulent room, and it took mere moments for him to realize that the elaborate chandelier once hanging above the mantle was now gone. The delicate old piano, Roderich's pride and treasure, had two bullet holes directly in the middle of it, and shards of ivory had gone flying through the room.

Ludwig was lost for words, his lips trembling as he struggled to process the destruction that had occurred. Roderich, his own mind blank from shock, merely remained limp on the floor, only his hands shaking lightly, making slight tapping sounds if they hit the floor.

Regaining his composure after a moment, Ludwig rushed to Roderich's side, pulling his friend up into a sitting position. Although he felt like a dead weight against Ludwig's arms, he did not protest, allowing himself to be held up.

"What happened here, Roderich?"

The quiet consumed all sense of safety around them. A clock from two rooms down could be heard ticking.

"Where…where are your parents?"

Roderich's hands shook violently in seizure-like tremors. "I need to get out of here."

Ludwig sighed heavily, trying to think quickly on his feet. Something bad had clearly happened here, and he knew if he left Roderich in Austria, it would be the last time he ever saw him. "Do you have identification papers?"

A small nod came.

"I don't…I don't know if this will work, but if you have those, and if I give you my travel papers…maybe you can get into Germany."

Letting out an exasperated, shaky sigh, Roderich countered, "But it's just as bad in Germany if not worse!"

Ludwig crinkled his nose together and rubbed his forehead pensively. "Is anyone else in the house?"

A small shake of the head.

In a decisively quiet voice, Ludwig leaned forward and said, "I have a brother who might be able to help." At the unchanging fear in Roderich's face, he added, "He is Resistance."

Roderich nearly gasped as he turned rapidly to look into Ludwig's soft blue eyes, which seemed now to resemble wading pools at the gravity of the situation. "Are you sure he could—"

"No, I'm not. I don't even know what he does…all I know is he went off the radar—he doesn't agree with the government. I have an address, and if I could write to him it would hopefully come before you would get off the train, and maybe he could figure something out…he's clever, my brother. And he would do anything for me."

There was no certainty in this, but there was no certainty at all anymore. It was either stay and lose the game or leave and possibly make it out alive.

His throat felt unbearably dry, but Roderich gave a small nod.

26 June 1963

"I am proud to come to this city as the guest of your distinguished Mayor, who has symbolized throughout the world the fighting spirit of West Berlin. And I am proud to visit the Federal Republic with your distinguished Chancellor who for so many years has committed Germany to democracy and freedom and progress, and to come here in the company of my fellow American, General Clay, who has been in this city during its great moments of crisis and will come again if ever needed."

The droll of the radio, accompanied by a light smattering of static, repeated President Kennedy's words for perhaps the fifth time that day; Roderich had lost count. He had lost count of lots of things: the last time the other side of the bed held another body, the last time the faded green mug had been used, the last time he had to mop mud out of the walkway entrance, mud that came from the black-market boots Gilbert managed to trade a British soldier for. In a mock English accent, he strode around the house proclaiming, "I'm in Her Majesty's Royal Guard! Look at me now!"

It had been a while since then, hadn't it?

"Two thousand years ago the proudest boast was "civis Romanus sum." Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is "Ich bin ein Berliner.""

Nearly two years had passed since the wall went up. Instead of growing smaller, it had only become more fortified, with larger concrete sections being built around the city and armed guards looming down from secured watchtowers. It almost felt like being in prison in your own town.

Angry citizens who had relatives across the border sometimes complained loud enough to be given temporary visas into the Eastern sector, but Roderich knew it wasn't ever a possibility for him. Instead of being handed a visa, he would have been handed a jail sentence—it was still criminalized to be who they were privately, no less publicly so. During the war he was a target for his religion, but if they had known about his sexuality, his torment may have been even worse.

"There are many people in the world who really don't understand, or say they don't, what is the great issue between the free world and the Communist world. Let them come to Berlin. There are some who say that communism is the wave of the future. Let them come to Berlin. And there are some who say in Europe and elsewhere we can work with the Communists. Let them come to Berlin. And there are even a few who say that it is true that communism is an evil system, but it permits us to make economic progress. Lass' sic nach Berlin kommen. Let them come to Berlin."

"Oh, you, you need to stop listening to that radio! You listen all day! You're like a television-crazed baby, I swear, although with the radio!" Feliciano stood defiantly in the hallway, an apron tied securely around his lithe waist and his waves of cinnamon-colored hair flying disruptively in the gust of the cheap fan. "The dishes have all been done, so now we're going!"

Although much had stayed the same over the past few years, there were some rather big changes in their household. The jubilant Italian Ludwig had met just before Christmas of 1961 had slowly become a member of the family, first through frequent coffee visits, then as Roderich noticed his clothes begin to enter the laundry pile, and finally once he moved in all together. A red-faced Ludwig insisted that Feliciano would just sleep on the couch, and that it would make their rent cheaper, and a million other mild excuses, but within a few days Roderich would wake up early to find the couch empty as ever, with light snoring sounds coming from Ludwig's bedroom. At first Roderich had been bitter, fuming over the fact that Ludwig got to love without boundaries while Gilbert probably rotted over in East, but he then realized that what they were doing was just as dangerous and illegal as Roderich and Gilbert had been. Inside the safety of the apartment was the one place they could be who they were. Besides, Feliciano was a great cook, Roderich admitted.

Besides household help, Feliciano also worked as a barista, which added a second income to their lives and allowed Ludwig to go to university on the side. He was studying accounting, a subject he had always had a flair for, but had to let go once the war took control. The house was more abuzz than it had ever been, with Ludwig and Feliciano frequently coming and going, but Roderich for his part hadn't left the house since that soldier had shot at him. Perhaps because he felt afraid after re-experiencing the panic of weapons, perhaps because he wasn't keen on the increased military presence, or perhaps because he saw no reason to leave their apartment, there was nothing appealing about the outside world. For months now Feliciano was determined to get him to go outside, each subsequent attempt foiled by Roderich's stubborn nature. But today felt different; the ceremonial air of the presidential motorcade passing through Berlin, the thought that the glamorous Kennedy and his wife were in their city, it all gave a new air to the once dampened environment.

Thus with a slightly defeated sigh, Roderich rose from the living room loveseat and hobbled over to put on his shoes, which felt foreign after literal years of abandonment. Ignoring the rising anxiety in his chest, he shrugged on his eggplant-colored coat and ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to appear calm in front of his bubbly roommate, who went outside nearly every day.

"Don't be nervous!" Feliciano told him, extending an arm around the Austrian's waist with a beaming smile. "Everything's safe today with Kennedy here, and there's really no need to worry! We won't be out for long, and I'll protect you!"

Roderich tried to hide the small chuckle that rose in his throat at that, knowing the tiny Italian couldn't do anything if trouble came their way. He was sure Gilbert would have laughed, too. And deep down, he knew Gilbert would have wanted him to go outside.

It was the first time he thought of Gilbert with a smile.

2 February 1965

As he passed by the television shop, Roderich noticed the prominent featuring of The Beatles on every shiny new TV set, gleaming with their freshly chopped hair. Scoffing out loud to himself at the pitiful excuse for popular music, he continued walking down the promenade, passing older men with deep frown lines, teenage girls in trendy miniskirts, and mothers pushing prams full of chubby-cheeked children. They all blended so well together, a family of strangers connected by a road path, and for once Roderich finally felt like a part of it.

Now that he was used to being outside once more, Roderich spent much of his days roaming the city, passing by the same attractions and sitting in the same parks, but finding the air to be refreshing regardless of either rain or sun. What he had still refused to pass by, however, were the sections surrounded by the wall. He could still hear the ricochet of the shot thumping against the ground, and he had dreams of the soldiers busting down his doors. Passing by that wall meant danger; staying here among the crowds of West Berliners meant safety.

Finding an empty bench to sit on, Roderich sighed to himself at the ache in his bones as he slowly sank down, thinking to himself how odd it was that he really was getting older. Time moved on too quickly. It seemed like just yesterday he was a young boy running around their Vienna mansion, cycling down the paved streets and hopping into the kitchen to beg the nanny for a treat. Oh, he could remember how—

"Excuse me, sir?"

With an improper jump, Roderich turned abruptly to find that someone had taken the other side of the bench and was now facing him with an inquisitive expression. The man was wearing the uniform of a soldier with light brown hair at the longest possible length before his superior would demand he cut it for its girlish appearance. Something about the man took Roderich by surprise, with his soft tone of voice, timid demeanor, and familiar accent…suddenly, it all came back…a gun shot in the background, Roderich running towards the wall…

"I am sorry if my German is not so good. I'm Lithuanian, moved to Russia a few years back, and, well, now I'm here…"

Unaware of the soldier's intentions, Roderich stiffened instantly, remaining silent. He had been trained how to act in these situations—don't talk, don't move, just nod. But the soldier seemed to sense his discomfort and tried to open up the conversation.

"My name is Toris."

He remained silent.

"I just got married, you know. Two weeks ago. She's very beautiful, born in Russia, speaks some English. And the wedding was big, well, as big as it could have been on my salary! But her brother makes good money. He owns several factories now. He's Russian too, well, obviously…and he invited his employees, you know, mostly Russians, but some Germans too…"

The uneasy tone and rambling nature of the man caused Roderich to lose the edge of fear and replace it with a bit of annoyance. What could he possibly want from him? Wasn't firing a gun at him enough?

Releasing an airy sigh, Toris tapped his foot against the ground before snapping into a realization and suddenly scooting closer to Roderich. "Say, with those hands! Aren't you a pianist?"

Stunned into speaking, Roderich bluntly responded, "I…I was."

"Oh, that's the best news I've heard all day, all week even! See, my lovely wife, Natalia, she has been begging me to find her a piano instructor who is competent, but I've had no such luck. Please, you have to be my wife's teacher! I will pay you whatever you want, and if you want a lot, her brother can help too!"

By now Roderich began to think that Toris had lost his mind and was in the midst of a bout of hysteria. "Teach your wife piano? You don't even know me!"

"Oh please, mister, please, please! I know you don't trust me and I'm sorry about what happened a few years back but please, my wife can be a scary lady and her brother's even scarier and I really am desperate and you seem like a nice guy and I want to pay you back for what I did and if you would just—"

"But wait a second, how would I even teach her? Don't you live in the East?"

Pausing to catch his breath, Toris nodded, squeaking, "Yes, but she can get a permit to come over. It's easy since I'm a soldier and her brother has money."

"Of course, it's easy," Roderich remarked bitterly, drawing his gaze to the ground. If only he had power, or money, or something that could make them overlook that Gilbert was his lover, his family, and he was no less worthy of crossing that damned cement wall than a Russian bride of clueless soldier.

Looking intently at Roderich, Toris said quietly, "Please, mister…I love my wife dearly. Don't you believe in love?"

Without hesitation, Roderich replied, "Of course I do." And so that did it. Mind the fact that he was still afraid to play piano to this day after he was forced to do it for the Nazis before they shot right at his beloved organ and blew it to pieces, or that he wasn't even sure if he could remember the once treasured instrument, or that he barely knew the man in front of him let alone his wife. He would have been able to argue with any of that, but not love. "Just…tell your wife to meet me at noon on Saturday here. And I expect to be paid well for my services."

The smile that light up Toris' face was almost frightening. "Oh, I promise you mister, one day soon, you will be."

5 September 1938—Hamburg, Germany

The train station was extremely busy in the middle of the day, which did nothing to ease Roderich's anxiety. He was lucky enough to pass through the patrolmen without a second glance, even though if he was asked to prove his identity, he would be immediately arrested. It didn't help that he looked just as lost as he was, his hurried eyes darting around rapidly as he looked for some sign of Ludwig's brother. He knew nothing about the man, what he looked like, or whether he would even show up at all; there was no guarantee that Ludwig's letter arrived in time.

Desperately trying to look like he was heading in a specific direction, Roderich kept his head down, tugging the sides of his coat in close when from a distance came a yell of, "Ludwig! Hey, Ludwig! Come on brother, don't leave me waiting here forever!"

Roderich took a second to process the call, wondering if it could be for him or for someone else entirely, when it repeated once more and he decided there was no more time to waste. Pushing through the crowd he finally came across a tall, lanky man in polished military boots, so shiny you could see the reflection of the train in them. His hair was an extremely light blonde, almost silver in the daylight, and his eyes were sharp and piercing, not at all like Ludwig's.

Once Roderich had made eye contact, the man wasted no time in grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along like they were old friends. "There you are, Luddy! Always lost, as usual…can I ever count on you to find your own way? Come on, the car's parked over here. Opa's waiting for us!"

Roderich was unsure what to say in reply although he wasn't given the opportunity, as Ludwig's brother moved through the crowd at lightning speed, leaving Roderich to merely try and catch his breath as he was dragged away. The pace continued until they were safely in the car and headed out of the train station, where the air of chummy brotherhood dissipated into that of two complete strangers meeting for the first time.

"So," the German began, popping a cigarette in his mouth as he drove quickly through the narrow roads of Hamburg, "you're the Jew Ludwig sent me?"

"My name is Roderich," he replied with distaste, crinkling his nose at the man's lack of formalities, even using the familiar 'du' pronoun in German rather than the more respectful 'sie'. "And do you have to smoke while you drive? I don't like the smell."

"I'm sorry, is this your car? Did you just save my life? No? Then shut your trap, Specs," he responded snarkily, striking a match on the side of the car before lighting his smoke.

Roderich sighed and squirmed uncomfortably in the passenger seat, his belongings sitting tightly at his feet. He tried to look out the window instead, watching the Hamburg sprawl fade into country roads on the newly constructed autobahn. He had been to Germany before, but the uneasiness of being back now, essentially illegally, gave him chills that wouldn't go away no matter how tightly he tugged at his coat. He was vulnerable at any second to random checks by the police, who would easily see he wasn't who he claimed to be. He didn't even want to imagine what could happen next.

"Don't look so scared, Specs. They haven't messed with me yet."

"For God's sake, don't call me Specs. You're nothing like your brother!"

"Half-brother, technically, but I see what you mean. I'm much stronger, smarter, and handsome than my foolish little brother!"

Rolling his eyes in annoyance at the man's large ego, Roderich turned to look at him closely for the first time, noticing the bags that drooped under his left eye, a scar that extended down from his ear to the middle of his neck, and some specks of hair from a day or so of not shaving surrounding his jawline. He was rugged, clearly a little older than Ludwig, and he gave off the impression of resolute strength. No wonder he was Resistance.

"Never mind you. Where are we going?"

"I can't tell you that, silly, that's confidential! What matters is that at least for now you'll have a place to hide. And we can probably get you up to Sweden so you're super safe, but I'm still working on it. It's no frills living, that's for sure, but you'll be fed, you can bathe, yadda yadda. You just can't leave, or for that matter, look out the window."

The sudden thought that he would be robbed of outside air made Roderich's head start to pound, almost making him desperate to leap from the car and run through the fields that encompassed Germany's northern countryside. "That sounds horrible, but I suppose I am in no position to complain, and instead I owe a great debt to you."

"Yeah, you can pay me back later. Besides, it won't be too bad. It's our headquarters, so we all stay there since most of us went incognito…Ludwig told you what I do, right?"

"All he said was that you were Resistance…he didn't say what, specifically."

Smirking to himself as he threw the cigarette butt out the window, having smoked it down like he wanted his dying breaths to be filled with tobacco, he replied, "Yeah, I didn't want him to know too much…it can get a person in deep shit. They already know too much, Luddy and Opa, if the Gestapo came and questioned them. But you're pretty much a part of the scheme now since you're sharing the apartment with us, so I can let you in on a bit more. We kind of do a bit of everything, with social welfare, you know, bringing food to people, and also military stuff, so keeping tabs on the fighting that's been going on. There's not a lot of it right now, but I assure you this time next year things will be much worse. Right now is the calm before the storm, so we're trying to organize now, which isn't easy at all. Mostly I move weapons to other bands of fighters, like in Poland and Czechoslovakia."

"In this same car?"

"Yeah, dude. There's almost twenty grenades under your seat right now."

Roderich tried to contain the jump he instinctually felt for fear of setting one off. "Could you have mentioned that before?!"

Laughing like an entertained monkey, the German sat back further in his seat and shook his head. "I'm kidding, Specs. There is a pistol though, in case we get stopped."

"So we would…we would shoot them?"

"Hey, it's either kill or be killed over here. There's no alternative."

The conversation died down again and was replaced by the lashing of the wind against the windows and the droll hum of the engine, only ceasing once they pulled up in front of a grimy looking apartment building, making Roderich's stomach turn once more. Grabbing his belongings, he followed his new acquaintance quickly into the building, shuffling up what seemed to be thousands of unswept stairs before reaching the ninth floor, nearly out of breath and flushed pink.

"You that out of shape, Specs? You're gonna need to do better than that. If at anytime shit goes wrong, you need to be able to run faster than the sports cars these days."

"I told you not to call me that!"

"Hush, you don't exist anymore, remember? Here she is," he introduced slyly, opening the door to what looked at first glance to be a dingy, cramped looking apartment. Papers of varying importance littered the dining room table, while dishes piled up in the kitchen. A small radio sat in the center of the living area, which was marked by chairs of various shapes and colors seemingly swiped from random backyards. A tiny hallway led to two other rooms, which Roderich assumed were a bathroom and bedroom.

Leading him into said bedroom, the German pointed to an emptied cot underneath a blacked-out window, further fortified by bars that gave the place a prison-like feel. "You'll be sleeping here with some of the others. It was my spot, but I don't want you sleeping in the living room. It's too vulnerable, and you're the only refugee we're hiding."

Struggling to grasp his new reality of shared living quarters with vigilantes breaking the law, Roderich found at least some compassion in the German's consideration for his well-being, and he began to wonder if the tough appearance was entirely deceiving. "Well…thank you, for that. For everything."

"Oh, trust me, you'll go back to hating me in five minutes or so," he joked with a childish snort, turning on his heels to attend to something else. "I have to go join the others now at a meeting, but Erzse should be back soon. You'll like her I'm sure, she's nice to everybody but me. Chases me around with a frying pan, she does."

"Wait just a second," Roderich cried almost a little too abruptly, realizing he must have left all his manners behind in Austria. "What was…what is your name?"

Flashing him a smile somewhere between sultry, devious, and unholy, the German replied, "Me? I'm Gilbert," before leaving without another word, every trace of his existence vanishing within a single blink. It was a good thing he was gone, Roderich concurred—besides his annoying personality, he had somehow managed to put a blush on the Austrian's face.

16 May 1967

Ironically, the only place he could find that would let them use a piano for practice was the newly opened synagogue, which would have made him uneasy if it were not for the increased security around the area in light of the war. Thus, once weekly, Roderich met Natalia at the same park bench he had been accosted on and they walked in silence to the rather simple synagogue, where they practiced for two hours in the calm light of the drawing room. It became routine quickly, like they had always done this and never ceased at any point in time.

Roderich was initially stunned by Natalia's beauty, her long, thick blonde locks pinned perfectly down her shoulders, her small waist accentuated by her tightly cinched in dresses, and her immaculate shoes that clicked effortlessly on the well-shined synagogue floors. Her face was perpetually set in a frown and her eyes were always low, making her appear bored, though Roderich was quick to get over this. Had he not been who he was, he would have perhaps fancied her as well. It made him wonder how Toris managed to marry her at all.

The one thing he could not understand, however, was the fact she never bothered to practice any of what she had learned the previous week. Every time before they began he'd ask her if she had and behind a thick Slavic accent she would nearly whisper, "Yes, mister," before playing the keys completely wrong, causing Roderich the frustration of having to reteach everything over again. She was just like the children he used to teach when he was a student, who refused to pay attention unless threatened punishment by their parents.

Although he was bothered by the woman's refusal to take the lessons with the utmost sincerity, he rarely complained about it out loud, as he was being paid quite well for his services. It enabled Ludwig to stop working entirely and focus on his studies, which he was due to complete soon. Feliciano, meanwhile, had been promoted to managing the café he worked at, which gave him a nice pay raise as well. His charming personality was the key to increasing sales for the tourists who flocked to the café, contributing to its relative success. With more money than they had ever had with Gilbert around, the trio was looking into moving into a newer, nicer apartment, and they had even bought a TV. The house was full of laughter—even if it was just from the shows that played constantly.

"Mister? Lesson is over," Natalia piped up as she glanced at him inquisitively, startling Roderich in the slightest as he hadn't realized he was so deeply lost in thought while playing the piano. Before they had started the lessons he was nervous that he had forgotten all the keys, but everything he had studied for years came back to him easily, as if it were his mother tongue. He would selfishly use the lessons sometimes just to play for a while, without instructing Natalia to do anything other than listen, but for her part she didn't seem to mind. Maybe one day they could afford a piano in their home, too.

Turning to her once more, Roderich was quick to notice she was still looking at him, almost evaluating his presence, and it made him feel nervous, instinctively going back to the days of the war where his appearance gave away his downfall. He tried to push that away; those days were over.

After a few moments, she blinked again and moved her lips delicately, almost not making the sounds of the words. "You must miss it all, don't you?"

He couldn't fathom what she was talking about, with such a vague phrase, but the intensity of her gaze left him speechless. "I…" What was she talking about? It wasn't as if they were friends at all, and they never had much conversation…

"I don't want to be late for Toris."

Roderich brushed the strange moment aside and stood from the bench, brushing off his coat as Natalia went to retrieve hers. Nothing more was said that afternoon; they walked in silence through the city to the park, where every week she was picked up in a shiny black car. It went through the one certified border crossing, where papers had to be shown every time, although Roderich wondered if it was even necessary after nearly two years crossing the border on the same day, at the same time.

He tried to lose himself in the noise of the city as he walked home, ignoring the cramp in his left leg and the sunlight which bounced mischievously into his vision, hurting his delicate eyes. Gilbert would have called him slow and would have run ahead of him, making a fool of himself in the process by running into someone carrying their groceries or an old lady with a cane. It happened many times before, he thought with a smile.

Once he finally reached the apartment building and dragged himself up the stairs, ignoring his breath catching in his throat, he heard happy chattering from behind the door. Sauntering inside slowly he found Feliciano bouncing up and down while Ludwig stood still, although a smile was evident on his normally straight face. The gleeful Italian threw his arms around Ludwig, who was a fair bit taller, and pressed a loving kiss onto his lips, while the German moved to pull him in closer.

The sound of Roderich's shoes tapping against the floor caused the pair to break apart with a slight startle, both of their ears turning bright red as Ludwig pretended to have been getting a glass of water the whole time. "Oh, Roderich, uh, how was your piano lesson? We found out we got the new apartment! Isn't that wonderful!"

The Austrian simply smiled as he hung his coat up on the rack, walking past them as if nothing had happened. "Oh please, I've known this whole time. Explaining it to Gilbert will be harder."

7 July 1941—Bautzen, Germany

"Hey Specs, if you ain't gonna eat it, then I will. I gotta long drive tonight, remember?"

Looking up from the meager meal—a stale piece of bread that was several days old, watery soup with a few slices of potatoes and root vegetables, and ersatz coffee—Roderich glanced at Gilbert tiredly, getting no energy from the food he had now become used to eating. "Are you ever going to grow up and not call me that?"

The relationship between Roderich and Gilbert was mildly amicable—Roderich found Gilbert to be an uncivilized swamp monster and Gilbert found Roderich to be an uptight aristocratic snob—but the circumstances of the war made them behave orderly, as the stress of everything was quite burdensome. Jews were now being deported constantly, mainly to Poland, and Roderich feared for his life every day, hoping that the downstairs neighbors wouldn't hear him move around when Gilbert and the others weren't home. On the other hand, Gilbert's life was in danger every day as he drove frequently close to the border to deliver goods to the Polish and Ukrainian partisans. If he were stopped at any time by the police, he would have been instantly arrested and quickly dealt with. And worse yet, Gilbert hadn't been able to secure fake documents for Roderich to travel to Sweden, meaning he had to travel with them every time they moved to a new location, which happened frequently—although no one said it out loud, Roderich knew he was a major liability for the group.

Despite the backdrop of eminent danger and their attitudes towards each other initially, the two found a certain closeness amongst it all, even though neither would admit to it. Gilbert looked after Roderich in a way no one had before—not with the instantly caring touch of a nanny or his parents, but in an abrupt, unexpected way, as he would pretend he was full to give Roderich his slice of bread, or he would ruffle his hair affectionately when no one was looking. The Austrian for his part feigned annoyance, but secretly he didn't mind the small attention, as it made him feel like a person once more. In return he often found himself unexplainably anxious when Gilbert was gone for a few days on missions, trying to keep himself from pacing as to not create unnecessary noise. When the German did return he was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief, although he maintained that he hadn't missed Gilbert a bit—although he was nearly sure his brightened eyes gave it away.

Smirking deviously as he ran a hand through his slightly oily hair—it had been a few days since they had been able to shower, and everyone was suffering in their own uncleanliness—Gilbert replied, "I am grown up! Older than you, Mr. 21! I've got four years on you! But anyway, try and eat the food, because we have it better than some people, that's for damn sure."

"You don't want to know what we've heard," mumbled Erzse just as tiredly from a worn-down couch seat in the corner, a rifle draped across her skirt lazily as if it were a playful housecat at rest. "Some of the Polish Resistance members tell us about reports they've heard from the labor camps and…well, it's rather gruesome, Roderich."

"They're just work camps, right? That's all?" Roderich questioned in concern, suddenly picking at his already stubby nails in an attempt to comfort himself from the question he had asked. He had always wondered what exactly had happened to his parents: that night the Nazis had come to his house to arrest his father, and his mother, in hysterics, took the car to her sister's place, leaving Roderich to lay motionless in the drawing room, the sound of bullets on his piano playing out hollowly in his ears. He never even got to say goodbye.

Gilbert lost his casual stance and straightened his posture as if on alert, his eyes losing their childish humor and turning stoic. "Maybe it's best not to speculate. We don't know anything for sure, after all."

"Don't you think he deserves to know what we know?" Erzse countered, her expression shifting towards a somber compassion. "He's a part of our group, after all."

"The Jews in Austria," Roderich continued persistently, "in the early days especially…they were sent to work camps, right? Most of them?"

Gilbert gripped onto the countertop beside him, his knuckles turning pale under the pressure. His gaze was fixed at Erzse, silently trying to will her to keep her mouth shut.

"Some of them," she muttered carefully, her eyes fixing towards the floor.

"And…are most of them still there?"

It was silent for a few moments. "Not all of them."

Even though he knew the answer was coming, Roderich felt his heart jump erratically in his chest, and he almost forgot how to breathe for a moment. The reaction was so subtle, it seemed—not as emotional as he had expected—but it still seemed to stop him cold. Cold, that was what it was…suddenly, despite the weather, all he felt was cold surrounding him, and he started to shiver uncontrollably, his skin almost burning at the feeling.

Standing up abruptly, Roderich breathed lightly, "I hope you'll excuse me, but I need to lay down for a while," and he moved like a ghost into the small room they shared cots in, desperately wishing for privacy in that moment. It had been ages since he had been able to just walk outside as he used to, down the Ringstrasse on a clear afternoon, without purpose, existing freely. He was never truly alone anymore; even if the others weren't there, fear was always with him.

As much as he tried to curl up into the old sack he used as a blanket, the worn fabric did his body little justice as he trembled helplessly. There was too much going through his mind: his parents, how he was lucky enough to have escaped Austria…how he wasn't sure if he would be able to escape forever.

The sound of small yet dominant steps crept into the room, and Roderich clamped his eyes shut, hoping that he would be mistaken as asleep. The façade didn't fool his companion, however, who calmly but firmly whispered, "Roderich."

He continued trying to pretend for just a while. That he was asleep, that his parents were still alive, that everything was the same.

"Roderich, I'm sorry," Gilbert tried again, laying down beside him on his own cot to face Roderich, who opened his eyes finally, realizing the struggle was over. "Erzse didn't mean to hurt you or anything, she was just telling the truth. Which I suppose it's only fair, that you know."

Roderich nodded softly, pulling the blanket tighter over his bony shoulders. "It's really not safe for me here, is it?"

"No. No, it's not."

"What's going on with Sweden?"

"Like I said, I'm trying to get the papers, and I've nearly gotten everything handled…hopefully without delay it should be just a few more months."

"Can't I…could I go to Switzerland?"

"It's nearly impossible to get illegal papers to go to Switzerland now, let alone legal ones. They made their refugee policy way more strict…and besides, you would still have to cross borders to get there, and I don't think you could pass as easily as you did in 1938."

Sighing miserably as his heartbeat continued to pound in his chest—mostly from anguish, but slightly because Gilbert was so close to him—Roderich moved a lock of hair out of his face and let his hand, paler than ever from lack of sunlight, rest apprehensively near his forehead. "I wish this would all just go away. I want to be a citizen again."

"Me too." Rolling over to face the ceiling, dotted with cobwebs and the odd spider or two, Gilbert let out an almost angry huff of air. "Ludwig was drafted."

Suddenly alert once more, Roderich turned to him in a panic, repeating incredulously, "Ludwig was drafted?"

Gilbert had his eyes focused towards the ceiling, his breathing staggered as he tried to maintain his composure. "They sent him to the Western front…our grandfather wrote me a letter. Though he shouldn't have. It put him in danger to even do so."

Roderich wanted to ask a million questions, but Gilbert's uncharacteristic coldness gave him pause. The man who was normally in humorous spirits about anything suddenly seemed a new person to Roderich, and he wanted so badly to reach over to him, hold him close to his body to provide some sort of warmth…

"Let me tell you something," Gilbert hesitated, his words almost coming out as a cough in the dusty air. "We are all suffering. There is no one among us who does not feel pain as we are right now. So that's why…that's why it's important to find comfort or joy in something. No matter what that something may be."

The tender sentence made Roderich's already inconsistent heartbeat speed up even faster as he realized Gilbert was looking right into his eyes, his expression calm although his eyebrows were still tightly knotted together. What could he have been talking about? Was it possible—no, it wasn't. It wasn't possible that Gilbert could have shared the same strange feelings he did…that Gilbert was just like him.

A knock on the front of the door startled Gilbert into a sitting position, as he brushed some more hair out of his eyes and quickly tried to appear more put together. "That should be the guys with tonight's assignment. I should be back tomorrow night, the next morning at the earliest…just try and get some rest." With that, he made a quick exit from the bedroom, and the next morning when Roderich woke up, he would wonder if it had actually happened at all.

25 September 1969

"Now, stop trying to fuss with it," Feliciano cooed at Ludwig lovingly, messing with the pillow that laid behind his head to make sure everything was completely comfortable—although Ludwig was fine just the way it was, he wasn't about to complain over Feliciano being close to him. "The doctor said you need to limit your walking as much as possible for the first few days and keep up with your exercises, so do as you're told, okay?"

"Giving orders to a former soldier," Roderich smiled lightly behind a cup of tea, setting it down only to turn the page of his newspaper. The three of them were comfortably seated in their more spacious living room, having moved to a newer apartment a year or so before. Roderich still taught piano to Natalia, but started to branch out and began teaching children again, as he found he enjoyed spending time with good-humored little kids; Feliciano was in the process of purchasing the café he had worked at for so long; Ludwig had graduated university and found a high profile accounting job in Berlin's financial district, and after a consult with a British doctor, he had a surgical procedure to correct the placement of his tibia, which would hopefully reduce the pain he felt in the mornings and on walks. All three of them found something to bring them individual peace and joy, while always coming together at the end of the day to form a sort of family.

"Feliciano, I will be fine," Ludwig sighed, looking up at his love with slight exasperation. "You can sit down, you know. You don't have to be all over me for every second. You should rest too, having been up for so long."

"You're right, I'm so tired!" the Italian cried as he plopped into the recliner lazily, as one would drop a stack of books on the floor, complete in one motion. "And worse, fratello just got back from holiday and wants to chat…family can be so much work!" With a moment for pause, he then turned to look at Roderich, who was quietly fixated on the culture section of the news, before asking, "You know, I've never heard much about your family. Do you have siblings? How are your parents?"

Roderich's face fell into an abrupt frown, but he answered quickly so as to prevent Ludwig, whose alarm was evident, from discouraging the Italian from asking. "I did not have any siblings and my parents…well, my parents passed away. In the Holocaust."

"Dio Roderich, I shouldn't have asked, I should have been more sensitive…but…no, I won't ask anymore…"

"It's okay," he said with a diminutive smile, as much of one someone could muster about such a topic. "You can ask questions."

"Well I…do you know…do you know how?"

Roderich looked quickly at Ludwig, whose face reflected the gravity of the topic, although he had his full attention nonetheless. Turning back to Feliciano, he spoke calmly, "With my father, I was never quite sure. They arrested him for continuing to treat patients without his license and there was never any record of where he went…I was told that likely meant he was shot and buried somewhere. My mother was arrested with her sister's family, and when I went through records after the war, the last known place she was at was Bergen-Belsen, so she probably died there. They first sent her to Dachau, though."

With a sudden, arguably impolite gasp, Feliciano clasped a hand over his mouth as his eyes widened rapidly. "Dachau? I've heard of it! I was supposed to go there!"

The already darkened air in the room turned pitch black at the comment, said far too cheerfully for its content. Roderich and Ludwig immediately exchanged glances filled with confusion, shock, and anxiety, and both struggled to find the words to break the silence, all in a matter of seconds. Ludwig finally found the word he was looking for: "What?"

"I guess I never told you guys about what happened to me during the war, did I? It's not a very long story, don't worry."

Roderich and Ludwig sat frozen in time.

Ignoring what he felt to be their weird demeanors, Feliciano continued, "Well, I was living up in the North at the time, and there was a large Nazi presence up there. People didn't really trust each other and neighbors would report suspicious activity to the police all the time. It was a really gloomy place to be, and think, Italy is beautiful! Anyway, I don't really know why it happened, but in the spring of 1943, a bunch of officers pounded my door down and took me away…they really only spoke German and I hadn't been studying it yet so I had no idea what they were saying. I was held in this prison-like place for a few days, then they put me on a train…that was the worst thing, I should add. We had no food or water for days. Can you imagine anything more miserable? I felt that I was dying by the time we got there!"

The two German speakers remained quiet.

"Anyway I was yelled at a lot in German which I didn't understand, beat up a little bit, I mean a lot actually…but I remember hearing the word Dachau and I had heard that one before. They gave me a uniform, it was really ratty and smelly, and it was different from the others because it had a pink triangle on it…"

Ludwig couldn't hold back the strangled sound that rose up from his throat, and Roderich felt instantly sick to his stomach, gripping onto the wooden frame of the sofa to hold himself straight.

Feliciano seemed unfazed, continuing on, "We were all marched into this place where a doctor evaluated us, so we had to take the uniforms off while they examined us…and I think when I was finished, I accidentally grabbed the wrong one, because it didn't have a pink triangle on it anymore! Then they took me in a van farther up North, definitely in Germany, and they made me work in a factory for the rest of the time. It was forced labor but it wasn't too bad, we were fed okay and lived in dormitories, and the work was not too hard, even for me, because I'm quite clumsy, you know? And when the war was over we just kinda left and went back home…my Nonno thought I was a ghost, he was so shocked to see me again!"

The room was exhaustingly quiet after Feliciano had finished telling his story, and no one knew how to react. The amount of anguish that went through Roderich's mind—how everything happened so fast, how people were taken away in a matter of seconds, how survival was best described as a game of chance—none of it made any sense. How was he here when millions weren't? How did Ludwig survive a barrage of bullets to the leg, to go on and get life-changing surgery twenty-five years later? How did Feliciano escape what could only be described as certain torture because of a misplaced uniform? And how could Gilbert, who had done everything he could to help people in need during seven years of a bloody war, be repaid by being trapped behind an iron curtain? There was no rhyme or reason.

Defiantly disobeying his given orders, Ludwig stood from the recliner suddenly, the blanket once draped across his lap tenderly now struck to the floor. He walked slowly, with a limp and evident pain, but steadily over to Feliciano, who had stood up himself in a reaction of surprise.

"Ludwig! Did you not hear me? I said you shouldn't—oh!"

Before he had a chance to scold him any further, the Italian was pulled into a passionate kiss, Ludwig's arms nearly shaking as he grabbed on to the back of Feliciano's shoulders in an unintentional but lovingly rough way. Once he pulled away, he moved quickly to rest his chin in Feliciano's silky locks of hair, confessing lightly, "Du bist mein Fels in der Brandung."

The Italian merely collapsed into his embrace, pushing away the tears that threatened to come. Ludwig could hardly control his own from flowing down his face.

It made Roderich remember fondly: "That's why it's important to find comfort or joy in something. No matter what that something may be."

14 April 1945—Dresden, Germany

"Jesus Christ," was the best Gilbert could manage, completely breathless from running, his hair littered with ashes as if he had just jumped down a chimney, his skin searing hot from the tinge of the flames. "They're really trying to kill us."

"I don't understand what you're doing here," replied a panicked Roderich, who stood up from his hiding place underneath a wobbly old table to pace about restlessly. "You had a chance to get out of Dresden, to save yourself, and you came back for me?"

"Of course I did, damnit Specs, why are you bitching? The British are fucking blowing the city to bits and you thought I would just leave you here? Are you out of your mind?"

"Are you out of your mind?" Roderich yelled back at him, caught in the heat of the moment as the sounds of more screaming came stridently in the background. "You keep coming back for me, even when it's at an expense to you…I just don't understand! I know nobody would say it out loud but I know I slowed you all down, I know I was a danger to hide, so I don't understand why you kept me along the whole time. You said in the beginning you would send me to Sweden because it was safer, but that never happened, and I just want to know why."

Running his hands through his ashy hair in frustration, sending the dust particles flying in the thin, chafing air, Gilbert barked back, "This is when you want to do this? Because if that's what you want, fine, but our last chance to maybe get out of here alive is now, and if we stall any longer that chance disappears completely."

Roderich stood his ground, rolling up the sleeves of his now grimy dress shirt, the only one he had left. "There's no guarantee we'll get out of here alive, so I want answers. If…if I've gone through everything to die here, I want to die with no questions on my mind."

Gilbert's expression was harsh, his piercing eyes seemingly gazing right into Roderich's soul, but he relented after a few moments, kicking his once gleaming boots off into a corner of the basement they had resided in for the past few weeks.

The sound of more bombs exploding in the distance—not close enough to rock the room as many of the others had been, but close enough to be heard—caused Roderich to grip onto the table once more as he tried to stow his fear away. "Don't I deserve to know the truth? That's what Erzse thought."

"Some things are harder than others," Gilbert retaliated, his face heating up quickly.

"Is anything harder than finding out your parents have probably been murdered?"

"Fuck, Roderich," Gilbert sighed, turning away from the Austrian in what Roderich saw as an uncharacteristic display of embarrassment for the usually prideful man. "Fine. You were right. I was…I was supposed to send you to Sweden. And I had the fakes made and everything, but…but, I burned them."

"Why the hell would you do that? That could've saved my life! I wouldn't have been here right now!"

"Oh, Gott in Himmel," his breath came out in a whisper, choking on a sob that caught Roderich off guard, "Roderich, I know it was selfish, but I couldn't let you go. You were saving my life."

More bombing in the distance rattled the walls lightly, but Roderich tried to hold himself up, his heart racing through his chest. "What…what do you mean?"

"I don't know how it happened…because, Gott, you were so annoying at first, I thought, but you grew on me so hard. When I finished getting the papers, I thought about you, and I worried so badly that you wouldn't be able to make it, that you would get found out on the way, and when you got there, what would you have done? And I sat there thinking about it for so long before I realized…why did I worry this much? I didn't worry about people before you, didn't care, handed them their papers and wished them well, but then, you know…it was you. I realized that seeing your face every morning, and getting to come home from tough days where I was never sure if I would return to see you again, and you were just as happy to see me, even though neither of us acted like it…this has been so hard on me, don't you know? I haven't heard from Opa in years, I have no idea if Ludwig's even alive…I don't know what I'm trying to say." His sobs cut through frequently, leaving him just as breathless as before. "I know it's wrong to love you, but I don't think I've ever been right in my whole life. I've always been a rebel. So what else can I do?"

Before he had a second to respond, another bomb came shatteringly close to the house, rocking it so violently that the few objects stored in the room rattled to the ground. The blast was powerful enough to make Roderich's knees give under him, barely catching himself on the dry skin of his outward palms. He gasped and unwillingly sucked in the miserably dry air, his eyes irritated by the sooty residue, and he felt his heart would nearly stop from the sheer amount of pressure.

"Well," Gilbert rasped in desperation, still turned to face the other direction, "I guess it doesn't matter now, because we're really going to die. I tried so hard to save you, but I guess I was just too selfish, and I screwed it all up. But I just couldn't bear to lose you, Specs."

"I don't want to lose you either."

Gilbert's head whipped around as he struggled to maintain his balance, another close blast shaking the house, threatening to give in on top of them. "What did you say?"

His lips trembling slightly, mostly at the close feeling of death at their door, Roderich replied softly, "Gilbert, I don't know much about being right either. Clearly…an entire government has told me I'm wrong based on my birth, and my religious background…so I'm not the person to go to if you want to know what right is…but what I do know is that, when people have suffered, when you suffer…you have to find comfort or joy in something."

Gilbert cracked a smile at the reference, wiping a stray tear from the side of his nose. "I wonder where you heard that from."

"Someone very brave," Roderich grinned back at him, "and someone who I also love, somehow, against all the odds."

Another bomb went off searingly close to the dilapidated house, sending flecks of dust from the walls and ceiling in every direction. There was no telling if the house would completely collapse, entrapping them in the ruins, or if a bomb would be dropped directly on top of it, causing them to suffocate under the smoke.

Weakly, trying to contain his coughs and find a hint of fresh air in the crumbling room, Roderich extended a hand to Gilbert, who took it graciously as they crawled together under the table. Once they were more or less settled, the constant rumbling doing nothing to ease their physical or mental states, Gilbert shook his head rapidly and said, "I don't know if we're gonna survive this one. And it's a damn shame, because I would have loved you so religiously, for the rest of my life."

Roderich moved to lean into Gilbert's chest, his heavy jacket, once quite pristine and well-kept, dotted with burn marks, spots of blood, and dried dirt. "Maybe we can pack a lifetime's worth of love into this moment. We could at least try."

Gilbert smiled softly down at him as he pulled the man in closer, bringing a hand up to softly caress his brown locks of hair, regardless of their unclean state. "You're right. Besides, I'm not sure how I would have explained to Ludwig that I'm queer. I don't know if he would've understood."

"He would have," Roderich sighed, closing his eyes, almost peaceful in the chaos of the war zone. "But don't think of it. Think of what it could've looked like. We would all live together in some nice place, somewhere central, close to a bakery…I would teach my piano lessons, and you would maybe take jobs as they came, coming home grumpy every day…"

"You know me too well," Gilbert laughed, ignoring the sounds of blasts in the background as he rested his forehead against Roderich's own.

"And Ludwig would be an accountant or something, because he was so diligent in arithmetic and business…and his spouse, some peppy girl from the South, a complete opposite of him, she would bake, perhaps, and Ludwig would have to teach her to bake like a German, but he would secretly love the food she made."

"And, and how does it all go?"

"Well, it goes quite well, all of us together. We just seem to blend. And society…maybe they will turn their noses if we choose to walk out together, but after everything we've been through, it wouldn't matter. We would be happy, you and I."

And when the bombing stopped after another day, they were.

12 August 1971

The sun was especially bothersome today, Roderich decided firmly, frowning up at the sky as if his displeasure alone would change the forecast. Another Thursday, another hapless piano lesson with Natalia, who despite years of training now could hardly do what he had been able to accomplish in the same amount of time. He failed to understand why she still even bothered to come—contrary to what Toris had said, she really had no interest in playing the piano—but he continued to teach her dutifully, if not just for the handsome paycheck.

As always, he found himself on the same park bench to wait for her, taking out a newspaper to read lightly through the stories on the Irish fight for independence. As important as it was to be aware of the world and its happenings, Roderich found it comforting that he was no longer in the midst of any political turmoil or violent destruction; the end of the war had been the worst part for them, when he and Gilbert were essentially refugees, leafing through garbage scraps to survive while they tried to avoid the few lasting German soldiers or the incoming Russians. Yes, it was all over now, and he never wanted to go back to it again.

A pair of footsteps stopped in front of him, disrupting his thoughts and putting him back into the mindset of a piano instructor. Just from peeking out underneath his newspaper he noticed Natalia was wearing different shoes today—military boots, freshly shined, unusual for the girl who normally wore mary jane heels. He pulled the newspaper away from his face to greet her, only to notice that her boots were not the only thing different about her—her figure had become dramatically less curvy, and she was dressed head to toe in Prussian blue, and her hair was chopped short and messy, and there was a scar extending down from her ear to the middle of her neck…

"What's up, Specs?"

The world went black once more.

The first thing Roderich noticed was the cold, some of it running down the side of his head quickly. Once his eyes had fluttered open he was able to see the outlines of a cold compress, gently but firmly held to his forehead by someone, with cheeky strands of hair poking out…Feliciano.

"Roderich," the Italian spoke softly, "do you know where you are?"

As his consciousness began to come back to him he felt around at the side of the bed, the familiar end table becoming his only objective sense of reality. "My bedroom."

"And do you remember what happened before you got here?"

He swallowed in hard. "I fell asleep on a park bench, and I dreamt I saw Gilbert."

Feliciano broke into a sea of tears, his smile making Roderich even more conflicted. "No, caro Austriaco, you didn't dream it. He really is here."

Right on cue, Ludwig and Gilbert both walked into the room, clearly trying to hide the fact that they had been crying as they rubbed their red eyes on their sleeves. Once he saw that Roderich was awake, Gilbert yielded into a smile, softly saying, "Oh, he's awake finally…"

Roderich looked back and forth between the Germans and Feliciano, his head beginning to pound nervously. "What's going on?"

"I don't believe it myself," Ludwig said, smiling in astonishment as he moved to stand by Feliciano.

"Am I…am I still asleep?"

Gilbert continued to smile lazily as he climbed into the bed beside him, draping his arms lightly over the Austrian's body. Roderich turned quickly to face him, immediately taking a hand up to caress the German's face, finding the weathered skin much the same as before, if not slightly more wrinkled. The same piercing eyes looked down at him, and years' worth of emotions and memories flooded back into his mind.

"…how…?"

"Yes, tell the story!" Feliciano bounced up and down happily, holding onto Ludwig's hand in sheer excitement. "I didn't get to hear it!"

"Well," Gilbert began almost tiredly, never once letting go of Roderich, "as soon as I knew what was happening, I swear I was at the other side of that wall trying to get through, but they threatened to put bullet holes in my body and I knew they were damn serious. There was almost no way out of the country. I tried to contact Erzse to find that she had been arrested for demonstrating against the government…so I tried to plot my own escape, you know, as cunning as I am, but those motherfuckers caught me, of course. Threw my ass right in jail, accused me of treason, bla bla. They wouldn't even hear me out."

"Oh, it's so dramatic!" Feliciano cried, while Ludwig just rolled his eyes and Roderich listened intently.

"The only person I had to call was Ivan, my fucking boss. So he comes down there like the big Russian mob man he is and apparently pays them off so they release me. When we're walking back he asks, 'Oh you're so sad all the time and trying to escape, you have something you miss over there, da?' And I figure nothing matters anymore so I just tell him I'm queer and I have a partner across the border, and soon I end up devolving into telling him all about you, Roderich, your mannerisms and your appearance…and he looks pensive, but doesn't say much, but he seemed okay with the gay thing though. A few weeks later he comes to me and tells me I'm invited to his sister's wedding, and he's super intense about it, like I absolutely must go, so I do of course, even though I have no fucking clothes and I've been sleeping in the warehouse I work in. And it's a super stuffy reception, whatever, but then Ivan grabs me and the groom and pulls us together, and he makes a face at this guy, this timid little Baltic loser, and he bursts out with, 'I think I almost shot your boyfriend.'"

The gears were beginning to turn in Roderich's mind. The insistence that Natalia be taught piano by him…he could've sworn Toris had mentioned his recent wedding, too…

"Obviously my first reaction is anger but Ivan stops me and says he thinks we could devise a plausible plan to get me back into West, but it would take some creativity and time. He asked me if you had any talents so I brought up the piano, even though it was a shot in the dark, and so we bullied Toris into going to find you and convincing you to teach her lessons. I knew that was going to be the hardest sell, but once I found out you accepted I felt better about the whole thing. Because really, it was quite dangerous, now that I think about it. I'm sure they would've shot me this time."

"What I don't understand is how you managed to get in…" Roderich pondered aloud, his focus still completed directed on the man in front of him, whose scent, touch, and low breathing all at once became familiar to him again.

"You see, we planned it carefully. The piano lessons were at the same time every Thursday, yeah? So every Thursday, a driver brought her through the crossing, and a guard would check her documents, and she would be waved through. Eventually, she came through enough times at the exact same time on the exact same day that they became more lenient; they would briefly glance at the documents, not check to see if she was who she said she was, that kinda stuff. So, after, what, six years of doing that, it became so routine to them that a disturbance was unlikely; she was just the little Soviet lady who wanted to learn piano. Except today, instead of the Soviet lady, there was a German guy. But they didn't check. They just waved the car through, and once we were at the park, I just walked out into freedom."

Feliciano clapped giddily at the end of the story, pulling on Ludwig's arm insistently. "Oh Luddy, it's true love! Nothing could separate them, not the war, not a wall, nothing!"

"That's my brother for you," Ludwig replied with a slight smirk, gazing down at his partner affectionately.

Gilbert watched the interaction with a smile, his eyes coming back to Roderich after a second to find the Austrian's expression seemingly distant, his lips trembling softly as if he was struggling on a word. "Roderich?"

Amidst the sudden warmth of the room—that cold compress felt so far away now—Roderich could feel the ball of pressure curled tightly into his chest, forming since the day that dreaded war had started and only growing in size once the wall was erected, slowly begin to disintegrate, the masses that made it up crumbling into miniscule specks of matter, breaking through from his body. They came out as rivers flowing from his eyes, running down his paled cheeks, gliding across his jawline to spill out against his neck.

Amidst the tears he managed weakly, "You always came back for me."

For the rest of the night, Gilbert refused to let him go.

A few days later the pair ventured outside for the first time since Gilbert's return, clad in comfortable summer clothing as the lazy heat struck them instantly.

"God, that's the one thing I hate about Berlin," Gilbert muttered in annoyance, kicking a piece of garbage out of his way as they headed through a busy park, "is the unbearable heat sometimes. If it were up to me we'd live back in Hamburg or somethin'."

"Or perhaps Vienna," Roderich mused wistfully, his gaze directed towards a group of children playing near a picnic ground.

"Back…back in Austria? You haven't been back since…"

"I know. But maybe it's time. I think it would be nice to go back. Although I wonder if my German still sounds Austrian at all…perhaps I've lost some of my dialect from so many years in Germany."

Taking a moment to collect himself from the shock, Gilbert eventually managed to smile lightly, glancing fondly at his partner. "You've changed so much."

Raising an eyebrow inquisitively, Roderich responded, "Have I? I don't feel much different, other than a sore back."

"But you are different…just look at you. You're playing piano again, teaching it even, you've been there for my brother, and now you talk about returning to Austria as if it's nothing…" Looking askance for a mere moment, as if to collect his thoughts, he shook his head, messy strands of hair flying recklessly. "I worried about you incessantly, Roderich. Every day we spent apart felt like ten years in my mind. But after a while I figured that you weren't the same person from back then…you weren't young and unconfident, or scared and confused…you were stronger than I could have ever imagined. And you didn't need me to protect you anymore."

"You foolish boy," Roderich laughed back at Gilbert, knocking him lightly on the shoulder as he noticed the man trying to quickly wipe a tear away, "I will always need you by my side. These past few years were hell all the same, and whatever confidence I may have shown was always blemished by our separation. But no more." Adjusting his glasses with one hand, he used the other to take Gilbert's hand in his, entwining their fingers gently, much to his partner's surprise.

"Hey, what are you doing? There's a cop over there, what if he sees us?"

Roderich only squeezed his hand tighter, a light breeze passing over them in a peaceful moment of reprise from the harsh sunlight. "After everything we've been through," he started slowly, without hesitation, "it doesn't matter. We're happy, you and I."

Rolling his eyes in a humorous fashion, Gilbert replied, "I love you, Specs."

"I love you too."

The German moved in quickly to press a rough yet tender kiss to Roderich's lips, which was eagerly returned by the receiver. No matter the circumstances, they had managed to always come back to each other—and nothing else mattered.

And they were happy.

Translation notes:
Nie eine Mauer: Never a wall
Du bist mein Fels in der Brandung: Sort of like 'you are my solid rock'. It's a phrase my German friend told me would be applicable.

Historical notes:
I am guessing most readers will have a general knowledge about the Second World War and the Holocaust but I will draw attention to a few possible exceptions:
The pink triangle: Prisoners wore uniforms marked with patches to identify them easily. The pink triangle was used for homosexuals
Dresden: Between 13-15 february 1945 the German city of Dresden was heavily bombed by the Allies under the command of the British. It's seen as a controversial event during the war as it was near the end, when German military strength was steadily weakening and the Allies were on the path to victory, and the bombings mainly targeted civilian areas, killing an estimated 25-30,000 people. The justification was that it was strategic bombing against factories
A quick note on Feliciano's story: WWII was complex in that great stories of escape and survival are extremely rare and unique as they come-for example only around 100 people ever managed to escape Auschwitz. Similarly the story of Feliciano being able to discreetly switch uniforms is extremely unlikely and just a lucky chance. I did base it on a story I had read, however, so it did actually occur at least once: in Livia Bitton-Jackson's memoirs she writes about how she and her mother were determined too ill and sent to a line for the gas chambers, but they managed to sneak into different uniforms and avoid death. Again, extremely rare, but these small miracles did occur.