This is part of my sixties verse particularly featuring the Stasi, the secret police force of East Germany.

0o0o0o

Late July, 1961, East Berlin

Lovino Vargas hated his job. Barkeeping for the bright-eyed rebels and the tired soldiers didn't pay enough to support his brother being a West artist, which was what mattered. There was only one job in the East that mattered enough to pay that well.

All the dreamers who whispered their plans about the West between their drinks, all the old veterans murmuring about giving their wife and child a better life on the American side-Lovino heard their hopes and lives when they were too drunk to think and he told the Stasi.

Lovino pulled his collar up higher and crumpled the crisp bills in his pocket. It was him or them, that's what his handlers said. He told them who was a dissenter or they would tell everyone that he-or God, worse, his little brother-had those kinds of inclinations.

What do you have to tell me this time, little informant? The voice of the colonel was still in his head. Lovino shuddered. He hated reporting to him. He hated that he was ruining so many people. If he was a braver man, he would decide to stand strong, but he was a coward. At least he could admit it.

The Stasi didn't need their expensive equipment or their armed forces. They just needed someone scared and vulnerable and cowardly, someone who would allow their hands to be bloodied but couldn't bear to see one person hurt, and they would become its greatest weapon.

Lovino unlocked the door and stepped into the familiar dusty light of the bar. He used to love the place until it became just another listening post for the Stasi. Lovino felt sick to his stomach every time he thought of it.

He crossed to the bar and poured himself a glass of the private, good bottle of wine he kept behind the mirror. It would be better with the hot smoke of a cigarette in his throat, but they were too expensive, and his last pack was almost empty.

Lovino would have liked to go to bed immediately, since he'd been up all night and most of the morning with customers, but he wanted to write to Feliciano. And then he had to go track down the useless Dane who handled all the transactions to the West nowadays. He hadn't shown up for weeks. Lovino hoped nobody had informed on him. It was a wonder he hadn't been caught already, with all his bounding about like a dog, paintbrushes spilling out of his pockets.

However, there was something about Kalmar that made Lovino think of Feliciano. Maybe it was the wide-eyed excitement about everything, or just that he always smelled of paints. Besides, he was the only person who could guarantee getting money across to who you wanted in the West anymore, and since Lovino couldn't go over himself anymore, he would be a fool to lose that opportunity.

The only question was who-not if, but who-Kalmar would eventually sell him out to. The man had to know he was an agent. Still, he always delivered for nothing more than a few extra drinks at the end of the night.

Lovino took a drink himself and started writing about business and art and other silly, pointless things, because Feliciano didn't know he was an informer. And-Lovino's chest felt tight and painful as he thought of the people who were being woken up now and dragged away-it all had to be worth it, for Feliciano. Every time he signed his name as his Stasi nickname, as Romano, it was for him.

He should go find Kalmar immediately. The longer you had West marks here, the more likely you'd lose them, but the sunlight was dancing along the oiled tables and everything was quiet and still. Lovino's head felt fuzzy and he was filled with heavy, oily loathing. He didn't want anything more with his secrets tonight. He stumbled upstairs to his rooms and only managed to shove the bills underneath his pillow before he was asleep.

He was woken by loud knocking at the door. Lovino laid there, staring at the ceiling. Kalmar must have sold him out. Or-or his handlers had finally grown tired of him. Either way, Lovino wouldn't be their trained dog any longer. He fumbled for his pointless letter and scribbled it out to start anew, telling his little brother what had truly been happening for months. He recklessly signed both their names. It wouldn't make a difference. The Stasi would find Feliciano and then it would all be over.

The pounding continued, and finally Lovino couldn't stand it. Hot crimson fury was roiling beneath his ribs, ready to finally stand up and go down fighting. He rolled out of bed with a snarl, pulled on his shoes, and stormed downstairs. Lovino threw open the door, squinting into the brightness, expecting to see pale violet eyes and bracing himself for the blows that would soon come. He silently reveled in whatever puny act of defiance he'd managed. However, he met vibrantly green eyes instead, shining with confusion and enthusiasm, and his brave last words died on his tongue in confusion.

'Did I wake you up?' the man asked. Lovino frowned at his Spanish accent. This man was definitely not Stasi. Lovino could recognize people like him-with the steel-hard eyes and the shaking hands. This man was all vibrant life and exuberance, like he thought he was a Westerner.

'You absolutely did. I'm not buying-' Lovino glanced down at the instrument and felt a twinge of jealousy. 'I'm not buying guitars. Try the West, they're the only ones with the money for art these days.'

'I'm not selling the guitar,' he said, voice brimming with a laugh he thankfully didn't voice. If he had, Lovino would have taken a swing at him. 'I was wondering if I could come in.'

'The bar is closed,' Lovino said brusquely. 'Are you new around here?'

'No, I don't want a drink. I just want to play.'

Lovino sighed, resigned to explaining every detail to this irritating Spanish musician. 'I can't pay you. I said, you should go to the West.'

'I don't need to be paid if you'll let me sleep here. I can just stay here and play. As entertainment.' Somehow, he eased himself past the threshold and stood staring appreciatively at everything. His dark brown curls flopped into his eyes, and he brushed them away.

Lovino scowled and shut the door, blinking to adjust his eyes to the darkness.

'When are you open?' the man asked.

'Dinner is soon, and people come in then. It's none of your damn business, though, bastard. What are you doing here?'

'Playing guitar,' he explained patiently. 'I'm not actually a musician, though. I'm a photographer, an art photographer, but I'm not allowed to take pictures of anything for a few weeks according to them.' He nodded vaguely at the walls, and Lovino felt a hot punch of anger and shame. The Stasi, always.

'Any reason why you woke me up?'

He shrugged, but his ears went faintly red. 'You were the only one who answered. I've been looking everywhere.'

'Most people are out,' Lovino said. 'You just woke me up.'

'I'm sorry for that, Mr…?'

For a second, Lovino almost said his real name. He couldn't. The Stasi didn't allow it.

'Romano,' Lovino ground out. The name had never tasted so bitter. 'Just Romano.'

'I'm sorry for waking you up, Romano. I'm Antonio. Antonio Fernandez Careddio.'

That sunny, stupid accent made even his informant name sound better than usual. Antonio. Lovino tried out the name, rolling it on his tongue, and pretended to be busy fixing something behind him so he wouldn't have to meet those earnest green eyes. Antonio shouldn't be here. The Stasi would find him, or Lovino would have to report. His heart felt full of lead.

Lovino was used to cataloging people's appearances. Surely it was only habit that kept making him watch the way Antonio moved in the sunlight-drenched room like he already belonged in it and the bright notes of his smile and his laugh and the slight freckles on his shoulders.

'Romano?' Antonio was looking concerned. 'Is something wrong?'

'No. I'm going back to bed,' Lovino said abruptly. His head must still be fuzzy from drinking earlier. 'I don't care what you do for a hour or two, but if you drink anything or steal from the till, you'll pay twice over.'

'I won't do anything,' Antonio promised.

'And don't wake me up too soon,' Lovino added as an afterthought before he turned and went back to bed, knowing he had just invited a complete stranger into his bar, agreed to letting him entertain, and let him watch the bar while he slept.

Antonio. Lovino murmured the name to himself. It made him shiver, which was strange and even stranger when he felt hot and every inch of his skin prickled.

He turned over and tried to sleep. Sleep did not come for a long time.

0o0o0o

The dinner rush was chaotic as always. Antonio settled himself beside the jukebox and winked meaningfully at Lovino. Lovino ignored him. For once, it was easier to watch the people he might he need to inform on.

He almost forgot Antonio was supposed to be playing until the jukebox crackled to life, on the same Western station people always tuned it to. Antonio strummed a chord, beamed out at the surrounding people, and began to sing along to the crooning lyrics.

'Fame and fortune, they're only passing things, but the touch of your lips on mine makes me feel like a king…'

Antonio was good at singing. Lovino couldn't help but stare with everyone else in the bar as Antonio strummed and sang, green eyes sparkling out at everyone.

'Your kind of love is a treasure I hold…'

Antonio caught his eyes and his lips curved up in a smile. Lovino jerked away, heart hammering, and forced himself to look back at the bar. Did Antonio think he would get some of the bar's profits if he did-Lovino's heart stuttered as he wiped down a glass he had already cleaned twice-did whatever he was doing?

He didn't look back at Antonio the whole song, even though he could feel his heavy, inscrutable gaze. What he saw would only be disappointing.

The night was anything but. Having a musician was wildly successful. Lovino was even impressed at the end, when everything was quiet again, with early morning sunlight streaming in through the shuttered windows.

'Antonio,' Lovino called.

'Yes?' Antonio smiled.

Lovino cursed his earnestness. It was endearing in a way. 'I know you said you didn't have to be paid, but-' He looked down at the till again. 'You're a...passable musician. You bring people in, and it's only fair if I pay you.'

'Don't worry about me, Roma,' Antonio said, offering that smile again. Lovino pressed his lips together and looked away again.

'Don't call me Roma. That was my grandfather's name.'

'Sorry.' Antonio was suddenly behind him, and Lovino stiffened. Antonio was taller than him by a few inches, which was more obvious when they were this close. Lovino's mouth was dry as he tilted his head back. 'I'm just glad we're working together.'

'Sure,' Lovino said, trying to grab a cloth to wipe down the bar again. Anything but conversation with Antonio, which made him feel fluttering and hot.

'Do you want to have a drink?'

Lovino wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. 'Have a drink?'

Antonio picked up a glass, looking almost sheepish. 'I don't know if you have a rule against drinking on the job or-'

'We're not working anymore,' Lovino said, taking the glass back. Maybe he was tired, or maybe Antonio just had a smile that made him feel like he was almost flying. 'What do you take?'

'Do you have any rum?'

Two minutes later, they sat together at a table, the beams of sunlight lighting up their glasses. Lovino was drifting in the warm haze, pleasantly exhausted. Everything seemed softer now, and Antonio was still looking at him with that damned smile.

'You're a photographer?' Lovino tried, swirling his glass.

'I'd rather have been a musician,' Antonio said. He absentmindedly ran his fingers over his guitar, and Lovino picked out the melody of the song he'd sang earlier.

'What was that song?'

'Fame and Fortune. I'll show you,' Antonio said, jumping up to fiddle with the jukebox, and the sweet strains of the music filled the quiet. Antonio settled in with his guitar, giving Lovino a small smile. 'I noticed you weren't looking at me last time.'

'I was busy.'

'You're not busy now. It's good to relax, Romano. To have your own day.' He winked. 'Carpe diem.' Before Lovino could answer, Antonio strummed the first chord and began singing. His eyes never left Lovino's.

Lovino's face felt hot. He turned back to his drink, but watched Antonio over the rim. He was smiling again, damn him.

0o0o0o

The Stasi made up an integral part of control in the East.

:: A stranger humming a song you know