1943:
You are a being of fear. The others remind of this every day, you hear it in their jeers, you see it in their condensation. You are the butt of their jokes, when they think of you at all (and most of the time they don't bother with you, don't see you as a threat.) And it's okay, because it's true, you are scared of so many things. So very many things.
You are scared of the war, of the blood and seared flesh and broken bones and the scars that never fully heal. You've seen so much of it already. You are afraid of the smell and the cold and sickness that never seem far from the fields. You hate seeing the march of your people, your young men, each so convinced of the cause and their own glorious part in it, even as Death perches on their shoulders and curls his fingers delicately around their downy hair. You hate and fear and cry for the boys on the other side, for the countries you once counted as brothers, as friends.
You are scared of the gun in your hand, scared by the chill of it, the weight of it, of how it rests in his hand like a punishment. You're scared of its dull sheen, like the blanched eyes of a dead man. You hold it as Ludwig explains the craftsmanship, how to clean it and hold it and you know—even as you nod and smile and nod some more—that you'll never use it.
And you'll never have to, because he's always there, all too willing to pull the trigger, to draw blood, to break bones. He is always there to pick you up from wherever you'd fallen, too paralyzed by fear to do anything more than cower. And his mouth is full of rebukes, stern promises of punishment laps and PT, while you bury your face in his uniform. You like his uniform, you like the scratch of it and the smell of aftershave and leather and sandalwood that overwhelms the scent of war and you burrow closer and closer still and you breathe him in gratefully as his stern words wash over you. You like his lectures, because despite the insults and the harsh tone, you can hear the worry running just under the surface and it feels nice to have someone worry about you again. And you like him, most of the time.
And you love him in the mornings. In those brief moments, as the sun is just reclaiming the room and you and him, everything is in limbo. He lies beside you, the fine mop of his hair falling over his fluttering eyelids as he struggles to break from the embrace of sleep. (You can't help but brace his cheek in your fingers, stealing the moment as a thief might, and you feel guilty and not guilty at the same time) He doesn't curl towards your touch, stubbornly independent even in sleep and you love him for that too. And it is in these moments that you are free to love him with wild abandon, this Ludwig, stripped free of duties and ambitions. And you love those precious moments, when there is nothing but the two of you and the soft golden light of the infant sun and the sheets that bind you together. Yes, you love him and that in and of itself is terrifying. So truly terrifying because that love means you now have something to lose. And you know you can't lose again, can't lose this piece of your life because, if you do, you aren't sure there's enough pieces left to put back together.
It's too scary to love him, so most of the time you don't. And it's easier that way and he certainly doesn't seem to notice one way or another. You stick to women, to flirting and shy smiles and the familiar because there's no risk there. You stick to painting, sneaking away when Ludwig and Kiko pull out their maps. You paint because it's the only escape from the war and you paint to remind yourself that there is still creation, even as the world seems to be burning around you. And usually that's enough. And if you're not happy, then at least it's a close substitute.
And then night comes and you lie awake, alone in your room with nothing but your thoughts and your pounding heart and the clock tick-tick-ticking away the tortuous seconds until you can safely steal away to the comfort of Ludwig's bed—when he is too groggy to do anything other than grumble in German and sidle over. And if you're lucky, he'll even let you curl up against him and you'll fall asleep, listening to the steady drum of his heart and reminding yourself that this time is different, that he isn't going to be like the others. And in the darkness, you can almost believe it.
But in the daylight you see the truth. You see the hatred, the icy cruelty, thrumming through him and you can see the war (the secret war) that he wages against it daily. And you see that he is losing. Each day there is less of your ally and it's harder to find him, buried as he is in blood and fire and battle. You pray that the war ends soon, because there won't be anything of him left otherwise. You see his hands shake when he isn't paying attention—when he's sitting at his desk, when he reads by the fire at night, when he stands watch. It's as though his body grasps and trembles before the truth his mind steadfastly denies and that scares you too. Because fear is your domain, not his.
So you take those hands and you try and remind him that he's still good, beneath it all. And you see him want to believe you, and that's probably why he keeps you around in the first place; because you are the only one who still believes it anymore. And you stay, even as his world, his war, his mind is crumbling away like sand against the tides. You stay because every time you look into those eyes, you remember a different time, a different boy, and just for that moment, you can pretend that things can be different. You pretend that you can save this one, you pretend that he cares about you, that he can protect you, that maybe, just maybe, you'll be free to love him for more that a few furtive minutes.
But… and God help you, sometimes he scares you most of all.
xXx
Author's note: I love writing for Feliciano, though I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate all the angst I put him through. I don't remember where this came from but I really wanted to do a two-part story with Feli and Ludwig that really probed into their relationship, because, in my mind, they are a perfect balance to each other. And it came out relatively "stream-of-conscious-y" because I haven't really slept since summer semester began. Hopefully I can get the second part up before Ludwig's chapter is filled with dental analogies...
On another side note, this is the first time I've ever really used their human names. Not really sure why, but this kind of piece really seemed to call for it.
Liked it, loved it? Wondering what in the seven hells is going on here? Please let me know!