This is part of my 1961 AU, but can be read alone.

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August 12th, 1961, East Berlin

It was an August kind of night, heady and hot and late in the Saturday, and the city of Berlin was roaring like it had been since Roderich had arrived two weeks ago.

Roderich Edelstein was lost, because these streets weren't the comfortable boulevards of Vienna where he'd grown up. There was a taste of danger here, of anticipation, soaked into the cobblestones and the smoke like everyone was waiting for the first gunshot to happen. Roderich didn't have the same enthusiasm for excitement. He wouldn't even be here if his fiancé hadn't wanted to visit her friend, and now she hadn't come back on time.

Next left...he repeated to himself, squinting at the street signs. Elizabeta had given him directions to the bar she would be at, called the Roman, but the route had seemed much clearer in daylight when there were no shadows looming on the walls. Roderich felt conspicuous here, knowing he looked exactly like the upper-class musician he was, and hurried along the winding roads, praying that he would see the sign and find Elizabeta and go home.

The elaborately painted sign finally loomed over him, and Roderich pushed the door open, nearly collapsing with relief.

Inside, it was so loud he could barely think, packed with people who shouted curses and pleasantries and drank all in the same breath. The bartender was having a furious argument with someone with long, blonde hair. It was stiflingly hot. Roderich froze, searching the crowd for Elizabeta, but all he saw was disbelieving eyes turned towards him. The arguments and off-key singing slowly dropped away, leaving only the errant twang of a guitar.

'What's the pretty boy doing here?' someone asked, and Roderich backed away from the voice and collided with the door. He wanted to say that he didn't want to be here, that it was all a mistake, but the words wouldn't come.

'Back off, Saxon,' a voice shouted stridently. 'He's with me.' And then there was an arm wrapped around his shoulders, guiding him further into the bar, and people drew back, eyeing not him but the man behind him. Roderich finally faced the relatively empty bar. The hand shifted to his shoulder and pressed him down in a chair. Roderich numbly sat, but before he could turn around, the man was gone.

'Roderich!'

'Elizabeta?' Roderich gratefully clasped her hands. He wanted to tell her everything about his current ordeals, but that could wait. He wanted to know who had protected him.

'I shouldn't have told you to come,' she said, sitting closer and gently stroking his hair. 'But I think I've gotten a bit carried away.'

'You still hold yourself better than anybody else here.'

Elizabeta laughed. Her skin was warm with drink. 'It's not hard. Do you want anything?'

Roderich didn't usually drink, but Elizabeta was close and gentle. 'Something light, please.'

'Nothing like that here.'

The question tugged at him again. 'Who was that man?'

Elizabeta scoffed. 'That's Beilschmidt. Don't worry about him.'

'I'm glad he stepped in.'

'Don't think too highly of him,' Elizabeta warned darkly.

'Why?'

Elizabeta leaned close. Her eyes were hazy, and she didn't seem to realize what she was saying. 'He's been hunting after secrets. He's got some big idea that something's going to happen to his city, and that the Russians are going to do it.' She sat back and accepted a drink offered by a pale, scarred hand over Roderich's shoulder. Her lips curled into a smile around the rim. 'I've just been telling my fiancé how you're still stuck in the past, Beilschmidt.'

'I'd lose the past if I could,' said that hissing, satisfied voice. It sent lightning racing up and down Roderich's spine. The man sat down behind him, his chair creaking, and leaned over to plug a new song into the stereo. 'This one's yours, Eliza?'

'His name is Roderich Edelstein,' Elizabeta said, and Roderich was sure he was the only one to catch the slight bite of impatience and-possessiveness, maybe.

'Pretty name. Better than yours.' The man behind him fiddled with the jukebox again and crooned along to a few lines. The music was simple but catchy from an artist Roderich faintly recognized. Nevertheless, he could almost relax with it on, save for the prickling awareness of Beilschmidt at his back.

He wanted to turn around and see who this mysterious man was, but it was easier to pretend to ignore him and accept the glass now sitting on the bar. He didn't drink. Beilschmidt stopped singing and Roderich could hear his grin in the absence.

'Too shy to join us, sweetheart?'

'I don't want to get drunk,' he said tightly. 'And kindly don't call me that.'

Beilschmidt chuckled lowly. 'You're not married yet, and then you'll wish you were too drunk to see your wonderful wife's face.'

It would be useless to argue with him. Roderich turned pointedly to face Elizabeta. 'Where is your friend?'

'I am her friend,' Beilschmidt said. Elizabeta nodded.

'We've known each other for a while,' she said. 'However, we're more...comfortably rivals.'

It was frankly ridiculous to think of this crude drunkard associated with his fiancé in any ways, but Roderich didn't say so. Beilschmidt shifted in his chair.

'Hey, Eliza. Francis is finally done arguing with the bartender. It's your turn to get us drinks.'

'You're paying for them,' Elizabeta said, swinging off her bar stool. She disappeared with a whirl of brown hair. Beilschmidt slipped out of his chair and stood closer. Roderich wanted to look around and fit a face to the infuriating voice, but it was easier to imagine for just a few seconds more.

'How long you been in the city, songbird?' he asked. Roderich would reprimand him for that nickname, too, but he strangely didn't mind as much.

'Two weeks.'

'Better leave soon.' He tipped back the glass. Roderich heard it hit the bar, and then there was a weight and heat so close to his back. 'Roderich Edelstein. You sound upper class. What's your wife doing, letting you walk around this city with that big of a target on your back?'

'What do you expect me to do about how I look?' Roderich snapped.

'Oh, don't change your face, I like it just fine how it is.' Beilschmidt chuckled. Roderich had heard enough. He started to turn, but two rough, milk-white hands caught him around the waist, and he froze. He hadn't realized just how albino Beilschmidt was.

'You sure you want to see me?' he asked, his voice a dark challenge, but it was his next words that made Roderich feel lightning-hot and prickling. 'You might decide you want me instead of your fiancé.'

'I can assure you, I won't,' Roderich said, trying to sound firm.

'If you're sure, then go ahead. It's not like you'll ever see me again.' The hands lifted off him, and Roderich turned.

The first thing he noticed were his eyes. Coppery red and flashing like a wolf's in the lamplight. Beilschmidt slowly, slowly inclined his head. His skin was perfectly white.

'I like you, aristocrat,' he said, smiling.

'I am engaged,' Roderich said tightly, his voice almost shaking with repressed emotion. He couldn't tell what he was feeling. Anger? Disgust at the implications? Or-God forbid, interest in that sharp smile. 'And-and you cannot be like that.'

'Oh, haven't you heard?' Beilschmidt was suddenly close, hands gently pinning his wrists to the side of the bar. His hair was a wild white tangle and his eyes were bright. 'The kinds of people who run to this city?'

Roderich abruptly pulled his hands away, his heart hammering, his mouth dry. Beilschmidt's eyes still on his, the trace of a smile on his lips, but he was waiting for Roderich to react. The only problem was that Roderich didn't know how.

'I like you, and so I'll tell you something. You should get out of the city tonight, aristocrat,' he said. His fingers traced the tenderness around his wrists where he'd pinned Roderich to the bar, his touch light as bird feathers.

'Gilbert!'

Beilschmidt's head snapped around like a soldier at arms, and he stepped back. Roderich looked as well. His fiancé was standing there, looking furious. The bar had gone quiet again.

'Gilbert,' Elizabeta said again. Gilbert-that must be his name-shuddered slightly at her tone. 'Haven't you had enough of messing other people's lives up?'

'You know I never mean to,' Gilbert said softly. But the look in his eyes had been something wanting, and Roderich's stomach was tight.

'And yet you always do.'

Gilbert stood there for a second more before he turned to look at Roderich.

'I'll stay out of your life if you don't want me,' he said nearly politely, dipped his head again in some strange imitation of fealty, and sat down at the far end of the bar. Elizabeta sat down across from Roderich and sighed. The noise of the bar slowly came back.

'You're friends?' Roderich asked hesitantly. Elizabeta nodded, still staring at the table.

'Gilbert is...I love him. I used to, at least. He's just a difficult man sometimes.' She rubbed her temples. 'He's not the kind of person who you or anybody should be associating with. He kicked his little brother out of the house last night.'

'Why?' Roderich asked, aghast.

'Who knows?' Elizabeta took a sip, brows furrowed. 'And Gilbert adores his brother. He'd give the world to him. The point is that you shouldn't trust his promises. You wouldn't be the first heart he's broken, and certainly not the last.'

'I-I wouldn't be heartbroken,' Roderich said, trying to sound more scandalized than he felt. Elizabeta raised an eyebrow.

'Are you sure? He got me that way, too.' Elizabeta looked faintly amused and sad as she stood up. 'What do you want to do? We leave tomorrow.'

Gilbert's warning echoed in Roderich's mind, but out of spite, he ignored it. 'I'd like to go back to the flat and practice.'

'I'm going to grab one final drink from the West, then. I'll be back in an hour.' She kissed his temple, and Roderich smiled.

This was better-with Elizabeta's gentle hand in his as they walked out, the cool night air, and the assurance that the memory of Gilbert Beilschmidt would be gone by morning.

Roderich looked back-he shouldn't have, he shouldn't have-and caught Gilbert's eyes on his. The man was an enigma, a wrench in the gears of Roderich's life. He shouldn't bother him as much as he did.

Even when Roderich finally found his way home and tried to play something to take his mind off those coppery eyes, the first thing that came to mind was the tune to the song Gilbert had sang. If he could only get that crooning, raspy voice out of his head-!

It was ridiculous. Berlin had been the city for people who were like that for a while, but Roderich did not want any part of it. He belonged to polished wood concert halls and softer music and lovely, gentle Elizabeta, who kept him grounded.

Satisfied, or at least comforted, Roderich went to bed and dreamed of the acrid smoke and alcohol of the bar, of Gilbert's heavy presence at his back, of the wiry length of his body and the satisfaction in his smile.

You should get out of the city tonight, aristocrat, Gilbert hissed in his dream. His touch was both burning and cold, setting lightning racing through every vein. Roderich was frozen, unable to speak. Gilbert grinned up at him, mouth close to the engagement ring on his finger. He pressed a dry kiss against it-fealty.

Haven't you heard the kinds of people who run to this city?

Roderich woke up in a cold sweat, blinking in the grey early morning sunlight. Berlin was roaring outside his window, a discontented, snarling roar like the people would riot. Cold fear tumbled into his stomach, and Roderich fumbled for his glasses and shoved them on, throwing open the curtains.

There were guards in the square, with pressed uniforms and guns. The people held back-shouting and writhing like an animal about to bite itself to pieces, but they stayed back. It didn't make sense until Roderich saw the wall.

As far as he could see, stretching along the street, was a barbed wire fence guarded by soldiers. It was too soon for soldiers, too soon for another war. Everyone knew the West side, the American side, hadn't liked the East, but even the Americans weren't foolish enough to start another war.

Unless-Roderich felt cold, cold, and lightheaded as if he was about to fall. Unless those weren't American soldiers. Unless they were East soldiers with their ragged uniforms, guns turned against their own.

People watched silently from the other side. Children clutching pillows with blue feet, parents staring. Somebody laughed hysterically. Someone in the square below sang a broken line from a crooning song, and someone on the other side finished. Lovers broken apart.

Elizabeta. Roderich turned and shouted into the echoing flat, chest squeezing in, desperately hoping, hoping that she would be here. If Elizabeta was here, everything would be better.

There was no answer.

0o0o0o

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

-Can't Help Falling In Love With You

:: Oiled wood under gallery lights