3rd of September 1939

I am speaking to you, from the cabinet room, of Ten Downing Street.

This morning, the British ambassador in Berlin, handed the German government their final note.

Stating, that unless we heard from them by eleven o'clock, that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland.

A state of war would exist between us.

I have to tell you now, that no such undertaking has been received.

And that consequently,

This country,

Is at war, with Germany.

Arthur breathed. The impact of the words hit him like a bullet. A moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more, than a moment.

He was dimly aware of pain, but mostly a tremendous fatigue, as if he had been covered in layer upon layer of impossibly heavy blankets. His sight was suddenly covered with a gritty blurr, almost as if he was wearing thick, dirty lenses.

But then, something light dropped. A feather weight upon his chest. So small and subtle.
And then it dawned on him as though the weight has just turned into a claw of sense.

The small sense of familiarity.

Feliciano looked good even when he was kneeling on the floor crying. When Ludwig cried, which was about twice a century, he looked utterly destroyed. Beetroot face, tiny little pig eyes and a runny, snotty nose. It's a genuine talent, looking pretty while inconsolable, so if he was genuine about what he said, Ludwig wouldn't only be shocked, he'd be impressed.

"Tomorrow?" He said. "What are you talking about?"
"It's true!" Feliciano's voice trembled through sobs. "In the town square! Go and look for yourself!"

"Okay," Ludwig stood up from his seat.
"No!" Feliciano said, raising himself to face him, "Don't leave me," his legs buckled and he collapsed on the floor again.

Ludwig knelt down beside the crying man, rubbing his hand on his back softly and awkwardly. He was curled up, eyes streaming and body pulsing, like a cat about to throw up a fur ball. Ludwig felt completely sorry for him, he hadn't seen the Italian like this before, and it made him feel uncomfortable at how suddenly the man had just turned up at his house and fallen to the floor gasping and crying.

"I don't see why you're worried, they won't take you on. Not with your leg like that." Ludwig motioned to Felicianos right leg, curled underneath him and matching the material of the floors. Wooden.

This only made Feliciano cry more.
"No!" He cried, jaw clenched. A dead weight had been thrown in and locked up inside his chest and it felt like fire trying to escape.

"Take a deep breath," Ludwig said, taking one of his own, "And tell me why you're upset."

"Because-" Feliciano straightened himself up, "Because you'll go," and with that, his face crumpled up again and he hid it in his hands, shaking.

Ludwig stood up, pulled Feliciano up with him, and placed him into a large arm chair by the open window.

"Calm yourself down. I'll make us coffee."

Feliciano had relaxed, as much as a terrified man could. He felt out of tears and exhausted with crying. The coffee warmed him slowly and the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock echoing from the hall way gave his mind something to focus on. There was a quiet sound of people outside, as well as horses rattling their reins and blowing air from their lips, pulling small carriages along the cobbled street.
There was a mixture of voices jeering and cheering and talking aimlessly. But inside the lounge of the the small house, it was calm and peaceful and quiet. The lighting was Dim and natural and there was a thick dusk air preparing itself for the evening.

Feliciano sighed. He hated being the way he was. Not his softness, or his tendency to cry when he was even a little bit upset, or even how he coward away at every problem that arose to him. He could deal with all that. What he couldn't deal with was the fact he was pretty damn sure he was in love with a man. And he had to live with him, too.

"So," Ludwig settled down on an oak chair opposite him, "Tell me."

And Feliciano sipped, breathed and told him. The words spilt like water from his lips and soon he could feel a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. The room seemed so dimly numb in expression and Ludwig's eyes were elsewhere as he listened.

Feliciano told him of the German officer with the red eyes that walked up to him in the middle of the street and glared at him so fiercely he felt like crying, he left out the part of him actually bursting out in tears.
"A scary, evil man," he said.
He told him of how he had questioned him about not being in the army, and Feliciano in return told him about his wooden leg and the man laughed at him, "A scratchy laugh, like, like chalk scrapping against a black board," and how the man had gathered a crowd of the villagers around, everyone in the square.
First he told the children and women to go home, and about half of them left. Then he told anyone over 60 to go home, and a few people left. Then how he told the disabled to leave and three people moved to go, including Feliciano.
"'Not you' he tells me, not you,"
So Feliciano had waited and listened how he had told them that anyone still standing around should be in the army. "'No excuses' he says," and Feliciano told Ludwig of how the mans red eyes fell on him and he spoke as if they were the only two left, and Feliciano didn't mind telling Ludwig how he shook and how he couldn't find his breath and how he wished "you were there to protect me," and his breath caught in his throat and his voice halted and broke and he couldn't talk any longer.

His throat felt dry like it had been stuffed with a hay cloth and rubbed with sand paper. He couldn't find any words and instead he shook his head and hugged his head into his arms. He knew how pathetic and weak he looked, but he couldn't breath and he just needed to curl up. Ludwig didn't move, or talk.

"And tomorrow," Feliciano managed, with an air drowned voice.

"And tomorrow," Ludwig echoed his words, monotonously.

"They'll come and - and -"

"They'll come. That's all Feliciano. They'll come, and they'll talk to me, and I'll tell them I'm caring for you with your leg, and they'll leave as fast as they arrived," Ludwig finished, sipping his coffee.

Feliciano answered with a sob and a throat strangled - "Really?"

Ludwig didn't answer and instead he came and knelt beside the crying man, holding him gently and letting him cry into his chest.

Yes, when tomorrow came, nothing would change. They would wake up, and Feliciano would prepare them a tasty breakfast, and Ludwig would eat it with a silent nod, then get ready to go to work at the small police station down the road from them. Feliciano would sit and prepare new meals and re-read his small collection of poems, writing more and more before tucking them underneath his bed, out of sight again, when Ludwig returns. The officers will come, and Ludwig will tell them exactly why he can't join the army, and the officers will leave and the next day will carry on exactly as normal.

Except - that's not what happened. That's not at all what happened. Nothing about the next day was as normal, and nothing from then on ever would be.