War. May the flames burn, and the bloody red hands of the smoky sky tear loved ones, sons, husbands, uncles, and more from the hands of the unknowing.
Allies. May the tear of bullets through the air stain red the faces that yesterday smiled and laughed.
Love. May the forbidden stride fourth to the battlefield, where our story takes place.
For Feliciano and Ludwig, survival was the key, for if one did not survive, how could the other? Their bond ran deep into the depths of their hearts and souls that were entwined, the strings of fate connecting them and keeping them together — the string that could be easily severed by this unforgiving, barren land that once glowed and had life, but was now mere trenches, mud and blood everywhere you looked. The deafening bang of gunshots and explosions of shells shattered eardrums and symbolised many more fallen, forgotten and lost. Reality held steady, deafening and cruel and painful to each and all, for even if they still somehow stood, death always loomed all around them, dusk and dawn. Here, sentiment was naïve, and yet so were the two men our story surrounds.
In the shroud of the night, eerie peace fell, and the two sat, speaking gently, of anything and everything, making hasty, needed contact to try and wash everything from their minds; what they'd done, who they'd killed, what they'd seen, what they'd risked for a cause they did not know. Embraces, kisses, yearning, words, love; things that did not belong in this war were shared here, in a forgotten corner of the trench, away from the noise of the makeshift building where all their allies — people they did not know, who came and went too quickly for them to try — ate, and slept, and buzzed with conversation. People who still lived, and who did not even think of what it was to die. People who did not have as much to lose.
For now, this was their place, their peace, their solace as Ludwig ran ghosting fingers over the bandage on Feliciano's arm, stained slightly with the crimson red of his impure blood, as if to wipe it away and relieve the Italian, to take his burden and take it's place, to remember the bright fields and colourful trees and days before they were splashed with red and grey and strange pain. Desperately, Feliciano reached for Ludwig, held him, buried his face in the dirtied jacket of his uniform, and held him close, reluctant to ever let go.
Truthfully, he did not want to be in this war. But he also did not want to lose Ludwig without even knowing it, or be apart from him, and joined so that they could be together until whatever bitter end took them both away. Truthfully, Feliciano was terrified beyond anything he had ever felt, and though he'd never admit it, so was Ludwig. The dead eyes, the horrifying injuries, the mutilated bodies that would never heal, the screams, the pain, the red of the sky and the choking feeling of the air that filled their lungs. They say this was for their nations, for the good of the people... But what could all of this carnage truly bring, and why did it have to happen in the first place? Why did the tension of the leaders have to consume the entirety of the land? And why did everyone have to hate?
Days blurred together, for it was all the same. Get up, eat, kill and almost be killed, return, wait for nightfall, spend some much needed time together, barely sleep, and repeat. They were tired of it. They wanted to go home. Home, to Italian summers, and German winters, and days in the beer hall or cantina, in the sunny fields beneath the trees, picking flowers and singing, and living in almost numbing peace, rather than perfect chaos.
Part of them just wanted it to end completely, for they knew nothing of when this would end, of when they would be able to go home. They never knew how much wistful wishing could really do.
A single, piercing shot— was it a rifle? He couldn't tell. A seething, burning, blinding pain, shooting up throughout him. The feel of the mud in his face as he plunged sideways into it. The agonised scream that fell from his mouth, though he could not feel it, but hear it, ringing through his aching skull. The longing for his lover to come and find him, tell him and make him believe that everything would be okay. After all, a hopeful lie is better than a bitter, cold truth. But all he felt now was cold, cold from his head to his toes and fingers, cold in the dull of the sky that blurred through his vision, cold in the knowing that he was going to die here. It was here that he would be forgotten, and lose, and it was here, alone, that he could do nothing about it.
And then, a voice, piercing the muffled sounds, clear, agonised; familiar. A name, his name, a familiar, bittersweet face above him, contrasting to the sky with it's blues and golds. With a numb arm he reached up to his face to feel it, almost recoiling at the wet streaks he felt, choking out incoherent words through the blood that also came. Trying to call his name, tell him to go, tell him it was not worth it, salvage his life. Some of it came out, and some did not, but he understood, as he always did. This angel that blurred before him held him close, whispered and spoke to him, vowed to stay, and spoke of the past. He spoke of the fields, the songs, the pure, untainted love. And then, he sang, gentle, but low, the voice that had seen him through passionate nights, panic and pain, and happy, beautiful days, all burned into his memory that was flashing before him through these words he clung to, in favour of the darkness that threatened to pull him in.
The pain was slowly ebbing away, the words were slowly growing quieter, and the fear gnawing at him was slowly giving way to acceptance. And then, he smiled, leaned up with effort, and kissed the man he loved, the moment beautiful and perfect for him (for he chose to ignore the pain) but awful and painful and bittersweet for the other, who still had not ceased his tears that he was almost glad the one in his arms could not see. However, he could but watch as the naïve glow in his eyes that he had come to love gradually faded, as the resolve began to shatter and completely disappear, as the arms that clung to him began to simply hang off of him limply. Seconds and minutes turned to hours, hours of imperfect, blood red bliss. No one ever told them that it took hours to die; no one ever prepared them for this bitter waiting which most endured alone. No one could ever live to tell how strange it felt, how peaceful it became.
Many unnamed soldiers ran past, some yelling at the one still standing, some glancing pitifully at the one who could not, many others ignoring them completely — those were the wise ones. It was wise not to feel. It was wise not to love.
"Ich liebe dich, Feliciano," Ludwig choked out, and Feliciano choked out his own reply, his mother tongue dancing on his lips melodically, "ti amo, Ludwig..." It was strange how much those words could change with the circumstance. It was strange how it could turn from a passionate confession, to a quiet but soaring set of words, to a choked cry stained with the red of this unforgiving war. Smiles, sobs, tears, all of these have been evoked by simple, deep words of confession and emotion. And this time would be the last. Soon, minutes, perhaps, the light faded completely, and he became completely unresponsive. Empty, and unsure, and unaware, Ludwig lay Feliciano down with his jacket over the Italian's body, covering his dead face, and then stood, ready to continue fighting meaninglessly.
From nowhere came a shell, an explosion, and from nowhere, perhaps a blessing from high above, Ludwig passed on too, whatever remained of his body falling beside the fallen Feliciano, the two spiralling, free from their bodies and bonds, dancing up to the heavens in a loving dance. It was like the dull, grey clouds opened up and the smoke cleared, like all the pain had vanished, and they'd returned to their Italian and German fields and warmth and light.
It was their peace, their release. It was their freedom dance.