Chapter 10
Waltz of the Flowers
Revelations.
Once few and far between, suddenly they were coming out so fast and so many that sometimes it almost made him dizzy. And while it had been easier when everything had been a straight line where absolutely no thought had been required, it was more satisfying, despite it all, to feel something different than lifelessness and dragging monotony.
Even if what he felt at most times was a bitterness so strong that it burned through him like fire that twisted his stomach and made his jaw clench until his teeth were grinding together.
Every day, something changed just a little.
But every little change was, to Alfred, an ascension to a new plane of being.
A new level. A staircase that he was climbing, slowly but steadily, with careful treads because sometimes a step collapsed beneath him or he stumbled backwards down a few, but no matter how far he got knocked back or how many steps gave out or how many obstacles presented themselves, the only way was up.
He wouldn't go back down.
The gates of hell were beneath him. Salvation above. And now, he was higher up this staircase than he had ever been, even if he still couldn't see the top, and he was determined to bound upwards as fast and as hard as he could.
He was ready to move onward.
But he couldn't go on alone, and that hurt a little to admit, for someone like him, who prided himself on being strong and sure and above all solitary—he leaned on no one and needed no one. No! The opposite; people were supposed to lean on him and need him. He wanted to be the one that people ran to.
So it hurt to find himself running after someone else. Needing someone else. Because god help him, he needed the German. He couldn't move forward with all of this if the German was still stuck on the same old step down at the bottom. His father's sins (and thereby his own) had tethered him to this man, somehow or another, and so how could he take anymore steps forward if the stubborn son of a bitch was holding his footing far below and gripping the railing, refusing to budge no matter how hard Alfred pulled?
He couldn't.
His happiness was tied in to the German's well-being, and so it was important—actually, imperative—that the German cooperated with him, because he couldn't save either of them by himself.
A rare occasion where he could admit that he needed help.
However, persistence always paid off, and after weeks and weeks of nerve-wracking tugging and struggling, he had finally managed to coax the German to take a step forward. It was almost like holding out your hand to a strange, possibly aggressive dog and waiting for it to sniff you and let it decide whether or not it was going to bite you.
He had waited. The German hadn't bit. He could get up off his knee and lower his hands and let his guard down.
Little things first.
Every day, things got a little better.
Seeing that old medal in the pale hand of the German had felt a hell of a lot better than even any of those fumbling, sweaty encounters with barely-known girls on muggy summer nights.
And now that he had successfully infiltrated at least some part of the German's defenses without even once being punched in the face (success at its best!—he'd been slapped, sure, but that didn't count), he was emboldened and even more determined than ever before.
Watching the German through the window had been exhilarating, if only by knowing that he shouldn't have been there at all.
Things couldn't go back.
He was in a new plane, where it was almost really worth it to look at himself in the mirror. His first revelation of this new plane had come the second that the Iron Cross had been placed in the German's cool hand.
The revelation that not only could he save the German, but that he also had the power to hurt his father. Deep and sharp and without even raising his fist in violence.
It hadn't been so hard. Actually, it had been really easy. So easy that it was almost criminal.
The old man had been drinking so much lately that opportunities to ransack his room came in frequent intervals, and when he was awake, he was so out in space that he didn't even seem to realize what was going on around him. Easy to take advantage of.
Alfred had used that advantage to tread upstairs without a sound, shut the door and lock it behind, and go about things however he deemed fit.
The old Iron Cross had been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.
The Iron Cross had always hung up on the wall above his father's bed, a trophy and maybe his father's idea of a good luck charm or a dream catcher. Ha; the thought was almost unnerving—dreams of former glory and self-righteousness brought on by the medal of a dead man dangling above the pillow.
It had occurred to Alfred, on one of those days when he stood outside the shop with his hands in his pockets and found himself staring inside at a man who was intent on pretending he wasn't there, that maybe the Iron Cross would have been better used to bring dreams to someone who had never sought to cause harm.
It had been a simple thing, to snatch the cross from the wall and tuck it in his pocket, taking it out only in the safety of his own room to examine it with his own eyes. He had shined it up a bit, and had been relieved that there were no blood stains on the ribbon.
Now that that had gone over so much better than he could have ever hoped for, and since his old man hadn't really even seemed to notice, the bitterness was alleviated a bit, and it became a goal of sorts to relieve this house of any and all things related to his father's war-time glory.
The helmet had been long since gone. The Iron Cross was gone.
He spent hours wandering around his father's room as the old man snored away downstairs, pacing here and there and contemplating what to ditch next, and where. Because some of these items, like the old maps marked with Allied advances and the rifles and the little jar of dirt from Normandy, simply weren't suitable to give to the German, and doing so would have only done more harm than good.
He could sell them, maybe, to pawn shops or street vendors. He could give them off to random people. If nothing else, he could go out and toss them all in the Hudson. Maybe the flag from the Reichstag would go next. Better to sell that to a shop for collectors.
He almost laughed, sometimes. If he'd known all along that it was really this easy!
He wondered how much of his father's shit he could pawn off before the old man began to realize that things were turning up missing. All of it, if he could. Every last piece. Down to his medals and his fuckin' uniform.
Even his boots.
Anything. Anything to hurt him.
If this was the only way to do it, if this was the only thing he could take that the old bastard cherished, then so be it.
Maybe the old man had been a war hero, maybe he'd been a single father, maybe he'd had bigger dreams than what had played out for them, but, to Alfred, the ends just hadn't justified the means. Turning his back on his father now was really the only thing he could think to do, even if in doing so maybe he wasn't much better than his father. What else could he do?
Abandoning his own father was just another sin on an already long list.
But it was the lesser of two evils.
It would have been harmful and unforgivably foolish for him to believe that he could possibly find a way through this that would fix everyone. Running after the German was causing his father to drink himself to death.
He couldn't have them both. It was one or the other.
And he had made his decision, so now, he sat at the kitchen table, tapping his spoon absently on the table as he listened to his father grunting and groaning on the couch as he struggled to come back from the unconsciousness of hangover.
Just waiting. His coffee was getting cold.
Resting his chin in his palm and staring ahead into space, Alfred waited and waited, and tried to suppress the smile that threatened to creep across his face. It was hard not to feel a little devious and a little self-satisfied. Knowing things his father did not. Working on the sidelines, so to speak.
What a thrill!
A dull thud from the living room and a moan of pain was the sign that his father had rolled off the couch and onto the floor, and after a few minutes of silence, he hauled himself to his feet and came staggering into the kitchen, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the morning light and looking very pale. Alfred observed the dark circles under his eyes and the distant, confused gaze.
The thrill faded a bit.
It was easier to focus on how good he felt extending a hand to the German than it was to watch his father deteriorate before his eyes.
But sometimes it came sneaking up on him.
A silence.
His father finally caught his eye, squinted as though in thought, and then, slowly, came up with, "Mornin'."
"Morning."
For a moment, he wasn't really sure that his dad knew who he was.
Finally, with steady movements, he pushed a mug of coffee forward and said, much more casually than he felt, "It's a little cold."
His father stood there, leaning against the frame and squinting, head tilted and eyes a bit dazed, and then, he finally took a step forward, muttering to himself, "Oh. Alfred."
Yup. Alfred. Who did he think it was?
As his father sat before him and cradled the mug in his hands, Alfred leaned back, feeling a little disheartened without really knowing why, and added, carefully, "Maybe you should lay off the whiskey a little."
His father waved him off with an errant hand, and Alfred only fell still and silent. In guilt, perhaps, since it was really his fault that his old man was takin' to the bottle so much.
"You workin' today?" came the sudden inquiry, and Alfred merely leaned back, crossed his arms behind his neck, and shook his head.
He knew damn well why his old man was asking. Seeing what he was up to. Where he was going.
He hadn't confronted his father about his vigilantism, never hinting or letting on that he had been in the vicinity at the time and had seen, from a safe distance, that travesty.
Two things kept him from opening his mouth and screeching, 'What the hell were ya thinkin'?'
Firstly, his own cowardice, which forced his throat closed whenever he wanted to tell the old bastard what was what. A fact that he was thoroughly ashamed of, but very aware of. It was too hard to get over that same old fear that had been instilled in him so long ago, which was why he kept his rebellion firmly in the shadows unless it was absolutely impossible to do so.
The girls would have called him two-faced.
Secondly, common sense. Since he had distanced himself from his father, things had changed. No longer did his father raise his hand to him, perhaps a subconscious attempt to woo him back to the way things had been before, spurred on by loneliness and worry and a sense that he was being abandoned in his most vulnerable years. Alfred hadn't responded the way he'd wanted, so now, he let loose his pent-up aggression in a way that was somehow even worse.
On the German.
Certainly a giant step back down that fuckin' staircase.
It was better to keep his mouth shut for now; confronting his father about it might only make him more dangerous, especially with his judgment and thinking messed up by too much whiskey.
It had been one thing, coming after him. Going after the German was out of bounds. He was going to have to tread lightly, for now, and continue his work on the sidelines, keeping a close watch on the German from afar and making sure that everything went smoothly. But it would be hard to get past all the nosy sons of bitches that seemed to be lurking around every corner, ready to call his old man up with the newest gossip.
Why couldn't people mind their own fuckin' business? It was frustrating.
He'd just have to work around it, and prepare himself for the possibility that, should things continue on the same path, he might be forced to jump headfirst into a fray.
After a few sips of cold coffee, his father looked up at him, wincing a bit as his head surely pounded, and then said, a bit hopefully, "Why don't you go out with me today? We can go out to Schacht's for dinner tonight. We haven't been there for 'bout a year!" A strange, weak smile. "Spend some time with your old man, huh?"
Averting his gaze down to his own coffee, Alfred only said, nonchalantly, "Can't. Sorry. I promised Matthew we'd go down to the harbor today."
That was a lie.
His father's face fell a bit, and he only grumbled, "What're ya doin' down in the harbor?"
"Watchin' ships," was his simple response, and with that, he pushed his chair back from the table and pulled himself to his feet, walking with deliberate steps to the door as he left his father to wallow in solitude and misery.
As he went, he heard a low, bitter, "If it's not the little Adolf, it's the fuckin' frostback."
The guilt was quickly replaced with anger, and he made a point of slamming the door behind him as hard as he could, if only to startle the old man into silence in his wake.
Wouldn't he ever just shut up?
Jumping down the steps and into the slushy streets, he walked just for the hell of it; Matthew was working. There was no one to go to the harbor with, but he went anyway, if only to relax a little.
The German needed a few days without him.
He sat down on a pier, and watched the ships on the water until night fell, trying to keep his mind clear of his father's voice. The longer he was around the water, the more he contemplated giving his father's war relics a burial at sea. Hurting the owner without dishonoring the cause. That sounded right.
By the time he got home, he was not surprised to see that his old man had already gone off to bed.
He scrounged up something to eat, and plotted his next move.
The days passed as normally as he could have ever expected them to, although he couldn't help but feel a little more devious than before, as he picked through his father's room whenever he was downstairs and drunk, and he successfully nicked the Reichstag flag, tied it up in a plastic bag filled with rocks, and, under cover of darkness, hurled it out into the river, where it would slowly drift downstream in the currant.
He was prouder of himself a little more each day. He felt hopeful sometimes, about the future.
But he hadn't really expected what came next.
His second revelation came as suddenly and randomly as the first.
It happened on a cold, snowy day, close to the New Year.
The revelation that his father was really just...
"Hey, Alfred," came the cry from upstairs that day, as he sat on the couch and flipped through channels with boredom, and he hadn't acknowledged his father's cry at first.
"Alfred! You hear me?"
"No," he said, petulantly.
Deaf to his response, his father came halfway down the stairs, brow furrowed and looking a little frustrated. Alfred glanced up, and when his father spoke again, his words brought on a jolt of adrenaline.
"Say, I'm goin' over to Tom's later. He's got a little grandbaby he wanted to show some medals off to. You remember that old Iron Cross I had? You haven't seen it layin' around have ya? Can't find the damn thing."
For a second, Alfred sat there, the rush of adrenaline effectively closing his throat, and then he finally managed to croak, "Nah. Haven't seen it."
Damn. He was getting good at lying.
His father shrugged a restless shoulder, and said, "Guess I missed it somewhere. I'll look around some more."
Leaping to his feet in alarm, Alfred was quick to say, "I'll help out."
Racing to the stairs to outpace his old man, he entered the bedroom and made a point of 'helping', while in all actuality he was just keeping a close eye on the chest and making sure that his father didn't sift through it long enough to realize that not only was the medal missing, the helmet and the flag were too.
He opened dresser drawers and looked under loose papers and old books, as his father looked through the closet, and the pounding of his heart was so loud that he was surprised it wasn't audible.
A moment of stillness, and his father, lips pursed and looking agitated, grumbled, "Damn thing. The hell did I put it?"
"It's around somewhere," Alfred said, his voice surprisingly smooth for his anxiety, "It didn't just get up and walk out."
Ha. Right.
"Well, let's see."
His father reached out to move aside pillows and the blanket, and it was then that Alfred realized, for the very first time, that his father's hands were shaking. Had they shook before? He had never noticed.
Suddenly, Alfred really noticed his father's grey hair, the veins on his hands, and the paleness of his face.
...had he declined so rapidly? He had been so strong before. The shaking hands of an old man.
"You see it anywhere?"
Startled from immobility, Alfred regained his footing, and carried on.
"Not yet."
And so, heart thudding with guilty adrenaline, he helped his father look here and there for an item that he knew was no longer around, and for a while, his hands trembled almost as much as his father's did.
His chest ached.
"Maybe it fell under the bed," the old man grunted, as he reached out to grab the frame.
He tried to pull it. Nothing happened.
Finally, after horrible minutes of watching the man that had been able to lift him up with one arm when he was a child struggling to move a wooden bed-frame with two hands, he stepped forward and managed to say, "Hey, it'll turn up somewhere. Don't worry about it. Doesn't Tom have his own damn medals to look at?"
His father fell still for a moment, and mercifully, his shaking hands fell down to his sides, and he lurched backwards with a grunt.
"Yeah," he finally grumbled. "Yeah, it'll pop up. Probably just put it somewhere and can't think where."
With that, he turned and walked toward the door, and Alfred followed, that old feeling of melancholy coming back up like a tidal wave.
Old man. Yeah, that was right.
Old man...
Even through the hate and the bitterness and all the torment, it still hurt to know that his old man was just that. Time was catching up, and fast. And his own uprising was causing his father's decline. The more he fought, the further his father fell. But even so, he couldn't stop, and knowing that pushing forward would surely bring his father to an early grave was just another dagger of self-hatred that he would have to live with, even if he would spend nights later on crying himself to sleep. He'd known all along, hadn't he, that he could only have one or the other. Not both.
His stomach churned a bit.
The second his father pulled on his coat and walked out the door an hour or so later, he grabbed up his own coat and slunk out.
He needed to do something to get this goddamn self-hatred off his shoulders. And there was really only one person who could cheer him up like he needed.
He cut across the street, dodging traffic and cutting corners, sliding in and out of alleys with skills that put the cats to shame, and when he came up to the door he sought and brought down a heavy fist, he was already feeling a little bit better.
Just a little.
He brought up his hand to knock again, but as it fell the door was yanked open, and his fist nearly connected with a handsome, straight nose.
"Whoa!"
"Sorry," he yelped, as his uncle reached out defensively to grab his hand and force it still in midair.
"Do you always knock so, ah, enthusiastically?"
"Only when I'm excited."
Francis smiled then, and quipped, "Which means to say always, right?"
Before he could respond, the door was held open, and a hand on his arm pulled him through the threshold.
"Well, come in, come in!"
Taking note of Francis' neat clothing, pulled-back hair, and overwhelming cologne, Alfred quickly realized that he might have been intruding on personal time, and it was with a little bit of amusement that he asked, "Are you expecting someone?"
Led into the kitchen, Alfred observed the table, and was certain.
Candles, flowers, wine. Date night.
"I'm always expecting someone," Francis said, rather airily, and sent him a cool gaze. "So, what brings you to my side of the woods?"
Side of the woods. Ha. It was these little quirks in his speech that made Francis so charming perhaps, and gave away his overseas heritage to anyone who would have really cared. Had his father been here, he would have been quick to bark, irritably, 'It's 'neck of the woods'. Learn it right.'
Well, the women seemed to love the accent. Obviously.
Shrugging a shoulder, Alfred inclined his head to the wine.
"Well, I was just around. But, hey, far be it from me to ruin a romance!"
He took a step back, not so depressed that he needed to interrupt one of his uncle's love connections. Even if there always seemed to be a lot of them. Francis, always the charmer.
"I'll come back at a better time."
Francis was upon him before he could bail.
"Stay!" he cried, as Alfred backed towards the door. "Stay, stay! I'll cancel. The sea is full of fish, isn't it, and I only have one nephew!"
With that, Francis reached out and grabbed a handful of his shirt, tugging him away from the door and thrusting him quite unceremoniously back into the kitchen.
"Sit down. You can be my date tonight!"
With a snort, Alfred obeyed and fell down into a chair, resting his elbows on the spotless tablecloth as Francis disappeared into the hall to pick up the phone.
As Francis began to croon away, no doubt softening the blow of a canceled date with promises of making up for it, Alfred drummed his fingers on the table, and looked about.
No matter the weather outside or the gloominess in his head, being inside of Francis' house seemed to have a way of putting him in a good mood. An instant picker-upper.
From the fashionable furniture in the living room to the endless breads and pastries in the kitchen, from the flowers in the windowsill garden to the antiques in the basement, there really wasn't a place in the world he'd rather be when he was feeling down. Who could stay melancholy in the presence of cheeriness and overindulgence? And on to that, there was something else that drew him back to this place when he needed guidance. There was something in this house that he could not get anywhere else on earth.
His mother.
Or, anyway, a feel and reminder of her.
Francis' walls were slathered with photographs of her. Dresses that had belonged to his mother hung in the closet in the empty bedroom. Old perfumes sat on the vanity, along with creams and makeup that were kept meticulously dusted and in the same place they had sat for over twenty years.
A moment frozen in time.
Stepping into that bedroom was like walking with phantoms. Indescribable. There was nothing like it.
He loved seeing pieces of his mother here and there, a woman he would have given anything in the world for just to say 'hello' to, even just once, just to look at her and see her, and it was worth the feeling of longing just to sift through the closet and see clothes that she had worn, but oh...
At the same time, it made him want to burst into tears. And not for his mother. For Francis. Francis couldn't let go. He couldn't bring himself to box up all of these things and put them in the basement. He couldn't bring himself to take down the dresses and give them away or sell them. He wouldn't move a thing. Not a thing. Alfred could understand why, in a way. He'd heard the story.
1916.
The height of the first great war.
People fleeing all around, and it had been a great desperation that had led Francis' parents to take their son before them, only six years old, strap his infant sister onto his back, and place two tickets into his hand. Too poor to afford their own tickets, they'd smoothed down Francis' hair, kissed him on his forehead, and sent him off with a neighbor who was fleeing, too, on a ship headed for Ellis Island.
Francis' father had told him, 'We'll come after you, soon. Don't get off until you see the statue. They won't join the war, but we gave them that statue, so they'll let you in.'
They had.
But his parents had never come, and Francis, always clinging dutifully to his sister and far too mature for his age, had survived on the kindness of the neighbor that had led him down to the ship. The neighbor had explained to him, when he was a little older, that he had gotten word that his parents had died in a midnight bombing raid.
Francis became not only big brother, but a guardian as well.
They had always been together, Francis and his sister, and that was why it had been so hard to let her go the first time, to the man who would become her husband. That was why her death, so young and so unexpected, had been so devastating. Francis' only remaining family.
Strange, how a woman's death could bring men down.
Alfred wondered if maybe he was lucky, in some way, not to have known his mother long enough to where her death would have brought him down, too.
Francis couldn't let go. His father had tried to forget. Both of them had gone far overboard in an effort to stave off grief, in the wrong directions. His father had tried to get rid of every reminder. Francis clung to them too fiercely. Neither of them had ever really recovered from it.
Look at them!
His father, who had to have been a good man long ago to attract a good woman, was left as only a bitter, hateful shell, always angry and always volatile and always hovering above Alfred in a manner that was overbearing and possessive and almost desperate. Never happy. Unable to accept change. Lonely and miserable and drinking himself to death.
Francis, who had been forced into the role of big brother and guardian so young, had been so devastated at losing the only person left on earth who had really loved him that he went out every day looking for someone to keep him company because he couldn't bear to be alone. He couldn't stand the sound of silence. It almost didn't seem to matter who he was with, as long as he wasn't alone. Keeping items perfectly straight and clean and ready for use, as though some part of him still expected his sister to come walking back through the door.
Maybe they could have helped each other, if they didn't hate each other so much. Each too proud to try and let bygones be bygones. And Alfred was stuck in between, the only living piece of his mother left upon the earth.
He loved his mother. He always would. He admired her. Idolized, even.
But it would have been nice if either one of them (Francis on normal occasions and his father only when drunk) could have ever looked at him and, instead of saying, 'you have your mother's eyes', maybe say something about him.
Instead of 'you're getting really tall', they'd say, 'you're tall like your mother'. Instead of 'you're pretty smart', they'd say, 'you're as smart as your mother was'. Instead of 'you're growing up to be so handsome', they'd say, 'you've got your mother's good looks'.
He was proud to be his mother's son, and he was proud that he carried on her legacy, but...
He wasn't his mother.
It was undermining his confidence in himself, and maybe it made him selfish and egotistical, but he wanted to be set apart. He was Alfred. Not his mother.
A movement at his side drew his eyes, and when he looked over, Francis came walking back into the kitchen, smoothing back loose hairs with his hands and looking a bit sheepish.
"Well!" he said, as he caught Alfred's eye, "I only got called a son of a bitch once!"
"Only once?" Alfred was quick to tease. "Yeah, but how many times did you get called a bastard?"
"About six."
Alfred barked a laugh, as Francis came over, an unconcerned smile upon his face, and quickly uncorked the bottle of wine.
"Well, you know how things happen," he said, as he poured Alfred a glass, "You get called a bastard one day and the next day you're a prince charming again." Alfred sent him a look, and he amended, "Well, for me, anyway. You're probably called a bastard every day."
"I try. What can I say? I don't go for classy ladies like you do."
Gloomy thoughts and feelings gone as quickly as the breeze, Alfred leaned back into his seat, and for a moment, watching Francis beaming away as he set up dinner, he forgot why he even came over.
It didn't matter. Just spending time with someone who acted like a father was enough.
Leering up over a glass, Francis asked, coyly, "So, where's that pretty girl you've been hanging out with lately?"
Wincing a bit, Alfred narrowed his eyes and grumbled, "I haven't been hanging out with her. She's been sneakin' up on me."
"Well, don't be so excited about it! Ha, wish she'd come sneaking up on me."
All but choking on his food, Alfred managed to send his uncle a look of horror, and rasp, weakly, "Little young for you, isn't she? But hey, if you'd like to take her off my hands—"
"That's alright."
They shared a smile, and fell comfortably into small talk and chatter, the candles melting down and the smell of roses and roasted chicken wafting around, and every time that Francis looked up at him and smiled, he couldn't help but feel that this was how dinner at home was supposed to be.
Enjoyable. A sense of family. Just talking about whatever came to mind.
Francis was a chatterbox, that much was certain, and there was never a quiet moment with him. They talked about everything under the sun. Well, almost. Conversations about women didn't seem to last very long, and maybe it was a little too obvious, as they sat here with only each other as company, that they didn't have much experience in meaningful, long-term relationships. Their beds were always empty in the morning.
Francis, however, seemed confident that one of these days, he'd actually find a way to keep one of the dates from ever ending. Wishful thinking, perhaps. Maybe some men were meant to be eternal bachelors. It would be a little strange to see Francis ever actually settle down. Seeing him actually make it to the altar would have been a minor miracle.
Well, some things weren't mean to be.
And moods, Alfred discovered, could change quickly.
Finally, after the bottle of wine was as empty as both of their beds, Francis turned bleary eyes up to him, and sent him a strange, strained smile.
A moment of heavy silence.
Alfred smiled back, breathlessly.
"What?"
Francis shifted in his seat, back and forth, and then shook his head, and asked, tentatively and carefully and with false carelessness, "So! How's your father been doing?"
Alfred opened his mouth, and quickly fell still.
Oh, yeah. That was why he'd come over here. To forget about his old man's shaking hands.
Trying to keep the air light, he finally said, "Same as always, I guess."
Francis sent him a look that bordered on disbelief, and Alfred squirmed a bit.
"Why do you ask?"
"He called me last week."
...dread.
Alfred's heart sank. He hadn't expected that. Oh, Christ, had the old man been harassing Francis again for his own behavior? He'd keel over dead.
Frozen and voiceless, he could only sit there in silence as Francis tilted his glass this way and that, lips pushed out thoughtfully as he tapped the bottom of the cup on the table.
Finally, he carried on.
"He was drunk. Looking for you, actually. When I told him you weren't here, he asked me about your mother."
The shock burned up into embarrassment, and it was the most mortifying thing he could think of, his stupid old man calling Francis in a drunken stupor and breaking Francis' heart all over again by asking for a woman that had been long-since gone.
He reached up, and ran fingers through his hair in an effort to appear nonchalant.
"What—what did he say?"
Francis wasn't really smiling anymore, keeping his gaze firmly on the tablecloth in what was obviously a moment of great vulnerability.
"He asked if he could talk to her, because he'd lost his boy and he didn't want her to be mad at him."
Oh.
He buried his face in his palms, and resisted the urge to groan in frustration.
Maybe he should have been more concerned for his father and his increasingly strange and unpredictable behavior, but all he could think of now was how much it must have hurt Francis to hear those words. How many memories it must have brought back. How many wounds it must have opened.
As he sat there, shaking his head to himself and feeling more humiliated than he could ever really remember, and so ashamed, Francis snorted, to himself, and tried to move onward.
"That's why I ask. Has he been doing this a lot lately, by any chance?"
Alfred, leaning back in his chair, split his fingers and stared up at the ceiling.
Yeah. Yeah he had. Hadn't his father mistaken him not so long ago for a colonel? And that morning, squinting at him for so long before recognizing him.
Damn. Just what he needed. Now, more than ever before, how could he bring himself to stand up to the old man? If the old man was getting sick... Christ, raising his voice up like he wanted might push his father over the edge. Give him a heart attack, or just cause him to shut down all together. Then he'd have to walk around with that, feelin' like a fuckin' murderer.
His father had been alright until all of this had started.
Murderer.
"Maybe you should take him to a doctor."
He started, and turned to Francis with wide eyes of guilt.
"I..."
A doctor?
For what? To hear a diagnosis that he might not want to hear? To hear that he might be bound to the old man in another, worse way—that of caretaker? He didn't want to. He was finally getting his life on the path that he wanted. He didn't want to get sidetracked by this.
Not now.
And surely he was a horrible person for it, but god, he didn't want to worry about any of that for now. All of his attention was occupied elsewhere.
Francis saw his silence, and, with a very thin smile, he stood up and walked over to a cabinet, producing another bottle of wine with swift hands.
"Ah, look," Francis began, as he brought up the corkscrew, "Let's not talk about it tonight. You do what want to do, and I'll back you up, whatever you decide. For now, let's just keep drinking."
"That sounds good to me," he finally breathed, in relief, and was more than happy to end that conversation and start up new ones.
Didn't wanna think about any of that now. Wine was a pretty good enabler for forgetting unpleasant things.
The hour was getting late.
It had started to rain outside, a cold, miserable mixture of water and snow, but everything was warm inside, and when his glass was refilled, he no longer had any intentions of leaving Francis' house tonight.
And Francis seemed happy at the prospect.
"Say, you should have brought your friend with you," Francis said, cheeks flushed and the smile on his face sloppy, "Matthew. He's a weird little thing, isn't he? The more the merrier. I don't mind having you guys over every once in a while."
"Why would I bring him? So you guys can sit there and talk about me in French? I know your game."
Francis only smiled.
But, that offer brought forth the thought that suddenly kept popping into Alfred's head...
"Well," he began, trying to appear casual, "maybe next time I'll bring someone else."
"Oh! A new friend?"
After a hesitation, the wine helping him out, Alfred felt the smile spreading over his face.
"Yeah," he said. "You'll like him."
"I'm sure I will," Francis drawled, as he shifted a bit haphazardly. "Especially since you seem to have a knack for picking such handsome friends."
Alfred rolled his eyes.
But inside, just the thought of it was enough to send the adrenaline coursing. Oh, wow, what a thing it would be! To have him over for dinner. To have a third person at the table. That would have been something like a walking dream.
Maybe Francis wouldn't have minded.
Maybe.
Once the second bottle was empty, and feeling very warm and very flustered, Alfred, more than a little tipsy, extended conversation to a subject that once would have been way out of his comfort zone, and still would be if not for the help of alcohol :
The German.
Francis had opened the door. He was just walking through it.
"Say," he began, airily, "Do you remember that German that the guys on the block used to go after a lot?"
Francis glanced over, a strange half-smile on his face. Not surprising; mentioning Germans, in his experience, had usually never let to anything good, and sometimes even to something a little sinister.
"Which one? There were lots."
A tingle of excitement, at trying to tell someone. His finger tapped the table.
"The tall one. Used to walk his dog in the park a lot."
"Ah," Francis said, and it didn't really surprise Alfred when he added, "The looker? Tall, blond, blue-eyed?"
Figured. Francis usually remembered 'the pretty ones' more than the others.
"Yeah."
"A little. I never talked to him. Why?"
He didn't miss the trepidation on Francis' face, and it made his excitement dull down just a little, knowing that Francis was not expecting to hear something pleasant. It stung, to think of himself before.
Behind him. All behind him. He had to move forward. Staircase, going up. With a deep breath, he tapped his fingers on the table all the faster, and said, slowly, "Well. What if I said that I was thinking of inviting him over for dinner?"
The shock on Francis' face should have been funny.
It wasn't. It hurt. Was it something so out of the ordinary for him to do?
"You've been talking to him?" came the incredulous question, and Alfred nodded. "Does your father know?"
"Kind of."
Eh. An evasive answer.
He tried to shake it off, and, feeling a little confident, he asked, "So, what would you say? Huh? Ha, having a German over for dinner?"
There was a strange silence that dampened his confidence a little.
Francis sat still, trying to keep his gaze focused. And then he spoke.
"Well, I'm not gonna lie to you, Alfred," Francis began, slurring the ends of words a bit as the wine flowed through his veins, "I have to say, well, just for me, you know, I don't care much for them."
Oh. Not what he'd expected.
Seeing the furrowing of Alfred's brow, even through his inebriation, Francis was quick to add, "But, that being said, that's just me! God knows, I mean, if you wanted to—that's your decision, you know? I know it's probably not right, but damn, still thinking about them marching all over Paris, it still gets me a little riled."
Of course.
Marching on Paris. Dropping the bombs from above that had killed his parents. Francis, like his father, had motives that were buried in war.
And for a moment, Alfred wanted to be a child again, so that he could stomp his foot and cry, 'Can't adults ever stop making everything about war?'
War was war. Bad things happened in war. But that didn't mean that all people were bad, even if they'd lost. Matthew told him once that 'history's written by the heroes, and heroes always need bad guys'.
There weren't any bad guys now. Just people trying to move forward. Not everything had to be about what had happened during a war.
Let it go.
He didn't have a chance to open his mouth; Francis, always able to sense the shifting of a mood, went into damage control.
"Not to say he isn't a good person! I don't know him—hell, he's probably a great guy. I try to avoid that side when I can. They don't care much for me, either. French and Germans, you know, kind of weird. But, like I said, that's your decision. I think it's really great, what you're doing! When I said I'd support you, I meant for everything. I'd never shut the door, if you really do want to bring him by. I'm never a rude host, so don't worry about that. Your friends are my friends."
Well, that was little comforting. The most he could really hope for, he supposed. A hell of a lot better than the hostility from the other side.
Looking him up and down with a fond eye, Francis broke into a smile.
"That's something your mother would have done, you know? She was always trying to help people. You really do remind me so much of her."
The look of adoration in Francis' eyes was both exhilarating, and a little disappointing.
Those gloomy thoughts came back. Because, sometimes, he wasn't sure if he was really Alfred to Francis, or just his mother. Who did Francis see when he looked at him? If his mother was still alive, would Francis want to spend time with him? Or, if his mother was still alive, would Francis look at him and just see his father? Maybe he was reading too much into it, or maybe he was insecure, but sometimes...
Sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder.
He probably shouldn't have worried about it. All hypothetical, and it was what it was. Regardless, he still loved his uncle, and it was enough to know that his uncle loved him. No matter what. Support. That was what he needed. Maybe not the glowing, proud words of admiration that he had been hoping for, but enough.
Tipsiness slowly gave way to inebriation.
Francis started to tell bad jokes and stories that usually ended up in innuendos, giggling away helplessly as he reached out and slapped Alfred on the back every so often, and Alfred couldn't help but laugh along.
Almost midnight.
And even though he was smiling now, and even though he had to rest his head on the table to keep it from swimming, Alfred still couldn't help but think about it, and still knew.
Francis didn't really understand. He didn't get it. Him and the German. Francis thought it was charity. A project Alfred was taking up in an effort to distance himself from his father. A game.
It was so much more than that.
How could be possibly make Francis understand, when there was no way he'd ever be able to open up his mouth and explain in words how much all of this meant to him? How much it meant. How much it hurt. Even if he were so eloquent, his pride would not allow him to speak the words that were in his head, and even thinking about standing in front of anyone and trying to explain and expose some kind of vulnerability within himself, putting everything he had right on his sleeve, oh god! He would never be able to say it. It was so easy to speak for other people, but he couldn't ever speak for himself. He couldn't ever put into words the feeling of picking the German up off the street. He couldn't possibly describe the way his heart had soared when he had almost been given a smile. He couldn't ever write down the way his chest had ached when the medal had exchanged hands.
His curse.
It wasn't Francis' fault that he didn't understand. Who ever could, when he couldn't say it?
Francis' giggles finally died down into whispers, and then murmurs, and then nothing at all, as he succumbed to too much alcohol.
Alfred made it up to his feet somehow, and managed to stagger into his mother's old room before he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.
Rain fell outside.
In the morning, he pushed aside his headache, set the bed back the way it had been, and set out into the cold, wet streets, as reluctant to go home as he usually was.
This time, his reluctance was fueled by guilt. He didn't really care to see the old man falling apart.
'Maybe you should take him to the doctor.'
No.
He'd wait, and see how things played out. Only as a last resort would he risk the possibility of being bound to the old son of a bitch for longer than he had anticipated. He didn't want him dead. He just didn't want to see him anymore.
But if his father was getting sick in some way (probably all the booze), then there was a chance that maybe he'd have to see him more often than he was now.
And that was not preferable.
As the days passed and the New Year came creeping ever closer, he found himself wandering the streets a lot, spending most of his time with Matthew or Francis and playing a very intense game of hide-and-seek with Alice, who seemed determined to leap out from shadows and hunt him down come hell or high water. But her high brow usually worked in his favor, and most of the time she was too reluctant to step into the mud and sludge to tail after him when he started running.
He stepped into the other side of town when he felt safe enough, but he usually found himself disappointed.
The German wasn't ever out.
Not in the shop. Not in the streets. No doubt he was off for the rest of the holiday, and taking some well-deserved time to relax and get some sleep, but it was a little disappointing all the same.
He had wanted to kick the ball a little farther and hazard an out of the blue, 'Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow night?'
Nowhere to be found.
Alfred thought sometimes about knocking on the door, but decided against it. He wasn't really looking forward to finding himself back in front of the German's bellowing, crazy friend or roommate or whatever the hell he was. Last time, he had a feeling he'd been a breath away from being on the wrong end of a flying tackle. That might be a step backwards.
He tried to stay positive in light of the changing of the year, and was eager to be able to start a new one and put this one firmly in the past. He made a list of resolutions in his head, and tried to be patient. With patience and determination, things would play out like he wanted them to. He wouldn't falter, and he wouldn't give up.
It was reassuring that, if he needed it, he had fallbacks in the forms of Matthew and Francis, who were always ready to stand by his side and reconfirm his faith in himself.
Days passed.
The weather was more miserable than usual. Never any reprieve from the rain and snow and sleet.
But the city was alive on the last night in December.
Crowded streets.
On New Year's eve, he found himself wandering the streets alone, pushing through the crowds, hands tucked in his pockets and damp from sleet.
Solitary.
Not for lack of offers; Francis and Matthew had invited him to their houses, his father had asked him to stay home, and some of the girls from school had called him up and invited him to parties. Alice called, too, and offered to come keep him company.
He refused. He wanted to be alone.
The city was loud as hell in the main streets, as people crowded as close as they could together and babbled away and stared up at the sky as the fireworks shot up and over the skyline, absorbed in each other and the fun of the night. Ready and willing to spend several hours in the cold to wait for the ball to drop over Times Square. Music, reporters, plenty of cameras.
He was usually front and center in these celebrations.
This year, too much melancholy. He didn't feel like being rowdy, like the crowd around him. He cut through them, and drifted into the quieter streets, taking a little comfort in the dim light and silence, as the glow in the distance called the city out to play. He wandered about without really thinking about it, letting his feet lead him where they would. And where they led him, in the end, didn't really surprise him much.
He walked the streets that had now become familiar to him. Past the closed market, the little German store, past the dark alleys and the quiet houses. Places he had come to look forward to.
The dark streets were lit up in passing intervals by the fireworks above, and he took advantage of the bright bursts to lift his head, and look around. Just in case.
It was easy, in this cold, sleeting mess, to just feel miserable and disheartened, but he retreated up into his head, and it was with a sense of dreamy tranquility that he took sight of familiar landmarks, went back in time, and tried to imagine how things would be different now, if he'd done something different then.
The German would have been smiling long ago, that was for sure.
In moments like these, living up in his head was a little better. His own little world.
Stepping in puddles, jacket already soaked, hair sticking to his scalp and glasses foggy, he was still smiling.
Things would get better.
But sometimes, things still caught him off guard. Sometimes, there were dismal reminders that not everyone could stand back, and think for themselves. It was when he passed by the old street that had that incident attached to it, head low and shivering a little, damp and cold, that he saw the shadows moving on the side.
Lurching in the darkness.
Slowing his step, he turned his head in a burst of alarm, tensing his shoulders and clenching his fists. Who knew what lurked in these streets at night? Manhattan was dangerous in the dark. But nothing ran out at him, and there was no one tailing him.
And then a great firework burst above, lighting the street up pale pink.
He saw it.
Old Schulze's house.
And on the doorstep, under cover of darkness and giggling away, was a kid. Another firework lit up the sky, and he could see what the little hellion was up to. The sound and smell of spray-paint.
Alfred squinted his eyes, and saw.
The kid had painted the entire door, from top to bottom, with dozens of little swastikas. For a moment, he was too stunned to move, and the kid, looking over either shoulder, hadn't seen him standing there on the other side of the street. He was still giggling, nervously, knowing that he was doing something he shouldn't. He had been dared to, perhaps.
Alfred was suddenly out of his head, and crashing down to earth.
A rush.
The anger blazed up, and so did the horror. Because it was like looking at himself. It wasn't some little punk standing there, spray-paint in hand. It was him. It was him. All over again. Oh, the stupid things he had done. All the things he'd done. To this old woman, who had been so sweet to him when he'd been younger. Who had offered kindness. And what had he given her in return?
Hate. Pain.
Seeing himself standing there, painting a swastika on that door, and seeing her crying so hard afterwards. Couldn't stand that memory. That thought.
He hated himself. More than he hated his father. More than he hated his former friends. He hated himself the most.
Pulling his hands from his pockets, he straightened his back and marched across the streets, his boots heavy on the pavement, and by the time he was noticed, it was too late.
He was too angry to just let it go.
The kid saw him coming, and made a motion to run. Alfred was too fast. It was just a boy, ten or twelve, and that was the only thing that kept Alfred from decking him and knockin' him the fuck out, but he still grabbed the little brat by the collar and gave him a firm, ruthless shake, nearly lifting him off the ground as he cried, angrily, "What the hell are ya doin', you little bastard? Huh? What's wrong with you? Did your mama teach you to pick on little old ladies? Huh? Did she?"
The boy stared up at him in terror.
Alfred shook him again.
He shook the kid so hard because he wished he could go back and shake himself. He wished that someone had shaken him, then, instead of cajoling him. He wished somebody had knocked some sense into him, instead of him having to find it himself.
The can slipped from the kid's hand and rolled down the steps, falling into the gutter, and it was only when the kid began to cry that Alfred let go of his collar and set him down, and the brat turned on his heel to run off. Alfred slapped him across the back of the head as hard as he could as a parting gift. Teach the kid a lesson now, before he wound up running on the wrong side.
Footsteps pattering down the street.
He stood there, chest heaving as the anger coursed through his veins, and his face was red long after he had been left alone on the street.
Only when he saw the flutter of the curtain, was he able to drag himself from irate immobility, and he looked up to see the corner of the blind pushed aside. Someone was watching him.
The old woman.
When his eyes settled on the window, the blind closed and the curtain was swiftly drawn again. And for a moment, his knees threatened to give out from beneath him, and it was the most crushing feeling imaginable, to know that she was so afraid of him now.
She was afraid of him.
He would have given anything to go back in time, when she stood there on the step, smiling through her wrinkles, leaning forward and saying to him with that thick accent, 'So, how were your marks today?'
Marks. She'd always said marks. Never grades.
He'd pull out the test, and her face lit up and her brow lifted when she saw the '100'.
'You're so smart! You keep learning, yeah? It's very important.'
A candy in his hand, and he had been shoved off on his way.
All of that was gone. He'd stopped learning, for a while there. She was afraid of him now.
It was this knowledge, and a burning desire to get rid of the image in his head of himself doing the same thing years ago, that he found his footing and hopped down the soaking stairs, darting through the empty streets and back into the massive crowd, not stopping until he had found someone who was willing to give him what he wanted.
A few dollars poorer and a bucket of turpentine later, he went back the way he'd come from, a few dry cloths stuffed in his pockets and probably coming down with a cold from prolonged exposure to cold and sleet.
The people screaming in the distance and the chanting of songs and declarations felt a million miles away on this cold, dark little street, where people stayed inside their houses, content to watch the happenings on the CBS channel.
He was glad the street was empty.
So that no one would see him in a moment of humble vulnerability, as he crept up Mrs. Schulze's steps as quietly as a mouse, set the cloths and can down, popped off the top, and set to work.
As he dipped a cloth into the sharp liquid, he brought it up, and when he started to scrub away the paint, he tried to imagine that he was scrubbing away his own mistakes along with it.
Idiot. Such an idiot.
He brought the cloth up and down, but it took a strong hand and many swipes to get the paint to start dissolving, and when he had only gotten rid of one little swastika, his brow was soaked, and not from the sleet. But, no matter how long it took or how his arms ached, he wouldn't stop. The ball would probably be plunging down before he was done.
He didn't bother to look up and see if he was being watched, and he wasn't going to knock on the door and try to sputter something lame. She was scared of him, and he wasn't going to cause her any more duress.
Just get done, and get out.
The sky lit up in pink and green. Sleet kept falling.
He worked as quietly as he could while still keeping his hands firm, and when he bent down, re-soaking his cloth and wiping off his brow on his sleeve, something caught his eye. A shadow at his side, and when he straightened up, cloth in hand and a little weary, he realized that someone was standing beside of him.
Stillness and silence.
He couldn't help but break into a breathless smile, despite the dreary weather and the shame and the guilt.
Suddenly, he was alive with adrenaline.
The pale-eyed German stood at his side, tall and calm and wrapped in a coat that was far too big, and, after a second of silent staring, he rolled up his sleeves, and bent over, taking up a spare cloth from the step and soaking it in the turpentine. Alfred didn't speak, content to keep working and watch from the corner of his eye as the German brought the cloth to the door and began to scrub away.
For a second, he didn't really remember what he was doing, and his hands were really moving automatically.
Cloud nine.
This was more than he'd hoped for. More than he could have asked for. After so much trouble and so much work and so much stress, having this quiet, unusual man walk up to him of his own free-will was just...
He couldn't even think of words.
Once again at a loss, tongue-tied and sinking into ineloquence.
But this time, it didn't matter. The German was not asking him for conversation. It was something more than that. So much more.
They met each others' eyes on occasion, and Alfred was fairly certain that he was smiling in a ridiculous fashion, but there was no way he'd be able to wipe it from his face, so he didn't even try.
They carried on. No words.
They gripped the cloths in their hands, and scrubbed up and down, glancing at each other from time to time, working in silent unison until the paint finally began to dissolve, running down the door in black streams.
It occurred to Alfred, as the German reached down to soak his cloth again, that the expression on his face was endearingly serious. All work. Total concentration. Gentle hands. Like he was restoring the Mona Lisa, instead of scrubbing a door clean.
It was then, maybe, watching him silently work, that Alfred finally understood (not fully, but a little) how much it must have hurt him—all of them!—to be called that word, and to be labeled with that symbol. Why old Mrs. Schulze had burst into tears that day. Why the tall, handsome blond's cool eyes had blazed in anger every time that word had been tossed at him. It hurt. Both their sense of pride in themselves, and their pride in their motherland.
He wouldn't pretend that he truly understood, but he grasped, however distantly, that that word must have cut deeper than any knife.
He felt shamed, and even a little meek. It was still a little stunning, at times, to realize that he was not always right, and that he didn't really know everything. It was this feeling of inadequacy that led him to finally open his mouth.
"So, what brings you out here?" he managed, his voice strong and sure even though his hands trembled as he hid them in the cloth.
For a moment, he didn't think he'd get an answer, and the way the German's brow was lowered in concentration, he wasn't entirely sure that he'd even been heard at all.
But then a low, deep rumble.
"Just wanted to see the lights."
A cool look was cast his way, and it was clear that the German was content to leave it at that.
Well.
"Well, lucky for me I guess. I'd've been out here all night."
He kept his voice a whisper, so as not to disturb the households.
The German only gave a quick, "Hm."
With two, the work went a lot faster. It was still a ways before midnight when they finally started to finish up.
Looked good.
The door was cleaner than it had been before, by the time they got done with it, and when every trace of paint was gone, Alfred took a step back, observing their work with a sharp eye and taking up a dry towel to rub his hands free of the turpentine.
No one would have ever known the paint had been there. The guilt of his own trespasses dissipated.
He felt pretty good. Pretty goddamn good.
Finally, after a silence, as bursts of light from the fireworks above lit up the streets, Alfred said, without looking over, "Thanks."
Silence.
A great thunder above as fireworks exploded.
Sparing a glance at his counterpart, Alfred saw that he had finished wiping his hands and had turned his back to the door, staring up at the horizon as the lights changed colors. His hair had come loose in the sleet, falling into his eyes. Alfred took note that, damp and unkempt and smelling like paint thinner, the German wasn't quite as overwhelming and intimidating, especially gazing up at fireworks like a dreamy kid.
"Hey," he said, going out on a limb, "There's still time. Do you wanna go watch the ball drop?"
Still staring upward, arms crossed over his chest and face as calm and stoic as it usually was, the German only answered with another enigmatic, "Hm."
After nothing else came, Alfred shook his head, smiling.
"I'll take that as a 'no'."
Well, time to go home then. He'd probably overstayed his welcome outside this house. He turned around and knelt down, cleaning the last of the turpentine from his hands as he meant to gather up the items and prepare to depart. He was prepared to resume his wanderings alone. Same old.
A quick, light touch on his shoulder came out of nowhere.
The brush was only for a second, and when he looked up, startled, he was caught under a cool, alert gaze, and then there was a whisper that barely rose above the sleet battering the sidewalk.
"Ludwig."
Dumbfounded, he could only utter, "H-huh?" and his heart raced in his chest when he realized that the German was speaking to him.
Speaking.
He rubbed his hands in the cloth long after they were clean, too dumb with adrenaline to move, as still as a rock.
"What?"
A hesitant silence.
"Ludwig," the blond finally repeated, and then he backed away, and his expression belied a certain nervousness, as he tucked his hands behind his back. "My name," he added, at Alfred's look of complete confusion, "Ludwig."
Alfred was frozen for a moment, and then came back to earth with a loud, "Oh!" and pulled himself up to his feet.
And then the realization really hit him, and it was like lightning; he broke into a grin so wide that he had to squint his eyes to accommodate it, and placed his hands on his hips. "Say," he began, "You're really tellin' me your name? I don't believe it!" The excitement was nearly overwhelming, and for a moment, he was proud that he had kept composure as well as he had.
It would have been very easy to stomp his foot in triumph, and laugh to the sky.
Instead, he extended his hand, in what would be the first handshake ever exchanged between them, the first real commiseration, the first willful and completely mutual contact. He was all but bristling with exhilaration. His excitement dulled just a little when the German leaned back automatically, in a perhaps instilled response to get as far away from his hand as possible.
A flinch. He flinched.
Ignoring the ache in his chest, Alfred pressed forward, too close now to back off, adding amicably, "I'm Alfred. It's...great to meet you. Ludwick."
He tried to keep his hand steady as he held it out and waited.
Oh! Come on! So close.
No movement, and for a second, his heart started to sink. The German looked frozen. Uncertain. Maybe even a little frightened, staring down at his hand as thought it would bite.
Fireworks burst overhead.
His hand began to lower, a little, in disappointment. Maybe it was still too soon.
But, then again, maybe the New Year would be better for him than he had thought.
After a hesitation that felt like an eternity, the German finally inhaled a great, deep breath, as though he was about to dive into the sea, and then reached out, taking the offered hand in a firm grip, and Alfred's smile returned like the sun.
The best feeling, no doubt about it.
The best.
That hand within his own.
The German finally found his voice again, and murmured, lowly, "It's Ludwig."
"Eh?"
"Ludwig."
"That's what I said, wasn't it? Ludwick?"
"No, no, Ludwig."
"I'm just not hearing the difference."
"Ludwig."
"Ludwick."
"Ludwig!"
"Ludwig?"
The German froze, open-mouthed, and then, almost surprised, nodded his head.
Alfred's heart was pounding so hard in his chest he was afraid he would faint. Hadn't even noticed when the handshake had ended, but already regretted the cold air on his palm again.
"Ludwig," he repeated, mostly to himself, and even as the unusual, soft hiss of a 'g' was strange on his tongue, he considered the possibility that surely he was dreaming.
Too good to be true.
Ludwig. His name was Ludwig.
Ludwig stood there for a second, straight as a board, hands tucked behind his back and shoulders shifting up and down anxiously, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and sped off down the steps, disappearing into the shadows, and Alfred was too stunned and overwhelmed to go after him. He didn't need to. That had been enough. The German—Ludwig!—would not have responded to that anyway.
He had said all he had wanted to, and nothing more. He would talk again when he was ready.
And by god, what a feeling it was that ran through him as he took up the can with shaking hands, too enthralled to really care too much about where he was going next, and he barely realized when he tossed the can and the towels into some dumpster in an alley.
Walking in the clouds.
Dirty streets were no problem.
Because they had met each other. Really met each other, and there had been no hatred in the blond's deep, smooth voice. No animosity. No pain. No fear.
He found himself wandering into the main streets before long, sinking back into the shouting and bouncing crowd, and his heart soared the entire night, as he gave in to his adrenaline and happiness, and he merged in with the people beside of him and roared in the New Year as loudly and as energetically as he had every other year.
This time, though, he had a real reason to look forward to it.
Christ almighty, there was nothing like it. Nothing. Not a thing in the world.
And for the very first time in his life, as he mingled and babbled mindlessly away with the crowd pressing against him, there was no voice in the back of his head trying to convince him that Germans were evil, no whispers in his subconscious that fought to reassure him that he had never done anything wrong.
Nothing.
For the first time in his life, he forgot everything his father had ever taught him.