AN: scuzi my formatting. This is a de-anon from the hetalia kink meme, woowoo! All in one chapter because I suck. Warnings for boy lovins, nazi meanies, etc. I was worried about the OOC, but anons informed me that I did well. So decide for yourself, I supposes.
Part I
"This one is special, a defector. Keep a close eye on him."
Ludwig stood at attention, eyes averted to his superior officer as he saluted affirmative. He wasn't often assigned to tasks like this, or really ever, but he was familiar enough with the process and determined to do well. The elder officer (dressed in a sharp black SS uniform that he so, so envied) deposited his pitiful charge on the floor, gave him a farewell and exited the small prison quarters. Ludwig knew these bleak walls; the past week or so consisted of him studying the cracking plaster and waiting for a more prestigious assignment. Presently, he took the elbow of his weakened prisoner without looking and hauled him into the cell at the hall's end, which faced the doorway. For a moment he though the little arm belonged to a child or a youth, but a quick glance at the face told him he was dealing with a short Italian adult.
"You get two meals a day and that cot. Be grateful they haven't killed you."
The Italian remained silent, laying face down where Ludwig deposited him, as though he were merely a corpse. Besides a bit of blood on his lip, he had no external injuries. A belligerent, Ludwig figured; passive resistance and all that. No doubt he would be tasked with making him respond later.
"Rather," he continued, interested to make the man react, "you might wish you were dead by the end of the week."
Stillness in response.
He locked the cell quietly and continued out to his post, now required to fill out paperwork to make sure his charge received meals in a timely fashion, and to add him to the current populace of the whole camp, for statistical reasons. This post proved troublesome; he much preferred his time on the field before they retired him to this prisoner camp. With a sigh, he took a blank form from his desk, a set of plain clothes and went back to the cell. Certain questions required information from the prisoner.
"Hey. You need to wear these. I have some questions for you."
To his surprise, the prone form rolled to face him, arms flopping out to either side in a sick parody of the crucifixion. Those eyes. Eyes full of glazed ache and exhaustion, eyes that might have once been joyful and beautiful. He'd seen these eyes before, but never so pained.
"I'm coming in. It is for your own benefit to cooperate."
Silence again.
"Do you speak German?"
The auburn head nodded, strands of hair falling and shifting over his forehead. Ludwig stood from his crouched position and unlocked the cell door, keeping his baton close and his eye careful. The quiet ones always made a mess. Raving lunatics, angry allied soldiers, he could deal with them. This man unnerved him. Those tired eyes followed him as he stepped around the body, clothes and paperwork balanced in one arm.
"You'll need to stand now. I need to file a report and get you in the uniform. I need to assess your current state of health, as well."
The young man pushed himself up slowly, never breaking eye contact with Ludwig, although the way he leant against the bars for support spoke of extreme fatigue. Ludwig saw the strength of his spirit and felt a simultaneous pitying and a sense of admiration. That man would be broken soon enough, and the fact nearly saddened him.
"Are you capable of undressing yourself?"
The man shook his head, for once looking down as though embarrassed as he dug his shoulder into the bars for support, legs shaking with the effort of standing. No, Ludwig could detect true exhaustion when necessary; this man could not attack him even if he desired.
"Are you capable of speaking?"
Once again, he shook his head, chest heaving beneath his impassive face. Wordlessly, Ludwig stepped forward with the clothes, leaving his papers on the small cot. The prisoner wore a worn Italian uniform, black and blue. Ludwig knew the fasteners as well as the ones on his uniforms; they were practically the same. He folded the jacket and set it aside, beginning to loosen the tie and painstakingly unbutton the black undershirt. Beneath it, the Italian wore a black singlet, which Ludwig promised he would have returned to him. A brief struggle ensued in which the Italian's exhaustion required him to lean against Ludwig while he removed his shirt and singlet; not dropping him on the floor proved a unique challenge. He ended up cradling the exhausted man in the cage of his arms as he straightened out the singlet and prison shirt behind him, all the while observing his back for signs of trauma. He found none. Another struggle as he pulled the singlet back on and the simple shirt over it; it was far too large for the delicate frame in his arms. The young man had dozed against his chest, cheek pressing into the scratchy wool of his jacket.
"Hey, wake up," he said, shaking him slightly. Bleary eyes looked up at him, irritated. "It's my job," he explained, forgetting that he didn't have to answer to a prisoner. The eyes slid shut, satisfied. Ludwig felt irate, quite suddenly.
"Do the pants yourself. I'll ask you the questions later."
In a surprisingly obedient manner, his prisoner unbuttoned his pants and pushed them off, again holding eye contact. He undoubtedly registered the shock on Ludwig's face when he saw the smeared bloodstains on his thighs and boxers. They looked recent.
"I'll bring you a basin. You'll get your underwear back later," he promised, managing to sound calm when his internal anger had intensified and redirected. Perhaps this was why he left the infantry. Idiots. War could be a noble pursuit; one could fight for their country and keep the honor of others in mind. Evidently the soldiers who captured him had lost their way. He kept his eyes averted as the man stripped his boxers and replaced them with the starkly striped pants.
"If you can't speak for now, please write your name on this paper so that I can begin the files," he asked, collecting the remaining garments by enfolding the bloody boxers in the discarded pants. The Italian nodded, kneeling by the cot to sign his name. Ludwig accepted his pencil without incident and took the clothes and forms out of the cell with him. There, at the very top of the form in shockingly beautiful script: Feliciano Vargas.
Part II
He brought a basin of water and a cloth a short time later, seeing a glint of thankfulness in those tired eyes. In case the man decided to speak, he brought the forms back as well.
"I need to catalogue your injuries."
Those eyes rolled up at him, as if to ask why.
"Paperwork."
He blinked in understanding, pulling the simple shirt over his head. Ludwig observed a minor abrasion on his chest and noted it, along with the slenderness of his body and the curve of his waist. He'd never seen a man like that, and remembered suddenly the warm weight against his chest. The eyes watched him, bore into his gaze as though Feliciano could plumb his thoughts from his very mind. He felt more exposed than the little Italian, who busied himself with the ties on his too-long pants.
Ludwig saw the whole picture at once: the fingerprinted bruises on his hips, the bloody smears on his thighs, his limp cock, nested neatly between them, and god, even a shallow bite on the high muscle of one leg. Beasts. Feliciano gathered the wet cloth, standing in the basin to catch the drips. First the blood on his thighs washed away, a small wince as the cloth brushed the bite mark. Ludwig noted a high dusting of pink on his cheeks as he reached behind with the cloth, pink water running down his legs. Coffee eyes watched it swirl in the clean basin, no longer meeting Ludwig's gaze. The German gave him a measure of privacy by jotting down the injuries he'd noted on his form.
"How old are you?"
Feliciano held up two fingers and then made circle with the same hand. Ludwig focused on keeping his jaw closed; they were the same age. How utterly bizarre. The fingers began to tremble, the hand, the wrist, the arm, as Feliciano lowered it.
"Get some rest. Food in an hour."
His eyes closed gratefully, body swaying as he stepped out of the basin. Ludwig lifted it as he redressed, watching the pink water slosh in the bottom. By the time he turned to seal the cell, Feliciano had curled up on the small cot, utterly unconscious. Ludwig delivered his dinner an hour late, to let him rest.
Part III
Washing out the bloodstains had taken him the better part of an hour; Feliciano slept through the night and half the day, not once shifting or rolling in his sleep. Only the fine movements of his eyelashes told Ludwig of the dreams he must be experiencing. He set the boxers, clean and damp, to air dry on the crossbar of the Italian's cell, knowing he would find it later. Very cold water had at last removed the stains, at the cost of the feeling in Ludwig's fingers. Feliciano was his first and only charge; he wasn't accustomed to treating anyone this way. It wasn't as though caring for him was an inconvenience; on the contrary, he somehow felt indebted to show him that German soldiers could treat their captives with respect, as a foil to his cruel treatment upon capture. At noon, he held a pen aloft, hovering over a clean prisoner evaluation form. The nib poised on the third line beneath the 'injuries' subsection, as the first two listed previously noted wounds. His eyes strained on the words 'impression of teeth', unable to look away, until the door to his compound opened and he at last set down the pen.
"Guten tag, Captain."
"At ease. How is our little one?"
"He's been resting. He arrived quite exhausted. It took much effort to get him processed."
"The men who brought him in said he was a feisty one. Give you much trouble?"
His fist tightened on the leg of his pants.
"Not behaviorally. Rather, he couldn't stand from exhaustion."
"Ah, I see you're filing his forms right now. So responsible."
"Yes, he has a few injuries."
"He put up quite a fight for me as well."
Ludwig disguised his sudden rearing up as a way to fix the tail of his jacket.
"He is very obedient with me. I haven't had to subdue him at all."
A meaningful glance passed between the officers, the elder leering and the younger smoldering.
"We'll see. I expect those forms in by the end of today."
His fingers felt stiff as he disentangled them. He would have to hurry the forms, in that case.
"I'll see you in the mess, sir."
"Indeed."
He looked back at his forms as his superior left, cringing at all the unfilled blanks. If Feliciano was still sleeping… no, he would likely have awakened by now, if not from the noise of their conversation. He picked up a soft pen from the inner drawer of his desk and a notepad, hoping to communicate that way, as whatever prevented the Italian from speaking the day before likely prevented him now. With a concealed sigh, he rose from the seat and turned through the adjacent doorway to the cellblock, passing empty rows, steps echoing over the cool cement. Feliciano no longer slept on his cot, nor was he standing; Ludwig tilted his head as he approached, trying to see the stark black and white of his pants. There, in the corner.
"Feliciano?" he asked, wincing at the delicate Italian word from his German lips. The tawny head rose, eyes looking at him with unreserved distrust. "What is it? I'm coming in."
The little body shuddered back, shoulder blades inching into the corner between the wall and the bars, knees lifting and cinching ever closer to that small form. His underwear had been taken down from the bars.
"You heard the captain, didn't you? Did he also-?"
Those eyes widened, closed; his entire face vanished in his knees.
"I thought it was just the soldiers who captured you."
No response.
"I have to finish your forms," he said, sitting on the small cot after closing the iron door behind him. "If you'll allow me."
Confusion? The head lifted, brows wrinkling, distrust seeping away.
"What? Why do you think I came in?"
A look sideways, a squeeze of arms around his knees. Ludwig softened his posture, understanding.
"I'm not—I mean. I won't," he said quickly, embarrassed and angered. Those pigs. Feliciano searched his face for deception. "I'm not like them." The Italian exhaled, relaxing. Ludwig handed him the felt pen and the notepad, which he took carefully, testing the nib.
"Which army were you a part of?"
Italian. Our country backed out of the axis and our squadron was captured in Austria before we knew what had happened. We hadn't received orders from Mussolini when the Nazis came in.
He could have supposed from the uniform, but the confirmation assisted his understanding.
"Thank you. Could you write your ID and military rankings down?"
The dog tags are in my front jacket pocket.
"I see."
That might have simplified matters yesterday.
"Why do you think we're holding you?"
Feliciano paused, holding the pen over the paper as he considered.
The most obvious reason would be because I now belong to an enemy's army. The officer who brought me in mentioned my brother. That may be why I've been separated.
"Your brother? Why is he important?"
He's the head of an Italian protest group and a key member of the white roses. He's been running operations through Switzerland to avoid military conflict.
Ludwig lifted his eyebrows. This could pan out very badly for Feliciano.
"Are you connected to him?"
He denounced me after our parents died. That's why I joined the fascist party and enlisted.
"There's no way they'll believe that," Ludwig murmured, almost to himself. The Italian's head sank again. "and yes, it means unfortunate consequences for you."
If his superiors knew of this relation, Ludwig would likely re-enter this cell later with a whip in hand. The thought struck him, deep and trembling, as though the very idea were enough to make him vomit. He had tortured men for information before, true, but Feliciano…
"It's not my fault if something happens," he said, using his commanding presence to his advantage. The Italian met his gaze, searching to understand. "If I disobey, we'll both be in worse trouble. Rest now."
Feliciano had such delicate wrists; he noted the small knob of bone and the perfect little curve on the inside of his hand as he received his pen and notepad. If their thumbs brushed, skin parted by the thin cloth of his gloves, he simply hadn't noticed.
Part IV
"Get up. You—up."
Feliciano stood silently, pulling at the thighs of his pants to avoid tripping on the hem.
"Take the shirt off."
He saw the officer behind Ludwig and hesitated, fearing that he'd lied; another violation would occur. But no, the pain in his sharp blue eyes was distinct, burning next to the promise. Slowly, he tugged the overlarge garment from his torso, tossing it to the cot behind him. He felt Ludwig's eyes over his chest and waist, and experienced no fear; only flattery. When the officer looked, he felt a roiling sickness.
"Ludwig, escort him."
The German approached the cell, one hand on his baton for show. He knew Feliciano would cooperate for him, if no-one else. In moments he'd tied both of his wrists to long leather straps from either side of the hallway, suspending him in the very center, arms spread. His tiny scapula spread like wings out of his back, jutting impossibly, while his bare toes braced on the cold cement.
"Feliciano Vargas. Tell us the current location of your brother, or Ludwig lashes you twice."
Ludwig's heart leapt up, willing him to speak, to nod, to give any signal. The Italian merely stilled, swaying lightly from the ties, head vanishing below the cross of his shoulders.
"Give him two. Don't slack."
He knew the damage done by his full strength; he did hold back, but blood seeped and oozed from the lashes regardless. At the very least, they looked like his full effort. Feliciano did not move; only let his body sway with the blows. Wordlessly, Ludwig drew a cork from his jacket pocket and placed it between his teeth. They eyes held no blame, but neither did they meet his gaze.
"Feliciano. Give us any information at all, and this will stop. I'll even have Ludwig treat your wounds. We'll give you morphine for the pain. Tell us."
The little body swayed, imitating the carcass of a pig on a meat hook. Ludwig felt sick.
"Until I say stop."
Stark cracks in the empty cell block, stark blood on his pale back. The Captain signaled him down after what seemed like one hundred more; he counted only five crimson strikes.
"Do you know the location of Lovino Vargas?"
The Captain stepped around to look at his face, his own contorting with rage.
"I asked you a question!" he spat, German rolling and rasping sharply, spittle flying. Ludwig winced as his open palm whisked across Feliciano's cheek, shocking his lolling head to one side. The cork bounced twice on the floor. "Do you know?"
The head shook faintly. The Captain shook with anger.
"Give him two for fun. I'm leaving."
He watched the Captain flounce and gave two empty cracks out of sight. The door slammed shut a moment later.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Ties could be replaced; his penknife disposed of them quickly, allowing Feliciano to fall into his arms.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, careful not to touch his raw back. The Italian smelled strongly of fear, and slightly acrid, but overall quite lovely. His hair smelled sun-warmed against his nose. "How can I help? What do you need?"
He pulled back to watch his face, bracing him by the shoulders. The full lips pursed slightly, then his entire mouth opened in a vowel, tongue and teeth together, and lastly the mouth mostly closed, lips pouting slightly.
Wasser. Water.
"Stay here. Don't lie on your back. I'll hurry."
Feliciano remained seated where the pair had collapsed, leaning forward against the pain of his wounds. He hardly noticed when Ludwig set down the tumbler of water in front of him and began rinsing his back gently. With enough mind to drink, Feliciano barely stirred as he applied clean bandages and disinfectant. His daze continued as Ludwig picked him up in two arms and carried him back into the cell. The little body shivered on the cot, quietly suffering as the German draped the shirt over him. He stood over him, hand hovering from where it had released the shirt. Ludwig left the cell, only to return with his old green field jacket, now draped over Feliciano's slim, shuddering shoulders.
Part V
His awakening disoriented him; dreams continued into near-wakefulness, lucid plots that suddenly ceased to make sense, stories he controlled by conscious thought until the morning light seeped too strongly through his red eyelids. He felt upright; his back against something cold and solid. A wall? Certainly not his cot; cushioning beneath his rear and something warm draped over his lap. A blanket, but heavy, and oddly shaped. His left hand rested over it, softness brushing the skin of his wrist where his sleeve and glove parted. With great effort, he lifted his chin from it chest where it had fallen and saw… bars. A cell. The inside of a cell? There, the wide-open steel door. His blanket shifted.
Feliciano peered up at him, eyes wide and stunning in the fresh light. His left hand rested in the hair at the top of his head, silky strands teasing that patch of skin at the heel of his palm. The Italian's head and shoulders rested over his legs, body concealed by the shirt and his field jacket.
"How is your back?" he asked, tongue dry and stale from sleep. Feliciano nodded, eyes open and clear. "Good. M'glad. You didn't lie, did you? You really don't know?"
Another nod. Ludwig remembered the Captain's fierce slap and touched a faint red mark at the side of Feliciano's cheek, wincing sympathetically.
"I'm still sorry."
Again, he nodded, inching his head closer to Ludwig's torso, eyes fluttering shut slightly.
"Does that mean you forgive me?" he asked, knowing the answer as he petted through that auburn mess. "Would you forgive me again?"
To his utter stupefaction, a tiny, beautiful smile tilted the corners of Feliciano's lips, half-hidden against his stomach. He wanted to take it and treasure it, paint it and photograph it and remember this moment for all time, unsure of what he'd done to deserve its appearance but wanting to deserve a thousand more. Instead he ran his thumb over the corner of it, as though dispelling the possibility that his sleep-hazed eyes had manufactured it. He'd rather have felt the shape with his lips.
Part VI
The next week passed without incident, only an easy routine of taking meals together and watching the bite mark heal at each bath, which Ludwig generously brought in water for. Prisoners were normally disallowed from hygiene and laundry, but he had time and kindness and saw no reason not to allow the Italian some compensation for his initially poor treatment. The lashes were clean and sealed up quickly, but Ludwig knew that whippings left scars. At the very least, he'd avoided an unpleasant infection by prudent treatment, and that alone could have caused much grief. They conversed occasionally by the notepad; Ludwig had reams of notes hand-written in Feliciano's delicate script. They read like disjointed letters.
This lonely Saturday, he read and reread the most recently written line of flowing cursive.
…separated from all my friends except you.
Dread and longing, swirling together high in his chest. He'd gone too far caring for Feliciano. He would need the psych ward forms, and the appointment roster, and he'd have to take himself in later today for counseling. Yes, he would dispel his illusions. He was a soldier. No friends on the battlefield, particularly not enemy soldiers.
"He's been teasing you with that cute little ass for days, hasn't he?"
Ludwig closed his notebook with utmost nonchalance.
"Excuse me, Captain?"
"He rather upset me the other week. I'd very much like to have him suffer a bit. His transfer to the torture block is already arranged, but... I want to see him when you're through; make it hurt. You can only get your kicks for another week at most."
"Captain, would it not humiliate him more to take pleasure from it? To have him helplessly enjoying a hated enemy's ministrations?"
The Captain considered silently; Ludwig feared he'd crossed the invisible line that determined cruel sport from sinful pleasures.
"Bring me his seed; his shame."
"Yes, Captain."
Feliciano would not be violated again, as long as Ludwig held influence over his treatment. He accepted the black handkerchief from his superior, teeth grinding quietly.
"Have fun, Ludwig."
His features nearly refused to still, a tide of disgust roiling up from his heart. The Captain left him, leaving only endless cold and shameful silence beyond the sharp click of the office door. If the office compromised the body, and the cell block the tail, the entirety of Ludwig's compound had two additional wings jutting out to either side; one for Ludwig's personal use and the other for storage. His motives felt hazy and uncertain, but the impetus driving him proved strong and blinding; it guided him unfailingly to the single storage locker that contained Feliciano's clothes. From the front pocket, he snatched the pair of dog tags, which immediately joined his pair around the column of his neck. From the very first locker, he gathered the medical emergency kit and extracted an unlabelled plastic bottle of clear, viscous fluid. Quite suddenly, his mind, previously stalled as though swimming through glycerin, gained speed and flow, accumulating in a rough, yet clever plan. Now his rational mind raced to compete with the scheme, losing speed against the developing idea, which gained polish and detail at an increasing rate. Meanwhile, his feet carried him back into the office, hands remembering to lock the unit before passing through to the cell block. Feliciano met his eyes from the very end of the hall, shoulders hunched as he sat on the small cot. Ludwig slowed his approach, feeling very much as though he would rather approach an ornery lion at the moment.
"You heard everything."
Silence.
"I had nothing to do with it."
What are you doing here, then?
"The least I could do to keep you from getting hurt again. I won't cause you pain."
The anger softened, giving way to something like sadness. Accusatory misery.
"I have a plan. I will tell you later. For now, I must fulfill the Captain's expectations. I'm sorry."
The clarity vanished from those eyes, as though a sudden fog rolled over in the warm chocolate irises.
"Feliciano, please. Don't. Don't leave like that. Stay with me."
He reached out, unsure but desperate to connect somehow, when a sharp wrist knocked his hand aside. Only just comprehending, Feliciano lashed out again and stung his jaw with a small fist. Every pound of his lean force recoiled from Ludwig's touch, only desperate rage and instinct fueling him to strike. Naturally, Ludwig's size gave him the advantage, but containing so much desperate muscle left him with aching bruises. He managed to struggle the Italian up against the iron door, wincing at the harsh impact of his back against the steel.
"Listen to me, damn it!"
The eyes looked past him, unheeding. Ludwig grit his teeth, understanding how hard Feliciano must have fought the Captain and the other soldiers, and feeling dark shame for receiving the same resistance. As much as he tried to convince himself he was different, was he truly? He was about to force the Italian again, and despite the promised lack of pain, would it be any better? The little chest heaved below him, thin arms caught by the wrists in his comparatively huge hands. He'd forgotten to wear gloves. Feliciano's skin was the smoothest he'd ever felt.
"Listen. I've never lied to you."
For the first time, he truly felt as though he were talking to himself. Feliciano's complete lack of response silenced him. Words would do him no good. Sensing that the Italian would remain complacent, he lowered his arms, loosely holding one wrist down by his waist, the other hand brushing gentle knuckles over Feliciano's soft cheek. His naturally tan skin looked paler; Ludwig contrasted his pallid flesh curiously, aware of the soft breath rushing against his neck despite the distance. Between Ludwig's large body and the iron door, Feliciano remained complacent and unaware, protected. Cautious, Ludwig brushed his lips over his, suppressing the tingles that chased over his skin.
"Feliciano."
Slowly, his eyes unclouded, looking up with shock and wonder.
"I am sorry. This is the least I can offer you. When they transfer you, I have a plan to set you free."
Softly, he placed another kiss on his smooth forehead, and again at each temple. His fingers had laced through Feliciano's at his waist; only now did he realize as the Italian gazed up at him, jaw slightly slackened by his sudden tenderness.
"Will you trust me?"
Feliciano conveyed his answer with no sound or motion; Ludwig felt it run through him, resounding. Dizzily, they kissed, soft lips, slick tongue, the occasional clashing of teeth. He couldn't bring himself to care, intoxicated by the taste of the man beneath him.
"Would you forgive me?"
Only whispered, rushing out against Feliciano's lips before he could stop them. The Italian panted softly, running his lips all across Ludwig's, waiting for more. There; Ludwig felt a motion against his mouth, a hiss.
Yes.
"I won't make you do anything. I'll take care of you," he promised, guiding Feliciano to the small cot. He sat, back against the concrete, and placed the smaller man in his lap, facing the same direction. The ties on his large pants came undone easily, the excess fabric sliding away without struggle. Feliciano lifted his hips obligingly; Ludwig caught the waistband of his boxers unceremoniously and removed them as well. Despite the bared, semi-hard length resting in plain sight, Ludwig took his sweet time over Feliciano's neck, kissing and nibbling the sensitive skin and counting the number of gentle, shocked breaths he could cause. His hands roamed beneath the large prison shirt, claiming skin with warm, trailing heat, until his hands cupped the tops of Feliciano's warm thighs, spreading them over his lap. The Italian's length stood proud and naked between his open legs, sac drooping gently to rest against the fabric of Ludwig's pants. Slowly, he slipped one hand beneath a knee, simultaneously distracting with a series of breathy kisses to Feliciano's ear as his other hand worked in his pocket, extracting the bottle he had obtained earlier. Feliciano's head lolled back against his shoulder, eyes closed in a pleasured strain as Ludwig lifted his knee up and out, rolling his hips back to access the entrance of his body.
"Breathe, trust me," he murmured, pressing comforting kisses to the side of his face and neck as he poured the viscous fluid down from the base of his cock, knowing it would drip and run to where it belonged. The Italian's body gave a gentle rocking at the coldness, shoulders tensing in a shudder until it warmed to his skin. Hushed comforts continued, mouthed and breathed and kissed into Feliciano's very skin. Ludwig worked carefully, gentle fingers, gentle touch, gentle words, always careful and attentive, easing away the pain and calming his willing body.
"Are you feeling it?" he asked, kissing the tender spot behind his ear, two fingers buried wet and deep, one hand stroking softly, coaxing. Those panting breaths continued, huffing pleasure, and Ludwig listened with utmost attention. Lips, teeth, tongue, behind the rush of air, as clear as if he had truly said it: yes. A moan escaped him before he became aware, one hand fumbling beneath the Italian for the buckles of his pants. Ludwig found himself already leaking.
He felt briefly ill upon entering; while still tight, Ludwig managed to enter him with little resistance, thanks to Feliciano's captors. The Italian fluttered around him, suddenly anxious, tainted with bad memories.
"I'm sorry," he said, feeling helpless to dispel the painful past. It occurred to him that Feliciano wasn't quite as short as he seemed; his body had grown lanky, even though his initial weight was pitiful to begin with. Ludwig realized that his figure in robust health would be vastly different. His face, while beautiful, also had a fine jaw and strong cheeks. His manhood, now wilting slightly, was undeniable, as were the slender muscles of his body. Ludwig pursed his lips, coming to grips with the fact that Feliciano was indeed a man, much as himself. How much of this pursuit was in selfish nature? If Captain only required his release, was entering him truly necessary? Still, he felt somehow obligated to erase the deeds of his fellow soldiers, to prove that not all treatment by his countrymen was cruel. Yet, here he was, falling limp in his tight passage as doubts consumed him. Presently, Feliciano turned his head to look, quantifying the sadness of his features carefully.
"I—I can't apologize enough. I've been a fool."
The body shifted on his lap, and for a moment Ludwig assumed he was leaving, pulling his clothes to order—but a pair of warm lips touched his. His eyes widened, shock rendering him temporarily unable to respond. Feliciano shifted up, allowing Ludwig to fall free of him, but turned to face him, legs falling over his clothed thighs. They looked for a moment, meeting gazes as Ludwig forsook breathing to anticipate his actions. Those lips pursed in thought, shoulders straightening.
"Please."
His voice broke, only a small fraction of tenor tone coloring the whispered syllable. Ludwig pulled him desperately close, uncomprehending of the importance of his gift. What made him worthy of this? In the closeness of embrace, each length stirred in the presence of the other, hardening in search of contact. Feliciano let a broken groan, voice patching in roughly. Ludwig echoed him, grasping the two of them with a slick hand. Only a moment passed before the Italian shuddered; gasping, spilling. He wasted no time collecting the slick seed to his still-slick passage, adding to the wetness before slipping in gently, almost gently enough with the extra lubrication that Feliciano did not note it. In the next moment, he rocked his hips, not wanting to break the pleasurable momentum that kept Feliciano in a haze of feeling. His voice solidified with use, moans taking musical shapes, echoing like psalms in a cathedral. Feliciano was quick to spill again, dirtying Ludwig's working hand.
"Ludwig," he whimpered, still moving as the soldier squeezed the final milky dribbles from his spent cock. The blonde's mouth fell open helplessly, the sheer eroticism of hearing his name from those lips overtaking him. He opened his eyes after a moment, realizing that his head had fallen into the softness of Feliciano's shoulder, arms wound tight around his precious body, seed leaking out against his pants from his partner.
I love you.
"I—I need," he started, wanting so badly to voice his thoughts. "I need to discuss the plan with you."
Part VII: OMAKE
He hadn't expected to see him again; he hadn't expected much from his life, either. In those long years, the war faded away, the fear and the pain faded, but never the deep, echoing heartache. Ludwig constantly remembered his retreating back; that weakened body scrambling beyond the fence and into freedom. Many nights since then he'd spent imagining Feliciano's outcome: if he'd lived and run, or died in the nearby warzone. Perhaps he'd been recaptured, and if then, was he released in time? If he made it somewhere safe, where? He considered the possibility that his obsessive musings led him here; a small café in the north of Italy. Ludwig spent his time travelling when he could, and already searched—visited—France, Spain and Austria. Naturally, he couldn't be expected to scour the whole of a country, but it eliminated where Feliciano was not. Then again, the prospect that Feliciano no longer walked the earth nagged at him each time. What would he say if he saw him again? He frowned over his espresso.
I'm sorry?
It was a mistake?
I love you?
An extra cloud of steam rose from the cup as his breath disturbed the liquid surface. He wondered if Feliciano spoke now. He wanted to hear his voice again, more clearly. He wanted to make sure the lashes healed properly and check for scars. He wanted to make love again, in a proper bed with a soft mattress and blankets and all the time in the world. As he sipped his coffee, alone and somber, he wanted to cry. Ludwig settled for a mournful chin on his fist, posture imitating the slump of his life since Feliciano left it.
"Are you feeling okay, sir?"
He looked up at the waiter, surprised to have been addressed in German. The voice held a particular lilt to it, something undeniably familiar that tugged at hidden strings in his heart.
"I'm fine-," he paused, mouth falling open in utter shock. "I'm sorry. I—you look like someone I used to know."
The man scoffed, eyes rolling to the side. No, his eyes were green, not the warm tawny he so vividly remembered.
"You're probably thinking of my idiot brother. Everyone mistakes me for him."
"Who are you?"
"Lovino Vargas," he said, "and you'd better tip me for all this trouble."
Vargas. Vargas.
"Sure, sure. Where is your brother?"
"Like I care. Last I heard he was in Switzerland after escaping from some prison camp. I get letters sometimes; he's still there I think, unless he's moved in the past year."
"Which city? Where?"
"Jesus, you're nosey! Aarau, I think. It's not far from here."
"Thank you. You don't know what this means to me."
"I sure as hell don't," he exclaimed, already turning to head inside. "I hope you aren't some creepo after my brother. I'll track you down, mister."
Ludwig smiled to himself, tossing a few extra francs to the table before rushing off to the nearest train station.
One hundred and twenty miles away, Feliciano washed dishes in the back room of a bakery, still remembering the kind touch of a German soldier from long ago.