A/N : Longer one here. PolGer. 1930's, Free City of Danzig setting. War and Nazi stuff. Not really a cute or happy one this time around, exactly. (Sarada-Yuchiha on tumblr requested something with Poland, so I tried to deliver. Apologies if this is nothing at all for what you hoped or expected! It's just where my mind went right away! I'm trash.)

FORTUNA

Of all the grand things Feliks had envisioned himself doing in his life, working in the one Polish post office in Gdansk was not one of them.

To be perfectly honest, Feliks had expected to be famous by now, an actor or politician or artist or some such. Had known as a child that he wanted grandeur and public attention. Had dreamt of being a celebrity, important and influential, affluent.

Instead, he dutifully filed envelopes and parcels into piles, eyes glazed over and brain very shut down, all goals and aspirations having been very unfairly snatched from him. Well, perhaps snatched wasn't exactly an appropriate word—more like, all goals and aspirations hadn't been set neatly into his lap and he had been too unmotivated to actively seek them out.

Feliks has wanted greatness, but had never really wanted to put in the work necessary to achieve it. Had rather hoped it would just come to him, and so had never chased after it. Feliks was insanely egotistical, arrogant, entitled, the son of wealthy parents, and had always expected to be handed everything. His attitude was horrible, he knew that. Hadn't known it in his youth, but once his parents had died and Feliks had been left alone, he realized that no one else cared about him because he had never cared about other people. His friends were nonexistent, and his coworkers merely tolerated him because he could sometimes be very funny.

Greatness? Hardly.

Here he was now, thirty-three and chucking envelopes carelessly over his shoulder, starting work at three in the morning and trapped there until three in the afternoon. Six days a week.

Torture.

By day, anyway.

In the evenings, Feliks found himself underground, helping to write and print out and distribute banned Polish news.

The Free City of Danzig wasn't quite so free nowadays if you were Polish rather than German. Hadn't been that way when Feliks had grown up, but the start of the 1930s had been dramatically unkind to the Poles in Gdansk.

Technically, from a perfectly legal perspective, the news Feliks helped distribute was not illegal; but mailmen who delivered it were very often corralled and beaten in the streets, and reading it publicly sometimes had very harsh repercussions. In that sense, it was more of an underground sensation now, and felt illegal although it wasn't. Every year had been more hostile than the last, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Nazi ideations were held by the majority of the governing force of Gdansk.

Couldn't even call it Gdansk outside the door. Nearly 500 years this city had been part of Poland, before falling into various foreign hands, and now they could only call it Danzig aloud.

The city was almost entirely German now. Very few Poles remained from the olden days, but all the same it had been fine. Once, the Poles and Germans in this city had been equals. Neighbors. Friends. A bit tense at times, certainly, that was to be expected, but nothing at all like this.

Schools that only taught in Polish were being shut down, one by one, and Feliks was luckier than some in that he had grown up in a household that had spoken both Polish and German in equal proportions, and his German was as natural as his Polish. He could easily pass for a German on any given day merely by opening his mouth, and used that always to his advantage.

Feliks had always had a habit of getting himself into trouble without exactly meaning to. Had since childhood, and adulthood was no different. His own rebelliousness against the growing pressure certainly didn't help, and Feliks would be the first to admit that he wasn't precisely stealthy when he delivered these underground newspapers. He had been harassed more than a few times, almost arrested on several, but always wriggled away unscathed.

There were times when Feliks wondered if he put himself into these situations intentionally out of boredom or dissatisfaction with his dull life. He was always out and about when he wasn't working, it seemed. Rarely saw the inside of his own home, and then only to sleep for a few meager hours before he had to get up in the middle of the night to go to work. Sunday, his only day home, was uneventful; he slept all day, catching up on desperately needed rest.

Felt stifled and useless, so Feliks rebelled.

One afternoon, in the summer of 1935, Feliks had been going about his business, newspapers in hand and delivering them to known customers, when he had seen the huge crowd gathered around the Neptune fountain. He slunk in, and asked the man beside of him, a tall, pale blond, "What's going on?"

The man merely lifted his chin, and uttered, "The eagles."

He didn't understand, and popped up to try to get a look.

The local police were removing the Polish eagles from the fence surrounding the statue. An awful rush of anger, offense, and Feliks scoffed, turned back to the pale man beside of him, and griped, "Can you believe this? Who do they think they are? They own the city for a little while and now try to pretend it was never Polish. Are they trying to erase us?"

The blond beside of him appeared deep in thought, and then gave a very deep, "Hm."

Feliks looked him over, realized how young he was, a kid, a student probably, and students were the best customers, so Feliks reached under his arm, pulled out a newspaper, handed it to the man, and said, "Here you go. Here's something they're not erasing anytime soon."

A glance down, a light scoff, and the man merely drawled, "Thank you."

With that, Feliks sent one more reproachful look at the fountain and carried on his way.

The thought of Polish eagles being removed from the city kept him up all night, grated him, and he was very cranky come early morning.

Work passed as uneventfully as always, and Feliks went back underground in the evening to gather up his newspapers and carry on his normal route.

That time when he passed once more by that fountain, he glanced at the now empty circles where proud eagles had once rested, and he would have been more angry about it if he hadn't seen a familiar face. A glint of pale hair in the fading sunlight, and Feliks could see that same man from the day before, staring at the missing eagles quite thoughtfully.

Feliks went up to him, settled in beside of him, and grumbled, "No point in dwelling on it, for now, I guess. We can't do anything about it. Just have to keep resisting. As long as we're still here, no one can forget us, right?"

The blond turned to look at him, and Feliks noted the extremely pale shade of his eyes. Everything about him was very pale, for that matter, and his face was very stoic, very blank. Taller than Feliks by just a bit, posture perfect and yet looking quite down, despite the blankness. Just something about his low shoulders and chin. Seemed a bit sad.

Feliks reached out, clapped his back, and said, "Cheer up, kid. We're not down and out, yet. Here ya go." He gave the kid another newspaper, and added, "Wait for me here this time every day, if you want. I'll put you on my delivery list."

The man tucked the paper into his shirt pocket, and nodded his head, once more merely uttering, "Thank you."

Hm. Certainly wasn't a talker by any means, but some people were just that way. Feliks gave the kid a smile for courage, and carried on.

The next day, there the kid was, awaiting his newspaper, and Feliks took that as an affirmative to put the kid on the list of customers.

Feliks tried to get him to speak a little, but he didn't, not really, offering only one word answers on the rare occasion he spoke at all. Feliks found him very curious indeed, very strange and odd.

Cute kid, though. Had a handsome face, if not lacking a little in personality.

On the eighth day of delivering that kid his paper, Feliks held it out, snatched it back at the last second, and at the kid's look of exasperation, Feliks smiled and said, "Hey, kid, you know how the priests make holy water?"

A quirk of a brow, and lidded eyes. As expected, the silent blond didn't play along, but that was fine.

Feliks handed him the paper, and finished, "They boil the hell out of it."

He snickered at his own terrible joke, the blond did not, and looked quite condescending indeed when Feliks slapped him on the arm and walked off. Ah, hell. Would get that jerk to talk one of these days. Or at least laugh. A damn smile, if nothing else.

Every day, he handed that kid his paper, and then told him a horrendous joke, some of them so bad that his own laughter was mixed with a few cringes.

So far, two months in, the kid was holding strong and had yet to laugh or smile, but had stopped attempting to murder Feliks with his eyes. Feliks, for his part, had become quite fond of that very, very strange kid, and looked forward to seeing him. Hard to explain why. Guess he had gotten somehow attached to that silent weirdo.

Had asked his name twice, and had been denied both times. Oh, well. He was working on it.

He enjoyed the sight of the blond's pale eyes.

After a few more months, Feliks considered them friends, even if he still didn't know the kid's name and even if he never smiled. A rather odd partnership they had built up, because if the kid was sick and tired of Feliks he would have said so by now and wouldn't have stood out there every day.

Feliks considered it a challenge, one he was intent on winning.

And then one day towards the winter of '35, very fatefully, Feliks had handed his silent friend his paper and his bad joke, once more failed to make him laugh, said his fond farewell, and when he meant to carry on, he was suddenly face to face with the director of the post office.

The director looked very distressed, and hissed, "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" Feliks asked, rather dumbly, following the director's eyes back over to his quirky blond.

The director grabbed Feliks' arm and began dragging him along, and when they were very far away, Feliks found himself pushed into a quiet alley.

"What are you doing? Why are you giving papers to him?"

Very confused, Feliks lifted his chin and asked, "What? You know him or something? What's the matter?"

The director looked around, leaned in, and griped, "Are you stupid? Why are you giving out those newspapers to him? Don't you know who he is?"

Obviously not.

A hand gripped his coat and gave him a good shake, and the director's words shocked Feliks.

"He's one of the secretaries for the Nazi Party. He's German. He wasn't even born here. His brother is in the SS. He was sent here as an intern last year. He's not Polish, you idiot! What are you even doing? You're just letting the Nazi Party know every single thing you guys are writing about them!"

An awful surge of dread, and a dumber thought :

Well, shit, no wonder the man had never laughed at his damn jokes. Probably hadn't understood a one of them, likely had understood very little of everything Feliks had ever said to him. Just knew a few Polish words, and Feliks had assumed he was Polish without actually asking.

What a disaster this could be.

Feliks must have looked very stupid and dumbfounded then, wide-eyed and aghast, for there was a roll of the director's eyes.

He felt quite moronic indeed.

The director just sighed, and grumbled, "Well! Remember your greatest defense : it's not illegal. There's still a court and law here, and giving that newspaper out isn't illegal." With that, he slapped the back of Feliks' head very smartly and walked off.

Oh, shit, shit, shit, he was a damn idiot, he really was.

Feliks very quickly darted home in shame and threw himself in bed, and somehow, beyond that fear, there was a terrible disappointment. Had really gotten attached to that kid, stupid as it was. Almost felt bereft in some ridiculous way, and the next day, the pale kid was waiting there in his usual spot, and it stung a little when Feliks walked straight by him without stopping. He glanced over, just briefly, to see the kid looking a bit confused, head tilted and brow low.

Dreadful.

The next day, when Feliks passed, the kid took a step forward, as if attempting to draw Feliks' attention. As if, perhaps, he merely thought that Feliks just hadn't noticed him.

The third day, he called, "Hey," as Feliks walked by. Feliks didn't stop. Not that day.

The next day, however, he did fall still for a moment, when the kid once more called to him. Felt kinda bad ignoring him, in spite of it all, even knowing now who he was and what he did here, that he was a young intern for the Nazi Party that these newspapers denounced.

Feliks stopped, and looked over.

The blond came forward a pace, and then another, before speaking at long last.

"So," the man finally said, voice very deep and rumbling, calm, cool. "No newspaper for me?"

His accent was very thick, but he had clearly given effort to learn.

Agitated and a little frightened, Feliks stiffened up, hardened his face, and merely said, in German, "No. Sorry. I ran out already."

For the first time that he had ever seen, the pale blond actually smiled. It was a nice sight, sure, but Feliks turned around all the same and walked away.

The next day, the blond was yet stubbornly waiting in his usual spot. Rather distasteful, and when Feliks passed him, the curl of his lip no doubt told the blond all he needed to know. Was trying hard to disengage himself emotionally from this kid he had gotten fond of. Kinda hard, though.

A murmur in German from behind, as he glided by.

"Have I offended in you in some way? It wasn't my intent."

Feliks didn't look back. Didn't respond, because, really... No, he hadn't been offended, and the blond really hadn't done anything wrong so to speak. Feliks was dumb as hell, but he wasn't stupid, and knew better than to keep associating with that man. Had already given him too much information.

The next day, there the kid stood, and once more he came forward and tried to engage Feliks in conversation.

"No paper for me again? I rather enjoyed them. My Polish is very bad still. I used them to study a little."

Feliks looked over his shoulder, and called back, "There's a library for that."

The kid fell still, and Feliks carried on.

Felt awful ignoring him, when he had been the only thing Feliks had been looking forward to in his day. Had finally broken through the silence and blankness, and now couldn't even do anything with it.

The weather grew colder. The leaves were almost entirely gone from the trees.

One day, when Feliks walked by the waiting blond, something interesting happened. If not interesting exactly, then certainly something new.

The kid called to Feliks, "Hey! You know why they always put fences around cemeteries? Because people are just dying to get in."

What the—

Feliks stopped in his tracks, and looked over his shoulder in appall.

That was the worst goddamn joke he had ever heard in his life, and that was coming from him of all people.

And suddenly Feliks was laughing.

How stupid, how utterly stupid, and Feliks couldn't stop laughing however hard he tried. The kid used his immobility to come forward and get close to him, as Feliks wheezed and wiped his eyes, and when Feliks was wincing, the kid held out his hand.

"I'm Ludwig."

He shouldn't have, he knew it, he knew it was dumb and dangerous, but Feliks was dumb and danger was more exciting than anything going on in his life, so he took the offered hand and gave it a good, firm shake.

"I'm Feliks."

The handshake ended, and Ludwig lifted his hands up at his sides and asked, a bit playfully, "So! My paper?"

At that, Feliks hesitated.

Ludwig saw his anxiety, his uncertainty, and said, "Well, then. If you don't want me reading your paper, that's fine. Maybe we can just talk, and you can help me work on my Polish."

Feliks looked around, almost guiltily, not really wanting to be seen interacting with Ludwig right there in the center of town, and Feliks gathered the courage to ask, "Should you really be learning Polish? I don't think your friends would approve."

Ludwig's smile fell, his face hardened a bit, his shoulders braced, and his voice was a bit higher and sharper when he said, swiftly, "I don't have any friends. I'm just here because this is where my brother had me sent. He was born here, but I wasn't. He thinks it's better here for me than in Berlin. I'm not... My brother sent me to work as an intern, because he doesn't think I'm...up to standard, in his words. We don't exactly see eye to eye. If I'm here, I don't see the harm in learning Polish. No one needs to know. It's my own personal activity. I'd rather spend my time learning Polish than listening to those dreadful men speaking and having to file their awful notes and orders. I think my brother did this as a punishment to me for constantly disappointing him. I'd rather just go work in the library or something. I hate listening to those men."

Well. That was...a lot. This kid must not have had friends, after all, to blabber so much of his life randomly to a stranger.

Feliks lifted his chin, eyed pale Ludwig up and down, and drawled, "Anything else? You wanna come over to my place and tell me all about your childhood? Your dreams and aspirations? I can counsel you, but it will cost you. If you're dying to get your life story out there."

A sudden reddening of Ludwig's pale cheeks, and Feliks knew right off that he had inadvertently either offended him or embarrassed him. Both, perhaps, for Ludwig abruptly turned on his heel and began stalking off. With a jolt of adrenaline, Feliks darted after him, nearly dropping his remaining newspapers, and managed to catch up.

"Hey! Stop, stop, stop. I didn't mean it like that, man, I was just teasing you. Don't be angry. I didn't mean nothing by it."

Ludwig slowed, glancing over at Feliks, and Feliks grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to a halt.

"You wanna learn Polish, huh? I'll teach you," he offered, to appease testy Ludwig.

Didn't know why. Hated seeing that kid walk away. Feliks had no one else in his life, absolutely no one. If Ludwig didn't have friends, then Feliks was far worse off. No one could stand him.

Ludwig glared over at him, but seemed to relent a little.

To prove that he meant it, Feliks said, in Polish, "Wait for me here tomorrow, like always, and we'll talk. Understand?"

Feliks spoke slowly and correctly, for Ludwig's benefit, and he seemed to understand, but his speech was very thick and clumsy when he answered, "Alright. Tomorrow."

Feliks sent Ludwig a wink, and carried quickly on his way to deliver the rest of his papers.

That night, he stared up at his ceiling, and couldn't sleep.

His mind was on Ludwig, it seemed. Knew his name, now, had gotten him to smile, had gotten him to speak, and even though it was different than it had been before, Feliks found that he still enjoyed the fruits of his labor. The kid was a little Nazi, but hell, he hadn't done anything wrong, was just getting by like everyone else and finding his way in the world, and he had been nothing but polite to Feliks. Feliks liked Ludwig, and ignored the obstacles Ludwig could have presented as well as the danger.

He met Ludwig there the next day, and spoke to him in Polish, making easy conversation. When Ludwig couldn't answer in Polish, he switched to German, and Feliks schooled him as best he could.

Ludwig certainly gave an effort, and Feliks considered Ludwig for sure then his friend. For the rest of '35, they met there every day in front of the fountain and chatted briefly, and Ludwig's Polish got a little better each time.

1936 came, and things got worse for the Poles in Gdansk. More schools closed. More people fled. The newspaper was more dangerous to deliver. It wasn't as safe for Ludwig and Feliks to speak right there in front of the fountain anymore, but they were hardly deterred.

Whatever could be said of the city, the year brought fairly good things for Feliks, if only emotionally, because he and Ludwig saw each other every day, or very nearly, and it didn't take long for Feliks to realize that his affinity for Ludwig may have bordered perhaps on the inappropriate. He was bored and lonely, and susceptible to the emotion brought on by someone paying him attention. Perhaps his ego and vanity and self-worth loved Ludwig more than Feliks as a whole did, but all the same Feliks lit up when he saw Ludwig coming.

Naturally, given Ludwig's position in the Nazi Party and Feliks' position in the post office and in the paper, they weren't overtly affectionate with each other in the public eye. They had taken to meeting in isolated locations to chat, each too afraid of going to the other's home and being seen and recognized by fellow coworkers.

Their favorite place was along the sea, on a desolate stretch a good hour walk or so outside of the city. They went there every Sunday, and sat out all day at a little table they had made together out of driftwood. They brought food and drinks, sometimes beer or spirits, and prattled until nightfall. That was Feliks' favorite day, and well worth the sacrifice of sleep he made. Being around Ludwig was the most exciting part of his life, sad as it was.

Ludwig was very handsome, had pretty eyes and features, and was quite pleasant to look at. A nice voice as well, and it was funny to Feliks to hear him working so hard on his Polish and mangling a good bit of it. But Ludwig tried, and they got a good laugh out of in. During the week, they just walked along the river, and Feliks always stared at Ludwig, always, but Ludwig didn't really seem to notice the intent.

Feliks was a rather handsome man himself, he knew that, but he was a fair bit older than Ludwig, and perhaps it just didn't click in Ludwig's head. Or, more certainly, Ludwig simply was perfectly normal, and so of course it never occurred to him.

What a shame.

Still, just to be sure, Feliks always dressed very nicely, shaved and preened, tied his hair neatly back, and kept himself up to standards at all times. Vanity, after all, was Feliks' strong point.

But Ludwig was oblivious.

1937.

German students in the university attacked and expelled all Polish students, and hostilities were higher than ever. The Nazi Party had almost complete control of the government. More Poles fled the city, as did most of the Jews and Russians.

Things seemed to deteriorate more and more every year, and yet Feliks could say with certainty that his sentiments for Ludwig seemed to grow ever stronger. As always, Ludwig was blissfully ignorant, entirely unaware, and so Feliks just rested his chin on his balled fist and watched Ludwig fumbling his Polish over a beer.

How odd! The Germans and Poles in the city were at each other's throats, while Ludwig and Feliks sought each other out and only enjoyed the company of the other.

Come fall, however, Feliks didn't seem to be the only one that had suddenly developed an odd affection for Ludwig.

A normal day at the office, as Feliks fluttered about as always, hands working mechanically as he daydreamed about Ludwig and his own impossible goals.

"Feliks."

He looked up, to see the director beckoning him into his office. He stood and went, curiously, and the door was shut behind him. The director was very quick to lean in and whisper, "Your Nazi friend. You really think he's your friend? You really trust him?"

Feliks held his gaze, contemplated and pondered, and trusted himself.

Trusted Ludwig.

So, Feliks replied, "Yeah. I do."

A clap on his shoulder.

"Good. Keep him very close. Things are getting worse. He might come in handy, one way or another. Don't let him drift."

Feliks nodded, and was sent back to work.

He trusted Ludwig, because he loved him, and love made Feliks a little dumber than he already was, which was pretty damn dumb.

He may have been an idiot, but if so then he was a happy one. Even if Ludwig was clueless, being around someone that actually seemed to like him was nice. Most of the people in Feliks' life seemed to merely tolerate him, in one form or another, and he knew that that was his fault for being egotistical and selfish and rather abrasive.

Ludwig didn't seem to mind. Usually just rolled his eyes when Feliks was being arrogant and making an ass of himself. Was always quite patient with him, in fact, and sometimes just smiled.

Feliks could babble on for hours and hours about himself, even though he was as bland and useless as they came, and Ludwig just sat patiently and listened, nodding along. Ludwig was the only person who didn't seem to view Feliks as a nuisance, and maybe that also contributed a bit to Feliks' fondness for Ludwig.

Feliks' jokes became far crasser and sometimes a little inappropriate. Ludwig usually just blushed and turned his head aside, but recovered quickly enough. Ludwig was shy and boring, yeah, but he actually had a lot to say in the right mood. Ludwig was smart, and thoughtful. He was composed and didn't speak unless there was something meaningful to say, and Feliks enjoyed that about him. Had Ludwig been louder, perhaps they would have clashed.

In September of '37, they drank a little too much on their Sunday outing, and Feliks was bold enough to rest his hand on Ludwig's back for a little while, and Ludwig tipsily leaned into him, just a bit, as he drunkenly tried to form words in Polish and just ended up creating his own incomprehensible words instead.

That touch was nice. Small things, he supposed.

Hated being alone all the time. Couldn't stand silence.

1938.

More Poles fled the city, but a good majority stubbornly remained. The police came to the Polish schools, and demanded that all the students be transferred to German schools instead. No more Polish was to be taught. From then on, the city was German-language only.

How strange that Feliks was teaching a perfectly Aryan Nazi Party member Polish right beneath their noses. Ludwig was likely running a greater risk these days than Feliks was, but Ludwig was stony and stoic and fearless, never once looking over his shoulder. Feliks had always been too self-centered to care much about the world around him, and focused only on Ludwig.

He started spending a little less time with the paper business, so that he could spend more time walking along the river with Ludwig. In these years, he and Ludwig could probably call themselves best friends, because they had come to rely so heavily upon each other. They were both alone and felt isolated and ostracized, so naturally they drifted towards each other. Feliks, as bold as he was, had long since by then gotten handsier with Ludwig, throwing an arm over his shoulder and constantly jostling him. Sometimes, when Ludwig was preened and pristine, Feliks would wrap an arm around his neck and tousle his hair to ruin it, because how huffy and fussy it made Ludwig was amusing to Feliks.

Ludwig was cute, and Feliks enjoyed manhandling him.

By then, Feliks had accepted that Ludwig was strictly a friend and nothing more, because Ludwig had never given him any indication otherwise.

He watched Ludwig, calmly, and just tried to enjoy his presence, despite the constant gnaw of loneliness. Sometimes, at night, he would roll over on his side and wonder what it would feel like if there was someone next to him.

1939.

When it seemed as if things couldn't have gotten much worse than they already were, naturally they did in fact get worse.

A few days into April, Feliks looked up from his desk to see a soldier walking in. He disappeared into the office with the director, for a long while. Feliks thought nothing of it, at least not until two days later when he looked up again and saw more soldiers, and this time they were carrying long boxes and chests. They were set in the basement.

Feliks discovered, later, that the boxes held rifles and machine guns, and the chests held grenades.

Unease.

Several more days later, the employees were all held together for a meeting, and were informed that they were going to be trained to shoot and defend. Shoot? Feliks was a postal worker. He handled mail and packages and papers. Why in god's name did he need to learn how to shoot?

Reservations aside, learn to shoot Feliks did, because it was mandatory. They had weeks of training by those soldiers, and the plan was laid out for them :

In the event of German hostilities, they were to defend the post office at all costs, for six hours, until the army would come to relieve them.

Feliks was terrified, as everyone was, but paid attention and was committed to fulfilling his part dutifully if it came down to it.

He watched as the office doors were strengthened and fortified in the coming days.

But then weeks passed, months, and Feliks began to forget about the guns and grenades in the basement. He never told Ludwig about it, and didn't press Ludwig for any information, despite the director's hints to, because honestly Feliks felt that Ludwig just didn't know anything. If Ludwig had known something was coming, surely he would have told Feliks by then.

They were friends.

Ludwig was only a secretary, an intern; what could he possibly know?

Feliks didn't ask, and spring turned to summer.

Sometimes, when they sat out by the sea, Feliks would stare and stare at Ludwig as he always did and Ludwig would stare back at him. In those moments they were quiet, and didn't speak much. It said a good deal about how much this friendship really meant to Feliks that he could just sit there and be quiet. He didn't feel the need as much lately to be so loud and brash and arrogant in front of Ludwig, because by then he was confident that Ludwig actually liked him.

Didn't need to try so hard, and that was something he had never felt.

There were times though, in those moments as they stared at each other, that Feliks did wonder perhaps if maybe Ludwig felt something for him. His own wishful thinking, no doubt, so he never said anything, because he was far too scared to ruin this wonderful friendship he had built up with this unlikely man.

Ludwig's pretty eyes haunted Feliks about as much as they captivated him these days.

It was never meant to be, but Feliks liked to think, dumbly no doubt, that if Ludwig's eyes were the sky then his own were the grass, and that made them connected in some odd way, for the grass and sky always met.

Sometimes, he just thought about it all too much.

Summer came close to ending. The weather started to cool just a bit. Feliks no longer delivered the paper. Too dangerous now. Not worth the risk. Now, in the evenings, he spent his time with Ludwig in dark corners, as they pretended things weren't falling apart all around them.

The last day of August.

A knock on his door in the middle of the night.

Feliks bolted upright at the waist in a fright, eyes wide and mouth open, and he staggered out of bed and crept quietly out of his bedroom. Another knock, softer than the last. The hairs on his arms stood up, and Feliks was beyond certain that the police had come for him at last, for one reason or another. People were going to jail at an alarming rate, and for no reason at all.

He planted his feet very carefully to make no sound, went to the side of the door, and tried to listen.

He heard no ruckus in the hall, no heavy steps.

He jumped when there was another knock, and then, through the thin wood, he heard a low murmur.

"Feliks. It's me. Open up."

Ludwig?

He inhaled, grabbed the handle with one hand and meant to twist the lock with the other, and felt himself hesitating. Suspicion, always under the surface. Sometimes, although he loved Ludwig, he didn't entirely trust him. Couldn't, not all the way, not when it came to things like this, because doing so would have been foolish, and this was highly suspicious activity indeed. No matter how much Feliks denied it in his heart, his head was always very aware that he was Polish and Ludwig was a member of the Nazi Party, and those two things didn't mix very well.

Shouldn't open it.

He shouldn't have opened it, but he turned the lock anyway, because he was stupid and lonely and he loved Ludwig, and he opened the door just a crack. Sure enough, Ludwig stood there on the other side, dressed very sloppily, as if he had run over in a great hurry. He looked alarmed, uneasy, frightened.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, reluctant to open the door any farther.

Ludwig's expression was harried, frantic, and he merely said, "Let me in. I need to speak to you. It's urgent."

Despite his brain telling him every reason not to, Feliks' heart led his actions, as usual, and he opened the door, ushering Ludwig inside. As soon as the door had shut and locked behind him, Ludwig whirled around on Feliks, so quickly that they nearly slammed into each other, and Ludwig wasted no time in saying, "You have to leave. As soon as possible. Tonight."

Feliks scoffed, lifted his chin, and griped, "What are you talking about?"

"Please," Ludwig beseeched, reaching out to grab handfuls of Feliks' wrinkled shirt. "Please, there's no time, please, you have to leave. Go, now. Get out of the city before dawn. Go somewhere else in Poland. Somewhere far south, I don't know, just get out of the city. Maybe, if you can, maybe you should go to Switzerland."

Switzerland?

Feliks furrowed his brow and grabbed Ludwig's arms, gave him a shake to calm him down and get him to stop blabbering, and asked again, "What are you talking about? What's the matter? What's gotten into you, huh? What's happening?"

Ludwig hung his head and breathed heavily, trying to gather his composure and his thoughts, and Feliks kept glancing at the door in a fright.

Was so nervous, so uneasy. Didn't like this at all, because he didn't know what was happening.

A long minute, and then Ludwig lifted his head, and said, "I don't know what's happening. But I know it's nothing good. Something is going to happen tomorrow. Something bad. I don't know— My brother contacted me. He told me to return to Berlin immediately, tonight. So, please, you have to go, too, because whatever it is won't be good. It's not safe to stay here."

Oh, that terrible dread he felt.

All the same, he couldn't just leave, not just on a vague warning like that. He had nowhere to go, nowhere and no one. Couldn't just leave.

Feliks shook his head, and whispered, "I can't. I can't go. This is my home. I can't go."

Ludwig's face fell, his eyes squinted, and it was the most emotion Feliks had ever seen Ludwig show.

"Please," he beseeched once more. "Please leave. I can't— I don't want anything to happen to you. I couldn't bear it. You're the only friend I have. Please leave."

That awful tone of voice, that expression, as if Ludwig were on the verge of tears; couldn't stand it, and maybe it was because some unknown danger was suddenly looming over him that Feliks lifted his head up and pressed forward and kissed Ludwig entirely without warning.

Ludwig's wide-eyed look of surprise and perhaps fear.

Feliks gave it his best effort, figuring it would be the only time, enjoyed himself immensely, and then he pulled back, looking Ludwig up and down, and smiled a little. Ludwig's adorably confused expression was quite endearing. Feliks opened his mouth, and had no chance at all to speak when Ludwig lunged at him, grabbed the front of his shirt again and kissed him in turn.

Well, damn—! Maybe Ludwig really had been staring back at him after all. It hadn't been all in his head, or maybe Ludwig was just as lonely as Feliks was. Would take it either way, because it was a wondrous feeling. People could only be alone for so long, after all, and Feliks had always had a bit of an affinity for Ludwig.

Ludwig offered no protests and indeed no words at all as they staggered back into Feliks' bedroom.

If he was going to die tomorrow or soon after, then he would make the best use of this night.

And that he surely did, spending long hours tangled up in sheets, reveling in the feel and smell and sight of someone there beside of him at last. It was rather strange, how a man could do so many things, pass through so much risk and danger, and yet somehow nothing ever brought out that exact same rush that came with being loved.

The indescribable sensation of having someone in his arms, if only for a night.

Lying next to each other afterwards and running hands over each other. Pressing his forehead into Ludwig's and feeling his heartbeat up against his own chest.

Knowing, under it all, that they were about to part ways.

Ludwig's look was melancholy, eyes running over Feliks' face restlessly. Feliks wished he could have thought of something good to say, something witty and stupid, something funny, but in that moment all words fled and he couldn't find anything to say at all.

What could one say, right there on the brink?

'Goodbye'?

Didn't want to say that, but knew it was inevitable.

Surely enough, Ludwig eventually gave one last caress of his cheek and then rolled over and sat up, pulling himself to his feet. The hour was very late, and before long Feliks would have to leave to go to the office. The beginning of the end. Ludwig dressed, as Feliks did, and then they sat beside each other on the edge of the bed, staring at each other as if it would be the last time.

It probably was.

"You need to go," Feliks murmured, as he reached up to smooth back Ludwig's messy hair. "Go back to Berlin. It's not too late. If you leave now, you'll be fine."

Ludwig looked so miserable, so devastated, but only for a moment before he pulled himself very quickly back together. Typical. Ludwig was simply unshakeable.

"Right," Ludwig replied surely, although his voice trembled. "You won't leave?"

Nice try.

Feliks shook his head, and Ludwig's look was that of regret.

Still, Ludwig stood up, leaned down to kiss Feliks' forehead, rested his hands on Feliks' shoulders, and muttered, into his hair, "You're the dumbest man I've ever met. And the most annoying. I wish you would leave. Who will tell me awful jokes?"

Feliks scoffed, rested his hands atop Ludwig, and grumbled, "That's a weird damn way to tell a guy you love him, but fine. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I've managed to stay out of trouble this long. Go. You should hurry. I'll... Write me, when you get there safely. You know the address."

Ludwig nodded, lingered for a while, and then pulled back.

Feliks thought perhaps he was blinking a bit quickly, but that could have been a trick of the moonlight.

A mournful farewell.

"Goodbye, Feliks. Please, be safe."

Feliks tried to smile, and uttered, weakly, "Yeah. I'll see you soon."

Neither of them seem convinced, but Ludwig left all the same, and Feliks didn't sleep. Tossed and turned all night, and could smell Ludwig there in the bed. What a goddamn shame, to get him and then let him go.

He lied there for a few tormented hours before it was time to get up.

It would have been a normal Friday morning, if Feliks hadn't been petrified under the surface, nervous and jittery. That awful sense of foreboding. Was he being intentionally stubborn and foolish? Very likely, but he already considered himself dull and useless and fleeing now from whatever awful thing was coming would have only made Feliks feel more cowardly.

He was many things, but he wasn't a coward. Would see this through to the end, whatever it was.

He tried to keep his hands steady as he dressed and tied back his hair, glancing frequently at the bed in the lingering throes of disbelief. Sure as hell didn't want to die now, not now, not when someone cared about him. Ludwig; didn't want to die if Ludwig saw him there.

He clung to pride and bravery, and set out for work, looking over his shoulder every few seconds as he walked in the night. Paranoid and scared. He reached the post office with no incident, right at three as always, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Damn, though...couldn't get his hands to stop shaking as he set to work, and Feliks' mind suddenly was very much upon those machine guns and rifles in the basement.

A while later the director came to work, made coffee as always, and Feliks was the first that day to grab some because he certainly needed the extra boost and courage. Couldn't stop looking up at the door every time someone walked in, jumping and panicking.

Pitiful.

Perhaps rightfully so.

They noticed how jittery he was, and one of the other men teased, "What's up, Feliks? Had some bad dreams last night? You finally push someone too far, huh? Did your bad jokes get you in trouble?"

And then, as Feliks scoffed and tried to laugh, coffee in hand, the power suddenly went out.

Utter and complete darkness. The whir of dying electricity.

Terror.

Feliks jumped up in horror, blinded and pumped full of dread and adrenaline, and damn near started screeching hysterically, but was deathly silent in the end, as everyone stood still and listened.

Nothing. Darkness and silence.

Someone fumbled their way over to the phone, picked it up, and then cursed, "The phone's out. Damn."

Ludwig's warning, ringing endlessly in his ears.

Someone else sighed, and said, "I'll go see what's happening."

He brushed by Feliks as he made for the door, and Feliks snatched out, grabbed his arm, and hissed, "No! No one go out. I think we should get in the basement. Get the guns. Bar the doors."

Silence.

A burst of light suddenly, from an oil lamp someone had scrounged up. Feliks regretted that everyone could now see how damn scared he was, but he supposed many of them looked the same. He glanced at his watch; four in the morning.

Shit, maybe he should have listened to Ludwig—

"Everyone stay calm," the director murmured, and as Feliks fell into a blurred sense of reality, they barred the doors, blocked the windows, and retrieved the guns from the basement. Feliks and another man hauled up a chest of the grenades. They didn't even know why or what they were waiting for, but knew that it wasn't going to be anything pleasant. Better safe than sorry.

They had barely finished setting up one of the machine guns in the corner of the window when there was an explosion, very far in the distance. A rumble, a boom, and that unnerving stillness afterwards. Feliks' hands had no hope of being still then, shaking so badly he could barely even hold the damn rifle he had strapped over his chest.

Everyone was armed, and somewhat ready, which was ideal considering that one minute after that explosion, there was a ruckus from outside, lights shining in through the cracks of the window and door.

They huddled down, to stay out of the line of fire should it occur, and waited.

Several minutes later, a voice shouted, through a megaphone, "Everyone come out with your hands in the air! One at a time! No harm will come to you!"

The soldiers had told them to defend the post office for six hours. Six hours suddenly seemed impossible, daunting, with the paramilitary right outside their door. What was happening? Too much for Feliks' reeling mind to really comprehend.

The director looked over them all, and said, "You know what we're supposed to do."

Everyone nodded. No one tried to talk their way into leaving. They all stood their ground.

The voice outside shouted again, "Come out! Now! This is your final warning! We will storm the building by force!"

No one moved. Feliks breathed through his mouth, tried to steady his hands, and hoped to god he didn't die here today, because Ludwig was out there somewhere.

They waited and listened, and shortly afterwards came the shattering of glass from one of the blocked windows. The barricade was steadily broken down, they opened fire, Feliks swearing that his life was flashing before his eyes, and then there was an awful, blazing explosion that blinded him for a moment, as someone had thrown a grenade at the breached window to repel the militia.

It worked, for just a moment, and they ran forward to reform the barricade.

After that, assault after assault came, but each failed, the post office wasn't breached, and Feliks compulsively checked his watch. Six hours. Just six hours. Each felt like eternity.

Only six hours.

Three passed, another strong push from the militia, once more repelled, and the machinegun fire had long since made it hard for Feliks to hear clearly.

Four hours.

A few more grenades were used, and the men went downstairs to haul one more chest up from the basement.

Five hours.

Everyone was scared and jittery, waiting so impatiently for salvation. For the army to come save them, as they desperately needed.

Feliks checked his watch. Ten in the morning. It had been six hours now since the power had been cut. So where was the relief? Why weren't they here yet? Maybe there was just a minor delay. They waited, and Feliks' foot tapped relentlessly against the wall as he sat there on the floor, rifle pointed to the window above him and finger ever on the trigger.

Around eleven, an unpleasant addition; there was a new noise from the street, and someone gathered the courage to peer out from a crack.

A gasp of delight, and a cry.

"A tank!"

A surge of hope. Vigor renewed, and everyone perked up. Oh god—had the army come at last? They couldn't hold out for much longer.

Someone asked, eagerly, "The army has come?"

A hesitation.

Another gasp, this one very different, and the man quickly changed tune and hissed, "Shit! No, that's not our army. That's— It's the SS!"

The SS?

Dead silence, and in that awful quiet, everything came together. It wasn't an internal coup of the city of Gdansk to get rid of the last Polish citizens. It was a German invasion. The German Army had come, and that was the awful thing that Ludwig had tried to save him from.

No one spoke, and all hope died. Their army wasn't coming to save them. It had been more than six hours, and now if the army came they would be facing off against a far superior army, and would be no match.

They were on their own.

Danzig militia and police were suddenly joined by the SS, and terror was amplified. Everyone realized in that moment that they were done for.

Someone whispered, weakly, "We should surrender."

The director held strong, and said, "No! We're going to do our job. We're not done yet. The army could still come. We don't know what's happening. We have to hold out."

So they did, as best they could, despite the reinforcements. Somehow, this unassuming building was very much surviving the shelling it was receiving. Was performing astoundingly, and Feliks liked to imagine that the Danzig militia outside were positively livid. Surely they were, because there were very long stretches of silence and absolutely nothing, as no doubt the militia conspired with the SS on how to breach the building and were getting frustrated.

All they could do was wait.

After what felt like eternity, there was another shout through the speaker.

"Come out! We won't fire! You have two hours to decide!"

"What does that mean?" someone frantically asked.

"A ceasefire," the director muttered. "They want us to surrender."

They all looked around at each other, and Feliks could see that so many of them wanted to surrender. Nobody wanted to die, no one, however brave they were, but no one wanted to be a coward, either, and in the end no one spoke up.

They used that two hour ceasefire to gather their courage and pray the army would come.

They didn't.

When time was up, the voice called again, "Well? Come out! You've had time! Surrender now and we won't fire at you!"

Their silence was telling, and he could hear the militia leader screaming in anger then even without the megaphone.

Feliks scoffed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried very hard then to fall into his mind and recall the scent of Ludwig's hair, because it was a hell of a lot more comforting than gunpowder and smoke.

For one beautiful moment, he had it, could smell it, could hold it there, but as always it was interrupted by something new.

Feliks opened his eyes and tilted his head, crinkled in brow, listened hard, and then asked, "Do you hear that? What is that?"

Distant thumping. Whirring. Strange sounds he couldn't really place.

Not too much time to think about it, really, because shortly after the entire wall on the east end of the building was blown up in an explosion that threw them all backwards. Knocked senseless, hearing shot out and ears ringing, Feliks could only try to see through the dust and smoke and figure out which way to aim his damn rifle. The dull thudding of the machinegun going off; he could feel the vibration through the floor more than he could hear it.

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.

The wall had partially collapsed, and the soldiers tried to storm. The director was screaming and waving his arm. Feliks couldn't hear a damn word he said, but knew that he was ushering them all to the basement. They fled, setting off a few more grenades as they went, and barricaded themselves in the basement.

In a sense then, they were completely trapped.

The rest of the building had been taken.

They sat down against the wall, guns aimed at the door, and hearing steadily returned.

Feliks felt in that moment, covered in blood and dirt and staring up at bolted door from beneath the scope of a rifle, that he was never going to leave this building alive.

Just when he had found someone that could stand him, too. That figured.

They waited, and time passed, but the soldiers above couldn't break the reinforced door down as easily as they would have liked. Feliks imagined they would just plant more explosives before long, and felt the lethargy set in. Damn. He was exhausted. Nothing left in him at all. So he lied there, shoulder to shoulder with his bloodied coworkers, and stared at that door.

In his head, though, he just saw Ludwig.

The minutes dragged.

Once more, a terrifying development : the sudden sharp, pungent smell of gasoline. Feliks looked around, dumbly, and saw that, from a pump, the basement was being flooded with petrol. The hairs on his arms and neck stood up straight in terror, when he realized that they were about to be set on fire.

Everyone else realized it, too, and their choices weren't great on either end, but if the choice was being shot to death or burnt alive then Feliks would gladly face that gun, and bolted for the stairs, most of the others right with him. A few remained, either too scared to come back up or too stupefied to move. They struggled to unbolt the door and escape, and did so just in time.

When the hand grenade was thrown, the gasoline ignited.

Feliks found himself hunkered down in the remnants of the first level, as the basement burned below him. God, that awful screaming of the men that had stayed below. The worst sounds he had ever imagined he could hear. Horrific.

He looked around, dumbly, and absurdly remembered that the night before he had been safe at home, in the arms of someone that didn't care that he was mundane and unexceptional. Could have listened to Ludwig, and would have been fine right now. Instead, he was in a burning building, with a tank and soldiers and rifles surrounding him.

Well, hell. Guessed it would be an eventful and memorable death, if nothing else. Could maybe take some kind of comfort in that. His life may have been dull and boring, but his death certainly wasn't.

Stupid.

"We're surrendering," the director finally said, in desperation, because there was absolutely no other choice. The flames below were brutal, the heat stifling them, and the smoke was thick, rising. Harder to breathe very second.

People scrambled, and they made a little white flag. The director took it, bravely, and said, "Wait here."

They did.

The director walked out of the building, white flag in hand.

They watched, breathlessly, and jumped and cried out when he was shot. Fuckin' Christ—

A scream from outside.

"The rest of you can surrender! Come out! You won't be shot!"

That wasn't right, wasn't fair at all, the bastards, but there was no choice because the building was on fire and no one could breathe. So what could they do? Stay put and die for sure, or run out and risk it. They ran, and very quickly, because the heat was unbearable.

They weren't shot.

Someone grabbed Feliks' collar the second his foot hit the steps, and dragged him over to the side and slammed him up against the wall of the adjacent building. Feliks could say he had never been as stupefied as he was in that moment. Felt dazed and senseless. Far away. As if he had been thrust far up into the atmosphere. Everything was slow, dull, blurry. Distant.

Chaos, absolute chaos.

The building was roaring up in flames, people were screaming. Feliks looked around, and saw his injured coworkers being tended by an SS medic, the director amongst them, other captured men lined up against the wall, rifles in their backs. The building began to collapse further, and the soldiers dragged the men out of the path of the flames and threw them all up against the building across the street.

Feliks just stumbled along in a daze.

Damn. What a great time to get himself killed, after coming close to having something he had always wanted and needed. Ludwig would be better off without him, yeah, but Feliks couldn't say the same.

Minutes passed. How many, Feliks couldn't say. A half hour perhaps, more.

The uninjured men were suddenly thrown into line, and marched off. A rifle in Feliks' back nudged him into line, and he tumbled along, feeling suddenly dizzy and lethargic.

Could barely lift his head.

Now what?

He looked around in a daze, vision a bit blurry and head pounding, veins pulsing and heart thudding, as he assessed this idiotic situation he had put himself into and if there was any possible way to save his own life.

He was the last person in line. The SS soldier behind him, a damn pale bastard that Feliks would have instantly recognized had he seen him prior, was not one of the men that had dragged Feliks out of the building and thrown him against the wall. This man hadn't seen him before that moment, and there was absolutely nothing to lose.

So Feliks stepped right out of line, lowering his hands down to his chest, and tried to walk onto the sidewalk.

The soldier, as expected, screamed at him and immediately pointed the rifle right in his face, barking, "What are you doing? Get back in line!"

Gathering his meager bravery, Feliks retorted, "This is a mistake! I'm a German. I'm not Polish. I didn't have anything to do with this. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Let me go. I haven't done anything wrong. How dare you mix me up with this lot!"

Bullshit. He was covered in soot, smelled like gunpowder and blood, and very clearly had been involved in some skirmish. No one would ever believe he was some poor German citizen that had just gotten caught up in a fire in the middle of the day in a blocked off street.

What could he say? He was desperate. Better to try than just go quietly.

The soldier scoffed derisively, slammed the muzzle of the gun into Feliks' chest, and pushed him forcibly back into line.

Shit.

"Shut the hell up and keep walking. We'll figure everything out when we get there, if you are German." The tone of the soldier's voice could scarcely have been more condescending had he given actual effort.

God, where was 'there'? A prison or a court or a field—all ended with him being dead, sooner or later.

"Did you hear what I said?" Feliks nearly shouted, as he twisted his head to look over his shoulder at the soldier shoving him along. "I'm German! You can't do this to me. I'm not Polish. What's the matter with you? Let me go!"

He tried once more to step out of line, and once more failed.

"Hey! I'll shoot you!"

The soldier's hand tangled in his collar and yanked him back in line, furiously, and Feliks tried, again, "I'm telling you! I'm German. I just forgot my damn ID. Let me go."

The butt of the rifle in his back, and a gruff, irritated, "Shut the hell up, already! I told you, we'll figure it out when we get there. Keep moving."

Fuck, he was dead. Shoulda listened to Ludwig, had to be proud and stubborn, had to be so stupid, always had to join in and cause a damn ruckus, always had to be right, had to get himself into trouble.

Pressing his luck, Feliks said, one final time, "You're making a mistake. I'm German. What's the matter with you?"

The pale soldier hit him again with the rifle, once more hissing, "Shut up! You're annoying me."

Was dead either way, really, so didn't feel like he was actually risking all that much. He was being marched now to execution, not a real trial, and everyone present knew it.

For Feliks' efforts, they lagged a good distance behind the other captured men and soldiers.

He was pushed along for a while through the cobbled streets, and then there was a loud voice suddenly, very nearby and very familiar.

"Gilbert!"

Ludwig?

Feliks looked around in a panic, and sure enough there was Ludwig, in his Nazi Party uniform for the first time that Feliks had ever seen, running over and looking about as panicked as Feliks felt.

Ludwig? What was he still doing here? Shoulda been gone—

"Gilbert!"

The pale soldier removed his rifle from Feliks' back, turned his attention to Ludwig as he came skidding up, and very quickly snatched Ludwig's collar as he had Feliks'. Feliks stopped walking, as the soldier shook Ludwig and shouted, "What are you doing here? I told you to go back to Berlin! Why are you here? Huh? Go home. Get outta here!"

Ludwig staggered when the soldier shoved him backwards, but caught himself, eyes locked onto Feliks'. An awful stare, and then Ludwig turned back to the soldier and said, angrily, "What are you doing? This is my friend."

Very helpfully, Feliks said, "Lutz, I told him already I was German, but he didn't believe me."

The soldier whirled around with the intent of striking Feliks again with the rifle, but was held still by Ludwig.

A curse of fury, a glare of annoyance, and the soldier looked back and forth between Feliks and Ludwig, and then said, crankily, "What—you know this guy?"

"I told you," Ludwig said, with a slight tremor, "We're friends. Let him go. He's German. What are you doing?"

"My job," the soldier threw back, but all the same, after a very angry looking over of the two, the soldier reached out, grabbed Feliks' arm, and practically threw him at Ludwig's chest. "Get out of here, then," he spat, as he waved them off. "Go!"

Oh, god—

From that look on the soldier's face, it was very clear to Feliks that not once had that soldier truly believed Feliks was German. Knew damn well that it was a Pole he was throwing into Ludwig's arms, an enemy combatant, and Feliks had scarcely ever felt so terrorized as he did in that moment, as that soldier gave Feliks one final look over, and then shouted again to Ludwig, urgently, "Go!"

They did go, very quickly, Ludwig leading the way and Feliks' heart pounding so furiously he was certain he would faint before he made it to wherever Ludwig was taking him.

Saved from certain death by those two men.

Jittery and unable to stop panting, Feliks asked, stupidly, "Who was that?"

"He's my brother," Ludwig muttered, walking very briskly. "I told you to leave, but you're so stupid."

Yeah. Yeah, he was.

"You're still here, too," Feliks retorted, and Ludwig was very silent, glaring quickly over. Still very high on his brush with death, Feliks added, with false bravado, "You stayed just for me, huh? I knew you would. I think you like me."

Ludwig shook his head.

Suddenly, they were in front of Feliks' door, and Ludwig watched impatiently as Feliks fumbled the key several times before turning the lock.

"Go," Ludwig urged, shoving him along. "Hurry. You have a suitcase?"

"In the bedroom closet."

"I'll start packing your clothes," Ludwig offered. "Go take a bath. Get cleaned up. You have to get out of here as soon as possible."

The need was dire, and Feliks wasted no time.

Some stupid part of him still didn't want to go, didn't want to be alone again, didn't want to be vulnerable and isolated in some distant land far from home.

No choice; to remain was certain death.

He washed himself as quickly as he could, changed into new clothes, and he and Ludwig together packed up his suitcase with essential items. He scrambled for his documents and papers, every bit of money he could find, and it took Ludwig sitting on top of the suitcase for Feliks to be able to zip it.

Well then.

Supposed this was farewell.

Ludwig led the quick walk to the door, Feliks followed, and it was Ludwig's presence perhaps, in his Nazi Party uniform, that got Feliks to the train station safely. He bought a ticket to Warsaw, and figured he would just wing it from there. See how far he could get.

They stared at each other for a while on the platform as they waited for the train, and Feliks regretted above all else that he couldn't just kiss Ludwig one more time. All he could do was drop the suitcase and hug the bastard, for the final time. A pitiful way to thank the man that had saved his life, but he had nothing else.

Ludwig's crinkled brow was the only thing that gave away how torn up he must have been, because otherwise he appeared perfectly composed.

An awful silence, as Feliks' hand lingered on Ludwig's arm, and then Ludwig murmured, "Be safe. I can only hope from here. I'm sorry I can't help more."

"You've helped more than enough," Feliks replied, lowly. "I owe you. Tell your brother, too, that I— I'll do anything for you two, one day. When it's over, I'll repay you, one way or another."

"There's nothing to repay."

Yeah, sure.

Feliks looked Ludwig over, regretfully, and said, "You need to leave, too. Go back to Berlin. Get out of here."

Ludwig nodded, clapped Feliks' arm, and then turned to walk away with a rather thick, "Goodbye."

Oh, god, how he hated seeing Ludwig walking away.

Parting ways, likely forever.

Yet another thing that hadn't worked out the way Feliks had really wanted.

"Hey!" Feliks called, at the last second.

Ludwig stopped, turned back, and lifted his chin in acknowledgment, patiently waiting.

Feliks felt himself smiling, in spite of it all, and lifted his fist up into the air.

"Hey. When it's all over, I'm gonna look for you. Don't go getting yourself killed, alright?"

A rather calm stare between them, as Ludwig stared back at him serenely. A rare moment of utter peace, looking into each other's eyes. Then Ludwig scoffed, waved a hand in the air, and threw back, "I should be saying that to you. You're the stupid one, not me. If either of us will die, I think your chances are greater than mine."

Feliks scoffed in turn, and grumbled, "You're a bastard. I can't wait to see you again, so... Good luck. But hey, work on your jokes, man. They're awful."

Ludwig bowed his head a bit politely, took a step back, and merely said, "Likewise. And godspeed."

They turned aside then, and carried on their ways.

Now Feliks just had to be smart enough to survive this apparent war without Ludwig there to save him again. His chances seemed pretty fifty-fifty. He was ready for the challenge, with the motivating goal of seeing Ludwig again on the other side of whatever border.

He held to that hope.