Chapter 3
Why is it so mesmerizing to watch him sleep? That’s the question Hanns doesn’t let himself think about. His sight is glued to the slim boy in his hold, and he feels a ripple of pleasant chills running down his body when Hans’ fingers clench at his elbow weakly as the man shifts in his sleep. It doesn’t matter that Hanns’ hand is getting stiff and sore, and he has to move as little as possible in order to not wake Hans up: he stays motionless, his sight slithering across Hans’ face as if he is trying to memorize every inch of him. Is he? Because sometimes it surely feels like it. Especially in those rare moments that beautiful boy allows himself to relax and doesn’t flinch at every smile and every gentle look Hanns gives him.
Hanns leans back in the chair—just enough to get a better look at Hans—as his grip on Hans's shoulders tightens slightly. He hears Hans hum something in his sleep, as his head completely slumps against Hanns’ chest. Hanns slowly reaches with his free hand towards the man’s face, carefully raising his chin a bit up in what looks like a way more comfortable position for him.
This is getting a bit out of hand, Hanns thinks lazily, as his fingers wander from Hans’ chin all the way up to his cheekbone, tracing a thin line and then getting tangled in the blonde hair locks, as he moves further. It’s nothing much—he’s being very cautious not to wake Hans, so it’s barely a touch, just the lightest brush of his fingers. He can hardly feel the coolness of that marble skin against his fingertips, and then his hand drifts into Hans’s hair, gently stroking the locks as his mind wanders back to the situation he finds himself in.
This indeed looks like it’s getting just slightly out of his control. It’s not every day that a beautiful soldier who he met less than two days ago takes his mind hostage like that. At least, that never happened before. Even with Xavier - although Xavier is off limits, of course - even with Xavier his feelings never escalated this quickly into something so... intimate. And Xavier is for sure one of the most beautiful men Hanns has ever seen - otherwise he wouldn’t have slept with him night after night every time the two of them would come across each other in one of the military bases.
Hanns shifts in his chair lazily and leans towards the table, reaching for his glass of wine in the slowest and most careful way possible. His eyes shoot a quick glance at his wrist watch, and he rolls his eyes at the thought that it’s almost night soon. And god, he does not want to move from this spot. He could just sit here for the whole night, really, if only the restaurant wasn’t closing in half an hour.
Hanns knows the schedule very well: this is his usual place, of course he’s aware it’s getting dark and the staff has things they’re supposed to be doing without him in their way.
“Herr von Purple Beurer, sir, we’re-”
“-closing in thirty minutes,” Hanns interrupts the waiter impatiently. “I know, I know, no need to walk up here for the - what, third time this evening?”
He sees the waiter blanching even more, and he can so clearly see panic in the man’s eyes. “I-I’m so sorry, sir, it’s just-”
“-your job, I know that too,” Hanns sighs, his hands wrapping tighter around Hans’ thin shoulders in a protective way. “I’m getting out of here soon enough, don't worry. Meanwhile, why don’t you bring me another bottle of wine… you serve good stuff here.”
He reaches for his phone, pressing a few buttons without needing to look—his driver is on speed dial, after all. The order to bring the car to this address slips from his lips as his gaze drifts lazily around the room, and the moment the call ends, he brushes his nose against Hans’ hair, leaving an elusive kiss on top of his head.
His heart sinks as Hans exhales sharply, and a light smile touches his face. He doesn't wake up, and Hanns is happy that he doesn't, because he feels he's absolutely unable to control the wave of warmth that rushes through him. He’s… excited? Overwhelmed? What's the word? In love?
Hanns furrows for a moment, continuing to trace little paths against the translucent skin of Hans’ cheekbones. At some point it feels like his fingertips are burning from the heat that practically boils within him, and he has to stop and take a short inhale, trying to calm down.
He rarely gets scared, but at this moment, right here, he has to admit to himself that he is. He's scared by this absolute fucking storm that rages in his chest. He's scared by the fact that he is losing his mind over that boy. He had seen so many interesting people in his life, and he slept with at least half of them, and never in his life did he feel… like that.
A quiet notification announces to him that the car has arrived, and almost at the same time he sees a black vehicle stopping right in front of the window. Hanns shifts slightly, his grip tightening on Hans's shoulders as he sits up straighter in the chair, carefully supporting Hans's head to keep it from slumping forward.
“Okay, sweetheart, you will have to wake up now,” he whispers into Hans’ ear, and before he can stop himself, he leaves a quick kiss on it, because why the hell shouldn’t he. The boy’s eyelashes flutter slightly, but he just exhales quietly and does not move, and Hanns smiles when the grip of that slim hand gets tighter at his elbow. “Sweetheart. Wake up.”
He brushes the blonde hairlock off Hans’ forehead carefully and just watches him for a few moments. The car behind the window honks once, and Hanns looks up sharply, furiously attempting to pierce the dark windshield and pin the driver to the seat with his bare sight. But the window is too dark, so Hanns just makes a mental note to himself to not let this pass. Hans flinches in his hands and inhales shakily, coming to his senses.
Well, coming to his senses is a strong description: he's still visibly disoriented a lot, and Hanns has to tighten his grip around his shoulders once again, as the boy is too close to slipping off that damn chair. Blinking slowly, Hans casts a hazy glare around the room, and Hanns feels the sharp tug of the man’s fingers clutching at his sleeve.
“Wh-what…? Mhm- I…” his voice is hoarse and low, so he clears his throat, and Hanns can see he's barely able to force a single coherent word out of himself.
“Sh-h-h, pretty boy, easy, easy,” Hanns whispers, embracing him from behind. He visibly squirms in Hanns’s hold, still grasping at his sleeve and blinking sleepily. Hanns can’t help but smile as he gently guides him into a more upright position.
“I- I don’t understand… Oh god… Did I actually-?..” another frantic inhale and the rush of barely coherent sentences makes Hanns cut into Hans’ confused talking and hush him down.
“Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Listen to me.” He doesn’t say ‘look at me’, because even the lights in the room seem to be so bright for Hans they make him squint. Hanns allows him to hide his face on his chest for a moment, stroking his head thoughtfully. “Listen to me,” he says quietly, his tone low enough to not be audible for the rest of the room. Those damn staff are eavesdropping for sure. Hanns is used to it. Everyone is eavesdropping. He’s a fucking general AND he’s The Blackberry. What else could he expect.
“There’s a car right outside. We’ll just get into it, and then you can keep sleeping, if you want to. How does that sound, pretty boy, hm?”
He gives Hans a moment to understand the suggestion, then, after a few seconds of silence, he gives him a light pat on the shoulders. “We’ll just take a quick ride to the garrison, okay? I mean, we can’t exactly stay here for the night,” he chuckles, beaming at him, and a hint of realisation finally flashes in Hans’ eyes.
“Oh- Ja, ja, of course…” he stutters, almost jumping up on his seat, and then he sways, grasping at the side of the table sharply. In the blink of an eye, Hanns is by his side, his hands wrapping around him in a swift motion. It becomes so normal - to hold him like that, to feel those small shivers he seems to occasionally have just running down under Hanns’ fingertips and to gently hush him down, almost without thinking. He just does it because it’s… natural. And because he feels like if he doesn’t hold on to him - this pretty boy will slip away from his life like an illusive dream, and Hanns can not let that happen.
“Of course, we have to get back to the garrison… Oh god, it’s so dark outside, I- I can’t believe I did that,” he hears muffled muttering as Hans slides onto the back seat of his car, and he does the same, gesturing to the driver to keep going.
The minute they start moving, he reaches and cups Hans’ cheek with his palm, gently sliding his fingers down the thin skin, almost bluish in the evening mist. “Pretty boy doesn’t have to worry,” he assures him with a smile, tracing Hans’ face for any signs of discomfort. There is none. There are many other emotions splashing in those gray eyes, however. It becomes a habit for Hanns to observe that pretty face and guess if Hans feels okay or not.
Most of the time, he’s not. Hanns notices it more and more often: the boy is clearly scared. Scared to voice his feelings and thoughts. Scared to tell someone he’s hurting. Scared… to be scared.
Hanns sees him longing for more every time he allows himself to slip his hand around his shoulders, or slides his fingers down his side and all the way to his thigh, or just smiles at him, actually. Yes, even such a small gesture seems to be enough for Hans to absolutely melt from joy - even though he doesn’t let it show. But the way his eyes glimmer every damn time is unmistakable.
Hanns watches carefully for every move and every glance - those glances speak so much louder than words, and it’s so hard to get a word out of this boy. Hanns knows this by now, and he drops the attempts to plug the words out of him. If he doesn’t want to talk - he doesn’t have to. Hanns will just have to try harder, to notice even more of those small signals that let him know the pretty boy is scared. Or happy. Or lost. Or anything, anything else. He’s the fucking Blackberry. He will make it okay.
The car stops in front of the garrison, he walks out first and offers his hand to Hans, who takes a moment to throw an interrogative look at him, eyes huge and sparkly, a silent “May I?” frozen in his glare. That’s what I do to you, boy. Hanns gives him a reassuring nod and feels a warm palm hesitantly touching his own. Hans slips out of the car just as quickly as he got in, visibly trying to escape the unfamiliar luxury as fast as possible, and Hanns feels the boy’s hand trembling in his, getting hotter and hotter.
It slips a bit from Hanns’ hold, because it’s already moist from the heat, and he catches another glance being shot at him, embarrassed and almost guilty. It all happens within seconds: Hanns doesn’t give himself time to think before he brings the boy’s hand up to his lips and leaves a careful kiss on his knuckles, watching closely for Hans’ reaction.
The grey eyes sparkle in the streetlight, and Hanns suddenly notices the boy’s lips trembling. If he is hurting, he’s hurting silently.
“Gotta tell me your number now, sweetheart,” Hanns says quickly, and when he sees confusion in Hans’ eyes, he clarifies, “To your room. I know it's the sixth floor, but if I’m walking you all the way up there, I’ll need the number too.”
Yes. He’s changing the damn subject. He needs Hans to relax. All he achieves is the sparkles to get even more feverish in Hans’ eyes, as he suddenly realises this is excitement the boy is so stoically trying to hide.
“I- Uh- Eighty eight,” Hans says finally, masterfully hiding his emotions under the same poker-face mask he wears all the time. Hanns learns to read him more and more with each day. There aren’t many people he can’t read from first sight - he only met so few of them he could count them all with one hand. But this pretty soldier seems to be the most enigmatic of them all: at least, it never took Hanns so long to crack someone.
They walk along the endless corridor, which is so badly lit, Hanns can barely see the numbers on the row of doors they pass. One time Hans trips over something, - of course he does, who the fuck leaves just one working lamp for an entire corridor in the middle of the night, - and Hanns feels thin fingers grasping at his elbow sharply. Once again, it’s a moment of freezing silence before he leans towards Hans, leaves a quick smooch on top of his head and prompts him to move forward. Hans doesn’t say anything and just glares at him with those huge eyes that hide so many emotions it makes Hanns’ heart beat slightly faster.
“Eighty-eight,” he comments, stopping in front of the door and waiting for Hans to find the key somewhere in his pocket. The lock clicks, and he follows Hans into a dark and very small room. A claustrophobic’s nightmare, as Hanns characterises it in his head, because it’s so tight in here it feels like they’re trapped. Hans doesn’t seem to notice his impression for a while longer, just walking inside and hanging the key on the hook by the door. He takes off his jacket, folds it neatly - a habit Hanns suspects is due to the fact that he’s in the army.
Hanns had the same habit back when he was a cadet. It vanished the moment he climbed up the higher ranks and there were no superiors controlling his every move anymore. He watches Hans turn to him hesitantly, scanning his face for any signs of discomfort the same way Hanns scans him. It becomes almost natural for them - to communicate… like that. With almost no words.
“Beautiful boy is sad,” Hanns comments quietly, approaching him in one short step - really, this room is ridiculously small, - and tilting his head to the side to see his face better. A dim shaft of light falls across Hans's pale forehead, tracing a thin line down to his chin. He is so unbelievably cute at that moment that Hanns feels the heat bubbling up from the depths of his chest.
Hans shrugs his shoulders and sits down on the edge of the bed, entwining his fingers into a tight lock on his knees. He just stares at his hands, lips squeezed tightly, eyes watery and hazy. There is something. Hanns can see it. There is something that’s going on right this second, and for, probably, the first time in his life he can’t break down that thick wall Hans had built around himself and see what is wrong.
And he wants to know. He wants to fix it. He lowers himself on one knee and gently covers Hans’ hands that are clenched in tight fists at that moment, with his palms, rubbing the knuckles with his thumbs carefully. He does it until he feels the tension slowly melts away from Hans’ hands, leaving his hands relaxed in Hanns’ firm hold.
“My pretty boy,” he whispers, slowly pulling their tightly entwined fingers up and leaving a slow kiss on Hans’ hand. “I can see it’s hard for you to voice your thoughts. And I’m trying to understand you without making you say things you don’t want to. But I need time to learn your way of communicating, sweetheart. And until I do - you will have to talk just a little bit more,” his voice drops to trembling at that exact moment, and he feels a wave of chills rushing down his back. He doesn’t stop for a second to analyze it. There’s no time. He’s getting through to Hans, he feels it.
“What did I do wrong, sweetheart?” he asks so quietly the words almost roll into a low growl in his throat, and he looks up at Hans, still almost kneeling before him. Ironic, isn’t it. The teeny-tiny cadet box-room. Barely enough light for a compartment of even that size. Almost midnight. And him. The Blackberry. Clutching junior cadet’s hand, trying to calm him down. Asking if he did something wrong.
Well, there’s a first time for everything.
Their fingers tighten into a firm grip on Hans’ knees.
Hans shakes his head hastily, “Nothing- Herr von Purple Beurer.”
“Hanns,” he corrects him gently, and when Hans’ pupils go wide with shock, he slowly nods and grabs his hands into a firm grip. “Hanns. How does that sound? Will it work for us?”
“What are you saying, Herr von Purple Beurer?” he asks in a small voice, and Hanns feels him clenching at his hands even tighter. “I can’t- I mean… if you want- me to call you by name- I would never…”
How can this boy be so emotional and so detached at the same time. It’s beyond Hanns’ understanding, and Hanns had seen so many people in his life. He leans towards him, his free hand slowly making its way up Hans’ thigh and towards his lower back, curling around him in one slow movement. “Sweetheart, this is just another step,” he says quietly, looking up at him. “You have to agree there’s something going on, right?”
Is he being too straight-forward? Hanns doesn’t care. He is fascinated by this boy from the corridor, whom he met by an absolute mistake. He wants to break through that protective wall of his. He can put his will and his power to this boy’s feet with a snap of his fingers, and god damn it, he will command the rest of the world to do the same. He wants to. He surely has a hell of a lot to offer.
“No,” Hans interrupts him suddenly, and now Hanns can very clearly see tears splashing in his eyes. “No, Herr von Purple Beurer, I can’t- I don’t- understand. D-don’t make me…” he falls silent for a moment, and Hanns doesn’t even try to slip in a word, because if the boy finally wants to talk, he will let them say anything he wants to. Hans takes a few sharp inhales: in and out, lips still thinned, eyes sparkling feverishly, hands grasping at Hanns’ wrist, although he doesn’t seem to really realise that particular motion of his.
“Why are you so against this?” Hanns asks quietly, feeling his throat getting squeezed as if by some invisible hand. A sudden wave of realisation hits him so hard his head goes spinning. He’s actually frightened of Hans’ response. He’s scared of the possibility that Hans can just… push him away now. At least he deserves to know the reason, right? He drags Hans slowly towards himself by the waist, still looking up at him and catching every shift in his eyes.
“I’m a normal person, just like you are. I have a name too. Why, my beautiful boy? Why are you so against this?”
“Because,” Hans whispers through the clenched teeth, also making such a clear effort to keep breathing. “Because, you’re… you.” A silent tear rolls down his cheek, and Hanns has to shove down that desire to grab him into the tightest hug and never fucking let go. This is the first time in his life he’s felt so helpless, and it makes him want to howl with frustration.
He controls armies. He has entire cities in the palm of his hand. The only person higher than him is The Reichskanzler. Why is he so fucking helpless when it comes to this boy. For a moment they just look at each other, Hanns finding himself short of words for the, probably, first time in his life. And then…
“You’re The Blackberry,” Hans manages quietly, sounding like he unveils the darkest little secret. And everything shatters as Hanns finally understands what he means.
“I’m not just The Blackberry,” he argues limply, pulling Hans closer and suppressing the desire to hide his face in Hans’ shirt, breathe in his scent and stay like that for the whole night. Or for the rest of his life.
He doesn’t allow himself that privilege. Instead he straightens up, still looking up at Hans and clenching his fragile wrists in his hands. “Believe me. I’m not… just that. And if only you gave me the chance to show it to you… to show you I’m real, pretty boy, to show you I am… more than a stupid title and a loud fucking name…”
The Blackberry. He heard that nickname so many times, yet now it sounds like the worst stigma imaginable. Especially when Hans’ eyes sparkle at him like two diamonds in the darkness of the night, sparkle so feverishly and with such pain. Hanns’ heart sinks as he feels Hans flinching suddenly, wrestling out of his hold and moving away from him, lips frantically gasping for air.
Hanns stands up too, just now realising he might have crossed the line. Came on a bit strong. Too strong, from what he sees. The boy seems to be scared out of his mind. He doesn’t really let it show, his eyes being the only thing betraying him, and Hanns feels blood freezing in his veins as he realises the boy is scared of him.
“Nein, nein, nein,” he whispers, also rising to his feet and freezing on his spot, because Hans fucking flinches as his shadow also rises across the wall. “Hans… Hans, listen to me, please.” Hans’ hand twitches the minute he touches him, and Hanns feels everything inside him shattering.
He has to fix this. He doesn’t know how yet, and with every next move he feels like he ruins that fragile thing they had built, he ruins it more and more. He doesn’t know how to patch it all up. He just never had to do this before.
“Don’t be… Hans, don’t be scared,” he whispers barely audible, and at this point he is not even sure if he’s commanding, demanding or actually pleading. He doesn’t care. The boy is hurting. Because of him.
“Hans, I promise you I won’t- I’m not-” Breath catches in his throat, as he sees another silent tear just rolling down-down Hans’ cheek. What the fuck did he expect. He was the one who massacred families. He burnt down so many villages he can’t even count. He was given his title for bombing an entire city to the point where it was just ashes and dust.
He is known for not having any mercy. Why should this boy think of him any differently. He’s Hanns von Purple Beurer.
Blind rage splashes within Hanns’ chest, and he takes a sharp inhale, stretching his hand towards Hans in a desperate gesture. “You can not fucking be scared of me. N-not you,” he whispers, his tongue barely obeying.
Something unreadable flashes in Hans’ eyes. “But everyone is scared of you, Herr von Purple Beurer.”
There. The truth. So sharp Hanns would’ve had his face smashed into a bloody puddle if words could physically hurt. Everyone is scared of him. What, is he going to pretend he didn’t know?
“You’re not everyone,” he whispers, although it’s not a whisper, it’s a broken hissing through the clenched teeth, because this is the third fucking time in the last ten minutes that he’d felt so useless. “You’re not everyone, beautiful boy, I would never harm you, I wouldn’t… I can’t let you be scared of me-!”
The whole world bursts into flames before Hanns’ eyes, as he at first tries to take Hans’ hand again, and then flinches away, as the boy clearly does not want to be touched, and then he sees that look of silent despair and pain right in front of him and he slams his palm against the wall, growling quietly. He wants to make it stop and he doesn’t know how. For the first fucking time in his life he is helpless in front of this young boy, a junior fucking cadet - he could’ve wiped him off this Earth with just a snap of his fingers if he wanted to-!
The mere thought of that makes his heart burst into millions of burning pieces, and he slowly slips his fingers through his hair, trying to calm down.
“Don’t be scared of me, sweetheart, please don’t be,” he whispers, this time just glancing at Hans from across the room and not daring to come closer. “I crossed the line here today. I scared you off. I’m sorry, I should’ve… Fuck, of course I should’ve known! But I promise you- my beautiful boy, I promise you,” he presses, his voice cracking all of a sudden, and he has to take a moment to pull himself together, “I will never harm you, Hans,” he utters through the clenched teeth, because his voice shakes so badly now he can’t speak properly. His heart races in his chest with such speed like it’s ready to just rip his rib cage in two.
He sees Hans’ thin shoulders trembling slightly, as he shakes his head, and a quiet voice blazes the tense silence of the room.
“I really think you should go now, Herr von Purple Beurer.”