Chapter 4
"I thought I could fix it, so I didn't hurt him, I stopped myself, so I don't understand why, wh- WHY?!"
“Why what?!”
“Why are they still like this?!”
~ Lucifer
Hans curls up on his bed, clutching the blanket tightly around his shoulders as he buries his face in the pillow, unable to hold back a sharp sob. The pain is so overwhelming that, for a moment, he loses himself entirely, gripping the pillow and growling through clenched teeth. Heat floods his face, burning against the damp fabric, until he’s forced to pull away.
It never, never hurt so bad before. He was never particularly brave or stoic, but at least he always tried his best to keep his dignity, right? This is different.
He was never offered something like this, not by someone like The Blackberry. Not out of the blue. Not with such force. Hans slowly sits up on the bed, roughly brushing the back of his palm against his cheek and feeling the wet traces getting smudged across his skin.
“Are you sure you want me to go?” how can this man’s voice crack like that, a detached thought flies through his mind, as he feels the first tear running down his face and doesn’t even try to hide it. “Why are you so scared of me, my boy? I have never… and would never… Hans, please, fucking please just listen to me.”
It is genuinely terrifying to see those dark eyes, that usually glimmer with either steel or mockery, now sparkling with that feverish fire. It’s even scarier than everything else that has happened here today. Hanns von Purple Beurer doesn’t know what it feels like to be hurt, right? Not by someone like Hans, anyway. Not by someone so fucking miniscule.
Hans' gaze lands on the blue armband—blue for a second-year, armband for a cadet. He tears it off and flings it across the room. A moment later, his shirt follows, yanked off and sent crashing against the wall. Hans embraces himself with his hands, dragging his feet up to his chin and curling into a protective ball on his bed, frantic inhales through the clenched teeth being the only sounds disturbing the viscous silence of the room.
All the time he’s spent in the military, he’s never cared about his rank. But right now, he hates everything about himself—how low he is compared to Blackberry, how small and useless he must seem in his eyes, how he’d give anything to be at least a staff sergeant. Anyone but this—a second-year student with a brittle nervous system and no use in combat. Right. He’s worthless in a fight, held back by his bad back, his anxiety, and all those other words he once glimpsed in his file before Lieutenant Müller tossed it onto the stack, and it became lost to him forever.
He wants this man to feel the same way he is feeling, Hans realises, wiping angry tears from his eyes and sniffling quietly into the embrace of his own hands. He wants him to spend his nights also thinking about Hans, just like Hans thinks of him night after night, unsuccessfully trying to suppress that dull ache that pulsates in his chest. He knows perfectly well he’s just kidding himself. Hanns von Purple Beurer would never actually care for someone like him. Second. Year. Cadet.
This is becoming like a fucking mantra. Or a curse that hangs upon him, not letting him live to the fullest. Or soldiers are not allowed to live to the fullest?
“Hanns. What do you say, will it work for us?”
To how many of his fuckboys did Herr von Purple Beurer suggest the same, Hans thinks absent-mindedly, as hot tears keep streaming down his face, and this time he doesn’t even attempt to wipe them off, his hands still grasping at his shoulders in a protective hold. Of course he understands he’s definitely not the first and only one in this man’s life. Judging by the way Hanns acts and holds himself, he fucks someone at every base he visits, and, of course, everyone knows about his fling with Xavier. Knowing Xavier and Herr von Purple Beurer, Hans would be surprised if he wouldn’t, in fact, be hearing constantly about their occasional affairs.
All he wants to know is why the fuck was he destined to be a junior cadet, and not some Leiutenant, with a rank important enough to interest The Blackberry for longer than a few days. Even Xavier has a higher value to the garrison than Hans does. Xavier sneaks in all the important information, Hans heard he was even summoned to The Reichskanzler’s office once, because he managed to find out something of a government’s importance.
“Why are you so against this, my beautiful boy? I’m a normal person, I have a name too.”
Hans can almost hear that name echoing through the ruins of bombed down villages, burnt to ashes buildings and hospitals, - Hans knows damn well The Blackberry does not stop in front of any sacrifices to get what he wants. Hans knows his name damn well. He lives under that name for as long as he remembers himself in the military. They all do. They live as The Blackberry commands.
Hanns von Purple Beurer.
Hanns.
The more he repeats that name in his head, the smaller he feels. The room, barely big enough for one, now stretches endlessly, its walls towering toward the sky. And he sits frozen at the center, crushed beneath the weight of his own unworthiness.
Hanns von Purple Beurer has been in this room. Touched him. Kissed him. Asked him things. Looked him in the eyes with despair so clear it felt like a sick, feverish dream that had to end any minute now. Hanns von Purple Beurer knelt right here, in front of him, as Hans sat on the bed, trying to figure out a way to explain why he was panicking.
The realisation is so crashing Hans has to cover his mouth with his palm to not gasp. How does Xavier do it, he thinks, sliding off the bed and stopping exactly where The Blackberry stood before. Xavier never seemed to be overwhelmed by being so close to this man, right? Hans suppresses the desire to walk across the hall and bang on Xavier’s door until he wakes him the fuck up and claws the answer out of him: how does he act like it’s nothing - what he has with Hanns von Purple Beurer?!
Instead, he sits back on the bed and once again wraps the blanket around his shoulders. He doesn’t keep track of the time: everything is blended into a single endless minute, and his sight just wanders around the room, occasionally stopping on different objects and deliberately avoiding the armband on the floor by the wall.
He would still have to pick it up, Hans thinks coldly, as his sight absent-mindedly traces the windowsill. His shift starts in less than three hours, sooner or later he will have to get up, get dressed, pick up that blue piece of cloth and wrap it around his hand like he usually does. And then he will have to walk out of this room, which is so tiny it starts to feel like a protective shell designed specifically so that he could have a place to crawl into when things get really scary. And he will have to continue with his day. To pretend like Herr von Purple Beurer never suggested for them to switch to their first names and “take another step”.
A thin ray of sun crawls on the windowsill and stops there hesitantly, as if not sure if it should proceed into the room. Hans watches it calmly, the fury inside him slowly melting into cold indifference. The shaft of sunlight finally moves from that spot on the windowsill and slithers towards the opposite side of the room, examining the grey wall. This is it. Six o’clock.
The most unbearable part of him getting ready is indeed to pick up that fucking armband. He ignores the sharp stinging in his back - shouldn't have spent the night frozen in a very uncomfortable position, yeah? It’s all his fault. Hans ignores it the same way he usually does and finally wraps the blue fabric around his hand, squeezing his lips tightly together and making an effort to not hurl it across the room again.
“Hey, Hans!” he hears as he walks into the dining room, and he has to take a moment to look around, until he finally sees Xavier waving at him. “Come here, I saved you a seat.”
He takes his tray with food and proceeds to Xavier’s table, which looks like it’s the only table with just one person at it. All the other tables are full, with at least four people at them, talking, laughing, discussing something. Hans knows Xavier is not particularly respected in this garrison. Never looked like it bothered him, though.
Xavier shifts to the side in a slightly brazen manner, freeing some space next to him for Hans to sit, and Hans lowers himself on the bench, immediately reaching for his bottle of painkillers.
“Well, you look absolutely affreux today,” Xavier comments, taking a sip of his juice and examining Hans up and down with his eyes. “Bad night, hm?” he asks after a moment of silence - Hans doesn’t know a word in french, so he just ignores Xavier’s previous comment, not sure what the man even said.
Hans shrugs grimly, but doesn’t bother to utter a word, just placing his tray down and sluggishly picking at his barley with a spoon. He doesn’t remember what questions he wanted to ask Xavier those few hours ago, trapped in his one-meter-wide room and suffocated by darkness, staring before himself with a glassy gaze. He had a few bitter remarks ready to throw at him, some snarky comments he’d been itching to make, but now he can’t remember a single one.
He just looks at Xavier, taking in every detail of his face—those lively eyes tracking every movement, thin lips curved into that familiar smile. His body is relaxed, legs crossed, one hand casually resting on the back of Hans’ chair. Hans is not in the mood to play Xavier’s flirting games.
He shoots a sad look at the entrance, as if Blackberry will just magically appear there just because Hans so despondently wants to see him. He knows the chances are near zero: he doesn’t know where five-star generals typically eat, but probably not in the common cafeteria. He probably has his meals served to him. To his office or to his bedroom, or something like that. Xavier should know, there probably isn’t a general that sneaky french spy hasn’t slept with. Hans isn’t really in the mood to ask him. He uncomfortably adjusts the armband on his sleeve and turns away from the door.
“Are you expecting someone?” Xavier asks him, furrowing and also glancing at the door, even though the only people who come through it are cadets - mostly of the first two years. Real soldiers have their own dining rooms one floor below.
“Oh for god’s sake, it’s none of your business,” Hans lets out through the clenched teeth. Something inside him snaps, and he flashes a furious gaze at the man. “Why are you even here, Xavier? You have permission to go wherever you like in the garrison. Why here?”
The man looks just as taken aback by his outburst as he is, raising an eyebrow skeptically before taking another sip from his glass, his trademark expression of “not-giving-a-fuck” taking place.
“That wasn’t nice,” he says coldly, ostentatiously turning away from Hans and pretending to look in the window.
Hans sighs.
What did he do that for.
He doesn’t really have any strength to analyze his behaviour now. He just knows he doesn’t want to lose the only friend he has in this garrison. Especially not over some miniscule fight. He lets a few more minutes pass in silence until finally looking back at the man next to him. “Hey. Xavier. I’m sorry,” he manages, and Xavier finally graces him with a look.
“Yeah, we’re good,” he says, although icy remnants are still visible in his glare. That’s one of those qualities Hans likes in Xavier: the man never holds any grudges. He can pretend he’s offended, and he surely knows tons of snarky comments to pin at someone who irritated him, but it all melts away just as quickly as it flares up.
Hans has seen it before—Xavier’s temper sparks fast, sharp as a flick of a knife, but just as soon as it’s drawn, it’s sheathed again. He doesn’t stew in bitterness, doesn’t let resentment fester. It’s a relief, really. Hans doesn’t think he could handle it if Xavier truly stayed angry at him today.
“What’s up with you, anyway? You look like you haven’t slept for the entire night.”
“You’re the one to talk,” Hans mutters under his breath, wondering how General von Purple Beurer spent his night. He probably simply returned to his room and forgot about this entire situation like it never happened. Is that what in Hans’ mind five-star generals do? Not give a fuck about cadets?
"Hey, you hear the third reserve got sent to the front half an hour ago?"
"Yeah. Blackberry must be out of his damn mind, ordering that."
"Fucking suicide mission, that’s what it is. Never thought General von Purple Beurer would pull something like this..."
Hans flinches, every muscle in his body tensing as he listens to the soldiers at the table beside him and Xavier. One of them pulls out a phone, tilting the screen to show the others what looks like a map.
"Here. And here. That’s where the front line crashes if that battalion doesn’t make it—and they won’t. Poor bastards. Have you seen the intel?”
“The French aren’t that stupid to just leave a point like that unguarded. A three-year-old would know it’s a fucking trap."
"Yeah, Blackberry deserves to be court-martialed for signing off on that..."
“O-oh, I hope he does-!”
“Won’t it be fun if The Reichkanzler just hangs him?”
Blood boils in Hans’ veins, his hand clenches at the soldier’s collar the next moment, and before he understands it, he and the soldier stand face to face, piercing each other with furious gazes. He had never seen this man before - maybe once or twice during training, but he doesn’t know his name, or rank, or his level of importance…
Even if he did - does he look like he cares?
“What the fuck do you think you’re-?”
“Shut up,” Hans whispers, not recognising his own voice. Fury bubbles up in his throat, and he shakes the man by the collar one more time, “shut up, or I will smash your head against this damn table for saying things like that.”
He receives a pretty hard push into the chest, but doesn’t unclench his hold, and pushes back just as hard.
“Hey. Erik. Careful. That’s one of Blackberry’s bitches,” he hears a warning whisper behind the soldiers’ shoulder. He doesn’t really pay attention, but he can see the rest of people around him whisper in hushed voices, nodding. “And he’s pretty fond of that one, you don’t want to break that pretty face,” another voice warns, and this time he hears that even the nonchalant Xavier is up from his chair.
“Hey! You do not speak about my friend like that,” he says with an indignation so sincere Hans takes a second to shoot him a look.
“Xavier, step aside,” he whispers, but Xavier raises his chin proudly, flashing a scathing look at the man Hans is still in skirmish with.
“No, I won’t! Listen here, I’m not scared of that scum,” his upper lip curls contemptuously as he flings his hand in their direction, and in that moment he looks so above all of them Hans once again understands why General von Purple Beurer once chose this man.
“Why are you defending me?” he whispers, looking at Xavier, and the man now shifts his attention to him, looking at him like he just asked the stupidest thing possible.
“Because that’s not true, what those pricks say,” he explains simply, but there is probably something elusive running across Hans’ face, because the next moment Xavier stops, looking at him more attentively. “Wait. Is it?”
“What’s fucking not true, bitch-boy?” someone in the crowd sneers. “I literally saw them in Zur Kaiserkrone restaurant yesterday: Blackberry and this cadet, with my own eyes.”
Xavier’s eyes, suddenly wide with realization, flash before Hans’ sight, but Hans doesn’t waste another second. He strikes almost without looking, knocking his opponent off his feet and not even fully feeling the way his knuckles respond with a sharp pain at every next punch he lands. He’s being punched back, and he tries to dodge, without loosening his grip and continuing to deliver blow after blow with his free hand. The man is much stronger, and Hans feels his face turning into a pulsating pulp with every next punch, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even feel the pain. He strikes again and again, even though they aren’t really wrestling anymore: they’re rolling on the floor, wooden boards creaking under their weight.
Someone’s loud voices are audible from the distance, barking orders, and he feels strong hands tearing him from his opponent, dragging him away and holding roughly as he chokes, trying to breathe.
"Solitary. NOW," a cold voice commands. He's yanked away, barely able to make out where he's headed, stumbling and tripping with each step.