Chapter 5
“My hand has blood.”
“Oh. Mine too.”
~ Peaky Blinders
Hanns gets up from his chair sharply, slamming his palm against the surface of the desk and exhaling in frustration. It’s been almost twelve hours, why the fuck is he still not over this. He was supposed to have forgotten about this thing immediately after he left that stubborn cadet’s room, wasn’t he?
He takes a few erratic steps across the office, brushing his palm across his face and trying to sort out the thoughts in his mind. He did everything possible to show that boy he would fight for him. For them. He is Hanns goddamn von Purple Beurer, he doesn’t give up on someone that easily. Especially on someone so precious.
Well, it didn’t seem to be enough to convince that cadet, obviously. Hanns could see literal tears in the boy’s eyes, and he was willing to try anything, anything to make it stop. He wanted to stop it, and he couldn’t find a way. For the first time in his life it felt like there was no way. It was like a battle without any winning chance for him.
What is there left for him now?
He raises up his chin proudly, approaching the window and looking down at the garrison yard, face motionless. He knows very well how to look like he doesn’t care. Saved him a lot of trouble in the past.
A second passes. Two. Three. Hanns growls quietly and turns away from the window, feeling his face growing hotter with anger. Who the fuck does this boy think he is, anyway? Hanns himself offered him his protection, his power, his… feelings. Everything.
“You’re… you. The Blackberry.”
Damn right he is The Blackberry!.. And he is used to taking what is his. That cadet stepped way over the line last night, rejecting him like that. Nobody before ever dared to do that. A long, long fucking list of names surges through Hanns’ mind, and he recalls person after person - colleagues, soldiers, the fuckboys he considered hot enough for him to take right there in the moment. Everyone. Every fucking person, because they were all his. He’s Hanns von Purple Beurer, everything here is his.
He could force that boy to accept it. If he wanted to, he could tear an explanation out of that fragile throat. A full fucking explanation. As detailed as he’d want it to be. Without the need to claw one word per hour out of him. It’s a fucking junior cadet, they live and die as he orders.
“Everyone is scared of you, Herr von Purple Beurer.”
Well maybe those who do fear him simply have more common sense and survival instincts, hm? What would the pretty boy say to that? Wouldn’t he agree? It doesn’t matter, Hanns can fucking make him agree. Hanns can make him agree to anything, he’s particularly good at persuading. All those countless captives that died screaming whatever he told them to scream in the cellars of his homebase would definitely confirm. It’s actually really simple, to make someone do whatever you want, when your hands are soaked in blood.
“I really think you should go now, Herr von Purple Beurer.”
That fragile boy stood before him, eyes huge and sparkly, tears silently running down his face, thin lips trembling, - and he dared, he had the fucking guts to tell him that. Hanns could squash him like an ant if only-
“Everyone is scared of you, Herr von Purple Beurer.”
“You’re you. The Blackberry.”
The Blackberry. Hanns hisses through the clenched teeth, hiding his face in his palms and exhaling raggedly. For the first time in his life he wants to erase that name from his record. To be someone else, someone… who’s not him. Apparently, that’s what the beautiful stubborn boy wants? Well, that’s the only damn thing he can’t give him.
Ironic, isn’t it? How he offered himself to the fullest, and it turned out that was the only thing that boy couldn’t handle. Hanns being himself. Well, that can’t fucking change. He’s the second most important person in the country, what is he supposed to do? Die and fucking reincarnate? Too complicated. He can take that boy whenever and however he likes, and he won’t think twice-
Lies. Hanns slumps into his chair that squeaks plaintively under him, swaying under his weight, but he doesn’t pay attention, because he just now notices his hands are trembling. Interesting. Never happened before.
The door to his office opens without any announcement, and Xavier walks in with his signature flirtatious smile. Hanns merely looks up at him before returning to his previous state of staring through the table with glassy eyes. “What are you doing here, Xavier?” he asks mechanically. Not because he is bothered or genuinely wants to know, but just for the sake of saying something.
“Haven’t seen you in a few nights. Thought I’d drop by,” Xavier shrugs, sitting in the chair for visitors at the other side of the table and leaning on its back in a relaxed manner. “How’s life, Hanns?”
“The usual,” Hanns answers through his teeth. Usual, huh? How often is he being ditched by a second year student with a body so fragile Hanns could snap him in half with his bare hands and willpower so strong Hanns couldn’t break through to him no matter how hard he tried? That happens every day, right? Just a normal Friday, nothing much.
“Everyone is scared of you, Herr von Purple Beurer.”
“You’re not everyone.”
That boy is not everyone for sure, Hanns thinks, as his mind returns to them in the restaurant, Hans’ limp hand clutching at his sleeve as he rests in Hanns’ hold for a good portion of the evening. That boy surely cared, Hanns could swear he cared, he saw it in his eyes. They both did. He just… wasn’t gentle enough. Forced his so-called reality on the boy. Of course he got the reaction he got. He should’ve done it at a different time. In a different way. With different words. Without sounding like he was going to force him to play by his rules. That boy is surely playing on his own terms…
“That’s a nice thing you have here, Hanns,” he shifts his heavy sight at Xavier, who is almost finished examining every little item on his desk - by now Hanns knows he should hide all the important documents when Xavier walks in - and is now fiddling with his golden pen, idly rolling it in his fingers and watching the light reflecting off it’s surface in shiny sparkles.
“You want it? It’s yours,” Hanns says indifferently, swaying in his chair with his thoughts still focused on Hans. He watches Xavier hiding the pen in his pocket with a satisfied smile and proceeding to examine all the other items on Hanns’ desk with a determination so intent it feels like he’s on the most important task of his life. Hanns doesn’t care. If he wants to rummage through his things - he can. As long as he doesn’t find anything important.
Hanns is used to dealing with things according to their level of importance. He doesn’t pay more attention to things than they deserve. Which is exactly why he spent the entirety of today getting more and more hooked on the beautiful stubborn boy two floors away from him? He smirks silently, because here it is again: the feeling of being helpless. Just like last night.
He’s so used to deciding everything. What people do, what people say, how they react, sometimes even how they feel. It doesn’t look like any of that worked on Hans. The boy is hurting - Hanns can sense it, he sees it in his eyes, in his posture, in the way Hans grasps at his hand, or leans into his embrace, probably hoping Hanns doesn’t notice how important all of that is to him. And everything Hanns was doing for the past few days was trying everything in his power to make him feel okay.
He wants the boy to feel okay. He is willing to do anything to make that happen. But you can’t force someone to feel okay, right?
This is the realization that makes blood boil in his veins.
He can’t force someone.
He can’t force someone…
What is this gibberish, he’s Hanns von Purpole Beurer! He can get whatever the fuck he wants.
He jumps up from the desk, slamming his palm against it and earning a shocked “Mon Dieu” from Xavier, but he doesn’t allow him to say much more.
“Stand up,” he whispers, walking around the desk and looming over Xavier, while his fingers fidget with the buttons on his shirt. “S-s-stand up,” he hisses through the clenched teeth when Xavier doesn’t move fast enough, and this time Xavier obeys, a flick of realization overshadowing the visible confusion in his eyes. Hanns hears his own heavy breathing echoing in his ears as he reaches for Xavier’s belt and almost rips it off him, his steely sight meeting Xavier’s blue eyes.
This is his fucking world.
He can have anything he wants.
Anyone he wants.
He can have you, boy. Prepare yourself.
His frantic fingers still can’t really work out the buttons on his shirt, so he stops when there are just two more left and tears the shirt off himself, hearing the buttons scatter across the floor.
“Someone’s in the mood, after two entire nights to himself?” he hears Xavier comment, as the man still observes him carefully, probably not entirely sure what’s on Hanns’ mind.
“Well,” Hanns utters harshly, and his voice is so low it’s almost a whisper. “Do your fucking job. Don’t make me wait.”
He can have whoever the fuck he wants in this world. Watch him.
“Wow, you’re forceful today,” Xavier whispers, obeying, as his sight slithers down to Hanns’ trousers and his hands also reach for Hanns’ belt. That’s the moment everything becomes one huge lump of colors. Colors and rage. This is the only way Hanns can probably describe that hurricane that explodes through him.
His lips slide over the pale skin, his hands wander over the partially unbuttoned shirt on Xavier’s angular shoulders. He loses himself in those outrageous kisses - although even calling them ‘kisses’ feels like a crime. He stops two or three times to feel the beating vein under his skin. To feel life pulsating right under his mouth, to suck it in roughly, even bite a little - and then let go.
He doesn’t have to let go, you know. He does it because he fucking chooses to. He chooses to let every damn one of them live. As easy as that.
He closes his eyes and simply slides his hands down Xavier’s slender waist, outlines the vertebrae with his fingers, feels the blind rage overwhelm him with renewed vigor and recoils for a moment, convulsively inhaling the cold air.
This isn’t helping. Whatever he is doing right now - it’s not working for him. Nothing does. He realizes this so abruptly that he doesn’t give himself time to think further and he pulls Xavier into another demanding kiss.
Feel it. Feel every movement, every inhale. Is that how you imagined it would be like with that fragile boy from the sixth floor?
“Way too tense today, Hanns,” Xavier comments breathlessly, while his light hand is already crawling up Hanns’ thigh and slips into his unbuttoned pants. "Calm down. We’re having fun here."
Well come on then. Show him precisely how much fun they are having. Convince him he’s not hurting. Because nothing managed to convince him of that so far.
He doesn’t answer anything, because rage is still seething in his throat, and he literally feels like his whole world is crumbling with each next kiss. The world that belongs to him. The world that he can break into pieces with one hand. The world that for some reason is all gathered in that small, fragile cadet from the sixth floor, with a sparkling gaze, a quiet voice and indestructible willpower.
If Xavier does notice that something is wrong, he doesn't let it show. A slight smile wanders across his lips again - his signature way of showing that he is getting the maximum pleasure from the process. Perhaps he also does everything possible to make Hanns feel the same. Hanns can’t tell.
All thoughts are carried away in a whirlpool of furious kisses. Hanns is determined to explore every millimeter of Xavier’s body with special care today.
His tongue moves from the collarbone down, drawing patterns against hot skin. His fingertips lightly outline Xavier's back, and Hanns' gaze shoots up sharply.
“Turn,” he whispers through the clenched teeth, not recognising his own cracked voice.
That’s right, sweetheart. Turn around, nice and quick. That is what he wants… right? Hanns doesn’t really stop to fully analyze that traitorous little thought. He wants to want it. That’s enough of a reason.
The golden pen rolls out of Xavier’s pocket and down the polished table with a quiet rattle. It mixes with blood pounding in Hanns’ ears, and those are the only sounds he is still able to distinguish. Xavier arches against the table, exhaling shakily, and Hanns can see him grasping at the edge of the table for balance. That’s right, boy. He’s taking the best out of you today.
Who’s going to forbid him?
Watch him go.
The room explodes in zillions of different colours, and Hanns leans on Xavier’s shoulder for just a second to catch his breath. He steps away the next moment, letting him go, and just watches him at first grasp at the edge of the desk, inhaling sharply, then finally slowly straighten and turn to Hanns, pulling up his trousers.
“Alright, Herr von Purple Beurer,” he whispers, as the corner of his lips twitches in a semblance of an impressed smile, and Hanns feels cold shivers bursting all over his chest. Probably, something dangerous flashes in his eyes, because Xavier shrinks back immediately. “What?”
“Never,” Hanns whispers through the clenched teeth. “Never call me that again.”
He buttons his trousers, then takes a few slow, deliberate steps around the table, his legs feeling heavy, as though they’re glued to the floor. He slumps into his chair and hides his face in his palms, hot and sweaty, and slick against his face, which is also pulsating with heat.
Who did he try to hurt just now? Xavier? Himself? Pretty boy from downstairs? Why is he feeling even more broken now than he was a few hours ago? Thoughts flood his head, and he doesn’t know which one to focus on. He hears Xavier’s flying steps rustling across the floor, and soft palms cover his shoulders. “You’re not yourself today,” Xavier’s breath burns his neck, as his touch softly glides down his shoulders. “Wanna talk about it? Or just sex is enough?”
“This is the last time we’re doing it,” Hanns says all of a sudden, turning his chair and allowing their eyes to meet. “So I don’t think talking is necessary, Xavier.”
Hanns feels his own face becoming an imperceptible mask, motionless and cold, with just his eyes continuously clawing at Xavier in search for any changes. This is a sudden decision, which he hasn’t planned, but it happened anyway, and he doesn’t regret making it. Xavier straightens up and watches him for an unbearably long second before slowly nodding.
“I see.”
That’s it. That’s all he says, and no matter how hard Hanns tries, he can’t tell for sure what Xavier is feeling or thinking. He buttons his shirt slowly, working on each button leisurely, and when he’s done he walks towards the window behind Hanns’ desk and stops in front of it, scanning the yard underneath them with an unbothered expression.
Hanns observes him silently, not really eager to meddle into the silent discussion Xavier is very clearly having in his mind. That’s the only thing Hanns can tell, because the man is too fucking good at hiding his feelings, and all Hanns’ attempts to break through that glassy look and absolutely nonchalant face expressions crush without making a dent.
“Why did you once choose me, Hanns?” Xavier asks quietly, his eyes still fixated on the grey landscape of the back yard. It doesn’t even sound like a question - more like a statement Hanns is obliged to confirm, and for a moment he feels arrogance in him bubbling up and immediately leveling down, because Xavier continues to calmly look out the window, as if not noticing how sharply Hanns looks up at him, and a wave of rage breaks against this equanimity with amazing ease.
He snaps his fingers and points at Xavier, corners of his lips twitching in a smile.
“This,” he says simply, his eyes tracing the rigid line of Xavier’s posture, noting the way his back remains perfectly straight and his shoulders squared. He doesn’t attempt to say much more and he allows himself to close his eyes for a while, listening to the complete silence of the room and feeling the anger slowly melting into numbness and settling heavily in his chest. He gets up from the chair a few minutes later and heads toward the door, not entirely sure if he even knows where he wants to go. Wherever. Why does it even matter.
“Who is she, Hanns? Or he?”
The quiet question hits him in the back, and Hanns stops, his hands already on the doorknob. He hears Xavier also moving away from the window, and he practically feels those lively dark eyes drilling him from behind.
“Cadet from sixth floor,” Hanns says, barely audible. “Room eighty-eight… His name’s Hans.” He still doesn’t turn to face Xavier, staring at something invisible in front of him, while his grasp at the doorknob gets stronger and stronger. Somehow saying it out loud hurts even more than just thinking about him. As if until this moment he could pretend none of that happened. He never met the beautiful boy, he never fell in love, he never went out of his way to… be with him. As simple as that.
Well, he can’t really pretend now, can he?
Xavier hums under his breath, “Oh, that Hans,” and then raises his sight at Hanns. “Oui, I know him. He’s in solitary now, Hans from eighty-eight. Got into a fight in the cafeteria. Did you know?”
The hallway. Elevator, that is too fucking slow today and seems to take eternity to get Hanns to the downfloor. A few dozens of steps he plunges in no time. A check-point to the cells, which he passes without even identifying himself as it’s stated in the codex. The man at the front desk tries to say something, but drops that idea the second Hanns’ heavy gaze lands on him.
“Six-eighty-eight,” he says sharply, tapping his finger on the logbook the guard immediately grabs and opens. “Find me that person, quick. Which cell?”
Pages rustle hastily, a few of them even get crumpled as the guard frantically tries to find the record. “Th-that one, r-right there, five-oh-two,” he says finally, pointing behind the corner, and before he can even finish the sentence Hanns already leaves him behind, storming towards the door.