Chapter 6
“I would like to hold you close. Show you how beautiful a hug can be.”
Hanns grabs the doorknob, feeling the cold metal burning his palm, and pushes it in without thinking. He wants to see that boy right now. He wants to look him in the eyes, to ask him a few questions. He wants to hear Hans say it, to say it to his face that they are done.
He storms into the cell, a gust of icy air hitting him in the face, and circles it with a hawky gaze, at first not seeing anyone here at all. And then his sight stumbles upon the fragile figure by the wall. Hans, who seems to have just risen from the floor, presses himself against the brick wall, eyes huge and clouded with fear and exhaustion, hands grasping at the wall frantically, as if trying to find something to hold onto. Hanns’s heart sinks.
Their eyes meet, and everything - every stupid thing Hanns had in his mind when he stormed in here - falls down into the abyss, away from his thoughts. Anger, bitterness, hurt - all of that is gone within a moment, and Hanns is… just left standing there, absolutely defenseless under Hans’ glittering gaze.
His sight traces a long cut that runs from the corner of Hans’ cheekbone down toward his jaw, thin but deep, standing stark against his pale skin. He spots a dried trail of blood on Hans’ forehead, his hair still visibly damp with it. Instinct kicks in—Hanns steps forward sharply, only to freeze and pull back just as quickly when Hans flinches away, bracing himself defensively.
There’s that cornered gaze again. Eyes filled with fear. The figure so tense, as if ready for Hanns to suddenly lunge and attack. Like a goddamn animal. That’s what Hanns has turned him into with his stupid, stupid demands. With his inability to wait. To accept the fact that not everything in this world obeys his rules. Or not everyone. Or, better put it this way, - everyone but Hans.
“Listen to me,” he whispers, his voice trembling so obviously he wants to stop talking. If this was any other situation, he’d feel disgusted with himself. He would walk away, never letting himself be in a moment that makes his voice crack like this. But he doesn’t move—he doesn’t even flinch, because he has. No right. To give up like that. “Listen to me, just hear me out. Hans. Please,” he presses, reaching out a hand but not trying to approach him anymore. “I’m here just to let you out. I promise you. I’m not- I won’t-” his hands are trembling. He doesn’t care. “Hans, I won’t hurt you or anything. Ever.”
The boy shakes his head silently. He looks so confused and disoriented that all Hanns wants is to rush towards him, embrace him into a hug and promise him that he doesn’t have to worry about anything. Well, he has no right to do that, apparently. If he makes Hans flinch away from him like that at least once more, he will destroy this fucking garrison to pieces. He can’t handle seeing him scared of him. Not after everything… after everything.
"Hans, please," Hanns splutters, his heart hammering against his ribs, each thudding beat reverberating through his chest. “I may be many things—I admit it. Yes, I'm The Blackberry. Yes, I haven’t… always… done good things. But I'm not a liar, Hans. You have to believe in me."
Silence. The boy still leans against the wall, his breaths sharp and uneven. Hanns notices the faint, wet streaks cutting through the blood on his face—traces of two silent tears that had just fallen. No, no, no, this can not be happening. He has to make it work.
Hanns turns away from him sharply and leans on the doorframe with his hand, slipping his fingers through his hair and trying to come up with something, some kind of a plan to fix this. Because he’s obviously breaking it the more he tries. He has to level it down. To stop the pressure. He tried once, and this is where he got them. The boy is scared, he’s almost crying.
A moment passes in deafening silence.
“Hans,” he utters quietly, his voice as steady and soft as he can make it, even though his heart is jumping the fuck out of his throat. “Hans, can I come closer? If you say no, I’ll respect that. I promise.”
A sharp sparkle of something painful shines in Hans’ eyes, and the boy nods shakily. Hanns takes several steps towards him slowly, trying to not scare him even further. He stops when they are being separated by the mere inches and slowly reaches to take his hand.
“See?” he whispers, letting Hans’ thin fingers entwine with his into a tight lock. “It’s not that bad, right? Hans?”
Hans nods again, the motion barely visible, while his entire attention seems to be focused on their touch. Hanns stays completely still, hardly even breathing, his gaze locked on Hans—watching every movement, every flicker in his eyes.
“I’m trying to show you, sweetheart,” he says quietly, his voice echoing uncomfortably in the damp walls of the cell, “I’m trying to show you this can be beautiful. We can make it- make it work, Hans,” what is it with him today? He clears his throat, which is seizing and leaving him with hoarse scraps of breath once again.
“Just come with me,” this is not even an offer, it’s a pleading command, soft and desperate. Now, with only inches between them, Hanns' gaze lingers on the streaks of blood marking his skin. It’s clear that when he was thrown in here, he didn’t bother to wipe it away. That long wound that slashes his cheekbone is still glistening with blood in the dim light from the hallway, and Hanns feels he can’t stay here in this dank cell, can’t just stand idly by and watch, like he’s not capable of doing anything to fix this.
“Hans. Come with me, just to my room,” he asks thickly, slowly embracing him by the shoulders and almost whispering those words into his ear. “Just so I could take care of you. If you want to leave afterwards - you can. I can leave the door open and give you the fucking key if you want me to.”
His fingers tremble as they move down Hans' hands, barely grazing his skin, as if he's holding a fragile statue, terrified that any involuntary movement might shatter it. This is the first time in his life he despises his physical strength with his whole heart. He feels it splashing out of him at every uncareful move, and it scares Hans, and he tries to keep it at bay, because he would never, never harm this boy.
He is willing to beg if that’s what it takes.
To ask. To persuade. As much as needed.
He can’t lose this.
The beautiful boy has to understand.
Hans nods slowly, even though Hanns feels slight flinches under his fingers. Is he hurting? He probably is, he was beaten up, Hanns recalls too late, noticing the torn shirt on Hans’ elbow and the way he holds himself. It’s visibly uncomfortable for him to move.
Hanns’ heart drops when the boy finally turns to him, his eyes shifting from glassy to sharp and sparkling. “I’ll go with you, general von Purple Beurer,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. Thin fingers touch Hanns’ hand, - at first lightly, as if testing the waters, and then grasping at his sleeve sharply, as Hans finally gives into his embrace.
Hanns doesn’t even attempt to hug him back, enveloping him into a protective hold, but barely touching him, because what if he makes it worse. He leans towards him, brushing his nose against Hans’ temple - the only part of his face that seems uninjured by… Who cares who? Whoever that person was that dared to fight Hans, he’s a deadman anyway. Hanns will make sure of that.
He presses a frantic kiss against the boy’s temple, and a shaky “thank you” escapes his lips through the gritted teeth as he tries to take an inhale. His throat is squeezed as if by some invisible hand. Hans agreed. It’s a small win. A miniscule one, it’s not even a proper win, but Hanns leaves kisses on his forehead again and again, completely lost in the sensation of savouring this at least for a little bit.
"Let's go," he says quietly, guiding Hans toward the door—still hanging open from the moment Hanns had all but kicked it in. Hans stops after a few steps, still clutching Hanns’ hand sharply, and Hanns can very clearly see him wincing.
“Don’t- don’t rush, please,” he whispers, and his voice cracks.
“What? Is it your back again?” he doesn’t really have to ask. He can just look at him and see where it hurts. He’s pretty darn good at reading people, and it’s cases like this when it feels like a curse.
“I think I pulled something during the fight,” Hans admits, thinning his lips for a moment and obviously battling the internal pain before speaking again. “It’s really cold in here, and I don’t know how long,” he swallows hard, leaning on Hanns’ hand more and more, “how long I was sitting by that wall, but it felt long enough. And then I- I think I got up too sharply-”
He nearly jumped to his feet when Hanns walked in, Hanns recalls quite well. “Why in the world would you get up like that,” he mutters, allowing Hans to lean on his hand, while his free palm slowly moves down his back, inspecting it.
The glittering gaze of Hans’ dark eyes lock with his own. “You’re a general,” Hans whispers helplessly, and Hanns is ready to cancel all the military laws that very second just for Hans. Of course, he’s a cadet, if a general walks into the room, he’s obliged to at least stand up. At least. How could Hanns forget.
The boy winces when Hanns’ gentle hand feels a clearly sore muscle in his back, and Hanns hushes him down under his breath, trying to figure out by touch how exactly he could make this easier. “Sweet boy will have to wait just a little bit, okay?” he whispers thoughtfully against the top of Hans’ head and leaves a quick kiss against it, not really thinking about what he’s doing. His attention is still all on figuring out the best way to pull whatever it is that causes Hans pain back in, at least until they are back to Hanns’ room. His hand continues to investigate the curls of Hans’ vertebrae, and Hans flinches at that lightest touch.
“I know, I know, I am so sorry,” Hanns whispers, now rubbing circles around the spot that he thinks needs massaging. “From this point on it will only get better, okay? How does that feel? Right here?” he presses into that tight knot a little, and Hans exhales sharply.
“Ja, right there,” the whisper is so ghostly Hanns would have missed it if he turned away just for a second and couldn’t read Hans’ lips.
“Das ist gut,” Hanns says thoughtfully, his mind not even fully thinking about his responses. His entire focus goes to trying to ease Hans’ discomfort as much as possible. He would be able to do a lot more if they weren’t in a cellar, of course. Well, they are getting out of here soon enough. He just needs to make it better so that Hans could at least walk without wincing at every move.
Hans exhales shakily, a quiet whine escaping his lips, and Hanns feels his back practically arching under his touch, and this time he can tell it’s not good. “Sweetheart, you need to relax,” his whisper rustles against Hans’ ear. “Injuries like yours - they don’t like extra strains, love.” Hanns takes his hand away for a moment, watching carefully the way Hans’ face changes, the painful expression finally disappearing a little.
He tries again, sliding his palms across Hans’ waist and allowing him to adjust to his touch a little, and he feels the muscles under his fingers relax a bit. “You’re doing great,” he encourages under his breath, pressing a little harder against the point he is almost sure is the source of the tension and observing Hans’ reaction closely. The boy’s eyelashes flutter, as he squints and thins his lips frantically, but the next thing he does is perps up his chin proudly and gives into Hanns’ touch, allowing him to press even harder against his back.
A rapt smile touches Hanns lips. Just when he thinks his obsession cannot get any stronger, the boy does something like that, and Hanns is once again ready to be all over him. Fascinating.
“Now lets try walking, hm?” he suggests after a while, slowly taking his hands away and making sure he doesn’t cut contact all at once, allowing the muscles in Hans’ back adapt to the changes. “You should be good for now. And my room is not that far away, thankfully.”
He sees Hans’ eyes dart towards him frantically at the mention of his room, and he feels his own eyes flashing dangerously. Don’t you dare to say you’re still scared of him, beautiful boy. Don’t you fucking dare.
And Hans doesn’t. Instead he slowly turns to him, so that their gazes lock on one another, and Hanns feels the soft touch of the boy’s palm covering his hand, which is squeezed into a tight fist at this moment. Silence hangs between them, and Hanns loses himself in the boy’s eyes, looking for an answer, searching in those steely eyes for any kind of explanation about what, what is the beautiful boy trying to say to him.
“I’m so sorry I cause so much trouble, Herr von Purple Beurer,” Hans whispers suddenly, his voice cracks, and he takes a moment to inhale frantically.
His fingers tremble slightly as he still holds onto Hanns’ hand - well, holds is a strong word, he barely touches it, as if afraid to use more force than he’s allowed to. Hanns heart drops when he sees those grey eyes sparkling.
And then the boy suddenly talks. So much. In a shaky voice, choking on syllables and entire words. About how he knows he stands no chance here, how he’s too fucking difficult, and he isn’t trying to be, it just happens, and there’s nothing he can do about it. How he couldn’t get Herr von Purple Beurer from his head ever since he saw him for the first time, and every time they meet, every time Herr von Purple Beurer allows them to meet it- it doesn’t feel real, but it is. And Hans collects those memories like diamonds, he will remember every single one of them even if Herr von Purple Beurer decides to give up on him-
“Stop it,” Hanns mouths, and even though it’s almost inaudible, Hans falls silent, gasping for breath, and just looks back at Hanns, despair splashing in his eyes. Hanns’ heart is pounding somewhere so deep in his chest every next beat suffocates him. It’s just silence and his own beating heart echoing in his ears as he slowly leans towards Hans and crushes those thin trembling lips with his own.
He promised himself he’d be careful and NOT let his heart be in the way. He promised himself to not do anything irrational that would scare this boy away. He promised.
Well, that was all before the pretty boy started talking to him again, right? And it doesn’t matter anymore, because in the next moment Hans is kissing him back, Hans leans into his hold and completely melts in it, Hans gives in to his touch, and Hanns finds himself holding that weightless boy in his hands.
“I’m not giving up on you, sweetheart,” he whispers, breaking the kiss and feeling a wave of shivers running down his body when Hans hides his face in Hanns’ shirt, inhaling shakily. “Not today, not ever. You just do the same. Hans. Don’t give up on me.”
The sharpness with which Hans clutches his hand is the response he gets.