Chapter 8
“Stay with me.”
“Where else would I go?..”
~ Hannibal
When Hans wakes up the next morning he can’t even tell where he is at first. Doesn’t look like his room and definitely doesn’t feel like his bed. He drowns under a soft feather duvet, feeling the plushness of the pillows all around him, and it’s something so new he takes a moment simply to enjoy it. The bedsheets are so clean he can practically feel them crunching when he moves. At the same time, his body protests with a gnawing pain as he tries to turn onto his side, every movement rippling through him—his elbows, his chest, his back—especially his back.
He makes another effort to lift himself up, and this time he succeeds. His gaze traces across the room, and he remembers that this is Hanns’ bedroom, and he himself chose to stay here yesterday. Right. Hanns is sleeping next to him, his face unusually peaceful and relaxed, the usual sharpness softened by sleep. Hans takes a moment to just watch him, letting his eyes trace the quiet rise and fall of his breath, the way the faint light catches on his features.
This doesn’t feel real. He is in Blackberry’s bed right now. That’s the only place that was supposed to be unreachable for him. Even though nothing happened yesterday - considering how much pain he is in, he’d be surprised if he was capable of anything else rather than slumping on the pillows and blacking out immediately after that.
But he’s still here. Somehow… this happened. He observes Hanns’ steady breathing for a few more minutes, noticing how calm this man looks in his sleep. How does he do it, Hans wonders, remembering his own sleep being interrupted dozens of times because he’d either have a bad dream or a sudden panic attack in the middle of that dream. Almost every night. And he’s just a cadet, not even a real soldier yet. Hanns is a General. One of the best, to that matter. Sleeps like a baby, nevertheless.
Hans tries to imagine what it would feel like to be… someone like him. To have your name being pronounced in whispers, to have your face being recognised even in the most uninformed corners of the country. To do all those things that a person would be required to do in order to reach a rank that high.
How many people had Hanns killed? Hans thinks he’d heard the statistics, but he can’t really remember it now, while his sleepy mind is still trying to wake up. A lot. That’s all Hans remembers, and he also knows he wouldn’t be able to do the same. To pull the trigger as many times as he would be expected to. That’s what Blackberry is famous for, right? Showing no mercy.
Hans carefully drags himself up into a sitting position - his injured hand responding immediately with an aching in the elbow, but he ignores it. He carefully reaches towards Hanns and places his palm on his chest, feeling shivers all over when he senses a strong heartbeat through that T-shirt Hanns is wearing.
It feels wrong to watch him like this. In a simple T-shirt, without that usual uniform, just sleeping in his bed with such a peaceful expression. It feels almost forbidden. Like Hans is not supposed to look. To see something this controversial. To be in the same area where something like this is happening. It feels like he should turn away right now, get dressed and slip out of this room before Hanns wakes up.
He can’t do that at least because he has nothing to change into. His own uniform is torn so badly he would never show up to his shift looking like that, and he even vaguely recalls Hanns calling someone last night to take those clothes to the washing room. Hans looks down at the shirt he’s wearing now and he even traces his fingers down the rail of buttons, as if not entirely believing he’s actually wearing Blackberry’s shirt.
Well, he didn’t really believe this was happening yesterday either, Hanns just insisted that he can’t spend the night in that uniform that doesn’t even look like a uniform anymore, and “the pretty boy would just have to accept what I’m offering, ja?”
As if Hans was just being squeamish. Like that was ever the case.
Hans wraps himself tighter into the shirt, because it’s impossibly big for him and he wants to feel all of it. He slowly lies down on the pillows and carefully rests his head on Hanns’ chest. He just wants to do that. To feel that heartbeat. To hear those slow inhales. To believe that this is happening. He wants the time to stop.
A few moments pass like that, with him just… absorbing every damn second he is gifted with this man, and then a slight movement makes him stiffen. He wants to flinch away, but a strong hand wraps around his waist, keeping him at place.
“Nope. Lovely boy stays right where I caught him.”
Hanns’ voice is calm and soft as he slowly props himself up on one elbow, his gaze once again carrying that familiar hint of smile Hans knows so well.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly, but he doesn’t attempt to move away any more. Hanns shrugs vaguely, sitting up and allowing Hans to climb into his warm embrace.
“No idea. Might have. I’d love to be woken up by you every day, sunshine,” Hans feels a quick kiss being pressed on top of his head, and he buries his face in that plain T-shirt that had taken him aback earlier this morning. He takes a deep breath, just listening to Hanns shuffling quietly under him to find a more comfortable position. This is… safe. He hasn’t felt this way ever since he joined the Academy and then got transferred here. Which feels like always. He has always been a soldier.
Right now he’s just… What is it that Hanns calls him? “Beautiful boy”? He takes that. He enjoys being just that. A beautiful boy. Curled in Hanns von Purple Beurer’s hold, melting in the warmth of his body. Not thinking about anything and not really caring about any more worries.
What worries can he even have, really? He’s in The Blackberry’s bed, for god’s sake. He’s protected. At least, he feels that way, with Hanns’ thumb tracing slow, thoughtful patterns along his back while his free hand gently strokes his head.
Hans raises his eyes on him quickly, his sight meeting Hanns’ mellow gaze from under his half-closed eyelids.
“Hm?” Hanns asks lazily, not really giving himself trouble to elaborate on the question. Hans smiles weakly.
“Nothing,” he says, exhaling lightly and feeling Hanns’ palm moving up to his head, pulling on his hair slightly as his fingers get tangled in his locks. “This just… doesn’t feel real.”
“Doesn’t it?”
There's a clear surprise in his voice, and Hans can’t help but smirk at the way everything is so easy for this man. He wants something, he gets it and he never bothers to double-check if it’s really there. “And here I thought- Mein Gott, Hans!”
Hans shifts in his hold and suddenly realises that the fabric of that T-shirt he’s pressing against feels a bit too warm under his cheek. He flinches away, and almost immediately the cut across his face he’d forgotten about starts stinging sharply.
A huge red stain spreads across the clean fabric of Hanns’ T-shirt, and Hans is still in the process of figuring out what happened. His wound must’ve opened at some point, Hans thinks, his hand shooting up to his face involuntary and feeling the sticky warmth on his fingers.
“Nein, nein, sweetheart, don’t touch it,” Hanns intercepts his wrist in the air, not letting him inspect the wound further. Has it opened all the way? Judging from that awful stain on Hanns’ shirt, it’s opened enough for almost the entire side of his face to be covered in blood.
Why, why today? Why at this particular moment? Just when he finally believed things could be okay.
“Hans, there’s nothing to get so sad about, calm down,” he hears Blackberry’s firm voice, but he can’t tell exactly how worked up he looks. Probably a lot, if Hanns tells him to calm down. Not that he chooses to be that way.
“Hans.”
He finally wrestles free out of Hanns' hold and brushes his palm sharply against his face, ignoring the way the cut responds with not just stinging but absolutely burning under that rough touch. He just wants that warm sticky mess off his face, he doesn’t care if it stings or not.
“Mein Gott, Hans, hör auf damit,” the dampness gets even warmer on his skin, and he thinks that he probably only scratched the wound further instead of wiping the blood off. Hanns is next to him again, this time taking his hand firmly in his palms and not letting go, even though Hans does take a few more faint attempts to wrestle free.
“Hans.”
He’s just pathetic.
WHY TODAY-?!
“Hans.”
He finally looks up, because he can’t exactly hide his face forever, even if that’s what he wants to do right now. He’s angry with himself, and he can’t even explain why.
“Hans, you have to listen to me. There is nothing to be so worried about,” Hanns says patiently, spelling every word as if to a five-year-old. “Do not touch it, okay? It’s not good for the wound, to irritate it like this... Come on, sweetheart, calm down so that I can leave you alone and go grab some antiseptic,” he gives Hans’ hand a gentle squeeze, and Hans nods slowly, still feeling the warmth of blood tracing its path down his face. He just ignores it. That’s all he’s left to do: ignore those things that make him pathetic, that ruin the only good moments he is blessed to have in his life. Like they are not real. Even though that impossibly red stain on Hanns’ T-shirt is practically screaming that if anything here is real - it’s Hans’ misery.
“Okay, that’s better,” Hanns says, continuing to watch him closely. “See, absolutely nothing is happening. We’re okay, sweet boy…” he finally lets go of his hand and walks across the room to that familiar shelf where, as Hans remembers, his medical supplies are.
He gets back to Hans the very next moment, a clean piece of cloth in his hand, and he shoots Hans an interrogative look, “I’ll just clean the blood and put plaster on it this time, deal? Should’ve done that yesterday, it just hadn’t occurred to me this might happen,” he mutters under his breath, gently pushing Hans closer to the light and pressing the cloth to his cheek slowly.
Hans allows him to do everything as he sees fit: he doesn’t as much as wince when the fabric, warm from the water, glides down his cheekbone, absorbing the rest of blood; he let’s Hanns put a plaster on it, because “yeah, we should’ve seen this coming, sunshine, I guess the both of us were just too distracted to think logically”; he sits on the edge of the bed and watches Hanns hide all the supplies back on their shelf before taking his T-shirt off.
The ease with which this man does everything. Like nothing and everything matters at once, like it’s only up to him whether the situation stays intact or not. Hans takes a minute to slide his palm across the crunchy-clean sheets again - thank god he hasn’t had the chance to ruin these too by bleeding all over them.
“Half past nine,” Hanns says meanwhile, tossing his phone back on the nightstand and heading towards the closet. “Which means your uniform should be here any moment now, nice and clean,” he takes his own uniform hanging neatly on the hanger, and Hans once again can’t take his eyes off him.
He knows he’s staring. Probably he’s staring for a little bit too long than would be somewhat appropriate, and he feels like he should at least pretend like he’s not studying every inch of Hanns’ body with such a hungry gaze.
Since when is he this bold? His mind reminds him once again that this is Hanns von Purple Beurer, for god’s sake. Thinking about him like that may very well be a death wish. Although Hans knows a lot of people who only benefited from such thoughts, and he, Hans, is already here anyway, so…
He watches Hanns slowly fasten his trouser belt, which clicks softly before tightening around his waist. The shirt slides over the stocky shoulders, and Hans suppresses the desire to get up, stop this process with a light touch, press his forehead to that broad back, run his palm over the shoulder and down, examining each muscle.
No. That's what someone like Xavier would do. Hans simply watches as the man calmly buttons up his shirt - one at a time, slowly, weighing each movement measuredly. Drowning in the moment again. For the twentieth time today he madly wishes for time to stop, to freeze forever.
“Hans, you have to remember to blink once in a while,” he clearly hears mockery in Hanns’ voice, and he catches Hanns’ eyes, sparkling with laughter, watching his reflection in the mirror. He shakes his head, trying to shake off that trance he’s slowly falling into.
“I probably do,” he mutters, as Hanns turns to him and slowly cradles his cheek, prompting him to look him in the eyes.
“But I be damned if that wasn’t lust I just saw in those pretty eyes of yours,” Hanns smiles—the way only he can—just enough for the tips of his teeth to glint before leaning in for a long kiss. Hans allows him all that, because somehow this man manages to drag him into a swirling sensual hurricane every time, and he always, always gives in.
“And what if it was?..” Hans asks in between the kisses, and he earns a chuckle from Hanns, who wraps him in a proper hug.
“I’d say: meet me for dinner today, we’ll see where it goes,” he taunts, and that’s when a quiet knock on the door distracts them. Hans doesn’t really see the person that knocks - the bed is too deep into the room for the angle to allow it, but it doesn’t really matter, because Hanns is the one who opens the door, takes whatever they brought and thanks them with a polite nod.
“Your uniform, sweetheart,” he says with a smile, placing it next to Hans on the bed, and Hans suddenly thinks that he was probably wrong earlier. He would surely be able to kill. Again and again. Just for that smile.
Hans reaches for the shirt, and his hand reminds him of itself with a sharp crack in his elbow. It doesn’t exactly hurt—at least not as much as his shoulder, which feels sprained enough, though he can’t quite tell what’s wrong with it. He shifts uncomfortably, unbuttoning Hanns’ shirt that feels even more soft and secure now that he has to take it off. A sudden urge to wrap into it up to his head and stay like that for the rest of the day is being stoically suppressed, because however warm it is, Hans remembers that it won’t hide him from the reality.
And the reality is that he’s a second-year who got thrown into solitary yesterday, and now he has to go back to his job and act like it’s okay, even though his body feels so sore he struggles to as much as move his fingers at that point. Not to mention that he lashed out at a Lieutenant yesterday-
“Sweetheart.”
Fuck, no.
“Hans.”
How could he forget.
“Hans,” a soft touch on the elbow drags him out of his gloomy thoughts, and he switches his attention to Hanns, who lowers himself on the edge of the bed next to him, looking like he’s been observing him for quite a few minutes.
“What?”
Hanns’ hand slowly slithers down to his bad hand, which is tangled into the sleeve in an unnatural way, and Hans just now notices that this time even his elbow burns with pain. Somehow Hanns’ touch doesn’t make it worse - if anything it’s so soft the pain is almost gone for a second.
“Let me help,” Hanns suggests simply, while his fingers are already untangling the fabric, and he hushes Hans to relax in his hold before carefully helping him with the other sleeve. Hans feels his skin burn where Hanns' fingers lightly touch his body, and he leans forward, allowing himself to relax. Maybe if he didn't constantly try to be strong, it would hurt less. He doesn't know for sure. Hanns' arms wrap around his neck, letting him drown in that fleeting embrace, and he goes limp in his arms, listening to his quiet whisper, coaxing him to trust him.
“I do,” he mutters helplessly, raising his eyes on Hanns, and the man’s eyes glisten in the morning twilight of the room. Hanns leans, as if for a kiss, at first hasty and hesitant, but he obviously restricts himself at the last moment, merely brushing their lips together.
“I hope that never changes,” the man mutters, letting him go slowly, and Hans catches himself thinking the same. His fingers fidget with the shirt, adjusting it, and then he takes the stupid blue armband, which of course is also brought to him in that neat little pile of fresh clothing. Of course. That stupid thing seems to be the only item he absolutely can not escape no matter how fucking hard he tries…
Yesterday just proved it even more.
“Promise to not get angry with me.” His voice grows hoarser in the middle of that sentence, and he clenches his hands into tight fists, watching Hanns turn towards him from the mirror, where he was adjusting his collar.
You wouldn’t be so smug if General von Purple Beurer was here.
Who is he to even think this would be a good idea: to throw Hanns’ name left and right like that? Without a permission. Hans tries to remember what exactly he was thinking at that moment, in the cellar, being threatened in the way he was, and he can’t really think of any coherent emotions. It’s all fuzz and fog in his head. He was enraged, that’s all. Still doesn’t give him the right to…
I’d like to see you touch anything that belongs to The Blackberry.
“Oka-a-ay,” Hanns drawls, more talking to himself than responding to Hans’ question, as he walks to the bed slowly and lowers himself next to Hans. Hans watches his palm cover his fist, tightly clenched together on his knees, and the soft touch that massages his knuckles in calming circles reminds him to not be so uptight.
“What is it, sunshine?” Hanns asks calmly, and Hans once again can’t stop marveling at the confidence of this man. He looks like nothing in this world matters. Like whatever it is, it’s fixable, as long as he wants it to be. Probably the only way to view life, when you’re a five-star General…
Hans swallows a thick lump in his throat, trying to come up with a way to say it. “Back in the cellar,” he says quietly, looking down at his own hands rather than at Hanns. He unclenches his fingers, letting Hanns’ slip into his palm, holding him properly now. “Back in the cellar, well… me and Lieutenant Muller had a fight,” he shoots a quick look at Hanns to see how bad the situation is already, and even though the man stays silent, his eyes flicker with dangerous sparkles.
“Go on,” Hanns says quietly, and this time those familiar orderly notes Hans almost never heard him use in his presence, kick in.
“I was threatened,” he practically pushes every word out of his throat, because never in his life did he think he would say a phrase like that, “and I… threatened… back. With… you.”
He knew sooner or later he would have to face the consequences of that abrupt thing he did back in that cellar. He was blinded with rage, with the impudence of what was happening, and probably for the first time in his life he felt something akin to power in his hands. And he used it.
He does know it’s a crime, a snarky little voice in his head asks, as he watches Hanns at first just stare at him with an absolutely blank expression and then the corners of his lips start to curl in a smirk. It’s a crime to use someone else’s authority, unless specifically given permission to do so. Especially - authority of someone like that. Some people were hanged for daring to mention his name in the wrong place at the wrong time. All that was needed was for The Blackberry to hear about it in some way - and there was no going back-
“You have to be kidding me,” is that amusement Hans hears in the man’s voice? He looks up at him, not sure what he is going to see. “You are full of surprises, you know that? Fucking hell,” he rests against the pillows and he laughs, long and hard, making Hans question all of his life choices once again.
“Mein Gott! You’re trying to tell me,” Hanns chokes in between the bursts of laughter, finally looking back at Hans, “that that prick threatened you, and you… you threatened him with my name?! Nein, nein, boy, you’re looking at me,” he lightly touches Hans’ chin with his finger, not really forcing, but prompting him to not look away, and Hans does look at him, wishing it wasn’t obvious how destroyed he is.
Apparently it is. Hanns’ face changes immediately, going from amused to serious within seconds, and he slides his palm up across Hans’ cheek - the one that is not wounded, - while embracing him into a hug one more time.
“Exactly what you should’ve done, sweetheart,” he mutters into Hans’ ear, voice so low Hans can barely make out the words. “I have never been more proud of anyone in my life, boy, you know that. Nein, but the fucking audacity!..” he exclaims, laughter once again very clear in his voice, and Hans looks at him in confusion.
“Are you… happy that I did it?” he asks hesitantly, although still settling in Blackberry’s warm hold. Like anything could ever make him not appreciate this.
Hanns smiles at him silently for a moment. There’s something unspoken in his gaze, something distant, like he’s searching for words he hasn’t needed to say before. The pause stretches, not uncomfortable, but heavy in a way Hans can’t quite place.
“In fifteen years that I am who I am,” he says quietly, pausing, and Hans swears he hears something new in his voice. Not hesitation—Hanns never hesitates—but a flicker of something softer, something bordering on admiration. “You are the first one who dared to do something like this, Hans.”
Hans swallows, his throat tight. He’s been bracing for a dissatisfaction, maybe even punishment, because this is a direct disrespect to someone’s fame and title, but not—whatever this is. Not Hanns looking at him like this absurd, reckless thing he did means something.
“Isn’t it a crime?”
Hanns doesn’t even blink as he immediately gives him a shining smile.
“Not for you, beautiful.”