Chapter 12
“Find me in my office, beautiful.”
Hans does his best to concentrate on work, yet it reminds of itself over and over, echoing in his mind like an endless matra. It’s been almost an entire day since the two of them saw each other - apparently, Hans still had to work, even though he got to the training fifteen minutes late. And Hanns got an urgent call from somewhere, and the voice on the call made Hanns’ expression darken instantly.
“I have to send in the reports tomorrow, Hanns, and all my interrogations lead to nothing.That fucking prisoner just won’t talk. You have to come and make him talk!”
Hanns frowned and asked a few clarification questions, while his fingers continued fiddling with Hans’ sleeve - or rather massaging his wrist in swift thoughtful movements while Hanns seems to be completely absorbed into the new problem he was presented with.
“Franz. Hey. Are you sure you did everything possible? Look at that bastard closer, there has to be something that would get him off the leash.”
“Hanns. Listen to yourself,” the man on the other side of the line sounded so distressed his voice was becoming more sharp and high-pitched with every word. “Would I call you if I had more tricks up my sleeve? I need him to say literally anything before the twenty-sixth of October, okay? Just for the reports, we’ll see what else we can do with that information after the Celebration. Will you come over here or what?!”
Hanns sighed and looked up at Hans immediately after hanging up.
“Apparently, I’ll be out for the day,” he muttered stiffly, shoving the phone away and this time taking Hans’ hand for real. “Some people just can’t interrogate their captives right. Find me in my office, deal? Wait for me if I’m not there.”
Hans watched him leave the armoury in his usual firm, not rushed manner, and he stared at the exit for a good more minute before he was shaken out of his thoughts and reminded to get back to work. It’s just another weapons training, and if Hans is good with anything in this life - it’s the weapons. He does everything almost automatically, not really giving it much thought, and his mind continues wandering somewhere around Hanns’ “find me in my office”.
Hans catches a sneaky little thought in his head telling him that maybe - just maybe, if there’s ever a possibility - he wouldn’t mind coming with Hanns to one of those interrogations that, apparently, can’t be handled without him. He only heard stories, and even those were almost completely twisted by whoever was telling them. People have that in them - the desire to twist and turn until the events are almost unrecognisable.
Xavier had sat through several of these interrogations—mostly because the captives were captives thanks to him, and he was needed to assess the value of what they revealed. And, according to Xavier, usually Hanns is the prosecution’s last hope to get the information out of someone. He walks into the cell, he scans the person in front of him with just a few glances - and he already knows what that man fears the most. Some fear sensory deprivation. Some fear pain. Some fear pain in very specific places. Hanns knows all that within minutes, just talking to that person even if they don’t respond back. He gets into their head and he rummages through it until he knows everything he needs.
Then he extracts the information—precisely the way he knows will break them. And it always works. At least, according to Xavier.
Hans heard those stories from Xavier a long time ago. Back when he didn’t care enough to memorize the details. Who knew that the tables could turn so suddenly and in a completely other direction.
…It’s so interesting how he gets an entirely new sensation every damn time he has to go to the fourth floor. Which is an awful lot for an Academy student, especially in the last… five days, was it? Or a week? Not like Hans has any desire to count.
He approaches Hanns’ office, and this time the guards step out of his way immediately, although Hans can still feel their suspicious glances on himself. So fucking what. As long as they don’t cause trouble.
“Is General von Purple Beurer there yet?” he asks one of the men, already placing his palm on the doorknob, because he’s entering regardless. He receives a negative response, and he walks in, closing the door carefully behind himself and looking around with a wary glance.
Hanns did tell him to wait if he isn’t back when Hans gets there. Hans takes a slow step towards the familiar oak table, its polished surface glistening in the light of the room. He carefully touches its surface with his fingers and slides the fingertips against the smooth wood, as if trying to feel if it’s real. That’s basically what he is doing - trying to get a grasp on reality while his mind is still trying to accept that he was just let into General von Purple Beurer’s office, and he’s here all to himself.
He looks around again, trying to remember how every item looked the first time he was here. There are no particularly interesting things on the table: Hans’ sight slips across a half-read newspaper that is left carelessly opened on the third page as if whoever was reading it got distracted all of a sudden; there’s a faded photo right next to it portraying two men - one of them is definitely Hanns, although it looks like he’s at least ten years younger, and there are no insignia on his jacket whatsoever. A bold muscular man next to him has plenty, though. Hans looks through the medals briefly and almost immediately establishes that this person served on the Eastern Front, had probably been a part of a tank crew and then was a successful commander for quite some time - the Cross of Gold and the Infantry Assault Badge are not given for nothing. He doesn’t know who this photograph shows - Hanns never really told him about his past, and Hans never had a motive to ask yet. Maybe he should try.
A silvery ink set at the corner of the desk draws Hans' attention too, but just because it comes to his mind that Xavier would definitely appreciate something like that. Hans saw him getting hooked over shiny objects so many times he now knows a ‘Xavier’ thing when he sees it.
He wonders if Hanns ever noticed that as well. He probably did. Knowing the two of them, Xavier probably got his hands on quite a few objects before Hanns even noticed that things were missing. That man really doesn’t count his belongings as long as they’re not of the government’s importance.
Hans saw him hiding papers into his desk drawer multiple times, when someone - including Hans - walked into his office. At that point it didn’t even look like Hanns was acknowledging his actions: he would smile to the incomer and talk in his signature light manner, yet that one swift motion of him shoving the documents and maps into the top desk drawer was always there.
Hans walks towards the huge window right behind the table and looks down at the garrison yard, watching a new unit walking towards the field. Which one is it, Hans tries to recognise, but he can’t see any insignia from such a distance and he can’t really remember which group is supposed to have training now.
Hanns somehow recognises them all. He can just look through the window and register who’s division is training and how well they are doing. Hans still can’t really understand how that man is capable of memorising everyone and everything so well.
Hans isn’t sure how much time passes after that, but at some point he finds himself in the bedroom. He looks around again—though he’s probably been here even more times than in the office—and pulls a book from the small library arranged on one of the shelves. He was always curious what kind of books does someone like Blackberry read. And when does he find time, of course. Hans hasn’t had a spare minute to read a book in long fucking time. Since the first day he joined the Academy, probably.
A sharp creak of the door makes him flinch. He looks up instinctively, though from his angle on the couch, he can’t really see what’s happening in the office. He hears sharp footsteps crossing the office, and he recognises Hanns’ walk immediately. The book is being instantly placed to the side, although Hans takes a moment to put some random object on the pages to not let the book close.
All the ruffling from the office falls silent, and Hans slowly approaches the half opened door, peeking through it to see what’s going on. He pauses, because for a moment he doesn’t even recognise Hanns in that crumpled posture and drained stillness. Hanns is standing in front of the window, leaning heavily on the table with both arms, and it doesn’t seem to bother him that his palms are soaked in blood, leaving dark, wet smears on the polished surface of the desk. He lowers his head and takes a deep breath, eyes closed and jaw clenched, as he is clearly trying to hold something in—or push something down.
He looks just exhausted. And Hans sees streaks of blood all over his face now, looking like someone was just smearing blood all over him.
Hanns takes another heavy breath, and his lips slightly part as he exhales. Hans finally dares to walk out of his improvised hiding - which is not hiding, really, he’s just in the next room, - and he slips through the door opening into the office. He doesn’t hear his own careful footsteps as he approaches Hanns and places his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Hanns-”
He doesn’t really have the time to say anything else - Hanns flinches, something cocks loudly in his hand, and the next moment Hans feels the icy sensation he can’t mistake with anything - a barrel of a gun pressing into his temple.
There. Just like before, in the trenches. It always ends like this - with a gun pointing at his head, with the last thing he hears being the cracking of a reloading bolt sliding back into place. The threat stops feeling real all of a sudden. As well as everything else. The office. The desk. The wide collection of armory on the wall right behind Hanns’ back. Hanns himself.
Hans stares him in the eyes, with the entire world waltzing away in a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds, and those sounds suddenly start mixing with one another, forming noises Hans never thought to hear in Blackberry’s office.
Gunshots. Screams. He can almost feel his back crumbling to painful pieces exactly like then.
All of a sudden, it’s not Blackberry’s Office, five days before the Celebration. It’s two years ago, and he’s in the trenches, with his head cracking heavily and his spine being pierced with wave after wave of pain as he tries to stand back up to his feet.
He doesn’t know yet that he’s got a concussion, several broken ribs, and every damn thing in his back that could be dislocated, likely is. He’s just trying to stand, and he feels a gun being pressed into his temple, and the familiar sharp crack makes him flinch, and makes the barrel press even harder into his skull.
“...Oh my fucking god, Hans-” Hanns’ gaze right in front of him fills with a genuine terror when their eyes meet, and Hans hears the pistol being tossed on the desk with a sharp, metallic clank.
He doesn’t react. He still drowns in Hanns’ eyes, and they are the only thing that feels real in all the cascade of explosions, screams and pain all around him.
“Hans, love, I’m so fucking sorry-” Hanns reaches for him with his hands shaking slightly, and Hans barely has the time to come to his senses when he’s already being wrapped into a protective hug. Hanns whispers something into his ear, pressing a burning hot kiss against his temple - right where Hans was feeling the icy surface of the barrel just a moment earlier.
Hans is just… there. He’s numb with something he can’t quite wrap his mind around, and a sudden wave of nausea that pushes its way through his stomach doesn’t make him feel any more alive.
A small voice pipes up in the back of his mind, saying that this is all just a mistake. Hanns, who keeps talking, repeats that statement almost word to word: that it’s all a misunderstanding, that he forgot, he fucking forgot he told Hans to find him in his office, and he was ambushed during the interrogation just an hour ago, which, obviously, doesn’t justify him but it at least explains why he was so quick to act-
Those are just words. They aren’t real. The screams echoing around Hans are real. The searing pain, burning at the base of his spine, is real. The raw, primal fear that grips every soldier facing The Blackberry— is real.
“Okay, Hans, you need to breathe.” The sudden change in Hanns’ voice that shifts from a gentle whispering to a sharp command, with his voice raising a tone up, does succeed to claw through the sticky fog towards Hans’ mind, but it doesn’t do him any good. He distantly hears other sounds - his own inhales, hoarse and choking, as his body tries to stuff at least some air down to his lungs.
He chokes on it more and more, he tries to cough it all up, but his mouth is full of dirt and dust, and blood that’s somehow splashing out of his throat, even though it’s his head and back that are hurting-
Hanns just pointed a gun at him. He felt it at his skull, he felt it pressing into his head, hard and icy, and it was Hanns who did it, Hanns von Purple Beurer-
“Hans, listen to me,” Hanns’ palms grasp at his face and force it up, with actual strength, because all Hans can do is shake frantically in his hold, coughing up every little fucking lump of dirt he has stuck in his throat, because he feels it, he feels all of it in his body, mixing with blood, just like then.
“Hans, you have to breathe out too, sweetheart, come on-” Hanns keeps holding him, holding with just enough force to not let him drop to his knees, because his entire body keeps seizing in that same frantic way, and he can’t really control it anymore. He can still feel the barrel next to his head, even though Hanns is not holding it anymore.
Doesn’t matter. Hanns did hold it. Which means Hanns wanted him dead.
Coughing out blood and dirt doesn’t really have any meaning all of a sudden. He allows it to flood his throat, and he suffocates in it, and he allows it to pour deeper and deeper into his stomach. His eyes roll into his head, and he falls. He falls back, deeper and deeper, feeling the same icy gun pressing into his temple, and he just wants it all to be over.
Like The Blackberry obviously wanted.
No words can be clearer than a gun pointed at your head.
That was Hanns von Purple Beurer’s wish.
And Hans is a trained soldier.
They live and die as He orders.
“Hans, nein, nein, stay with me,” Hanns’ voice breaks through to him again, and for a moment another small voice in his head suggests to maybe listen to it. Another voice silences it with a reasonable argument - and the same feeling of the barrel next to his temple.
“Hans, you have to fight this, come on-” he falls again, his head rolling back and hanging loosely, before a strong palm pulls it back up again. “Nein, cadet, you do not,” the voice rolls from the gentle notes into a low orderly tone, “you do NOT die on me when I fucking command you to live. Breathe,” he’s being grasped into a strong hold again, and he’s being shaken in that hold, by the same rough and strong hands that kept him standing when his knees were giving up. “Are you a soldier or what? Well fucking do what I tell you to. Breathe. That’s an order,” Hanns’ rough voice snaps through all the fog and mist in his thoughts, and he coughs again, shoving the dirt from the trenches out of his throat and taking a deep inhale that scratches his throat and lungs.
“Okay,” he can practically feel Hanns’ hot breath against his temple as he kisses it, again and again, making that feeling of the cold metal pressed into it go away little by little. “Keep doing that, Hans. Keep breathing. Don’t stop, sweetheart, okay?” his voice breaks into soft coaxing again, and Hans uses the last bits of control he has over his twitching body to lean towards his hold and closer to the kisses, because he doesn’t want them to stop.
They make it feel like that gun was never there. He wants to feel them more, until all the screams and the pain go away.
“Okay, beautiful, okay, come here, sh-h-h,” Hanns’ lips are again caressing his temple, he breathes hotly against his skin, he’s there - so real, so… comforting. “Hans, snap out of it, come on. I order you to live. To fucking live, alright? Not to seize yourself into death, do you understand me?” Hanns’ voice is smooth and composed, but Hans feels it trembling at the end of a sentence, and Hanns’ hold around his waist becomes stronger.
He’s not choking anymore, the feeling of dust crunching on his teeth is gone, and he’s capable of taking ragged breaths, which doesn’t feel really pleasant, but at least his lungs don’t feel like they are about to explode anymore.
He just wants it all to be over. He’s scared, and in pain, and he doesn’t even know where he is. Hanns ordered him to live. If only he knew why bother, if it’s all so overwhelming…
“Hans. Hans-!”
He’s being held even tighter, because he’s shaking even worse than before, and his eyes start to roll again, but the hold around him is so strong he just crumbles to pieces in it, and Hanns still keeps him standing.
“Okay. Listen to me. Hans. Listen,” his own wheezing as he tries to take another inhale interrupts Hanns’ voice, but it breaks through to him immediately after that. “You listen to me now. I know you’re still scared of me. You think you’re all so stealthy and careful, but I notice every fucking time you flinch at my gesture or when I speak a tad louder. I know it’s all still there,” Hanns pauses for a moment, as if he’s out of breath, - Hans can’t see his face through all the darkness and that sticky fog that keeps blocking his vision, but it sounds like Hanns is suppressing another waiver of his voice. “But you have. To fight this. For us. Okay? Sweetheart, you asked me to not give up on you once, and I’m doing exactly that, but now it’s your turn to not give up on me. Will you do that?”
This isn’t an order anymore. It’s a question, and questions require answers, and Hans is too broken to think of one right now. All he knows is that he wants it all to be okay again. To stop the hurting. And he wants Hanns.
Hanns is the one asking to not give up on him now. To fight. Can Hans fight? That’s all he’s been doing for his entire life. He can try one more time. He wants to. If Hanns is the one asking him to.
“You’re so brave, my boy,” he hears Hanns’ whispering, as his palm cradles his face, and he’s being dragged deeper into a hug. “So, so strong. You’re doing amazing, ja, sweet boy, keep going exactly like that…”
His vision is getting gradually clearer, the light of the office lamp is suddenly too sharp for him, so he squints and turns away. He doesn’t want that cold light, and the overwhelming realness of everything around him. He wants Hanns. He wants the touches and the kisses back, because the barrel of the gun is still there by his head.
And his back still prickles with pain-
“Hey, alright, where are you hurting?” Hanns hurries to envelop him into a gentler hold as he scans him head to toe with his sight, as if trying to establish the answer on his own.
“Don’t- don’t-” Hans ignores the phantom feeling of the gun pushing into his temple, he jerks his head stubbornly, trying to shake it off, and immediately Hanns’ palm grazes his face, gently brushing away that feeling of the cool metal surface against his head.
Hans presses into that palm, taking everything out of that touch, feeling all of it while he can. This is safe. This is not a weapon giving him a clear command to leave in every way possible. His mind is so fucked up, Hans hates every bit of it. He whines quietly, snuggling into Hanns’ chest, and he just freezes like that, waiting for the last bits of that uncontrollable twitching to leave his body.
“I won’t- ever- Hans, I’m so fucking sorry,” all the roughness vaporizes from Hanns’ voice at that moment, and it feels impossible that he was the same person who was commanding Hans things just a few minutes ago. He nods into his shirt and clings to him with his fingers still crooked from all the tension that hasn’t really left his body yet. “I’m here. I’m here,” hot kisses trail their way from his temple down to his lips, and that’s where Hanns pauses for a moment, as if hesitating if he even has the right to kiss him like that.
Hans just blindly kisses him back, not really sure if he’s got the lips at first. He just wants to kiss him. Feel him. Remind to himself that this is safe. The only thing not safe is his fucked up mind, and he hates it so much he wants to escape those devastating thoughts altogether.
“I think you should sit down, beautiful,” Hanns suggests gently, trying to lead him towards the bedroom. Hans flinches and halters immediately, grasping at his hand. That phantom pain in his back is as present as ever.
It’s impossible for everything to hurt now. He was NOT just slammed against the trench wall with an aftershock wave. He did not just have a concussion. He did not just wreck his spine. That was all a long time ago, and half of those injuries even healed. It’s impossible for it all to hurt exactly the same way it did then.
“Okay, okay, we’re not going anywhere,” Hanns changes his mind immediately, that instant reaction to Hans’ flinch showing exactly how closely he was watching him. “What is it? Does it hurt to walk or do you just not want to?”
He has to talk again. No. It’s just too hard. He doesn’t even know why, but words are so difficult when his brain feels like a queasy mess, and now he has to actually go through it and come up with an explanation-
“No, no, no, my boy, if you don’t want to talk, then don’t talk,” Hanns whispers, hushing him down again, because apparently he can’t control those whining noises escaping from his lips. “Just nod. Okay? It should be easier. You want me to keep holding you? Or should I let go?”
He nods quickly at the first one, not even caring to hear the second choice. Yes, he wants Hanns to hold him. To never let go. Please, if he could just never let go…
“Okay. I’m doing that, that’s good,” Hans leaves another kiss on the corner of his lips, and tries to look him in the eyes. “Now. Sweetheart. We really need to sit you down, you know, get some rest and all that. Does it hurt to walk?”
Yes. The most frustrating thing is that pain is not fucking real. The nausea, and the spine feeling like it crumbles inside his body, and everything else - it was a long time, and it’s not real now. And yet. He tries to take a stubborn step forward, because Hanns clearly wants him to walk, and it feels like something is exploding in his head.
The nausea rises from the depths of his body so suddenly he can’t even react properly, and within a one head-spinning moment it’s already by the edge of his throat. He gags on it frantically, trying to push it down and failing, as his head starts spinning more and more.
“Okay,” Hanns mutters, and with one swift motion he just picks him up from the ground - or rather not him, but that crumbled, broken pile of whatever’s left of him at that point, because he’s fucking broken to the core. The soft pillows he’s being placed on let him know he’s in the bedroom already, and he continues choking his organs out, even though nothing really comes no matter how hard he coughs.
It’s all just saliva and bile he coughs up into the cloth Hanns brings to wipe it off his lips. “Okay, sweet boy, you just have to wait it out,” Hanns says quietly, brushing the fringe off his forehead and wiping his lips with the dry part of the cloth. “Just breathe, okay? Deep breaths, in and out, ja?”
Hans nods and does specifically that, exactly as he’s being told. He’s not in the trenches. He doesn’t have a concussion. His back is fine - as much as it can be, of course. He doesn’t have to keep fighting anymore.
Hanns leans towards him and leaves a swift kiss on his forehead. “You’re so strong,” he whispers, brushing his nose against his skin and letting Hans feel the closeness. “That’s so much better, you’re doing so well, Hans.”
It takes Hans one more hour - or what feels like an hour, because he isn’t really keeping track of time anymore - to calm back to his senses a little bit. Hanns brings a glass of something to his lips and coaxes to drink at least some, because Hans keeps swaying away from the hand.
“It’ll be good for you,” Hanns brushes a damp lock of hair from his forehead, as his hand prompts Hans to look up at him. “Sweet boy. You have to drink this, it’s just water. Come on, I can still see you are worked up as hell, and we can’t exactly have you spiraling one more time, can we?”
They probably can’t. Hanns is surely right, and water does sound like something Hans needs, but he just can’t force himself to take that sip. Somehow it feels like the minute he parts his lips, all the sand and the dirt is going to sip right through, and he’ll find himself once again choking on it, and trying to cough it all back up, and failing, and suffocating, and over, and over again-
Hanns lowers himself next to him, half-embracing him from behind and leaning to look into his eyes. “Hans. Hey, look at you, you’re shaking,” he whispers into his ear, brushing his nose against Hans’ temple. “This is not good, you have to calm down. Come on, drink this-”
“No, no, no,” he pleads through the gritted teeth, moving away from it - although there’s not much room to move, being almost entirely wrapped in Hanns’ hold. Hanns relaxes his hand a little, giving him more space and observing him, eyes narrow and hazy. Hans doesn’t know what he thinks about, but for a moment he just stays silent, as if considering his options.
It gives Hans a few seconds to breathe. To try and make those inhales and exhales while he still can. They come out all wheezing and hoarse, and he tries to be more quiet, but there isn’t much he can control here. He just wants it all to stop. The pain. The horror. He wants to be safe. He was safe once. Not so long ago. In this very room, next to Hanns.
Hanns is safe. Hanns is right here. He clings to that thought in his mind, there are so many other things that swirl through his head, but he grasps at that particular one and doesn’t let go. Hanns.
“Sh-h-h,” the man whispers, as his hold grows stronger around Hans’ shoulders. “Hans, sweetheart, you’ll spiral yourself into another seizure if you keep doing this. Come on. In and out. Do it with me, breathe,” he gives an example by doing it himself, and Hans obeys, just clinging to his wrist and repeating the motions after him.
It’s all not real. Whatever it is he is feeling, or is scared to feel, or felt just a moment ago - none of that happened. Not today. It was a long time ago. He’s safe now, right? There are no explosions, he was not commanded to surrender, he was not just banged against the trench wall so hard he could practically hear something in the back of his head crack… He does not feel dust crunching on his teeth. And he never will feel that again. Right?
He looks into Hanns’ eyes for confirmation, he wants to see it in his gaze that this is true. This is stable for him, and he has to hold onto that. Even though his heart keeps racing like crazy in his chest, and he still can’t make a proper fucking inhale-
“Sweetheart, I once again will have to ask you to drink this,” Hanns says quietly, gently slipping his fingers through Hans’ hair. “You aren’t getting better, and we have to calm you down before it gets too bad. Please, love,” he brings the glass to his tightly pursed lips, and Hans whines thickly, trying to pull away. “Okay. Hans. Whatever it is you think is going to happen - it won’t,” Hanns says firmly, looking him in the eyes. Hans keeps breathing shakily, now clinging to his sight and doing anything to focus just on that. Before he actually has to open his mouth and let that water flood his mouth, along with the sand and the dust. “No, Hans, you have to actually understand what I’m saying,” Hanns says firmly, his eyes becoming steely. “Whatever it is. It is not real. This here is real,” he shakes his hand, making the water splash in the glass. “You have to hold onto that.”
He is holding. He’s holding onto him. Hanns is what is real for him. The glass is once again brought to his lips.
“Come on, love. Just one sip. Just to show you it’s not scary. Can’t have you flinch at the sight of water too, can we now? You will have to trust me now once again, ja.”
It works. Water runs between his barely parted lips, moistening them and sliding down his throat, making it actually easier to breathe. He coughs at some point, because he swallows too much at once, and the glass is being immediately taken away.
“That’s fine, you already look better,” Hanns mutters, placing the glass on the coffee table and returning to him instantly, because Hans doesn’t let go of his hand. “Sweetheart. Snap out of this. Listen to me,” he shifts to take a more comfortable position, draws Hans towards himself and slips his fingers through Hans’ hair thoughtfully. “We’re in my bedroom. It’s night, five more days before the Celebration. You’re in the look-out division number thirty-five, if I remember correctly. I transferred you there about a week ago. Do you remember that?”
Yes. Hans nods quickly, because that memory is fresh and it brings him comfort. Yes, yes, yes, he is a second-year in this garrison, he was taken here a year and a half ago, and he was in the supply unit before he met Hanns. And then Hanns showed up, and Hans fell in love, and now here they are…
“...wonderful. You just need a little more time, you’ll come back,” Hanns says, corners of his lips twitching in a smile, even though his eyes glisten in the dimly lit room, and Hans can clearly see despair in them. It’s so confusing and so scary to see that he actually wants to ask Hanns about it.
Hanns furrows, watching him carefully, then he presses a kiss against his temple. “Go slower, you’re stuttering,” he whispers, and Hans goes silent, trying to make his confused mind fucking work for at least one moment. He has to form a sentence in his head, then just say it. Thoughts once again swirl all over his head, and it becomes really hard to sort out the ones that do not reflect the presence and are still stuck in the trenches. Those thoughts escaped from the back of his mind, where all the memories from two years ago were buried, and he can’t have them in his head again, not anymore…
“Are you hurting?” he asks quietly, as his hand cups Hanns cheek, barely feeling it with his touch. He doesn’t dare to look Hanns in the eyes, and he’s scared to hear the answer. If he’s the reason Hanns is hurting-
“I’m sad,” Hanns says quietly, as their eyes do meet, because Hanns prompts Hans’ chin up with a familiar gesture. It’s almost automatic, as Hans noticed. That man just can’t stand people looking down and muttering - he wants them to always look openly at him. He remembers the time where it was scary for him. He can look him in the eyes almost without hesitation now.
“I’m sorry you’re sad.”
Hanns smiles at that—well, he doesn’t really, but it’s Hanns, so the corners of his lips are still visibly raised upwards.
“Just stay with me,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb along his cheekbone.
Hans nods again. His throat works around something that isn’t quite a sob, but close. The water helped. Hanns helped more. The room around him is gaining its details again—edges and corners and familiar silhouettes. The carved wooden box on the dresser. The faint tick of the old garrison-issued clock on the wall. The framed photograph on the shelf, similar to the one he saw on Hanns’ desk.
He remembers he wanted to ask about the other man in the photo, the one that has the Cross of Gold, and his mind takes another exhausting walk through the corners of his brain, trying to at first form the sentence and then say it without stuttering at every syllable.
“What?” Hanns furrows, when he asks about the photo, and he looks around, searching for it. “Ah. That one, by the window? That’s me, ten years ago, ja,” he says, leaning at the back of the couch and gifting Hans another smile - a real one this time. “And that’s my mentor, next to me. Fritz von Fingerhoff, you might have heard of him.”
“I think I did,” Hans says thoughtfully. The name does sound familiar - although not as familiar as Hanns’. Noone has to think really hard to know who The Blackberry is, and in this situation Hans has to actually rewind his memories one by one to remember Fritz von Fingerhoff once came to their Academy to hold a speech there. Although not for Hans’ group.
“He’s a hero! Served in the First World War, right?”
“Yep, that’s Fritz,” Hanns confirms easily. “Decorated twice, led a reconnaissance unit through Flanders, and got half his men home, which in that mud and chaos was practically a miracle.”
Hans listens, head tilted, gaze drifting toward the photo again as if it might reveal more now that he knows the context. “He looks kind,” he says after a moment, surprised by how clear that impression is.
“He was,” Hanns says softly. “Kind, and clever, and terrifying when he had to be. He took me in when I was... let’s say, a bit more fire and less brain than I am now. He gave me my first real commission. And taught me how to fight and all that.”
Hans lets that sit. Then, carefully, “You looked different, too.”
“I was different,” Hanns replies, no hesitation. “That was before I’d seen what damage really looks like. And before I learned the price of certain decisions.” He hesitates for a moment. “Before… us.”
Hans just lies in his hold, watching the photo with his thoughts becoming hazy and distant one by one, and there are some that he thinks he should ask Hanns about. And he promises himself that he will. He certainly will, once he’s awake enough to think. He just rests deeper in Hanns’ hold and watches the room around them with a cloudy sight.
Is this what ‘safe’ feels like?