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König’s eyes scan the horizon, the beginnings of a sunset painting the sky red and orange. He’d always enjoyed watching the sunset, particularly from the seat of a helicopter, thousands of feet off the ground. It wasn’t often he got a moment of peace, especially in his line of work, and especially when you drew as much attention as he did. He was used to being the largest in the room. When he first applied to the Bundeswehr he was nearly denied because of his towering height, and even after the fact, he still wore the largest issue uniform the German government had thought to design. But, even though he could shrink himself into his fatigues and vests, he still lived as though he was a giant in a city made for dwarves. Such was the case in Kyiv. He’d volunteered for the international brigade, hoping that his service could aid in the reclamation of stolen Ukrainian land.
But still, he wore his German uniform more often than the neutral, international one they’d given him upon his arrival. They’d had no uniforms his size when he’d shown up, much less a bed in the barracks or a table in the mess hall that could accommodate his unwieldy size. Thankfully, he was used to being uncomfortable. It was one of his best qualities as a soldier. However, despite how long he’d lived in this hulking frame, there is one thing he’d never get used to: the stares it drew. He had to duck under doorways, shrink himself into helicopter seats, curl his legs to his chest just so his feet didn’t hang over the edge when he went to bed…it was safe to say he’d always been a spectacle.
People liked to stare. They also liked to point and whisper, too. Back in his school days, every passerby was met by his downturned, anxious eyes. A boy forever trapped in a giant’s body. However, now as a man and a soldier, too, his size wasn’t met with rapid fascination, but rather fear, and oftentimes admiration. Though, he’d be hard up to tell anyone their quiet veneration actually made him shake in his boots. It was better they kept being afraid of him than learn his intimidating size and terrifying mask didn’t add up to his timid personality. And it is for that reason that he likes watching the sunset from the seat of a helicopter. There were no prying stares or pointing fingers to bother him here. Rather, all there was was the quiet chatter of his comrades, and the cooling gusts of wind that propelled them along.
However, though he’d normally be admiring the way the colors of the sky bled into the black of night, he finds his gaze wandering today. He peers down at his hands. Or, more accurately, at the small flower grasped therein. It’s orange and red, just like the coming dusk. He’d gone to great lengths to find it. He’d even separated from the foot patrol for a short while just to find the small field where the flowers grew, spending what seemed like hours searching for the best looking one. Eventually, after countless minutes surveying the small bunches of flowers, he’d found one with vibrant petals and a strong, healthy stem. He doesn’t know how nobody had noticed his absence. Figures the tallest, strongest guy in the brigade goes missing someone ought to look. Though, perhaps his squadmates knew what he was up to. He hadn’t exactly been subtle about it.
König had never really had friends before. At least, friends outside of the Kommando Spezialkräfte. In school, he was teased for his looks, and in college, he was ignored for the most part, aside from the odd basketball game when his height finally came in handy. However, in the military, he was prized for his overwhelming size, undeniably the most abominable man in the entire Foreign Legion. That alone was enough to give him a few regular acquaintances. One of said friends was sitting in the seat across from him, leering at him with a barely contained smirk.
König could tell when someone was staring at him, and Arsène was hardly doing anything to hide his teasing eyes. He nudges König’s boot with his own. His foot didn’t need to go far to get the man's attention. After all, König’s legs alone took up a good chunk of the carrier.
Arsène nods towards the flower in his hands, gripping the straps of his kevlar vest.
“You actually going to talk to her today?” he asks, voice thick with his French accent.
Just at the mention of you, his cheeks go pink. He tears his gaze away from his friend, making sure not to let his hands start wringing, lest the flower get mangled in the process. He uses one of his hands to shield the petals from the wind, holding it close to his chest to protect it all the better. It needed to be in top shape by the time they got back to base.
He can’t bear to look at Arsène, his heart beating rapidly.
“I’m going to try,” he settles. He might not be the most forthcoming person, but he trusts Arsène enough to be honest with him by now. That, and he can actually manage to answer him when he asks a question now.
Arsène nods with a smile, leaning forward to clap him on the shoulder. König flinches at the sudden touch, too focused on the flower to notice the other man leaning forwards.
“Good man,” Arsène comments, “Maybe this time she’ll find out you actually do speak English.”
At the snide remark, König draws a blank, face going ever hotter. One time. You mess up talking to a girl one time and suddenly it’s the punchline of every joke. The first time he’d seen you, he’d gone to the infirmary for a bandage. He’d cut himself on his own knife during patrol, and needed something small to stop the bleeding. He’d wordlessly floated around the infirmary, hoping someone would take notice of him without him having to go and seek out their attention. He’d seen you from afar, then, swallowed up in a uniform that barely fit you, scrubs so puffy they nearly consumed your entire form. Instantly, he was entranced. He studied the way your hair glinted in the light, how your voice sounded when you interacted with the various patients. You dutifully followed a man in a white coat, checking things off on a clipboard as you went bed to bed. The curves of your face stole his breath, and he was all but frozen in place -- until suddenly, those gorgeous eyes met his own trembling gaze.
Immediately, his heart kicked up. Noticing his bleeding finger, you walked towards him, your insignificant height absolutely overshadowed by his hefty, overgrown frame. You looked just as bewildered as he felt inside, your eyes raking over the mask on his face and the gun at his hip with weary hesitance.
“Sir,” you addressed him timidly, “Do you need something?”
Your voice rang in his ear like a bell, the pitch of it drawing pinpricks up his spine. It was like he’d been hit by cupid’s arrow, stupidly opening and closing his mouth, like words would spontaneously come out if he waited long enough. His brain stuttered along with this mouth, unable to tear his eyes away from the woman in front of him. Noticing your shy demeanor, he pulled himself together long enough to crack the lovesick stupor he found himself in.
“Ja,” he mutters without thinking, slack jawed, “ich b-brauche einen Verband…”
Dumbly, you just stare up at him with blinking eyes. Truth be told, his English was quite good. Though…it seemed he could only muster his mother tongue.
“Um--” he tries cluelessly, slightly panicking, “Ein Verband?”
Nervously, he shoots his bleeding hand forward, hoping you’d understand before he makes a bigger fool of himself. Your eyes light up when you witness the small cut. He tries not to swoon when your hands inspect his own. Your fingers are positively tiny compared to his own. He’d silently sat while you bandaged his hand, unable to muster a single English word. More than anything, he wanted to ask for your name. He wanted to know where you came from, what your hometown was like. He wanted to know what your hobbies were, and if you shared any with him. He wanted to know what your voice sounded like saying his name. He wonders if you’d manage the pronunciation, or if you’d fumble over the new, foreign words.
His body was buzzing the entire time through, shyly answering your questions when he could muster the courage. He was still speaking German. Like an idiot. And yet, you didn’t seem to mind. Your earlier hesitance had transformed into benevolent amusement. Your fingers danced around his own, swallowed up in the large plain of his palm, and for just a second, he allowed himself to think about what it’d be like to hold hands with a woman like you.
He’s breathless just at the thought.
“And there,” you say after successfully placing the bandage, “You’re good to go now! Let me just fill out the paperwork real quick.”
To be honest, his mind is barely following along with the words coming out of your mouth. He was barely speaking German, and English was definitely off the table. He likes how you talk to him even when you’re not sure he understands, though. It calms his nerves. It seems you’d picked up on that.
“If you could just sign here…” you order, holding out a clipboard with a piece of paper on it.
König was capable of reading it by himself, but his mind is too fried to focus on anything other than the way your eyes shine in the fluorescent lights of the infirmary to try. You take his silence for miscommunication and shuffle forwards awkwardly. You point to a line on the paper, bending down slightly to show him where. You’re so close to him he can smell your perfume. It’s a deep, decadent scent. One that will stick with him for a long time to come.
“Um, your name,” you repeat, turning towards him while you gesture figuratively with the pen in your hand. He’s staring uselessly at your face, which is only inches from his own now, but he manages to pick up on the out when it's given to him.
“Mein Name,” he stammers, grabbing the clipboard with shaking hands. He clears his throat when he looks away, cheeks burning under the mask. Even now, when he’s not even looking, he can still feel your eyes raking over him, studying his curious stature and unusual clothing. When he finishes signing, he hands the clipboard back to you with a grateful nod. You take it with a hum, investigating his handy work.
“König? Is that your nickname?” you ask, managing to not completely butcher the sound of it. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t on the verge of a heart attack right now.
“Uh--Ja…mein Spitzname.”
“Hm,” you hum with a smile, putting the clipboard on a table behind you, “Sounds cool.”
Truthfully, he wasn’t sure how to respond to that…or how to say goodbye to you without making a fool of himself. He’d run back to the barracks with his tail between his legs. When he’d shown up flustered and obviously anxious, Arsène had taken to damage control. Needless to say, Arsène had laughed his ass off before König could even finish telling the story.
König grumbles at the memory, shifting in his seat to try and readjust his rifle without disturbing the flower. Arsène looks like he’s itching for a cigarette. König has no doubt he’d be smoking one now if they weren’t in an aircraft. Instead of reaching for the pack in his pocket, he points towards the flower.
“And you're planning on giving her that?” he asks with a quirked brow.
König inhales, twirling the flower in between his fingers.
He clears his throat, unable to raise his eyes.
“Do you think she’ll like it?”
“Depends,” Arsène posits, shifting slightly as the helicopter descends, “Are you actually going to give it to her this time?”
“Nervensäge,” he curses, drawing a laugh from his friend. Arsène was incapable of being offended. That was certainly one French stereotype he broke free of, though he probably fit the rest of them. Besides, Arsène had been called that too many times for it to have any real meaning.
His teasing smile remains, but when he sees the way König shrinks in on himself, he offers an olive branch.
“That flower is called a Gaillarde in French,” Arsène begins, studying its colors, “They’re pretty, no?”
König nods slightly, cupping the petals so they don’t blow away in the twirling blades of the helicopter.
“My mother told me Gaillardes symbolize bravery,” he explains, “because they last through many frosts but their petals never wilt. They always keep on blooming.”
That explains why they grow so well in Ukraine, König thinks, imagining the icy plains of the land in winter. Brave flowers, he ponders.
“Look, König,” Arsène calls, oddly sincere, “As long as you’re brave enough to give it to her, the woman will love the flower…and the man holding it.”
König can’t muster a smile, even with Arsène’s words. Truthfully, anxiety eats him alive, turning his stomach into a swirling mess of fear as the helicopter’s landing skids meet the ground. His legs bounce restlessly in his seat, jostling the men next to him with the neurotic movement. Neatly, the men file out of the helicopter, glad to finally be back at base after another long day of patrolling the winding paths. König takes care to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the helicopter, still preciously cupping the flower to shield it from the wind. The Frenchman scoffs when König stands to his full height. Arsène was average height, König guesses. But next to him, Arsène looked more like a child than a full grown man. As if to prove his maturity, he hastily sticks a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it before they even step off the helipad.
König’s heart rattles in his chest as they walk towards the infirmary. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the endless whirr of the helicopter blades, as well as the ambient chatter of the soldiers milling about. Of course, just like always, he draws stares as he passes. Though, that isn’t what nearly throws him into a panic attack. Rather, it’s the sight of you across the tarmac, helping a doctor organize supply crates. He stops dead in his tracks, unable to lift a single finger with the sheer strength of the terror that overcomes him.
Your hair bounces in the wind, cheeks burned from the gentle sun overhead. He can’t make out the color of your eyes from here, but he bets it’s deep and all-consuming…something that would easily draw him in. You laugh at something the doctor says, and in an instant, his heart is seizing, an awful, longing ache settling in his chest. Yet, despite the pure want that captivates him, he can’t bring himself to take a single step forward.
…that is, until a hand claps him on the shoulder, shocking him out of his trance. He looks to Arsène, only to find his friend staring at you as well. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth just to blow a low whistle.
“Magnifique,” he compliments you, taking another drag, “You really know how to pick them, brother.”
König doesn’t know whether he should be offended that Arsène just hit on you, or flattered that Arsène actually agreed with him for once. However, he’s a little too preoccupied with staring at the way the sun illuminates your skin to answer, completely frozen in place. However, Arsène doesn’t seem to have the same problem. He shoves König forwards with a hand against his back, grunting with the force it takes to move a man of his size. König stumbles forwards awkwardly, hurriedly turning back to look at Arsène, who’s already retreating with another taunting smile on his face.
“Now go,” he commands, blowing smoke in König’s face, “Try not to speak German this time.”
His heart thunders in his chest as he watches Arsène retreat, a cloud of smoke wafting in his wake. König stands frozen in his boots, unable to breathe or blink now that he stands alone and forsaken amidst the bustling atmosphere of the base. Distantly, his eyes still follow you from afar, but his mind is in another place entirely. Or, more accurately, it’s gone completely blank. White noise rings in his ears, and his body feels shaky and weak. The flower sways in the wind, innocently oblivious to his predicament. His hand still loosely shields it, although the movement is more unconscious than deliberate at this point.
A lump is caught in his throat.
Still, despite the booming sound of his own pulse in his ears, he can’t draw his eyes away from you. You flit between different supply crates, that same beautiful, breathtaking smile on your face. Dumbly, he stands, unable to pull his gaze away from your radiance -- can’t pull his eyes away from how you shine even amongst the drab background of the military base. Watching the way dimples imprint the corners of your cheeks, the sound of his blood rushing and his heartbeat roaring suddenly fall silent. The crowd fades away, and all at once, there is nothing but you, him, and the feeling of the wind at his back. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. And absently, he thinks he could stay in this lull forever, so long as your smile would never fall.
(That, or he’s just disassociating at this point. That’s probably what it was, actually).
Without even thinking, he takes a shuffling step forwards, the crowd parting for him once his hulking frame comes into view. His pulse fades back in, but he keeps his breathing steady, remembering what Arsène said.
As long as you’re brave enough to give it to her, he repeats in his brain, trying not to become nauseous as the distance between the two of you close.
Brave enough, he thinks as your gaze flicks over to him suddenly.
Bravery, his mind stutters when your eyes flash with recognition.
Be brave, he chants like a lifeline.
And just like that, he stands right in front of you, your head upturned to study the mask on his face, a small grin overcoming your face when your eyes meet his.
“König,” you say with a welcoming smile, “How are you?”
You remember his name. That alone makes his chest ache. He opens his mouth once again, trying to answer you. Trying to say something in response. But alas, he can’t utter a single syllable. His hands shake unforgivingly around the flower, so much so that one small petal falls to the deck in the wind, but he was too delirious to care anymore. At his silence, your grin falls, obviously worried about him. Your brows furrow.
“Are you oka--” you start, but he interrupts you before you can finish.
Unsteadily, he shoves the flower forwards, looking away from you before you realize he’s too nervous to look you in the face. He’s not even looking at you, but when you don’t immediately take the flower, a stabbing pain settles in his heart. He licks his lips beneath the mask, his mind at war with itself while you curiously look back and forth between his shaking frame and the dainty flower in his hand. Be brave, he reminds himself -- no, implores himself. His anxiety fights within him, yet that single word manages to unlock something he’d never felt before. His fear still weighed on him like a barbell, but the thought of your smile, and with Arsène’s words in his mind, he can’t bear to stay chained up any longer.
“I-in French,” he stutters, repeating Arsène’s explanation without even thinking, “This flower is called a Gaillarde.”
Your jaw drops when you hear his voice. He can’t tell if it's because he finally managed to speak, or if it was because he was speaking in a language you could understand for once.
“Gaillardes symbolize bravery,” he manages, just barely, “and I…well, I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now, but I’ve never seen someone…”
He swallows anxiously as words spring up in his mind like spring flowers, begging him to pick any one of his choosing.
Pretty? No, that’s too plain to describe you.
Radiant? Too uncommon a word.
Attractive? You’d think he was a creep if he said that.
He stutters, hurriedly picking the first work that comes to mind.
“I’ve never seen someone so lovely, and--” he chokes, “And I just wanted to give you this. To let you know that I think you’re beautiful…despite myself.”
At the confession, you just stare blankly up at him, hand slowly reaching out to pluck the flower from his grasp. As you turn the stem over in your hands, he hides his own behind his back, hoping you didn’t see how hard they were shaking during his tiny speech. Honestly, that was about as many words as you were going to get out of him. His vocal chords were quickly becoming stiff.
He watches as you twirl the flower in between your fingers, glaring down at it with furrowed brows. He’d expected a smile--or maybe even a confession of your own, if he was lucky--but instead, you say nothing. At that, he sweats beneath his collar.
You stew in silence for a minute longer, the atmosphere growing thick with tension. However, you break it soon after.
“Wait,” you say, shaking your head, “You can speak English? This whole time?”
He can’t tell whether or not your tone is accusatory, but even though he feels like he’s about to pass out, he still answers dutifully. Like a good soldier.
“Y-yes,” he replies, looking anywhere but at your eyes, “I’m still not very good at it, though.”
Seeing as how he was too busy looking at the floor like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day, he misses the flash of a smile over your lips. You laugh sweetly. At the sound, his back shocks straight. You were laughing at him. This was quite possibly the worst case scenario. He doesn’t know what he expected. With his body and his personality, he was a fool for thinking that someone like you would have been content with a man like him.
He’s about to run home and lick his wounds before your hand claps down on his bicep, and all of a sudden, his boots are glued in place. Your hand is warm and small where it lay on his arm, holding him in place with gentle reassurance. It feels more like a burning heat, though, what with how it singes through his nerves right off the bat. Thank god for the mask, or you’d see how his face had gone as red as a fire truck. His body is all but frozen beneath you, completely unmoving.
You just chuckle, entirely unaware.
“All German speakers say that, but it’s never true, y’know. You guys probably speak better English there than we do back at home,” you joke, holding his gaze despite how unsteady he was feeling. When he just stares at you dumbly, it seems like it's your turn to be insecure.
“Wait, you were speaking German, right?” you say worriedly.
Maybe it’s the way you speak so wholeheartedly, or perhaps it's the way your eyes shine when you look at him, but it strikes something within him. And all of a sudden, he feels like laughing himself.
“Ich spreche Deutsch, ja,” he jokes nervously, beginning to loosen up under the ever-present warmth of your hands.
You smile with relief at the familiar German words. Maybe you hadn’t been around the language much, but it was pretty similar to English, he figures. Maybe one day you’ll understand it. Maybe one day he’ll teach it to you.
He has to stop himself from swooning at the thought.
“Thank god, I’d have been too embarrassed to talk if I got that wrong,” you chuckle, dimpled smile on display.
He laughs along stiffly, too lost in your beauty to really pay attention. You clear your throat quietly, tucking a hair back into place as you look down at the flower.
“Danke,” you reply with a shy grin, holding the little thing to your chest, “For the flower. And for the compliment. Hopefully my German doesn’t like nails on a chalkboard.”
Honestly, König would probably melt just at the sound of you saying ‘Guten Tag,’ but he’ll keep that thought to himself for now. He laughs again, unable to resist it, but with your words, the sudden dread of ending the conversation hangs in the air. He knows what to say. He’s wanted to say it since the first time he met you. But it’s brash and maybe pushing his luck. That, and he’d probably short circuit if the words ever came out of his mouth.
But then he sees the flower, and he’s brought back to his seat in the helicopter, watching the sunset bleed with the same color of the petals in your hand. He’s reminded then of exactly what it symbolized.
Be Brave. He takes a deep breath.
“Your German sounds great,” he manages, voice strained, “Maybe -- if you want -- I could teach you some? I-if you’re interested…in German, that is.”
He tries not to cringe at how horribly awkward it sounds. It’s a poor coverup for an even bigger question. One that he’s not quite able to say aloud. He knows you know it, too. The smug quirk of your brow and the way you look him over says enough. He tries not to preen under your admiring gaze. You bite your lip, twirling the flower in your hand with a provocative downward look.
“It’s a date,” you posit simply, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just knocked the air out of him. The words feel like a punch to the gut: suffocating, all-consuming. It’s completely overwhelming in the best of ways. His jaw’s been slack for a while now, but it nearly hits the floor when you send him another adorable smile.
That actually worked? He thinks incredulously, struggling to speak. He fumbles for a few seconds longer, trying desperately to comprehend the fact that you’ve agreed to a date. With him.
“Ja, um--it’s a date, then,” he stutters. His useless cadence does nothing to hide the lovesick sound in his voice.
You giggle, waving the flower at him, retreating back to your job with the supply crates.
“See you later, big guy.”
He’s unable to move as you wave goodbye, slowly returning back to your superior in the white coat. The doctor points towards König with a teasing grin, gesturing to the flower in your hand. You just smile to yourself, jumping into an excited explanation to which the man pays rapt attention. Meanwhile, König has only been able to slowly raise his hand in a poor imitation of the wave you’d given him, completely starstruck where he stands.
König is 6’10. He is the strongest soldier on base. His job deals in blood and violence, and he fights for a living purely because it was the only field that was level to him. He might be no better than a merc for hire. And yet, you, with your merciful hands and captivating stare, managed to see through his mask. Managed to see through to the man beneath.
He’s only talked to you a few times and you already have him wrapped around your finger. He’s helpless to do anything more than stare after you, longing for another look. You’ve all but bewitched him. He smiles. The anxiety inside of him still simmers, but it doesn’t boil over like it usually does.
Instead, all that’s left is warmth. A warmth that he hopes will stick with him through the cold of the night and the timid heat of sunrise.