Work Text:
Paragraph 175.
Paul cursed the name of the damned paragraph as he stood in front of his chair, pills clutched in one hand, the other clenched into a fist at his side.
It felt like a lifetime ago when Paul had been reading the obituaries in the newspaper, taking in the devastatingly high amount of suicides - the press called them tragic, the families called them incomprehensible and unexpected. Everyone said that there were no signs, no reasons for these bright young men with promising futures, these successful business men, these normal and happy men to commit the horrible act of taking their own lives.
But Paul knew the truth, that the real killer of these young men wasn't really themselves, no. No, the killer was the one that lurked in the shadows behind these suicides, one that tore apart lovers and families with only a few words.
Their killer was Paragraph 175, a lurking beast summoned onto paper with pen, brought forth from the cruel minds of those who judged that which they did not understand, those who punished that which they saw as "unnatural" and "queer".
As Paul thought back on the deaths of the countless homosexual men who had taken their lives, the words of his father forced their way to the forefront of his mind.
"If you are a man of honor, you know what you have to do now."
That phrase, said with such an unattached, unloving voice, with a disdainful look to accompany it. That phrase let Paul know everything his father expected of him.
What his father expected him to do.
What Paul knew he must do.
His tour was canceled, and his reign in concert halls was now destined to be nothing more than a memory of the past. His days of playing music for adoring audiences were over, his violin fated to a life of collecting dust and falling out of tune.
Despite this, Paul would still join an ensemble.
An ensemble of beautiful and loving souls, rejected by the government they entrusted to protect and care for them.
An ensemble of the dead.
The countless suicides that came as a result of Paragraph 175, of suicides that resulted from families and friends disowning sons and brothers who only wanted to live as their true selves, to love the true targets of their heart and soul - even if it was one of their own gender, of another man, a completely natural and normal love which the government took upon itself to declare as wrong and twisted.
Paul was tired.
He was exhausted.
He had tried so, so hard to be what they - his family, friends, teachers, everyone - called normal. He tried so hard to force himself to like the young women that skipped along the streets, to enjoy the flashes of soft smiles and twinkling eyes as they laughed and enjoyed the company they were in, but no. His gaze would always turn to the men, drinking in their angular, strong features, tracing the outline of their muscular forms as they chuckled and roughhoused.
And Kurt, oh lovely Kurt.
Paul had been living in limbo, not dating or engaged or married to a lovely young woman, but not dabbling in engaging with men either, simply hoping that his feelings - his damned feelings - would go away if he simply ignored them and focused on his studies, on his music. And it was working. It was fine. Nobody knew, he had been...
He hadn't been happy.
He had been living a lie, trying to force himself into a mold that would never fit him, trying to pretend he was enjoying life, pretending he wasn't oppressing a part of himself that was desperate to be out and visible.
And then Kurt came along, and Paul's fragile glass house that portrayed the appearance of traditional masculinity and straightness had cracked and shattered.
Paul's heart felt as if it was cracking too, his emotions overflowing and his mind too cluttered to make sense of what was hurting him so.
Without giving himself a moment to hesitate any longer, his father's words ringing in his head once more, Paul upturned the packet of pills in his hand, selecting one and bringing it up to his mouth, pursing his lips for a moment.
Was this the right choice...?
Without another moment's pause, Paul opened his mouth.
One...
Two...
Three.
He massaged his throat, forcing the three pills down as his body fought to force them out, perhaps his brain's last-ditch effort to stop the efforts of his emotional heart.
The pills worked fast. In mere moments Paul could feel himself growing shaky, a slight headache forming and his limbs growing weary and lethargic. He had to reach out to steady himself on the wall, his other hand falling to grasp for support against the arms of the chair behind him.
Despite the pain in his head and the weakness he felt, Paul smiled.
He grinned, almost letting out a strangled laugh as the effect of the pills took hold of him.
And slowly, as if moving through quicksand, Paul fell back, his legs unable to hold him up any longer. He jerkily slumped down into the chair, his vision dimming around the edges.
It was hard to breathe. His hand rose to his throat, massaging it and rubbing against the bowtie that felt like it was constricting him, but it was a fruitless attempt that did nothing to ease his pain and discomfort.
Resting his head in his hand, it felt as if the world became... grey. As if it was moving slower and falling quiet, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He felt cold, but not freezing, he felt... empty.
Paul knew he was going to die.
He was doing to die, and soon.
Even if he wanted to live, if his emotions flipped and he wanted to stop this venture, it was far too late to save himself now.
He only wished he could see Kurt one last time. To say goodbye. To say many things, do many things.
There was so much Paul wished he could have done. With Kurt, with Max.
As he thought about his past lovers, of those who had loved him in a world that forbade it, an inexplicable emotion fell over him.
Was it peace he was feeling?
Anticipation of his incoming freedom, freedom from oppression, hatred, and being shunned?
Or was it loss?
The loss of the fame he had built, the adoring fans he had amassed. The loss of his family, of his friends.
The loss of Kurt.
Paul found he couldn't bring himself to care what emotion it was. Perhaps it was all of them.
Perhaps it was none.
The world was darkening faster and faster, and when there was nothing left but pitch blackness, a terrifying void that lurked beneath his closed eyelids, Paul pictured the one thing that brought him such strong feelings of comfort for the first time in years. The soft features of Kurt's face stood out to him as he pictured the man he had become to love in recent times. He pictured his eyes, twinkling as Paul explained a technique to coax a gentle note out of the violin. He pictured the skin around his mouth and eyes crinkling as a smile lit up his face, mirth and love shining in those beautiful eyes.
He pictured him. All of him was beautiful, he was perfect. Kurt was... he was forbidden fruit, sweet, appealing, and lovely, but not permissible to consume.
And Paul had partaken of the forbidden fruit, and it has been his end.
Picturing Kurt, picturing the features of the man he had loved enough to risk - and lose - everything for, it was a beautiful closing act, the last piece of art that he would see before his show came to an end."
And now, at the end of his show, there would be no applause.
Paragraph 175.
A monster, a cruel beast, a ruling which had silenced many.
At last, Paul's eyelids slipped shut, and he knew no more as his body fell limp, his chest stilled, and his heart - his loving heart, his heart that betrayed the commands of the country he called home - came to a stop.
Paragraph 175.
Another victim had been claimed in its cruel campaign.
Another life had been lost to its clutches.
Another set of lovers has been torn apart by those who should have protected them.
All for words on a paper.
Paragraph 175.