Work Text:
“Dietrich…” Berlin is called this way barely audibly by Christoph, the embodiment of the old Prussian city, because Berlin doesn't like when his closest people appeal to him officially. And Königsberg is closer than anyone else, as he dared say in one of the family evenings. Dietrich’s dark hair is combed to one side, and the light eyes, glowing with calmness and somewhat naivety, stare into the snow, crunching under boots.
During the battle in the damned, dusty May, Berlin feels too keenly how the body is being torn apart. There is absolutely nothing to see around. While the blood runs, his palm clutches the cross. His cross. Explosions all around, deafening the screams, coming from a dilapidated building. Every shot, every death reverberates within him, bringing pain. Berlin literally lies in ruins. He feels someone's hands touching him; he hears a familiar voice near his ear, barely legible amid the continuous noise. Beilschmidt is carefully lifted up and sheltered from the horror that happens around. Dietrich’s sight is not well, but he is sure he is not wrong when desperately wrapping his arms around Christoph who came to him, and he clings onto a thin thread of life.
“War is inevitable, I feel it.”
Berlin has never given Germany any reason to doubt, he was ready to go and follow him at any moment, but not now. Perhaps, because eternal and unbearable life has found its meaning. And this meaning is in the form of Christoph, who covers the shoulders of Berlin's with the coat: the latter slightly shivers from the cold. Christoph takes Dietrich’s hand into his, understanding his thoughts may not be much proper.
Berlin often visits Ludwig, who utters no more than one word, and then, with some reluctance. Gilbert’s death deeply hit him, making Ludwig stay in a rather shaky state. And Dietrich thinks he experiences something very similar. It is as if a part of the soul has been torn off.
Fate literally makes fun of him. And it decides to finish Berlin off with the help of the West and the East, cutting his heart into parts and giving his eyes different colors – blue and violet. The Russian doesn’t really take fallen Berlin seriously, but once, he still takes into account a single and mere request.
“We’ve endured more than that. And we’ll go through everything. Even if this happens, we can do everything together,” Königsberg pauses for a moment, “isn’t that right, Berlin?” Christoph calls him like that on purpose, pronouncing this name in a formal tone. A shadow of a smile appears on his lips. Berlin gazes languidly at how small snowflakes fall on cropped, wheat hair and milky skin. For a moment, he wants to express his pent-up feelings to him in all the possible ways, but he doesn't have enough for much.
"Dietrich," Berlin corrects him gently, and immediately, his face takes on a serious look. And, when he captures Christoph’s lips with his own for a sudden kiss, he puts up with the fact that words are not always needed.
“Berlin?”
In an unrecognisable voice, Kaliningrad asks, looking at him with his empty eyes. At his former friend, lover, everything.
“Dietrich…” Berlin corrects in frustration. Admitting the idea that maybe he came here in vain. Christoph is a complete stranger. Apparently, he doesn’t even remember much now after joining another country, and they probably gave him a different first name. Or he remembers absolutely everything, but being too saturated with coldness and experiencing his own horrors inside. And Braginsky’s arrival says that there seems to be nothing more to do here. Ivan only let Berlin feel the pain once again, allowing him to visit Kaliningrad, nothing more. Through a great effort, Berlin copes with a suffocating lump in his throat.
"May this always be with you," Christoph mutters, reluctantly pulling away from Dietrich’s lips and placing something icy on his hand. The cross. And the snow keeps falling with no stopping.
If only they had known that this winter was going to be the last.