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One day, Ralf met Hitler at a ceremony. They locked eyes and their breathing grew inexplicably faster. Is this what they call love? They felt their head spin as they walked closer to each other with the force of an undeniable attraction. Brown eyes met brown eyes like two stars in inversion. He can’t really feel the champagne glass in his fingers. The world silences itself around them, muffles like a blanket. He can’t hear anything more than his own thoughts and the way Hitlers heels click on the linoleum floor. He’s just a simple soldier here, tasked to guard the premise against anyone dumb enough to target a gathering of the most influential people in Berlin.
He tries to tell himself it’s just admiration. Wide eyed like a doe in front of headlights he stares at Hitler, defenceless despite the heavy trench coat he wears, not yet laden with the numerous medals he would later earn. This Hitler was charming and passionate, and it struck a chord within Ralf’s heartstrings. His voice like a melody never to be repeated again, captivating, all consuming like forest fires and typhoons. And Ralf? He has never been one to back down from a power that could kill him, is somehow never afraid of it.
It doesn’t stop the way he forgets to breathe entirely when Hitler walks up to him, and he can practically feel the way the shorter man radiates a certain energy — it was intoxicating, and a stray thought enters his mind : this man could want anything of me and he’d get it.
He forgets what they even talked about.
A few days later he tells himself it’s just lust. He can’t sleep anymore without running circles around what has come to be his idol, and his mind steadily grows into a giant pit of fire where he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to feed the flames he wants to burn in, for both his sake and the sake of his love. But the thing about your subject of worship being the ruler of your society, is that you see them everywhere. It spells nothing but ruin as Ralf grapples with himself. He puts the posters of his Fuhrer behind him when he works, so that he doesn’t see that damned attractive face whenever he looks up. He feels his eyes anyways. It terrifies him more than it should.
He meets Elsa at a party. His mother and father smile at him. It’s not an encouraging one. It’s a substitute for sorry.
The betrothal should hurt less than it does. He doesn’t cry, but he spends the night with whisky and smoke.
And when dawn infuses the skies with a light pink the church bells ring far into the distance and his fate is sealed.
He thinks he could love Elsa has a friend, not a partner. She’s kind and she’s strong and Ralf respects that. She doesn't like him either and he also respects that.
He works. He feels like he has something to compensate for so he works. He feels like he has something to reach for so he works. He collects medals like a magpie and compliments like a fishing hook. And nothing mattered until his higher-up brings him to a bar out of the blue and delivers the news.
He sees more colours in his world now.
He finally accepts that it’s love. When he stands in front of his Fuhrer’s desk, hands trembling behind his back. His Fuhrer is reading some papers, his records, he realises with a jolt of electricity in his heart and it short circuits his head for a solid second or two. Anticipation floods his system like a drug, sinks into his limbs and makes his heart audible to his ears.
“Ralf.”
He feels like a fly in a web, joints locked and brain just a mess of incoherent infatuation. First name. His knees feel weak.
His stomach flutters, brings a shaking hand to his chest and hails the man in front of him.
He laughs, and it startles Ralf so badly his mask of steel breaks for a second before he gathers himself.
“I remember meeting you a good while ago.” He starts, smiling like a man reminiscing good memories.
“You know, your quick rise through the ranks is quite the feat. I can admire a hard worker and a brilliant mind. I trust that you can handle power, Ralf?”
He nods, and can't really focus on the words themselves.
“Do you hate Jews?”
Ralf knows the reply. Everyone does.
“Absolutely. They are the mold of our gracious nation.”
The Fuhrer nods, places the papers down and strides to Ralf.
Ralf really wishes his breath would work normally at times like these.
“Well apart from your promotion I wish to talk about a more private matter.”
He says it so casually. No regard for Ralf’s poor poor heart.
“Do you love Elsa?”
He swallows, thinks about lying, then realises that honesty might be the best pick here.
“I love her but not…”
“Romantically?”
“Yes my Fuhrer.”
“Hm.”
“Have I said something wrong?”
Brazen. So brazen. He can’t care less.
“No. In fact. I would like to ask you another question.”
“Yes my Fuhrer?”
“Do you love anyone else?”
He hates that he can’t really help himself when he says, “Yes, my Fuhrer.”
Silence. His heart is ready to jump right off his throat and he might let it. Anything. Takes a deep breath, and he flinches when it is too audible.
The Fuhrer smiles.
“Ralf you really do a poor job of hiding anything.”
There are no words suitable for moments like this. No words but he doesn’t need any when the Fuhrer walks up to him but this time he doesn’t hesitate to close the last of the distance between them and holy shit.
There’s a hand in his hair and one on his chest and he’s being dragged down by his collar to meet the kiss. Before he can even process what happened, the Fuhrer breaks off the kiss. Passionate, messy, and far too short for his fancy.
“Like it?” His Fuhrer says and it reels him back from heaven.
“Love it.”