Chapter Text
SEPTEMBER 24 : 1939 : WARSAW
“Łukasiewicz, this agreement lies in your hands. You must understand how beneficial playing into a pact such as this may be,”
Składkowski’s voice was unpleasant, rough and throaty like the bark of a muzzled hound. He walked as if he were a dog, too,— Padding obediently behind the taller figure that was Feliks. It was almost shameful, having the leader of such a nation trailing so tediously behind him, on full display for any curious passerby in the halls of Warsaw’s parliament office.
“You think this agreement is to benefit us, Składkowski? You believe the Germans want merely our cooperation? You’re a pathetic man, a leashed and tamed dog willing to roll over at the meekest sound of a command to do so,” Feliks’ eyes squared, the pristine vermillion silk of his headscarf beginning to slip back to expose his hairline as he walked faster, the click of his steel-toed boots against the marble flooring creating such an ironically predictable melody.
“It is not your job to tell me who or who not to bend over backwards for; and I am ashamed you’ve known me for this long, and still believe I’d place my lands into the hands of Nazis and fucking Russians! Bah, some leader you are.” Feliks listened briefly to the quiet curses uttered by Składkowski from behind him, before quickly growing bored of being followed around the halls of his parliament building. His home.
A good Kilometer away in the vast expanse of the evangelical looking building was the grandeur entrance to Feliks’ office. An impeccably beautiful representation of the country itself, soft whites and grays filling every inch of the space. He felt Składkowski staring at the intimidatingly large study door, as to be expected. It was too beautiful to not admire; an experience like no other to let one’s eyes grace the physical space in which a nation resides in. Everything perfect that embodies Feliks reflects flawlessly into the office. Into the office, the halls, the garden outside, Warsaw, the entirety of the lands confined within border and law.
“Sir,, you misunderstand,” The unpleasant man whined out, yanking Feliks from his pleasant bout of mild disassociation by the damn scruff. “This pact, it’s the future of Poland. It’s to ensure our safety, it’s to ensure the safety of the Polish for generations to come,”
Feliks simply wanted to roll his eyes; though he swore he’d stop doing such a thing many years back. But restraint was no fun.
“We do not have a choice, we only have the ability to soften the blow.” Składkowski voice grew tense, strained, as if his leash had been pulled too damn tight and he was struggling to verbalize his mindless trails of thought. “We always have a choice,” Feliks snapped, his voice lowered as if some hymn instead of any regular cadence.
“No,” Składkowski tone grew gruff. “We do not, Łukasiewicz.”
“What we have, is four days.”
— — — — — — — — —
SEPTEMBER 27 : 1939 : WARSAW
Fucking disgusting, fucking ruined is what he felt.
He was too sick to see straight, merely stuck with the vague memory of headaches and tense muscles, his back uncomfortably pressed against the large oak table in his war-room. The ungloved and grossly calloused fingers of his uninvited guest rubbing up coarsely against his molars and gums, occasionally slipping an index finger back to the space under his tongue. There was some kind of powder coating the digits forced into his jaws, more than likely some pulverized pervitin pellet, maybe even something more abstract. Poppy milk? Datura? It did not matter, it was a drug; point and case.
His visitor had been let in, and let in on Feliks’ watch. He’d merely allowed it due to an unspoken fear, a deeply embedded need to lure danger deep into his den to keep it appeased, to assess it. He expected a meeting, he expected Germanic soldiers lined outside his parliament’s building, making the presence of a clearly important man known. At worst, it would be time for Feliks to sign some godforsaken pact. At best, he could solidify his state’s neutrality in the war.
What he didn’t expect; was only ‘Ludwig Beilschmidt’ to arrive, uniform clad and standing all prideful in Feliks’ war-room.
There were no soldiers in atleast 100 kilometers of the parliament’s complex, yet the Germanic presence in Poland had significantly increased over the past week. The Nazi and Militia presence, too. Feliks’ body felt heavy, aching and sore in his heels and joints constantly ever since Germany had been putting pressure on him and his government. Even as he opened the grandeur doors to his office, greeting Beilschmidt with a nod, and presented the large cityscape of Warsaw below the large window in the front of the rectangular office’s expanse; he felt perturbed.
He thought he could ignore the footsteps silently trailing up behind him, maybe if he tried his hardest he could avoid the rough felt gloves tediously grabbing at his hips; His canvas uniform crumpling under the sheer force of the grip. His demands and snappy remarks had gone ignored as the hands traveled up to his ribcage, squeezing tight. His barks of opposition spattered down into squeaky pleas for reconsideration as Beilschmidt’s right arm moved up to crook around Feliks’ neck; effectively taking him in a chokehold.
Feliks did not know why he didn’t scream. Mayhap something would have been different, if he fought back.
Alas, he was too dizzy, even before the hands found their way to his body, to his throat. Something had been wrong; his people, every aspect of his body in which represented his nation had been telling him something was wrong. Walking was tedious, eating was difficult, speaking was less than palatable. It upset him that Beilschmidt could so obviously sense such, it really did. “You are not fighting me,” The German bemused. “You have grown weaker, haven’t you; Maus?”
Feliks would’ve shuddered if he could bring himself to do anything but stand in uncharacteristic silence. He wanted to say something, he wanted to spin on his heel and spit in that Kraut’s fucking face. A hand, now ungloved, (When did he have the time to remove his glove?) slid down from the Pole’s ribcage, moving downwards to the spot where Feliks’ belly met his pubic bone. Beilschmidt let his hand swivel, only his pointer finger pressed to the fabric of the Baltic nation’s uniform. He slid the digit up to Feliks’ navel slowly, increasing in pressure before moving up; only stopping a good two inches above where the Pole’s belly button was. “I have troops, in Gleiwitz,” The German hummed, as if he were alerting Feliks of the evening’s unpleasant weather, instead of making a damn threat.
“They’re moving up,” Beilschmidt’s finger dragged on upwards further, until he reached the indent of Felik’s collar bone. “To Warsaw.”
The hands wandered more; and Feliks couldn’t understand why he wasn’t compelled to lash out as he usually would be. There were officials, there were soldiers right outside. He could scream, he could end this now. Yet the foggy darkness sitting outside that large window whispered to him; it told him that this was all meant to happen. Besides, if he didn’t want an invasion, he would have prepared more. If he didn’t want an invasion; a purging of his population, he would have fought back.
He would have screamed and cried as he was spun around and pressed face-first to his large rectangular oakwood desk, arms twisted painfully behind his back as laced fingers prodded their way between his lips, sloppily rubbing over his gums and the unmoving shape of his tongue.
If he was a good man; a man strong and dedicated to his country, he would have done anything other than let it happen.
And yet he supposed he wasn’t; because now he was here, in the office of Poland’s now former presidential figure. He was sloppily leaned up against the primary desk, eyes unfocused and glossed over as he failed to adjust himself upwards properly. He felt foam under his tongue, constantly fighting the urge to prod at the odd sensation the substance brought. He felt so confused, he could barely hear anything around him, though he could sense something wrong. The soft aches and sores he’d been feeling for weeks prior began to reinforce themselves as sharp pains in his muscles. He heard whispers and pleas in his ears every time he held his breath, though the room was empty save for two figures, including Feliks himself.
He had the faintest grasp on what had happened hours earlier, back at his war-room. He didn’t know how he made it to the president’s office, but here he was.
His grip faltered on the desk, but before he could fall over completely, something hard and metal kicked him right below the knee. He hissed as he hit the black tile with a thud, now finally realizing the room was not in fact silent, but for some reason his brain just wasn’t processing sound up till now. He braced himself up on his elbows, though what was undeniably a steel-soled boot came down hard on the very middle of his spine. “I asked you a question.” Perfect, Ludwig. Why was he kicking him around now? When and why did they decide to change rooms? It couldn’t have been too long ago, considering Feliks was only now becoming lucid.
“A question?” Feliks managed to grumble, voice weirdly raspy, most likely from disuse. His mouth tasted funny when he talked, his tongue kind of felt like acid had ate away at it, and for some reason he was hyper-aware of every tooth in his mouth. He swore he could hear the foamy-saliva substance in his maw when he focused hard enough.
“A question; Feliks,” Ludwig echoed, slowly moving his boot from the smaller man’s back so he could walk over infront of him. The Pole was practically sprawled out on his belly, head barely held up with just a touch of drool staining the side of his lips. His left eye felt all puffy for some reason, and grossly wet, though he couldn’t explain why. As Beilschmidt crouched down to get a better look at Feliks’ sorry state, Feliks himself couldn’t help but notice that the blonde was missing his uniform’s overcoat. It looked odd to see the man without the staple piece of clothing. Though, he had always found the German’s uniform very odd, weirdly plan for the Führer’s second in command. He had seen the uniforms of those deemed the Schutzstaffel in Germany, though Beilschmidt didn’t exactly fit into that little box. His uniform was plain, dark and red-collared. Ugly, really.
“Maus,” The intruding presence echoed. “You keep tapping out on me, it feels as if you’re not enjoying this,” Beilschmidt taunted. A crude, brash excuse for a joke that made the Pole crinkle up the bridge of his nose. “,,What was your question?” Feliks attempted, though his throat felt unpleasantly dry as he spoke; In great contrast to the wet foamy substance beneath his tongue. He tried to swallow,— It hurt.
“I asked you of how you feel; We just took Danzig.”
Feliks didn’t understand, what was he talking about? “The city?” He slurred, letting his eyes go lax, half lidded as he fought the urge to fall asleep. He couldn’t, not when he felt all gross and wrong. “Doch, the city. An hour ago, we took it. Occupied it.” Beilschmidt nudged the side of the floor-bound nation’s cheek with the steel toe of his black boot,— Supposedly some half-assed way to tell Feliks to stay awake.
The German crouched himself down enough to meet the Pole’s gaze. Blue eyes threaded with malice, with an unseen hatred, absolutely pinned to a solemn set of green,— Feliks’ own gaze. God, he had no idea what was happening anymore, his arms had started to feel all fuzzy, as if being individually pinpricked by a brigade of atleast a thousand needles.
A hand; still gloveless, moved to grab Feliks’ chin chastely. “I am curious, indulge me.” Ludwig hummed, voice lowered. All haughty and deep, as if simply watching the smaller country struggle was some grandeur prize he’d been glowering over for years. “Do you feel me, my presence? My men, my soldiers, they’re inside your walls. They’re watching your citizens clamor for mercy and salvation, taking guns to the heads of those insolent enough to speak out. We will clear your lands of the impure, we will sanitize every corner of your country from those that preach imperfection.”
Feliks narrowed his eyes. What was he to say in response? His throat had begun to close up, albeit he must have been already too baked to notice it beyond barely. “Does that include you? I have not decided,” Ludwig laughed. The hand retreated, and Feliks felt himself groan in relief. Or, was that him that’d even made the noise? He did not know. “You are too pretty to be a one of the impure race, I almost refuse to believe it.” He laughed once more,— A dry, erratic type sound. Feliks felt his throat let out a little croak in response, yet he let the sound die in his throat.
That same hand moved to touch at Feliks’ face, moving under one of his swollen eyeballs to press at it curiously. It felt like a physician examining him, poking and prodding at the moist and probably reddened swollen mess around his left eye. When had it gotten so bruised? He couldn’t remember for the life of him, simply mumbling out a string of incomprehensible slurred words in his native tongue. “Ekelhaft,” Beilschmidt cursed. “Ich werde dich ausbluten wie ein Schwein.” German was such an ugly language. Not unlike a dog’s bark, or a coyote’s yowl.
Feliks felt his lips part, eyes unfocused and lazed away from the blurry figure infront of him. He wanted to say something, anything at all, but his brain felt like it had little sewing needles stabbed through it. His thoughts were all snappy and sharp, and he could really only manage to think in short bursts. He felt a line of drool pooling in the corner of his lips, in which felt incredibly, uncharacteristically dry. He sputtered out something incoherent as he felt one of Ludwig’s fingers press a little harder to the corner of his eye, though he was only met with a hushing sound.
Feliks wanted to get up. He wanted to move away, snarl and demand to know why Beilschmidt chose to play such demented games. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to kick and scream and scratch and cry. He wanted to feel anything other than that faint muffling buzz in the back of his brain, keeping his mood and reactions all compressed and unsteady. As if just processing his own damn emotions was a painstaking task, one too drawling for someone like Feliks. Ludwig’s finger still prodded at his eye socket. He felt that odd foam building up in his jaw again, a slight pressure increase near the skin surrounding his eye. He—
Fuck!,,
The Pole felt his jaws snap open, a loud, unpleasant and ear-wrenching scream ringing throughout the small space. He choked and sputtered on the unexpected noise, though he heard the pain before he felt it.
A little ‘pop, squishhh’ sort of sound ringing in his ears. An extreme pressure in the center of his left eyeball. His screams wavered and died in his throat, though the sudden searing pain in his socket began to flare up violently. Beilschmidt’s finger was in his eye. pushing down slowly right in the center of the oculus. Fuck, his head ached, and his thoughts scrambled around as if he’d been shook too hard. He felt wet fluid leaking down his cheek, some of it flowering down to his lips, slipping into his opened mouth. It was bitter, thick and raw.
His eyeball went from feeling fiery to suddenly extremely damp, almost deflated. As if it’d sunken deep into his eye socket. He couldn’t move his pupils around in that eye, he couldn’t shut his eyelids quite right either. It was as if the ocular had completely caved right in, an indescribable, burning and hot feeling coming from the injury. It was an unimaginable heat that he felt on his face, soupy fluid continuing to leak from the apparent wound like some macabre form of tears. Or, maybe there were some tears mixed in.
The finger finally retracted, and he felt a cool gust of air run its course against the smoldering pain in his newly split eye. It was all dented in the middle, pupil and iris stuck right in place. He felt the tissue and matter inside his eye socket swell, the veins embedded deep inside his skull stammering and pulsing. He was aware of every little feeling inside of his head, from the wet mushy substance leaking from the split of his eye, to the way said eye began to become thin and glossed over.
“Kurwa,,—!” Feliks felt his lungs push up painfully against his chest, mouth agape, and labored breaths slipping from in between his ocular fluid-stained lips. He couldn’t see anything beyond faint outlines and shapes, and yet it felt as if everything in his available line of sight was warping and shifting, leaving his good eye unable to focus. Not to mention the tears that filled said eye to the very brim, playing twin with his damaged oculus by leaking out as well. Though; his tears were slim and warm, the bodily fluid was thick, slimy, and hot.
“It is almost unfair,” Beilschmidt purred,— His voice oh so distant, yet so painfully loud at the same time. He could barely understand him, his cadence sounding oddly distorted, and yet somehow managed to snuff out the bout of loud ringing in his ears. “I have done this to many women, men, animals, even. And they look so ugly, so foul. One little eye pushed in, and they become so undesirable, so unwanted.”
Beilschmidt moved his finger back, wiping up some of the leakage from Feliks’ cheek, bringing it curiously up to his own two lips; Tongue darting out to lap up the fluid from the pad of his index finger. He hummed, approving. “Their face becomes ugly, bruised and black. Like the maggot infested meat you feed old dogs,” Feliks frowned. Why was he feeding his dogs rotten meat? “But you, Maus;”
Feliks can feel himself becoming less and less lucid progressively. His left eye had stopped leaking, though the eyeball itself felt less firm and squishy, and more like a deflated, wet balloon. “You look like a painting, nothing about you looks imperfect nor tainted. You are a creature birthed to be destroyed, picked apart and sewn back together once more.” The German drawled on.
If Feliks could see him, he doubt he’d want to. The faint outline of a crooked smirk sat taut on the Kraut’s thin lips, though the more he looked, the more blurred and warped it appeared.
Beilschmidt spoke again, but to Feliks, all he heard was muffled gibberish. He could faintly make out a few words of the admittedly grim-sounding dialogue, such as ‘veins,’ ‘promise,’ and a most likely German word that sounded like ‘schto-sen.’ There was a finger that poked a little aggressively at his right cheek, yet he only managed a little faint mumble in response. His good eye had managed to shut, leaving his vision dark. His breath had managed to calm, but the last thing he felt before unconsciousness took him into gentle embrace was a hot pressure inside of his nose. And not only that,— But a thick, woolen glove beginning to slip down to Felik’s belt, tugging and prying at his limp body to flip it over. There was a clattering sound, a moment later, albeit it was the last thing Feliks heard.
He wondered what that could’ve possibly been. Oh, how he wondered.