000

ECHOES OF GREEN

Drunken escapades lead to Mukurou showing everyone their past lives, only some aren't as happy as others. Poland, 1944, Auschwitz, "Become my love again?", "Yes.", "You'll find me, right?", "Yes.", "I love you." And then the gas came.

Hayato Gokudera / Harry Potter
Detlef Brandt / Ulrich Himmelreich

Warning
Angst.
A fuck ton of angst in the beginning chapters.
Slash, character death, substance abuse, nazi-atrocities described.

000

Chapter One
The End of Us

"No... no... it can't – you can't – " he croaked, eyes wide as he stared at the bruised, skeletal man in front of him. His head roughly shaved, his mottled skin drawn tight over sharp bones, decorated with filth, bruises and dried blood from cuts and scrapes, now sceptic. It felt like the bottom of his world had just dropped out from beneath him. So different from the young man he knew.

He wheezed in horror and disbelief, feeling his legs, weakened from starvation, bruised and blistered from work and abuse, give out under him.

He hit the filthy concrete floor hard with a hoarse moan, "No... Ulrich, no they, how did – you're not... not supposed to be here!" he rasped.

Cold fingers gently touched his cheeks, he couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch, "I'm sorry Detlef, I'm so sorry. But I couldn't. I couldn't leave you to face them alone, face this alone," he explained softly, his voice near silent for how weak it was as he knelt on the floor beside him. Both of them were bare, thin beyond imagination, with eyes only for each other, heedless to the tightly packed chamber of men around them, just as filthy, bruised, and starved as they themselves. Heads shaved bare, numbers crudely tattooed upon their forearms.

"How did you..."

"I followed you. The trucks. I did favours for the resistance in exchange for information. I came to find you, to get you out, but... I was caught. I've been labouring in the cotton mill at Silesia until now," he explained softly hands stroking his cheeks and then finally folding around him and for a moment, just a heartbeat, Detlef could imagine they were back in Munich. Back in their flat. Slow dancing to the radio. Reading a book together in front of the fire. But the illusion didn't last, couldn't last. Not when Ulrich was so thin, not when he trembled constantly and his breath rattled in his lungs with illness he tried to hide, not when their stomachs burned and their bodies ached and the cold reality of their surroundings wouldn't let them.

"I did it so you could live," Detlef breathed, his arms coming up to return the hug. He had willingly walked to the Nazis when they broke into their tiny safe-house, he had covered his love's mouth and nose, forced him to sleep and then hidden him beneath the floorboards and allowed himself to be escorted away. Glad that he had been able to protect the one person that had ever truly mattered to him. He went his his head high.

"There could never be a life I want without you," Ulrich told him firmly, his voice scolding. For all his weaker body, his heart was strong and his will was greater than Detlef's, his determination and kindness as wide and endless as the sky itself.

Ulrich drew back as the doors of Block 11 bolted shut with a shriek of metal, and he smiled, hands stroking down Detlef's hallowed out cheeks, his eyes soft as he memorised as much of his face as possible, imprinting it onto his heart, his soul.

"I'm glad I found you. So glad," he breathed.

Tears burned Detlef's throat shut, and his eyes ached for moisture his body was too broken to give. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. "We're going to die," he whispered hopelessly.

Ulrich nodded peacefully, still smiling, his eyes shut as he kissed the other man's forehead, "Yes."

The Germans could pretend all they wished. Lie and give false promises. But only death awaited at the Camps.

His arms came up, wrapping desperately around Ulrich and drawing him close as he huddled against the wall, tears finally squeezing from between his eyelids, leaving burning trails down his cheeks, cleaning the filth from his flesh as he buried his face into his love's skeletal chest.

"I'm scared," he whispered brokenly, feeling something hard and thick rising in his chest, like a still living organ, thick and red and living, "I don't want to die," he sobbed into Ulrich's chest as the man held him tightly, rubbing his back and head, as if he still had hair.

Ulrich hummed and pressed another kiss to the crown of his head, saying nothing as he just held him.

"Aren't you?" he asked softly, looking up at him through blurry tear-filled eyes.

He smiled, "No. I thought I would be, but I'm not," he admitted quietly to his shock. But those beautiful green eyes were clear and bright and honest. Green eyes that he first fell in love with. Green eyes at eight years old in the village market place, bright and happy in a cherub face, surrounded by a halo of blond curls, freckled cheeks dimpling with delight at the summer sunshine. His love leaned down and kissed his cheeks, his tears away. "I was more afraid that I wouldn't find you. That you would be dead before I could see you," he explained softly.

A loud metallic clang filled the air and several people started screaming as, with a loud hissing woosh, the vents high up in the walls suddenly poured thick acrid black smoke into the room. The men began to panic, screaming and yelling, forcing their battered abused and starving bodies to move as they rushed the doors, beating their fists against the metal, begging, pleading to be let out.

Detlef tightened his grip on Ulrich, the two of them watching from their place on the floor.

A calm washed over him as Ulrich shifted, pulling away and tucking himself down against his side, delicate fingers gripping his work rough hands, lacing their fingers tightly, and looked up at hi with those clear green eyes that was nothing but him. He smiled and leaned up, kissing him sweetly on the mouth, saying a thousand things without a single word as the gas washed over them, blinding them to everything but each other.

"Become my love again?" he asked as they broke away, foreheads pressed together.

Detlef nodded, "Yes."

Ulrich's smile was painful, tears streaming down his cheeks as gas burned them red and sore, he coughed violently and kissed him fiercely, tasting of blood and tears. "You'll find me again?" he asked, his voice cracking with grief.

"I will," Detlef promised, holding tightly.

"I love you."

"I – I love you too."

000

I love you.

Hayato gasped, his eyes snapping open. What – that –

He jerked upright, his eyes wide as he stared at the far wall, breathing hard. Ulrich. Ulrich. Ulrich with green eyes. Ulrich who loved him. Ulrich who he loved.

Ulrich Himmelreich. And... And... Detlef. Detlef Brandt.

Block 11. Death Block. Poland. Auschwitz.

Victims of the nazis. Homosexuals. Homosexuals who had been... been gassed in Auschwitz.

Detlef. He had been Detlef.

He was Detlef.

Ulrich...

His eyes began to burn, he felt cold, he had him, just now, he could still – still feel him! There! In his arms! He could – where was he? Where was he?

His breath began to come out quicker as his body trembled.

"-traditional Romanian Gypsy. Around the early 1600's by the dress and technology of the time," Reborn was saying, somewhere distantly, the words holding no more meaning than static on a radio. Crackling in the background.

"Think that's bad? Christian Missionary in Tibet. 1800's. I was a fucking nun. A Virgin nun. Hell," Shamal complained in dismayed amusement, "Guess I'm making up for lost time in this life. What about you, kid?"

"Um, nothing," Juudaime's voice admitted, seemingly underwater, unintelligible, "Just... warmth, and light. I was happy."

"Kufufufuuuu... That's because Tsunayoshi is a new soul, pure and uncorrupted," Mukurou's strained and pain filled voice explained somehow managing to filter through the fog of his mind, through the rising distress.

That was right. They had been drinking. Reborn had goaded the Mist Guardian about his eye and the six paths, he couldn't remember what exactly was said, but it had been enough to convince the Mist Bastard to show them their past lives. Putting them into dreaming comas where they would relive their last – their last moments... Which meant...

'You'll find me again?'

A shaking hand covered his mouth as the sound of Juudaime questioning that Lawn-head washed over him, deaf to his ears as he swallowed back the moan of pain and disbelief that rose thickly in his chest. He was going to throw up.

"Hey Tako-head! What about – oi, Hayato? Are you – what happened, are you okay?" Ryohei suddenly demanded, his eyes widening as he realised their Storm Guardian was shaking violently, hand over his mouth, staring sightlessly at the far wall, cheeks streaming with tears, horror and utter heartbroken devastation etched across his features.

"Auschwitz," he managed to croak.

Ryohei blinked, glancing to the others. Tsuna clearly didn't know what he meant either by the look of confused anxiousness on his face. But Reborn and Shamal had stopped laughing, their expressions frozen. Mukurou's face may as well have been carved from ice and Dino looked as if someone had murdered his turtle.

Hayato staggered to his feet, "I need to – I have to – " he sprinted out of the room to the nearest toilet.

000

Harry woke slowly. His eyes felt gummy and heavy. He breathed. Slowly and softly, staring at a moth-eaten hole in his bed hangings at Grimmauld Place.

Detlef.

He had never known anyone by that name, he had never even seen that man before, but his name, his face, his voice, all of it, even when it was so rough and broken, so thin and tired and scared, it made him feel... feel warm. It made him feel something he had never felt before, something strong, and light, and heavy, and warm all at once. Something that felt like flying and falling and sitting in front of the fire in the Common Room and hugs from Mrs Weasley and laughing with Ron and finding Sirius and stroking Prongs, and yet, he still couldn't describe it completely, couldn't put a name to it.

Detlef.

He breathed out slowly, feeling something warm trail down the side of his nose and threaten to dribble into it. He brushed it away and closed his eyes.

He drew himself up, hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes squeezing shut for all of a moment as he savoured the last vestiges of that dream. That warm feeling that made his eyes ache and his skin shiver. He held to that memory of arms around him, of warm lips and work rough hands, of a voice telling him that he was loved, and meaning it.

He shuddered and screwed his eyes shut, trying to imprint it as deeply into his being as possible.

Detlef. The man who loved him. Who held him. Who kissed him. Who tried to save him.

Detlef, who died.

Green eyes slid open sadly, feeling tears dribbling hotly down his cheeks. Detlef who died with his love Ulrich in a gas chamber, holding one another tightly.

Over fifty years ago.

He sighed softly and pushed himself up. It was still dark outside as he slipped out from his bed-hangings and padded on silent feet from the room. No one was awake to see him move into the kitchen and stare sightlessly around himself for a moment.

It felt as if he were still dreaming, he decided, as he slowly poured water into the kettle before setting it onto the stove. Like he were moving under water. The whole world curiously muffled and blurry around him as he got a large mug, charmed to refill and stay hot, and grabbed the first box of tea bags from the cupboard. The smell of peppermint filling his nose as he poured hot water into the mug.

He cleaned up and walked away. Moving through the silent halls and up the creaking staircases like a ghost, feeling as if he were walking in an unfamiliar place despite knowing where he was. Feeling out of place, lost, as if he didn't belong as he went higher and higher.

He climbed to the roof and sat upon the tiles, watching the sun rise up over London, warming his hands on his tea mug as the wind raked through his hair, and dawn unfolded across the sky in front of him in flawless beauty, green, pink and gold staining the clouds as birds sang around him. London, for the moment, silent around him. Sleeping.

Warming his hands on the mug of tea, he watched the world around him awaken, and the dream he had been walking in, slowly begin to fade.

Distantly, as the day went on and the light grew brighter and London became more active around him, he could hear Sirius singing Christmas Carols at the top of his lungs, apparently delighted that he wouldn't be alone this Christmas. He shivered slightly, mug pressed against his chest as the wind around him grew harsher, the clouds gathering heavily overhead, beginning to threaten snow. The first flakes began to fall as he heard Mrs Weasley's voice distantly call him through one of the open windows – not that she knew he was up here.

The cold had seeped into him, numbing everything, his hair and clothing whipped and plucked by the snow that whirled around him. He couldn't see London anymore.

This felt familiar.

This cold, right through to his bones, the snow falling around him, and a bitter wind that whipped his cheeks.

He felt a world away from where he knew he was as he stretched a hand out, fingers threading through the air currents, snow-flakes flowing between and melting on his skin, shades paler than he recalled, his fingers younger and smaller than he thought they should have been. There was ink on his fingers. Why was that? He hadn't seen paper nor pen in weeks, too busy with food smuggling for the resistance to write anything, and he had never been one for diaries. He would have thought Detlef kept a diary, oh, sorry a journal. Diaries are for girls. But he knew his love could neither read nor write. His schooling being what it was, and his father being the way he was.

The sound of the doorbell jarred him from memories that he wasn't entirely sure were his own, Mrs Black screaming fit to break the dead and tearing away memories of leaning out of a freight train in a blizzard, his fingers outstretched to the wind, just like now, knowing he was close, so close, on his way to Poland, to the camp where his love was waiting. To where Detlef was labouring in Auschwitz Monowice fuel factory.

Harry drew his trembling hand back and wrapped it once again securely around his mug, the warmth of his tea chasing away the chill of the snow.

Why was he remembering this?

Were they even memories?

Figments of his imagination?

The idea that they could have been sent from Voldemort was discarded before it was even conceived. That man could not conceive the emotions that Harry felt when he thought of Detlef, he could not understand nor feel nor even begin to replicate what Ulrich felt for that man. What Harry was feeling through him. That determination, that hope, that... love.

He took a deep breath, his eyes closing as he tilted his head up, feeling snowflakes splash and melt onto his skin.

Yes.

It was love.

That feeling he couldn't name before now, so huge and impossible and unknown. That had been love.

A love he had never experienced nor felt, the love of an individual who wished to spend their life together, of someone who would walk through fire.

Of someone who would walk to their death to protect him.

Of someone who would ignore that sacrifice and spend a year and a half looking for him.

Just to spend their final moments together in a Gas Chamber, and die with a smile on their faces, and their arms around one another.

He breathed out, his eyes opening slowly as the mist from between his lips was stolen by the wind and light glowed distant and white between heavy black snow-clouds.

Love.

He had been loved.

Whether he was Ulrich, or Ulrich was him, or just a dream, or a figment of his imagination, he had felt loved.

He had been loved.

000

Chapter End. Okay. /wipes eyes.

Echoes of Green has been a long time coming. It was conceived in April, on the twentieth, in 2014, my final year of University while I was surfing tumblr and saw a post, in the background I had Scars (Stronger for Life) by Corrine May playing.

And it broke my heart.

This is the Tumblr post that did it: Imagine your OTP slow-dancing to a love song, with Person A quietly singing the words in Person B's ear.
Imagine this happening during the apocalypse and they both know they're going to die soon

And then... I started writing.

The first extract was seen on my facebook that day. After that, I set the story aside for when the next attack of Feels came. It was very much a work of the moment. And then... I came back. And I finished it. And it still breaks my heart to write it.

It will be sad and angsty and what have you in the beginning. But it will improve.