This is the longest and most serious fanfiction I have ever written, and let me just say. I'm kind of sorry it had to be about the topic of rape. Let me also be clear: I have no personal experience with rape or sexual assault, I did a lot of research, but if anything here strikes you as wrong please tell me.
CHARACTERS in order of appearance: Ludwig Beilschmidt/Feliciano Vargas (GerIta), Officer Nguyen (Vietnam), Sadik Adnan (Turkey), Helena Karpusi (mama Greece), Gilbert Beilschmidt (Prussia), Lovino Vargas (Romano), Yong Soo Im (South Korea), Chun-Yen Wang (fem!China), Alfred Jones/Yekaterina Braginskaya (AmeUkr), Manon (Monaco), Raivis Galante (Latvia), Marianne Bonnefoy (fem!France), Peter Kirkland (Sealand), Nonno/Augustus Vargas (Rome), Opa/Ewald Beilschmidt (Germania), Mr. Machado (Cuba), Carmen Fernandez Carriedo (fem!Spain), Felicja Łukasiewicz (fem/mtf!Poland)/Julija Laurinaitis (fem!Lithuania), Sakura Honda (fem!Japan), Mei (Taiwan), Lotte (Belgium), Coach Vasilescu (Romania); and mentions of Irina Braginskaya (fem!Russia), Carlino Vargas (Seborga), Arthur Kirkland (England), Matthew Williams (Canada), and Herakles Karpusi (Greece). Implied Giripan, RomaBel, and FrUK.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: aftermath of rape, flashbacks, mentions of intimate partner and transphobic rape. Also contains consensual sex near the end.
QUICK NOTE: NONE of the rapists ever mentioned in any part of this story are Hetalia characters. They are faceless, nameless human OCs.
Reviews aren't mandatory, but by God they're appreciated and they give me a lovely warm feeling inside.
TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: aftermath of rape
It is 12:26 AM, thirty-one minutes after It happened.
It is very cold, for the spring, and Ludwig Beilschmidt shivers. The pavement of the backlot is pebbly and rough and digs into his cheek and legs.
He does not really know what he wants, but:
He wants to die.
He wants to go away.
He wants everything else to go away.
He wants to go back to his apartment and take a shower and lie down next to Feliciano Vargas and pretend It never happened.
He wants to not feel- the sore ache in his hips and back and thighs, the bruises forming on his wrists and hips and neck, the exhaustion and humiliation and horror piling up in the back of his throat, the remnants of nausea churning deep inside his stomach, the still-there in-out-in-out—
—He wants to stand up, but he can't.
Reaching for his trousers (they threw them out of the car after him), Ludwig manages to fumble his phone out of a pocket. Still slow and uncoordinated from the aftereffects of whatever-it-was they slipped in his drink, he enters the passcode and dials 911.
A woman answers. "Hello?"
"I— I need—" Ludwig takes a deep breath. "I need to report a rape."
"Where are you?"
"Backlot of Densen's Bar, ten-twenty-eight Short Street." His voice is scratchy, and his hand trembles as it holds the phone, and there's blood and— and— a-and— and semen drying on the backs of his thighs, and Ludwig Beilschmidt knows what he wants.
He wants Feliciano and Gilbert and Alfred and everybody not to know about this, not to see him like this.
"Please hurry."
It is 1:43 AM, one hour and forty-eight minutes after It happened, but Feliciano Vargas doesn't know that It happened.
Here is what he does know:
Ludwig didn't come home.
Ludwig always comes home.
The phone is ringing.
He picks up.
"'Lo?"
"Feli?"
Feliciano nearly drops the phone. "Ludwig? Are you okay? Where are you— did anything happen— I was really worried but is everything okay?"
"I'm at the police station."
Those words drop lead right into Feliciano's stomach, because he just noticed the fragile timbre of Ludwig's voice and how roughened and quiet it is. "What happened?"
"It's— it's not something for saying over the phone."
More lead. "Are you okay?"
Silence. A brief intake of breath. "I'm at the station on Fourth Street. Please come."
"I'll be right there." Feliciano rolls out of bed, dressing as fast as he can, and only stops at the door to put on tennis shoes before sprinting down the hallway, shifting through the interminable elevator ride, and hurrying out the door and down the street. Fourth Street is just a few blocks away, and Feliciano is fast, and Ludwig's going to be fine anyway, oh please oh please he's going to be just fine.
Feliciano bursts through the door of the police station, very out of breath, and hurries up to the officer on duty. Leaning on the desk, he gasps "Is there— is Ludwig Beilschmidt here?"
The officer- Nguyen, it says on her nametag- looks up at him with a youngish, severe face. "Your name?"
"Feliciano Vargas."
Officer Nguyen exhales slowly, and there's a sort of sympathy on her face that makes the twisting in Feliciano's stomach get ten times worse. She stands up, saying "Iglesias, could you take over now?", and motions for Feliciano to follow her into a side room and sit down.
"He's— he's not in here," is all he can think to say.
"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this," Officer Nguyen begins, and her next words make the bottom drop out of Feliciano's world.
He can't register most of the things she says after that, they just don't fit into his head, but he catches phrases- three men, a car, ten-forty PM, more when we get the kit back- and the twisting in his stomach grows worse and worse and he's going to throw up and this doesn't happen to them.
It happens to people you don't know.
Maybe people you do.
But not to them, not to him and Ludwig, not when they have jobs and an apartment and three and a half years together and plans for more, not to Ludwig—
Feliciano realizes he's crying, face in his hands, but it still doesn't feel real at all and he's going to wake up soon next to Ludwig who won't be hurt at all, but instead Officer Nguyen reaches out and pats him on the shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," she says. "So, so sorry."
Feliciano tries to breathe evenly, shaking, and finally manages to regain enough composure to quaver "C-can I s-see him?"
It is 2:30 AM, two hours and thirty-five minutes after It happened.
Here is what Ludwig will let himself think of:
The fact that the shock blanket they gave him smells vaguely of toast and antiseptic.
Here is what Ludwig will not let himself think of:
How they had to take DNA samples and catalogue injuries.
The way they had joked with each other as they shoved his face into the back seat.
How he can imagine Feliciano's gentle face twisted with disgust and shame, shame that he associated with someone so— so stupid, so stupid and pathetic and filthy and weak—
And the door opens and Ludwig sees Feliciano for about half a second before he bolts to the chair where Ludwig is sitting, wraps his arms around him, and buries his face in his neck. He's been crying, Ludwig can always tell when Feliciano's been crying, and he starts up again, trembling like a leaf and clinging to Ludwig.
"I'm sorry," he hiccups. "I'll kill them— oh God, Ludwig, I'm so sorry— I'll kill them— oh my God—" His fingers are curled up in the shock blanket and his shirt is one of Ludwig's old ones and he's pressed so close to Ludwig he can feel his heartbeat and Ludwig presses his face to Feliciano's tangled hair and tells himself it's okay it's Feliciano he's safe he doesn't hate you it's okay.
Feliciano hiccups a few more times, wiping his eyes, and looks up at Ludwig with a tearstained face. "Let's— let's get you home, okay?" he says in a very small voice, and folds Ludwig's hands in his own.
Ludwig nods, too drained to speak, and lets Feliciano help him up.
It is 2:58 AM, three hours and three minutes after It happened.
Stumbling with fatigue, Feliciano leads Ludwig into the small, darkened apartment and toes off his shoes.
"Why don't— why don't you go take a shower and I'll make you some tea and— and call in sick for you?" he says, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.
Ludwig nods and not-exactly-whispers "Could you bring me my pajamas?"
"I— now?"
"Yes. Long sleeves, please?"
"All right." Feliciano pads into the bedroom and finds an old long-sleeved shirt and some pajama pants, still feeling surreal and not-really-happening, and hands them to Ludwig, who disappears into the bathroom. He begins making the tea in a sort of daze, following the familiar steps.
The tea is ready.
The shower's still running.
Feliciano's finished his cup, and Ludwig's is growing cold.
The shower's still running.
Feliciano is suddenly very worried.
Just as he's steeling himself to go into the bathroom and make sure Ludwig's not— make sure he's okay, the door opens and Ludwig comes out, shoulders slumped and head hanging low. The long sleeves don't entirely cover the bruising at his wrists, and the ones on his throat are visible too, and Feliciano has to swallow down a knot of pure anger— how dare they do that how dare they hurt him— before hugging him and quietly saying "Your tea went cold but I can warm it up and do you want me to call your boss now or in the morning?"
"Morning." Ludwig is tensing up under Feliciano's hands and it brings the lump back into his throat.
"Do you want me to call Gilbert?"
"In the morning."
Feliciano swallows again. "Is it okay if I call Lovino? Because I'd have to tell him what happened, but—"
"'S okay."
"Do you want to go to bed?"
"Please." Feliciano realizes something very suddenly, which is that Ludwig hasn't met his eyes all evening- morning- whatever it is, and another thing, which is Ludwig is barely keeping himself upright and bed is definitely a good idea. He leads Ludwig to bed, letting him curl up and rest his head on Feliciano's chest, and trails his fingers through Ludwig's hair and down across his broad back.
"Stay," Ludwig mumbles, eyes falling shut. Somehow, Feliciano feels like he doesn't just mean don't move.
"Of course I will."
Neither of them sleep well.