Chapter 3: The Reckoning

A/N: I hope you've been enjoying the story! I know I have (; This next bit is a LITTLE smutty...

It was 4 in the morning, but, try as he might, Adolf was unable to sleep...he had been in Moscow for several days now and he was beginning to miss home. A single tear glazed his soft cheek as he thought of Germany, her beautiful hills, white babies and awesome bratwurst...

Other thoughts threatened to leave him paralysed...thoughts of Joseph and how he rough hands might feel around Adolf's throat. He tried to banish the thoughts, but to no avail...

Suddenly, there was a knock of the door.

'Is someone at the door?' yawned Igglepiggle, appearing on the landing.

'I'll get it...' sighed Hitler. 'Go back to sleep.'

Igglepiggle was a good friend...a great friend even. They had met at kindergarten in 1901 back when Hitler was the target of frequent mockery for his dainty appearance. The other boys, Babraham Lincolnson, Reodore Thoosevelt and Wilson Woodrow, used to beat him up and call him names like 'Adolf 'Homosexual' Hitler', 'short', 'too girly,' 'Jewish' and 'dictator'. From that moment, he had decided to grow a glorious, masculine mustache and do the Holocaust; and Igglepiggle had supported him at every turn. Even at his lowest moments, for instance when he almost gave up on writing his book, Mein Kampf, and when he was rejected from Art School, Igglepiggle had stood by.

Still, Adolf had never felt truly understood by Igglepiggle...by anyone really. He felt so small and delicate inside, and yet he was kept at an arms distance by those who were supposed to be there for him. His wish had come true, to never be called 'Adolf 'Homosexual' Hitler' again, but at what cost... He felt honoured and celebrated...but never loved. Never wanted.

The knocking at the door persisted...

Hitler tentatively opened the door...his heart dropped.

'Hey~' said Joseph in his dark and masculine voice. He looked around, a war ever present in his mind between his suppressed heart and his authoritative head. He strolled into the room, not needing an invitation.

Hitler felt brushed aside, dismissed. Something was wrong. And yet why did he suddenly feel so good?

'H-hello,' he stammered blushing, glancing at his shoes and up again, avoiding Joseph's piercing gaze. 'H-how c-can I b-be of a-assistance?'

Joseph did not once look away. He smirked lightly, relishing the effect he was effortlessly emanating, the power he held over the dark-haired boy. He felt his member harden beneath his knickers and felt no shame. 

'Adolf Hitler,' Joseph said, 'I should've known when I saw you, but here we are. Sit down,' he commanded dominantly, gesturing towards the sofa.

Hitler obediently, submissively obliged. 'You came back for me? I knew you would...'

'No,' said Stalin curtly. 'I am here to warn you...'

Hitler felt a pang of hurt and shame in his stomach. He felt as if he was going to be sick. How dare this man, who he didn't even know, barge into the home of his good friend Igglepiggle and break his heart like it meant nothing to him! He was Adolf Hitler, leader of the Third Reich! Didn't he deserve better than this?

He was not the scared little 'Adolf 'Homosexual' Hitler' anymore. He felt his eyes burn with emotion.

Stalin continued, blissfully unaware of the shorter boy's upcoming outburst. 'Churchill is here and is looking for you. He doesn't know anything from me... but you must leave Moscow immediately. I have arranged for my men to-'

Hitler stood up abruptly, suddenly noticing how hard he had become. Full of apparent masculine rage, he grabbed a nearby pillow and hurled it at Stalin.

Stunned, Stalin gazed at Hitler in alarm and arousal with his piercing orbs.

'Get out.' 

'Adolf?' whispered Stalin throatily, his demeanor crumbling for the first time. 'I am here to help you...'

'Shut up,' screamed Hitler shrilly, snot running down his troubled face, 'I don't need your help!'

Stalin made sure to show no emotion, or at least, to present himself as bemused at this embarrassing scene Adolf was making. But he felt hurt inside, as he had imagined this interaction very differently. Of course, he had not allowed himself to become sentimental, but a part of him had seen something beautiful in Adolf's innocent and stimulating fixation with him. He had hoped for a gratifying 'thank you' from the man, and perhaps a vulnerable smile.

Hitler gestured frantically towards the door. 'Get out!' he spat venomously, 'get out now! Who do you think you are? Who do you take me for?'

'Fine,' said Stalin blankly. 'Whatever'. And he got up and left.

...

An hour later, Joseph sat at a Moscow bus-stop, sobbing for the first time in years. In his shaking, jagged hands, he held a bottle of vodka.  

Simultaneously, Hitler sat alone at Igglepiggle's table, ignoring his friend, and drowning his sorrows in Jägermeister.