Chapter 17: Talk Policy to Me

A/N: My sexy and sophisticated readers... we have made it. Chapter 17. I can hardly believe it myself. As I sit here, tears streaming down my face, hands trembling over the keyboard, believe it or not, my friends, I am overwhelmed with joy. This journey has been nothing short of breathtaking, and it is only because of you - yes, YOU, my beloved readers - that we have come this far. This chapter... oh, this chapter. It is one of the most gut-wrenching, soul-crushing, and intimidate chapters I have ever written. The weight of fate itself hangs over every word, every glance, every forbidden touch, waiting to leave you blonde, blue-eyed and bent over! Readers...I poured my very soul into this chapter, into all of my chapters, and I hope you feel the RAW passion, the unspeakable tragedy, and the undeniable love that pulses between Adolf and Joseph, separated by circumstance but kept together in our hearts. To those of you who have stayed by my side throughout this tumultuous and INTENSE process so far - you are my heroes. Your comments, your speculation, your undying support... they keep me going. They give me the strength to write when all hope seems lost. I can never thank you enough. Finally, I'd like to thank my parents for believing in me; and my fish for holding my hand at every step of the way. With that said, with a heart both shattered and full, I present to you Chapter 17 of Shitler - A Hitler x Stalin Fanfic. Hold on tight. It sure is going to be a ride...

Within the labyrinthine corridors of the Pentagon, two titans of democracy met in secret, their shared history blossoming beyond the confines of formal diplomacy...

It was very late, so late that time itself appeared to be stuttering. Churchill poured himself another generous measure of brandy, the amber liquid an amethyst's swirl in his glass. Across from him, President Harry S. Truman lit a cigarette, his brows furrowed in contemplation. 

'The world still believes Hitler to be dead,' Churchill murmured, his voice thick with the weight of both alcohol and sheer thrill, 'and so what needs to be done must stay in this room. If it gets out that-'

'And Stalin wriggling from your grip like a communist snake on amphetamines? I agree Winnie, none of this is ideal. On the contrary...'

Truman paused, exhaling a long column of smoke. 

The man from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland hiccupped, waving a dismissive hand, his face flushed awake with colour. 'Harry, my boy, you're using your synapses too much. Pour yourself another!'

Truman raised an eyebrow but obliged, filling his own glass as Churchill downed his drink and immediately poured another. The Brit's words became richer, his gestures grander. He slammed the table with his palm. 'We shall fight them in the war rooms, we shall fight them in the shitty Russian clubs, by golly, we shall fight them in the bedrooms if we must!'

Truman chuckled, watching his British...friend...succumb from calculation to triumphalist glee with remarkable speed. Churchill was already onto another drink, his laughter turning raucous. And then he spluttered slightly.

'But if they are together once more... God help us.'

A tense silence stretched between them, the weight of responsibility suddenly pressing down like a storm cloud. The joviality of the meeting had been ripped to shreds, broken without a trace.

British Churchill, his hands shaking now, took another sip, gazing, as if in a trance, towards the American. There had always been something unspoken between them, something that had lingered in the shadows of their conversations, the way their hands would brush when poring over maps, the stolen glances across smoke-filled rooms.

Truman leaned forward, his voice quieter now. 'Winston, we've fought the war together. Seen the worst of humanity. And yet...'

Churchill's flaky lips curled into a wry smile. 'And yet, here we are, still standing. Still together.'

Truman swallowed hard. 'And after all that, I can't shake this feeling - that when the world looks at us, they see only leaders. But when I look at you...'

Churchill set his glass down with a soft clink. 'I see more.'

'We really do finish each other's sandwiches.'

A long pause. The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows dancing along the walls. Truman's hairy fingers twitched, hovering over the table before finally, hesitantly, brushing against Churchill's thigh. 

The British bulldog did not bark the hand away, instead he smirked, eyes gleaming with mischievous intent.

'My office awaits our decision-' started Truman uncertainly, considering the Brit's drunken composure.

Churchill chuckled, his fingers curling around Truman's hand. 'Let them wait.'

And then the night unraveled into something heavy and forbidden, laced with sin and the lingering fragrance of brandy and cigarette smoke. Layers of diplomacy peeled away, revealing the raw intensity lurking beneath.

A hand at the waist, sinking lower. Churchill's breath, tinged with brandy and smoke, soaking Truman's jawline with milk-scented condensation. The American's lips hovered, hesitating, before yielding to the intoxication of the moment.

Their lips nervously met, sending sparks of electricity down Truman's spine. He pulled away, just a little, before reaching forward to tear Churchill's top hat from his alluring skull, fingering the smooth surface of skin that had hid beneath its protection, the little whisps of hair that were now his to caress. 

'Mr. President...you're making me blush.'

Truman smirked, fingers trailing lower as he felt the British man surrender to the night, to the rich intoxication of the moment and to the gentle firmness of Truman's cravings. Everything else folded into this. Into a moan swallowed by the hush of secrecy, a gasp drowned in the silk of night. This love was reckless, this love was desperate - it was, in its own way, history in the making.

And so, as world slept on, the two forged a bond deeper than treaties, more resolute than declarations of war. As Truman ejaculated a stream of sexy seminal fluid into Churchill's gaping hole, the free world was reborn from darkness. A fire burning well into the dawn...

...

To the east, outside a Berlin restaurant, sat Igglepiggle and his miserable friend.

'I need him, Igglepiggle. I need him like the moon needs the tide.'

Igglepiggle sighed, considering Adolf's  teary-eyed gaze, his trembling shoulders. It seemed impossible to him that anyone could sink to such depravity, such utter hopelessness, let alone his Führer, an earnest feller with a tragic and murky backstory who had, nonetheless, managed to get by with plenty of determination and a little help from his friends. 

'Adolf, we're all here for you,' he gestured towards the restaurant, 'I'm here for you. Tell me how I can make this right?'

'There's nothing you can do...' Hitler's chestnut eyes were blank, unseeing, as he descended further into his mental pit of despair. There was something strangely comforting concealed within the all-consuming sadness gripping his plump yet minute frame. If everything was numb, devoid, empty, then at least that nothingness alone could be his. And there was security in reaching rock bottom. A peculiar safety. At least Stalin could let him down no longer. For he was already, down, sinking beneath the dark embrace of utter misery.

'Adolf,' Igglepiggle's intelligent tone unwillingly dragged Adolf into the present, where the pain was even more real, 'I will not let you drown yourself in the supposed thoughts of a mysterious man who you still don't seem to know. Not really...'

Adolf sadly met Igglepiggle's stern gaze.

Igglepiggle continued. 'Here's what's going to happen, Adolf. I'm going to get the next train to Moscow and find out the truth of the matter. I'll wrestle it out of Stalin with my bare hands if needs be! And then I'll return, with Joseph if your love is reciprocated, and with his corpse if not.'

Hitler gasped in terror at the awful thought.

'And then, with or without him, we're going to Argentina. Nein, don't shake your head at me! With or without him, mein Führer, you have to keep going. For Germany...'

And with that, Igglepiggle sprinted, panted into the night, ignoring Hitler's desperate calls for him to come back.

'Come back Igglepiggle!' called Hitler desperately, 'you're not actually going to k-k-k-k-kill him, a-are you?'

...

Hitler returned to the restaurant half an hour later, having been unable to catch up with Igglepiggle owing to h̶i̶s̶ l̶a̶c̶k̶ o̶f̶ p̶h̶y̶s̶i̶c̶a̶l̶ f̶i̶t̶n̶e̶s̶s̶ the Jews. 

Goebbels was attempting to make passionate conversation with Göring but to no avail. The other two men were nowhere to be seen.

'Mein alter Freund! Can you believe it? Here we are, reunited once more, drinking fine wine and reminiscing about - ach! - the glorious days of the Reich!'

'Mmm. I'm going to get another trout.'

'Trout? Hermann, bitte! We stood on the precipice of history together! You and I, titans of destiny, architects of a thousand-year empire.'

'Uh huh...'

'Remember when we stood in the Chancellery, watching the parades? The masses roaring in adulation, the banners waving! And when I gave those speeches - those speeches - oh, the fire in my voice, the zeal in the people's hearts!

'Right, right. Speeches. Very stirring. Oh, hiya Hitler...'

Hitler sat wordlessly.

'Where's Igglepiggle?' asked Goebbels, troubled by the odd atmosphere that had permeated the evening.

'Moscow.'

'Oh.'

Hitler glanced around the table. 'Where are Da Real Heinrich-H and Jürg?'

Göring burst into sobs. Loud, noisy sobs.

Unable to take it anymore, Goebbels slammed his fist into the table. 'Verdammt! I don't know what the teufel is up with you guys, and frankly I'm losing interest. I'm going to Argentina and if you guys wanna come, meet me at the airport on Tuesday. If not, I'll see you never I guess...'

And with that he marched from the restaurant, hand on heart as if reliving his glory days.

'I need to piss,' muttered a rejected Hitler, glancing nervously up at Göring, who was still wailing into his napkin. He had assumed the sly man was incapable of feeling anything, let alone producing a tear, let alone producing an army of them!

Anyway, he got up and made his way to the bathroom. It was filthy; the floor sticky with grime and the walls dotted with mysterious splatters. All of the stools were occupied, so he awkwardly approached one of the urinals, its Aryan colouring bringing to mind thoughts of Joseph's thick bulge veiled by tricksy fabric. As Adolf unzipped his tight trousers and took his little cock into his little fingers, he imagined Stalin was with him, holding his hand as they made lots of wee wee together.

As Adolf began to release his sweet bodily fluids into the accepting vessel, he became aware of the excited murmurs dissipating from the stool nearest to him.

'Do you want to feel my hard bockwurst pressed against your moist opening?'

'Oh! I can't eat pork, Hermie-Pie. I'm k-'

'I'm talking about my penis, Jürg.'

'Ah ja, I want your penis, Heinrich...give it to me, bitte...ich will es, bitter...'

There came a soft whimper followed by rhythmic thumping against the wall...

'Ohhh, jaaaa... genau so...'

Hitler placed pressed his hands to ears, unable to even register the piss trickling down his clothing. As Himmler's loud grunts joined Jürg's short moans, he felt the treacherous blade of envy scraping his insides, shaping them into little shreds of salami. Why couldn't Stalin fuck him against a gritty bathroom wall? Or anywhere for that matter. Life was so unfair...