Chapter 25: His Five-Year-Plan to Say 'I Love You'

A/N: SURPRISE! We're so back...

DISCLAIMER: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The alleyway sweated out a fowl stench of damp cobblestone, stale lager, and lots of wee wee. I mean LOTS. Anyway........the group shuffled down it, trailing behind Hermann Göring, who confidently marched ahead like an absolute girlboss. His hands assertively stroked his bony hips, the outlines of which protruded from his tightly fitted leather tunic, beneath the sparkly little belt he wore with pride. He was in a good mood...

After a while Jürg ventured hesitantly into the enigmatic pits of his new boyfriend's mind. 'Hermzy, uhhhhh...why are we walking through the dodgiest alley in Germany in the middle of the night again? What happened to our itty bitty camping trip?'

'It's called military deception. You wouldn't get it.' Göring gazed at the resigned faces of each of his compatriots in turn, 'Mein Gott - no wonder we lost the war! Move your asses or I will leave you all to get eaten by American pig dogs...'

Jürg forced a weak smile. 'My bad...'

Himmler's spine straightened itself like a sentient paperclip. Beside him, Piotr quickened his pace, walking a few paces behind, glancing nervously at Molotov, whose eyes remained blank, unseeing. He tried once more to engage him. 'Comrade Molotov, are you-'

Molotov held up a shaking hand, clutching his stomach as if in immense pain. Ugggggghhh whatever...

In the midst of all this, Stalin, the glowing centerpiece of every story, turned his attention to Jürg...

'Comrade!' he murmured, 'walk with me!'

In the days since their fireside chat, the young man's boundless optimism had become the only anchor to Joseph's restless, tortured mind. Also, he liked his hair.

'Sali! Heyyyyy - how's it going, Joseph my BESTIE?' Jürg grinned, genuinely elated. The chance to be needed again -  it lifted a weight of his striking Swiss shoulders.

'I've been thinking...' the Russian started.

Jürg leaned in, wide-eyed. 'Oh Joseph... tell me your truths. Let me touch the soul beneath the moustache! Pretty please...'

Stalin didn't reply immediately. Instead, he glanced ahead to where Molotov and Piotr walked, trailing Himmler and Göring like the Russian fallout from a German nuclear explosion - re.  the effect of Hitler on Stalin. Speaking of Adolf, Joseph listened out for his gentle and seductive tread, so as to calculate the distance between them without needing to succumb to the German boy's unflinching, remorseful gaze. Physically, they were probably just a few metres from one another. Mentally, it was as if the Eastern Front was ripping them apart once more...

At last, Joseph turned to his companion, lowering his voice. 'Jürg, this...talking about my feelings thing you've been recommending...'

'Oh Joseph! I'm so happy you feel comfortable opening up to me!'

Stalin shifted uncomfortably. 'Yeah well...I guess...you know...'

Ahead, the alleyway seemed to give way to darkness itself. Where was Göring taking them?

Jürg smiled encouraging at Joseph. 'From my perspective - and you can shut me down if you think I'm taking bullshit...But, the main question seems to be what it is that you're so afraid of. Like what is it that's keeping from telling Adolf how you feel? Maybe you fear-'

Stalin hesitated. 'I know what you're thinking comrade. But it's definitely not rejection I'm afraid of. I'm Joseph Stalin... who could reject me???'

'I'm loving the confidence!'

'Nyat...' Stalin spat out the syllable. 'It's something deeper, more profound than rejection that haunts me. It's...you don't understand. What if... it works? What if I tell him...? What if I say those three words and... everything I've ever wanted becomes real?'

Jürg raised a puzzled eyebrow. 

'Don't you see? I'd be relinquishing control over...us. Allowing him to see a part of me I've kept hidden in my dark and brooding heart for so long...'

'You'd be vulnerable,' Jürg offered gently, 'But if you trust Adolf...'

Stalin chewed his bottom lip. ' I don't think I can just...surrender like that... It's too hard.'

'Maybe...that's what love is. Not surrender, but... détente.'

Stalin said nothing.

Up ahead, the alley yawned open, abruptly revealing an clearing. The moonlight flickered off slick nylon - tracksuits?

'Ah, yes,' Göring said smugly. 'The good old boys. Just as reliable as always.'

The group shuffled forward, trying to ignore the drug-dealers-turned-pilots that suddenly surrounded them for some reason. It was quite scary...

At the edge of the field, stood Goebbels, flanked by two men who stood with their arms crossed and expressions devious. The man to to his left was tall and blond, with smug, yet vacant, features, that made him look as if someone had forgotten to colour him in. The other man, to Goebbels' right, was short, and wore a strange, red hat that seemed too big for his little head. Above them, towered a pure white plane, wings spread in anticipation. 

'I've arranged everything with Perón. Argentina, here we come! I hope you guys are ready to tango...' Goebbels greeted them, before casting a bemused glance towards the Russians.  'And what have we hear? An unexpected surprise, mein Führer, I must say!'

Hitler didn't even look up.

'H-h-hi guys!' The man to Goebbels' right stepped forward nervously. 'I'm Elon Musk! I'm a biiiiiiig fan of your work, meeeeen foo-rahh...'

Hitler took a step back.

'Sup,' muttered Stalin after an awkward silence, 'No clue who you are but I'm Joseph...and this is Piotr - from internal affairs. And Molotov...uhhhh...'

Goebbels raised an eyebrow.

'Foreign minister...' whispered Molotov, eyes still locked to the floor.

'I thought I recognised you!' exclaimed the other man - the one to Goebbels' left.  'Ulrich Friedrich-Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop...' he looked directly at Molotov. 'But to you...I'm still Joachim...' 

Molotov looked up, taking in his new surroundings for the first time. The blond German stared dramatically, meeting his gaze with an almost humorous intensity.

'Joachim... I thought you were... classified.'

Ribbentrop grinned. 'And you, my Vyacheslav; it's been so long. Come. Sit next to me on the plane. We may...compare treaties.'

Molotov turned redder than the Soviet flag. Then, with a painful lurch in his abdomen, he thought of Igglepiggle once more. 'I... I shouldn't...'

'But you want to.'

'I...remember your fingers,' Molotov admitted against his better judgement.

Ribbentrop outstretched a bony wrist. Molotov trembled, taking it in his own. They were just as soft as he remembered. Back in '39...

Meanwhile, Piotr narrowed his eyes, turning accusingly to Göring . 'How did you know to bring us here? You know, I still don't trust this guy, comrade Stalin...'

But Stalin was too busy stealing super sneaky glances at Adolf to respond.

'How did I know?' said Göring, flashing a grin. 'It's simple really! Magic Nazi intuition...'

'No, no,' Goebbels corrected.  'Its the meth. I can't go a day without it at this point - but it keeps us wonderfully perceptive...'

Piotr blinked. 'Right.'

But then...

 SKRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT...

The plane's engine began to splutter ominously. It was very ominous...