T_T This is a half-assed WIP that I don't feel like going back to.. even if I'm feeling in a romantic, Italian mood.. Hurm. The dialogue really needs work, but.. 'm lazy.
EDIT: FUTCH YOO, LJ MARGINS AND SPACING AND SHIT.



Italy 1936

It was horribly quiet, even for three in the morning. The bar was empty, the lounge dim and the terrace silent. Heydrich tapped his foot against the shale patio, the toe of his boot spreading the ashes from his cigarette. The little spots were crushed into tiny soot designs so small only an ant could appreciate their beauty. He stubbed out his cigarette and added it to the body count in the ashtray. He had come downstairs maybe an hour ago, gotten two whiskeys and sat down on the hotel terrace with a full case of cigarettes. Now he was down to half a glass of liquor and three Lucky Strikes.
There was so much going on in his head. It was absurd, he thought, to actually be kept awake by one’s thoughts; it had never happened to him before, even through the worst of times. It was one thing to be kept awake by the fear of being beaten with a pillowcase full of soap, as had happened so many nights in the navy. When he first entered the SS, when there was never enough money, he used to stay up at night trying to balance his and Lina’s meager budget while he flipped through Party records. It was tiring, and it was bothersome that he brought his work home with him, but he never lost sleep over it.
The train ride from Berlin was unsettling. Heydrich had been seated across from Himmler for the entire trip, and, despite close quarters, they had barely shared a word. Naujocks and the staff kept up steady conversation with Himmler, but the Reichsfuhrer’s eyes would constantly slide over to Heydrich. A few times Himmler almost moved to address him, but he’d just carried on with the others. Heydrich spent the trip watching splotches of the Italian countryside from his window, and trying to master putting cream in his coffee without making a mess.
He was still itching with boredom and anxiety. Himmler hadn’t spoken to him in private for days; constant briefings didn’t count as conversation. Heydrich was partly relieved to have some time away from his superior’s mundane home life and fanatical mysticism, but he was greatly suspicious. Why-
“Reinhard?”
Heydrich grimaced, collecting himself as he killed another cigarette, and then casually turned ‘round in his chair. Himmler was walking slowly and cautiously down the steps from the lounge, spectacles absent and hair slightly askew. He looked peeved, but it may have been a combination of fatigue and near-sightedness.
“Why are you up at such an ungodly hour?” he yawned and rounded Heydrich’s chair.
“What do you do when you can’t sleep?” Heydrich lit another cigarette and tossed the spent match into an urn. Himmler smirked slightly, hands on his hips.
“I lay in bed and alphabatise a list of herbs in my head. I never have difficulty sleeping.”
“Then why are you out here?” Heydrich smiled as he took a drag. Himmler’s hands slid off his hips and his shoulders sagged with mock defeat.
“I can’t sleep.” He sat down in the iron chair next to Heydrich and winced as the cold latticework touched the skin above his shirt collar. “There’s just so much to do in these next few days. I confess I’m not as confident as I seem.”
Heydrich almost chuckled, but cleared his throat instead. Himmler ignored it and continued.
“I carry the weight of the Party’s reputation on my shoulders, I always do. It’s not so jarring when I’m facing supporters, the men, the people of the Reich… But Mussolini?” He sighed and swiped the cigarette case off the table between them. “Strange bedfellows, I’ve always thought… I don’t trust Italians… I’m just babbling, now.”
“Yes, you can have one.”
Himmler muttered at his matchbook. “You owe it to me.”
Heydrich gave a single laugh, then remembered himself. The bitterness was apparent in the Reichsfuhrer’s voice. It was always a bone they had with each other, and below their strong but thin partnership was a constant competitiveness.
You’re jealous, and it’s been bothering you, hasn’t it? Heydrich wanted to cut to the chase with all diplomacy thrown aside. Himmler was looking away, watching the smoke cloud drift from his mouth. You wear your diffidence on your sleeve.
“I was annotating my speech for the luncheon tomorrow. It was practically a soliloquy about the SS, I wasn’t focused when I wrote it…” He sighed again, rubbing his neck.
“If your trapezius is bothering you, you mustn’t be sleeping well.” Impulsively, Heydrich got up and stood behind Himmler; he stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and laid his hands on the other man’s shoulders. Himmler stiffened and brought his hand to his face.
“What are you doing?” he groaned. “The last time you did this you wanted a holiday.”
The young officer ignored him and pinched the crooks of Himmler’s neck. “An audience cannot hear a soliloquy, thus I doubt what you wrote was such.”
Heydrich dug his fingertips into the tendons, and began making gentle but firm circles into the Reichsfuhrer’s skin. He heard a low moan catch in Himmler’s throat, but he hadn’t yet relaxed.
I could kill you right now. I could snap your neck, crush your windpipe, smash your skull…
For a fleeting moment, with blinding rage, Heydrich actually wanted to completely annihilate this little man, his timid partner. He would be Himmler’s successor, head of the most powerful intelligence force in Europe. The only thing standing between him and this deification was the very blood pumping through Himmler’s veins.
One little cut turns into a complete bloodletting.
Gingerly, he stroked a finger over Himmler’s jugular, and briefly considered curling his nail into it. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his lips against it.
Himmler stiffened further, now completely rigid. Heydrich moved up to kiss the spot under the earlobe, causing Himmler to involuntarily tilt his head, exposing his neck.
“No… You must want my head on a silver platter…” Heydrich felt a chuckle vibrate against his lips. Not far from it… He swore he was going to sink his teeth into that plump artery.
Heydrich pulled back on the Reichsfuhrer’s shoulders, his fingertips dangerously close to the collarbone.
“Uh, Reinh-”
He was, in effect, restraining Himmler, preventing him from running like a scared rabbit. Heydrich had burned too many bridges that night, he couldn’t retreat nor did he want to. He didn’t notice he was growling.