Postwar CWDP

[herr_bookman]

Autor stumbles about in the dark until he finds a very familiar place. A chair with broken legs sits empty in front of him, and a lighted chessboard--his side oriented to white--hovers on air. Resigned, the boy scoots a pawn forward with his finger.

"You think I play chess, Krueger?" Eberstark says, laughing.

Autor looks around for him. "Eberstark?"

It's not Eberstark who sits before him though, but Abendroth, with his caved-in head and a flower crown made of scarlet roses. The scent of rot curls in Autor's nose, and the boy accepts it. "You stole my ammo," Abendroth says softly, staring at him with bright green eyes and frost on his bloodless lips.

"I'm sorry," Autor says to him, hanging his head.

Eberstark steps forward then, curling his hand around Abendroth's chair. Eberstark is as young and rugged as he always looked, though his face is pale. Autor immediately notices the blood red rose pinned to the side of his head, which morphs into a gunshot wound once he looks at it closer.

"There was no way I was going to make it back alive," Eberstark says, and his voice buzzes in Autor's ears. "We both knew it; we just weren't saying it. You kept me going longer than I would've made it on my own. You kept trying. You did everything anyone could've done."

"But I--" Autor starts.

"Even if you kind of kept us going by sheer assholery," Eberstark finishes.

Autor's eyes are tight, pressured. He feels a headache blooming, the specific kind of pain he gets before crying these days. "I wish I could have..."

"There wasn't anything you could have done," Strauss says, stepping forward out of the darkness with a red rose taking place of his nose. Mencken, with his Berliner dialect, pops up with a, "yeah, that's right."

Nimitz lights a cigarette, his blue eyes glowing in the light of the cherry. "You tried to save me," he says, and Autor sucks a breath over his teeth. "You tried. I don't blame you for fleeing."

Bäcker gurgles unintelligibly, a rose pinned to his throat. Schuhmacher shows up next, shirtless and shivering in the dark. He smiles at Autor, and Autor feels his face grow numb.

"Really hard to deliver a letter to my best girl for me if you never come back, you know," Eberstark jokes, and Autor's breath hitches.

The boy curls into himself, breaking. He weeps for his comrades at war, his friends, his brothers. He weeps for his leaving them behind, for the opportunity that the bar gave him that he sometimes no longer wants.

"I'm s-so sorry," Autor gasps, with a choked sob.

"You tried the best you could, Krueger," Eberstark says gently, resting a rotting hand on Autor's shoulder. "Even if we couldn't make it, I'm glad you did."

Autor glances up, seeing a lack of condemnation in their eyes. The boy wraps his arms around Eberstark's waist, burying his face in his belly to cry.

He doesn't roll out of bed this time when he's done, instead waking with a start on his back. Autor touches his face, and finds that he's all right with the tears.