Misc.

cabaret oc

"Bitte...please...bitte." Claus mumbled, curled into a ball in the snow, his face wet with blood and tears, the heavy boot of a man digging into his side. 

Eventually, it stopped. The man seemed satisfied at the unmoving body laying in the alleyway and left, probably to have dinner with his wife and kids. 

Claus lay silent in the drift, the snow gradually accumulating around his body.

Claus lay for half an hour, unable to move.

By some miracle of willpower, he pushed himself up, fingers and toes absolutely numb from the cold, his thin coat soaked, and his bare chest freezing underneath. Shivering, he got himself home.

---

When he arrived at the Klub the following night, the bruises he'd received the evening prior showed up like a water-colour painting on his ribs and face. Not many were surprised. You worked at a queer dive-bar, things were bound to happen. 

Claus stayed rather quiet about the incident, letting Bobby kiss the bruises on his jaw better while Lulu got set on covering up the injuries on his ribs. 

"Come home with Viktor and I tonight, yes? I want to make sure you're safe," Bobby murmured later, Claus sat on his lap, soaking up the affection everyone seemed to be deprived of nowadays. 

A little later, Claus went on stage and lit up. He was beautiful under the stage lights, unafraid of anything. Like the previous night had never happened. He danced around his scene-partners, scantily clad, proud of his body and the way he moved. Who cared about the rise of the stupid political party? He would mock them all he wanted. Fuck them.

He came offstage high off the smells of perfume and the dazzling stage-lights. He was hot, and smiling, and alive. 

"Claus there's someone outside for you," Rosie called and everyone in the dressing room made a noise of some sort. Viktor let out a whistle, and Texas was so audacious as to slap him where it counted as he passed her. 

"Have fun,"

"Don't go too hard,"

Claus gave them a sly look.

"Oh, I will." he assured them, before disappearing. 

The man waiting outside was clearly a patron who'd seen the show and wanted a little more time alone with the boy. He was dressed in a large coat and the dark made it hard to discern a figure, but mystery excited Claus, who approached.

"They told me you wanted to see me? How can I be of assistance?" he asked, Hans' coat draped over at least the majority of his torso.

"Claus Wagner? You're the one who performed tonight?"

"One of them, yes."

The second he said he'd been on stage, a hand clasped around his throat and pushed him against the wall. Involuntarily, a peculiar noise escaped his mouth. The stranger smiled in the darkness.

"You're filth." he said, before practically throwing Claus down into the snow and allowing history to repeat itself.

"No-" Claus screamed, terrified.

Not again.

Not again.

Not again.

Inside, the Kit Kat Klub brimmed with neon lights and loud music. It was so hot in there. No... so warm. The second you stepped back outside you were hit in the face, more times than not, literally, with Germany's ever-changing political climate. It blew through Berlin like the frigid cold winter wind, like knives through your chest, that drowned out the voices who fought back against it day in and day out.