Politics were a funny thing. Leave it up to a few stray years, a few changing conditions, for the first country to recognize Polish independence to ally with the country which stripped that independence away in a few short weeks. In his spare time, which he had a lot of for thinking, Feliks had carefully evaluated his feelings on the matter (an effort that was, on its own, indication enough that it didn't hurt quite so much as one would have thought) and come to the conclusion that he harbored not much pain over it, neither personally nor impersonally. It was rather unusual, since he supposed that at the moment he felt nothing specific at all towards Feliciano, which was more (or less?) than what could be said for the myriad of other influences he'd once had in his very long life. It was equally unusual in that he had never really felt alienation from Feliciano in this way; it didn't matter if they went years or decades seeing each other only sporadically, he imagined that he still knew Feliciano somewhat, and could at least predict his relationships with other people, but what little he had heard from Lovino only seemed to highlight how very
unpredictable his younger counterpart was these days.
It wasn't going to stop Feliks from trying him. There was very little, if anything at all, that ever stopped Feliks, and risk certainly wasn't one of them. How much that was a boon or a curse was up for debate–all he knew was that he wasn't going to survive without taking risks, because then he may as well lay down and quietly wait for the gas and ovens to come for him too, after they had taken all of his Jews and homosexuals and academics and well-intentioned civilians. Not his way to go. Not
any of theirs. So, damn, he was going to give this a shot regardless of how unhinged Feliciano was or how much of Mussolini's ideology he was stuffing down his throat.
Such reassurances couldn't stop Feliks from feeling nervous though. Even as the buzz of the Milan streets wore on and the cappuccino in front of him cooled (
real coffee, it had been forever since he'd had real coffee, not to mention sat in a patio café that didn't overlook at least three ruined buildings), he felt a certain degree of nervous energy thrumming in his gut, spreading all the way out towards his limbs to the way his leg bounced skittishly under the table. He wasn't sure if he was more anxious about the possibility of being found or of meeting Feliciano. The former was a feeling he carried around with him almost at all times nowadays, especially whenever he was in public,
especially especially when he was in public in what was technically enemy territory, but the latter was a new feeling entirely. Imagine: if someone had told him to beware of Feliciano a century or so ago, and that someone hadn't been Austria, he would have laughed airily and told them there was no reason to be scared unless they were planning on attacking Italy or something. But now, the Italians ran with delight a blatantly offensive campaign in Greece and Ethiopia, and Feliciano may or may not have developed a temper and a penchant for letting that temper out on other people's bodies.
And
that was who Feliks was going to have to try to get on board with the whole aiding-and-abetting the resistance thing.
He could think of better plans he'd made before. But provided the circumstances, he thought this qualified as a
decent one at the very least. He had to be selective with his connections after all, because most of the countries surrounding him were too broke, or too closely watched, or just not his friend–end of discussion–so he was hoping he could appeal to whatever sentiments Feliciano might have left over from the good old days
or to any possibly newly-developed ego to just, you know, help him out a little, please? He could think about the ethics of appealing to a Nazi ally and possible instrument in the massacre of civilians later; it was definitely on his to-do list, somewhere after
surviving, and somewhere before something something that ended with 'violence and discrimination against ethnic minorities in the Republic of Poland.' (
Much before.)
He frowned, sipping at his slightly over-cooled coffee. He could deal with those questions after the war–if there
was an after for him, and he was going to try to make it so that there damn well was if Feliciano showed up soon. Flicking up the brim of his cap, he searched the street again for the man in question, and when met with no luck, dropped his chin back in his hand. It was still a bit early (Feliks had taken to arriving at meeting points before schedule just to scope out the place), but he did hope that Feliciano arrived before he started contemplating whether the very little money he could justifiably spend would truly be wasted on a sandwich. And because the anticipation in waiting kept giving way to anxiety, and that was killing him as he replayed bad conversation starters in his mind.
Good day, Feliciano, they went.
What have you been doing, how have you been? Will you lend me some guns for shooting Nazis? Did you leave those bruises on his limbs?
