Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hans
Munich, Germany
Hans had been floating through the week, and he knew it.
Every night he either ended up at Adrik’s place or Adrik ended up at his, and somehow it never felt like an inconvenience.
It felt right. Comfortable in a way that made his chest warm.
By Friday morning, both of their bags were lined up by the door, and Hans kept glancing at them like a kid waiting for Christmas.
He’d been looking forward to showing Munich to Adrik.
He’s going to love it. Please let him love it, he kept thinking as they boarded the train Saturday.
The ride from Rostock to Munich was a little over an hour, but it went by fast—mostly because Adrik kept leaning his shoulder against Hans, pointing out random scenery and making quiet jokes that had Hans grinning like an idiot.
When they reached the hotel, they dropped their bags and took a quick shower—Hans trying not to stare too obviously at Adrik’s bare back in the mirror. Focus, Hans. You’re not sixteen.
Once they were dressed again, Hans led Adrik out of the hotel and into the late-morning Munich air, the city already humming like it had been awake for hours.
The moment they stepped onto the street, the familiar mix of scents hit him—fresh bread drifting from a nearby bakery, roasted nuts from a vendor setting up his cart, and that faint metallic tang of the tram lines sparking overhead.
It was the kind of sensory chaos Hans had grown up with, but seeing Adrik take it in made it feel new again.
They walked toward Marienplatz, and Hans watched Adrik’s eyes widen as the Glockenspiel towered above them, its ornate figures frozen mid-story.
Tourists clustered with cameras, street musicians tuned their instruments, and a cyclist zipped past with a muttered apology.
Munich always had this blend of old-world charm and modern impatience, and Hans found himself weirdly proud of it.
“This place is… loud,” Adrik said.
“Loud is part of the charm,” Hans replied, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Wait until the Glockenspiel starts. It’s ridiculous and wonderful.”
They wandered past stalls selling pretzels the size of plates, the warm, yeasty smell curling around them. A group of teenagers laughed loudly near the fountain, splashing each other with freezing water. Somewhere down the street, someone was playing an accordion—slightly off-key, but enthusiastic.
Hans glanced at Adrik again. He wasn’t just looking—he was absorbing everything, like he was trying to memorize the city brick by brick. That did something to Hans’ chest, something warm and stupid.
“You like it?” Hans asked, trying to sound casual.
Adrik nodded slowly. “It feels… alive. Different from what I’m used to.”
Hans smiled at that. Good. Let it be different. Let it be better.
He guided Adrik toward Viktualienmarkt, where the air shifted again—fresh herbs, grilled sausages, flowers in buckets overflowing with color. Vendors shouted prices, old men argued cheerfully over cheese samples, and a little girl tugged her mother toward a stand selling honey.
“This is Munich,” Hans said, spreading his hands a little. “Messy. Loud. Always smelling like food. And somehow perfect.”
Adrik looked around, then back at Hans with a softness that made Hans’ stomach flip. “I can see why you love it.”
Hans felt heat creep up his neck. Great. Blushing in public. Very dignified.
But he couldn’t help it. Showing Adrik the city—his city—felt strangely intimate, like he was offering him a piece of himself.
And the way Adrik looked at him made it feel like he’d accepted it.
“Where are we going?” Adrik asked as Hans steered him down a crowded street.
“You’ll see,” Hans said, trying to sound casual, even though he was practically vibrating with excitement.
They reached the Oktoberfest grounds, and Adrik’s face lit up instantly. The music, the tents, the smell of roasted nuts and grilled sausages—it all hit at once.
“Oh wow,” Adrik said, smiling so big Hans felt it in his chest. “This is amazing.”
Hans guided him to a long wooden table under a tent where a band was playing. Their lunch order comprised pretzels, schnitzel, and beer. Adrik kept tapping his fingers to the music, his eyes bright, cheeks a little pink from the beer.
Hans watched him for a moment, unable to help it. He looks happy. Really happy. God, I love seeing him like this.
Adrik caught him staring. “What?” he asked, smiling like he already knew.
“Nothing,” Hans said, though his face warmed. “Just… glad you’re enjoying it.”
Adrik leaned closer, his voice soft enough that Hans felt it more than heard it. “I enjoy everything when I’m with you.”
Hans tingled inside. “You can’t just say things like that in public,” he muttered, trying to hide his grin.
“Why not?” Adrik nudged his knee under the table. “It’s true.”
Hans looked away, pretending to focus on the band, but his chest felt full. “Well… you make everything better too,” he admitted.
Adrik’s smile softened, warm and a little shy. “Good. Then we’re even.”
They stayed like that—eating, listening to music, brushing shoulders, and trading small romantic confessions. And as the afternoon stretched on, Hans realized something simple and undeniable: This trip wasn’t about Munich. It was about being here with him.
Hans woke up from the nap feeling that familiar knot in his stomach—the one that had been sitting there ever since he realized tonight meant parents. Meeting them. Talking to them. Being judged by them. And worse… Adrik possibly deciding this whole trip was too much and wanting to go home early.
Please don’t let him regret coming.
They showered again, steam fogging the bathroom mirror while Hans tried not to stare too long at Adrik buttoning his shirt. He looked good—too good—and Hans had to swallow down the ridiculous fear that his parents would somehow scare him off.
“You ready?” Hans asked, smoothing his own collar for the tenth time.
Adrik shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Hans forced a smile. That wasn’t reassuring at all.
The restaurant was warm and elegant, with soft lighting, white tablecloths—the kind of place his mother loved. Friedrich and Anneliese were already seated, and the moment they spotted Hans, his mother stood up with a bright smile.
Adrik walked beside him, shoulders squared, jaw set in that careful, unreadable way he wore whenever he felt cornered. Hans wished he could take his hand, but he brushed their arms together, a small grounding touch.
Anneliese reached them first. “Hans!” She wrapped him in a warm hug before turning her bright smile on Adrik. “And you must be Adrik. We’re so happy to meet you.”
Adrik returned the smile and kissed her on each cheek. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
Friedrich stepped forward, offering a handshake that was more test than greeting. “Adrik.” His hazel eyes glared down at him, sharp and calculating. “Hans tells us your surname is German?”
Hans’ stomach clenched, a heavy weight settling in its pit. Here we go.
“Yes,” Adrik said calmly. “My father is German.”
“And your mother?” Friedrich pressed.
“Russian.” Adrik paused. “Mostly.”
Hans frowned. Mostly? That wasn’t what Adrik had told him before. He was stuck saying his father was German since Hans had said he was in a previous conversation. He opened his mouth to smooth things over, but his father was already moving on.
Sitting at their table, menus barely opened, Friedrich leaned forward, elbows on the table like an interrogator settling in. “So,” he began, “are you a Russian citizen?”
“No,” Adrik said. “I’m working on getting my German citizenship.”
Friedrich’s brows lifted. “Working on it. Meaning you’re not legally settled yet?”
Hans shot a warning look to his father. “Dad—”
But Friedrich ignored him. “Did you grow up in Russia?”
Adrik hesitated. Just a flicker, but Hans saw it. Then Adrik turned his head slightly toward him, eyes asking for help, or maybe for the questions to stop. Hans’ heart clenched. Why is he lying? What is he afraid of?
“I spent… some time there,” Adrik said finally.
“Some time,” Friedrich repeated, unimpressed. “Your parents still live there, you said?”
“Yes,” Adrik replied quickly. “They’re both in Russia.”
Hans rolled his eyes. Both? That wasn’t right either. Adrik had told him his mother was in Russia, yes—but his father? He’d never said that. Not once. A cold thread of confusion wound through him. Why change the story now? Why hide this?
Anneliese must have sensed the tension when she reached across the table with a gentle smile. “Munich must feel very different from Russia. Do you like it here so far?”
Adrik exhaled, grateful for the shift. “Yes. Very much. Germany feels… safer.”
Hans’ chest tightened at the word. Safer from what? From who?
Friedrich wasn’t done. “And what brought you here? Work? Family? A woman?” His eyes flicked pointedly between them. “Or a man?”
“Dad!” Hans hissed.
Adrik stiffened, but he kept his voice even. “A fresh start.”
“That’s vague,” Friedrich said.
“It’s enough,” Hans snapped, heat rising in his cheeks. “Can we please just enjoy dinner?”
His father leaned back, unimpressed but silent for now.
Adrik’s gaze dropped to his hands, fingers curling slightly. Hans nudged his foot against Adrik’s under the table, a quiet reassurance. I’m here. You’re not alone.
But inside, Hans’ thoughts churned. Why lie about your father? Why lie about your past? What are you running from, Adrik? And why won’t you trust me with the complete truth?
Adrik finally looked to his side, meeting Hans’ eyes for a brief, fragile moment. There was something raw there—fear, maybe. Or guilt. Or the weight of a secret too heavy to speak aloud.
Hans swallowed hard. Whatever it is… I’ll wait. I’ll stay. Just don’t shut me out.
“Let’s order,” Anneliese said, trying to rescue the evening.
Hans forced a smile, but his mind stayed tangled in the lies Adrik had told—and the shadows behind them.