Scifirenegade's Trash Can

Title: Strike lightning to the road
Rating: General
Fandom: Anders als die Andern (1919)
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Paul(/Kurt)
Warnings: period-typical homophobia
Spoilers: not really

Note: For comment_fic. Prompt was "any, any, the life of a musician means you are constantly traveling".
Title from Joseph Seamon Cotter Sr.'s poem "The Way-Side Well".


The train to Hamburg clattered along the tracks. Through the window, Paul gazed at the landscape, a blur of greens, the occasional trees merging with farmland. He was leaving home once again. A guest performance at the Laeiszhalle. He ran a large hand through his dark hair, making one rebellious curl fall in front of his forehead. His mouth was dry, so he gulped.

Especially in the past few years, he had been frequently going on tour. Paul Körner, the violin virtuoso, was in high demand. Always away from home, few months in, few months out. Always with a feeling of displacement, gnawing at him in the back of his mind.

The arrangement couldn't have come at a more perfect time.

It had taken him a lot of courage to take his parents to the doctor. To tell them about who he really was. The thing that had been eating him up from the inside for years and years.

His mother cried when they came back home. She flew to her bedroom, in an attempt to be unseen, but it was plain and clear what was happening. And his father, he simply gave Paul a blank stare. Disappointment. Disgust.

His home was his haven. Which was why it was so upsetting when that ma—

It wasn't time to think about that.

His home was his haven. There was no judgement, no hatred, no disappointment nor disgust. Even as he took small steps into finding others like him. And he wasn't as knowledgeable of how the scene was in other cities. So, his home it was.

Thank goodness for Kurt. That boy was a star. In his life, in general. Such a bright, passionate young man. And he was improving so much in such a short period of time. Paul could imagine him performing at the Laeiszhalle in just a couple of years.

The arrangement couldn't have come at a worse time.

He missed Kurt.

He missed him like never before. Like never before, before Max, of course.

There were times he was almost afraid he was imagining things, the looks, the small touches — sometime, Paul struggled to correct Kurt's posture, afraid the smallest touch could break him.

Such was the life of a musician.