Title: Many Lives: 1937 The Spanish Civil War
By: Daniella
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
A/N: Firstly, I'm just a student, so I'm bound to make some mistakes on the details, historically wise. If I write something that is obviously wrong, please let me know and I'll try to change it, but keep in mind that this is a fiction story first. Secondly, I love to read, so many of the eras I chose will be based off of scenarios in stories I love, and I'll try to credit them where I can. Thirdly, I stole the title of this series from an excellent song by Owen Pallett aka Final Fantasy. I highly reccomend it. And last but not least, yes, this is AU, a genre that I'm always hesitant to jump into. But I'm giving it a try. Wish me luck.
A/N2: This is the first of a series of short stories that are based on the premise that history repeats itself. (An idea half inspired by my history class, and by the British comedy BlackAdder , although it will probably never be as witty as that show). Each chapter presents a new era, a new period of time where our Nick and Greg come in contact with eachother, sometimes it ends happily, sometimes it doesn't.
Summary: 1937: The Spanish Civil War. The situation I write about here is vaguely based off of a short story by Jean-Paul Sartre called The Wall (or Le Mur in French), but my fic doesn't carry the philisophical weight of Sartre's story at all. It's an amazing piece of literature and I urge you all to read it!

What surprised him the most was that he hadn't cried. He hadn't felt anything when the announcement was made. You are numb with shock, he would have been told, had he voiced this worry with anyone, what you have been told is too much for any human to bear. But who had he to share his problems with now?

He spent some time doing this, rationalizing his reaction to the news, analyzing it from every possible angle. He passed an hour lost in these thoughts as he sat on his bunk, alone in his cell, waiting for the tears to come.
They never came. An Irish student did instead.

"You are condemned to death by firing squad."

That had been it. Eight words. Eight words to end Nicolas' life. Yet had you asked him, he would have admitted that his life had ended far before those eight words were ever uttered. Only a few months prior, Nicolas' heart had stopped; his blood had grown still; his lungs had abandoned their work. Nicolas had died when he received news of the bombing of Guernica. Countless innocent people killed at the hands of his 'allies', the Germans and Italians. He had never seen anything like it, nor did he want to see anything ever again.

Some might have claimed that Nicolas let himself get captured on the tenth of June, 1937, when the anarchist army stormed the nationalist-led building, finding it empty save for him, the lone Spanish conservative, standing in a corner with his hands in the air. Some might have claimed that he was punishing himself for the deeds of the men he had stood beside. But upon asking Nicolas, he would refuse to comment on these ideas.

Nicolas could hear them escorting him down the hall, three pairs of anarchist-issued boots reverberating dully off the grey prison walls with each step. When they brought him in, the guards didn't say anything. Nothing to announce his presence, nothing to inform their prisoner of who he was. The Irish student. His face was still bright with naïve curiosity, all apprehension and book-smarts and wide brown eyes. Evidently a member of the International Brigade, those pseudo-anarchist intellectuals from all over Europe who, at first news of the civil war between the left and right wing powers in Spain, set out to help. Nicolas almost laughed at the notion. Help. As if Spain could still be helped. And even if that were the case, Spain would not find her aid in the form of the young pale man standing before him now, skinny, fair, his eyes open and sincere. No one in their right mind was sincere anymore. Not now.

"They tell me your name is Nicolas." The guards had already returned to their posts at the end of the hallway when he spoke. His Spanish was clipped, his accent heavy and foreign. Yes, definitely Irish.

Nicolas did not respond, and the young Irishman swallowed convulsively. He was nervous, but if he became uneasy around one caged soldier who was doomed to die, how would he survive the real war? How would he face a worthy opponent?

"I have requested from my superiors the opportunity to observe the physical effects the knowledge of imminent death can wreak upon a human body." He was speaking again, and despite his skewered use of the language, his tone was still civil, diplomatic, the voice of an intellectual. "They assigned me to this cell, number 83528, and to you, Nicolas."

Nicolas did not like how this child used his first name and his first name only. It was unnerving, the sincerity with which he spoke, and it left Nicolas on edge. Why was this student so gracious and polite, addressing him as if they were equals, while the other anarchists treated him like a dirty beggar? Nicolas preferred the latter, at least it was direct, he knew what he was thought of. But this Irishman…

"My name is Gregory Sanders." He said suddenly, "I hope you will not object to my study."

Object? As if Nicolas had that option. He had lost his right to object ages ago when he took up arms with the Spanish Nationalists. When he allied himself with those who willingly slaughtered the Spaniards at Guernica…

But something in Gregory's words caused him to pause. "Study?" He repeated, his voice crackling with disuse. "Why study? If you came to Spain to write notes and figures, then you are of no use to your anarchist friends. They do not need a scientist, they do not need some child who read one book by Nietzsche and now thinks he understands the world, they need someone to pick up a rifle and do as they say."

Gregory's face paled slightly, giving him an almost unnatural glow in the moonlight peeking in through the bars of the cell window. He set his jaw, seeming even more child-like for a second in his stubborn stance. "My work… my work is appreciated. I have been of use to my fellow men."

"I'm sure you have." Nicolas replied numbly, finding himself unaffected by their exchange of words, even by the odd serene beauty the young Irishman emitted. He felt as if he was functioning on too little sleep, suddenly everything around him was simply dulled, simply white noise, eclipsed by the larger truth: that he would cease to exist in a mere three hours.

Gregory seemed to have taken Nicolas' short reply as assent, for he thanked him in the same dignified tone, before extending one of his hands. Nicolas took it in his, shaking it curtly, yet he was unable to stop himself from noticing how soft it was. The young man's hand seemed almost virginal; untouched by the chaos Nicolas himself had seen. His own hands were calloused, blackened by war and grime, yet in their brief contact they did not even mar the white skin of the Irish student, as if his purity was something no one could take from him. Nicolas knew this was not the case, however. The civil war would corrupt them all.

He also couldn't help but wonder whether that handshake, that simple act of civility, would be the last touch he would experience in his life.

Gregory Sanders had been carrying with him a worn leather bag, which he placed with care on the stool in the corner of the cell. From its depths he pulled a small notebook, the pages yellowed and worn, covered in the student's neat, blocky handwriting. Once this was in order he moved quickly, with the eager motions of a student, striding forward to Nicolas' side. First Gregory checked his pulse, placing two fingers on his neck. Nicolas could feel his heartbeat under the pressure the Irishman created there, and he felt another stab of realization. This dull rhythm was keeping him alive.

Then Gregory Sanders moved to take his temperature, gauging approximately with the palm of his hand against Nicolas' forehead, and it was at this point when Nicolas realized how bizarre this situation was. Here he was, on the verge of execution, spending his last hours with some child, some child who was using him as a science experiment. This boy was poking at him, feeling him, scribing notes in his little notebook. But again, what surprised him the most was that he really did not care. He did not like the boy's company, but he did not hate it either, he was simply there. He was there, taking up space, breathing air, being human. As Nicolas himself was doing. He had never, before now, been so aware of his own body before. As Gregory continued to scribble notes Nicolas looked down at himself, flexing his arms, stretching his fingers out one by one, feeling his bones crack with use. He was here, he was moving, and he was physically alive.

"You're shivering." Gregory Sanders said, breaking Nicolas out of his thoughts. "Are you cold?"

Nicolas looked up at him. "No." He replied, in a stoic tone, "I feel nothing." Which was the truth, but Gregory seemed insistent in his discovery, so Nicolas looked down at his hands again. The boy was right. He was trembling. And he hadn't even felt it, or noticed it previously. It startled him somewhat, to know that here, nearing the end of his existence; he had little control over his own body. He was not tired, nor hungry, nor thirsty, nor did he feel anything for the Irish student standing before him, while in past times his boyish face and slim figure would have attracted Nicolas, causing him to act against his best discretions. His body could not be trusted to create normal responses anymore; he was left with his mind. This was hardly a comforting thought.

"Do you have any family? A wife? Children?" Gregory was asking. He was back on his stool, apparently finished with his scientific prodding for now, and Nicolas hadn't even realized that he had left his side. He kept on losing track of things, getting lost in his thoughts, forgetting his surroundings.

It took Nicolas a while to respond. "Yes. A fiancé." He said dully, and the student nodded solemnly in reply. But again, Nicolas was vaguely startled. He had completely forgotten about Sara. Throughout all his time spent musing and re-evaluating himself here in this anarchist prison cell, he hadn't even given his fiancé a thought. Sara. The woman for whom he had given his life, before his path changed and his life was sold for the 'good' of Spain. He had told her that once the war was complete, they would finally get married. He had told her that the war would be quick, that the anarchists lacked the organization to present a real threat to the nationalist armies, yet now, he wondered if he had ever really believed it. He wondered whether he had ever loved her at all.

"Do you love her?"

Fucking Irishman. If Nicolas had been willing to give him more credit, he would have said that the young man had been reading his expression, the tone in his voice, yet Nicolas was feeling indignant. "None of your fucking business." He snapped back, and Gregory, his thoughts evidently confirmed, looked back down at his notebook and scribbled something on it.

Nicolas was suddenly filled with a surge of anger he couldn't really explain. He wasn't sure of where it had come from, but he couldn't help but feel comforted by it. It was an emotion; it was more than he had felt in the past few hours. He let himself loose, let himself get caught up in what he was feeling, and it led him to stand up sharply, stride over to the young man sitting in the corner, and strike him in the mouth.

"What do you think I am?" He bellowed out, "Some animal lying spread-eagled awaiting your dissection? How dare you come here! How dare you exploit me in such a way! I am going to die in a matter of hours; do you know what that feels like? How can you study something you don't understand?"

Gregory looked up at him from where he lay sprawled on the floor; the force of Nicolas' hit had sent him flying off the stool. His hand was in front of his mouth and as he took it away Nicolas noticed his lips were stained with blood. A few guards came running towards them at that moment, evidently startled by the yelling they had heard. Gregory turned to look at them as they moved to open the cell and retrieve him, and he stopped them with a wave of his hand. "I am fine." He said quietly. "Leave us. Please."

The guards stood there for a while, unsure of what to do, but Gregory's imploring eyes were convincing, and they moved reluctantly back to their post at the end of the hall. Gregory stood up, his legs shaking, and he took a few steps towards Nicolas, staring fixedly at him. The student was smaller than he, but Nicolas couldn't help but feel a wave of panic as he grew closer, there was a fire in his eyes that he could not decipher.

"What do I think you are?" Gregory repeated, his voice quiet, hardly above a whisper. "I think you are lucky. I think you are extremely fortunate to know when you are going to die. Not everyone is given that luxury. The families in Guernica had no inkling that they would be dying that day. They had no time to prepare for the end, no time to fulfill their dreams. Yet your allies bombed them nonetheless." His voice was rising, it was obvious he was trying to keep his tone calm, yet he was shaking. "You ask me what I think you are? I think you are a fascist. I think you are what is wrong with the world. I think you deserve to be here." His eyes were shining, filled with emotion, as he spat blood on the floor at Nicolas' feet. "I had friends there. In Guernica. You killed them. I want to see you meet the same fate." He concluded, setting his jaw and looking at the floor, frustratingly blinking back tears.

Nicolas stood there dumbly, numb with the shock of the young Irishman's words. The force of his emotion, the way his smooth face contorted, the way he still felt shame over his tears as he tried to hide them, all this left Nicolas unbalanced. Overwhelmed. Unsure of how to combat it, he instead chose to dive right in. Nicolas took a few bold steps forward, pressing his form flush against the student's and kissing him harshly. Gregory protested at first, small fists pushing against Nicolas' chest, but soon his body went slack as he submitted to the older man. His mouth opened and Nicolas could taste the blood on his lips from where he had been struck, could feel his thin body writhing against him, could hold on to the life the young man still possessed. As he bruised the Irishman's lips with the force of his kiss, Nicolas received one last taste of what he was leaving behind.

Gregory finally pushed away from him, gasping for air, his eyes wide and his lips swollen. Nicolas stared at him, and brought a hand slowly up to his own mouth. He pressed his fingers to his lips, and as he drew them back, he saw they were stained red with the Irishman's blood.

The young man was calling now, getting the attention of the guards at the end of the hall. Nicolas took a few staggering steps backwards, collapsing onto his bunk again and Gregory turned around briskly, gathering his things in his leather bag once more. Nicolas watched his movements with interest, the boy seemed perfectly cool and collected, yet his hands were shaking uncontrollably. And there were the guards at the cell door, standing at attention, ready to escort the Irish student back outside.

The door was open, and Gregory Sanders was passing through it. He paused, just past the threshold, before giving Nicolas one last fleeting glance. The Spanish prisoner was vaguely happy to note, that despite their time together, he had done nothing to destroy the sincerity in the boy's eyes.

And then he was gone, and Nicolas sat back on his bunk, softly stroking his stained fingertips, calmly awaiting the end.