"And you, Admiral Muller, will move up and…"

Kaiser Reinhard droned on, talking about plans which Bittenfeld would have no part in. It irritated Bittenfeld to some degree. While he was always in awe in Reinhard's planning ability, right now he could have been free to do other, more important things. He glanced up the table, his leg twitching violently, at Mecklinger. He was seated very formally, his posture straight, those delicate, pale, long pianists fingers laced together. He was smiling, a very wise, seemingly 'all-knowing' smile. Mecklinger noticed Bittenfeld (it was hard not too) and turned that smile on him. All at once Bittenfeld was swept up in a sudden mix of emotions, the most prominent of them being the unbelieveable urge to forget everything and simply launch himself across the table, rip that uniform off of Mecklinger and— Bittenfeld swallowed his lust and turned away, clenching his fist tightly. Reinhard continued on without noticing.

The meeting ended without event, Reinhard leading the procession out, followed by Oberstein, Mittermeyer, Reuental, Muller, and the rest, until only Bittenfeld and Mecklinger were left. They both stood at the same time, Mecklinger gathering his papers and striding to the door. Bittenfeld intercepted and tackled him, pinning him against the wall by his shoulders.

"You!" He yelled, growing in Mecklinger's face. Mecklinger gave him a smile, the same smile he'd always been giving.

"Ah, Fritz, my love. Is there something you need?"

"FUCK ME!" Bittenfeld roared in sudden frustration, slamming his fist against the wall to accentuate his point.

"Fritz, my Fritz, what am I ever going to do with you?"

Mecklinger hummed and tapped his cheek, again with those pale delicate pianist fingers. Bittenfeld sucked a deep breath through his teeth, creating a hissing noise.

"Anything." He said in a vague begging tone, dipping his head and giving the illusion of looking up at Mecklinger. It was a simple tactic, one that Bittenfeld found would often work, as it gave the one it was given to the illusion of power. Mecklinger liberated an arm and slowly wrapped it around Bittenfeld's shoulder. The other ran its fingers through Bittenfeld bright orange hair, gently curling the ends of it around his finger.

"Anything?" He questioned. Bittenfeld nodded slowly, all of his loud attitude melted away. Mecklinger smiled slightly.

"I'll give you this." He then said, before leaning in and pushing his lips firmly against Bittenfeld's. Bittenfeld drew him close, wrapping both the arms around him, squeezing him tightly, drinking him in as best he could before Mecklinger pushed himself away. He pressed one of those damned fingers against Bittenfeld's lips.

"Give me 45 minutes." He said in a small coy voice, before turning and leaving Bittenfeld to stand there, blind with frustration.