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“And – that's why I have to tell you something.”
No. You don't want to talk about the horrors of war; don't want to be reminded that soon enough, he will be taken from you. Can't you at least have this, a few hours, warm and comfortable, easy jokes and friendship?
You should have known better. There is always a catastrophe just around the corner, but when you look at Otto, he does not seem like what he is about to say is bad news. He is smiling, genuine, radiant, like he is about to burst at the seams.
His hand finds yours on the table and you let it, let him touch you, and barely have time to find it strange.
“I fell in love with you.”
Just like that. Like it's nothing, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Like he does not know fear at all.
But you do.
You snatch your hand back, jump to your feet, as if getting away now can make up for all the weeks you have let him get close to you.
“Is that so bad?”, he asks, quietly.
You cannot look at him, you cannot think. You have been so stupid, so utterly convinced that he could not possibly be interested in men, that you allowed yourself to be thankful for his friendship. That you allowed him into your life, when you know, you know it can only end in pain. How could you have missed this? How could you have let your guard down, as if -
“Don't worry it's not contagious”, he says, a sharp edge in his voice. He is hurt – Otto who always seems like nothing can touch him. Wait, did – he has to know about you, hasn't he? Why else would he – but you realize he does not. He does not know, can't possibly know, and he still told you. Put his life in your hands, literally.
He trusts you.
And now he thinks you are disgusted with him. You could almost laugh at the irony of it, if it weren't so goddamn heartbreaking.
You have to tell him. You never wanted to, still don't want to, but Otto is so open, so sincere that it will kill him if he doesn't learn to be more careful.
You force the words out like they might choke you.
“I'm a convicted 175er”, as if you aren't a person. The short version is brutal, but all you can manage. You try to talk about Siggi, but you can't even bring yourself to say his name. “I don't even know if he is still alive.” Don' trust me. Get away from me. This is what will happen to you if you do not get away now and I can't bear the thought.
That's not what he hears though, because there's tears in his eyes and all he says, shaking, “I don't want to put you in danger -”
You grab him over the table, and you kiss him before you can think about what you are doing.
As you touch his lips you feel yourself shatter into a million pieces.
Later that evening, you try to sweep up the shards. You mainly do it by sitting on your bed, your head in your hands, wondering how you will find the courage to look him in the eyes when you see him on the ward tomorrow. If you can ever fall back into that easy friendship. How you will bear it if he avoids you, and how you will survive if he does not.
Otto left your room like he had been wounded.
Maybe you will never speak to him again. Maybe things will just be awkward between you the few short months you have left. Then he will go away and for one reason or another, this will have been the last time you ever touched him.
You look at the door. He closed it so quietly, careful not to draw attention to himself. He's probably back in the workshop, on his makeshift-bed, alone with the memory of the evening. Does he regret telling you? Stupid question. Of course he does. You kissed him and all but kicked him out, took his confession of love, all his trust and trampled on it.
Maybe you should go after him.
You dismiss the thought as soon as it occurs. Obviously you are about the last person he will want to see right now. More importantly, you are about the last person he should see right now. He is well of age, if you allowed this – whatever it is – to develop he would be as much at risk as you are. Forgetting what happened tonight is the best you can do, for both of you.
When you recoiled from him there were tears in his eyes. You still feel them under your fingertips.
You still feel his lips on yours.
And then you know what that feeling is, hot and tight under your breastbone. It is not sadness, or fear, or regret. It is anger. You are angry, not at Otto, at the world that would take your dignity and everything that makes you human, would see you broken down until you beg for death, just for this. For kissing someone who wants nothing more than to be kissed by you.
How dare they. You survived everything they threw at you, you are still here, and for what? For this? So you can trample on love when it is gifted to you, so you can be afraid, every day, until you die?
Anger makes yo get up and walk out, make your way down to the workshop. It is a stupid thing to do, a reckless, dangerous thing, and yet you can't – don't want to – stop yourself. Otto looked so shattered, devastated, and you put that look on his face, and they made you do that, and how dare they.
Oh God.
The workshop is dark but the curtain is half-open. You can see Otto sitting on his bed. His shoulders are shaking, and your anger evaporates. You don't bother announcing yourself, he will recognize the sound of your steps, and you do not trust your voice anyway.
He looks up when he hears you. There are tears on his face even though he tries to wipe them away.
Still, he smiles at you.
He looks so hopeful that it makes your chest hurt.
You sit down next to him.
“I'm sorry”, you say quietly, and you are. That you hurt him, let your fear gt the better of you. “I'm just – I'm scared.”
Scared of what might become of this. Scared of what might happen to you, to him, if anyone finds out. Scared of dying, not so much. Scared of what might come before.
Otto's hand twitches like he does not know if he should reach out, and you take it, lacing your fingers together. A distant part of your brain notices how beautiful his hands are, how much you enjoy watching them move.
Otto looks at your hands, and then at your face, unsure. He reaches for you, and you lean closer, let your free hand find his cheek and then he kisses you.
And you have never been kissed like this before.
It is slow, almost chaste, like it is the only thing in the world to him. Like you are the only person worth kissing. He kisses you with closed lips, just exploring the shape of your mouth, and you feel him smile when you kiss him back. Then there is his tongue, and his hand in your hair, and you know you could die, right now, and have no regrets at all.
When he pulls away it feels like something has just been revealed to you, something great and terrible that you don't have words for.
“Don't be”, he says, like it is that easy. “We will be very careful. No one will ever know.” He is still caressing your face. “Nothing will happen to you.”
This is not what you are afraid of. But it will do.