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“Poor little thing.”
From the hallway, where the two servants stood gossipping, this phrase made its way through the slightly open door, then settled and dripped onto Oskar’s awareness like the damp cloth slung over his forehead.
He took it in gradually, foggily – he was the poor little thing.
“When I was sick like that as a wee girl, it was my mother’s hands that soothed me the most, I remember. The kindness in them. She would sing to me, too. But, well…you know.” The other party in the conversation made some sort of noise of assent, or perhaps a request for clarification. The conversation continued in hushed tones that he could not parse any longer. Oskar began to fall asleep again.
They nursed him well enough, brought him his medicine, water, warm milk, soups, but there was a distance there. Oskar had had the sense, for as long as he could recall, that his father cast a disapproving eye on the servants who showed him too overt a kindness, so they came and went around him now like polite shadows that said ‘young master’ and never got close enough to touch or be touched, not meaningfully. Their impressions upon him were as light and impermanent as the indentations of their footprints on the fine carpets.
He thought long ago that there may have been a maid who sang to him sometimes, but she had been let go. Or else his father had said to stop doing that, and she had listened. Oskar thought he might prefer the first option, but wasn’t sure why it mattered to him. Sickness was muddling his thoughts.
Maybe no such person had ever existed.
Oskar von Reuenthal rarely grew ill. However, that first moment when, walking down a corridor at Iserlohn, he became cognizant of a slight sensation of a flush was almost a familiar one – that light heat and fleeting dizziness which portended greater intoxication to come. Part of Reuenthal’s brain, without him really noticing, simply processed it as that old green light: Good. You’ve started drinking. Rinse and repeat until the temporary bliss of oblivion is achieved.
It was only when he caught himself hooking a finger into the silver of his uniform collar, pulling it out, left, right, striving for the slightest merciful rush of cool air against flushed moist skin, that it occurred to him he had had nothing to drink this afternoon. It was not an impossibly hour to have begun drinking, for Oskar von Reuenthal, but the individual he was to join later in that evening – hopefully, they would have something to celebrate – misliked his self-punishing excesses if they were too obviously that, versus mere indulgence and celebration.
Reuenthal put an inquisitive palm to his forehead – it felt hot, but perhaps his hand was simply cooler than average, and would find the greater blood flow to his face to be unusually warm in any case. Reuenthal’s blood ran cold in his extremities, he knew. Women seeking to be endearing sometimes said, Oskar, your feet are like ice!, half giggling. (He might sneer back at them in the dark. His bed was no place to come seeking warmth, anyway.)
Perhaps he would make time to see medical personnel later, if he was indeed running a fever or something annoying like that. Or perhaps he wouldn’t bother.
Projected into frames above the gleaming, richly polished wood and plush ornate chairs of the officers’ lounge and bar, the colorful blocky forms that represented the outcomes at Astarte were almost garish in appearance. One not used to seeing military situations in simulation might think the bright teal and orange shapes cast over the starfields to be closer in appearance to the toys of children than the tools of nations.
But Wolfgang Mittermeyer and Oskar von Reuenthal knew better – and their Fleet Admiral had just proven, again, that he was no mere child.
Clink. Wolfgang’s cup met his friend’s with the tinkle of fine glassware and the light slosh of fine wine. He watched the pleasing interplay of the bar’s lights inside the golden liquid and then looked up to meet Reuenthal’s eyes. There was a sparkle there as well, in the dark eye and the light.
“Impressive,” Reuenthal had readily conceded of the young Fleet Admiral’s performance, and Wolfgang had given a nod of assent and said, just before their toast, that he had not expected otherwise.
Discussing the tactics they had just witnessed, the hour grew late, and the lounge’s schedule was limited; the two relocated to Reuenthal’s quarters to finish out their private celebration of both the victory and the recent turning over of the year, which seemed portentously linked now. There was more drinking to be had there, of course. Reuenthal poured them both something rich and red and dry – Wolfgang had long known he seemed to favor that more than the sweet, golden sort of wine they had toasted the victory with initially. They settled together on the couch and Reuenthal threw his long limbs back languidly, as had not been possible in the seating at the bar; Wolfgang felt his hairs stirred by the motion of his friend’s outflung arm landing along the couch’s rim behind him. The closeness wasn’t at all unpleasant.
They briefly discussed what Reinhard von Müsel’s victory would mean for them. It felt to Wolfgang as though the young man meant to lead them all on to something greater – that this was only one among the earliest of many victories to his name, that he intended to continue in a headlong rush to something that swept them all along in his wake, keep up or be left behind…or crushed underfoot. Bringing up the concept of upheaval to the comfortable status quo brought a smile to Reuenthal’s face and only enhanced the glint in his eye (it looked nearly a little feverish) – he was, like that young man, a noble himself but one with no love lost for the conceit and comfort of the nobility as a whole and those who inhabited it.
“You said you weren’t surprised, earlier,” said Reuenthal. “Neither was I, to be clear. When I swore myself to him, I expected no less.”
Wolfgang laughed softly. “You wouldn’t give your allegiance to someone you didn’t respect. Even to save me.”
“...I would do a lot to save you.” Reuenthal’s eyes bored into him and Wolfgang held the gaze with his own.
Reuenthal struck most as a cold man, but he was nothing of the sort – his passions ran as vibrantly as they did deeply, so deep many could not see, without being close. Close like this, in a way he didn’t let even his lovers get. It was a privilege Wolfgang was cognizant of, deeply appreciative of. And at times it felt…but no, those were old thoughts they had mutually agreed to put aside from the daylight, best left buried for the good of them both. Yes.
“It’s lucky, then, that pledging loyalty to Reinhard von Müsel was not a decision where you had to choose between what you would be inclined to do and what you felt you must do. I wouldn’t relish being the one to force you into such a position.” At these words Reuenthal finally looked away, gaze inscrutable.
They discussed the future of the young admiral only briefly further; the scope of their discussion became narrower and more mundane. The next few days would contain little of import for both men but staff meetings and strategy appraisements with their direct subordinates, likely to involve analyzing the movements and outcomes at Astarte. Eventually, after what Wolfgang had taken to be a thoughtful silence from the other man, he looked away and was startled to find Reuenthal’s eyes had closed.
“Oy! Hey, wake up.” He leaned close to shake his friend’s shoulder. As he did so he noticed a slight flush on his pale skin. It only took a little nudge for Reuenthal to awaken, but he looked disoriented when he opened his eyes, and they did not quite regain their characteristic sharpness. “...are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine, Mittermeyer.” The edges of his words aren’t as clear as they should be, though. He didn’t seem this drunk, and…
“My friend, perhaps you’ve caught something. Make some time to see medical personnel tomorrow, alright? And take some water before you sleep. I’m going to see myself out.”
“Hmph.” Reuenthal snorted. “The best medicine for the things that bother me is right there on that table, in the bottle.” As Mittermeyer stood up he stretched himself full length along his couch and flung one arm over his eyes, and appeared to doze off again. Mittermeyer shook his head, smiling a little, and left.
Reuenthal did not bother seeing the doctor.
In the staff meeting early the next afternoon his head swam a little. He blinked things back into focus and the aide who was droning on about supply lines unfortunately returned to his awareness. He was quite sure that no one could see anything wrong with him. When he ducked into the lavatory to splash cold water onto his face briefly, his eyes looked a little glazed over, to himself. But it was likely nobody else bothered looking into them deeply enough to spot this, except Wolfgang Mittermeyer. Reuenthal carried about his day.
“Reuenthal! Open the door if you’re in there, please.” Wolfgang, leaning back from the door intercom with this message delivered, had his hands crossed before him, and tentatively uncrossed them now to consider outright banging on the entrance to his friend’s apartment next.
This was his third attempt to gain entrance. So far a polite request for entry hadn’t sufficed on the other two occasions, and he had been forced to leave, hoping that Reuenthal would show up again of his own accord after vanishing from everyone’s awareness for three days.
He had made up his mind to bang and had a fist raised when the door slid open with a pneumatic swish. Wolfgang stepped into the dark interior.
“Reuenthal…?” Only a few low lights here and there lit the apartment. He picked his way around the familiar furniture in shadow.
“Over here,” came a low answer from the bedroom.
Wolfgang’s eyebrows rose as he entered and turned on a light, and he clicked his tongue in dismay. “...dammit. Didn’t I tell you to see a doctor?”
Reuenthal blinked at him from under a rumpled sheet; there were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was in disarray. He wore his sleeping clothes. “Are you too ill to get out of bed?”
“...probably not, but hell, I just couldn’t be bothered. I heard all the fuss you were making and unlocked it with the remote.” (On the table lay the small apparatus that would relay video and audio from the door’s intercom system and allow the owner to unlock it remotely.)
“I didn’t mean just now to let me in. You’ve missed two meetings now. Someone came and got me because they figured I’d know what the hell you were up to.” And Wolfgang had had a pretty good guess. On one level, what the hell Reuenthal was up to was being ill, and on another level, it was failing to take care of himself – to consider himself properly worthy of that care, even in the form of the impersonal ministrations of the fleet’s doctors and nurses. Wolfgang most likely should have seen it coming.
He sighed, pulled a bottle of capsules in a yellow plastic bottle out of his pocket, and set them on the table nearby, where Reuenthal blinked at them dumbly. “What are those? Where did you get them?”
“I had an aide get them. Said to tell a medic that I had a staff member who was refusing to come in for treatment himself, and was running a slight fever. It may lead to some kind of protocol-and-paperwork confusion in the future, but that’s a problem for later.” Wolfgang frowned. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten this bad, though. Maybe I should send him to tell the doctor my man’s symptoms are worse…” After stepping back out to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, he returned and sat down on the bed next to Reuenthal. He proffered the glass and two of the pills and watched Reuenthal take them without resistance. Further convincing wasn’t needed – after all, he was simply a stubborn adult man, not a literal petulant child. Reuenthal finished the water, too – he seemed to realize that he was thirsty once he started drinking, and Wolfgang felt some measure of gratification watching the motion of his throat as he emptied the glass. This close, there was a slight smell of sickness as well, sweat and humour that was not quite as it should be.
“Take another two in twelve hours. I’ll hopefully be back to check on you again at that time, though.” Wolfgang took an unused pillow from the side of the bed and gestured for Reuenthal to lean forward a little so he could prop it behind him, enable him to rest while sitting up if he preferred.
“Mittermeyer.” After the water, perhaps Reuenthal was restored slightly – his gaze seemed steadier now as he locked eyes with his friend. “...you shouldn’t get too close to me. I may…contaminate you.”
Wolfgang shrugged. “Then I’ll be fine. You’re my friend, and what’s a little suffering for a friend? And also, I will be alright, because if I get sick I will go to the doctor. Now rest.” He refilled the water glass for Reuenthal, left it on the bedside, and departed.
Later in the day he spoke to the doctor again – directly this time instead of relayed through a staff member. The good doctor raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem inclined to dig too deeply into the mystery of this soldier or aide that refused to seek treatment, causing enough concern to his superior to intervene personally. Through the doctor he was apprised of a certain strain of fever going around Iserlohn, and when he revealed the man in question had been showing symptoms for three days at this point and not sought treatment, the doctor gave him another, slightly stronger medicine.
He warned Wolfgang that this wayward staff member may experience a somewhat altered and feverish mental state if the illness had progressed for this length of time, but that all was likely to be well in a short time if the medication was taken as advised. The doctor also strongly suggested this man take better care of his health.
In the dark Reuenthal stared at his ceiling and remembered being a sick little boy long ago. He had been alone, then. These past two days, lying in silence and neglecting his communiques, he had thought to himself, the more things change...
He shifted slightly on the pillows he was sitting on now. A little later, he reached for the glass of water and his hands bumped into the bottle of medicine. He drank the water, and took the medicine. He fell into an uneasy sleep where he saw yellow pills in a bottle, golden wine glinting in the bar lights, the young von Musel wearing epaulettes of gold, and flashes of Mittermeyer’s blond hair.
“Reuenthal?” The apartment was still dark again, but Wolfgang took the liberty of turning on the lights. He had a container under his arm, which he set down on the small counter in the kitchen area before grabbing another cup of water and entering the bedroom. Reuenthal was huddled into a lump, facing away from him.
Wolfgang took up the pill bottle and counted the remaining capsules, visible through the clear plastic. Reuenthal did appear to have taken his last dose on time – he let out a slightly held breath of concern.
“Here, come on, sit up. I brought you some broth. It’s not exactly like the kind of soup I remember preferring to have when sick, but it was the most nourishing and easy to eat sort of thing I could lay hands on at short notice.” He reached for his friend’s sheet-covered shoulder and prodded him.
“...too good to me,” Reuenthal muttered, without turning over.
“Hm?”
“I said you’re too good to me. By half. I don’t merit it.”
Wolfgang clicked his tongue. “My friend, I’m only doing what you might do for me. If I were wounded in combat alongside you, you would patch me up to the best of your abilities. Well, you’re suffering now, and there’s something I can do about it.”
Reuenthal finally rolled over to face him and then sat up, hunched wretchedly. He looked even worse, skin paler than usual except for the darkness under the eye, and strands of his hair were plastered here and there over his brow. “Then perhaps the best thing would be if you let me alone to suffer,” he said, through gritted teeth.
It was such an uncharacteristically stark statement of self-pity compared to Reuenthal’s preferred mode of speaking that Wolfgang immediately became even more concerned for his health. He clicked his tongue at him again. “Don’t say that sort of thing, Reuenthal. When you feel better you’re going to look back and–” Wolfgang considered what he might say – “--lament that you sounded womanly, I imagine.”
“That’s what you and that wife of yours think, right?” Wolfgang was so surprised to hear Eva brought into this that his mouth fell open, but before he could voice a what are you talking about, Reuenthal pressed on wretchedly. “That I’m a lonely, broken thing. Your goodness can’t fix me, but what’s the harm in a little solace, a little sop. That’s why you said it would be alright with her if...” Reuenthal’s head fell forward into his hands and stayed there. His shoulders were rising and falling.
That old wound – that old collection of wounds. They had not discussed what he had spoken of for a long time, Wolfgang had not pressed him to confront it again and Reuenthal had not been willing, but now it was laid open again and bleeding. At that time it had been Reuenthal, too drunk, Wolfgang too drunk as well, a comrade-like hand laid on the shoulder that had slipped to the knee, to the waist, to the lip– confessions that could not be bitten back or rescinded, the assurance that it was all right, and the reaction that made Mittermeyer think Reuenthal might have taken it better to be slapped away or shoved to the ground in revulsion.
Wolfgang reached out to touch his shoulder gently. Reuenthal was wearing a white undershirt – he tried to keep his fingers on the fabric, unsure if the intimacy of skin on skin would be welcome now in this state of rawness, of vulnerability – but the cut of the garment was a little too narrow over that way, and his fingertips made contact, lightly ghosting onto fever-damp exposed flesh. Reuenthal didn’t acknowledge it beyond shifting his head slightly in his hands.
After a moment Wolfgang took his hand away and retreated into the kitchen. He took the broth container out, poured some of it into a bowl from Reuenthal’s cupboard, and then warmed it. He stared at the container revolving inside the heating equipment, as though some answers could be found there to the question of What can I do for him?
The depths of rich yellow broth did not enlighten him, but all Wolfgang could conclude for himself was that there was no way for him to make Reuenthal accept kindness, softness. He could simply offer it. So that was what he would do. He took out the heated bowl and put a spoon into it, and returned to the bedroom.
Reuenthal was able to look up and meet his eyes when he entered. “...I’ve unmanned myself, it seems,” he said, and his voice was steely.
Wolfgang laughed out loud.
“...what about this is funny to you?” said Reuenthal, looking honestly taken aback. It was such a surprising look to see on his face that Mittermeyer almost continued to laugh, but he stopped, and sat down on the edge of the bed carefully holding the bowl of broth.
“It’s just that’s so nearly what I expected you to say later. My guess was you’d say that you had been womanly. I thought it would take a few days for you to come around, though.” Wolfgang chuckled a little bit more. Reuenthal’s brow knit in dismay.
“...I did not register that you had said that,” he murmured. “You know me too well for either of our good.”
“Don’t doubt that knowing you has done me a lot of good,” Mittermeyer responded a little forcefully. “Now let me give you this soup, Oskar.”
“I– I can feed myself,” Reuenthal said, sitting up in slight indignation.
“If I just set the bowl down and leave, I don’t trust you to eat all of it.” Wolfgang carefully lifted a spoon of broth in Reuenthal’s direction. Perhaps the direct approach of the spoon simply left no more room for rejoinder, perhaps the decisive action overcame his resistance – whatever it was, Reuenthal, looking slightly surprised that he was doing so, opened his mouth and accepted the spoon of broth.
“Good, that wasn’t so bad. Now let’s have one more.” Mittermeyer managed to feed him another spoon. He noted how cracked his friend’s lips were – perhaps he could leave a pitcher of water on his table rather than the glass alone, this time – and how the odd array of purple and grey shadows below his eyes added to the already diverse range of hues on Reuenthal’s face, ice blue and warm brown. Women found him handsome, he knew —but, Wolfgang wondered, did those lovers specifically note that he was beautiful as well…?
At one point Wolfgang began absentmindedly humming to himself, and Reuenthal startled, but did not pull away. Eventually, he did take the bowl out of Mittermeyer’s hands and begin feeding himself. “I’m not leaving ‘til you finish it, you know.”
Once the broth was done Wolfgang showed him the new, stronger medicine and ran through the dosage and timing information on the label for him. Then he insisted Reuenthal lie back down and rest.
Reuenthal appeared to be sleeping peacefully when Wolfgang left him. Remembering what the doctor had said, he thought it likely that the next time they met, his friend’s demeanor would be more or less as it always was.
Stepping out into the corridor beyond Reuenthal’s apartment, Mittermeyer breathed a sigh of relief. Then he leaned back against the door that had just closed behind him.
Then he smiled, a little.
He hoped for Reuenthal’s sake that when he was well, they would talk again of certain things that had been put aside long ago. If Reuenthal was willing. But if he was not, if speaking to him of it was something akin to yanking off a scab, something that stripped away his dignity, Wolfgang wouldn’t force him to. They could carry on as they had always. But if he was ready someday to accept it – able someday to allow himself to accept it, just as he had permitted succor to pass between his parched lips today…then Wolfgang would be ready for him.
Oskar von Reuenthal had only to believe that he was worthy of love.
Wolfgang Mittermeyer knew this in his bones already.