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Oskar doesn't try to fool himself; Mittermeyer doesn't belong to him. Never will, never has—but there are days he can imagine that he does. Trick his mind into thinking they're conjoined.
"It's been a while," he says, swirling the whiskey in his cup. The officer's club at Iserlohn is deserted at this time. It's just the two of them. The isolation makes something hungry in him feel sated, but the rest of him is shamefully fearful. If there was a crowd, he would have to temper himself. If they had malicious company he could stand back-to-back with Mittermeyer, his shoulder blades brushing the top of the other man's blond head. They could take on a whole army like that; cue sticks enough to fend off a whole fleet.
"Hopefully this will be the last transfer," says Mittermeyer, taking a gulp from his own glass. He winks at Oskar, whiskey cup still held at his lips. "My life is far easier when you're not in another system."
Oskar reaches out. His arm moves by its own volition, like some puppetmaster has forced his limbs forward with a jerk of a string. His palm lands on Mittermeyer's shoulder. He can feel the warmth of him, the firmness of muscle—the strength of a good man in a universe filled with too many who were not.
"So is mine," he said, and he chuckled. The sound echoed around the officer's club. He let it die down, before he squeezed Mittermeyer's shoulder once, withdrew his arm, and said, "After this, I think we'll be fighting side-by-side for a long time."
"I'll drink to that," said Mittermeyer, and they clinked their glasses together. Oskar wished suddenly, that they could stay here, a universe of two, for far longer. But there were orders to carry out, and plans to fulfill. And after all: this club room was far too small to fit their dreams.