Work Text:
To Major E
New York, United States
From Earl G.
London, United Kingdom
My Major,
It feels queer to think there had once been a time when we would see each other only every six months. It has been two weeks since I last held you in my arms, and I know it will be much longer before you are back, yet I find myself looking out the window, hoping that you'll appear through the grove which surrounds Castle Gloria.
Spring is upon us, and the sight of green and the scent of my flowers has become routine. I go outside and water my roses and lilies, I put them in clay pots with earth. And yet, I feel sick of seeing it all! I feel sick of seeing the sky so clear, of seeing the richness of the color of petals, when I remember you are an ocean away from me, when you cannot gaze upon those flowers as I do.
I try to find myself in my routine. Recently, Mr. James, has taken me to do many appraisals for paintings. I find appraisals tedious, and, frankly, offensive. To put a price tag on an art piece, as if it were a vegetable at a supermarket, abhors me! Yet it does bring us money, which is quite useful when worrying about managing estates, while also housing and feeding thirty-five men that live with and work under you. I'm sure you understand. Plus, James says I have “an eye” for them — especially for paintings of the High Renaissance and the Republic of Venice.
But, I've taken much more to this new office than I would have expected. Time seems to stand still when I am with the paintings, admiring their paint strokes and cracks on the canvas, cross-referencing them with books and maps laid over my desk. My only pain comes when it is time to talk with accountants and collectors, who seem to only know two words of the English language — “how”, and “much”.
It was during one such job that I found myself walking through the private gallery of some rich Dutch heir, when I found a study by Titian of his Sisyphus, the Greek king condemned to roll an enormous boulder up a hill for eternity. The original is hung at the Prado in Madrid — but this was a study with a different model. Sisyphus was a younger man, facing his eternal punishment with pride and determination: his chin and gaze upwards at the sky, eyebrows furrowed in focus. The background had been painted with dark, blotchy watercolours, contrasting the king's frame with the Tartarus behind him.
“The queen Mary of Austria commissioned Titian three portraits, Sisyphus, Tantalus and Tityus”, the Dutchman explained to me. “Though the master was proud of this sketch, she asked it discarded. It did not portray the proper suffering that she wanted in the picture.” He continued the story, telling me of kings and queens long gone and of his long family line, of how the sketch would end up in his hands — but I found myself unable to listen past then, for my eyes became wet with tears.
My Major, my heart! When I saw Sisyphus, I saw you. I saw your eyes in his, your hands in his! The man who stubbornly persevered against unending grief, so intent he seemed almost to enjoy his office, despite his bleeding hands and feet, despite his sore back, withering away like a cliff swept by ocean waves.
I clutched my chest then, having to hide a tear with the back of my hand. My host seemed shocked at my reaction, offering me a seat and water. “Camus once said, ‘One must imagine Sisyphus happy’. Thus is the absurdity of life, My Lord”, the Dutchman told me, in a poor attempt at an icebreaker.
“One must imagine him free”, I told him back. “But none do. Not even Sisyphus himself.”
As you well know, Major, I am not a man of faith. Yet, I find myself nearly praying for your safe return, so that you may hold me in your arms again. So that I may run my fingers through your dark hair, so that you might inhale the scent of my skin, so that we might make love in the early hours of the morning like we used to, and so that I might see the gleam of your green eyes again. Cruel, relentless, greyish green like a forest covered by fog. Your eyes, Major, my eyes.
Yours,
D.
Ps. The lock of hair attached to this letter was cut as soon as I finished writing the sentences you are reading now. I remember you mentioning how I smelt of roses. I hope this lock carries that scent.
[ Attached: A lock of blonde hair inside a small wooden box. ]
***
June 12, 1981
To Earl G.
London, United Kingdom
From Major E.
New York, United States
My Lord,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am in New York now, and the weather is pleasant. The rains are constant and the skies are gray, the sun is warm but the wind is cold. Some would find this weather unpleasant, but I do not, not necessarily. It reminds me of London.
I recently went to Central Park for a meeting. It is an 800 acre park in the middle of the city. It was built in the 19th century, which means it's not a natural landscape like the Berchtesgaden or Hainich. It is a strange place. I was able to recognize much of the fauna from my years as a boy scout in Bavaria, like tassel flowers, Bavarian gentians, stinging nettles, alpine roses, alpine anemones, silver thistles, oaks, Swiss cheese plants, yellow gentians, alpine columbines, cornflowers, the Edelweiss, sycamores, elderberries and probably a bit more — the same plants from there now live here, an ocean away, transforming and distorting itself in order to acclimate like a chameleon blending into its surroundings.
In the park, many of the locals ride bicycles. I saw many couples, and was reminded of how you wished I would visit your Northern country home so that we could bike through the British moors. As a child, I picked an interest in mechanics. When I was away at the gymnasium, I tried to build my own motorcycle from scrap parts — I was under 18 years of age, though I already knew how to drive one. But when my father discovered what I had been doing, he quickly got rid of it. My butler had told me he dropped it in a landfill. “You are an Eberbach”, he told me. “If you want to be on your knees all day with grease up to your elbows, then you are no son of mine.”
He did not mention a word about me driving despite not having a license — to him, the concept of me being a mechanic was much more insulting. Either way, I thought I would try doing the same, but with a bicycle this time. It has been nearly twenty years since that incident, but if I still had the motorcycle, I would not mind finishing it for you.
My boss calls for me now, so I must finish this letter quickly. I am not sure how to respond to your story about Sisyphus and dreaming of me. I do not tend to dream. When I do, I tend to forget what it was I dreamed about. However, I believe I dreamed of you recently, but I am not sure. I remember your smile at me. But that is all.
Major E.
[ Attached: A photo of a man's silhouette with the Statue of Liberty in the distance. ]
Ps. The picture attached was taken by one of my men. We were undercover as tourists, so they all began to take pictures of one another with the Statue of Liberty as if they were actual tourists. They insisted I had to, otherwise I’d look suspicious. I have no use for pictures of myself, so I thought this would be of greater use to you.
***
June 25, 1981
To Major E.
New York, United States
From Earl G.
London, United Kingdom
My Major,
It was an enormous pleasure to receive your letter! Once I had it in my hands, I felt like a teenage girl, running to my room so that I could read it in solitude.
The last time the both of us were in America, we were in your favorite place in the world — Alaska! The 52nd State, the final frontier. How I wish that we were together in New York, so foreign to you and I — the both of us just another pair of faces in the city, as invisible as a shadow.
Though I do own one, I never knew much about motorcycles myself — as you might imagine, I am not the best when it comes to mechanics. Yet I would love to hear your thoughts on them, to watch you build one yourself from afar. We will ride it through the British moors, the Bavarian hills, anywhere that we wish to.
All of that being said, my Major, I do have an update on my work — my Venetian tale, if you will. The work I had to do an appraisal for was a portrait of a handsome, plump woman with her breast exposed, attributed to Palma Vecchio or Giorgione. ‘Tis a long story, but in the end, the painting was a fake, copying Palma Vecchio’s style. My Dutch employer suggested I was wrong, that the painting was simply a Giorgione — but I am intimately familiar with his work, in a way the man could not understand. I even have a story regarding him, but it is quite the sad one. Maybe one I shall tell you someday.
Safe to say, my employer will, on top of paying me, pay for a lawsuit against whoever it was that sold him the fake. I suggested I'd lighten his load by buying his Sisyphus (remember him?) from him, which he appeared interested in. However, he had another buyer interested, an American landowner, I believe. I shall update you on my tale, as I cannot wait to show you my newest Sisyphus. I am hoping to buy it, rather than my other manner of getting what I want, as I have attempted to keep suspicions on myself low after the Pope situation, in the Vatican. I'm sure you remember! How quickly time goes by.
Though my heart yearns to keep writing, I hoped to make this letter on the shorter side, as I am simply way too excited to send it to you, for as the quicker I send my letters, the quicker you respond, and the closer I am to seeing you again. Take care!
Yours,
D.
[ Attached: A photograph taken of the Earl of Gloria and the fake Palma Vecchio, touching the canvas with gloved fingers. ]
***
July 30, 1981
To Major E.
New York, United States
From Earl G.
London, United Kingdom
Major
It has been a month since my last letter, but I have yet to receive a reply from you. Are you well? I was hoping that you were simply busy with your work, or that the letter got lost in the Atlantic.
Alas, my Venetian tale has at last come to an end. The American landowner got the painting, not because he offered more money than I did, but rather because the Dutchman owed a favor to his father. Or his uncle. I forget. Hah! I could not have cared less. When the Dutchman informed me, I held back from laughing in his face. My Sisyphus was taken from me. Not because I did not fight hard enough, but because the Dutchman did not owe my family a favor. That is all art is to these types from the “art market” — it matters not the paintings themselves, their stories, their techniques, their authors. What matters is those who you know, what matters are favors, exchanges, transactions.
I had a nightmare that night. I dreamed you were taken from me. I watched you be beaten with bare fists, pummeled on the face and stomach while I was held back by the arms. I screamed, but no sound left me. I could only hear your groans, see the blood leave your mouth. Do you remember Alaska, my Major? Mischa, the microfilm. I remember it vividly. He hit you in front of me until you collapsed, and I could only watch. Back then, it was all I could do. I watched, expressionless. I knew I was upset. Anybody would, after all, you were my partner. But I was in such shock, I nearly did not know how to feel.
But now… Now, I would have offered to be beaten in your place. I would place Mischa’s fists to my face if it meant not seeing you hurt. When he threw you into my arms, I complained of your weight. Were it now, I would hold you forever if it meant keeping you from harm. I could not bear to watch something like that be done to you. I would rather face his wrath myself, than see it inflicted upon you.
My Major… Every waking moment of mine, you are in my thoughts. I pray for your safety, I pray for your return home. I pray for you to return to me. I would have you insult and berate me if it meant having you close again, for that would be easier than the loneliness I feel now, like a neverending bottomless pit.
I do not know if this letter will ever reach you, or if, God forbid, you will ever read it. When I am at my worst, I imagine that you see these in your mailbox, rip them apart, and throw them into a fire. I imagine you laying next to a woman, a proper German girl from a good family. One who will bear your children, who will bring your family pride, who will make you happy. A good woman, a woman that is everything I am not, that will give you all the things I could not ever give.
And I pray that you prove me wrong. I beg of you — do what you do best! Tell me I am wrong, call me a liar! Tell me I am stupid, dramatic, a degenerate fool! Do anything, if it means telling me what I think isn’t true. I’ll take it with pride on my chest, and a smile on my lips.
Some nights, I dig deep into my closet so that I may find your uniform coat you lent me so long ago, as green as moss, thick cotton with buttons and threads along the lapel. It still bears your scent, a wooden musk. And when I lay in bed next to it, I can almost feel you there with me.
I miss you, Major.
I love you.
D.
***
Dorian Red Gloria hissed in satisfaction and pain. Blood drew from his thumb like red twine, the small bit of skin and nail still caught between the fingertips of his left hand. Fingertips whose nails had been all but bitten off.
I've gone too far, he thought to himself. It was the first time he'd drawn blood. Too focused on his reverie to pay attention, he imagined. It was a grey and dark morning, as if night had blended into the day, thick fog covering where the first snow of the year had fallen. The Earl sat on his windowsill, watching it silently, before he began to unconsciously bite at his nail.
It started as a tic, as all of these things do. He'd check his nails and notice something off, and, too unmotivated to grab the nail file, he'd bite at it. It helped with the anxiety. But now, it had gotten to a point where he felt embarrassed to even go to his manicure. She'll gawk at me, he thought. Like I'm a freak. My hands are always so beautiful. What will she say if she sees them like this? I can't let her see me like this. I can't let her know.
“M’lord”, a deep voice came from his bedroom door, along with a knock. It nearly startled the Earl, who quickly stood, wrapping his robe tighter around himself, red velvet lined with silk on the inside.
“Come”, he said in his Eroica voice, as if he'd flipped a switch, clear and confident.
The door opened. “Morning, m’lord. Yer breakfast”, spoke a tall, broad man, sporting short brown hair and a t-shirt that said “EROICA” in big bold letters, covering himself with a brown wool jacket. Stu was a big man, taller than Dorian himself, 6’5 and muscular like a bull.
“Pfft”, Eroica laughed. “Good morning. You needn't wear that indoors, darling. We aren't on a mission, you know? Come in.”
Stu shrugged. “All I ‘ad left in the laundry”, he said, flashing his easy smile, crooked teeth and dark eyes. “Can I leave this by the bedside table, m’lord?”
Dorian nodded. There was a metallic jangle coming from the keys at Stu’s belt as he walked. The man worked security, manning the locks and cameras. This had made him become much closer with the Earl. Much closer. From afar, Stu looked quite the menacing bloke, a man of few words who always had a stern expression on his face, pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows. But he could be quite sweet.
You're beautiful, m’lord, he'd whisper in Dorian's ears, before nibbling them. So beautiful. He'd place kisses down his chest, sending a fire through his body. His love was warm, lazy, nostalgic, like a summer morning at the park.
“Thank you, Stu.”
Stu was the last man Dorian had before he and the Major decided to get “serious”, if one could call it that. He might have developed a taste for brooding, dark haired hunks after the Major, as opposed to his usual doe-eyed young men, frail and innocent like baby deers. The Major would give him the physical affection he needed, explore his body in ways he himself hadn't, set him on fire and have him pleading for more — But Stu would give him the dates, the sweet words, the sneaked kisses.
The Major had finally agreed on a date, for once. “I'll come to Castle Gloria”, he told Dorian one evening at a hotel, smoking on the balcony as he looked at him. “I'll take the plane straight to England after the mission. I'll send you letters when I'm there. So that you don't..”
“So that I don't what?” Dorian asked, arms crossed under his chest.
The Major clicked his tongue, frowning as he scratched his forehead with his thumb. He crushed the cigarette on the metal railing, and sighed, looking away. “So that you don't worry.” The Earl wanted to squeal with joy, but all he did was embrace his Major, resting his head at the joining of his neck with his shoulders. He felt the Major's arms wrap around him tightly, felt him sigh as he put his hands on the Major's chest. My hands, he thought. They still looked beautiful then. What will he say when he sees them like this?
“Yer welcome”, Stu replied, locking his eyes with Dorian's for quite a while.
“Yes?” Eroica chuckled. “Pray tell, Stu, what are you waiting for? A kiss?”
Stu shrugged. “Maybe.”
And the Earl laughed. “Now, you and I both know that's long over, darling…”
The keys at Stu’s hip jangled as he crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Apologies, m’lord. Thought you’d broken it off with that bloke… Sargeant? Colonel?”
“Major”, Dorian corrected, looking away as he sat at the foot of his bed, flipping his hair back so he could eat.
“Aye, I remember him. Mean cunt he was”, the tall man snorted.
Lord Gloria knit his eyebrows in annoyance. “You do not know him like I do”, he said, as he spread jam on his toast. He meant to sound playful, but he came off blunt. Maybe that was good. Even he had his boundaries.
A surprised hum. “Pardon, m’lord. But, I mean... After what I saw, I dinnae think I nee’ed to see more.”
“And what did you see?” Dorian looked up at him with resentment in his eyes.
“A man who insulted you, m’lord. All of us”, he said with a shrug. “A bloke who'd pull you by the collar an’ shove you ‘round like some wee laddie in the playground. James told me about ‘im too, how he'd lift the poor lad in the air, throw ‘im around like ‘e was playin’ for Liverpool in the Champions.”
Dorian bit his lip, feeling his face burn intensely with shame. Which is all true, he thought to himself. But he tried to regain his composure. “I didn't strike you as a jealous man, Stu”, he said, not looking up from his breakfast, as he drank his coffee.
“Ne’er said I wasn't”, Stu chuckled. “I didn't volunteer to bring yer breakfast for no reason, m’lord. Don't change the fact he's a bloody cunt.”
“You could have said that in the first place, then, darling. Why bring the Major into it?”
“I ain't interested in men who’re taken, m’lord.”
Was he taken?
Lord Gloria quirked his eyebrows, then chuckled, smiling at Stu. “I see. It's a good standard to have. But no, Stu, I am unfortunately not interested. I do thank you for the breakfast, however.”
Stu nodded. “No problem, m’lord”, he said, before walking toward the door, turning his head toward Dorian one last time. “If you need me, y’know where to find me.”
The door closed. As it did, Dorian's silverware clattered on his plate. He put his hands over his face, his ugly, unkempt hands, and he began to shiver as he let out a sob, and then another. It was not his first time crying since the Major left for his mission. It was not his first time crying the past month.
Five months. Five months and nothing, no call, no letter, no nothing. By this point, he didn't even know if he was alive. His superiors at NATO obviously would never have warned him of anything. If he showed up to the Major's headquarters in Bonn, they'd have him dragged out as if he were a lunatic. Did they even care if he was alive? Was he just another bloody pawn to them? A statistic, a name in a list?
And then, ah, there was the possibility he was alive. Alive, and simply ignoring him. That was the option Dorian dreaded the most, yet the one he thought the most of. The Major had gotten sick of him. His face, his hair, his body, his dramatics, his feelings, his love. He'd already used him as he wanted, had him a hundred different ways, and that was good enough. He just wanted to see what it was like with another man. He'd heard that before, a long time ago. Obviously it wasn't going to work — he had a reputation to keep. What would people say if they saw them? The great Iron Klaus, Captain at 24 and Major at 28, with a little pillow-biting, long-haired queer.
What would my father say when he finds out? Ah, he'd told him that before. Not if, when. The great Colonel Eberbach, the man of the hour, the tank commander, the retired Wehrmacht soldier taken by NATO with open arms, no questions asked, the man who'd given the Major the very position he had now, no questions asked. Dorian knew what men like the Colonel did with men like him and the Major in his time, what if he finds out, of course he couldn't know. The Major was a man, and men got over these things, men shut their bloody mouths and did what they had to do. He would settle down with a nice German girl, a brunette or a redhead, anything but a blonde, a short woman, not a tall man in heels, and he'd pretend nothing had ever happened, pretend Dorian did not even exist, and when he lay next to her in the middle of the night, he'd pretend that she was him instead, that she was him, flamboyant as he was, dramatic as he was, a thief as he was, a degenerate as he was. Or he'd forget he ever existed, and he would be nothing but a memory, a stain in his mind, like a wave in the sea, washing up on shore and back toward the ocean.
“Milord?” A voice spoke, rich with static, as if a robot had called him.
Lord Gloria lifted his head from his hands, turning toward the door phone at the side of his bed. He sniffled, before clicking the speaking button. “This is him. Good morning, John Paul.”
“Good morning, Milord. Uh, there's something here you should see…”
“What is it?” He asked, before John Paul could ever finish.
“There's a man walking up the driveway, milord. Walking, on foot, not driving… He's getting closer to the gates.”
In this weather? The Earl thought, suddenly anxious. A cop?
“What's he look like?”
“Beck said he saw him walking up the hill, Milord. I'll ask Coverdale to check him in the gates.”
This doesn't make any sense, he thought. Castle Gloria was private property. Isolated — there's no way somebody could simply stumble upon it. They had to take a turn in an unrestricted area before reaching the gates. If somebody got in, they knew he was there. Unless…
“Did Beck see anybody nearby, John Paul? Any people, cars nearby, John Paul?”
“I'll ask him. I'll be right back.” About twenty seconds passed in silence, the longest of the Earl's life. “Milord, he said one of the boys saw a black Mercedes parked in that parking lot about four miles from here. Beck said he can see him better… He's a big man, he's wearing a green puffer coat. He said he has dark hair, long dark hair, almost black.”
He nearly let the phone fall to the ground. Dorian sat there, his eyes wide, still glassy and red from his tears, mouth open in shock.
“Milord?” John Paul asked. He didn't respond. “Milord?” He repeated. “What do we do?”
“Don't.. Don't.. Don't do anything”, Dorian stuttered. “I'm… I'm… I'm coming. Let.. Let him in. I'm coming.
“Milord?!” John Paul asked, seemingly exasperated. “Are you su—” “I've never been more sure of anything my entire life”, Dorian replied. “I'm coming.”
Dorian Red Gloria bolted from his bed. He ran down the hallway that led to his room, nearly stumbling upon a boy who dusted a cabinet, then ran down the grand stairs that met with the ones that led to the guest rooms, where he could have sworn he saw James and Bonham, then led down to the foyer. His robe had opened, and he wore only his light cotton pajamas underneath.
“M’lord?” Stu asked, watching with confusion and worry as he came down the stairs. “M’lord, it's freezing outside —”
“Get out of my way!” The Earl yelled, running past him and onto his backyard. His marble fountain had been turned off once they heard it would snow, icicles forming along the statues of Greek heroes and heroines it portrayed. He ran toward the driveway, when he saw him.
He was carrying two travelling bags. They seemed heavy. And even through all that he wore, he looked lighter somehow, his legs looked thin… His hair had grown past its usual length, and his face, oh, his face. He had a bruise on the left side of his face, his eye covered by a pad, glued down by tape. It horrified him. It horrified him. But he could barely begin to process it. He never stopped running, not for one second, and when he saw him, the tears inevitably pooled around his eyes, and a smile inevitably grew on his face.
“Major!” He screamed, almost inhumanly happy. He noticed the Major stopped, dropping his bags to the ground as Dorian came closer, quickly realizing what was about to happen.
The Earl of Gloria threw himself into the arms of Iron Klaus, letting himself be lifted up in the air as he wrapped his arms around his neck and legs around his torso, the other man taking a step back as he held him by the hips. Dorian held his face, his beautiful face, his poor face, planting kisses everywhere that he saw as he cried, sobbed, until at last the Major took his lips in his and kissed him, lips that were so cold, yet so inviting, yet so loving, so soft.
“My Major”, he sobbed. “Oh my god, my Major, my Major, my love, my life, oh my god…” He put him into the ground at last, and Dorian drew away from him, looking at his face with as much horror as love, lifting a hand and gingerly touching it.
“My Major, your face… What did they do to your face?” Up close, he could see the extent of it, a yellow blotch on his cheekbone. He could see another one on his neck, half hidden by the turtleneck he wore.
“My lord”, the Major responded, his voice hoarse. “Your hands.” He held Dorian's hands gently, looking down at his fingers, skin bitten raw and blood forming around his thumb, then looked up, back at him. “What happened?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows, as if angry, yet his eyes were full of worry.
“Oh, my love… It's fine. It was just me…”
Iron Klaus stayed silent. He glanced down at the Earl's hands, before closing them, pressing the smooth knuckles to his lips. Lips that were so cold, as if built of steel, yet so loving.
Through the corner of his eye, Dorian noticed the snowflakes that began to fall from the pale grey sky. It suddenly dawned on him how cold it truly was, his only source of warmth being the Major's lips, pressing against his skin. The Major acted like a man built of iron. But not with him.