Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Wish I could say the same.” Armin barely whispered. “Even in the dark. Never dark enough to hide it, you know?”

  Mark had no idea what to say to that. What could be said? Instead, he pulled Armin in for another kiss, and hoped that told him what Mark didn’t know how to say. All he wanted was Armin. Nothing more, nothing less. His arm was no more an issue than the scar on his cheek. As long as Armin was against him and beneath him and kissing him, Mark just didn’t care.

  Armin didn’t push him away. That was a start. Maybe the moment’s embarrassment wasn’t enough to make him rethink this; presumably he could tell in no uncertain terms that it hadn’t changed a thing for Mark.

  Armin’s fingers slid through Mark’s hair, and then gripped it tightly and pulled it back. The pain and the force both startled a gasp out of Mark. Armin kissed his neck so forcefully Mark half-expected teeth, and he welcomed the idea of that kind of pain. He pressed against Armin’s mouth, and just as he’d hoped, teeth met his flesh. Not hard enough to leave a mark—neither of them would dare risk that—but enough to make him shiver.

  He ground his cock against Armin’s, not even sure what he wanted—to fuck? To be fucked? Just to rub against each other until it was too damned much? He didn’t know. This worked, though. God, this worked. Flesh rubbing against flesh, Armin’s half-buttoned uniform rustling between them—yes, this was … this was perfect.

  Mark searched for Armin’s mouth with his own, and when he found it, forced his lips apart and kissed him deeply. There’d been a time when Armin had taken the lead and guided Mark’s inexperienced mouth through the finer points of kissing, but Mark wasn’t interested in the finer points of anything. Just kissing. And breathing. And tasting. And rubbing against him.

  “Mark …” Armin shuddered. His fingers loosened in Mark’s hair, and then tightened again, pulling hard enough to sting. His hips lifted a little, as much as Mark’s would allow, and the pressure, the friction, it was too damned much.

  Mark gritted his teeth, struggling to hold back. Too long. They’d waited too long. It couldn’t be over. Not … not yet.

  Then Armin shuddered again, and the sound he made was the closest thing to helpless the man could probably utter, and Mark’s vision went white. He thrust against Armin, the hot friction turning slick as they both came, and as he collapsed on top of him, Mark couldn’t help feeling a mix of both relief and the slightest hint of disappointment. It had been incredible, but too short-lived.

  Armin’s trembling fingers released Mark’s hair, and both men exhaled as they came down fully.

  “We still have a few hours,” Armin murmured, and Mark grinned just before he kissed him gently. If that wasn’t a promise that they’d use those remaining hours, he didn’t know what was.

  They lay close together beneath one of the blankets, and Mark shifted until Armin’s head was on his chest, which was an odd reversal of how they’d rested in Berlin, Mark more than a little shell-shocked by the strength of the sensations he’d experienced, but not only that. He’d been struggling to understand what it meant, what it might mean for the rest of his life, and it had been a struggle that he’d lost, or he wouldn’t have gone back to that old life and tried even harder to fit in.

  He worked his arm around Armin and held him, regretting that he was still half-clothed, because he would’ve loved to draw little circles on his skin, on the bony ridge between neck and shoulder, maybe rub out any remaining tension. Feel every texture of Armin’s body, from soft to hard, silky to coarse, tender and strong, and everything in between. No body had quite fascinated him the same way, and no amount of injury could break that fascination.

  Armin breathed against his chest hard enough to tickle a bit. “We can’t fall asleep.”

  “No. I wasn’t … are you tired?”

  “Prisoners may spend their time idly planning how to annoy us, but I am actually working. Paperwork, mostly. Nothing too demanding, but it’s … grinding.”

  “I trained today.”

  “I know.”

  “You spying on us?”

  “On you. Though the sentries think I’m interested in everything they have to say.”

  “How come that SS officer is now in charge?”

  “My best guess? A power play from Himmler. Second best guess? They think I’m too soft.”

  “And who would report that up the chain?”

  “I do have a few Nazis among the guards. Men who’ve lost families in a raid. Sons or brothers at the front. It’s a messy business, war.”

  Armin didn’t sound too distraught by those words, so Mark gathered a bit more confidence. “Eight years. You’ve changed a bit. I barely recognized you when I arrived.”

  “The gray hair?”

  “Among other things, but yes.”

  “That happened in one night. There are ghost stories of people going entirely white when they are scared. I always thought that was a myth, but it can happen.”

  “I assume it wasn’t a ghost in your case?”

  Armin fell silent, and Mark cursed himself for his curiosity. Though it wasn’t that, really. Concern. He wanted to know so he understood better what had happened to Armin, not to satisfy an itch.

  “My family was in Hamburg during one of the firestorms. We were visiting her parents. I married when told to—my cousin strongly suggested I should marry as authorities had rounded up a number of homosexuals in Berlin and were asking quite incisive questions about where they met others and who they were.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Well. I was discreet, but I did use one of the flats of my cousin Oskar, who is married and happened to not be in Berlin at all when one of my … associates, under suitable encouragement from Gestapo, remembered the address of that flat. He’d even picked up the name from some letters. Oskar, not having been in Berlin at all, was safe, but he insisted that my more adventurous days should lie behind me. I married a very distant cousin from one of the more remote bloodlines.”

  Mark swallowed. “I assume she didn’t, uh, know?”

  Armin shook his head, his hair brushing against Armin’s bare shoulder. “No. But I did love her. God, I loved her.” He fell silent for a moment. “Her, and our son.”

  “Loved.” Past tense. Hair gone gray in a day. Hamburg. Mark cringed as each piece fell into place. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could think to say.

  “Sometimes I think God meant for us all to go together.” Armin’s tone was strange, as if he was speaking more to himself than to Mark. “The house … we’d all gone into the cellar. For shelter. When the bombing had stopped—when I thought it had stopped—I left to help others. She begged me to stay. I promised to return.” He sighed heavily, and Mark thought he might have shuddered. “I did return, but the house …”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I went a little mad that day, I think.” Armin laughed humorlessly. “Not a little. No, I went mad. I tried to … to get to them. Thought they might still be there, alive and well in the cellar. But …” He was quiet for a moment, and finally added the last thing Mark expected: “But you can only dig so deeply with one hand.”

  Mark couldn’t even breathe, never mind come up with a response. He could only imagine the horror. The sheer sense of irreversible loss, the futile need to dig even though there was nothing to uncover except more horror.

  Armin cleared his throat. “I apologize. I hadn’t intended to make tonight so … dark.”

  “No. Don’t.” Mark tightened his arm around Armin’s shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “It was my fault. I should have known there’d be wounds.”

  “Everyone has wounds. Hiding them does us no good.”

  Even in the dark. Never dark enough to hide it, you know?

  Mark didn’t push the issue.

  “You’re not such a young man yourself anymore,” Armin said quietly.

  “War ages all of us.”

  “It does.” Armin turned a bit, as if looking up at him in the darkness. “Do you h
ave a family?”

  “I was married.”

  Armin seemed to consider that. “You’ve … I didn’t realize you lost your wife as well.”

  “No, I didn’t. I mean, not in the same way. She divorced me.”

  “I see.”

  Mark closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. “After Berlin, I … needed to get married. Irish Catholic family. Small town. It was … it was not a good place for people to find out what I am. And there were rumors anyway. So when I came home from Berlin, I proposed to her.”

  “That quickly?”

  Mark shrugged. “We’d gone out a few times. All of her friends were getting married, and I knew she wanted a family, so I asked.”

  “Children?”

  “No. None.” Mark laughed in spite of himself, and it sounded even less heartfelt than he thought it would. “No, that would have required us to … behave like husband and wife more often.”

  Armin kissed his chest. “I understand. Me, I … fell in love with the idea a little bit. With her. She was lovely. Being a father felt good. It suited me, though I’d never have expected it would. My cousin was very relieved.”

  “I can imagine. Did he give you a hard time about it?”

  “Ah … Oskar underwent a similar change. He was a bit of a rascal in his youth, but he settled down and thought that was really the best path to take. You should meet him one day. He’s an interesting character.”

  Meet the family? It seemed like a different life, a point so far in the future it was impossible to imagine. But the thought that Armin even considered introducing him to his family warmed his heart. “I would love to meet him.”

  Armin kissed him again, gentle now. “He’s the one I’m closest to in my family. When I went mad and made quite the spectacle of myself in a sanatorium, Oskar brought me back. Made me see reason, and gave me faith.”

  “Then I’ll thank him for that.”

  “Ah, he’s already taking himself too important … no, that’s not correct. How do you call it?”

  “I get what you mean.”

  They were silent for a little while, and Mark rested his head against Armin’s. “Does that mean there’s nobody else?”

  “Oh. Yes, it does. I’m not exactly the most eligible bachelor here. The washer women in the village are crazy over some of the prisoners. We find love letters to them all the time. None for me, though.”

  “Fools.” Mark chuckled.

  Armin gave a soft, half-hearted laugh, but nothing more.

  “You say the war is almost over.” Mark ran his hand along Armin’s sleeve. “What do you think? Weeks? Months?”

  “Impossible to say for sure. I could be shot for saying so, but I don’t believe Germany will win.”

  “Would you be offended if I said I hope you’re right?”

  This time, Armin laughed with a little more feeling. “No. I agree with you.”

  Mark considered asking for more, prodding to hear how things looked to someone who’d been wearing a German uniform since before Mark even knew there’d be a war, but he wasn’t in the mood for politics. “What happens when the war is over?”

  “I don’t know. Hopefully the Führer is hanged. Shot. Maybe both.” Armin stiffened a bit and glanced at the door, as if he thought Holzknecht would suddenly burst in. “Maybe there will be—”

  “No.” Mark squeezed his arm. “I mean … what happens when the war is over?”

  Armin raised his chin, looking at him in the darkness, and he tensed again as if he’d just managed to read between the lines. “I wish I knew. I can’t even know what happens after the sun comes up tomorrow.”

  Mark gently freed his arm and shifted so he was facing Armin. He found his jaw in the darkness, traced it with his fingertips. “Then maybe we shouldn’t worry about anything before the sun comes up.”

  “Agreed,” Armin whispered, and kissed him.

  This. This was what Mark remembered from eight years ago. With the frantic desperation cooled, they weren’t rushed. They kissed tenderly, and Mark explored Armin’s mouth the way Armin had explored his back in Berlin. The half-buttoned uniform shirt was still between them, and the air beyond the blanket was cold, but Mark was perfectly comfortable, the night’s chill tempered by Armin’s body heat.

  Mark nudged Armin onto his back, and he climbed on top. The blanket slid off his shoulders and exposed his back and sides nearly to the waist, but that cold only served to emphasize the warmth of pressing against Armin.

  Mark was keenly aware of Armin’s injury, but not in any way Armin could have imagined. It wasn’t an imperfection, a flaw, something to be hidden and covered by clothes and darkness. He just wished he could feel Armin’s hand on his face, or sliding down his side, or digging his fingers into his arm. The other hand did quite nicely—Armin’s touch could be both urgent and unhurried, gentle and forceful—but Mark wanted to lose himself completely in Armin’s embrace. He ached to relive that moment when Armin had stroked him with one hand while he held the back of his neck, forcing Mark to look him in the eyes all the way up to and through the first of several orgasms that night.

  But he’d never breathe a word of that to Armin. He wanted Armin to know he was still as attractive, perhaps more so, as he’d been back then, and that after all these years of pining for the one he’d been so certain had gotten away, Mark was anything but disappointed.

  And whatever awkwardness Armin might be feeling did nothing to cool the slowly banking desire. When Mark reached down to touch Armin’s cock under the blanket, Armin was hard and wanting, pushing against his hand and up with every movement. Mark considered drawing those touches out to tease Armin and keep him on the edge, jerk his cock and just simply stay on top to kiss him, but Armin opened his legs for him and pulled him closer, tighter, until they weren’t rubbing against each other so much as Armin trying to guide him to do more.

  “I’d say I owe you one, but it’s more correct to say you owe me one.” Armin chuckled. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, ever since you mentioned it.”

  “I …” Mark was speechless, trying to understand how this same thing with a woman had left him largely cold and with Armin—all thought fled and all he wanted was to be inside him. He wanted to hear Armin gasp and call out his name, wanted to feel him come apart underneath him. “No different here.”

  Armin lifted his legs higher. “I want to feel you.”

  “Do you have … something slick?” They didn’t exactly send Vaseline in those Red Cross parcels. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

  “Did I hurt you then?”

  “No. Not much. Just the first time a bit.”

  “Not my first time.” Armin touched his face gently, then trailed down to his hand. “Use spit.”

  Just the irony—there wasn’t enough spit in his whole body to gather enough to be worth spitting.

  Armin chuckled, took his hand, kissed his palm and spat into his hand. “Like so.”

  Like so. Always the teacher.

  Mark stroked it onto his cock. It didn’t feel like quite enough, so he added some—like so—and then sat up to guide himself to Armin.

  As Mark pressed against him, Armin gasped and tensed. Mark froze. “Are you—?”

  “Just don’t want to wait. Please, Mark.”

  This pleading, desperate Armin was so far from the controlled man he’d been years ago, and his lack of control did nothing to keep Mark from nearly falling apart himself. He pressed harder against Armin. He met some resistance, and wondered if he was doing something wrong, if this was—

  Oh. God.

  The head of his cock breached Armin, and had Mark not already come once tonight, he would have just then. He withdrew a little, then pressed in again, this time a little deeper, and Armin’s low groan vibrated along his nerve endings as he worked himself in. The intense sensations—slick, tight, perfect—were only the beginning. Armin’s inner thighs warming his hips. Armin’s fingers on his arm, grasping tightly before sliding all th
e way down as if he couldn’t remember how to maintain a grip. Physically, it shouldn’t have been any different than what he’d experienced in the past, but oh, it was. Every stroke, every brush of skin on skin, every breath—it was all Armin, and it was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced outside of that one incredible night.

  “Come down … down to me.” Armin reached for Mark’s neck, and Mark let himself be drawn down into a kiss. Thrusting was a little more difficult in this position, his range of motion being slightly compromised, but Armin didn’t seem to mind and Mark certainly didn’t.

  Armin wrapped his arm around Mark’s shoulders, and they both struggled to breathe in between kisses, especially as Mark picked up speed.

  Mark held himself up on his forearms, and hooked his fingers over Armin’s shoulders for both leverage and contact, and everything—everything—was perfect. The roles were reversed, but this was just like the first time, when Armin’s sheltering embrace had kept him sane and anchored, made him safe even as he fucked him while there were people dangerously close by who could have made their lives hell. And tonight, in the attic of a castle where both of them were prisoners in their own right, it was safe again, and Armin anchored Mark, gave him the strength to let go and just be like this, to just move with him, against him, inside him, and forget that a world or a war existed outside these walls.

  Armin tightened around him suddenly, and he arched against Mark with every ounce of strength he had, the last few movements almost like a battle, but they didn’t fight each other. It was maybe that neither of them really wanted to lose control, and straining as every desperate movement drove them farther down the path.

  Mark couldn’t help but thrust harder into the tightening heat—it was nearly painful, so intense did it feel, and how it was for Armin he could only guess. But the man held him close and then arched again, groaned loudly, and wet heat gathered between them.

  Mark was terribly close, but when Armin grabbed his head again and forced his tongue into his mouth—not unlike fucking him in return, that’s when he lost himself inside Armin, in that kiss, in the terrible, irresistible pressure and the boneless relief. He all but collapsed on Armin, his body pumping inside Armin, and the relief was so immense he chuckled.