Unhinge the Universe

by Aleksandr Voinov;L. A. Witt

  “I know what he was,” Hagen said. “You wouldn’t have kissed me otherwise.”

  John exhaled, remembering that unexpectedly different kiss and the horror that had followed.

  “He was waiting for you, ja?”

  “Yes,” John said.

  “He was distracted. That’s why I killed him.” Hagen paused. “He was an easy target.”

  John cringed, fresh guilt charring his insides. Michael was a friend if nothing else. A brother in arms. To be even partly responsible for his death . . .

  Through grinding teeth, John said, “Then I suppose it’s a good thing you arrived when you did. Or Michael and I would have made short work of your incompetent ass.”

  The subtle intake of breath was almost inaudible, perhaps would have been if not for the otherwise silent night and the darkness reducing all other distractions. A nerve, apparently. A raw one. And yet John didn’t find any satisfaction in stepping on it. Felt no need to grind it under his heel until he broke Hagen. Broke him again.

  Hay and blankets rustled. The chain rattled. John buried his face in his own blanket to warm his numb cheeks and nose, and that coarse heat reminded him of the cold still clinging to his back. His eyes slid toward Hagen. Or at least, the shadow among shadows that he assumed was Hagen.

  Neither of them would find any warmth by stubbornly sleeping alone any more than they would reach an armistice by digging deeper beneath each other’s scabs.

  He lowered the blanket and set it in the no-man’s-land between his makeshift bed and Hagen’s. Where it would be within reach once the dust hopefully settled. Then he rose and took a step toward the German.

  Hay shifted again. Like Hagen had tensed on top of it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Adjusting your bindings.” John approached cautiously, waiting for the fist or the knee to come out of the darkness. It wouldn’t be below Hagen—and perhaps John couldn’t blame him—to take a cheap and futile shot while his limbs were still free.

  Hagen was still, though. Like prey trying not to be detected or a wildcat ready to attack, John couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that the loft was completely silent except for the odd rustle or creak beneath his feet. It didn’t even sound like Hagen was breathing.

  John knelt beside him. He found the chained wrist easily enough. “Give me your other hand.”

  The quiet laugh seemed to echo across the entire countryside. “How do you want it?”

  Again he imagined a fist coming out of the shadows and connecting with flesh or bone. “Just give me your hand.”

  The blanket and uniform whispered against each other. John thought he even heard the muffled clink of one of Hagen’s medals tapping a button or another insignia. Those couldn’t have been comfortable while he tried to sleep.

  A cool hand brushed John’s. Quickly, before either man could change his mind, John snapped the second cuff around it.

  “Arschloch,” Hagen grumbled. “One was enough. My fingers will freeze as it is.”

  John felt for the hand that was already cuffed, and found it alarmingly cold. Shit, he hadn’t even thought about that. “Don’t move,” he said, though there wasn’t much point. It just felt like the right thing to say before he stepped away.

  “Where are you going?”

  John knelt beside his own bed and rifled through his jacket. “I’m getting you some gloves.”

  No response, but at least Hagen didn’t mock him. He found the gloves, tested on his own hand whether he had a right one or a left one, then slid them over Hagen’s unresisting fingers. It was the least he could do.

  “And before you ask, I care because you’re still my prisoner until I hand you over to somebody with likely a whole lot less respect for your boneheaded desire to get killed and most definitely a whole lot less patience when dealing with an enemy. Better?”

  “. . . Ja.”

  Well, as far as “sorry” and “thank you” went, this was progress. John pushed closer, lifted Hagen’s blanket somewhat, and slid under, using his own blanket as additional cover. With four blankets between them, it got positively toasty quickly. John managed to keep his face out of range of Hagen’s elbow—he didn’t want to risk an “affectionate” tap in the face, but the young soldier seemed secure. Maybe he even enjoyed the additional warmth. Not that he’d get an acknowledgment. How strange, that they’d had more of a rapport during the interrogation, with the immediate threat of violence or even execution hanging over Hagen’s head.

  And why would you want a better rapport with your prisoner? When have you ever given a damn about a prisoner? About anyone, for that matter?

  John pushed the thought out of his head. If he dwelled on it too long, he might get an answer. Then he’d never sleep.

  Without thinking about it, he turned over and moved a little closer, his chest against Hagen’s back. To his surprise, the German didn’t stiffen or pull away. At first he didn’t move at all, but then, with a soft, slow release of a breath, he relaxed. Relaxed into John.

  John’s face was right next to Hagen’s neck now, so close he almost felt that blond hair tickling his nose. When he took a breath this time, the hay and dust and molasses faded into the background, disappearing behind the dizzying, musky scent of Hagen. In his mind, he was back in the interrogation room when he’d leaned in to whisper in Hagen’s ear and had instead caught a breath of the man’s scent. That had been the beginning of the end of his interrogation, the first step down the path that led them to a night that could get him court-martialed. Or shot outright.

  Too late, he realized the scent had worked its way through his nerves and all the way to his groin. He drew his hips back a little, but Hagen followed, as if not willing to let him escape or break the spell. John bit back a groan as Hagen pressed against his swelling erection. Hagen muttered something in German. Maybe it was English. John didn’t know and didn’t really care.

  He shut his eyes tight and inclined his head, which made his lips brush just above Hagen’s collar. Hagen shivered. John exhaled. Hagen groaned.

  Fuck, there’d be no sleeping here. Not anytime soon.

  He extended a hand and slid it over Hagen’s hip toward his belly. The man was tense, but John didn’t think it was fear. “You can’t sleep, either, right?”

  Hagen blew out a frustrated breath, and John couldn’t help but see the humor in the situation. He splayed his hand on Hagen’s abdomen, felt the man breathe against his touch. Was this really the first time he’d touched him there? Like this? Had to be. He didn’t remember, and he would have remembered doing this. He slid his hand further up and touched metal—the Iron Cross, he remembered—and then moved his hand to Hagen’s belt. He opened it, which was more comfortable anyway—

  Which is not at all why you’re doing that . . .

  He opened the jacket, one button at a time, then slid his hand over the softer, body-warm cloth underneath. Hagen lay still, not even rattling his chains.

  John moved further down, to the groin, where he encountered an impressive erection. Hagen hissed when he cupped him there. Now he understood why the German wasn’t fighting him off. That one lesson that had sunk in. They could give each other release at least.

  John pushed closer. “Do you want me to?”

  He’d promised that he wouldn’t rape the man, and he meant to keep that promise.

  “Ja.”

  John opened Hagen’s trousers and freed his dick. Hagen shuddered from head to toe when John took him in hand, measuring him with a couple teasing jerks. Then John withdrew and spit into his hand.

  Hagen groaned and rolled fully onto his side, maybe to stifle every sound against his arm. Despite John’s own arousal only ramping up, he concentrated first on Hagen, even pondered if he should reciprocate and get him off with his lips, but this seemed comfortable, and besides, he might miss all the small signs of pleasure that Hagen now gave freely, the jerk of his hips, the way his breathing became more labored with every touch. John pushed up agains
t him, taking what friction he could for himself.

  “Push back against me.” Damn, if only he could bury himself inside him, or just between Hagen’s thighs, that would feel so good. All muscle and power and barely contained rage.

  “Make . . .” Hagen gasped, like he’d choked on his breath. “Make my hands free.” His English idioms were slipping.

  John’s own hand slowed. “Why?”

  “Please.”

  The danger thrilled John as much as it made him balk. He leaned in closer and kissed beneath Hagen’s ear. “How do I know you won’t try anything?”

  Hagen pressed back against him, rubbing his ass against John’s erection until white light crept into the edges of the darkness. He whispered, “I won’t. Just . . . please . . .”

  John nipped his ear, hard enough to make the man jump, and his dick stiffened in John’s hand. “How do I know?”

  “You—” Hagen drew in a sharp breath and shuddered. “You have my word.”

  John closed his eyes, letting the words echo along his sensitive nerve endings. “If you try anything, I will—”

  “I won’t. Ehrenwort.” In English, he repeated, “On my honor.”

  John moistened his lips and kissed the side of Hagen’s neck again. He released the German’s thick erection, and God only knew which of them moaned in halfhearted protest.

  He opened one cuff. Then the other. The chains clattered uselessly against the floor, and Hagen pulled his arms back. Leather whispered. Again. Then Hagen shifted, pulling away. Momentary panic flooded John’s veins, and he tensed to attack, thinking Hagen was trying to escape.

  But then the . . . the German, his enemy, his lover, whoever the hell he was now, faced him. Draped an arm over his waist. Pulled him closer, chest to chest, groin to groin. John figured they might be similarly strong, but the Nazi was maybe more ruthless when it came to brutality. In any way, if he did anything that wasn’t in service of their straining arousal, it would be severe, and quite possibly deadly.

  You fool. You fucking fool.

  Hagen’s hands flew across John’s pants, struggling to open the belt and the buttons. John fumbled to free himself, though four hands were clearly at least one or two too many for the task.

  “Lass mich.” Let me. Just what?

  Hagen pushed on top, though John noticed that he wasn’t trying to pin him with his weight, which stayed mostly on Hagen’s knees. He shuddered hard when they rubbed together, the coarse cloth adding a sting and bite that a mutual handjob wouldn’t have provided, but the pressure . . . sweet Jesus, the pressure was divine. Too much, almost, every jerky movement—so not unlike fucking—laced with pain and chafing cloth.

  John pushed his hands between them, tried to get more clothing out of the way, managed somehow to push up Hagen’s shirt, and his dick now slid against the flat hard belly, sweaty and pumping with labored breaths.

  This would be enough: it was perfect. He reached up and seized the German’s neck, managed to bend it, and mashed their mouths together. The kiss tightened every muscle in his body. Toe-curling and electric like nothing else. John groaned into the kiss, not surprised in the least when Hagen opened up to his tongue, turned on beyond all measure that Hagen was thrusting against him while he very nearly fucked that eager mouth. Hagen might be on top, might be fiercer and more brutal, but John had his mouth, and there was no way he’d let him go, not even to breathe.

  Hagen’s movements became more erratic, thrusting against him as if he could thrust into him if only he could find the right angle and enough strength.

  John’s eyes rolled back. His shoulder blades dug into the blanketed straw, almost digging into the wood beneath, and he thrust back, matching Hagen’s rapid, hungry movements.

  Hagen’s weight shifted, throwing off their rhythm. John tried to protest, but the sound didn’t make it past their fiercely joined mouths.

  Hagen’s hand found John’s side and followed it between them. He lifted his hips a little, relieving some of the pressure on John’s dick—no, no, come back—before his hand closed around John’s erection. No, both of them. The German’s long fingers wrapped around them both, held them close together. He began moving again, and John had to break the kiss to gasp for air.

  “Fuck,” he breathed, and he might have groaned loud enough to shake the rafters if Hagen hadn’t found his mouth again and smothered any sound. He moved faster, and the friction of Hagen’s cock against his, combined with the tight sensation of fucking something, drove him insane. Absolutely insane.

  He gripped the back of Hagen’s neck. His other hand grasped Hagen’s hair. Kissed him, held onto him, fucking his hand and rubbing against his dick, and holy fucking God, he didn’t care if his entire chain of command came into the loft right then.

  Hagen growled—a throaty sound that John had never heard from him, a pure animal sound, but it was unmistakable, and then wet heat coated John’s dick and Hagen’s fingers, reducing the friction and turning it into fierce pleasure, and he couldn’t hold on. Not that he wanted to. He kissed Hagen deeply to stifle his own sounds when he came, reveling in Hagen’s taste and strength and closeness. Hagen let him go, the wetness between them mingling.

  Hagen grabbed him by the neck and held him tight until John could begin gathering his thoughts, shuddering in the aftermath of what had easily been the most intense encounter he could remember. Maybe of his life. And he’d thought fucking the German’s mouth had been pretty spectacular.

  Eventually, reluctantly, Hagen let him go, and John fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, managed to wipe at the wetness, but not much more. He pushed the cloth into a pocket and at least put his clothes back into order before he could fall asleep like this. It wouldn’t do to be found by the driver with his dick hanging out and the German in a similar state.

  Hagen rolled back onto his side, wiping at his trousers. “See. On my honor.”

  Oh, Hagen. God knew if there was any honor in what they’d just done. Who cared?

  Lethargy started closing in. John could barely keep his eyes open as Hagen lay beside him again.

  The German’s words were vaguely slurred and fading. “Now, I think I’ll sleep.”

  John just smiled.

  And slept.

  Hagen slept for a while, but he was wide awake when the night became less deep. Strangely, he was lying right next to John, pressed up against him, John’s back to him, while it had been the other way round at first last night, before they’d—

  Yes, that.

  What had woken him? Or was that just his normal, broken sleep, small pieces thrown into a day and night, very much the usual thing while he was on a mission and taking the pills? Probably that. He couldn’t make out an immediate threat.

  And then he realized that for the first time in what now felt like weeks but had only been a few days (right?), he had both hands free. He pulled them closer, but no length of chain competed for ownership or control of his hands. John had forgotten to chain him again. Or maybe not forgotten. It seemed unlike him to lapse like that.

  Hagen lay on his side and eased himself away, telling himself he needed to find a place to piss, but once the contact was interrupted and the bubble of warmth broken, he wasn’t quite so sure anymore. In the gray wintery predawn light, he spotted the pistol lying beside John, who was still sound asleep. Moving slowly and carefully, he got up and went around John, bent, and picked up the gun. He slid it into his belt, and then moved toward the ladder, carefully shifting his weight so the wood floor didn’t creak under his feet.

  He reached the ladder without incident and climbed down, aware with every movement that there was another man on the lower floor. He stepped off the ladder.

  Sliding his hand over the butt of the pistol, he scanned his surroundings. At first, he didn’t see the other soldier. The stacks of straw were vacant, tamped down a little like someone had been sleeping there but was no longer. Hagen pulled back into the shadows beside the ladder, slowly withdrawing the pistol, an
d looked around.

  Finally, he saw the bent knees in the backseat of the Jeep, and the hat tilted downward to cover the soldier’s face. All his training came back to the surface, reminding Hagen of every way he could dispatch this man without waking anyone and keep him quiet before he made his escape. But he didn’t. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe the realization that he couldn’t justify killing one man while letting the other sleep peacefully in his now semen-stained uniform.

  Not exactly honorable how he’d gotten his release.

  On my honor.

  Head down and pistol in hand, he crept away from the ladder and past the Jeep and its dormant passenger.

  He slipped out of the barn and jogged across the yard to one of the pastures. It was still early, barely enough light by which to see, and the snow crunching beneath his boots was gray like the skin of a corpse. Already, he had another regret besides leaving a weapon behind: peacoat and gloves or not, it was cold out here. The chill of the snow bled in through his boots; they didn’t leak, and his feet stayed dry, but they were cold. Damn cold. Hugging himself against the chill, he followed the fence line toward the road. Beneath his jacket, the Iron Cross pressed against him, insulated from his flesh by two layers of clothing. The cold, sharp edges dug in, reminding him of his allegiance.

  Allegiance? To what? Himmler, who’d sent him—him and Sieg—to die? For no other reason than to deceive the enemy and hold onto this godforsaken frozen ground for a few hours longer? It wouldn’t turn the tide of the war.

  Hagen stopped beside the fence. He looked back at the barn. Out toward the road that would lead to . . . what? Freedom? What freedom was there for an SS deserter, if he chose not to return? Especially in Allied territory where, as John had said, any member of the Maquis or Resistance would get a hard-on at the prospect of killing him. He’d forfeit his honor first and then his life.