Returning to Paris felt strange. It had been my home for my entire life and yet suddenly it felt like just another city, just a place like any other. A place that had little hold upon me. I suddenly wanted to travel, to see some of the places Victor had told me about in Switzerland and Italy, to travel further and experience places that were new to both of us, with Bauer by my side.

But travel was not as simple as it had once modern travel is now much swifter it also, to my old mind, seems a great deal more complicated, and by the beginning of nineteen thirty-six, the world had already changed enough that poor and frightened souls such as myself were almost incapable of traveling further than the journey from Paris to Nice and back again. The world was changing too quickly, and it frightened me. I lost my nerve.

It did not frighten Victor - it enraged him - but he was not fearful as I was. He was ever the brave one.

You told me at dinner yesterday evening that you felt on tenterhooks reading my memories, for I have mentioned often the storm that was building, and my inability to protect him and love him and understand him as I should have, but you must continue to be patient, I am afraid, for the story must be told in order - one cannot jump straight to the climax without understanding the characters' development - and so it shall be with this tale.

You also pointed out that an affair which lasted more that four years should hardly be called brief, which I suppose, for a young person such as yourself, may seem true. But I am an old man. I did not meet my Victor until I was thirty-five years old and I have lived too many years alone since our parting. My time with him amounts to barely a tenth of my life, a thin slice of my existence - and I used to pray that we would remain hand in hand for all times. And so I maintain that our affair was brief, for it was too short for me, and has left me ever thirsting for more, ever grieving, and never to be satisfied.

And now I do not know how to continue. I do not want to leave Nice but those happy memories are more painful in their way than the unhappy ones and so I must, though I do not know quite how to continue. The year that followed our vacation south is not one I have ever wanted to dwell upon.

Although, according to the historians, the war did not actually begin until nineteen thirty-nine, the tension in Europe was already at breaking point by thirty-six and France was a nation surrounded on all sides by fascist regimes and the threat of force and invasion was ever present. I found work at that time writing for the 'Front Populaire', the coalition of parties that went on to form a new government in May of that year, work which ensured me a small wage and kept me from despairing the loss of my poetry too greatly by keeping my mind occupied, but the pain was still there. I could not write, could not imagine, could not put down one word and follow it with another and day by day my despair grew, quieted only when I was given notes from my employers and the task of turning their words into usable propaganda.

Bauer treated me gently, offering me tender, comforting touches as I struggled with my inability to write anything of meaning or insight. He understood, as an artist, the fear of losing one's creative spark and he watched me closely, grieved with me as and when it was needed, and continued to love me through that period of my life. I see now that it is the melancholic, depressive side to my personality that reared its head that year. There was no reason to it, no logic, and Bauer's own work became troubled and frantic in response as my creative block ate at me and painted my soul in tombstone gray.

Suddenly it was not Victor but I who hesitated at leaving the apartment, not for fear but simply because to do so seemed too overwhelming. I was more than content to write about the political climate and express clearly and eloquently what Leon Blum and the rest of his party wished me to about their political agenda, but I did not wish to talk about such things and it suddenly seemed that every man on the street had an opinion that needed to be heard and discussed... and I simply could not face it. It was too much effort. I let Bauer speak and debate in my stead and rarely left our rooms by day, except when specifically invited by the Surrealists, or when Victor pleaded with me.

We maintained our handholding - could not bare to do otherwise after the easy closeness we had been allowed down at the coast - but were forced once again to hide behind drama and artifice, and this time it was I who struggled to maintain the charade. I spoke less and less at public gatherings and it was remarked by some that I seemed less like Bauer's brother and more like his dog, gripping his hand and trailing after him wherever we went. I could not bring myself to care about their mockery, and Victor never forced me to be any more than I was able, even when I saw worry in his ever-wide eyes.

Sex was one of the few things that could awaken me from the fog of my half-existence and Victor treated my body with such care and adoration that often it made me weep - yet he never judged me. Even when civil war erupted in Spain and Bauer found himself involved in the lobby to give assistance to the republicans (a call which was not heeded, much to our nation's shame) he still found the time to be with me and give me what I needed, though I was not so adept at meeting his need for conversation and connection.

It is unsurprising that I did not notice at first that my Bauer had a new interest, a new intensity that drove him out of the house each morning. He would kiss me - the kind of kisses that are messy and cause jolts of need to erupt in one's belly at the sheer want and enthusiasm of them - but would end the kiss with an instruction that I try to wash and not drink all of the vodka or wine, before he hurried out the door. I would be left cold in his absence and, though it may be a hard thing to understand, without his directions I truly would have struggled to make up my mind to bathe and dress. Often when he returned I was clean but still naked and he would look into my eyes and see the pain in my heart and head that neither of us had a hope of understanding.

On those days he would lower me carefully to our bed, kissing me softly as his fingers ran over my skin - so well know to him by then - and I would lie back and let him move my body like a rag doll. Often he would turn me over on to my stomach and pour oil over my back and buttocks, massaging the needless stress from my muscles before spreading my legs and using his fingers to bring me to the brink of orgasm. Sometimes he would roll me back over so that he could rub his erection against mine to find our release together. Other times he would simply stop, leaving my body thrumming with need as he removed his fingers from inside of me, despite my whimpers, and sit between my legs, his breathing harsh and uneven. I could never see his face when this happened but I could feel that within himself Victor feared that there was something precious that was about to be shattered if he did not tread more carefully. Often my desperation would spur him back into action, thrusting his digits in and out of me with increasing force that ended in a violent orgasm. He would continue to thrust his fingers in to me until he achieved release by his own hand and I was left overstimulated and boneless in the centre of the bed, the covers beneath me wet with my seed and my back wet with Victor's.

Then there were times when he would continue his ministrations but with aching care, working his fingers inside of me until the pleasure was a frustrated ache, never increasing his pace, forcing me to wait patiently until my body was overwhelmed by the slowness and gentleness of his assault and my orgasm, when it happened, was somehow far off, distant, a finish but without satisfaction. On those days I would roll myself over and pull him desperately to me, taking his member into my mouth and encouraging him to hold my head tightly as he thrust into me, my own true release coming when his orgasm jolted and shuddered into me.

Whatever we did together, he always took me in his arms at the close, offering comfort and unconditional love.

"My Rosey," he would murmur to me, his slender body pressed against my older, spreading one, as he pressed heartfelt kisses to the slope of my shoulders. "Come back when you are able, Rosey. Find your way home to me, my love. I shall be waiting, past the darkness... I love you, Rosey. Come home."

I felt so ashamed of my weakness, a man reduced to a creature who could barely function, but together we were eventually able to climb from that pit, broken and bleeding within our souls but alive. Through Victor I regained myself, but it was a year of my life lost, and I do not wish to dwell upon it. Violette tried to help me, as did several of the gentlemen of the Surrealists who recognised the symptoms of my self-destruction, but I pushed them all away, wanting only Bauer, an act that I now see was incredibly selfish, yet he stayed, and after a year and some months had past I finally began to feel strength within myself again.

It began with a simple verse of four lines. I awoke to their form swirling in my mind, a sensation I had all but forgotten, and quickly rose from the bed to write them down. Bauer was at his easel by the window, using the first rays of the morning to paint by, with not a stitch of clothing upon his person. He looked somehow more than human that morning, the light giving his pale skin a golden glow, highlighting the planes and curves of his body, and his prominent bones. I could see them shift beneath his skin as he moved about, wielding his paintbrush - he had lost weight again - a fact I had not noticed or had concern for but which now caused a twinge of worry to rise in my gut.

I wrote out my poem quickly, scribbling it on to a scrap of paper before it could allude me, and when I looked up I realised that Bauer had not yet noticed me. I crept across the room but he was so engrossed in his work that he did not see or hear me until I lay the paper, and it's four simple lines, down next to his water jar. He looked up, not quite surprised as much as intrigued by my presence, and then a smile spread across his worn face and his eyes began to fill with tears at the sight of me. It was so very humbling and I made the promise to myself in that moment that I would regain myself for his sake.

He read my words and kissed my lips and then, before I could think of a word to say to him, he was in my arms, paint smearing both of our chests as his colour laden brush was trapped between our bodies. And it made me laugh. A vague, silent sort of laugh, but a laugh none the less. And Bauer kissed me again, his passion rising and his joy flowing into me like wine as his tongue tangled with mine and his warm body pressed hard against me.

He dragged me over to the armchair, our lips still locked together, and pushed me into it, climbing into my lap to continue the work of him mouth. But between kisses he began to speak, mumbling ideas and thoughts and pieces of news and things he had seen and I realised, as the numbness slowly ebbed from my mind, how very much he had missed speaking with me, and our meandering conversations, and that suddenly he could not hold in his words or his emotions. I took his face lovingly in my hands and held it back from my own face, so that his lips were separated from mine, and the words spilled forth from him as I kissed his cheeks and throat. His chest was shaking against me as he spoke, his words interspersed with sighs and gasps as I laved at his tender neck with my lips and tongue, but he knew that I had given him leave to talk, and so he did, and I felt as if I were relearning his person, in both mind and body, and it was glorious.

He had been busy in my absence. It was nineteen thirty-seven, almost his birthday again, and he had done a great deal in the light of the political instability our government was facing. He was one of the few who had thought to help those who had fled the Spanish civil war and even as our own supply of food had dwindled he had been hard at work arranging for food and clothing to be sent to the refugee camps, selling his art work to fund the charity, and I was astonished, but there was more to come.

"Otto," he whispered breathily, and my lips stilled against his heated skin.

"Your father?"

He nodded and I felt something horrible begin to rise up within me, a desperate urge to protect my Victor and seek retribution against the man who should have loved him most dearly and yet had not. But Bauer shook his head and nuzzled in against me, his lips seeking me out and kissing along my cheek until his nose rubbed against mine, like a cat seeking affection.

"Do not think that," he murmured. "It is not as you suppose."

"Why did you not tell me of this?" I asked him, trying to maintain a clam I did not feel. He shrugged.

"I did not want to alarm you at first. And I did not know whether he would try to contact me, or wish to know me. I had no desire to be the one who sought him out... when I discovered that he had come to Paris." I grunted at that but he hushed me and I held him tightly as he continued. "I did not tell you because I did not want to cause a fuss if it came to nothing, and then when he did contact me I did not want to tell you of him until I had decided whether it was worth it for me to do so. You have been... preoccupied, my love. You have been unwell, and I did not wish to add to your burdens."

"Burdens," I echoed and felt him nod his head, his dark hair tickling my neck and shoulder, bringing to my attention how much his hair, and mine, had grown.

"Yes, my love," he told me, capturing my lips in a lingering kiss before continuing. "You have been so unwell, but I think perhaps you are beginning to recover now?"

I certainly hoped I was and felt the relief flow through his thin body when I told him so, but I needed to know how the situation between he and his father stood before I could begin to fathom my own state.

"Why has he come to Paris?" I asked, not wishing to use the name of the man who did not deserve either the title of father or to share a name with my beloved Bauer. "What has made him believe he is worthy of speaking to you again?" I asked bluntly.

"He is dying," he responded with equal frankness, shrugging his shoulders and pulling away from me so that I was forced to confront the war of emotions battling across his features. "He will soon be dead and feels his work is not done."

"And what is that to us?" I asked, my irritability growing further when I read the answer upon his face. "No," I cried. "No. He will not put you to work. You shall not be slave to his bidding. Not after all this time."

"But Rosey," he whispered as his eyes slid away from mine to stare at the curve of his knee against my thigh. "He feels remorse, he has said as much, and-"

"Has he said so much in words?" I pressed, feeling more awake than I had in months but also much closer to panic when I considered the situation and Victor's fragility when faced with his childhood hurt and desire to be the sort of son his father might have actually wanted.

"Not as such," Bauer confided reluctantly. "But I can feel it in him, Rosey. He has been more than civil to me, impressed by my political connections, he-"

"-should not be trusted," I finished for him but he shook his head.

"He has confided in me all that he did as a member of the Italian resistance before he was forced to flee. I am sure that he is being honest in his opinions and only wishes for my help in maintaining his correspondence with his contacts in Milan. Please, Rosey."

I was not entirely sure what he was asking of me, begging from me, but I relented and held him close once more, stroking my hand down his spine as he breathed deeply against the crook of my neck. I became aware once again of just how thin he had become, his skin as delicate as tissue paper against my large palm as I held him and, after a long period of stillness between us, he resumed his kisses, his movements becoming fevered and desperate, sweat beginning to slick his chest where it was pressed to mine.

It was the first time in over a year that I had been the one to guide our actions and it was enlivening. I had rediscovered my purpose - to protect and love Victor Bauer - and even though my journey toward recovery of mind and spirit was a long one, on that day I knew that it needed to be done. Bauer had cared for me, loved me, kept me alive, but now he needed me. Because he was, despite his sharp wit and sharper mind, still naive when it came to malice and those who might lie to him and do him evil in return for his goodness. He would need my cynical distrust and fear to deal with his father, and when I met the man, after we had retired back to bed for some time, then bathed and eaten a late breakfast, my fear increased.

Otto Bauer was a man of great charisma and psychological power and it was obvious that Victor still worshipped him, despite what he had done. He was a man who could send his own son into the lion's den, and in to death.

He was the man who did.