February 4, 1933

Berlin, Germany

The heat flew through him, arcing through every vein, igniting every pore until he thought he might die of it, burning swaths flush across him as the sweet-slick friction mounted, the tempo sliding faster and harder, a melody composed of golden skin that slid across his tongue in tantalizing brevity, the precision of a man's body moving in motions that begged the viewer to surrender, depths of eyes brimming with cobalt smears. Those eyes asked questions no man can answer except with a kiss, promised redemption in the sins of the flesh. Ennis was lost, tried resist the oncoming tide, the force carrying him into mindless bliss, but he was not strong enough; the cobalt of the oceanic sky engulfed him, swept him into a release that bordered on agony for its intensity. He screamed it to the night, wordless yet named.

He rolled over, wiping his hand on the sheets soaked with his sweat, and bit into his pillow, groaning.

It was not always an advantage to have a vivid imagination.

February 5, 1933

"Don't you like your Brotkartoffeln, Ennis?" Alma tilted her head at him, frowning slightly, her blonde braid swinging with her movement.

"Entschuldigung. My mind was on my work," he said, blinking a few times and trying to regulate his breathing. He speared three of the fried potato slices, gleaming with oil; they tasted like salted cardboard.

"How are your latest portraits?"

"Hmm? Oh, the portraits are fine."

Her eyebrows, finely arched—Ennis had admired their shape many times—came together over the bridge of her nose, forming a crease, "Then… what were you thinking about?"

He coughed, a piece of pork chop lodged in his throat. "I'm, ah… starting a new series."

She nodded, eyes interested, looking at him as he thumped a hand on his chest, trying to dislodge his discomfort which had nothing to do with the stubborn meat.

"Well, I might submit it to a gallery. It's nothing, really."

Alma smiled to herself, "I see." She recognized a brick wall when she came up against one. She slid out of the chair, Kletterjacke slung across the back, going to the kitchen for to start the water boiling for coffee. "Did I tell you? Hannelore was disbanded today from our Jungmädelschaft, " She shook her head, fingering the wooden leather knot that held together her black neckerchief, the membership symbol she had worn for the past year. "They found out she was three-eighths Jewish. Unbelievable, ja?"

Ennis grunted, demolishing his potatoes with his fork. He looked around the room; he had no appetite when he was in here. He squinted at the plaque above the kitchen, dark wood etched ominously with the words Tue recht und sheue Niemand—do right and fear no man. He raised an eyebrow, snorting a little. Alma's mother has been busy re-decorating, exchanging floral patterns for equally appalling floral patterns and re-arranging her collection of small figurines, tiny children and various contortions of Christ positioned throughout the room so that anyone who entered would feel watched, no matter where they sat or stood.

Ennis was in the midst of a staring contest with a chubby young girl herding sheep, boring into him with her judgmental green eyes, when Alma set the coffee down in front of him.

"Have you asked Herr Müller about the Hitler Jungend? They are not so strict about ages, I am sure they would let you in." She offered him milk and sugar, both of which he declined.

"Ich kann nicht. You know that, Alma." He drank half of the coffee in one sip, savoring the deep burn on the way down.

She sat down again, twisting her engagement ring around her finger, "Ennis, don't you understand what an important time this is for our country? We are reclaiming our very way of life. I know you will regret in years to come if you are not a part of our movement. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

Ennis shrugged, non-committal, still giving the shepherdess an eye evil. "No time. Maybe after I finish the series."

"That reminds me. Ilsa was telling me yesterday that we need a new poster for our Jungmädelgruppe, do you think you could paint one for us?" She smiled shyly, "They said that if you did it perhaps I could be in it."

Ennis's face darkened, lips pursed tight, a quick slash of his head, "Nein."

"Warum nicht?" She tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed, at a loss. "We can pay you."

"You think that is what I care about?" Ennis asked, disgusted. He cut off her response by pushing his seat back, folding his napkin and placing it carefully on the table. He nodded politely, "Danke für das Abendessen. Ich muß leder gehen jetzt."

And then he left without another word.

April 22, 1932

Akademie der bildenden Künste Wien (Academy of Fine Arts Vienna)

"Tut mir leid. I cannot accept this submission, Herr Demarien." Joseph Jäger held the portfolio—the black folder that contained the summation of Ennis's four months at this institution—between two fingers, away from his body, as if it were infectious, and didn't bother to look up from his paperwork.

Ennis's words were barely above a whisper, laced with ice, "Warum nicht?" He did not take the portfolio, though the tips of his fingers rubbed together and his lower eyelid trembled slightly.

"You have demonstrated no understanding of the assignments; you have consistently stepped out of their bounds, and instead of focusing and honing your considerable talents as we had hoped when you were accepted, you insist on these puerile pursuits. It is unacceptable."

Ennis's mouth was hard and tight. "It was my understanding that I came to this institution to learn, Herr Jäger." His throat worked, adam's apple a barometer of his rising desire to snatch the portfolio and burn it, and he scraped his shoes against the wine-red carpet.

Jäger sighed, looking up from his papers. "Your skill for rendering is nearly incomparable, Demarien, why can't you see that? You can create a portrait finer than any photograph, with such clarity that your viewer feels as if he could step inside. Why do you treat this like it's a hindrance instead of a gift?"

Ennis averted his eyes, roving over the shelves bulging with heavy tomes, lined up to the centimeter like soldiers, taking in the warm light surrounding the elegant desk lamp in a yellow glow and the texture of the oak paneling, feeling as if he were inside the bowels of a tree.

An artist's eyes are never at rest.

He looked at Jäger, expressionless. "It means nothing to me." He grabbed the portfolio, leaving it in the trash on his way out of the building, and left for Berlin that very night.

February 12, 1933

Fifth modeling session

Ennis studied his canvas carefully as Jack dressed, pulling on his black pants, which even buttoned fell low on his hips, hair peeking out from the waistline in invitation. He watched the rapid transition of Ennis's face from thoughtful to annoyed, a brief second of surprised, and then back to thoughtful. Smiling to himself, he decided he was content to be the watcher instead of the watched for a few moments, and sat on the bed, arms propped behind him. The flickering candleglow flared soft on Ennis's hair, curling as he changed angles, tawny and wild, a halo of Botticellian beauty.

His shirt, once white but now a veritable canvas in itself, fell open at the neck revealing hints of skin, glimpses that had Jack swallowing heat. Ennis's jerky movements and rapid metamorphic expressions finally slowed, and he pulled the stool in front of the canvas, sitting with his legs on either side and hands on his knees. He sat with the solidity of a statue; he didn't even blink, eyes watering with the ferocity of his concentration. Jack's could feel his breath coming faster, wisps of desire coalescing in front of his mouth, tongue darting wet want on his lips. He could feel the waves of passionate zeal from across the room, radiating off his body, and when Ennis's eyes widened as he leaned forward, lips parting, Jack's legs opened of their own accord, hips jutting upward in a blatant statement of Ennis's power.

A low sound came from deep within his throat, a husky rumble that ripped straight from his groin, and Ennis's head jerked away from the painting to Jack, eyebrows slamming together at the sight of his request, lingering on the bulge pressing up against black fabric, the language of physicality speaking volumes. His eyes were an inferno, raging wordless assent, and in seconds, he was crossing the room, canvas and stand knocked to the floor, and Jack rose to meet him halfway, bodies crashing and smashing and melding together all at once, fire steaming into vapor as it met water.

He took Jack's mouth, from the inside out, tongues battling to own and caress and slide deeper, groaning desperation into each other's throats. Jack's hands twined into his hair, holding handfuls of golden fire, hips grinding and pushing, Ennis's hands on his bare skin, leaving behind trails of smoky charcoal across his back, sliding down into his pants and pulling him so close that they breathe as one, heartbeats synchronous song, every nerve throbbing to the hilt with desire for more. Grinding into the softness, faster, faster, feeling Jack meet every thrust and rise to it, perfect give and take, and the waves rolled down on him once more; he looked into his salvation, the startlingly clear depths of his inspiration, and he was lost at sea once more, roaring all his passion into the sweetness of Jack's mouth, hips seizing with the strength of his release, epileptic joy-agony, and together they fell onto the bed, drained of everything except one last kiss.

Ennis had looked into those eyes; they asked questions no man can answer except with a kiss, promised redemption in the sins of the flesh.