February 13, 1933

Cabaret Shangri-La

"So who is he, liebchen?" Loreen asked, pulling her eyelid downward and carefully applying kohl to the lower lid, mouth open in concentration.

"Who is who?" Jack said. He was reclined on the chaise, the centerpiece of her dressing room; most likely the centerpiece of her sexual encounters as well, but he chose not to think about that.

"The man you are thinking about instead of your performance," she said, rimming the upper lid more heavily, black soot against her pristine white skin.

Jack pulled his leg up to his shoulder, resting his hand on his calf, "That bad, am I?"

Loreen looked over her shoulder, smiling through the cascade of her hair, "Anyone who laid their eyes on you tonight knew, Schatz." She walked her fingers delicately through the mountain range of make up jars on her vanity, hiking the tops until she picked out a small one full of rouge.

"Also." Jack switched legs, "Not everyone is as perceptive as you, but your point is taken. If you must know, he is a painter."

"Ja?"

"A quite good one."

"Und…?"

"Und was?"

She turned her chair around, pulling her creamy white stockings higher on her thighs, looking at him skeptically. "You haven't even slept together have you? And already you are a lovesick puppy."

"Du bist meine Mutter, Loreen? Last time I checked I already had one."

"Well, she would have heart murmurs to hear half of what you do, dearest, which is why I fill in for her." She secured the clips of the garter to the stocking, careful of her long fingernails on the fabric.

"I know what you're thinking."

She merely raised an eyebrow at him, adjusting one breast in her corset, pulling it up and out while tightening the ties, and then the other.

"This won't be another Niko."

She dusted white powder onto her chest, chin down to watch her work, careful to keep the plumes from dispersing too far. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He sat up, pulling his arms behind his back and clasping his hands, arching until his shoulders stretched, ribs opening up and out. "I don't think he's ever been with a man, for one."

"You kid."

Jack chuckled, "I have my suspicions."

She got up out of her seat, pulling a dark indigo-lace dress off her changing screen, slipping into it. "There's a woman, then?"

Jack folded from the waist, falling forward, resting his on his knees as he looked at Loreen. "Also…weiß ich nicht."

"Don't tell me he's a virgin!" Loreen said, fingers paused in the midst of fastening the mother-of-pearl inlay buttons that glinted up the front of her dress.

Jack grinned mischievously, "I hope not… but I would not be surprised."

"So what do you know about this man, Jack?"

He unfolded, leaning against the back of the chaise, draping his body on its sumptuous curve, and smiling like he'd been waiting for that very question, the corners of his mouth curled in satisfaction.

"He kisses better than any fuck I've ever had."

Loreen eyes went heavenward as she tried to suppress a grin, shaking her head, "Well, I'm happy for you. I can't imagine how you'll react to the real thing." She coiffed her hair, stabbing various pins in it mass of curls, "But have the two of you spoken more than a handful of words to each other all these nights you've been modeling?"

"He is not one for idle chatter."

"Have you tried?"

"…no."

"Promise me you will. You know I will worry until you can tell me what you've gotten yourself into."

"Why is this so important?"

"Marlene had the same effect on me, my dear. And now she's off in America making movies."

"Herr Demarien is not like Marlene."

"Promise me."

He rose from the chaise, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Ich werde, Mutter."

"Danke, liebchen." A hug, faint red lipstick marks on both his cheeks, and they left the dressing room, taking their places behind the curtain and just before the curtain rose, Jack said over his shoulder,

"But I am not responsible for what might find its way into my mouth during our 'conversation.'"

February 14, 1933

Sixth modeling session

Jack laid his jacket on the back of his chair but he did not remove the rest of his clothing. Ennis said nothing, swallowing convulsively, busying himself by clearing a space next to his canvas. He laid out his brushes and the rinsing bowl, the clear glass letting the light diffuse through the water, and pulled his stool forward, propping up the sketch pad against his knee.

Jack stretched, raising his arms above his head and then bending at the waist, moving fluidly into a series of slow kicks. When he saw that Ennis was ready, he moved into dance, a subtle but breathtaking shift. Every dance he did for Ennis was a unique expression unto itself, raw emotion distilled into movement. Jack flowed sinuous as water, waves and motion and translucence, yet below the surface, ran deep and calm, like a raging waterspout revolving around the eye of the storm. Ennis slashed his hand across the paper, back and forth between the vision in front of him and the pale imitation in his lap. It was exhilaration and frustration all at once to see the fount of his art but not to be able to drink from it.

Jack progressed from staccato twirls into exquisitely controlled poses, sweeping his leg in a wide arc from the floor, up to his shoulder, and back down. With each new movement he slowed ever further until he was moving at the speed of sight, and Ennis threw the sketch pad down to stand before his easel. Jack effortlessly sank into stillness, arms diagonal to his body, head raised in supplication, face thrown into profile. Ennis frantically squeezed colors from the tubes of paint, red into white, brush flying over the pebbled surface of the canvas, splaying ribbons of hue across the virgin surface in his haste to manifest what was before him.

After twenty minutes had crawled by, Jack lowered his arms to his side, closing his eyes and breathing deep, shaking his muscles out to prevent stiffness. Ennis stepped back from his painting, setting down his brush and putting his hand, clenched, in front of his mouth. Jack stretched lazily, loosening up the tight spots, and went over to stand next to him, glancing at the painting. It was magnificent, rich in color and utterly three-dimensional in rendering, yet Ennis's shoulders were pulled up tight and his fingers twitched.

"You do not approve, Mein Herr?"

Ennis jerked, turning to face Jack, taken aback. "How… how did you know?"

Jack smiled, "It was the way you are moving. Your hands twitch like they want to tear it apart."

Ennis grimaced, shoulders dropping, "It's not what I want."

"What is it that you want?"

He chewed on his nail, mumbling past it, "I… I'm not sure. But it's so close. I can feel it, throbbing in the front of my head." He moved his fingers to his forehead, stopping just short of touching, as if he could draw it out.

He placed a hand on Ennis's shoulder. "You will find it."

"How do you know?"

"I have faith in you."

Ennis shied, looking away; the muscles of his throat moved but did not work. Picking up one of his brushes, he fingered the fibers, unable to look at Jack. "I should—achso, I wanted to apologize."

"Whatever for?" Jack took another step closer, not removing his hand.

"I was most unprofessional," he said quietly, rolling the brush in his palms.

Jack suppressed the smile threatening at his lips, "I was not troubled in the least, Mein Freund."

"You are my model, I cannot—it's not right—"

Jack placed two fingers on Ennis's lips, stalling the string of meaningless consonants.

"I wanted it just as much as you did."

Ennis closed his eyes, fine features drawn, "Aber—"

Jack trailed his fingers along Ennis's jaw, catching on the sharp edges of golden hair, and up under his chin, pulling his face up until they were eye to eye. "It's alright." He withdrew the brush from Ennis's loose fingers, setting it on the stool, and took Ennis's face in his hands, running his thumbs along the hesitant angularity, seeing the request that could never be articulated nestled deep in the clear amber pools. "It's alright." Ennis drew back just a bit, mouth ungiving, but melted under Jack's gentle inquiry, a sliver of sunshine warming his skin. Their lips were drawn together, two opposite poles crossing the choppy oceans to join, the craggy mountain of their desire rising from the waves. The kiss was gentle and fierce all at once, an inferno rushing through the dark corridors of their uncertainty and igniting a connection that reverberated in the currents of their blood.

As the waves receded, the waters calmed, foreheads pressed together, breath coming uneven and quick, fingers crisscrossed and feet locked to the spot, reeling from the impact.

"May I stay, Herr Demarien?"

The word fell off Ennis's tongue like it was the first true word he'd ever spoken, "Bitte."