February 22, 1933

Institut für Sexualwissenschaft (Institute for the Science of Sexuality)

Jack held the bandage on his arm, throbbing from the glinting metal they had used to sample his blood, biding his time until Abraham returned. Morbidly fascinated, he stared at the graph on the wall entitled "Side View of Female Sexual Organs," following the twines of pink with his eyes from top to bottom, a meandering journey from the launching point to the final destination. But what was the final destination—the union of genetic material or the expulsion of it? Jack smiled wryly. He'd never had such thoughts before he came here; the Institute was always to be placing new paradigms of observation into his thought process. This was also the closest he'd ever come to the internal workings of a woman—discounting the minor detail of his birth.

He was on to the frontal view when Abraham opened the door, examining his clipboard and muttering to himself, but he walked in Jack's direction with unerring accuracy, even removed the bandage without looking up from his papers, his thin fingers making quick work. Jack resisted the urge to lean over his shoulder and take a peek at what was so fascinating—as admirable as Abraham's work was, he'd pried about the details one time over coffee and found out much more than he ever wanted to know about the human body. He had very little desire to see its inner workings laid out in front of him, intimate beyond intimacy, the most visceral kind of intrusion. He waited patiently while Abraham mulled over his desk, flipping through papers, brows knitted in deep concentration and muttering under his breath.

He looked up at Jack, blinking, his large liquid eyes slowly coming back to reality. "I didn't look at your arm yet, did I?" He said, more to himself than Jack, and walked around the desk, running his hands over his white coat nervously, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. Jack held out his arm to be examined; his skin was blanched around the wound, a corona of white around a red areole—by now he could not judge himself that it would heal up just fine in a few days.

"Gut, es ist gut," Abraham said, retying the bandage. He pulled an envelope from within the folds of one of his endless lab coat pocket, offering it to Jack, "Before I forget," and went back to jot down a few more notes. Jack rolled his sleeves down, buttoning the cuffs of his white shirt, and folded the envelope in half, slipping it into his pocket of his brown jacket.

"Ready to go?" Abraham asked; he shed his outer skin, tossing the thin white fabric over the back of the chair. Jack nodded, shrugging on his heavy wool coat, the fingers of his right hand still a bit slow to work the buttons. He flexed his arm hoping that the soreness wouldn't last beyond tomorrow; he was modeling again tomorrow night—he needed to be in top form.

"Wohin, mein Freund?" Jack inquired, tossing his scarf over his shoulder and rubbing his palms together in preparation for the brisk night air they were about to face.

"Eldorado? Giese said he might meet us there." Abraham led the way out, having donned his own heavy attire, tugging carefully at the bottom of his black gloves to get them on securely as they descended the stairs. The carpet swallowed the impact of their shoes and the building was silent; the patients were gone for the night. Only the occasional scratch of pen could be heard as they passed the offices.

"As long as I don't have to watch the dancers, they are some of the worst in this city has to offer." They made their way through the empty waiting room and out into the descending night. The moon had not yet risen but there were no traces of the sun left in the blue-blackening twilight, clear and open as the face upturned to it.

"And you are the most critical audience in all of Berlin. Even Fritz has admitted that their routine is fine." Abraham shot Jack a look, eyebrows hiked into positions of skepticism as he slid his hands into his deep pockets.

"Fritz just wanted to impress you, he knows that you are a philanthropist above all. He still talks about the, hmmm, philanthropy of those lovely eyes of yours."

Abraham rolled said eyes, his thick dark lashes fanned out against his pale skin. "Doesn't he realize he's quite too young and pretty for me?"

Vapors of laughter billowed in front of Jack's face in the bitter chill. "I warned him you were the old, decrepit sort, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, he did not believe it."

Abraham just laughed, eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement, but it was joyless, and his face was shadowed in the dim lamplight, all the contours hewn melancholy. "Sometimes I do wonder if I will find anyone." His smile unfurled into a frown, dropping with the cadence of his confession. "I am certain that if you told Fritz the details of my work he would never want to speak to me again."

Jack clicked under his tongue, stepping sideways without missing a beat and wrapping his arm around Abraham's shoulder to bring their bodies together into one thick column. He held his friend close until their steps fell into time, their polished black shoes tapping out their pace on the cobbled sidewalk, and the dew caught the glare of the lamps laying out a path of light laid out before them.

"You are a savior of souls, mein Freund … never forget that."

Abraham's tone was still low, but his chin raised up a bit. "You cabaret boys and your flattery."

"I am no sycophant. It is not in my nature, I'm sure you know this by now. And don't you remember, the first day I came in? Fräulein Kopf told me that you gave her back your life? That was no flattery."

"Ich…" Abraham nodded, squeezing Jack's gloved hand on his shoulder. "Danke, Jacob. Danke." Releasing Jack's hand, he chuckled, lifting the weight from the air. "It can be hard to remember such things when I see the lovesick look on your face, Schatz. Is it still this same painter you were telling me about, hmm?"

"Ja…" Jack licked his lips, gaze suddenly riveted on the pattern of clouds in the sky, following the immaterial blue-black wisps.

"Oh? And where are my sordid details, pray tell? I do distinctly recall you promising them to me."

"Ich…ach so…" Jack shrugged non-commitally and averted his eyes, discomfiture shaping his posture, voice dropping a register, "I'm… I'm not sure there's anything sordid about it, Abraham."

Abraham's eyebrows climbed to incredulous heights. "You jest?" As he examined Jack's countenance they lowered to furrow in thought. "Are you blushing, Schatz? My Jacob, blushing?"

Jack nudged him on the shoulder, trying to escape that voracious stare, his own eyes riveted like twin headlights on sidewalk before him. "Smelling too many of those chemicals again at work again, Abraham?"

Abraham abruptly stopped walking. "I cannot believe. You are being shy with me!" A grin consumed his face, all traces of the grim frown lines smoothed in one fell swoop.

"Come along now, we're almost there. And I am most certainly not blushing." Jack glowered and shook his head, kicking his foot impatiently against the pavement.

Abraham resumed their trek, still smiling radiant, teeth flashing his effervescent amusement. "I think I must meet this man who can reduce you to such a state."

Jack replied quickly, relieved at the change in topic, "Perhaps… but he is not what I would call 'social.'"

Abraham laughed lightly, "Afraid I'll embarrass you, dear?"

"Normally I'd say yes—" Jack smiled a little, "but this time… well…" He ran a hand over his face, sighing gustily. "I'm not even certain that he always wants to see me."

"What ever would make you think that, Jacob?"

"I can't precisely say. It's just… his paintings. Of me. When I'm modeling sometimes I watch him paint and his intensity—it truly defies description. But when he stops, it's almost as if he sees what he's done for the first time. And that he… hates it."

"He's dissatisfied with the quality of his work?"

"It's beautiful. More than beautiful. You will know if you ever see it. But that isn't his concern. I think he's compelled to do it much like I am compelled to dance. But… unlike me, he can still see what he has done after the fact and it… frightens him. None of the work he has started in our sessions has survived."

"The classical tortured artist, na?"

"Perhaps." Jack shrugged. "You might have to meet him to see."

"You know I would love to. Since your father is lax in his duties I will duly ensure that he is worth your time."

Jack chuckled, "Always a comfort, Abraham."

"That is what—" he paused, squinting ahead, "Hmm. That is strange."

Jack looked to what had caught Abraham's attention; a crowd was thick around The Eldorado, bottlenecked around the door like leaves caught in the gutter and spilling over onto the sidewalk. The people leaked like dark water out of the club, flowing slow around the entrance. Jack and Abraham came to the rippling edges and stopped at the fluxing barrier of bodies.

"Why are they leaving?" Abraham asked, trying to peer around the edges. Jack tried to stand on the balls of his feet to get a better view, the hard soles of his boots resisting the contortion, but with a harsh cry of "Outof the way," he was shoved roughly to the side. He tripped over his feet, throwing his arms wide to regain his balance, bracing himself when he stumbled into his fellow onlookers. "'Tschuldigung," he said over and over, re-aligning himself with the vertical and trying to find Abraham in the mayhem. When his vision re-oriented he saw uniformed men, their long dark overcoats cinched high on the waist, their backs scissored in half by long, narrow guns. They fought through the crowd with a mechanistic efficiency, screaming orders left and right, elbowing indiscriminately, delivering swift kicks with their pitch black boots when they seemed to deem it necessary. A wave of sensory overload swept when he watched these men; tingles pricked his nerves and nausea burned acidic tendrils in his stomach and up to his throat. All he could see was a man was silhouetted above him, the curved brim of his hat distorting his shape, the sharpness of his shoulders cutting harsh on the soft light, and his face held in the darkness, hoarding it close so that it pooled deep around his eyes.

It was hell, Jacob. Hell.

Jack waved his hands in futility, closing his eyes so hard he could hear his heartbeat pushing on the inside of his eyelids, " i Nein! NEIN/i "

Jacob…

"Jacob!"

Jack blinked rapidly when he heard Abraham's voice, whiplashing back to reality. The imagery of the world slowly right itself again, forming into patterns that made sense and he wiped the sheen of cold sweat from his brow with aftershocked trembling hands, "Abraham? i Wo bist du /i ?"

"Hier!" Abraham's hand appeared as a pale apparition above the curdling mass of unidentifiable heads and Jack made his way towards it with spine-numbing relief and tunnel vision that allowed him to shove his way through the press.

Jack was able to breathe again when he saw Abraham's face. His tongue was thick in his mouth, unwilling to cooperate with him. " i W–w–w–wir muss–mussen— /i "

"Ja," Abraham interjected before Jack could finish, grabbing him firmly by the arm and towing Jack in his wake, cutting their way out. They broke free and were able to walk side-by-side but Abraham still made no move to let go of his arm, though his grip gentled; his head darted back and forth as if he was scouting their way.

"Was…?" Jack couldn't stop his head from straining, drawn with morbid magnetic force to look back.

"Ich weiss es nicht, Jacob. Aber…" he trailed off, voice covered by the slap of boots on cobble, and veered them sharply to the side of the street. Jack's feet stopped moving abruptly as the men came into his line of vision; Abraham tried urgently to pull him along but he had no strength, no momentum.

He was frozen in time.

Even as one of the men broke off from the line to stand in front of them, cursing and telling them to move along, what were they looking at, he couldn't respond. His thoughts were crystallized into stagnation, words stuck behind his teeth. And when the man's face transformed into something wholly inhumane and he spit at Jack's feet, dirty fucking Jew, it didn't make any sense.

He didn't even feel the butt of the gun connect with his temple.