I feel kind of bad that this chapter is basically "Stan and Kyle hang out in bed for one reason or another," but really, it's not like there's a lot else that they can do. So.

X

Things with Stan moved at a slow but steady pace. It took him days to grow comfortable with the things we were doing together. For a while he'd shy away any time I tried to touch him, but as his apprehension faded we became very familiar with each other's bodies. It was so, so good. None of the previous sexual encounters I'd had with more experienced lovers could even compare to Stan's awkward fumbling under the blankets. I guess caring about someone on that level made a difference in how everything felt. We hadn't even had proper sex yet… I think he was afraid, actually. But what we'd done together was more than enough to keep me happy.

It was frightening to me how quickly I'd fallen in love with him. I wasn't sure if he felt the same way about me, but I knew he wasn't too far off, anyway. Our day to day activities didn't change much; we read books to each other, and talked about our lives. But now our discussions were more and more focused on our futures, what we might do after the war. We hinted to each other that we should stay together, but I think we were both too afraid to outright admit that that was what we wanted. It was alright though… we were building a lot of trust in each other, and I felt safer and happier than I ever had, even before the war.

Ike would come visit me from time to time during this week, and Stan would usually leave the room to give us time alone. I think Stan was always intimidated by him for some reason, although he brushed it off every time I asked him about it. He was probably paranoid because we often spoke in Polish around him, and he thought we were talking about him. Anyway, we were most of the time.

I actually spent a great deal of our visits telling Ike all about Stan, which I think annoyed him to no end. But I knew it made him happy that I was happy. He'd roll his eyes and sigh at me, but he did it with a grin on his face. Anyway, it wasn't like I had much else to talk about.

One evening he surprised me by bringing us dinner earlier than we usually had it. "We're having a Resistance meeting at the apartment tonight," he said, "You guys will need to be quiet."

"Oh," I said, nervously glancing at Stan, "For how long?"

"I don't know," Ike said with a shrug, "I'll come back when it's over to let you know the coast is clear."

He left, and I looked over to Stan, who was attempting to give me a seductive look. He just looked vaguely ill, but I appreciated the effort.

"So if we have to be quiet, I guess that means we shouldn't talk, huh?" he asked.

"Guess so."

"Guess we'll have to occupy ourselves some other way," he said, and leaned over to kiss me.

He pushed me down onto the mattress more forcefully than he ever had before and kissed me until I was breathless. I arched against him, desperately hoping that we might finally fully consummate our relationship, even if we'd have to do so very quietly with Christophe's compatriots in the apartment.

Earlier in the week I'd procured a jar of petroleum jelly after a very humiliating conversation with Christophe. I'd told Stan what it was for when I showed it to him, but he'd blushed and stammered out an excuse. I wasn't going to make him do something he wasn't ready for, but God, I was so, so ready. I wanted to scream my approval when sometime during our heavy petting session Stan reached for the jar.

That night, hidden under the blankets Stan finally worked up enough nerve to push his fingers inside of me. We were really getting into it when seemingly out of nowhere Christophe and Gregory were climbing through the wall into the room, looking tense. We pulled away from each other with a start but except for a cursory glance, they paid us no attention. Christophe muttered an apology to us as he reached over our heads and began to pull guns off the shelf over my bed, handing them off to Gregory.

"What's going on?" I asked, sitting up in the bed. I adjusted the blankets as Stan tried to surreptitiously clean off his hand.

"We have company," Christophe said as he handed guns over to Gregory, "Bosche downstairs."

Christophe muttered instructions to Gregory, who hustled out of the room with the guns in his arms.

Christophe turned to us. "No matter what happens out there, you stay here and don't move."

He walked out and carefully sealed the wall up behind him, making as little noise as possible.

I felt like I was having another bad dream. I couldn't breathe. I had always been in some kind of danger since I'd been at Christophe's apartment, but it had never been in such a concrete way. I was reminded of all the people in the Warsaw ghetto who tried to hide in closets, under beds, in attics, only to be found and shot down on the spot. I was terrified of having the same thing happen to me, just when things were beginning to look up. Stan touched my shoulder and I turned to him, burying my face against his neck as he wrapped his arms around me.

"Please don't let them take me," I whispered against his skin.

He kissed the side of my face and pulled me down to lay with him again. I pressed myself against him as tightly as I could, wanting to be completely consumed by him, the safety he provided. We could hear the thump of hobnail boots coming up the staircase below our room. The sound of my heartbeat was so loud in my ears that I was afraid it would give us away and I tried to concentrate on the smell of Stan's skin to calm myself down, but it didn't work. The man on the staircase pounded on the apartment door, and I could feel the vibrations through the bed.

I held my breath. Stan went stiff underneath me. I think it hadn't occurred to him until that moment what a German entering the apartment might mean. I braced myself, hoping that gunfire wouldn't come next.

The man was shouting and pounding on the door, his curses and threats growing more violent as the minutes wore on. I squeezed my eyes shut, and prayed to God for the first time in years. He hadn't come through for me before, but I was so panicked that I hardly even knew what I was saying. I was aware of only two things: the terrifying noise outside, and Stan, sweet Stan, trying to reassure me without words that everything would be ok.

The banging stopped abruptly. There were voices from the bar downstairs, calling the German soldier back to them. I heard him aim one last kick at the door, and then stomp back down the stairs. Stan slumped back in relief, and I burst into tears.

"What-" Stan began to ask, but I shushed him, pressing my fingers against his lips. There was no way of knowing if we were in the clear yet, and I wasn't about to get killed just because I'd suddenly lost the tenuous control I had over my emotions.

The truth is I had no idea why I was crying. Relief, perhaps, but I think more than that it was the frustration of being in our situation. I was sick of being afraid. I was sick of having to hide. I hated the terror that gripped me any time there was even a possibility of being caught. I hated that people wanted to kill me for no reason other than the fact that I had been born a Jew. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to be as quiet as possible, but I couldn't stop crying. Stan moved slowly so the bed wouldn't creak, and tried to dry my face with his free hand. For whatever reason that only made me cry harder. I gave up on trying not to cry, and I guess Stan gave up on trying to get me to stop crying. We just laid there for a while, me silently sobbing into his shoulder, and him gently running his fingers through my hair. How long we stayed that way I don't know, but after a while we heard the sound of people filtering out of the apartment one by one, and then the quiet rumble of Christophe, Gregory, and Ike's voices. It was only when I heard someone walking toward the closet that I realized I was still naked. Stan was too, for that matter. We simultaneously released each other, scrambling to at least have our underwear on before someone saw us.

What a sight we must have made when Ike peeked inside; I was only in boxer shorts, and my face was still wet, puffy and red from crying, and Stan was on the floor, flailing his arms in the air in an attempt to get his shirt over his head.

"Um," Ike said, pausing in uncertainty.

"It's fine," I said, "Come in."

He came in hesitantly, and sat next to me at the foot of the bed.

"Are you ok?" he asked, putting an arm around my shoulders. I tried to wipe the remaining tears from my eyes.

"Fine, yeah."

Ike sighed, and I sighed in return. Stan sat there on the floor, watching us with a look of uncertainty on his face.

"Is Kyle fine?" Ike asked him.

"Um."

"Yeah don't answer that," Ike said, pulling me against him and squeezing me. I thought about pushing him away, but decided against it. Instead I turned my face against his shoulder, and sniffled pathetically. He patted me on the head like a dog, and I pulled away, annoyed.

"Don't worry, Kyle. Things are going to get better," he said.

"Are they?"

"Well who fucking knows?" he said, getting to his feet. "I have to go, though. Out past curfew, and all that. I just wanted to check on you."

"I'm-"

"Fine, yeah, I got that. I'll see you later, ok?"

"Be safe," I said, looking up at him. I was taken aback at how grown up he looked in that moment. He smiled at me.

"Of course. You take care of my brother, Stan, ok?"

"Sure," Stan said. Ike gave him a condescending smile, and left.

Because of his injured leg, Stan was still pretty unsteady on his feet. The wounds on his leg were too prone to infection to cover with a plaster cast, so instead we'd fixed him up with a tight splint that could be easily removed for bathing or when I needed to change his bandages. It wasn't ideal, and I don't think he had enough support from it no matter how I tried to adjust it. He had a tendency to hide how much it hurt him to hobble around on it, and he usually refused my help when I offered it. But he stumbled as he tried to lift himself off the floor, and I knew his leg must have really been hurting him because he smiled sheepishly at me and held his hand up.

I helped him onto the bed, and kneeled on the floor beside it, watching his face as he reclined against the pillows. He was sweaty and pale, and laid very still for a moment with his eyes shut. I brushed his bangs off his forehead and then slowly traced the contours of his face with my fingertips. He kissed them as I ran them across his lips. He then smiled gently and took my hand, lacing our fingers together and resting them both over his heart.

"I think I must have strained my leg when I was looking for my shirt," he said.

"I guess so. Anything I can do?"

"Yeah," he said, "get in bed already."

I carefully climbed over him, squeezing myself into the tiny space between him and the wall. I felt safer there. I was still tense from before, and I felt irritated that I couldn't stop sniffling. I'm sure I looked like shit, too.

"Are you going to sleep?" I asked.

"Nah," he said, though his eyes were still closed, "I'm hungry and I'd like to take a bath. I'm just going to stay here until my leg stops throbbing."

We didn't move for a while, and I thought he had fallen asleep when he spoke again.

"Are you still scared?" he asked.

"Yes," I admitted. I had a tendency to lie to everyone else about my fears, but there was something between the two of us, some kind of bond that made it difficult to lie to him. What's more, I didn't even want to, not even to protect myself from becoming too vulnerable. That thought at that moment was what made me realize that I truly loved him. I felt a rush of anxiety, but then Stan was speaking again.

"I know it doesn't really mean much," he said, "but I want you to know that I would die to protect you."

I smiled sadly, and took his hand in mine once more, hoping he didn't notice how I was trembling.

"That's very sweet of you, and it's not that I don't appreciate it, but generally speaking when it comes to the Germans that's kind of how it works whether you want it to or not. If we were caught we'd both be dead before you even had a chance to protect me."

"Well…" he said, but he trailed off there. We could hear Gregory moaning loudly in the next room.

"Um, how about we take a bath or something, now," Stan said.

"Are you sure you can walk?" I asked as he sat up.

"Probably not, but I don't- I can't- This is just too awkward to listen to."

I smiled, and helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily on my shoulder.

"I guess so," I said, "but maybe one of these days we can embarrass them with our own loud, noisy sex."

I'd never seen Stan turn so red.

Our evening together was pretty uneventful. I figured he'd take a bath while I made us something to eat, but he insisted I join him. It was the first time we'd bathed together, but there was nothing really sexual about it. I think on a normal evening being wet and naked together would have been a perfect excuse to get frisky with each other, but I was too emotionally exhausted, and I knew Stan's leg was still hurting. In the end we simply washed each other's hair and backs, and cuddled until the water turned cold. After a quick meal, we collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted from everything that had happened that night. I hoped the rest of the week would be quiet and uneventful, but that was not to be.

I awoke with Stan's hands pushed up under my shirt, pressed right over my heart. He was shifting sleepily against me, and gave me a soft smile when he saw that I was awake.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly as he pulled his hands away. "I was trying to feel for your heartbeat."

I smiled at him and rubbed my foot against his calf. "How's your leg?" I asked.

"Better. It doesn't hurt as much today… I think the bath last night helped."

"That's good," I said, sitting up and stretching. "You should try, like, exercises or something. For your other leg, I mean… since you're compensating for the bad one. If you build more muscle it might help."

"I can feel the bits of bone stuck in there when I move too much. Like, stuck in my muscles. It hurts."

I stared at him in surprise. He'd never mentioned that at all, and for some reason I felt bad that I hadn't known, although how would I?

"Maybe we should get you a cane or something," I suggested.

He scowled in response. "I'd feel like an old man, though."

I shrugged. If he was too proud to use a cane then I guessed he'd just have to deal with the pain. I still felt bad for him, though. We'd talked at length about his outdoor adventures in Colorado. Apparently he liked to climb fourteeners, whatever those were. His climbing days were probably over, though.

He was watching me from his pillow with an indiscernible look on his face, but just as I was about to ask him what he was thinking, there was a knock against the wall.

"Come in," I called, climbing out of bed to pull my trousers on.

Christophe removed the section of wall that kept us safe, and entered the room looking tense. I could tell from the look on his face that I wasn't going to like whatever it was he'd come to tell us.

"Um," he said, staring at the floor.

There was a long pause. He opened and shut his mouth several times, looking around the room, unable to spit out whatever it was he had to say. Then he looked up at me. I'd never seen him look so distraught before, and it unnerved me.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Um, Ike didn't make it home last night."

"…Well where is he?" I asked, hoping he wasn't saying what I thought he was saying.

"Kyle, he's dead. He was caught on the way home and they shot him."

I think at that point I tried to say something, to refute what he was telling me, but suddenly it was like all the air had been sucked from the room. I felt my legs go out, and suddenly both Christophe and Stan were grabbing me and helping me onto the bed.

"That's not- He can't-" I stumbled over my words as Stan pulled me into his arms, "Don't- don't lie to me. Why would you lie about that?" There was no way that after everything, my brother had been taken away from me too. It was impossible. It had to be a sick joke.

He kneeled next to the bed and put his hand on my knee. "I'm sorry, Kyle. I'm so sorry. I wish I was lying."

I sat there in shock, and watched as Christophe fought back tears. I'd never seen him genuinely upset before, and that's when it hit me that he was telling the truth. Ike really was gone.

An inhuman sound tore from my throat as I turned to press my face to Stan's chest. For a moment the only sound in the room was my anguished crying. It was as if someone had literally torn my heart out of my chest. My lungs too, since I couldn't breathe.

Stan held me against him and stroked my hair, and I slowly realized that he was crying too. I think Christophe must have said something, but I was in a place where his voice couldn't reach me. It was like nothing in the world existed outside of my misery.

In books and things like that, people talk about crying themself to sleep. There's some sort of romantic notion attached to it that I had never quite understood. Of course, reality never really played into peoples' romantic notions. Sleep would have at least given me some shelter from my feelings of absolute despair, but such comforting relief never came to me.

Instead it was like a waking nightmare. I was vaguely aware of where I was, but thoughts of my brother consumed me. The thing I couldn't get out of my head was the first time I held him as a baby. I was about five years old at the time, and he was just this tiny little thing that cried if you spoke to loudly. When my mother handed him to me, she told me that as the older brother, it was up to me to look after him and keep him safe. I'd failed them both.