Work Text:
“I must say, I’m quite proud of my work on this—and I’m pleased that you’re satisfied with it, as well. The recipient must be someone quite special.”
Nathaniel smiles up at the man he had commissioned, alongside a generous tip, for the harmonica now being carefully wrapped and packaged. A gleaming thing, shiny and new, plated with real silver and embellished with golds—a bit over the top, perhaps, but Nathaniel had been struck by inspiration.
“You could say that,” Nathaniel says vaguely. It isn’t the first time Mr. Schwarz has tried to coax out the details of who he placed such an order for, but there’s simply no way he can answer honestly. No man buys a gift so extravagant for another male friend.
Mr. Schwarz shakes his head, fond and resigned to never getting the information out of him as he ties the package securely shut.
“Here you are, lad. Say hello to your Ma for me when you see her next, will you?”
Nathaniel grins as he accepts the package, tucking it into one of the deep pockets inside his thick coat.
“Sure thing, Mr. Schwarz. I’ll be back next week, as usual,” Nathaniel says as he prepares to leave.
“Of course. Watch out for the ice out there, now!” Mr. Schwarz calls as he opens the door, the bell above jingling. Nathaniel gives a reassuring wave, stepping out into the cold late November air.
After the welcoming warmth of Mr. Schwarz’s shop, Nathaniel has to take a moment to shudder and brace himself against the cold. His breath fogs the air as he makes his way towards the nearby tram station where he settles to wait.
Luckily his business with Mr. Schwarz hadn’t taken long; he has to meet Louis at the university by noon, for their father bade Nathaniel to deliver a telegram from Ms. Fischer, as if Louis can’t possibly wait several hours to hear whatever droll fight his fiancée seemed fit to pick this time.
It’s probably just an excuse, Nathaniel is sure. His father wants Louis to, once again, try to convince him to study business.
The tram rattles in the distance, signalling its approach. Someone calls out—hey, kid—and he ignores it, for the voice is unfamiliar and he’s a grown man in spite of his stature.
Then a hand claps onto his shoulder as the tram rolls forth.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Obermeyer,” the unfamiliar voice says and Nathaniel goes still as he glances up.
He doesn’t recognize the man. He’s older, with scruff on his jaw and hard grey eyes; he’s dressed nicely, though his clothes are ill-fitting, the tie crooked and the fabric of his pressed blazer creased.
“My apologies,” Nathaniel says dully. “Have we met, good sir?”
The man smiles. It isn’t a particularly kind expression. People disembark from the trams open doors, too wrapped up in their own business to pay attention to them.
“Not personally. Shall we go for a ride, lad?” He squeezes Nathaniel’s shoulder, urging him towards the tram, and since he had intended to get on anyway Nathaniel grimaces and follows.
They sit together near the back of the tram. Nobody pays them any mind as the stranger sits at the edge, forcing Nathaniel to be locked in between him and the window seat.
“No need to be so tense,” the man grumbles to him as he pulls out a metal cigarette carrier. “Want one?”
Nathaniel scrunches his face, shaking his head. He’s smoked before and doesn’t mind it, but in a closed space like this it irritates him.
“What I want is to know what you want,” Nathaniel says, voice low so as to keep from causing a scene. The man rolls his eyes as he lights up.
“I ain’t here to cause a fight or nothin’. I’m only here ‘cause you’re friends with the Postman, yeah?”
The Postman. The way the man says it is vaguely, uncomfortably familiar. The only people who call his friend Postman are…
Something uneasy churns in Nathaniel’s stomach.
“I’m friends with a postman, yes,” he says, wariness bleeding into his tone. The man looks almost amused.
“No need to be so tense,” he repeats. “Not yet, at any rate. We both know I’m talkin’ about Grantz.” And then, before Nathaniel can formulate a response to that, “You remember the fire in October?”
Of course Nathaniel remembers the fire. He remembers how his hands had shaken when Louis silently handed him the newspaper, the inky black and grey visage of his dear friend emerging from the burning home printed as vividly in his memory as it had been on the paper.
There had been only one casualty. A local officer, whose dog is now in the care of one Victor Grantz.
“The fire,” the man says, “Was an example. Not for Grantz, but the copper. But, see, lotsa folk workin’ for the boss don’t like Grantz all that much. They don’t trust him, even if the boss might, but with everyone makin’ a racket...well, there’s got to be insurance, y’know. To make sure the lad won’t decide he can speak after all.”
Nathaniel wrings his hands together so they won’t shake now. Two weeks ago...Two weeks ago he had visited his mother, and she had told him someone had been asking after a postman. She had asked if he knew any such young men. He’d brushed it off as a coincidence, certain they’d gotten the wrong house, but—
“Just to be clear,” the man says, barely audible over the rush of blood in Nathaniel’s ears and the way the tram rattles along the tracks, “This ain’t a threat. It’s just a warnin’. It ain’t too late to start distancin’ yourself from the lad. If not for your own sake, then for your Ma.”
Nathaniel’s blood runs cold. This is the man, he realizes. The one who had spoken to his mother; he knows where she lives. He knew where to find Nathaniel today. And yet—
“...Why?” Nathaniel asks.
The man glances down at him, smoke drifting from his parted lips.
“Why warn me?” He clarifies, and the man makes a thoughtful sound.
“Well...it ain’t for your sake, that’s for sure. That Grantz lad...he did me a favour, once. Now I’m doin’ one for him. The boss is outta town until next week, but when he gets back, he’ll be askin’ me questions. You understand?”
You have a week to get out of Victor Grantz’s life, is what he’s being told.
Nathaniel wonders for a moment what Victor might have done for this man to warrant him risking himself the way he is. From what Nathaniel understands, while ‘Big Daddy’ is fond of his men and of Victor, he’s also ruthless.
He’d worked with the officer he burned for years, after all.
The tram rattles noisily as it rolls to a stop a block away from the university. The man claps Nathaniel’s shoulder as they both disembark, a pitying smile on his face.
“One week,” he tells Nathaniel again, and then he’s gone, a trail of smoke from a freshly-lit cigarette drifting after him. Nathaniel watches him until he can no longer see him and only then does he let himself walk to the university.
He’s so notably distracted that Louis doesn’t even try to talk to him about his studies.
Nathaniel and Victor usually meet on Wednesdays and Saturdays.
When Nathaniel is able to escape his family obligations on this particular Saturday, he and Victor are meant to meet downtown as usual. Ordinarily, Nathaniel is in a rush to see him, but today his feet drag. He feels weighed down; the package in his coat pocket feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
It was meant to be for Victor’s birthday. Now it’s going to be a farewell present.
The worst part is Nathaniel...doesn’t know how to tell him, if he can at all. What could he possibly say?
Last week, he had found the courage to take Victor’s hand in the dim light of the bar they had eaten at as he recited a poem he himself had written—he had met Victor’s eyes as he spoke words of desperate longing. Victor had listened attentively, as he always does, over the voices of other patrons and the band playing on the dingy stage.
Victor had smiled, the action pulling at the fresh burn beneath his left eye. His gaze had been soft. His hand had been warm in Nathaniel’s, sweaty from the humidity of the bar as his fingers gently squeezed Nathaniel’s own. He had looked back at him with what Nathaniel hoped, desperately, was the same sort of longing that Nathaniel knew bled into his own voice and expression when he spoke.
How can Nathaniel tell him that they simply can’t meet anymore? There’s no reason. Honestly, Nathaniel still doesn’t want to—if it weren’t for his mother, he wouldn’t care about these warnings and threats. He doesn’t care what happens to him.
But his mother…
And Victor, who probably has no idea how deep he’s in; he must have seen or heard something that he wasn’t meant to without even realizing. God only knows. Nathaniel has no idea why on Earth he even started that side-job of delivering for those people, but he’s never pressed the matter. It was always irrelevant.
...Nathaniel should have asked him about it, but he never wanted Victor to think he judged him. Now it’s too late. He sighs from the park bench he had dropped himself into, his breath fogging the air.
He’s startled by a hand dropping onto his shoulder, but when Nathaniel looks up, it’s just Victor—just Victor, dressed in plain but warm clothes out of his uniform, his blonde hair a mess from the wind and his face sweetly reddened by the cold.
“Sorry,” Victor signs as he tugs his hand away. “Did I startle you?”
“Only a bit,” Nathaniel says, unable to keep himself from returning Victor’s smile as he stands. “Are we going to Keller’s?”
Victor nods, enthused; they almost always head to Keller’s bar, not only because the man was fond of Victor—and of Nathaniel—but because the food and drink were genuinely wonderful. It was also an establishment that turned a blind eye to men who sat too close to other men, or likewise with women.
It had been Victor who first brought him there, so Nathaniel is certain that maybe he...maybe it isn’t just him, but…
One week, echoes the gruff voice of that man from several days ago. Nathaniel buries it out of his mind as he and Victor make their way downtown. He won’t let himself think about it; if this is going to be the last night he gets to spend with Victor, he wants to enjoy it.
So he watches the motions of Victor’s hands attentively as they walk. Victor tells him of his day—his morning deliveries, his afternoon spent sorting packages, things his coworkers had said or done that stood out.
Nathaniel could watch him speak for hours. Victor never used to speak so much with him, not even in sign—it had taken a surprising amount of work to get him to open up. It had been worth it.
Nathaniel is the one telling Victor about the exceptionally boring day he’d had helping Louis pack for some trip he’s making to speak for the university in another city, along with helping him pick topics and sort papers, when they finally make it to Keller’s. They both hurriedly duck inside, shaking flakes of snow out of their coats and hair as they’re both inundated with noise.
Patrons speaking, the band setting up on stage, Mr. Keller himself hollering food orders to the kitchen—it washes over them as they make their way to their usual table in the back corner.
Victor makes eye contact with Mr. Keller, signing the usual at him instead of having Nathaniel shout across the bar; Mr. Keller gives a thumbs up as Nathaniel shrugs out of his heavy coat, watching as Victor does the same.
Nathaniel misses the summer, when Victor’s uniform was short-sleeved, when he would tug the collar of it loose. Though he does roll up the sleeves of his somewhat wrinkled dress shirt now, the top button left undone, so maybe winter is fine.
Besides, Victor looks so lovely when the cold reddens his cheeks.
“Now, enough about Louis,” Victor signs when they’re both sitting. “How’s your publication going?”
“It’s...going,” Nathaniel signs back, his face heating up at the joy and pride in Victor’s expression. As summer turned to fall, Nathaniel had one of his pieces published in the local newspaper under a pseudonym; he had then been approached, via the editor, by a publicist. It had been unexpected but not unwelcome.
“It will probably print in spring,” Nathaniel signs. Victor’s expression lights up.
“I can’t wait to read it. All of it. You keep hiding your best pieces from me,” Victor says, and Nathaniel sinks into his seat, embarrassed.
“I do not,” he refutes, gesturing too aggressively. “They’re just...embarrassing.” Because most of what he writes these days is about Victor, and he’s as terrified at the idea of the other man realizing as he is hopeful for it.
Victor gives him a doubtful look. Mr. Keller appears with a tray of drinks and a basket of bread rolls before Victor can continue to goad him on the subject of Nathaniel’s writing.
“Evenin’, lads,” Keller greets as he places the tray down. “If the usual includes the apple sauerkraut, sausage and maultaschen, it’ll be out in a jiffy.”
“Thanks, Mr. Keller,” Nathaniel says as Victor signs the same sentiment. “Tell the good Mrs. Keller back there that I say thank you as well, will you?”
“Of course,” Keller says as he hands Victor his favored dark lager, then passes Nathaniel his ale. “Will you lads be wanting some baumkuchenspitzen after? She wanted me to make sure you know they’re nice and fresh.”
“Yes please,” Nathaniel says immediately, then goes hot in the face when Victor smirks at him. He kicks the other man’s leg under the table “Shut up, you want some too.”
Victor laughs, silent as it is, his shoulders trembling as he nods in confirmation when Keller looks at him.
“Some extras to bring home, too,” he signs as well, and Keller nods.
“Right you are. I’ll be back out with your food shortly,” he tells them, then whisks away to deal with someone waiting for him at the bar.
It’s a good night. It keeps on being good; he and Victor sit too close, their knees knocking together under the table as they eat and talk.
Later—much later, after dessert and speaking with Mrs. Keller—they leave the bar with no small amount of baumkuchenspitzen between them, Nathaniel feeling tipsy more on Victor’s company than the drink. Outside, they don’t dare to hold their hands together the way they do under the table inside; they walk closely, but not too closely, in the direction of the park they usually part ways at.
That is where Nathaniel has to give him his gift. One final present.
It weighs heavy in his coat.
Victor stops suddenly, though they’re still a ways away from their usual parting point; Nathaniel stops, too, looking back at him.
“Is everything alright?” He asks. Victor is looking at him with a furrowed, concerned brow.
“You’ve been odd tonight,” Victor finally signs, haltingly. “I wasn’t going to ask, but...are you okay? ”
Victor is sharp. Even though he avoids socializing—or perhaps because of that—he’s rather perceptive when it comes to the feelings of others. Nathaniel should have known better.
“It’s nothing,” he lies. “Just...I’ll be busy for a bit this coming month, so I was feeling rather morose about it, since I probably won’t be able to see you as much.”
An understatement. Still, Victor’s expression softens, his hand lifting forward slightly as if to touch him before he remembers himself, fingers curling as he pulls back.
Nathaniel stifles his disappointment.
“At least things will settle down in the new year,” Victor signs. His smile is a tender thing when he goes on to add, “In spring, it will have been a year since we met.”
...Nathaniel’s heart aches. Victor is making this so goddamn hard.
“It doesn’t feel like that long,” he says, thanking God for the steadiness of his voice. “But at the same time, it also feels like much longer.”
Nathaniel’s throat grows tight at the expression on Victor’s face, then. Backlit by the lamps that keep the park path dimly lit, he looks...he looks…
“I have something for you,” he blurts out before Victor can say anything and before he himself can do anything stupid. Victor, who had been lifting his hands, pauses in surprise.
“It—it was meant to be for your birthday and for, you know, Christmas, but I might not see you then. I want you to have it now.”
“I told you that you didn’t need to get me anything,” Victor signs. Nathaniel pats down his coat, tugging the front loose as he reaches into the inside pocket for the thin, rectangular box.
The wrapping is plain and red. He had replaced the brown paper that Mr. Schwarz had initially wrapped it in for this—his hand shakes as he holds it gently between the two of them.
“Happy—happy early birthday, Victor, and Merry Christmas,” Nathaniel manages to say, hating the way he stumbles over his words as he holds it out. Victor takes the package cautiously, holding it as though it’s porcelain.
He looks up at Nathaniel with wide, curious eyes, and Nathaniel shifts nervously.
“If you want to open it now, I’d...I would like that. I want to see you open it, but I don’t know if I will in December, so…”
Victor smiles gently, lifting a finger to his mouth in a universal shush gesture. This time he doesn’t seem to care if anybody is watching—he reaches out to take Nathaniel by the forearm, leading him to a bench near one of the tram stops.
They sit there together, Victor too close as he removes his gloves and carefully slides a forefinger between the edges of the carefully folded paper, making it come loose. He treats even the cheap paper as if it’s something precious, folding it carefully into a thick rectangle and tucking it into his own coat before running his hand curiously over the plain, rectangular box.
He glances up at Nathaniel, who nods eagerly at him. Smiling again, Victor lifts off the lid of the box, and—
His eyes go wide, his smile slipping from his face. Is it shock? Or—
“Do you...do you like it?” Nathaniel asks, voice sounding meek even to his own ears. He touches his foot to Victor’s, tempted to hook it over his ankle like he would in the bar, but he refrains.
Slowly, with great care, Victor puts the lid back over the box and looks up at Nathaniel with his eyes still wide.
“I can’t accept this,” he signs, hands shaking from what must be the cold. “It’s too much, Nathaniel. It must have cost—”
“The price doesn’t matter,” Nathaniel says hurriedly. He rarely ever cuts Victor off, but he does so now, clenching his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out to grab the other man’s hands in his own. “I wanted to give you something special, and this was—this was all I could think of. You’ve been saying you needed a new one, since your old one was—was lost—and I was being selfish, anyway, because I missed hearing you play.”
Victor’s expression crumbles slightly at the mention of the instrument he had ‘lost’—Nathaniel isn’t sure that’s what happened; Victor simply wouldn’t tell him where it had gone or where he may have left it if that were the case, but it had happened shortly after...the fire.
“You’re too kind to me,” Victor says. His hands are still shaking. Nathaniel wants to hold them; wants to bring them close and breathe warmth into them, regardless of the fact Victor’s gloves are in his lap.
“I’ve never...been given something so…” Victor struggles, lips pursed as he clenches his fingers into the empty air, as if he might grab onto whatever words he might seeking.
Nathaniel waits, breath half-stalled in his throat, the air between them fogging with each of his trembling inhales.
“Personal. So special, ” Victor signs. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Nathaniel asks, hoping the shiver in his voice can be blamed on the weather.
“My gift for you isn’t ready yet,” Victor seems so genuinely upset by this that Nathaniel laughs, breathless, his voice threatening to crack.
“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t—I don’t expect anything, Victor. I just wanted to do something for you. Something special, and important, because…” because you’re special to me. His voice really does crack towards the end and Nathaniel shudders, hating the way his eyes feel warm despite the cold.
Victor touches his arm, smiling. His face is so warm, so gentle, so knowing—Nathaniel wants to kiss him right then and there, uncaring for who might possibly see. He’s sure that Victor wants it, too; that he would kiss Nathaniel back, and he would taste like the lager Nathaniel hates, but he would love it if it were from Victor’s mouth.
For a moment Nathaniel lets himself fantasize about it—taking Victor’s wind-chilled face in his hands and kissing him like that. If it weren’t for that man’s lingering warning, Nathaniel would.
He doesn’t care about reputation.
But his mother—his mother has already given up so much for him. She had him, despite the fact it cost her the approval of her family, her friends, her job; she gave him up so he could grow up well-fed and well-clothed and educated instead of penniless and ridiculed for the circumstances of his birth.
Nathaniel was never even supposed to know her. He found her only because he saw a letter tucked away in the depths of his father’s office, still in its envelope, the paper worn enough to have been removed and read many times over. That was barely a year and a half ago. They’re still catching up, still learning of each other.
He can’t risk her.
Nathaniel would risk himself. He would do so gladly; his reputation, his life. He wouldn’t care. Not if he could have Victor for even a day longer. But he can’t risk her.
So Nathaniel doesn’t. He doesn’t kiss Victor, and when Victor mouths thank you at him, Nathaniel musters a tremulous smile.
“Play for me,” he whispers. “Please. I want to hear you, before I go.”
Victor nods. Uncaring of the late hour or public disturbance, he pulls out the harmonica. It fits perfectly into his hands, the gleaming silver and gold embellishments as perfect as Nathaniel knew they would be for him.
The song he plays is one Nathaniel has never heard from him before. It’s slow and haunting and he sinks back into the bench, watching Victor in profile; the way his eyes close, his lashes brushing against the darkened skin of the burn near his eye, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration.
Nathaniel savors all of it. Not just the music, but the red in Victor’s face, the flurry of snowflakes that catch and melt in his golden hair.
Victor doesn’t just play one song. He keeps going and Nathaniel can’t bring himself to stop him—can’t bring himself to be the one who ends their final night together.
Victor only stops when an elderly woman comes out from her home to shout at them for making so much noise, though the woman’s neighbor laughs from his front porch and tells her to appreciate good music before her hearing goes; while the woman turns her wrath to him, Victor turns to Nathaniel with the happiest smile Nathaniel has ever seen on him.
It’s breathtaking. It takes everything in him not to start crying at the sight of it.
Thank you, Victor mouths again, grinning.
I’m sorry, is all Nathaniel can think as he forces himself to smile back.
A week into his indefinite stay at Oletus Manor, Victor sinks into one of the luxurious parlor chairs with a sigh of relief.
It’s quiet here. Everyone else is busy elsewhere—with matches, with chores, with each other. So he can take a moment to himself, Wick settling by his feet.
For a moment Victor just sits there, boneless, enjoying the quiet—the only sound is that of his own breathing and of Wick shifting on the rug, snuffling as he settles.
It isn’t that he dislikes being around people, but...oh, he does. He does dislike it, at least in such excess, and it seems as if there is always someone encroaching on his personal space of late—some are quiet and respectful enough of his space that he doesn’t mind being around for extended periods, like Mr. Kreiss or Ms. Woods or Mr. Clark.
But, well. It’s just all...quite a lot.
...It’s nice, though. People wanting to know him, even as much as it scares him. That’s what he came here for, after all. Some of them are even learning sign language just to speak to him more—though Mr. Morton already knew it, which had been a delightfully pleasant surprise. Same with Mr. Campbell, though that had been less shocking, given his partial hearing loss.
Victor shifts in his chair, reaching idly towards a book left discarded face-down on the small table nearby. Ms. Zelle had been sitting here earlier, hadn’t she? Flipping through this thin book with thoughtful eyes. He had seen her as he returned from a match.
Leaning back and turning the book over in his hands, his breath stalls in his throat.
Seasons Left Behind, the title says in neat, simple printing font. By Noah Becker.
Noah Becker.
Noah. The name of Nathaniel’s grandfather, who had put his foot down when his father’s wife resisted adopting him into the family; Becker, the surname of the mother he was never meant to know. Victor remembers the look on Nathaniel’s face as they walked down the street late in the summer—how giddy he was over submitting one of his pieces to the paper and how pleased he was by the name he had chosen to write under. Victor had felt giddy and pleased on his behalf, as well.
Victor’s throat tightens. He hasn’t seen Nathaniel since that day in November—he had been behaving strangely, but Victor was sure it was simply...indecision. Over him, over them, or perhaps a family matter Victor was not privy to.
He knew, as December dragged on and he didn’t see even a glimpse of Nathaniel at any of their usual haunts, that he was being left behind.
He’d been upset. Of course he had been, how could he not, when they were—well, they weren’t, but they were. But…
Everyone leaves him behind eventually. Of course Nathaniel was supposed to be different, because—because you don’t learn sign language to talk to someone on a whim. You don’t risk your reputation going into bars known for being where men seek company among other men. You don’t look at someone the way Nathaniel had kept looking at him just to disappear.
So there had to be a reason, though Victor had not known what until months had passed—not until long after December had come and gone, and the only contact he’d initiated was having Louis deliver the scarf Victor had carefully knit for his dear friend.
He wasn’t meant to hear that conversation between Mr. Brandt and Big Daddy, but he had heard it nonetheless. Of course they were keeping an eye on him—on the people he spent time with—and Nathaniel was the only one who he sought out often and deliberately. That meant something.
Until it didn’t, and so it wasn’t a concern any longer.
Victor’s mouth thins at his own memories as he stares down at the plain, undecorated book cover.
He bought a copy when it the book was published in February, then put it at the back of his shelf and never read it. He couldn’t bring himself to. Now, he forces himself to flip open the cover.
To you who were my spring, the embodiment of warmth and hope and goodness—
I’m sorry.
That’s the only thing written on the dedications page. Victor swallows around the lump in his throat and he knows—it can only be—
No, he can’t assume. But as he reads he grows more certain, especially once he reaches the titular poem. Some of the ones in the book he had seen before—or rather, Nathaniel had recited them to him—but others he had not, and he understands why, given the romantic longing that tinges many of them.
But Seasons Left Behind...Victor knows, with terrifying certainty, that it can only be him.
I met you in spring
Beneath the yew to the North
A bundle of yarrow, yellow like your hair, spilling from my fingers
I wanted to know you before I met you —
Victor snaps the book closed, face red and eyes hot, unable to finish. The old yew tree in the park north of the university; the yarrow flowers Nathaniel had picked on a whim for his mother; the way their hands had touched when Victor helped him gather them, and the way Victor himself had fled when Nathaniel so much as asked for his name.
He curls in on himself, sucking in a ragged breath as he covers his face with his hands. That’s the kind of man he is—the kind who is too scared to so much as say his own name, despite the fact his voice works just fine. Nathaniel hadn’t cared. When he understood, after their second meeting, that Victor did not speak—he hadn’t even said it was strange let alone implied it was a bad thing.
He’d told Victor he had lovely handwriting. Then he came back to that park and suddenly knew how to sign, though he was clumsy and learning and could only understand if Victor was slow.
Victor remembers thinking, as Nathaniel nervously introduced himself for the third time—this time carefully finger-spelling his name—that the pleasure he felt blooming in his chest would not last.
He was right, though it had lasted longer than he had ever thought it would.
Wick whines, pawing at the side of the chair, and when Victor lifts his head he sees him staring up with wide, worried eyes.
Sorry, he mouths to the dog, wiping his tear-dampened face with the back of his hand. He hadn’t even realized he had started to cry.
For a moment, he allows himself to wish—not for the first time—that he had selfishly allowed himself to kiss Nathaniel that November night. He’d wanted to so badly; the way Nathaniel looked at him hadn’t helped. The soft brown of his hair, flaked with snow, his cheeks ruddy from the cold breeze, his eyes so full of the same want Victor knew had to be mirrored in his own…
But he hadn’t. Victor hadn’t allowed himself, and neither had Nathaniel, and he can’t change that now.
He puts the book back on the table. When he leaves the room, silent, Wick follows after him dutifully. He passes by a few others in the halls; Mr. Balsa, being dragged around by Ms. Reznik; Ms. Woods, who looks so stunned at whatever expression he is making that her delighted greeting peters off as he hurries to his room.
In his room Victor brings out the dark rectangular box buried at the bottom of his bag. He keeps it with him, but he hasn’t played in…
Not since he realized he was never going to see Nathaniel again. It hurt too much. But remembering the look on Nathaniel’s face as he played, almost a year ago, Victor closes his eyes and brings the instrument to his mouth.
If he ever leaves this place, maybe...maybe...