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The place where there is no darkness.
This was not it.
The sky had fallen into a pitch black color hours and hours ago, and sometimes Winston looked up and felt like it was going to swallow him whole. No stars, no moon, just the occasional light of a police helicopter doing their routine patrol.
Not even out here in the golden country, it was all pitch black. And more importantly, foggy. Dense, heavy fog that muffled sounds and made it impossible to see more than a few meters in front of you at a given moment.
He'd noticed it once when he was roused from another fitful nightmare, how its tendrils seemed to spread down the streets and across the landscape like a blanket.
He could just barely make out the halos of the lamps across the street. But the idea to do that didn't come to him then, in his midnight fervor. It came to him as a bolt from the blue, triggered by some inconsequential uttering of a fellow worker at the Ministry of Truth.
If you could hardly be seen, much less identified in the fog, and night was already a little safer than the day, and the countryside was a little safer than the city, then perhaps the jaws of the terrible beast would not clamp down around his throat with such utter certainty. Winston of course knew he was doomed, he carried it around like a heavy pit inside of him.
Him and O'Brien both were doomed the same way. Which made Winston feel a sort of closeness he didn't share with his own parents, or his ex wife. It made him curious, which was a terrible thing. He wondered if O'Brien was glad it was Winston of all people, or resented him for being the one to place his throat in the jaws of a hungry animal. The thought police were going to come for them, he was absolutely certain of it.
The certainty turned his dreams as dark and empty as the night, but it filled those few centimeters of space in his skull with a dizzying amount of wonder. What would it be like, if they were free to simply exist. He did not dream of an existence outside the confines of airstrip one, he did not dream of an existence without the Ministry of Truth, he dreamed of an existence where the feeling he had for O'Brien was not punishable by death. The labor camps would be mercy.
He wanted world where everything was exactly as it is, except he and O'Brien could love one another. That terrible feeling, the closeness, the way his rugged features and quaint mannerisms seemed to intoxicate the other man worse than Victory Gin, was going to be the death of him. He couldn't help it. He'd try and try to cram the feelings down, label them as a sort of friendship, a bond. But he was deluding himself. He was sure that some keen eyed woman had already noticed the way his eyes lingered on O'Brien when they passed, noticed the way he seemed to relax around the other man, noticed that even though they'd only really spoken a handful of times that the big burly man had enraptured Winston. And he was certain, more sure of it to the point he'd risk his own life on it, that O'Brien felt exactly the same.
He watched the other man like he himself was recruited by the thought police. He noticed how he spoke in the same way to others, but it lacked the kindness and warmth and reverence that seemed to accompany him when he spoke to Winston. Sometime his mind wandered to his childhood, had there ever been a time, had he ever seen anyone who felt the things he felt? It was horribly isolating, he could hardly remember lovers at all except as a function of the Party. His parents, sure. But they were from a different time. He was fairly certain as a child he'd once seen two men holding hands on the high streets, but the passage of time had also slipped around his memories like a thick fog, blurring the little details.
And so, his natural curiosity and wondering and pondering of a better life had lead him to this. A note passed to O'Brien without a second glance, a meeting time and place set in uncertainty. How was he to know when the next foggy night would be? It was a fleeting window of opportunity, and all the waiting nearly made Winston sick with anticipation and want.
Night after night after night, nothing. Until one night he realized he could hardly make out the lights from the Ministry buildings. Unlike the proles and inner party members who had to conserve power regularly for the two minute hate, the four Ministries were free to highlight their buildings long into the night. Quiet as a mouse he slipped into his boots and shrugged into his overalls. He put the one good wool coat he had over it and slipped into the hallway. Most of London was plunged into darkness, it made sneaking away into the woods a much easier task.
Normally Winston resented the lack of electricity but for once it was his savior. It was a long walk to the woods, he wasn't sure he was going in the right way. Although, the imposing architecture of the Ministries getting smaller on the horizon told him he was doing something right. Some of the proles had candles that burned smokey and unpleasant lit in their windows, casting the flats in an amber glow.
His joints ached in the cold, and he could hardly work his hands into a malleable form, but he continued onward. Finally, he reached a grassy clearing. He stepped into it like an arena, like a body about to be executed in the public square. He heard a twig snap under someones heavy movements and stilled his breath. On the other side of the clearing, a flash of light. He panicked! This must surely be the thought police come to take him away.
The figure stilled, and he made out spectacles illuminated by the moonlight. O'Brien had made it after all! By some stroke of luck he was here in the flesh. Winston let out a sigh of relief and walked into the clearing. The moon shone down on him like a spotlight. He closed his eyes and laid down in the wet grass. Footsteps approached him and he felt the earth shift as someone laid down next to him and took his hand into his own.
Winston opened his eyes and saw O'Brien holding his hand. The trees were now unrecognizable in the fog. He rolled over and got on top of O'Brien. The other mans large hands found their way around Winston's slender hips and their eyes locked.
"I'm glad you made it."
"I'm glad to have found you, comrade."
Winston was certain he meant more than just finding him in the woods. Winston was so starved for the gentle touch of another person that the warmth and solidness of O'Brien below him had an almost immediate effect on his body. A warmth spread onto his face and pooled in his crotch, compelling him to grind his hips into O'Brien. O'Brien sat up and unzipped his party coveralls down. He was just as solidly built as Winston had fantasized about, firm skin that exuded youth Winston seemed to lack.
He unzipped his own uniform and pulled the wool coat tighter around his bare chest. It was desperately cold for May, a gloomy chill seemed to cling to his flesh. O'Brien sat up and spat roughly into his hand before taking Winston's cock into his hand. The touch, the pleasure of it all was sheer sexcrime. Nothing that felt this good could be allowed. O'Brien seemed to be drinking in the sight of the other man, and Winston felt the urge to shake off his coat. His scrawny chest dulled in comparison to his comrades, and yet O'Brien didn't seem to mind.
He lined his cock up with Winston's hole and sharply thrust into the other man. Winston let out a gasp, and covered his mouth with a frightful look. It burned through his entire body and yet Winston couldn't seem to get enough. O'Brien's hands were warm and firm on his hips, a silent reminder that this was so much more real than any dream. They moved upwards and gave his chest an appreciative pat. Both men moved their bodies in sync, O'Brien pushed his cock deeper into Winston, who was trying very hard to stay silent. His joints screamed for him to do something else besides this, but it was no worse than an evening spent at the community hall. He moved his hand off the other mans hip and wrapped it around his cock. Winston shuddered at the feeling, it was so intense and like nothing he'd ever felt before.
O'Brien moved like he'd done this before, something Winston would ponder later. His hand moved faster and his hips bucked up sharper until Winston came undone in the other mans lap. He sucked in deep breaths of the cool night air, and O'Brien came inside of him with a gentle moan. Both men were quick to re-dress.
Winston laid in the grass next to him and took his hand into his own. Here there were stars. And all consuming darkness. He could hardly make out anything beyond the trees and the night, although he was certain he'd have been able to see the stars if it wasn't so misty out. The fog seemed to envelop both of them in a hazy dream, like this memory was already being forgotten as it formed. O'Brien spoke like he didn't fear the hidden microphones as much as he should.
"I love you."
Winston replied in a low tone, trying to disguise his voice the best he could.
"I love you too."
And so their fate was sealed. Both of them were utterly, hopelessly doomed. The eternal darkness of waiting, painful long drawn out days that slowly spiraled into weeks of uncertainty were sure to follow. He was most definitely going to be vaporized. The waiting around for his untimely death was the hardest part of it all, more than those nights spent awake in sleepless longing for what could be if just one thing was different.
Then, Winston thought, a lot of things would have to be different in Oceania for that fantasy to become a reality. It was like he was trying desperately to wake up from a dream that had turned into a fitful nightmare. He slipped his hand out of O'Brien's grasp and disappeared into the fog. He looked back and saw a flash of light that told him his comrade was also getting up and heading into the night.
Winston let his mind wonder terrible things. Could they do this again and get away with it? Who would be taken away first? What if nobody had actually noticed? His day to day, which was usually marked by a boring and mindless monotony became alive with the thrill of it all. He felt the most dangerous thing of all, love. He made it back into his flat, like a shadow in the darkness and buried himself under the thin blanket. He hadn't realized it, but his coat had picked up a grassy smell, like it too had dew clinging to it. He'd have to wait until it had its usual musty smell again to wear it out, he lived in a constant terror that something was giving him away, he just didn't notice what. But for now, he wore it to bed and let the soft wet dew and green grass lull him into a fitful sleep.