Nightingale (14 page)

Harfner stood in the room, blinking, and Yves locked the door behind them and made sure the curtains were drawn. Like naughty children with a secret, they grinned at each other.

They were locked away, shielded from the concerns of the outside world. He breathed deeply. Playing at this downstairs had been a different matter. Just the presence of the bed removed all doubts of what they were aiming for. Excitement and fear raced over Yves’s skin like something tangible.

He calmed when Falk embraced him. It wasn’t the unwieldy hug he knew from him, but a more graceful enfolding in his arms, just enough to make Yves feel secure and strong, not diminished, not smothered.

They kissed with all the time in the world, holding each other, chest to chest, arms around each other, sharing kisses and breaths and glances. Yves would have felt trapped like this with another lover, but he didn’t with Falk. If he’d pushed him away and told him to go home, he had no doubt that Falk would have without protest. For a moment he considered testing that theory, but the truth was, he didn’t want to send him away, not even in jest. So he pulled him closer and nudged him toward the bed. Falk followed, but then stopped to open the belt over his tunic, took it off, and dropped it with the pistol holster on the table next to the washbasin. He then took Yves’s chin and made him look away from the weapon.

“
Nachtigall,
” Falk said, and Yves had to admit that was one of the rare German words that didn’t sound too bad—certainly not how he said it, like it meant even more to him than he could have expressed.

Yves smiled. “I won’t do very much singing tonight.”

Falk kissed him again and pulled him down to sit on the bed. Yves found his arm around Falk’s shoulder, his free hand between the man’s strong hands, and he folded his fingers over Falk’s while they kissed. He had to let go of the man to have any hope of removing his shoes but was stunned into silence when Falk slid off the bed and knelt before him, taking his shoes off for him, touching his feet with a tenderness that he might have experienced as a child. Innocent and considerate, and the contrast to Heinrich’s stoic efficiency couldn’t have been greater. “Th-thank you.”

Falk smiled up at him, opened the second shoe, and straightened the laces out. The attention to detail was strangely erotic, the man’s whole being focused on a pair of old laces. He slipped the leather shoe from Yves’s foot and set it to the side, then looked at him again with a teasing smile. Yves’s heart somersaulted in his chest. Truly? Was that what Falk offered him? The thought alone made his mouth dry, to see him like that, to feel him there, kneeling between his legs like that after the artless lovemaking of the
other
German—but it was time to banish Heinrich from this room, at least tonight.

He ran his hand over Falk’s hair, caught a few strands that fell onto the man’s strong forehead, traced the line of an eyebrow to the soft skin of the temple and noticed the skin there move as Falk smiled at him. The sense of wonder, just looking at everything—a tiny white scar nearly hidden in the hairline dead-center on his brow (like he’d fallen on a sharp stone as a boy), or the beginning of a crease under the eyes, maybe from squinting across a battlefield or into the sun. For a warrior’s body, it bore very few marks. From the exact tone of his eyes—sky blue, reminding Yves of a beautiful hot June during which all of France had been in shambles—to the shape of his lips, soft, yet not what some would have called “unmanly,” every detail seemed precious.

Yves reached for the buttons of Falk’s tunic, damnably too experienced with the peculiarities of the German uniform, but he pushed that thought away, too. In this case, he truly wanted to know what lay inside, and Falk humored him, never pushing, never demanding anything more than Yves’s presence. He did shrug out of the uniform jacket and drape it over a chair, then bent down to pull off his boots.

Yves didn’t take his eyes off him while he removed his shirt, tossing it to the far side of the bed. He considered his trousers for a moment, but then decided to undress entirely.

He slid under the cool down cover, watching Falk follow his example, yet treat his own clothes with care and attention. He was a well-drilled soldier, after all. Then Falk walked to the light switch, naked as the gods had made him, and switched off the light. Yves, however, turned on the small lamp on the nightstand, so when Falk returned, one particular illusion was shattered. Three reddish scars stood out on the man’s pale skin, and he remembered, viscerally, how the man had been knifed—what, only a few months ago.

Falk looked down at his body, ran a hand over it, and nodded. “You saved my life.”

“Come here.” Yves folded the duvet back and didn’t get out of the way when Falk joined him in bed, so they pushed against each other, the friction of naked skin on naked skin nothing short of magical. He bent down and touched that long, strong upper body high up on the chest, then slid his hand down over where Falk’s heart was racing and ran his thumb along one of the scars. Falk shuddered and fell back on his elbows, looking down as Yves’s fingers explored the lines of the stitches with which a surgeon had closed the gaping wounds. A miracle that he’d been in time to see Falk ambushed, a miracle that he’d shed, even just for a moment, that leaden fear of the oppressor, and a miracle that the man now transformed into a lover, in his bed, with those blue eyes and flushed cheeks.

Falk moistened his lips and smiled, looking vulnerable and tender, like, Yves imagined, he’d looked in hospital, freshly bandaged, suddenly aware he was alive and mortal at the same time.

Yves bent down and kissed the middle scar, traced the tip of his tongue along the ridge of flesh that had been forced together after having been severed, a secret and forbidden part that not all human bodies possessed. It reminded Yves that he had been strong and courageous and generous, saving the man who’d turn out to be not at all what he’d assumed.

All men are really the same,
he heard Maurice declare loftily.

Falk blew out a breath, squirmed, and Yves looked up, saw him flushed and eyes alight. Oh God, he was even more beautiful like that, and Yves rolled on top of him, skin-hungry all over for touch and heat and strength. He kept most of his weight off Falk, however, though his cock brushed the heated skin, rattling Yves from head to toenails. They were both skittish with anticipation, heat and desire hanging thick, and Yves marveled at it. This was nothing like what he knew, nothing like the naughty knowledgeable touches of Maurice, nothing at all like what Heinrich did to him—and Yves felt he had no right to refuse anymore.

But this. Yves smiled down at Falk, who nervously reached up and adjusted the pillow, opened his legs just a bit, inviting Yves, and Yves pushed one leg between Falk’s strong thighs. Just the friction of the man’s hair against his own made him alive with arousal. Then a furtive, but oh-so-welcome touch of their dicks together, groin against groin, belly against belly, and then their lips met again and Falk dug his fingers into Yves’s hair, pulling, just enough to hold him there like a precious apparition he meant to keep from vanishing. Yves moved his hips, pushing against the strong body underneath, the silky line of his groin that led to the hip, felt the muscle and bone, offering all the release he needed. He pushed harder to repeat the thrill of that touch, thrusting against the hard plains of that soldier body, felt Falk’s leg hook up and wrap around his legs, too. Yet, he wasn’t snared, merely claimed in desire.

He grinned into the kiss, feeling the elation of physical need and mellow, bone-deep relief. Falk kissed his cheeks and nose and lips again, pushing up against him. Yves couldn’t stop smiling while he pushed and ground and slid, Falk’s hands everywhere on his body. Firm, kneading touches on his shoulders and flanks and finally his bottom, urging him on as Yves began chasing the climax, for himself, yes, but more importantly for Falk, who now groaned below him, every vibration reverberating through Yves’s body. It was glorious, perfection, like nothing he’d ever felt. He wasn’t being used; he wasn’t being taught. There was something so fragile and precious in Falk’s eyes when he arched underneath him, heavy-lidded eyes fixed on his face until Yves kissed and licked the offered throat with its thundering pulse. They should have done this during the bombing, should have forgotten everything but each other; no terror could survive this abandon.

And how unspeakably touching when Falk clutched him in harder, burrowed his face in Yves’s shoulder, every muscle taut with exertion, lifting them both almost off the bed with tension before he came with panting, almost painful breaths.

Wet heat pooled between them, but Yves had no patience to linger in anything, not the wonder, not the tenderness for one who’d bared his soul to him. He pushed harder, tried to reach the same place, when Falk’s hand squeezed between them. Gathering up some of the wetness, the hand then closed against him and offered a sweet friction that Yves couldn’t resist. He couldn’t escape the irony that he was fucking a soldier’s hand, the same hand used on his rifle, his pistol, and that just as adeptly manipulated his desire now. Yves closed his eyes and thrust into the strong grip and found himself in a tight, powerful embrace when he lost control, mingling his semen with Falk’s on his belly.

He opened his eyes, saw Falk grin at him, almost laughing, his face bright with joy, and he couldn’t help kissing him again. God damn them both for finding this, here, now.

Chapter 20

Yves lay awake while Falk was getting dressed. It was still night or early morning, and it must have been Falk’s stumbling around in the dark that had woken him. He switched on the light on the nightstand, and Falk turned around, boots in hand and a guilty look on his face. “Sorry.”

Yves waved him off, glad to be awake to see him go. Waking alone would have made it harder to believe that last night had happened. Falk buttoned his shirt, then halfway up, stopped, and gave a little lop-sided grin that warmed Yves’s heart. Yes, last night had happened. And yes, everything was different now. “Duty calls? You have to return to work?”

Falk finished buttoning his shirt. “Yes. Can I see you tonight?”

If not for the small matter of the other German, Yves wouldn’t have hesitated. But Heinrich wanted to see him, too, and soon. How long could he dissuade him? “Maybe. There’s . . .” He stalled, rubbed his face, and sat up in bed. “I might have to be at a party.”

Falk nodded. “Tomorrow?”

And how only two men could fill up his social calendar like that was anybody’s guess. In Falk’s case, Yves found he didn’t mind. He wanted to see him—every day if possible, which bode ill. The last time he’d enjoyed spending time with somebody like that had been with Maurice, and even then, Maurice had struck him as too loud and too demanding, crowding everything else out of his life, including his own thoughts.

Maurice called him a hermit and recluse, and that was possibly true—Yves preferred his own company, because songs needed silence to form in his head. But Falk didn’t make him wish that he’d shut up or give him some space. If anything, he wished Falk would speak better French so they could spend more time learning about each other in all ways.

Fully dressed, Falk stepped back to the bed and looked down at him. “Sleep. It’s early.”

Yves touched Falk’s hand, pulling him closer. They kissed. It could have been the first time—a frisson of excitement raced over Yves’s skin, a sense of novelty and amazement, and he didn’t want Falk to leave. Work and Heinrich be damned.

Falk caressed Yves’s cheek. “Tomorrow. I will come to the Palace.”

“Yes. I’ll wait.”

Falk stepped back from the bed, regarded Yves with part longing, part promise, and then turned away to take his coat. A few moments later, he was out the door and moving so quietly that Yves heard no more from him, even though he listened.

The night had been much shorter than Yves usually preferred after a show, but with this new development, he didn’t want to sleep. Life seemed too strange and bright to hide under the covers, so he, too, got up.

The house was cool, so after he’d washed and shaved, he made his way into the kitchen, where he settled near the oven with papers and a pencil. He normally didn’t work this early in the morning, but he knew better than to pass up the chance when inspiration struck.

Banishing the notes onto paper wasn’t the dramatic gesture of a genius fired by inspiration. Yves had—very occasionally—written like that, moving as though controlled by the brush of an unknown, unaccountable divinity, not sure of the next movement or thought, just accepting that something bigger and higher than himself was using him (or that he was, finally, losing his mind), all the while keenly aware that what was happening was nothing short of miraculous. It was the closest thing to watching a sleepwalker balance sure-footed on the steep incline of a roof or wrought-iron girder, high above the streets. Becoming aware—and taking control again—meant risking everything.

On the opposite side of the coin was the disciplined drudgery, trusting what he knew of composition to lead him to an acceptable result after redrafts that felt like practice. The only thing that kept him sitting then was a sense of obligation and the knowledge that the moments of inspiration were too rare to rely on entirely. In those moments, the most poisonous thought was that he wasn’t actually that good a craftsman and should leave this mechanic work—like plumbing, wiring, and wallpapering—to those who did nothing else and therefore didn’t mind.

Yet, this time it was something in between. The melody at the heart of it had the force of an impending train that made its tracks vibrate and sing. Yet it was tender, gentle, almost ephemeral, so much so that he worried that hearing it in his head so clearly meant it wouldn’t translate into the rough stuff of oxygen and language, would, thanks to the uncouth medium, roughen and suffer as a result. He hummed it with some trepidation, a shy incantation of a divine force that might or might not follow the summons. Scribbling notes and ideas fast, then staring at the page, it occurred to him that it was still dark outside and he should be sleeping, should definitely not be sitting here in one of Maurice’s oversized dressing gowns that made him look like the youngest dwarf in
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
, sleeves slipping over his hands as he worked. And although he was cold and tired, although he might be able to keep the magic alive until a more civilized hour, he worked like it was his last day on earth and he had to finish this at all cost.

When the cook entered the kitchen, she seemed surprised and asked whether he needed anything, but he shook his head, and she left him in peace—at least after she’d made him coffee. It was proper bean coffee, too, so Yves interrupted his work only long enough to savor the drink and go through what he’d written up to then.

The house was beginning to awaken, and somebody must have added coal to the ovens, because the drawing room was pleasantly warm when he left the kitchen to make room for the busy cook. The restlessness persisted and the only way to deal with it was to continue working in the library, where Maurice kept both a piano and a desk with pencils and paper.

The bout of inspiration carried him through until noon, when Maurice entered, looking like a particularly droll bear driven from its cave much too early in the year—if such a bear were wearing a gold and brown brocade lounging robe over striped pajamas. With a groan, he fell into one of the chairs opposite Yves and gave a hearty yawn.

“What are you doing awake so early?”

Maurice waved a hand. “Now, what is that?”

“It’s a song.” Yves pulled the coffee closer, his fingers cold and stiff after working for what must have been hours.

“So at least your new pet is getting your creative juices flowing.” Maurice’s eyebrow waggle was downright pornographic.

Yves hid his face behind the china cup, sipped, and welcomed the grainy bitterness. “You’ll have to help us.”

“It’s ‘us’ now?” Maurice placed a hand on Yves’s shoulder. “He’s pretty, I understand that. In my time, I couldn’t resist a fresh face and broad shoulders either.”

“But?”

“While some invasions are more pleasurable than others,” Maurice said saucily, “this bears entirely too much opportunity for a tragic ending.”

“Such as?”

“An early-morning duel between two Germans in the Bois de Boulogne and one of them dead.”

“I’d have thought you’d call one of them dead a ‘good start’.”

“But Yves! How can you say such a terrible thing?” Maurice frowned and shook his head. “I’m concerned about you, throwing your lot in with them like that. The oberst, I understand. But this one?”

This one is the one of them I want.

Yves stared down at his notes and words, and the magic had leeched from them. They were just marks defiling perfectly good paper. He didn’t want to be drawn into the sordid aspects of his existence. “Have you ever become entangled in something that hurts all the time, yet you wouldn’t stop it?”

Maurice touched his forehead, as if checking for a fever. “Not after my torrid love affair with opium.”

“That doesn’t really compare. Opium is not like . . .”

“It’s exactly like love.” Maurice cast him a warning glance when Yves was about to protest. “I know exactly what you’re feeling. My, my, and I’d have never thought it would happen to you. Thought you’d only ever be in love with yourself and your music.” He reached over and tapped a strong finger on Yves’s manuscript—so hard that Yves flinched. “That is all you care about, and you’ve been like that since I’ve known you. Other men care about France or politics or money, but not Yves. You care about nothing outside of your pretty little head.”

“I care about France. I almost died for France.”

Maurice’s gaze was cool. “And what a waste that would have been, yes?”

Yes. No. No!

“I don’t understand what that has to do with Falk.”

“It’s ‘Falk’ now?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t call them by rank once they’ve made it into my bed.”

“Strictly speaking, it’s my bed.”

Yves rubbed his face. “It’s my decision. Heinrich von Starck or not, this is what I’m doing with my life. I’m doing nothing worse than any number of starlets and actresses. I’m doing nothing worse than you—because if the oberst had had any interest in you, you’d have no grounds to berate me now.”

Maurice drew back. Yves hated playing Maurice’s easily hurt vanity against him, but he was suffocating him. He’d interrupted a rare moment of productivity, disrupted something sublime in a madness of ever-changing loyalties and dangers.

“You were the first nightclub owner who had his menus translated into German. The very first one, Maurice. You’re famous for that. You told me the Germans are just men like any Frenchman or British expat or exiled Russian. Why are you now so hostile? I’ve never wronged you.”

“You’re a key talent onstage, Yves. I can’t have you dragged off by Gestapo because you made a powerful enemy with the Germans.”

“The oberst loathes Gestapo.”

“Well, make sure he doesn’t end up loathing you more.”

Touché. Though would Heinrich really deliver him into the hands of von Grimmstein to take his revenge? From what he’d seen of the man, a duel in the Bois de Boulogne seemed indeed the likelier alternative; although dueling had gone out of fashion, the Nazis had apparently reintroduced it. It suited their ideas of blood and honor.

I was local champion in Heidelberg,
he’d said. Would they use swords? Pistols?

“It won’t come to that.”

“You can always wait for him to lose interest, and then you’re free to do whatever you want. Even get into bed with a common soldier.”

“Falk is everything but common.” There, he’d said it. “Are you really so blindsided by his rank? It might just as well be fake. The oberst wouldn’t be the first man to stick a peacock feather in his hat.” He remembered reading an article about just how many noble titles were fake in France—why would the Germans be any different?

“His power is real enough,” Maurice huffed.

Yves briefly closed his eyes. “Can I please finish this? If you want me to sing it anytime soon . . .”

“Well, then, we’ll discuss this later. There will be breakfast if you want some.” Maurice left behind an air of injured pride and scheming determination.

It took several minutes for Yves to begin picking back up the strands of his inspiration. He did have a fairly good idea of the final shape, which made his pulse quicken.

A couple hours later, he carefully folded the pages before going in search of Maurice. He found him, now dressed, in the library reading the papers. Maurice tended to barely skim through his stack of newspapers and magazines, filtering out scandals and news about stars and actors while ignoring anything about politics or the economy, which he roundly condemned as “always the same.”

When Yves entered, Maurice flicked a corner of the paper down and peered at him. “How did it go?”

“I think successfully.” Yves rubbed his face and sat down on one of the sofas.

“You know there are people happy to write for you.” Maurice flicked the corner up again. “Jean-Michel would. He adores your voice—he told me himself.”

“I like writing my own songs.” Yves shook his head. “And they’re good.”

“Yes, but you need more new material. You can’t hope to build a career on the two dozen songs you have and the ten or so that are any good.” Maurice finally lowered the newspaper. “Or the three that are brilliant.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Your career is beginning to take off, Yves. Can’t you feel the change?” Maurice lifted an ironic eyebrow. “Oh, I forgot—you’re not reading the reviews.”

“They’re pointless. The good ones won’t make me sing any better, and the bad ones make everything worse.” And then there were the reviewers who specialized in backhanded or patronizing write-ups, those who damned with faint praise or complimented his talent but hated his delivery. One bad review could haunt him right up until the next show, when he’d spend all his energy trying to disprove the reviewer rather than building a rapport with the audience that was watching and listening right then.

“Aren’t you at least glad that I’m spending so much time flattering your reviewers if you can’t be bothered?” Maurice folded the newspaper and dropped it on a small pile next to his chair.

“You’re much better at flattery than I am.”

Maurice leaned forward to pour himself a fresh cup of tea. “You’re right. That was a poor effort. Deliberately poor, I wager.”

Yves chuckled. “I’m not performing right now.”

“Hmmm-hmmm.” Maurice crossed his legs and settled his teacup delicately on his knee. “Considering the company you performed with last night, don’t expect any applause from me.”