Fic: Nocturnes for War
Title: Nocturnes for War
Pairing: Marcel/Zoller
Rating: About PG-13
Summary: Marcel begins to receive a nightly visitor.
Nocturnes for War
It’s late. Marcel goes out the back door without the trash, unlike the night before and all other nights previous. He rests against the wall of the cinema, lights a cigarette. An S.S. uniform steps past the building next door, pauses, looks around, seems to seek Marcel's line of sight. Standing some feet away for a moment, his features become marked, like the inlaid adornments of his chest; dull medallions, not quite catching the light. He looks as if wanting to step forward, but hesitates. This must be Zoller, the courtly lover, on his way to pay Shoshana a visit. He passes by and is gone. Marcel hears no voices but footsteps, for Shoshana is upstairs in her room, and the hero has no one to talk to tonight. The boy does not return the way he came. With each visit he pays Shoshana is a moment spared for Marcel. He says nothing. Once, he walked briskly toward him, and, on seeing him, Marcel shrank into shadow. Undoubtedly under inspection, he is not exactly scrutinized. The face before him is lined with effort, and teeth are bared between thin lips. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” “Mein Name ist Marcel.” Zoller jerks his head as if he knew. As he leaves, his appraisal is as smarting and unfettered as a brute caress.
The same thing happened the next night, and again the night after. Marcel saw Zoller often enough to know when the boy was tense after a long day and looking for a fight, or when he was too tired to press his advantage. Whatever this was, it had gone on too long. He was beginning to act as if he had a say in his fate, that he could parry back and withdraw still breathing. Zoller was infuriating. That hollow gaze pulled him in from across the alley each time, spanning the distance but not stopping to rest there. If only Marcel knew what it was about him that the Nazi needed to keep such a close eye. Maybe he had brains enough to realize who Marcel was to his lovely French girlfriend. But this was unlikely.
One evening, Zoller kept him long enough to have impinged on the boy’s own precious time. Who, Marcel wondered freely, gave him leave to walk the streets of Paris at night? A few thousand French lives would buy you such a right. The streetlamps cast Zoller’s body in partial shadow, softening the rigor with which his uniform encased him. The hair so tightly wound behind his small ears appeared as only a cleft, like the sharpness of his cheek. The skin, struck over with shadow, belied its whiteness. With bowed shoulders, this soldier so accomplished eased a cigarette from its silver-inlaid case, and rolled its slim girth between two fingers.
“Do you have a light?”
The scratch of the match was violence to Marcel's ears.
“What is your job?” Zoller whispered the imperative. He sounded harsh from yelling.
“You are the projectionist?” Marcel nodded.
“You won't be working on the night of the premiere.”
Briefly, Marcel thought that meant the camps for him. Then he remembered what Shoshana had told him. Could Zoller even utter her name in his presence?
Marcel felt eyes a second time, only now with a seed of hesitancy he at first took for disapproval. The boy’s face seemed to contract in some secret resentment, but inward, like a private distaste for one’s own defects. The crease in his brow deepened as a tense moment passed, Marcel holding himself in place by the grace of god alone. He almost asked if Zoller wanted to see his papers. He knew better than to speak. Don’t encourage a tempest. The cigarette continued to smolder between them. Its pungent smell crowded the alley, and panic settled in.
The boy took a puff and stabbed out the rest with the point of his shoe. His hand quickly replaced the brunt of his gaze. Marcel sucked in a huge breath and shoved back with all his might. Their footwork stuttered against the pavement, the only sound as they grappled in the dark. Arms, legs slid free from his hands, errant hair touched his face, the cold seeped from skin clammy with sweat. Marcel backed himself into the farthest corner.
Zoller stayed away, panting harshly and smoothing down his clothes. He didn’t look displeased. There was some color in his cheeks as he advanced past the streetlamp. The empty palms of his hands opened up before him, as if to say they had done nothing.
For a long moment, they remained in place, each one regarding the other in contemplation. What Zoller entertained in his mind was fresh on his face, whereas Marcel had forgotten himself, and tried to hold in check what made the sweat tear down his sides. That rosy face gleamed even brighter. He was going for it, again. Marcel was trapped, but he would fight, if need be.
“Don’t be frightened,” Zoller said.
“You'll kill me.”
“Why? You've done nothing wrong,” he replied in German.
Marcel thought it over. It was true, the young war hero would make a good fuck. Fascist pigs were usually quite good in bed. And he was dead either way, no matter what.
But he did have a say in his fate. He could choose to put himself in its hands. He could refuse.
Ah, but did he want to?
Pairing: Marcel/Zoller
Rating: About PG-13
Summary: Marcel begins to receive a nightly visitor.
Nocturnes for War
It’s late. Marcel goes out the back door without the trash, unlike the night before and all other nights previous. He rests against the wall of the cinema, lights a cigarette. An S.S. uniform steps past the building next door, pauses, looks around, seems to seek Marcel's line of sight. Standing some feet away for a moment, his features become marked, like the inlaid adornments of his chest; dull medallions, not quite catching the light. He looks as if wanting to step forward, but hesitates. This must be Zoller, the courtly lover, on his way to pay Shoshana a visit. He passes by and is gone. Marcel hears no voices but footsteps, for Shoshana is upstairs in her room, and the hero has no one to talk to tonight. The boy does not return the way he came. With each visit he pays Shoshana is a moment spared for Marcel. He says nothing. Once, he walked briskly toward him, and, on seeing him, Marcel shrank into shadow. Undoubtedly under inspection, he is not exactly scrutinized. The face before him is lined with effort, and teeth are bared between thin lips. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” “Mein Name ist Marcel.” Zoller jerks his head as if he knew. As he leaves, his appraisal is as smarting and unfettered as a brute caress.
The same thing happened the next night, and again the night after. Marcel saw Zoller often enough to know when the boy was tense after a long day and looking for a fight, or when he was too tired to press his advantage. Whatever this was, it had gone on too long. He was beginning to act as if he had a say in his fate, that he could parry back and withdraw still breathing. Zoller was infuriating. That hollow gaze pulled him in from across the alley each time, spanning the distance but not stopping to rest there. If only Marcel knew what it was about him that the Nazi needed to keep such a close eye. Maybe he had brains enough to realize who Marcel was to his lovely French girlfriend. But this was unlikely.
One evening, Zoller kept him long enough to have impinged on the boy’s own precious time. Who, Marcel wondered freely, gave him leave to walk the streets of Paris at night? A few thousand French lives would buy you such a right. The streetlamps cast Zoller’s body in partial shadow, softening the rigor with which his uniform encased him. The hair so tightly wound behind his small ears appeared as only a cleft, like the sharpness of his cheek. The skin, struck over with shadow, belied its whiteness. With bowed shoulders, this soldier so accomplished eased a cigarette from its silver-inlaid case, and rolled its slim girth between two fingers.
“Do you have a light?”
The scratch of the match was violence to Marcel's ears.
“What is your job?” Zoller whispered the imperative. He sounded harsh from yelling.
“You are the projectionist?” Marcel nodded.
“You won't be working on the night of the premiere.”
Briefly, Marcel thought that meant the camps for him. Then he remembered what Shoshana had told him. Could Zoller even utter her name in his presence?
Marcel felt eyes a second time, only now with a seed of hesitancy he at first took for disapproval. The boy’s face seemed to contract in some secret resentment, but inward, like a private distaste for one’s own defects. The crease in his brow deepened as a tense moment passed, Marcel holding himself in place by the grace of god alone. He almost asked if Zoller wanted to see his papers. He knew better than to speak. Don’t encourage a tempest. The cigarette continued to smolder between them. Its pungent smell crowded the alley, and panic settled in.
The boy took a puff and stabbed out the rest with the point of his shoe. His hand quickly replaced the brunt of his gaze. Marcel sucked in a huge breath and shoved back with all his might. Their footwork stuttered against the pavement, the only sound as they grappled in the dark. Arms, legs slid free from his hands, errant hair touched his face, the cold seeped from skin clammy with sweat. Marcel backed himself into the farthest corner.
Zoller stayed away, panting harshly and smoothing down his clothes. He didn’t look displeased. There was some color in his cheeks as he advanced past the streetlamp. The empty palms of his hands opened up before him, as if to say they had done nothing.
For a long moment, they remained in place, each one regarding the other in contemplation. What Zoller entertained in his mind was fresh on his face, whereas Marcel had forgotten himself, and tried to hold in check what made the sweat tear down his sides. That rosy face gleamed even brighter. He was going for it, again. Marcel was trapped, but he would fight, if need be.
“Don’t be frightened,” Zoller said.
“You'll kill me.”
“Why? You've done nothing wrong,” he replied in German.
Marcel thought it over. It was true, the young war hero would make a good fuck. Fascist pigs were usually quite good in bed. And he was dead either way, no matter what.
But he did have a say in his fate. He could choose to put himself in its hands. He could refuse.
Ah, but did he want to?