The Locker Room
Click. The door closes. The gritty scent of dried sweat lingered on his shirt, rough and raw, like a memory of the physical activity he had taken part in just minutes ago. Not that it had exhausted him, no. He's not one to get exhausted quickly. The broad shoulders and thick arms, full of muscle, are wrapped into the fresh blast of deodorant that‘s supposed to conceal the stench of his body odour. Lasting 48 hours - what a joke. He knows it's just a scam; what else. But he chooses to believe it anyway; for what reason, he doesn't know himself. But he doesn’t need to know; he’s got better things to do. Hitting the gym daily, of course. He loves the stench of sweating bodies in a closed room, just in a way that makes it hard to form a rational thought. Just like the cloud of deodorant around him.
He coughs. Then he looks up.
The cheap LED light of the locker room is doing its best to present the hard work he put into his own body in an overly positive way. Just how he likes it. He’s not ugly - the burly, young man with his signature, cocky smirk staring back at him in the dirty mirror. Dirty. Mould isn’t exactly dirt, more like a living organism. Not that he would care, he doesn’t have time to think about such trivial things anyway. He’s got better things to do.
The purple shirt in his hands is grinning back at him, almost screaming to be worn by him. Begging to be worn by him. To be stretched around his muscles and to fit him like a second skin. The brightly coloured piece of fabric looks almost pathetic in his big hands, yet he doesn't think about it. Clothes don’t have a mind to think nor a voice to speak. Certainly not to beg either. The cloth seems to glow in the cold LED light as its purpose is fulfilled, the material giving his body another layer of warmth.
Click. The door closes again. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that he has entered the locker room. Who is he? - you may ask. What a weak question, not that neither he nor his reflection would've thought about that as he did turn to face his best friend. His best friend - that's who he was. Nothing more, just his best friend. Yes. He’d always been close with him, as kids and now as teens. Young adults, more likely. Not that it would matter. He stared at him, maybe a bit longer than he should. But how could he not?
He hates to admit it to himself, but he loves thinking about it. How it would feel to have the other’s arms wrapped around him. To have that sweet, sweet voice talk to him and have him float on cloud nine.
He shakes his head.
No, he can’t think about his best friend like that. It’s not right, not appropriate. But then again, when does he care about being appropriate? He never did, so why now? He doesn’t know; maybe he doesn’t want to know. It’s better if he doesn't know; it makes things easier. Less problems to worry about, less issues to deal with.
But then again, he thinks. For once, he thinks.
He’s always liked the soft demeanour of the other, of his best friend. He’s been observing him for a while now, silently, of course. He found himself to like a lot about the boy. He likes his soft hair. The scar that's decorating his temple. His physical appearance. His cologne. His handsome face. So handsome. His laugh, his jokes, his smile. His eyes, God, how he likes the grey storm raging on the green grass inside those eyes. His-, no. This can’t continue like this. Not at all.
His eyes dart to his reflection – why are his cheeks so pink? They’ve never been this colourful before, let alone pink. Something’s wrong, greatly wrong. But at the same time, it’s right. So right. At least it feels right to him. Just as right as he approaches him. They locked eyes; he could've sworn he saw himself on one of those grey clouds in the eyes of the other boy. He likes grey, he suddenly finds himself admitting to himself in his head. He always did, just never acknowledged it. Especially this shade of grey. It’s like fog on a lake, moonshine coating the water where the veil is casting its surroundings in a magical haze.
He didn’t even realise how long he was staring until his best friend turned his back on him. That strong, muscular back. He felt himself subconsciously moving closer to the other boy; he marvels at how the other one fits into his larger embrace. He can feel the body in his arms tensing up; of course - who would expect to be hugged from behind like that? But he doesn't care, not now. Now, his only thought is wasted on his feelings. For once. He never did that, but now? Now is different. He almost shudders from relief as his friend relaxes in his embrace. How nice. He’s never felt better, not at showing off his muscles, not at basketball either.
Never. But he likes it. He could do better things than standing here, but not now. No. Never again. Ever.
The Morning
Tick, Tack. Tick, Tack. How annoying.
He slowly opens his eyes and blinks a few times before his vision slowly adjusts to the light. He sits up in the small, bland bed. Not his bed. He looks around, not quite sure where he was. He takes a moment to remember that he is in a flat. Not his flat either. He slowly stands up from the bed, the worn off and rusty metal frame of the bed squeaking and protesting under the shift of his weight. Old. Just like the rest of the room, he has to realise. The wardrobe. The bedside table. The mirror. A reflection of himself is staring back at him. Neatly cut, short brown hair, almost too short for his liking. Brown eyes are staring back at him as he takes in the tall but slender young man in the mirror. He’s not always been this thin, he notes. His high cheekbones standing out on his face. Not more than his already crooked nose or scarred lip, but it is an indicator for the development of his life. For whom he has always been.
Julien Moreau.
He glances over to the door, the old wooden floorboards groaning with every step he takes out of the bedroom. Not his bedroom. Then, the hallway. Dark and long, natural light seems like a foreign concept to this corridor. What a way to live, he thought. But then again, this is not as bad as it seems. Not as bad as his years as a member of the Resistance, he always tells himself.
La Résistance. The group he had purred his life into. Years of living underground and in secret, planning attacks on the Axis forces, helping Allied soldiers into safety. His purpose. His only true purpose. But now after the war is won, all of this purpose seems to have vanished together with the pain and suffering it had brought. The floor creaks once more as the dirty and old walls of the narrow corridor move past him. Old. How he hates that word. Time has taken so much from him and yet, he has to accept it. Live with it. He has to, his new purpose.
He passes by the living room. Not his living room. The furniture looks just as barren as the one in the bedroom. An uneven table with chairs. An old rug. Old again. The small and worn-out armchair in the corner of the room, the once rich dark blue colour of the fabrics has faded out overtime, leaving a bluish grey behind. Time. Old. Words he doesn’t like, doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to acknowledge. Doesn’t want to understand. But that's alright, at least that's what he tells himself, whispers to himself at night when nobody else would. The small window next to the armchair seems to be the only source of natural light in this flat. The only source of normality. It’s neither big, nor small. Not that he would care, after all, it’s only a window. The morning sun is creeping over the roof of the neighbouring house, the smoke from its chimney mixing with the faint fog in the air. The sun rays are happily shining through the window, landing right on the armchair. More like the face in the armchair.
A tired groan erupts from the young man lying in it, his unkept blond hair reflecting the light of the sun. It’s almost glowing like a second sun, but only almost. Blue eyes open as long limbs stretch on the tiny seating space of the armchair the young man has squeezed himself into. He’s clearly too big for that piece of furniture. The thin blanket slides to the ground as he stands up, freckles moving on the rugged skin as a sleepy frown appears on the young man’s face and a yawn escapes his mouth.
Matthias Richter.
Julien has known him for less than 24 hours, yet he has to be the most reasonable person Julien has had the pleasure to meet in the past three years. The pleasure, how ironic. His past three years have been anything but pleasant, but he doesn’t like to admit that. Not even to himself. He stops in the hallway, observing the other man getting out of his uncomfortable position and stretching his long body. They both had met in a bar around the corner, just yesterday, late at night.
The dimly lit and mostly empty pub he once called his second home had suddenly been filled with people. Not very likely in a neighbourhood like this, but life has its surprises. Always. He remembers that he had wanted to move to his usual spot at the bar, a quiet corner at the counter. He always liked to observe others, to figure out their behaviours and mannerisms. Probably a thing he picked up from his time in the Resistance, but not even that he would want to admit. But that night was different, he quickly had to notice that as his usual spot was already taken. Matthias Richter.
The blond and tall German stood out like a sore thumb in the crowd of dark-haired, short French. It was almost to laugh at. Almost. Usually, Julien wouldn’t even take a second glance, especially not at former enemies of his and his people. But the way the other was practically clinging to his glass of beer, hanging in the seat like a drop of water and anxiously glancing around like the outsider he was, had intrigued Julien. It didn’t take long for the German and the French to chat along like old friends, as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. Julien doesn’t remember much of the rest of the night; the alcohol has gotten the better of him. Little fragments of a barely lit street, his arm slung around Matthias’s waist and the soft bed beneath his body as he stumbled into the bedroom is all he can remember. Still not his bedroom.
It leaves him with a faint pink blush across his cheeks, even though he knows that nothing happened between them and Matthias had only been concerned about his reckless alcohol consumption throughout the past evening. But in secret, he wishes that something had happened. Even if it’s just a hug or a kiss on the cheek, holding his hand for a moment would’ve been enough for him. But that’s another thing he won’t admit either. The most recent thing he won’t admit.
His eyes glance over to Matthias, the young man has made his way into the kitchen. Not his kitchen, Matthias’s kitchen. Julien observes the facial expression of the other, the way he moves and acts. His body is moving slower than last night, the hangover speaking for the other one’s movements. For a few seconds, Julien simply looks at his face, Matthias’s soft but strong features. Oh, how he could drown in these baby blue eyes, look at them all day. He feels like in a dream, as if on clouds whenever he has the attention of the other on him. But his gaze slowly drops down the young man’s body. The forbidden body. Broad shoulders, strong arms, thick thighs. Not only thick, but muscular too, he can’t even begin to describe how he wants the other’s arms around him. Needs the other’s arms around him, so desperately. That’s the only thing he’s willing to admit, even to himself.
He shakes his head, trying to get those thoughts out of his head; not that it’s working, but he’s trying. Maybe not trying enough. But he knows that. The way towards the kitchen seems to stretch in front of his eyes, the long hallway appearing longer than last night. How cruel, he thinks. His internal debate about the actual length of the corridor, he’s not sure if it’s 10 or 100 metres, stops abruptly as his body almost collides with Matthias. He almost wants to vanish, disappear into the ground, yet he doesn’t know why. Why does he care so much about what the other thinks about him, he never really cared about the opinion of others. Stubborn and egoistic, that’s what he is. So why would he care? A bead of sweat is rolling down his forehead as the other’s stare bores into his skull. Great, that’s a perfect way to start the morning at a stranger's place, he thought. He almost forces himself to raise his head up to meet Matthias’s gaze.
Julien is tall, taller than most other men his age. But despite his grandiose 189 centimetres of height he’s always been proud of and bragging about to his comrades, he can’t help but feel dwarfed by the even taller German. 197 centimetres, he’s asked the other about his height after bragging about his own long enough last night. Since then, he’s been more than quiet about his stature. Not his style, but he felt degraded.
“Good morning.”
Ripped out of his trance by the words of the other, Julien has to swallow the lump in his throat. Why is he feeling like that? The seemingly casual greeting is echoing in his mind, the faint but still noticeable German accent of Matthias scratching just the right spot in his brain. “Good morning”, Julien replies as he takes a seat on one of the chairs in the kitchen. He’s never really liked his own French accent, but right now, that seems to be the last thing he cares about. His eyes drift around the kitchen, the room is barely big enough to fit the patience of some of his former superiors in the Resistance. Tiny, to be frank. A refrigerator, a stove, a sink and an oven are all that could be found on the ground of this kitchen. Aside from the laughable seating space Matthias calls a breakfast table.
The German has humour, Julien has to admit. Despite the fact that the other was once a part of the enemy, the bad guys as the old Hollywood movies would portray them as, he finds himself to greatly enjoy Matthias’s presence. He knows himself that the German is a good man, no matter what his friend would tell him if they knew what he was doing here. They would tell him that he’s an idiot, a fool to be so comfortable with his opponent, but Julien knows better. He always does, at least that’s what he tells himself.
His attention darts back to Matthias as he snaps his fingers in front of his face. So he noticed how Julien zoned out, very observant. “Sorry, I got lost in thought”, Julien has to admit, he feels more than embarrassed to be forced to expose that to Matthias. The way he acts around him. Feels around him. “I made breakfast”, the other just replies. So he doesn’t even care about my embarrassment, Julien realises. That makes things easier for him, but Matthias doesn’t have to know that. Only Julien has to. Another thing he doesn’t want to admit. He doesn’t remember how much he’s unwilling to admit, he’s lost count. Or has never been counting at all, he can’t remember. Doesn’t want to remember.
“Thanks”, he mumbles in response to the effort Matthias made to create a presentable breakfast. Bread, cheese and butter, a cup of coffee standing at the side of his plate. It’s not much, but he had worse. Nothing compares to the Resistance. That’s what he told himself, one of the things he told himself.
He reaches out, the slice of bread is quickly getting decorated by a layer of butter and cheese. Cheddar, he likes that one. He couldn’t imagine where Matthias got his hands on this food, but he’s not complaining. Not in the slightest. The silence in the room is anything but uncomfortable, the birds make a great distraction, he finds to realise.
He stares at the plate with the breadcrumbs in front of him, the used butter knife, the filled cup. The crockery is definitely older than he is. Old.
How Julien hates that word.