Page 70 of The Words Beneath the Noise

She returned to her station, leaving me alone with my dimming desk lamp and the intercept I still hadn't finished and the crushing weight of her care.

She knew. Noor knew what I was, had probably known for ages, and she'd chosen kindness instead of condemnation. Had warned me instead of exposing me. Had offered understanding wrapped in pragmatic advice about survival.

But her uncle's story sat in my gut like lead. Two years hard labor. Chemical treatment. Broken in ways that can't be mended.

That was the reality waiting for men like me. Not romance, not hope, not happy endings. Just systematic destruction at the hands of people who thought love between men was disease requiring cure.

My hands started shaking. Set down the pencil before I snapped it. Pressed my palms flat against the desk and counted breaths until the shaking subsided.

Focus. Work. Translate Wehrmacht logistics and pretend my world hadn't just tilted further off its axis.

By the time zero-four-hundred rolled around, I'd finished three intercepts and started a fourth. My eyes burned. My neck ached from hunching. My leg had bounced so much I'd probably burned through a day's worth of calories in nervous energy alone.

But I'd survived. Made it through Noor's revelation and her warning and the fresh, visceral understanding of what waited for people like me.

Small victories.

The lake was frozen solid,a sheet of black glass reflecting the scattered stars above. Tom had found this spot, somehow. Had led me here after our shifts aligned for once, both of us free at the same hour with nowhere urgent to be.

“Brought supplies,” he said, producing two bottles of beer from inside his coat like a magician revealing doves. “Traded Morrison three cigarettes and a favour to be named later.”

“A favour to be named later sounds ominous.”

“Probably means I'll be covering his watch sometime next month when he wants to sneak into the village.” Tom shrugged, uncapping both bottles with a practised motion. “Worth it.”

He handed me one, and our fingers brushed in the exchange. I pretended not to notice. Pretended the brief contact did not send electricity up my arm and into my chest.

We settled on the bench beneath the old willow, its bare branches creating a canopy of sorts, skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky. The cold bit through my coat, but I did not care. The beer was bitter and slightly warm and utterly perfect.

Tom produced cigarettes next, lighting two and passing one to me without asking. We had developed rituals, these past weeks. Small intimacies that meant nothing and everything.

“Stars are bright tonight,” he said, tipping his head back. “You can actually see them for once. No cloud cover.”

I looked up. He was right. The sky was a vast expanse of black velvet scattered with diamonds, more stars visible than I had seen since before the war began. The blackout meant no light pollution, no glow from cities to dim the celestial display. One of the few gifts of wartime darkness.

“Do you know the constellations?” I asked.

“Some. Learned them for navigation, back in training. Ursa Major there there.” He pointed with his cigarette, ember tracing an arc. “And that bright one is Sirius. Dog star.”

“The Greeks believed Sirius caused the heat of summer. They called the hottest days the dog days because Sirius rose with the sun.”

“Trust you to know the history of stars.”

“Trust me to know the history of everything useless.” I took a drag from my cigarette, watched the smoke curl upward toward those ancient lights. “My head is full of facts that serve no practical purpose. Did you know that the word disaster literally means bad star? From the Italian. Dis, meaning bad, and astro, meaning star. People used to believe that catastrophes were caused by unfavourable planetary alignments.”

Tom was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed, soft and genuine. “You're something else, Art. You know that?”

“I know I talk too much about etymology when I'm nervous.”

“Are you nervous?”

I considered lying. Decided against it. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Because you are sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth of you. Because you brought me beer and cigarettes andled me to this beautiful spot like it was a gift you wanted to give me. Because every moment with you feels stolen, borrowed, temporary.

“I do not know,” I said instead. “The dark, perhaps. It makes everything feel heightened.”