BOWIE

You find Kurt in most uncharacteristic repose in the armchair, his hands steepled over the plane of his chest, his eyes fixated upon focused point in the distance. You take in the frown clouding the mystique of his expression, the obstinacy that makes him most austere indeed.

He does not rise to find you out in typical manner. His eyes do not alight, smile brightening the shadows so usually cast over his face. His tail does not whip in excitable means to demonstrate physical joy, instead limp in curled rest around his ankle. This is how you know that something is wrong.

But you know the systematic approach in which to encourage him to express confiding thought in you. It is in as simple format of sitting in reclined position besides him in the armchair in which he stews.

As easy as to wait in patience as he sifts through the matters that draw him into such somber gloom. And it is a necessity to await for him to speak in that lilting voice that you are so fond of hearing as seeing dawn of a new day.

But there is dreary quality to his cadence as he speaks, so devoid of the natural airs it usually bears. He speaks as he feels—with great pains to do so.

"I feel as though I am experiencing a crisis of faith." He informs you. His eyes are still trained upon the distance his thoughts are otherwise consumed by.

It it simple to pursue further answer—so you make way to do so, turning to him. Finding yourself regaled with the glow of those eyes that seem to warm when they locate you.

"Why is that?" You ask with careful reticence. He does not move, but the sigh that blisters through him is hollow. It is worried. It is with such sad atmosphere that possesses him.

"Every day—the war grows worse." He grieves. It is with instinctual movement that you place your hand over the fold of his, where it reclines on the arm of the plush velvet chair. Such fineries in stark contrast to the topic he broaches with you.

He continues. "We are in such chaos—with Herr Lensherr, with the government."

You let your fingers grow in pressure, comforting and grounding—and are relieved when his palm rotates so that his fingers may close over yours. Something to anchor him in these troubled waters that he drowns in.

"Charles does what he may to guide us." Kurt explains, and his brow furrows now at this, searching up to you for consolation—though his words lack completion. "But it feels…insufficient."

"How so?" You ask, for you feel that yet-verbalized words still remain on the horizon of his lips. And you find yourself proven correct as he bows his head, allowing you to admire the odd severity to a brow that is usually raised with joy. This does not suit Kurt Wagner by any means.

"They are but one reed against the storm." There is desolation in his voice. "We are but a bandage to the wound. How is one man enough?"

He looks back up to you, looking for words that he hopes you possess. It is all that you can do to wrap his hand in yours, to press closer across the meridian of space yawning between you both. To comfort him with the grace of your words and the surety of a better tomorrow.

"That's why we have each other." You keep your voice firm, you manage the steadiness of your gaze. You hug his arm into the embrace of your body so that he may have the physical reassurance that you pair with the verbal. Though, you are unaware of the way that his eyes tick wider at the tactile contact.

"That's why we're all here, Kurt." You are stolid as you progress, inclining your head to ensure that he continues to share the sight of your eyes. As though there were anything else that he could find himself to focus on. As though you were not his north star guiding him out of the night.

"To fight the good fight. That's why we do this every day." You tell him, and you mean it, which is why it must be true. Because with the presence of your compass that sits besides you seeking guidance, the least you may do is provide him the knowledge that he is not alone.

"That's why I stay. And that's why you do, too." You conclude, and allow yourself to smile—and feel a pang of relief at the one he provides you in return.

"You say it so simply—"—He does not mean it as insult, but appreciation for the condensation of the message. The mission that you all follow. The mantra that maintains the lifesblood of the movement you all adhere to.

"—But," His eyes are hopeful in their track, "I feel I can believe you."

You feel you are in safe enough pastures to laugh, to make merriment. "That's because of my winning pluck and charm, didn't you know?"

"Ach—"—He is casual as he says this, which is why he is caught unawares—"—That must be why I love you so much."

Perhaps it could have been interpreted with the veil of platonic affection, if it were not for the fond affection that it is laved in. If it were not for the heady, suffused emotion that it comes cloaked in. If it were not for the horrified embarrassment that flashes across his face at the terrible realization—the thought was not internal.

"What?" You ask, feeling a shock bolt up your spine, followed up in quick tandem with a blooming thrill that rockets up after it.

"I—I mean—"—He stumbles for wording that will not come—it is too late. The proverbial cat is out of the bag—all that is left is for you to pursue it, if you wish. And something lingers terrified in his eyes terrified that you will not.

But you do, with utmost gentility in his voice—as you remind him that your hand is still enfolded over his own. "What do you mean, Kurt?"

Kurt seems to be caught in the precipice of decision. Of making choice against choice. Of weighing alternatives and probabilities, and outcomes encountered.

And then he rallies himself to weather this crisis in his way. "I mean what I say, liebe. I mean that I love you. In times of crisis—you are my reed that I clutch to."

It is he now who presses the cover of his hands over yours, as he makes this plaintive appeal to your emotions, his voice frayed with joy and worry.

"You do not need to return it—"—Already he prepares himself for the banishment of your affection, the rejection of your love—"—And we may never speak of it again, but—"

Perhaps this is why, when you kiss him, he makes muffled gasp of surprise against your mouth, his body drawing inert with shock. But it is only momentary before he relaxes into the press of your lips, allows trembling hands to draw up the curve of your face. And he holds you even when you retreat, as though he will never find opportunity again.

"We will—"—You tell him with the same bright steadfastness you did before—"—Because I intend to return it back."

He still seems the disbelieving apostle until you return the admission of his fealty. "I love you too, Kurt."

And then once more he is returned to you, the joy cresting over his face with the brink of a new horizon. "Then my faith is restored once more, liebe."

His hands are perfect fit for yours as he swears his love anew. "And with it my heart."