The Missing Life

by SeeMeThroughToday

There are German elements in this story, with no translation into English. If you feel this will cause you a challenge open Google Translate in a new tab. Most of the German can be worked out by context, some cannot. It's worth it for the story. ~ Webmaster

The iron gates clanged shut behind Jonas with a finality that made his stomach twist. His sneakers scuffed against the cobblestone path as he clutched the strap of his backpack tighter, the faded band logo on his t-shirt suddenly feeling childish under Bruder Werner's appraising gaze. The man loomed tall in his dark robes, the faint gleam of leather peeking from beneath the fabric as he crossed his arms.

"Jeans?" Werner's voice was smooth, almost amused, as he flicked a disdainful glance at Jonas's ripped knees. "T-shirt?" His tongue clicked against his teeth. "Nein, nein. This will not do at all. We have standards here." A cold smile crept across his face as he gestured toward the austere stone building behind him. " You will be properly outfitted before supper. Come. "

The command left no room for argument. Jonas's throat went dry as he noticed the leather strap hooked at Werner's belt—worn smooth from use.

The heavy oak door groaned as Werner pushed it open, revealing a stark white room lined with wooden benches and metal hooks. A woven basket sat conspicuously in the center, its rim frayed from years of use. Werner's fingers drummed against the leather of his belt as he watched Jonas hesitate in the doorway.

"Ausziehen und alles in den Korb!" The command cracked like a whip. "Everything. Clothes, shoes—even that ridiculous backpack." His lips curled as he nudged the basket forward with his boot. "You won't be needing any of it here." The words dripped with mocking certainty.

A flush crept up Jonas's neck as he fumbled with his sneaker laces. Werner's shadow loomed closer, the scent of polished leather and antiseptic sharp in the boy's nostrils. " Schnell, schnell, " Werner murmured, plucking the backpack from Jonas's grip before he could protest. "You belong to the Order now. And we do not tolerate … Unordnung."

The basket swallowed Jonas's belongings with a hollow thud.

Jonas stood frozen, his arms instinctively crossing over his bare chest as the cold air prickled his skin. His discarded clothes lay in the basket like shed skin, and the weight of Werner's stare made him want to vanish into the floorboards. The man circled him slowly, boots clicking against stone, fingers stroking the worn leather of his belt in apparent contemplation.

"Da haben wir aber einen süßen Bengel…" Werner's voice oozed false sweetness as he paused in front of Jonas, tilting the boy's chin up with two fingers. The callouses on his palm scratched against Jonas's jaw. "So soft. So… unspoiled." His thumb brushed over Jonas's lower lip, a gesture that made the boy's stomach lurch. "We'll harden you up soon enough."

The threat hung unspoken as Werner stepped back, surveying Jonas's trembling frame with the satisfaction of a butcher sizing up a lamb.

Werner strode to a worn cabinet, its hinges squealing as he withdrew the folded garments with ceremonial precision. He laid each piece on the bench with deliberate slowness—the stiff white linen shirt first, its fabric whispering against the wood. Next came the sandals, their leather straps coiled like waiting serpents.

But it was the final item that made his lips twitch with grim amusement. He unfurled the heavy brown leather shorts with a practiced flick, the double zippers glinting under the harsh overhead light. The thick inner lining—pale and butter-soft leather—peeked from the waistband as he draped the straps over them, their buckles clinking like tiny manacles.

"Das," he murmured, tracing a finger along one gleaming seam, "is what proper boys wear here." His gaze lifted to Jonas's nakedness, lingering on the boy's clenched fists. "Every stitch engineered for… discipline." The unspoken promise slithered between them as he stepped back. "Anziehen. Now."

The silence stretched taut.

The shirt scraped against Jonas's skin like burlap as he pulled it over his head, the coarse linen chafing his nipples into stiff peaks. He kept his eyes downcast, fingers shaking as he reached for the leather shorts—only to freeze when the material slithered against his thighs. The cool inner lining kissed his bare flesh, so shockingly soft it made his breath hitch.

Then came the traitorous heat pooling low in his belly. Jonas bit his lip hard enough to taste copper as the shorts hugged every curve, the thick leather cupping him with obscene precision. A whimper escaped when the double zippers brushed sensitive skin during fastening.

Werner's chuckle was a blade between his ribs. "Ach, so eager to please already?" The man's knuckle dragged up Jonas's flushed sternum. "We'll have to… channel that enthusiasm properly."

Werner's grip was sudden—a vise of calloused fingers tangling in Jonas's hair, yanking his head back until the boy's throat arched taut. The other hand slid down with predatory grace, palm pressing firm between the leather-clad thighs where heat radiated through the stiff material.

"So sensitive," Werner purred, kneading the plush inner lining against Jonas's trapped flesh in slow, torturous circles. The boy's gasp echoed off the tile as his hips twitched forward involuntarily. Werner's thumb found a zipper tab, teasing it back and forth just enough to make the leather creak. "Tell me—do you always get this hard from following rules?" His breath was hot against Jonas's ear as the kneading turned crueler. "Or is it the shame you crave?"

The hand in Jonas's hair tightened, forcing eye contact. Werner's smile didn't reach his cold, appraising eyes.

A hot tear streaked down Jonas's cheek, cutting through the dust clinging to his skin. He didn't dare wipe it—not with Werner's grip still buried in his hair, not with those mocking fingers working him through the stiff leather like he was some sort of wind-up toy. The tear dripped onto the man's wrist, gleaming against the dark hairs there before vanishing into the sleeve of his robe.

Jonas's breath came in shallow hitches, his body arching against his will as the zipper teeth teased dangerously close to—no, he couldn't—but the thick lining caressed him with every shift of Werner's hand, the leather growing damp where it hugged his thighs. His vision blurred at the edges, the overhead lights fracturing into starbursts.

"Bitte," he whispered, though whether it was a plea for mercy or for the torment to continue, even he didn't know.

The word tasted like salt and shame.

Werner released him abruptly—so suddenly Jonas staggered forward with a gasp, knees buckling before catching himself on the bench. The man stepped back, adjusting his sleeves with prim disdain while Jonas panted, his fingers clawing at the wooden slats for balance. Werner's smirk grew as he watched the boy's thighs tremble, the leather shorts clinging obscenely where they'd grown damp with sweat.

" Enough playtime, " Werner announced, plucking a key from his belt with theatrical slowness. The metal glinted as he twirled it between his fingers. " You have much to learn about obedience. " His boot tapped the floor—once, twice—before he turned toward a narrow door Jonas hadn't noticed before. " Come. The others are waiting. "

The way his fingers lingered on the doorknob, tracing the brass like a lover, made Jonas's stomach drop.

The door creaked open to reveal a long, dimly lit corridor lined with identical oak doors, each bearing a small iron grate at eye level. The air smelled of waxed wood and something sharper—lye soap, maybe, or the metallic tang of fear. Distant murmurs echoed from somewhere deeper in the building, punctuated by the occasional stifled whimper. Werner's grip on Jonas's shoulder tightened as he steered him forward, the boy's sandals shuffling against the worn stone floor.

One door stood slightly ajar at the end of the hall, amber light spilling onto the flagstones. Inside, shadows moved—boys in identical leather shorts, their heads bowed as they polished boots or scrubbed floors under the watchful gaze of another robed figure. Jonas's breath hitched when he caught sight of the far wall: a row of hooks hung with thick straps, their leather darkened from use.

Werner leaned down, his lips brushing Jonas's ear. "Your new family," he whispered, and the boy shuddered as the door swung fully open.

The scrape of chairs against stone echoed as every boy in the room turned toward Jonas, their movements eerily synchronized. Their gazes flicked from his trembling legs to the damp leather clinging to his thighs—then to Werner's hand still gripping his shoulder. None spoke. None even breathed too loud. The older brother by the wall merely smirked and ran a thumb along the edge of a strap hanging from its hook, his meaning clear.

Jonas's knees threatened to give way entirely when Werner finally released him with a shove toward the center of the room. The wooden floorboards burned icy under his sandals.

" This one requires special attention, " Werner announced, producing a small notebook from his robes. He flipped it open with a flourish, revealing a page already marked with Jonas's name in precise, looping script. " See that he learns quickly. "

The boys nodded as one. One stepped forward—taller, broader, with a scar bisecting his eyebrow—and seized Jonas's wrist before he could flinch away.

The scarred boy twisted Jonas's wrist just enough to make him whimper, his grip tightening as he dragged him toward a low wooden stool in the corner of the room. The other boys parted in silence, their eyes tracking Jonas's every flinch. The stool's surface was worn smooth by countless trembling thighs before his, its legs bolted to the floor with rusted iron brackets.

"First rule," the boy growled, shoving Jonas down hard enough to make the leather shorts creak. He snatched a stiff-bristled brush from a nearby bucket, its handle stained with sweat and old polish. "You clean every boot in this room. With your tongue if they're not shiny enough." His grin widened at Jonas's horrified gasp. "And if you cry?" He jerked his chin toward the far wall where the straps swayed slightly, as if eager.

Werner's chuckle slithered through the room as he turned to leave, his robes whispering against the doorframe. "Such a motivating first lesson," he murmured, and the latch clicked shut behind him.

Jonas's fingers trembled against the brush handle as he scrubbed at the 9 th boot's toe cap, his shoulders hunched under the weight of watching eyes. The sudden whisper to his left made him flinch—he hadn't noticed the boy sidling closer on the adjacent stool until now.

The speaker was slight, with flaxen hair cropped brutally short above ears that stuck out just slightly too much. His hands worried at the hem of his own leather shorts, the motion drawing Jonas's gaze to the raw red marks circling the boy's wrists. "Hallo, ich bin Erik … " The words were barely audible, his voice frayed at the edges like overused twine. When he dared to glance up, his eyes were the pale blue of winter puddles—and just as full of quiet dread.

Jonas opened his mouth to respond when the brush was yanked from his grip by the scarred boy looming behind them.

The brush clattered against the stone floor, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the tense silence. The scarred boy—Matthias—loomed over Erik and Jonas, his shadow swallowing them whole.

"Klappe halten und arbeiten!" Matthias barked, spit flying from his lips as he seized Erik's ear and twisted viciously. The smaller boy whimpered, his legs scrambling for purchase against the stool as Matthias dragged him upright. "Or would you prefer die Gummizelle tonight?" His free hand smacked against the seat of Erik's leather shorts with a wet, meaty crack that made Jonas flinch.

Erik's breath hitched—not from pain, Jonas realized with dawning horror, but from something darker. The way his thighs clenched, the damp patch spreading on the inner lining of his shorts…

Matthias noticed too. His grin turned feral as he shoved Erik back onto the stool. "Filthy schwein," he sneered, wiping his palm on Jonas's shoulder. "Looks like you'll both be staying late."

The dormitory was colder than Jonas had expected—long rows of narrow iron beds pressed wall-to-wall, each draped with a single scratchy wool blanket. His stomach dropped when he realized every mattress bore two flattened impressions, the straw stuffing lumping where countless pairs of boys had huddled together through the night.

Bruder Werner's hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers digging into the fresh welts beneath his shirt. "Wärmeschlafen," the man murmured, his breath reeking of bitter herbs as he gestured to the cramped beds. "Two bodies conserve heat. And other… necessities." His chuckle slithered down Jonas's spine as he gave him a shove toward the last bed in the row—where Erik already sat curled against the headboard, knees drawn tight to his chest.

Jonas's pulse stuttered when their eyes met. The other boy's fingers twitched toward the empty space beside him in silent invitation, the raw skin around his wrists gleaming redder in the lamplight.

Werner's bootsteps receded down the hall, taking the flickering lantern with him. Jonas exhaled for what felt like the first time all day as he slid under the blanket, the straw prickling through his thin shirt. Erik's shivering body pressed flush against his back was warmer than any furnace.

The scratchy blanket did nothing to mute the heat radiating between them—Erik's chest pressed firm against Jonas's back, his breath hitching in little hitches that fogged warm against the nape of Jonas's neck. A tentative hand crept over Jonas's ribs, fingers splaying like he was mapping new territory.

"Psst…" Erik's whisper was barely audible, lips brushing Jonas's ear in a way that sent shivers down his spine. "Your heartbeat—it's so loud." His palm slid lower, settling over Jonas's stomach where the linen shirt had ridden up. The touch was hesitant, yet deliberate, lingering on the bruises Werner's strap had left earlier. "Does it… still hurt?"

Jonas couldn't answer. The lump in his throat swelled as Erik's thumb rubbed absent circles into his skin—the first gentle contact he'd felt since the gates clanged shut behind him. He squeezed his eyes tight, pressing back into the warmth until the straw stopped prickling, until the walls didn't feel so close.

Erik's knees slotted behind his, fitting together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time.

Jonas froze as the heat against his lower back shifted—Erik's thigh hitching forward in the dark, pressing something firm and insistent against the cleft of Jonas's buttocks through the thick leather shorts. The contact sent an unwelcome jolt down his spine, his own traitorous body responding before his mind could catch up. His breath hitched as Erik's fingers spasmed against his stomach, the other boy's chest rising too fast against his shoulder blades.

The hand on Jonas's ribs slid lower, knuckles brushing the waistband of his shorts where the leather had grown damp with sweat. Erik's exhale shuddered against his neck, hot and uneven. "S-sorry," Erik whispered, but his hips twitched forward again anyway, grinding the length of his arousal against Jonas with a helpless little noise.

Jonas should've recoiled. Should've shoved him away. Instead, he arched back into the contact, a whimper catching in his throat as the friction sent sparks licking up his thighs. The straw beneath them might as well have been on fire.

Erik's breath hitched—hot and damp against Jonas's neck—as his fingers skated down the trembling plane of Jonas's stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of the leather shorts with a reverence that made the boy whimper. The inner leather lining clung to Jonas's arousal, damp and fever-warm, molding the shape of him into Erik's palm like clay.

Jonas arched into the touch with a choked gasp, his hips rocking back against Erik's own straining hardness. The leather between them groaned with each slow grind, the double zippers biting into sensitive flesh with every shift. Erik's thumb found the slit of Jonas's arousal, smearing the dampness in tight circles that sent sparks licking up the boy's spine.

"Shh," Erik murmured against Jonas's nape—not a warning, but a plea. His fingers tightened, dragging a ragged moan from Jonas's throat as he worked him in slow, torturous strokes. The friction burned sweet as honey, the ache in Jonas's gut coiling tighter with every pass of Erik's calloused palm.

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked. Neither boy noticed.

Jonas twisted suddenly—too fast, the straw poking sharp through the blanket—and found himself nose-to-nose with Erik, their shared breath hot between them. The abrupt motion sent Erik's hips jerking forward twice in empty air, his leather shorts creaking with the aborted thrusts. A low, frustrated groan escaped Erik's lips before he could bite it back, his entire body trembling from the interrupted friction.

Jonas watched, transfixed, as Erik's eyelashes fluttered—the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by black in the dimness. The other boy's lips parted around another soundless whimper, his fingers clutching at Jonas's shirt like he might vanish if let go.

The space between them crackled with something hotter than shame.

Jonas's whisper came out cracked—half awe, half terror—as his fingers found Erik's cheek in the dark. The other boy flinched at the touch, then leaned into it like a parched plant toward rain. "Mein Gott," Jonas breathed, thumb brushing the damp track of a tear Erik hadn't let fall. "Du bist so… s üß ." The word tasted foreign on his tongue, too tender for this place of leather and straps.

Erik's pupils swallowed the last hints of blue as Jonas spoke, his chest rising shallowly. "Als ich Dich vorhin das erste mal sah—" Jonas's voice hitched when Erik's teeth caught his lower lip, biting gently in a silent plea for more. "Wurde mir schwindelig." His palm slid down to Erik's throat, feeling the frantic pulse there. "Was passiert da mit uns?"

The question hung between them, fragile as the first ice of winter. Erik's answer came not in words but in the desperate press of his hips forward, the muffled sob as their foreheads touched. The leather between them groaned.

The straw prickled through the blanket as Jonas rolled onto Erik—sudden, desperate—their damp chests pressing flush through the thin linen shirts. Erik gasped, his fingers scrabbling at Jonas's back as their hips slotted together, leather shorts groaning with the first frantic rut forward. Jonas buried his face in Erik's neck, inhaling the salt-sweat fear clinging to his skin as their thighs tangled.

"Ach—!" Erik's back arched off the mattress, his teeth sinking into Jonas's shoulder to muffle the choked noise that escaped him. The pain was sharp, bright—perfect. Jonas ground down harder, chasing the friction like a drowning man gulping air, the double zippers biting into overheated flesh with each jerky thrust.

Somewhere beyond the iron-barred windows, an owl hooted. Neither boy heard it over the wet slap of leather and their own ragged breathing.

The blanket slipped away as Erik hooked a leg over Jonas's hip, pulling him deeper into the grind. His whisper was raw with something beyond shame: "Mehr. Bitte, mehr." Jonas obeyed.

The sob that tore from Erik's throat was raw—not from pain, but from the unbearable tenderness of Jonas's lips tracing his collarbone, his hips moving in slow, deep circles that sent sparks up Erik's spine. The leather between them had grown slick with sweat, sticking to their skin as they rocked together, every thrust dragging a broken whimper from Erik's bitten-red lips. Jonas' s hands cradled Erik's face like something sacred, his thumbs brushing away tears neither boy had the strength to hide anymore.

Erik's back arched off the mattress, his fingers clutching Jonas's shirt as the coil in his gut tightened—too much, not enough—his entire body trembling on the edge. Jonas's breath hitched against Erik's throat, his movements growing frantic, desperate. Their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, as the world narrowed to the shared heat between them, to the silent promise in Erik's gasping "Bitte—"

And then—release. Hot and sudden, Erik's body seized, a muted cry stifled against Jonas's shoulder as the pleasure crested, washing over him in waves that left him boneless. Jonas followed moments after, hips stuttering, his own choked moan lost in the crook of Erik's neck.

For a heartbeat, there was only stillness—the two of them tangled in the afterglow, hearts pounding in tandem, the leather shorts clinging to their thighs with cooling dampness. Jonas's fingers trembled as they carded through Erik's cropped hair, the touch feather-light.

No words were needed. The way Erik curled into him said everything.

Jonas's fingers traced the damp trails on Erik's cheeks, his touch hovering like he feared the tears might burn him. The salt lingered on his fingertips when he pulled away—proof this wasn't some fever-dream conjured by exhaustion. Erik's eyelashes fluttered at the contact, his breath hitching as Jonas's thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath his eye.

"Du weinst…" Jonas murmured, though his own vision blurred as he said it. The realization slithered through his chest—this fragile happiness wedged between bruises and leather straps shouldn't exist here. Yet Erik's small, answering smile cracked something open inside him, warmth spilling into places Werner's strap had left cold.

Jonas leaned forward without thinking, their foreheads touching as his palm cradled Erik's jaw. The other boy's pulse thrummed against his fingers, rapid as a sparrow's. "Ich weißnicht, warum," he admitted against Erik's lips, "aber bei Dir fühl ich mich…" The words dissolved into a shaky exhale. Whole. Safe. Human. None of it made sense. None of it needed to.

Erik's hand covered Jonas's, pressing it tighter to his cheek as if to say I know. Me too. The silence between them grew thick with unspoken things.

The Missimg Life

[Copyright 2026 SeeMeThroughToday All rghts reserved. Reproduced here under licence.]

The dream came softly—a fever-bright blur of dandelion fluff catching sunlight, of warm grass beneath bare feet instead of cold stone. Jonas stirred against Erik's chest, his sleeping fingers clutching at the other boy's shirt like an anchor as the vision unfolded.

There were no straps here. No leather groaning under the weight of fear. Just endless green rolling toward a horizon where the sky bled into wildflowers—purple, gold, scarlet—their petals trembling in a breeze that carried the scent of rain-soaked earth.

Erik's dreaming sigh ghosted across Jonas's temple, his lips curving around a word too fragile to speak aloud: Freiheit. Their joined hands swung between them as they ran through the meadow, laughing in a way that would've earned them the rubber cell back in that other place. The grass stains on their knees didn't sting. The sun didn't burn.

And when Jonas turned to Erik—really looked at him—the bruises were gone.

A floorboard creaked in the waking world. The dream shattered.

The refectory's vaulted ceiling amplified every clatter of tin spoons against chipped bowls, the sound bouncing off stone walls stained with decades of spilled gruel. Jonas sat hip-to-hip with Erik at the long trestle table, their bare knees pressed so tight beneath the bench that the sweat-slick skin threatened to fuse. Neither touched their watery porridge—too busy trading glances that lingered too long, smiles that curved too soft.

Erik's pinky brushed Jonas's thigh under the table, a secret touch that sent the boy's pulse skittering. His lips parted around a silent laugh when Jonas nearly upended his bowl reaching for the salt—a laugh that froze mid-breath as Matthias's shadow fell across their joined knees.

"Was haben wir denn hier?" The older boy's grin split his face like a knife wound, his boot nudging their legs apart with deliberate cruelty. His gaze flicked to Erik's flushed cheeks, then to Jonas's white-knuckled grip on his spoon. "Zwei kleine schwule Hündchen, die—"

Bruder Werner's hand clamped down on Matthias's shoulder before he could finish, the man's fingers sinking deep enough to make the boy wince. "Still," Werner murmured, though his eyes—dark and gleaming—never left Jonas's face. "Ich kümmere mich später persönlich um die beiden ."

The threat hung thick as the gruel between them. Erik's knee found Jonas's again under the table, trembling.

The scrape of Werner's boots echoed through the refectory as he strode toward their bench, his black leather trousers creaking with each measured step. His shadow fell across Jonas's half-empty bowl, the gruel's surface trembling with the impact.

"Nach dem Frühstück ins Präfektorium," he murmured, fingers drumming along the edge of the table—slow, like a spider testing its web. "Aber dalli!" The command slithered between them, thick with unspoken promise. His gaze lingered on Erik's split lip, Matthias's handiwork from yesterday, before dropping to where their knees still touched beneath the bench.

A slow smile spread beneath Werner's beard as he leaned down, his whisper oily against Jonas's ear: "Ich hoffe, ihr habt eure Lederhosen heute richtig gut festgeschnallt ." The double zippers'gleam caught the light as he straightened, his robe brushing Jonas's shoulder—a touch that burned colder than the dungeon stones.

Erik's porridge spoon clattered against the tin. Werner didn't look back.

The corridor stretched before them like a throat waiting to swallow—each flagstone worn concave by generations of dragging feet. Jonas's sandals scuffed the stones deliberately slow, his shoulders hunched against Erik's trembling warmth beside him. The scent of beeswax and something acrid grew stronger with every reluctant step toward Werner's office, the door's black oak swollen with humidity.

Jonas's fingers found Erik's wrist in the dimness, his thumb pressing against the raw marks circling it. "Erik," he whispered, the name cracking mid-syllable. His eyes darted toward a recessed doorway where iron hinges gleamed dully—the rubber cell's entrance just visible in the shadows. "What was it about these Gummizellen?" The question tasted like copper on his tongue.

Erik's breath hitched. His free hand rose to his mouth, fingertips brushing lips that remembered the taste of latex. "Da… da kommt man nicht raus," he murmured, gaze fixed on the yellowed light seeping beneath Werner's door. "Nicht bis er es will." The memory of honey-colored pacifier -gags and the squeak of rubber thighs squeezing tight made Erik's stomach lurch.

Somewhere ahead, a chair scraped. Both boys flinched.

The knock echoed like a gunshot in the hollow corridor. Three beats—too fast, betraying the rabbit-quick pulse hammering in Jonas's throat—before Werner's voice slithered through the oak: "Herein."

The door swung inward on oiled hinges, revealing Werner seated behind a desk polished to mirror-shine. The man's fingers steepled beneath his chin, black leather gloves creaking as they flexed. Lamplight pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, carving his smile into something skeletal. Jonas's knees threatened to buckle—not from fear now, but from the way Werner's gaze dropped pointedly to the damp patches darkening the inner thighs of his leather shorts.

"Ah." Werner leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight as his eyes flicked to Erik's trembling lip. "Wie passend." His glove tapped the ledger open before him, its pages dense with smudged names and dates. "Hier steht ihr schon."

Jonas's breath hitched. There, in fresh ink: Erik & Jonas—Unzüchtigkeit.

The floor tilted beneath his feet.

Werner's chair groaned as he leaned forward, the lamplight carving deep shadows beneath his eyes. His gloved fingertip traced the ledger entry—Unzüchtigkeit—with theatrical slowness before flicking the page shut. The snap echoed like a trap springing.

"Da haben wir also zwei Turteltäubchen…" His voice dripped mock-sweetness, lips curling around the pet name as his gaze slid between their damp leather shorts. One hand drifted to his belt, thumb rubbing the worn strap absently. "Was habt ihr beiden mir dazu zu sagen?" The question hung, poisonous. "Sind wir verliebt, meine süßen Schätzchen?"

Jonas's throat worked silently. Werner didn't wait for an answer.

The man's chuckle vibrated through the desk as he stood, his leather trousers whispering against the wood. "Ach, ich sehe es ja." His glove caught Erik's chin, forcing the boy's face upward to expose the love-bruise blooming on his neck. "So unschuldig. So… rein." The last word cracked like a whip. His other hand slipped between Jonas's thighs, feeling the sticky warmth through the leather with a hum of delight. "Und doch schon so verdorben."

Jonas's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry as the straw in their bedding. His fingers twitched toward Erik's wrist—a silent plea for backup—as Werner's grip tightened around his thigh. The ledger's damning entry burned behind his eyelids each time he blinked.

"W-wir haben nur—" The lie crumbled before it formed, his gaze darting to Erik's bruised lip. The memory of last night's whispers, of tangled limbs and shared warmth, rose unbidden. His throat worked around nothing before choking out, "Es ist nicht was Sie denken—"

Erik's knee bumped his, trembling. Jonas swallowed hard.

"Richtig, Erik?" The name cracked like thin ice. He knew Werner saw right through him—saw the way his breath hitched when Erik's pinky brushed his p alm . But the plea hung there anyway, fragile as the boy clinging to it.

Werner's chuckle said everything.

Werner's leather gloves scraped against the ledger as he leaned across the desk, his shadow swallowing both boys whole. The lamplight caught the twin zippers of their shorts—still slightly parted from their frantic dressing after breakfast—as his gaze dragged over them like syrup.

"Warum glaubt ihr kleinen Welpen wohl," he murmured, tapping Erik's clamped-shut knees with his ruler, "dass wir immer zwei Jungs in ein Bettchen stecken?" His chuckle vibrated through the desk as Jonas's breath hitched. The ruler slid higher, tracing the damp seam where Erik's thighs met leather. "Denkt ihr süßen Hasenkinder etwa"—(a grunt)—"wir wüssten nicht, was Bengels in eurem Alter…" The ruler tip hooked under Erik's zipper, tink. "…unter der Decke treiben?"

Erik's whimper folded into Jonas's gasp as Werner flipped the ledger open again—to a page dense with smudged names and dates, each entry paired with meticulous observations: Hand placement, hip angles, muffled sounds, curses …

"Seht ihr?". "Wir wissen alles."

The clock's pendulum swung like a strap between them.

Werner's glove slammed down on the ledger with a crack that sent dust motes swirling in the lamplight. His voice honed itself to a razor's edge—"Küßt Euch!"—the command slicing through Jonas's stammered excuses. The boys flinched as one, Erik's fingers knotting in Jonas's sleeve.

Werner circled the desk, his leather soles whispering against stone. "Wartet ihr etwa auf eine Einladung?" His thumb hooked under Erik's chin, forcing their faces mere inches apart. The man's breath reeked of anise as he murmured, "Zeigt mir doch mal diese… Unschuld"—his fingers twitched Jonas forward by the waistband—"die ihr nachts so freigiebig teilt."

The clock's ticking grew louder in the silence that followed. Erik's eyelashes fluttered shut first.

Jonas's breath stuttered—hot and uneven—as he turned toward Erik's cheek, their noses brushing in the dim lamplight. The scent of soap and salt clung to Erik's skin where Werner's glove had dug in moments before. His lips hovered for a heartbeat, trembling with the weight of Werner's gaze boring into his nape.

Then—contact. The kiss landed feather-light just below Erik's cheekbone, more shudder than touch, Jonas's eyelashes fluttering shut as if to block out the world. His fingers found Erik's wrist, threading through the other boy's digits in a silent plea: I'm sorry. This isn't us.

Erik's pulse rabbited against Jonas's palm, his breathing shallow. The clock ticked three times before Jonas pulled back—just far enough to see the tear clinging to Erik's lashes. His own lips tingled with the ghost of that chaste touch, already mourning its purity.

Werner's dis approving hum slithered between them like oil.

The slap cracked through the study like twin gunshots—first Erik's head snapping forward with a choked gasp, then Jonas's skull ricocheting sideways hard enough to taste copper. Werner's leather glove left stark red imprints blooming across their napes as he seized both boys by the hair, yanking their faces up to face the ledger's damning page once more.

"DAS," he hissed, spittle flecking Jonas's cheek, "ist kein Kuss." His free hand unsnapped the strap from his belt in one fluid motion—the leather sighing as it uncoiled like a living thing. "Ich zeige euch jetzt," the strap whispered against Erik's trembling lip, "wie man richtig büßt."

The first stroke landed before either boy could brace. Jonas's scream tangled with Erik's sob as the leather found its mark—not across backs or palms, but there, where their shorts clung damp and vulnerable. The pain was white-hot, immediate, carving through any pretense of modesty. Werner's grin split the lamplight as he raised the strap again.

Some how, Erik's fingers found Jonas's—both hands squeezing hard enough to bruise.

The strap dangled limply in Werner's grip as he studied the boys' tear-streaked faces with clinical detachment. His free hand seized Jonas by the hair again, yanking him nose-to-nose with Erik. "Und jetzt nochmal!" The command dripped with false patience, his thumb smearing Erik's spit-slick lower lip. "Aber richtig. Auf den Mund."

Jonas whimpered when Werner forced their foreheads together—close enough to taste Erik's panicked breaths. "Mit Zunge," Werner purred, his glove dragging Jonas's trembling hand down to grip Erik's leather-clad backside. "Und die H ände auf des jeweils anderen ledernen Arsch und massieren." The memory of last night's fumbling touches hung thick between them.

Werner's chuckle vibrated against Jonas's nape. "Das habt ihr doch bestimmt heute Nacht geübt—" The sudden SLAP of the strap against the desk made both boys flinch. "ODER?"

The kiss was clumsy at first—Jonas's lips catching too much of Erik's upper lip, noses bumping—until Erik's fingers curled into Jonas's shirt, pulling him closer. Their mouths slotted together properly then, wet and open, tongues brushing tentatively as Werner circled them like a vulture. The strap still dangled from his belt, but neither boy dared pull away now, their hands roaming each other's leather-clad backsides as ordered, fingers kneading the stiff material in rough mimicry of last night's passion.

Erik whined into Jonas's mouth when Werner's gloved hand suddenly gripped both their napes, forcing the kiss deeper. Their teeth clacked, saliva smearing across chins as they struggled to breathe through the onslaught. Jonas's fingers dug into Erik's backside—not pretending anymore—as the older man's approving chuckle vibrated against their joined foreheads.

"Gut," Werner purred, finally releasing them. Both boys gasped for air, their lips swollen and glistening. "Jetzt seid ihr brave Hündchen." His thumb swiped across Erik's damp chin before turning to the ledger. "Aber die Strafe steht trotzdem an."

Werner's gloved fingers tapped the ledger shut with deliberate finality, the sound echoing like a cell door slamming. He leaned across the desk until his breath fogged Erik's flushed cheek. "Und weil ihr so brav wart…" The sudden sweetness in his tone was more terrifying than any shout.

His grip shifted to both boys' napes, forcing their faces upward toward the ceiling-mounted crucifix. " …wird das Mittagessen heute besonders lehrreich." The black leather of his gloves squeaked as he traced their trembling jawlines. "Stellt euch vor den Tisch im Speisesaal—" His thumb pressed Jonas's lower lip down, exposing teeth. "—Zunge zu Zunge, Hände auf Lederarsch. Bis der letzte Löffel abgeleckt ist."

A wet click echoed as he popped his own tongue between his lips in grotesque demonstration. "Und wenn einer von euch… zuckt…" The dangling strap swung hypnotically near Erik's thigh. "Dann geht's ab in die Gummizelle. Mit Honigschnuller."

The walk to the dining hall felt like marching to the gallows—every squeak of Bruder Werner's boots behind them tightening the knot in Jonas's stomach. Two hours had done nothing to ease the tremor in his hands, now clenched white-knuckled at his sides. The scent of boiled cabbage hit him first, then the sudden silence as sixty faces swiveled toward their entrance.

Matthias's smirk burned hotter than the strap ever had. Jonas's throat closed when Werner gripped both their napes again, steering them toward the long Haupttisch like prized livestock. "Hier—" The whisper tickled his ear, "—wo alle es sehen können." Erik's choked breath beside him mirrored the dread pooling low in his belly as their foreheads were pressed together once more.

Jonas barely registered the first spoon clattering onto a plate—his world narrowed to Erik's eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbone, the too-warm slide of their tongues meeting under the brothers' rapt attention. Someone coughed. A chair creaked. But all he tasted was salt and Erik's panic, their hands mechanically kneading each other's stiff leather shorts as if last night's desperate touches hadn't been reduced to this grotesque pantomime.

The spoon clattered against someone's plate again, but Jonas barely heard it—because suddenly, Erik's lips weren't just trembling compliance anymore. They softened, parted wider against his own, and Jonas felt the exact moment when Erik's tongue stopped pretending. A shiver ran down his spine as Erik's fingers curled possessively into the back of his leather shorts, pulling him closer until their hips pressed flush together.

Somewhere far away, Bruder Werner was speaking, Matthias was laughing, but all Jonas knew was the hot slide of Erik's mouth and the way his own body arched into it without thought. A long, sighing groan escaped him as he deepened the kiss, his hands roaming freely now over Erik's backside, kneading the stiff leather with desperate hunger. The strap didn't matter. The brothers didn't matter. There was only this—Erik's breath hitching against his lips, the taste of him, the way his body yielded so perfectly—

And the dawning, dizzying realization: I love him. I love him so much I don't care who sees.

The dining hall's silence shattered into scattered whispers—spoons frozen midair, cabbage forgotten as sixty pairs of eyes locked onto the spectacle. Matthias's smirk faltered first, replaced by something raw and unreadable when Erik's moan vibrated through Jonas's chest. A younger boy near the kitchen door dropped his mug, the ceramic crack echoing like gunfire as their kiss grew messier, hungrier—all tongue and teeth and trembling fingers digging into leather-clad flesh.

From the back benches came a hissed "Scheiße…" followed by the unmistakable sound of someone shifting uncomfortably in their shorts. Another boy's whispered "Wowww" carried clear across the room, equal parts awe and envy as Erik arched against Jonas with a desperation that erased any doubt—this was no performance. Bruder Werner's strap hung forgotten at his side, his own lips slightly parted beneath the shadow of his hood.

The brothers exchanged glances—some disapproving, others dark with interest—but none moved to intervene. Even the crucifix above seemed to lean closer, its chipped wooden Jesus watching the boys' mouths move with pagan hunger.

Their lips parted with a wet sound that seemed deafening in the sudden stillness. Jonas blinked dazedly, his swollen mouth still tingling from Erik's bite—he'd bitten him—and the world came rushing back in fragments: sixty held breaths, cabbage-scented steam curling from untouched plates, Matthias's chair scraping backward.

Then—clap.

A single, slow handclap from the redheaded boy near the kitchen door. Another joined, then three more, until the hall erupted in whoops and stomping feet . "Lederhosenspektakel!" someone shrieked, followed by a cacophony of whistles as boys banged spoons against tables. Erik's startled laugh vibrated against Jonas's collarbone where their shirts clung damply together.

Matthias alone sat rigid, his fork bending between white-knuckled fingers as the chants grew louder—"Nochmal! Nochmal!"—until Bruder Werner's strap finally cracked against the Haupttisch, splintering the celebration into gasps.

The strap came down against the oak table again with a crack that silenced the room instantly. Bruder Werner's hooded eyes gleamed beneath his cowl as he surveyed the sea of flushed faces and fidgeting leather-clad thighs.

"GENUG!" The word rolled through the hall like a thunderclap, his gloved hand gesturing sharply toward the benches. "SETZEN! ALLE!" His free hand gripped Jonas's and Erik's napes with possessiveness bordering on reverence, steering them toward the end of the Haupttisch where Matthias sat rigid. "Jetzt wird gegessen. Und wenn ich noch ein Wort höre…" His thumb stroked Erik's pulse point absently, the sudden gentleness more unnerving than violence.

The scrape of a dozen benches followed as boys scrambled to obey. Werner didn't release his grip until Jonas and Erik were wedged hip-to-hip on the narrow bench—close enough for their trembling knees to press together beneath the table. "Schön brav," he murmured, adjusting their collars with grotesque tenderness before finally turning toward the kitchen. "Heute gibt es… besondere Nachspeise."

Erik's gasp was nearly lost in the clatter of serving bowls—but Jonas heard it. Felt it. The way Erik's fingers dug into his thigh under the table told him everything.

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the cabbage patch as Jonas and Erik knelt side by side, their small fingers digging into the damp earth. Werner's shadow stretched long between them, his boots crushing a stray weed as he leaned down. "Genug gespielt," he murmured, plucking a fat earthworm from Erik's shaking palm with gloved fingers.

His grip closed around both boys' napes simultaneously, steering them upright with terrifying gentleness. "Heute lernt ihr etwas… P raktisches." The worm dangled obscenely before their faces before he flicked it away. "Mein Studierzimmer. In fünf Minuten." His thumb brushed Jonas's lower lip—still swollen from earlier—leaving dirt smeared across the boy's chin.

The doorknob's click behind them echoed like a gunshot as they shuffled inside.

Werner exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible over the squeak of his gloves flexing. He circled the study like a wolf circling prey, until abruptly halting before the crucifix. "Hört zu, Jungen," he began, voice clipped yet oddly conversational—as if discussing rainfall.

His gloved hand gestured toward their mud-streaked knees. "Ich respektiere Jungen eures Alters nicht. Zu unerfahren. Zu dumm." A pause—just long enough for Jonas to flinch—before his tone softened. "Aber." The word hung in the air like a suspended strap. "Eure… Darbietung heute." A slow, deliberate lick of his lips. "Das zeigte Mut. Das hat mich beeindruckt."

He crouched suddenly, bringing himself eye-level with them. "Ab heute behandle ich euch als EINS. In Freud und Leid." His thumb brushed Erik's trembling chin. "Matthias wird euch in Ruhe lassen. Er findet schon andere Opfer." The sneer twisted into something almost pensive. "Der Junge zeigt nämlich genau, was einen guten deutschen Jungen NICHT ausmacht."

The leather of his pants creaked as he stood abruptly. "Und jetzt—" He tapped his cheekbone, right beneath the hood's shadow. "—zum Besiegeln unseres Abkommens. Küss t mir die Wange. Und sagt 'Dankeschön, Bruder Werner'." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Ganz sanft."

The words hung between them like a spider's silk—too fragile to trust, too sticky to ignore. Jonas's gaze flickered to Erik's mud-streaked knees where they trembled against the study's hardwood, then up to Bruder Werner's outstretched cheek. The offer reeked of poison, but starvation makes any meal taste divine.

Erik moved first, his lips barely grazing Werner's stubble as though kissing a lit fuse. "Dankeschön, Bruder Werner," he whispered—the gratitude sour on his tongue, the obedience paper-thin. Jonas followed suit, his mouth brushing skin that smelled of saddle soap and something darker beneath. Their synchronized whisper ("Dankeschön") sounded less like gratitude than a shared incantation against evil.

Werner's gloved hand rose—not to strike, but to cradle both their chins with grotesque tenderness. "Gut," he murmured, thumb swiping away Erik's unshed tear. "Jetzt wisst ihr: Gehorsam schmeckt süßer als Eigenwilligkeit." The way his fingers lingered on their lips suggested he knew exactly how much bile they'd swallowed to say it.

Werner's gloves creaked as he straightened, his hood casting jagged shadows across the boys' upturned faces. Slowly—almost reverently—his broad palms descended to cup the backs of their leather shorts. The slap landed with deceptive softness, more caress than sting, his fingers lingering to knead the stiff material where their bodies still radiated warmth from the dining hall's spectacle.

"Und jetzt raus mit euch!" The command came wrapped in something dangerously close to affection, his thumbs hooking under their waistbands just long enough to make both boys gasp. "Helft in der Küche." His breath hitched slightly when Erik instinctively leaned into the touch—Jonas's wide eyes tracking the motion with dawning jealousy.

The doorknob turned under his grip. "Aber…" A pause, just long enough to watch Jonas's fingers twitch toward Erik's. "Wenn Schwester Agnes euch fragt, wieso ihr so rot seid…" His smirk widened at their synchronized blush. "Dann sagt ihr einfach: 'Wir haben heute gelernt, wie man richtig dankt'." The door clicked shut behind them with terrifying finality.

Jonas's fingers dug into Erik's wrist the moment the study door clicked shut behind them, his breath coming in short, angry puffs. "Was war denn das?" he hissed, shoving Erik against the corridor wall hard enough to make the plaster crack. "Kuschelst Du jetzt mit diesem Drecksack?" His other hand fisted in Erik's shirt, pulling him closer until their noses almost touched.

Erik's startled gasp only made the fire in Jonas's gut burn hotter. The way Erik had leaned into Werner's touch—just like he'd done last night with him—twisted something ugly and possessive in Jonas's chest. He didn't care that Matthias was watching from the stairwell or that kitchen noise echoed down the hall. All he saw was Erik's swollen lips parting in shock, the same lips that had tasted like honey and salt when they'd kissed properly for the first time barely an hour ago.

Jonas didn't wait for an answer. He crushed their mouths together with none of last night's hesitation, biting Erik's lower lip hard enough to draw a whimper. "Du bist mein," he growled against Erik's spit-slick skin, his free hand sliding possessively down Erik's backside to squeeze through the stiff leather. "Nur meiner."

Erik's breath hitched against Jonas's lips—hot, quick, confused—before twisting away with enough force to make their leather shorts squeak. "Aber natürlich! Was zum Teufel redest du da?" His voice cracked between indignation and something raw, fingers clawing at Jonas's wrists where they pinned him against the wall.

The corridor lights flickered overhead, casting their tangled shadows across Matthias's frozen silhouette at the stairwell. Erik's knee jerked up instinctively—not to strike, but to wedge space between their bodies—only for Jonas's thigh to press harder between his legs in response. "Ich hab nur—" Erik's protest dissolved into a gasp as Jonas's teeth found his earlobe. "—weil er sonst…"

Then Jonas's hand slid around front, palming Erik through stiff leather, and the rest of the sentence died in his throat.

Erik's breath came in ragged bursts, his body pressed tight against Jonas's—not resisting, not complying—just hanging suspended in some undefined space between fear and want. His lips parted around a moan that spilled into Jonas's mouth halfway between protest and plea: "Nnnnghhh—"

Jonas froze.

Erik's eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbone, damp with something that wasn't sweat. The flickering corridor light carved hollows under his eyes—too deep for a twelve-year-old—and suddenly Jonas saw him: really saw him. The tremble in his lower lip where it was still red and swollen from Werner's thumb. The way his pulse fluttered rabbit-quick under Jonas's palm.

A wave of nausea crashed over Jonas so violently he nearly staggered back. What am I doing? His fingers uncurled from Erik's leather shorts as if burned, leaving behind creases in the stiff material. Somewhere beneath the salt and fear, he still tasted honey—the same honey from their first real kiss, back when it had meant something sweet instead of sharp.

Jonas's hands dropped to his sides like stones, his fingers twitching uselessly in the sudden quiet between them. "Schei ße… Scheiße, Erik, tut mir leid—" The words tumbled out in a rush, his voice cracking as he backed away from the wall.

He scrubbed his palms over his face hard enough to leave red streaks, the leather of his shorts creaking as he crouched down suddenly—not praying, just collapsing. "Ich bin so ein Idiot," he whispered to the floorboards, his shoulders hunched like they could shield Erik from his own mess. "Aber dieser ganze heutige Schei ß …" His throat worked around the unspoken truth—Werner's fingers on Erik's chin, Erik's automatic lean into the touch, Jonas's own gut reaction—tearing through him like barbed wire.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "Bitte verzeih mir." The plea came out raw, stripped bare. "Ich wei ß nicht, was mit mir passiert ist."

Erik dropped to his knees with a soft thud of skin against floorboards, his arms wrapping around Jonas's shaking shoulders not to restrain, but to shelter. His whisper cut through the corridor's stale air like a blade through fog—"Vergiss es einfach!"—hot and urgent against Jonas's damp cheek. "Es gibt nur uns beide." The words landed somewhere between vow and incantation, Erik's fingers tangling in Jonas's shirt like roots gripping bedrock.

Jonas's sob hitched mid-breath when Erik's forehead pressed against his own—not demanding, not punishing—just there, solid as dawn after the longest night. Somewhere down the hall, Matthias's boots scuffed retreating steps, but the sound barely registered over Erik's next whisper: "Immer nur wir zwei." His palm cradled Jonas's jaw, thumb wiping away salt with a tenderness that made Bruder Werner's earlier touch seem like a grotesque parody.

The overhead light flickered once, then steadied—as if the building itself held its breath—casting their intertwined shadows against the wall in a single unbroken line.

Jonas exhaled shakily, his forehead still pressed against Erik's as their breathing synced—in and out, slower now, steadier. He swallowed hard, tasting salt and something sweeter beneath. "Ich…" His fingers uncurled from Erik's shirt, drifting up to trace the red mark his own teeth had left on Erik's lower lip.

A choked laugh escaped him—half relief, half disbelief—as he caught Erik's wrist and pressed the boy's palm flat against his own racing heartbeat. "Du bist immer noch hier," he murmured, thumb brushing Erik's pulse point where Werner had touched him earlier. The comparison made his stomach twist, but Erik's answering squeeze grounded him.

Jonas leaned in—not to kiss, just to breathe Erik in—his nose bumping clumsily against Erik's cheekbone. "Hör nicht auf mich," he whispered against Erik's temple, voice thick. "Auch wenn ich mal wieder wie der letzte Vollidiot reagiere."

The confession hung between them, fragile as the dust motes swirling in the corridor light. Then Jonas's stomach growled loudly enough to startle them both into muffled laughter—sudden, bright, and utterly human.

The kitchen's steam clung to Jonas's eyelashes as he plunged another stack of plates into the soapy water, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since breakfast. Beside him, Erik hummed tunelessly while toweling a porcelain bowl—his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that left the surface gleaming.

Jonas watched Erik's hands work with quiet fascination, the way his wrists flexed beneath rolled-up sleeves. No straps here. No leering brothers. Just the rhythmic scrape of china against tin and the occasional slosh of dishwater.

When their elbows bumped, Erik didn't flinch away—just pressed closer, his hip nudging Jonas's in silent reassurance. A soap bubble popped between Jonas's fingers as he smiled.

Jonas stepped back, his dishwater-wrinkled fingers pausing mid-air as Erik bent over the counter to reach for another stack of bowls. The movement stretched Erik's leather shorts taut across his backside—that perfect, maddening curve of polished brown hide that caught the kitchen's yellow light like liquid amber.

A muffled groan escaped Jonas's lips before he could stop it. Christ. Every ridge and seam stood out in hypnotic detail—the double zippers glinting, the way the thick inner lining bunched slightly at Erik's thighs… He could already imagine sinking his face into that warm leather valley, tasting the salt-slick surface where Erik's body heat made the material supple.

His nails bit into his own palms as Erik shifted again, the shorts creaking obscenely. Focus on the damn dishes. But the soap bubbles bursting between his fingers did nothing to cool the fire spreading low in his belly.

The wet washcloth made a satisfying thwack against Erik's leather-clad backside before Jonas could think better of it—the sound sharp enough to bounce off the kitchen's copper pans. Erik yelped, spinning around with suds dripping down his wrist, his shorts gleaming where the water had splashed.

Jonas grinned, shaking his dripping hands in mock surrender. "Entschuldige, konnte nicht widerstehen!" The lie came easy, his pulse jumping as Erik's blush spread from cheekbone to collarbone. He watched Erik's throat work—that little bob he did when flustered—before adding, "Die Hose macht's halt zu verlockend."

Erik's answering flick of dishwater hit Jonas square in the chest, soaking through his white shirt in a perfect translucent patch over one nipple. "Jetzt sind wir quitt," Erik muttered, but the corner of his mouth curled—just slightly—as Jonas gasped at the cold.

Schwester Agnes's broad hips brushed the flour-dusted kitchen table as she gestured toward two waiting plates—thick slices of rye bread gleaming with golden butter that pooled in the crust's crevices. "Danke, Jungen, für die gute Arbeit!" Her calloused hand patted Jonas's damp shoulder, leaving a faint white print on his sleeve where flour met sweat.

The scent of caraway and warm yeast curled between them as Erik hesitated—his fingers twitching toward the bread before darting back to his sides—until Jonas's elbow nudged him forward with a quiet squeak of leather. Agnes's chuckle bloomed loud and sudden when Erik finally bit in, butter smearing his upper lip like misplaced candle wax during mass.

Jonas watched Erik lick it away—quick as a cat—before Agnes turned with a rustle of starched linen. "Aber jetzt beeilt euch," she called over her shoulder, already scrubbing a pot. "Bruder Werner wartet sicher schon ungeduldig." The unspoken "wie immer" hung in the steam-thick air between them.

Erik's fingers found Jonas's under the table—brief, warm, and slick with butter—before both boys stuffed the last crusts into their mouths in synchronized haste.

The summons came as a shadow across the kitchen threshold—Bruder Werner's polished black boot heel clicking against stone before his voice uncoiled: "Jonas. Erik." No mock sweetness now. Only the crisp snap of command.

Erik's fingers twitched against Jonas's wrist beneath the table—fleeting warmth before withdrawal. The butter knife clattered onto Agnes's tray as both boys stood, their leather shorts creaking with abrupt motion. Jonas swallowed. The taste of rye turned to chalk.

Werner's gloved hand gestured toward the corridor. "Zweite Tür rechts." The second door. Always the second door.

The office air clung thick with beeswax and leather polish. Behind Werner's desk sat a stranger—bearded, mid-forties, his linen shirt sleeves rolled to reveal forearms dusted with ink stains. Martin Holzmann's gaze flickered over the boys with the slow, amused scrutiny of a collector examining rare specimens. His fingers drummed once against the ledger in his lap.

Werner's glove creaked as he gestured. "Jonas, Erik—this is Herr Holzmann. Buchhändler. Archivar. Ein Freund des Ordens." The title dripped like honey. A pause. "He requires a couple of helping hands."

Martin's smile twitched at " couple " . His thumb brushed the ledger's edge. "Such sturdy boys," he murmured.

"Nun, und ich dachte an euch beide." His gloved fingers tapped the ledger's spine as his gaze slid between them. "Ich finde, ihr seid klug genug für die anstehende Aufgabe." A pause—just long enough for Erik's breath to hitch—before Werner's lips curled. "Ihr könnt doch lesen und schreiben, hoffe ich?"

The question lingered like a trapdoor beneath their feet. Jonas's throat tightened at Holzmann's chuckle—low, approving—as the man leaned forward, elbows on knees. The scent of old paper and tobacco seeped from his sleeves.

Werner's boot clicked against the floorboards. "Herr Holzmann benötigt Assistenten für seine Archivarbeit. Ordentlich. Präzise." His glove gestured toward the ledger. "Und gehorsam."

Their nods synchronized—too quick, too eager—like marionettes jerked by the same string. Jonas's tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Was this reprieve or rehearsal? Werner's ledger yawned open on the desk, its pages whispering of past punishments dressed as lessons.

Holzmann' s ink-stained thumb traced a column of numbers. "Ah, gute Jungen," he purred. The compliment slithered between them, sticky as honey left to spoil.

Erik's pinky brushed Jonas's thigh—half reassurance, half plea. The second door always led to the same ending: bent over, strapped, split open. But Holzmann's ledger held different arithmetic. Jonas counted the beats of silence. One. Two. Three—

Werner's glove snapped the book shut. "Dann hört genau zu."

His gloved fingers tapped the ledger 's spine—once, twice—before pressing down with finality. The leather of his own knee- long breeches sighed as he shifted his weight, the sound swallowing Jonas's shallow breath.

"Herr Holzmann wird euch heute Nachmittag abholen." Werner's gaze pinned them like specimens beneath glass. "Ihr werdet in seinem Stadthaus wohnen. Seine Aufgaben sind eure Aufgaben. Kein Widerwort, kein Trödeln."

A pause. The office beeswax thickened in Jonas's throat.

"Und ihr werdet—" Werner's glove flicked toward their glossy brown shorts, "—stets eure Ordenskleidung tragen. Jeder in der Stadt soll sehen, wessen Zöglinge ihr seid." His smile split like a seam. "Verstanden?"

The doppelzippers on Erik's lederhosen trembled.

Their spines straightened in unison—not the loose, slouching posture of boys caught idling, but the rigid alignment Werner demanded whenever inspection loomed. Jonas felt the double zippers of his lederhosen bite into his hip bones as he squared his shoulders. Erik mirrored him perfectly, except for the faint tremor along his jawline.

A bead of sweat traced Jonas's temple. He didn't wipe it.

Nodding again—too sharp, too eager—he caught Holzmann's amused exhale. The man's ink-stained fingers twitched as if itching to document the precise angle of their submission.

His glove lingered on the ledger's cover—digging grooves into the leather like he was imprinting commandments onto their skin. "Noch etwas…" Werner's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that made Jonas's stomach flip. "Ich habe Herrn Holzmann bereits ermutigt, den Riemen zu verwenden—wann immer er es für angebracht h ält."

A bead of sweat slid down Erik's temple. Werner's smile widened as his gaze locked onto it.

"Und ich habe ihm natürlich von eurer… hm… besonderen Beziehung erzählt." His fingers twitched—mimicking quotation marks mid-air. "Es stört ihn nicht." The glove slammed onto the desk. "Aber ihr zwei—" The sudden bark ripped through the room, "—werdet gehorchen! Bis aufs i-Tüpfelchen!"

The doppelzippers on Jonas's shorts felt like they were vibrating with every thud of his pulse.

The office door clicked shut behind them—too soft. Jonas's legs moved automatically, but the corridor air felt thinner, harder to swallow. Then Martin's shadow fell across his shoulder, from behind. His mouth almost brushed Jonas' ear:

"Ich werde meine beiden kleinen Rabauken vermissen," Bruder Werner murmured, his chin scraping Jonas's temple. The words slithered, warm and cloying, like syrup poured over a trap. "Und wenn ich von irgendwelchen Problemen höre…" A pause. Jonas's throat convulsed. "…denkt daran—die Gummizelle wartet immer auf euch."

Jonas's fingers found Erik's wrist—crushing, desperate—as Werner's chuckle followed them down the hall.

The dormitory air clung to their skin like a second layer of starch—stiff, scented with lanolin and pine resin from the afternoon's mandatory polishing. Jonas pressed his knee against Erik's on the narrow bunk, their freshly oiled lederhosen squeaking at the contact. The leather gleamed under the single bulb swinging above them, each crease and seam sharpened into relief by Brother Werner's exacting standards.

Erik's starched linen shirt crinkled as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. The collar had already begun to chafe his neck pink. "Stadthaus," he whispered, testing the word like a coin that might be counterfeit.

Jonas watched their reflections warp in the polished wooden floor beams—two distorted boys fused at the thigh.

The courtyard gravel crunched under Martin's boots—each step deliberate, unhurried—as Jonas and Erik trailed behind, their own sandals whispering against the stones. No bags. No farewells. Just the weight of Werner's ledger-entry lingering at their backs.

Martin's car waited like a panther at the curb—black, waxed to a liquid shine, its chrome trim winking under the afternoon sun. He opened the rear door without turning. The upholstery smelled of pipe smoke and saddle soap.

Jonas's palm pressed flat against Erik's lower back—urging him forward—before they folded themselves onto the bench seat together. The leather sighed beneath their shorts.

Martin's reflection watched them in the rearview mirror. Unreadable.

The engine purred to life.

The car's silence pressed against Jonas's eardrums like cotton soaked in oil—thick, smothering. Only the rhythmic click of the turn signal punctuated the stillness whenever Martin guided the car through the winding roads outside the reformatory walls. Jonas counted them. Seven left turns. Three rights. His thigh burned where it pressed against Erik's, their sweat mingling beneath the glossy leather of their shorts.

Martin's reflection in the rearview mirror never wavered. No glance at the boys. No flicker of interest in their white-knuckled grip on each other's hands. Just the steady tap of his fingers against the steering wheel—methodical, like he was counting down to something neither of them could name.

Erik's fingernails dug into Jonas's palm. Neither dared to speak.

The townhouse rose before them like something from an oil painting—three stories of ivy-clad brick with leaded windows that caught the afternoon sun in diamond panes. Jonas's breath hitched as the car door groaned open. The scent of lavender and freshly turned earth rushed over him, so heady after the reformatory's bleach-sting that his knees nearly buckled.

Mathilde, the housekeeper, stood in the arched doorway, her apron dusted with flour and her silver-streaked hair pinned into a loose bun. Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Ah, da sind sie ja," she called, wiping her palms on her skirts before stepping forward.

Erik's fingers found Jonas's behind their backs—squeezing once, hard—as gravel crunched under their sandal's soles.

Martin's gloved hand lingered on the gearshift for a heartbeat too long before he shifted into "drive"—the engine's growl fading into a mechanical sigh. No farewell. Just the crunch of gravel beneath tires as the black car slid away, leaving Jonas and Erik stranded in the lavender-scented hush of the courtyard.

Mathilde's flour-dusted fingers beckoned them toward the ivy-clad archway. "Kommt, meine Kleinen," she murmured, her voice softer than any they'd heard since the reformatory gates clanged shut behind them. The stairs groaned underfoot as she led them up, up, up—past oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors, past landings lined with porcelain pitchers catching afternoon light—until the attic door creaked open on hinges starved of grease.

The room smelled of cedar and sun-warmed linen. Two narrow beds, a washstand with a chipped pitcher, and a single window overlooking the orchard. Mathilde's apron strings rustled as she turned. "Hier schlaft ihr." Her thumb brushed Erik's cheek—fleeting, warm—before she retreated downstairs, her footsteps dissolving into the house's bones.

The attic door clicked shut behind Mathilde—Jonas stood frozen, his fingers twitching at his sides. Then he whirled, grabbing Erik's shoulders, their leather shorts squeaking at the sudden motion.

"Ist das ein Traum?" His whisper cracked. The washstand's chipped pitcher gleamed in the slanting light. "Ein eigenes Zimmer? Eine Waschschüssel?"

His palm slapped against the cedar bedframe—once, twice—testing its solidity. The wood didn't dissolve. Didn't morph into Werner's glove or Matthias 's smirk.

Jonas's breath came in shallow bursts. He dragged Erik toward the window, where peach trees bent under the weight of unripe fruit. "Siehst du das? Kein Stacheldraht. Kein—" His voice broke. "Kein Gummizellengeruch."

Erik's reflection stared back at him from the glass—wide-eyed, disbelieving—their twin distortions now framed by sunlight instead of reformatory gloom.

Erik's arm slid around Jonas's waist—hesitant at first, then tightening like a lifeline thrown between sinking ships. His forehead pressed against Jonas's temple where Martin's chin had scraped earlier, his breath hitching against sweat-damp skin. The cedar bedframe groaned as their combined weight settled onto the edge.

"Vielleicht haben wir…" Erik's voice frayed on the last syllable. His fingers curled into the glossy leather of Jonas's shorts, kneading the material like he needed proof it wouldn't dissolve beneath his touch. "…wirklich Frieden jetzt?"

Jonas turned—slowly, so slowly—until their noses brushed. The attic light gilded Erik's lashes, turning each tremor into liquid gold.

Somewhere below, Mathilde's broom whispered across floorboards. No ledger snapping shut. No boots clicking toward them. Just this: Erik's pulse thrumming against his palm where it cupped the back of Jonas's neck.

The mattress springs whined as Jonas shifted—leather shorts protesting with every micro-movement—until his knee bumped Erik's. A peach twig tapped against the windowpane outside like a prisoner 's code.

Jonas's fingers found the double zipper of his lederhosen, tracing the cold metal teeth. "Also," he murmured, thumb catching on the slider, "was machen wir jetzt?" His voice frayed at the edges—not fear, but the dizzying vertigo of uncharted freedom.

Erik's reflection blinked back at him from the washstand pitcher, upside- down and warped. The question hung between them: Did now mean peeling oranges from Mathilde's orchard? Or counting the seconds until Martin's belt found their backs?

Erik's fingers twitched against Jonas's thigh—not the frantic grip from the car, but something lighter, deliberate. He tilted his head toward the attic door where Mathilde's footsteps had dissolved minutes earlier.

"Warum gehen wir nicht runter?" His whisper carried the ghost of a smirk. "Fragen Mathilde, ob sie Arbeit für uns hat. Erster Eindruck und so."

Jonas blinked. The suggestion hung between them—mundane, domestic, normal—so alien it might as well have been spoken in another language. No ledger. No strap. Just chores.

Erik's knuckles brushed Jonas's zipper, feather-light. "Vielleicht gibt's sogar was Süßes zum Naschen," he added, and for the first time since the reformatory gates, Jonas heard something like hope under the tease.

The attic stairs groaned underfoot—each step a tremor through the house's old bones—as Jonas and Erik descended, their sandals whispering against worn oak. The scent of caramelized onions and rye bread rose to meet them, thickening the air with each turn of the staircase.

Jonas's fingers brushed the banister—pausing where the wood dipped from generations of hands—before Mathilde's voice curled up from below: "Ah! Meine fleißigen Mäuse kommen endlich!"

The kitchen sprawled before them like a forbidden feast . Copper pots glowed above the hearth. Flour-dusted dough puckered under Mathilde's knuckles. And between them—on the scarred pine table—sat a porcelain plate heaped with buttered plums, their skins split from the heat.

Mathilde's flour-dusted hands stilled mid-knead when the boys hovered at the kitchen threshold—their stiff linen shirts clinging to sweat-damp shoulders, their leather shorts squeaking with each hesitant shift of weight. Her gaze flicked between their hollowed cheekbones and the way Jonas's fingers kept twitching toward Erik's wrist like a compass needle finding north.

"Na, alles ziemlich neu und aufregend, oder?" Her voice softened around the edges, but her eyes narrowed at their hesitation. Then—realization dawning—she wiped her palms on her apron with a sudden urgency. "Aber Buben, habt ihr beiden denn schon etwas gegessen? Jungs in eurem Alter sind doch immer hungrig!?"

The copper pot over the hearth bubbled ominously as she whirled toward the pantry, her skirts swirling around ankles crisscrossed with faded scars. Jonas's stomach growled loud enough to startle a sparrow off the windowsill.

The stew pot clanged against the hearthstone as Mathilde ladled steaming Eintopf into chipped porcelain bowls—thick slices of Würstchen bobbing in golden broth, carrots glistening like stolen treasure. Jonas's fingers trembled where they gripped the table's edge, his throat working at the sight of real meat after months of reformatory gruel.

Mathilde set Erik's portion down first. The scent—caraway, smoked pork, bay leaves—curled upward in lazy spirals. Erik's breath hitched. Then another. Silent tears carved glistening tracks through the reformatory grime still clinging to his cheeks.

Mathilde froze—her flour-dusted hand hovering mid-air—before her expression crumpled. She cupped Erik's face without hesitation, her thumb swiping away a tear with the same practiced motion she might use to brush flour from risen dough. "Ach du meine Güte," she murmured, pulling his forehead against her apron strings. The faded scars on her wrists flexed as she held him. "Solche Tränen für ein bisschen Würstchen?"

Jonas watched, stew forgotten, as Erik's shoulders shook—not from fear, but from the unbearable tenderness of being fed.

Erik's breath hitched—once, twice—before dissolving into shuddering gasps against Mathilde's apron. His fingers clawed at the table's edge, knuckles whitening as if the wood might anchor him against the tidal wave of released terror. The tears came faster now, hot and relentless, dripping onto his untouched stew where they swirled with the golden fat globules.

Mathilde's hands—rough from decades of kneading dough—cradled his head without hesitation. Her thumbs brushed his temples in slow circles, her own eyes glistening as Erik's sobs ricocheted through the kitchen. "Schon gut, mein Kleiner," she crooned, rocking him gently, " lass alles raus ."

Jonas watched, transfixed, as Erik's rigid posture collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. This wasn't reformatory weeping—suppressed, silent, choked back for fear of Werner's ledger. This was the raw, unfiltered cry of a boy who'd just realized he might still be worthy of tenderness.

Mathilde's flour-streaked apron pressed against Erik's damp cheek as she held him—one hand cradling the back of his head while the other reached toward Jonas without breaking rhythm. "Was ist mit Dir, Bub?" Her voice cracked like warm bread crust as she opened her arm wider, fingers beckoning. Jonas hesitated only a heartbeat before stumbling forward into the space she made for him, his nose burying in the lavender-scented fold of her sleeve where it met Erik's shuddering shoulder. The embrace swallowed them whole—Mathilde's sturdy frame trembling slightly under their combined weight, her hum vibrating through their chests as she swayed.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen window, a bee buzzed against sun-warmed glass. The stew cooled untouched. And for three slow breaths, there was only this: two boys and a woman who held them like they were both worth keeping.

The kitchen door swung open with a creak that splintered the fragile peace—sudden, unannounced, like a stone through stained glass. Martin Holzmann stood framed in the doorway, his ink-stained fingers frozen around the doorknob. His gaze—wide and oddly transfixed—darted from Mathilde's flour-dusted embrace to the untouched bowls of stew, to Jonas's tear-streaked face half-buried in her sleeve.

"Was zum Himmel ist denn hier los?" The question burst from him not with Werner's whip-crack authority, but with the stunned urgency of a man stumbling upon a holy vision. His polished boots scuffed against the threshold as if physically repelled by the scene.

Mathilde didn't loosen her hold. She turned her head just enough to pin Martin with a look that could curdle milk. "Wie sieht es denn aus?," she said flatly, her thumb still stroking Erik's damp hair. "Zwei Jungen, die endlich atmen d ürfen."

Jonas felt Erik's breath hitch against his collarbone—not in fear this time, but in something closer to defiance.

Martin Holzmann's polished boots scuffed against the floorboards as he staggered toward the kitchen table—not with his usual predatory grace, but with the disjointed movements of a man whose world had just tilted off-axis. He collapsed into a chair, his ink-stained fingers clutching the edge of the scarred pine like it was the only solid thing left. His gaze flickered between the entwined trio—Mathilde's arms still locked around the boys—and the untouched stew now cold enough to congeal.

"Junge, Junge," he breathed, shaking his head slowly. The words came out feather-soft, stripped of their usual razor edge. "Da hat sich wohl einiges aufgestaut." His throat worked as Erik peeked at him from Mathilde's embrace—red-rimmed eyes wide with something beyond fear. "Das hätte ich nicht gedacht."

Jonas felt Erik's pulse stutter against his own wrist where their arms tangled beneath Mathilde's apron. No ledger snapped open. No belt unbuckled. Just Martin Holzmann sitting slump-shouldered in his waistcoat, watching them with an expression that might—if they squinted—resemble awe.

Martin's gloved hand dipped into the leather satchel at his feet—the same one that had carried Werner's disciplinary ledger hours earlier—but when it emerged, it held not a strap, but a bundle wrapped in butcher's paper. The crinkle of unfolding paper filled the kitchen as Erik and Jonas watched, spellbound. Inside lay two pairs of striped cotton pajama shorts—soft-looking, summer-weight—folded atop toothbrushes still in their waxed paper sleeves.

"Hört zu, Buben," Martin murmured, his voice stripped of its usual sardonic edge. He placed the items on the table with deliberate care, right beside Erik's congealing stew. "Was immer ihr im Heim erlebt habt—ihr seid hier sicher." His ink-stained thumb brushed against one pajama cuff, leaving a faint smudge on the fabric. "Vergesst den Riemen. Ich schlage keine Kinder."

Jonas's fingers twitched toward the toothbrushes—real bristles, not the reformatory's frayed horsehair stubs—just as Martin's hand dove back into the satchel. This time, two Swiss Army knives clattered onto the table, their red enamel gleaming like dropped rubies in the afternoon light.

Jonas's fingers hovered over the Swiss Army knife—its red casing warm from the satchel, its tiny scissors and file folded neatly inside. His throat tightened.

"Das…das ist wirklich für uns?" The question came out cracked, like he'd forgotten how to shape words around hope. He glanced at Erik—really looked—seeing the same disbelief mirrored in his friend's wide eyes, the same tremble in his fingers as they brushed the striped pajama fabric.

No ledger. No belt. Just toothbrushes and pocket knives laid out like gifts.

Jonas's chest ached with something too big to name. He grabbed Erik's wrist—not to pull him away this time, but to anchor himself in this impossible moment. "Die meinen das ernst," he whispered, voice breaking. "Die tun uns wirklich nichts."

Erik's answering squeeze said everything words couldn't.

Jonas's fingers trembled where they touched the Swiss Army knife's cool metal. He swallowed hard—twice—before meeting Martin's gaze with liquid eyes.

"Danke, Herr Holzmann. Vielen lieben Dank!" His voice cracked like thin ice underfoot. He gestured helplessly at the pajamas, toothbrushes, knives—mundane treasures laid out like some impossible feast. "Ich…ich wei ß gar nicht…"

A shudder ran through him as Erik's knee pressed against his under the table. The contact grounded him enough to continue: "Wir sind so was nicht mehr gewöhnt. Immer wenn ich jetzt die Augen zumach…" His fingers crept to the double zippers of his lederhosen, tracing the familiar teeth like worry beads. "…fürcht ich, in der Gummizelle aus einem süßen Traum zu erwachen. Mit Windeln und Knebel und…"

The words dissolved into silence. A bee thumped against the windowpane—once, twice—as persistent as memory.

Martin's teacup hit the saucer with a discordant clatter—halfway to his lips—as Jonas's whispered confession unspooled between them. The words hung in the air like smoke from a extinguished candle: Windeln. Knebel. Gummizelle. Mathilde's flour-dusted hands flew to her mouth, her wedding ring glinting against suddenly bloodless lips.

Martin stood so abruptly his chair screeched backward. His ink-stained fingers hovered near Jonas's shoulder—close enough to feel the boy's tremors, but not touching. "Mein Gott," he breathed, the words raw. "Diese verdammten Hurensöhne haben euch in—" He caught himself, swallowing the rest as Erik flinched.

Mathilde was already moving—her skirts whispering against the floorboards—to crouch between their chairs. Her work-roughened palms cradled both boys' knees. "Kein Junge," she said, voice steel-clad, "wird in diesem Haus jemals so etwas erleben. Das schwöre ich bei meiner toten Mutter."

T he bee finally found the open window and escaped into the sunlight.

Silence stretched—thin and fragile—until Mathilde clapped her flour-streaked hands together with a sound like falling apples. "Genug geweint für heute!" She swiped at her own damp cheeks with her apron before snatching up the stew bowls, her movements brisk as a sparrow's. The copper pot hissed when she slammed it back onto the hearth, flames licking greedily at the blackened base.

Her elbow bumped Martin's ribs as she passed, but the glance she threw him carried more warmth than the fire. "Danke," she murmured—just once—low enough that only he could catch it. Then louder, to the boys: "Wer sein Essen nicht aufisst, kriegt keinen Zwetschgenkuchen nachher!"

Jonas's stomach growled loud enough to shake the windows. Erik—still pink-eyed but steadier—reached for his spoon with fingers that no longer trembled.

Dawn bled through the attic's leaded window on their fourth morning—not with the reformatory's harsh wake-up bell, but with the scent of Mathilde's hazelnut coffee rising through the floorboards. Jonas stretched beneath the quilt, his toes brushing Erik's calf under layers of striped cotton pajamas. Real pajamas. The kind that didn't chafe or reek of lye soap.

Erik's eyelashes fluttered against Jonas's shoulder as he mumbled into wakefulness, his fingers instinctively finding the hem of Jonas's shirt—not to grip in terror this time, but to anchor himself in this new reality where mornings meant warmth instead of ledger threats.

Downstairs, Martin's muffled laugh tangled with Mathilde's scolding tone. A soccer ball waiting for the boys on the garden path. Somewhere beyond the orchard, a woodpecker drummed its approval.

Jonas pressed his nose into Erik's hair—lavender from last night's bath—and breathed.

He love d this beautiful boy at his side so much . And he still cannot believe that fate brought them here.

The quilt slipped from Jonas's shoulders as he propped himself up on one elbow, morning light gilding Erik's sleep-mussed hair. His fingers—still bearing faint marks from the reformatory's straps—traced the curve of Erik's cheekbone with reverence. This boy. This impossible, beautiful boy who smelled of lavender soap and shared secrets under covers.

His gaze drifted to the foot of the bed where their gleaming lederhosen lay discarded—the stiff brown leather softened now by Mathilde's careful oiling, the double zippers catching sunlight like tiny mirrors. He smiled.

No Gummizelle. No K nebel. Just two pairs of shorts waiting for chores in a house where no one counted tears.

Jonas's lips curved against Erik's temple. "Wir sind zwei verdammt glückliche Jungen," he whispered into the quiet. The words tasted like stolen honey.

Downstairs, Mathilde's wooden spoon drummed a joyful rhythm against her mixing bowl—each thump a heartbeat in this new life they'd been given.

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