Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cousins he has in Kolin are all at least once removed if not more so, but it doesn't seem to matter in the least. They're still family, and that's what matters.

The bigger problem is John, who should be family, but isn't.

"He's family," Sam hears himself saying all the same, waiting for someone, anyone to disagree with him. Instead, he's reacted to with little more than puzzlement, one of his distant cousins finally acquiescing.

"I mean, he can take the floor, if he doesn't have anything against it..." his cousin says, his eyes briefly running over John only to change his mind, "... or you can. We just don't have any more beds—"

"That is not a problem," he says, knowing fully well that John instead hears the words layered beneath: just one bed is fine; that's all we need.

There is no basement to hide in here, but the privacy of a room might just be enough. It's more than he alone deserves considering all that their community has been through, but his family has room enough, and his mother already insisted on sleeping elsewhere.

Then again, she knows better than most how badly he and John might want privacy after the morning they've had.

"Es is azoy beser (It's better this way)," she tells him, her smile wider than he'd have expected were it not for her earlier words.

Ikh hob nisht farloyrn mayn mishpokhe di nakht. Es iz do fil tsu zayn dankbar far (I didn't lose my family this night. There is much to be thankful for).

His mother isn't wrong; there is much to be thankful for indeed. But there is also the little matter of the truth that came out over this last night, the same truth that keeps spinning in his mind like a roast pig on a spit.

His father might well have wanted him, had his parents not been kept apart.

John is already waiting for him by the time he steps inside of their bedroom for the night, carefully locking the door behind him. A single bed and a crib stand opposite one another, both flush against walls covered in children's drawings. His cousins will be sleeping in bed with their parents that night, while he and John are no doubt expected to decide who gets the bed and who gets the floor.

Nothing of the sort will happen.

"Sam," John says, perking up at the sight of him. He too waits for the door to be locked before getting up and crossing the room to meet him, his hand sliding up and around to the back of Sam's neck.

Wordlessly, his forehead finds his, and Sam allows himself to relax for the first time in what feels like hours.

"If something had happened to you—"

The faintest movement follows, just enough to tell him that John is shaking his head. "Nothing was going to happen to me. I was with your brother, remember?"

"After this past night, I am not certain how I will ever repay him."

"If he is truly your brother, he won't ask you to repay him in the first place. And knowing Henry, even if you tried, he would simply turn down any reward you might wish to offer."

John is right, of course. He hasn't known Henry long, but he seems the selfless sort. And, well—John has far more experience in having a brother than he.

"I so badly wished for us to return home, and now..."

Now home doesn't exist any longer. Perhaps one day again, but...

The movement of John's thumb against his wrist pulls him back into the present, to the sensation of him drawing patterns into his skin.

"I fear this will sound terribly selfish of me, but I must confess how unbelievably grateful I am that you were with me. Mame was all right, of course, but... if those murderers had gotten to you while I was away at Jobst's behest—"

"I could have helped my men and dealt with the threat myself. But—" He cuts himself off with a sigh. Replaying the last night is a pointless endeavor steeped in misery, only leaving him to run in the same circles he's already trodden and retrodden over their journey here. "It would have been worse if you had been far away from me, where anything could have happened to you."

He would have been distracted, prone to making mistakes. Most likely, he would have ended up dead. Instead, he has his mother, his zeyde, and his John.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't do more. This—" John lets out a shudder, eyes closed. "This is all my fault."

Breaking from Sam, he turns away, looking anywhere but at him as he goes to sit on the bed.

"It was going to happen no matter what. It was just a question of when." Anything to get rid of debts. Anything that would allow them to blame city-wide problems on one group, one easily done away with. "This was not your fault."

"You should hate me, but if you insist on me being wholly self-serving in all of this..." He sighs. "Far be it from me to reject your kindness, whether or not I deserve it. The last thing I want is to make additional work for you."

I would prefer it if you did.

The thought remains unvoiced, and when John's gaze turns toward Sam, he looks impossibly tired, the sight enough to make Sam's heart clench.

"I do not fault you. No one here does." If they did, he'd certainly have something to say about it. "Mame is just glad we're both in one piece."

Running his hand down his face, John finally pulls off his cap to set aside. "I cannot remember the last time I felt this powerless."

Walking over to his spot on the bed, Sam allows his fingers to find their way into John's hair. Allowing his nails to guide a gentle path through, over and over, he watches as John slowly melts into his touch, his body relaxing bit by bit. Slow going, but steady.

"Nothing even comes close?" he finally asks, watching the flutter of John's eyes as they open once more to look up at him.

"I'm not here to dredge up my own old wounds. I should be the one taking care of you right now, and instead you're attending to me. There's something very wrong with this picture if you ask me."

Maybe he and Henry have more in common than Sam at first realized. Martin's influence perhaps, blood and otherwise. Either way, there seems to be a comfort in this protection, in setting aside his own grief in favor of that of another. Being there for John instead of thinking of his own feelings, complicated as they are. If John needs him, he's here. Even as he was unable to save his friends or some of the people from his community, this is something he can do.

"I was hoping you might indulge me."

"Indulge you?" John laughs. "I won't say it's not strange, but you never ask me for anything."

He cocks a brow. "Anything?"

"Outside of bed, of course." He smiles, and Sam finds that the sight erases even years-old grief. "I suppose the only thing that comes close to this sort of powerlessness was when I ran out on my own family to try and escape the prospect of marriage. Needless to say, my little rebellion was not exactly well-received... but I didn't much care about what sort of trouble I might cause them. I just wanted to leave. No one ever cared what I wanted before, not unless it was convenient for them. So I decided to learn by following their example."

"And now?" Sam asks, fingernails still tracing the same patterns as before.

"Oh, I never had any regrets before. And certainly fewer now."

Reaching for Sam's free hand, the one not already occupied with his hair, John presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist before kissing higher, higher—up along his palm, carefully crossing the bridge of his fingers, and finally pressing a kiss to the tips, one after the other.

"I fear God himself would struggle to part you from me."

Sam feels himself chuckle, the sound vibrating low in his belly as he smiles. "Either last night was His attempt, or it was His blessing."

"How do you mean, Sam?"

"Things had to happen just as they did for us both to survive. Had you not been summoned by Jobst, the tavern would have been attacked, and all of us with it. As it was, we were away, and together."

"And if you'd been left behind you may well have ended up like the rest of your friends." Taking Sam's hand in his properly, John entwines their fingers and places another kiss upon the back of his hand. "I suppose this means we'll simply have to be grateful to both our gods."

Feeling himself grin, Sam leans in just far enough to brush his lips against John's. "That feels a little heretical..."

"I'm sure if They can see us, They'll find it in their hearts to forgive us that little transgression just the once..."

Sam closes the distance between them as John's hands run into his hair, the same thought evidently at the forefront of both of their minds. Just yesterday, Sam had asked John to distract him from the knowledge of his father. A lifetime seems to have elapsed since then, but the outcome hasn't much changed.

He still wants John to shrink reality to the head of a pin for him, to let him focus all of his attention on the man now before him: kind, soft, vulnerable, all in ways only he knows.

John falls back onto the bed, Sam going right along with him as he allows himself to get lost in the moment, in the feeling of John's lips against his, the sounds leaving him, the taste of his tongue when Sam bites down on it. The reminder that he is alive—that they both are, still, despite everything that has transpired—seems to ricochet through his chest, and for several heartbeats, he feels weightless.

When they do break for air, Sam's forehead once more coming to rest against John's, he feels enraptured by the moment as much as by John himself.

Then again, he always feels enraptured by John.

"Mayn libe, mayn neshama, mayn lebn, mayn bashert (My love, my life, my soul, my soulmate)," he whispers, letting out a soft breath as he feels John cup his cheek. "What would I do without you?"

"Worry a lot less, most likely."

"That feeling is mutual."

John laughs, the sound a balm for his mind's every wound. "You are... unfortunately correct."

Silence blankets them like a winter's first snow. Either mere moments or months pass before John speaks, words cutting through quiet to make Sam realize just how tired he feels.

"Just tell me what I can do. Anything. I'll build homes for everyone in the community if that's what it takes."

Laughter bubbles out of him before he can even think to stop it, and Sam feels himself smile. "Now that I would like to see."

"Obviously the work would mostly involve me delegating, but... it's the principle of the thing."

"Just delegating, mm?"

"And funding, of course."

"We can do that part ourselves."

"And you shouldn't need to."

The smile that had been back on his features fades at John's words, and once more Sam finds himself at a loss until John pats the spot beside him on the bed.

"Here, Sam. Lie down. I'll help you out of your clothes; I just need you to lie down for me."

He falters. A strange sort of panic fills his chest at the thought of surrendering to John's aid. It's a wholly illogical thought—he trusts John, of course he does. More than he even trusts himself at times.

"You don't have to do that."

"No. I simply wish to do so."

Even just the prospect of surrendering control, here or elsewhere, terrifies him. But then John looks at him with the saddest eyes, and he feels his resolve melt, albeit slightly.

"For me, Sam?"

When he doesn't respond right away, gaze cast aside instead, John tries again.

"Please."

A sigh escapes him, eyes closing as he finally gives in, clambering off of John and moving to lie back against the pillows.

Looking at John now, it almost seems as though Sam's compliance was the last thing he ever expected—until he catches himself again and returns to the moment.

To taking care of Sam, of all things, the last thing he should ever have needed to do.

"I spoke to your mother the other day," he slowly says, moving to take Sam's feet into his lap before painstakingly unbuckling his shoes and pulling them off one by one. "She mentioned that hamantaschen are your favorite cookies."

He falters. "They... are."

"You never told me."

"I did not think it mattered."

"Of course it matters," he says, shifting to face Sam better as he takes one of his feet in hand to start massaging it. "It's something you love. Why wouldn't I want to share that with you?"

There's surprising strength behind John's thumbs as he allows them to press into sore muscles, running up over the length of his foot and back again to repeat the process.

"At any rate, she promised to make them with me, and I'm officially determined to master them now that I do know."

"It really isn't that important."

"It is to me."

His thumbs trace a path, over and over, as Sam allows himself to relax into the feeling. Each and every touch seems to intensify the effect, the sinking, and he closes his eyes.

Between the two of them, John shouldn't be the one doing this. He's a lord, Sam is anything but. But then, that only feels like a greater sign of devotion from him, this lowering of all walls and boundaries.

It's only fair that Sam do the same for him.

"There is much I do not know about you either," he says, words soft. "If we are keeping score."

"Oh, I insist that we do. Were it up to me, we'd be spending the next several weeks here in Kolin, just forgetting the world for a while."

Sam feels himself chuckle. "Just in Kolin? Not in this bed?"

"Perhaps we could find something bigger... though I do get the feeling that you rather enjoy the lack of space in beds such as this one."

He's not wrong. There's something wonderful about the closeness, the proximity demanded of them as if by God himself.

"I have to admit," John continues, fingers finally traveling up over his ankles to undo Sam's leg garters, "I do feel the same. I spent my whole childhood in overlarge beds, all of them bigger than anyone could ever possibly need. It's unnecessary."

"Perhaps if we had a family..."

His gaze briefly falls on the crib on the other side of the room, John seeming to catch the motion and following it.

"Still hopeful about that, are we?"

Hearing himself snort, Sam smiles. "Not the way you think. I have no delusions about getting you pregnant anytime soon."

"Ah, but I do hear there's still some hope yet."

Deft fingers, the kind that have never had to endure a full day's labor, move to undo Sam's belt after John moves closer to him. In light of Sam's silence, he continues.

"I, for one, am glad to hear it. I'd hate for us to go on sinning with reckless abandon."

John's smile meets his own, and for a moment his heart clenches with longing for the man right in front of him, right within reach. He'd heard all sorts of near-mythical things about love, but this before him seemed to make all of them pale in comparison.

"I am fairly certain we're already doing plenty of that."

"Are we now?" John extends his hands for Sam to see the rings upon his fingers once more, before those same fingers move to undo his hose and start tugging it down. "Last I checked, you and I had made a vow before both of our gods."

"One that neither a rabbi nor a priest oversaw."

"If you'd like me to pay off Godwin, I'm sure he could be persuaded to make the whole thing official. Unfortunately, I don't think your zeyde would be quite as open to the idea."

It's a thought he's turned over and over in his mind for days on end now. What would he have to say about his and John's relationship? Nothing good, no doubt. Not even on account of them being men necessarily—but mostly on account of John being a goy nobleman, of all things.

Mame had already suffered enough at the hands of a goy. Making him a titled goy with money to boot seemed like an additional offense atop the already extant one.

"It is as real as either of us wish it to be."

John smiles. "Then neither of us have anything to worry about, at least so long as we keep doing our best."

"You are indeed very talented, but I fear even you would struggle gestating a child."

"Shall we give you a try then? Since you seem to think so little of my own abilities."

His pourpoint is loosened and then pushed off his shoulders, and as he takes in the sight of John's smile, it occurs to him that he's been trying to distract him. To pull him out of his memories of the past night and into the present moment. To give him something to anchor himself to.

It's silly. As if John hadn't been his anchor already.

Reaching forward, he allows his fingers to run into John's hair as soon as the pourpoint is discarded, his body free to unfurl and collapse for the time being.

A part of him desperately wishes they could take the time off that John mentioned, the kind taken by happily married newlyweds to do nothing but fuck and fall more in love.

The latter might be a challenge, but the former certainly wouldn't be. If he fell any more in love with John, he's not entirely sure that there wouldn't be casualties.

"Maybe another time," Sam hears himself say, just watching John slowly rid himself of his own clothes, bit by bit. No request for assistance.

In many ways, it feels strangely queer, this role reversal. In others, it feels like a vow all of its own.

John has told him before, on more than one occasion, that he's always thought of them as equals. As much as it makes it feel as though his whole life is tilting on its axis, this proves his words better than anything else could have.

"If there is something I can do to help..."

John's smile falters, expression grave as he shakes his head. "No, Sam. You've done more than enough. I am not here to add to your burdens."

As if you could ever be a burden to me.

Despite his thoughts, when John climbs into bed with him and pulls him into his arms, he doesn't protest, just allows himself to be shifted this way and that.

In truth, it's nice. The safety of John's embrace is a kind reminder that the world isn't always harsh, all sharp edges and dangers around every corner. The only danger here lies in John himself: in losing him.

Rolling around to face him, Sam finds his hand, fingers entwining. "You did not have to do all of that."

"Of course I did. And besides that, I wanted to. I know you said to indulge you in taking all the burdens on yourself once again, but as your other half, I couldn't just abide by that. It was only right that I should get to take care of you just as you've done for me on several occasions now."

"That's because it's my job."

It's one he treasures too, and deeply. It's a privilege, getting to take care of John as he does, and the last thing he wants is to lose that.

"And? Who's to say that it can't be mine as well?" Pulling their joined hands up to his lips, he presses a kiss onto one of Sam's rings, the one bearing his name. "These mean something to me, Sam. And besides—all I did was help you get in bed."

He stares. "You gave me a foot massage."

"Careful... if you don't stop now, I'll be tempted to add a hand massage next time as well."

The idea of a husband could never be enough to fully encapsulate all that John is to him, not when he's so much more than that, more than what their society demands a man and woman to be for one another.

"Mayn neshama (My soulmate)," he whispers again, and leans in to steal another kiss. Anything to rid him of the reminder that he failed in his role today, and the guilt that seems to carry the thought with it.

John wakes to the crow of a rooster just outside their window.

Being in the basement had made for wonderful sound insulation. Such luxury could not be further away here and now, the first rays of sunshine streaming into the room past sheer, lace-knitted curtains.

Even so, John finds that he doesn't much mind, not with the welcome presence of Sam right by his side, their limbs as tangled in one another as their souls.

That lack of care won't remain long, he already knows. Once Sam wakes, it'll only be a matter of time before he has to go, and then where will that leave him? Other than pining the day away.

Sam is still asleep.

Not that he can blame him. The last two days have been exhausting, and home is nowhere in sight. Much as John would like for it to be found in his arms, he doubts he has earned that privilege just yet.

If only Sam would allow him to help. In some way, any way at all.

As much as the night before felt like a step in the right direction, it was hard-won enough that the powerlessness he'd already been feeling almost intensified in the wake of seeing Sam with all his walls up.

After weeks on end shared in the basement of the King Solomon—not just a home away from home but a home in its own right—the return to form, to how it was before the night that Sam dared to stay, feels heartbreaking. Like a glimpse back at his past self, the one desperate just to speak with Sam even as he kept running from him.

Beside John, Sam stirs, a soft, still-tired sigh leaving him as his hand finds John's.

"Mm. Gut-morgn (Good morning)."

"Gut-yor (Good year)," he says, watching a slow smile come over his face.

"I should never have underestimated your ability to pick up Yiddish."

"German and Yiddish are really not all that different. Now, Hebraic script on the other hand..." He smiles. "I fear labeled jars remain my enemy in every kitchen."

"I will be sure to warn my mother if you decide to start making hamantaschen."

"Oh, I have every intention."

One of the few things he can do for Sam. But then—what are the chances that they'll even still have time today? It's first light outside, just the start of what will no doubt be a very long day for Sam yet, but... he'll have to leave soon.

"Do you already know when you'll be leaving?"

The levity seems to fall from Sam's face as he reaches up to gently touch on John's cheek. "After this."

"This being...?"

"Whatever we want it to be."

A kiss greets him a moment later, and then another, and then another, until it becomes obvious that Sam is a man dying of thirst in a freshwater lake.

John is here, and Sam has all of him. The problem seems to be getting at him fast enough, wholly and completely.

A part of him considers asking Sam what he wants, what he needs in this moment, but the prospect of breaking from Sam's kiss feels nigh impossible.

As if Sam wants to swallow him whole.

Not that he wants to break from this, the kiss or the embrace, anytime soon. The sooner it ends, the sooner Sam will disappear, and then what? He remembers telling Hans and Henry—a near-lifetime ago now—about how drowned in self-pity he becomes when deep in his cups. But that feels like an understatement for what he'll be like in this sorry instance, separated from Sam for God only knows how long.

They already weren't wearing much, few clothes left to shed between them, and John can't help but be grateful for that. His hose is tugged down just far enough to feel Sam flush against him, and for just a moment it suffices in closeness.

Until it doesn't.

What little remains of the fabric separating them is quickly shed, and they're both panting by the time Sam draws back to look at him.

"What do you want this to be, Sam?"

"Surely by now you can guess."

"I can indeed, but you have to admit, you are always quite adept at prioritizing me and my desires. There's no reason why I wouldn't want to do the same for you."

He's met with a blank stare belying panic. It quickly fades back into the sort of calm one can't help but be wary of: the eye of the storm.

This is where they are.

"Get on all fours," Sam says, and John, reluctant as he is to drop the subject, complies.

"Like this...?"

It's far from his favorite position while with Sam, feeling altogether too impersonal for his own preferences. Too much like his past, the time before he'd ever met his other half.

What Sam is doing now, however, is not something his past lovers ever did for him without explicitly being asked. Instead of speaking, he kneels down behind John and allows his hands to spread him open, a soft sigh escaping John at the feeling.

There's also the trust, he thinks, eyes closing at the feeling of Sam's tongue on him. He'd hand Sam a knife and trust him to only cut the ties that bind him, that hold him back from a life spent with Sam. He'd hand him a rope and trust him to only draw John closer to him.

He'd hand him his heart, exactly as he has, and trust him not to break it.

Getting down on his elbows, John spreads his legs further, allowing himself to open to the bidding of Sam's mouth. The feeling of Sam's tongue inside of him is enough to make his cock twitch with its promise, and the feeling of Sam's hand around his cock is enough to make him whine.

Bucking into Sam's touch, John can feel himself pant more than he can hear it, the sounds leaving him near-silent exhales as a second hand joins the first, a finger slipping inside of him in place of his tongue.

Like this, Sam is free to press a kiss to his skin, a soft chuckle leaving him.

"Already so needy for me... when we've only just gotten started."

"Sam—"

"Do not hold back on my account. You know how much I enjoy seeing you like this."

He forces his thoughts to align, taking the shape of coherent sentences. "Like what?"

"Less coherent than that, for one."

Sam's finger curls inside of him. The whimper that leaves him is loud enough that he's forced to grab hold of a pillow to help smother it, another laugh sounding from behind him.

"Exactly like that."

"There are children in this house, Sam!" John dramatically half-whispers over his shoulders. "If someone hears us—"

"I do not yet know how long I will be gone," Sam says, his voice grave as he cuts John off mid-panic. "And after the last two days, all I want is to remember where I belong."

He hesitates, heart clenching as he looks back at him. "And where's that?"

"With the man I love."

Immediately, Sam sinks back into the moment, peppering kisses over his lower back as John slowly but surely opens up to him. Ready to take him, but content to allow Sam the chance to linger in the moment all the same.

In part because he can hear the words going unspoken:

I don't know if I'll be coming home at all. If this is the last time we can be together, I want to make it count.

Much as John wants the same, the thought of losing Sam feels like a vise gripping hold of his heart, tightening with every passing second. It's one he can't bear to think on, John finally turning far enough to look at Sam.

"I want to see you."

"Feeling demanding today, aren't we?"

"There will be plenty of time for me to make it up to you upon your return."

If you come back.

"Such lofty promises from the noble sir..."

"Have I ever let you down before, Sam?"

He's guided onto his back to the sight of a curious expression on Sam's face. Gone is the brief attempt at levity from seconds before, the teasing play hoping to dispel the panic of the moment no doubt in both of them, replaced instead by Sam at his most serious.

"Never. You have never let me down."

Sam starts to press inside of him, slow. Looking at him like this, it's almost possible to forget everything that happened over the last two days, to remember only the last time he was with Sam like this. The only thing betraying the image is the sunlight streaming in, a sorry reminder that they could not be further from the blessed basement where this all began.

Sam doesn't stop until he's flush against him, John's eyes fluttering shut as he reaches up to cup his cheek.

"Ah, Sam..."

Feeling like this, full and contented, Sam within reach, is the closest he's ever come to imagining what heaven must be like.

"And that is why I have to come home to you," Sam says as if in answer to his thoughts, voice soft enough to betray the emotions behind his words.

Home. What home remains to them, after everything that happened? Surely Sam could not adjust so quickly to thinking of Kolin as their new home.

His new home.

"Home is—"

"—wherever you, mame, and zeyde are."

He falters. "Me?"

"And why would you not be my home?"

Because I'm still a goy nobleman. Because you lost your home because of me in the first place. Because we left the safety of the King Solomon basement, and can never go back.

Because I don't deserve you in the least.

He voices none of his thoughts aloud, just pulls Sam into a kiss instead and tightens his legs around him.

"Don't tease," he whispers against his lips, and is rewarded with a chuckle.

"So impatient..."

"And demanding, don't forget."

He's silenced a second later when Sam thrusts into him just right, and John forgets how to think.

For all his noise earlier, now he's back to panting out his pleasure in chorus with Sam. He looks just as taken with the moment as John feels, so much so that he realizes a second later that he might well end up with bruises from the impact of Sam's hips and how feverishly hard he's fucking into him. Like he's trying to join with John so perfectly that they might never be parted again.

If he does bruise, he hopes they never dare disappear, not until Sam is back in his arms again.

"Mayn bashert (My soulmate)," Sam whispers. "Mayn lubenyu, mayn glik, mayn farlang (My beloved, my happiness, my desire)—"

"Ani ohev otcha (I love you), Sam."

He knows fully well that he's not fighting fair with those words. Even so, it does the trick: he watches as Sam's eyes widen and his hips stutter, the hiccup enough to allow John to roll them over and ride him instead.

Stunned as Sam looks, it fades almost too fast before he just ends up looking pleased.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Where do you think? From mame, of course."

"I should have known." The smile that comes over his face is slow but no less wide for it as he keeps allowing John to ride him to his heart's content. "Ani ohev otcha (I love you), John."

Rolling them over once more, Sam speeds up his thrusts, John clenching around him as he holds him close. Close enough to kiss, to touch, to never let go.

If only he could hold him here forever.

Instead, the end of their last shared morning together comes all too quickly. As his thrusts begin to waver, Sam reaches for John's cock to stroke in the hopes of finishing alongside him. Knowing Sam to be far too adept at the deed, he would normally finish himself off. Here, however, the speed is in their favor, and he just nods as he does his best to meet each and every thrust.

He feels himself starting to come just before Sam follows, his pleasure as ever paving the way, and finds that he's all but clinging to him as his body shudders.

Only as his heart rate calms once more and reality comes back into focus does he release his hold on Sam. Even then, he's tempted to hold on to him again, to keep him from ever stepping out the door.

Stay, he wants to say, knowing fully well that his desires are selfish and should go unspoken no matter how desperate he is to keep him here.

The plea goes unanswered. Instead, Sam pulls out of him and goes to clean himself off, finally allowing John to take care of himself.

Already, he's getting dressed. As if doing his best to erect a wall between the two of them, one that might make it easier to leave.

Much as he's not about to deny Sam what he needs to deal with this separation after everything that just happened to him, a part of him desperately wishes there was another option. Something he could do that Sam would also allow. Foot massages and hamantaschen feel insignificant in the greater scheme of things, mere crumbs when he wishes he could serve Sam a proper meal.

Not that he seems to understand the agony in watching a starving man determined to only cook for others and never for himself. Insisting that just watching others eat is more than good enough for him.

Meshugge (Crazy), as Sam would say.

"You will wait for me," Sam says, more statement than question as he pulls on his belt. Not that he needs to ask.

"Of course. And you'll return to me."

"So I will."

The same powerlessness that has been haunting him since Henry arrived with the dour news resurges as he watches Sam finish dressing, finally turning back to him.

"I would not forget our vow," he tells him, and leans in to kiss John.

As though they really are married in every way that matters.

"Tsu dir tsit mayn harts (To you my heart is drawn)."

He can't bring himself to reply as he watches Sam walk out the door, as if finding himself terrified that it might yet spell his doom.

Or that, perhaps, if he never says goodbye, Sam will have no choice but to come back to him.

He can see him from the window, he realizes not long after. Riding off into the distance, where Henry had better keep him safe.

Mame, for one, seems perfectly calm.

"Der mentsh trakht un got lakht (Man plans and God laughs)," she says, her smile warm as she puts John to work beside her in cutting apples. "Mayn kind (My child) will be fine."

"I do hope you're right."

"You know what I do, lad, when I cannot seem to stop worrying?"

"What's that?"

"I bake." She smiles, her expression kind enough to make a grown man cry. "So we'll set aside a few apples for us to use and make a pie. What do you say?"

It's ridiculous. Sara is reaching out, doing her best to reassure him—or distract him, perhaps—and all he can do is falter.

What sort of man even is he? Certainly not one deserving of any noble title.

"Or I could show you how to make homentashn (hamantaschen). I sometimes put apples in them for Samuel. Normally they're made with mohn (poppyseed), but that comes from fruit not usually growing during the winter, so during summer we like to branch out a bit."

He needs to pull himself together. To stop thinking of Sam ending up dead somewhere. Left at the side of the road in some ditch or, worse, in the hands of the enemy, with no body even left to bury or mourn, just an empty grave.

Straightening, he compels himself to smile. "I should like that very much. I did tell Sam that I was going to learn for his sake."

"You are a good man, John," she tells him, her hand reaching out for his arm. For just a moment, he even believes her.

The afternoon is hardly wasted when in Sara's company. He learns of the origin of one of Sam's scars, the way in which he'd help her chase away her suitors, and about his first word. When he starts manhandling the dough out of nerves alone, she tells him about how it can feel fear, and that it will benefit from a gentler touch.

"Much like people," she says.

It's obvious that Sam's distant family think his presence among them somewhat strange, and that the welcoming nature of both mame and zeyde and the others from the Kuttenberg community singularly help to counteract their understandable suspicion.

Somehow, it suffices in making dinner that night a pleasant and lively affair, only dampened by Sam's profoundly felt absence.

In many ways, he feels hollow, a spy without a network, a nobleman without an estate, a man without his bashert (soulmate). What he said to Henry still stands: there's no one to convince, no one to break, no one to blackmail.

When was the last time that he was just left to his own devices? Just to be, instead of spying on someone or other. To put things into motion and work from the shadows while others continue to go about their lives.

Has he ever been in a position of such luxury?

Even growing up, there was the matter of learning his place in the world. Being molded into the proper sort of nobleman. And then, there was the matter of his marriage...

Growing up alongside Sam in such a vibrant community sounds, in many ways, like it might have been strangely idyllic. Even now, in the face of a tragedy, everyone sticks together and stands by each other. Not that Sam was always welcomed the same way he is now, but...

Henry had asked him if he was planning on going home. In truth, it's the last place he wants to be. But being here, just waiting for Sam to come home or not, almost feels worse.

A part of him almost laments the others insisting that he keep his and Sam's room to himself, where his absence might be felt the strongest by far.

It feels empty, a sorry reminder of how used he got to his evenings spent together with Sam in the basement. That time could not be further away now.

Mame urged him to read and write, anything to occupy his mind. The only books here are in Hebrew, which—while excellent for his learning—is hardly distracting.

So he sits down to write instead.