Work Text:
May 7, 1945
Clad in his uniform of the American Squadron of the British Home Guard, Kurt Hummel makes his way through the cheering crowds that jam London’s every street. He allows himself to be carried along with the flow moving towards Trafalgar Square, but then the press of humanity becomes too much, and he turns aside, content to stay there with the deliriously happy populace and their celebrations. Kurt feels it too . . . the very air seems to smell fresh and clean again, as though the long darkness drawn back leaves behind new growth and life restored.
Everywhere people wave flags and songs rise up in the air, as thousands of throats swell with joy. Kurt joins in when people around him start We’ll Meet Again. The noise level is incredible and Kurt would fear for the safety of his eardrums if it weren’t for the bubbling happiness that he can’t contain. As the day wears on into night, fireworks light up the sky. The lights have finally come back on in London.
More than one person grabs his hands, spinning him into an impromptu dance of joy. Shop girls give out kisses freely, and Kurt never imagined that he would ever kiss so many women in his life. More than one man doesn’t hesitate to plant quick kisses on his mouth, the normal barriers that exist amongst humankind dropped in the face of such overwhelming joy.
Kurt is happy that he decided to stay in London, even when General Hayes offered him a ride to New York harbor on a troop ship when the Home Guard stood down. Kurt felt then and still believes that having been in London at the start of the war he has the duty to ‘see it through’ – to experience every moment, both high and low, with the people who had taken him in when he was in such desperate straits. In addition, Kurt has a sense of waiting, of some job not yet done, of some hope that hasn’t quite died in his heart.
Be seeing you.
The crowd is varied – civilians, soldiers from Britain and the USA, released POWs, refugees, and all manner of folk. Every person is full of laughter and happy tears, and no person on the street that night is a stranger to any other.
In front of him, the crowd breaks apart and swirls back together again as a man makes his way through the people. He’s probably at least twenty years older than Kurt, with the gaunt frame of either a refugee or a prisoner. His hair is a riot of tangled curls and his beard matted and overly long. He wears a simple blue chambray shirt of the sort that the American troops have been giving out to the people they’ve freed. Kurt presumes that the man is fresh off one of the refugee ships.
The man hugs everyone he accosts, and people respond to him with smiles, although Kurt imagines that his person must be flea-ridden and smelly. The man stops to give a pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform a toe-curling kiss that leaves her smiling, despite the disreputable appearance of the man assaulting her.
Turning around, the man catches sight of Kurt and bounds over to him. Before Kurt can protest, he’s wrapped in long skinny arms and the strange man’s lips find his. Kurt opens his mouth to protest the treatment, but the stranger slides his tongue into Kurt’s mouth and his arms pull Kurt in more closely.
Unexpectedly, Kurt finds himself responding to the feel of a hard male body so close and the masterful way the refugee man has taken over the kiss. He’s shocked that he’s reacting lustfully to a random man on the street in this manner. None of his bed partners in the last few years have made Kurt feel so dizzily out of control.
The man releases Kurt’s mouth after several long minutes that leave Kurt feeling decidedly weak in the knees. The refugee doesn’t let go of Kurt, but instead he buries his face into Kurt’s neck, tongue giving quick little licks as though he’s tasting Kurt’s skin.
“Uhm,” Kurt says eloquently, even as the man gives his neck a sharp nip, sending a jolt of sensation along his nerve endings. Kurt forgets what he meant to say, and then tries again. “Not that you aren’t an excellent kisser, but we haven’t been formally introduced . . .”
Kurt squeaks as the man drops his hand to Kurt’s ass, getting a good hold on him and squeezing.
“And I don’t usually let total strangers grope me like this,” Kurt finishes.
“You don’t?”
“Er, no.” Kurt squirms a little, trying to get himself free, but the man clings to him and Kurt begins to get alarmed.
The odd man chuckles and says in a low voice, “Don’t you know me, princess?”
Freezing in place, Kurt feels the air struggling to get out of his lungs and he isn’t sure when it escapes whether he’ll be laughing or sobbing. For while he still can’t match the appearance of the man holding him with his memories, Kurt will never forget the Flying Officer who gave him that nickname.
He pulls back just enough to be able to study the man. Kurt stares into hazel eyes ringed by thick lashes and those are familiar, but the rest of the face is unknown . . . gaunt, and ill looking, covered with the thick beard that has strands of silver buried within it. But like a distant echo that goads his memory, Kurt can see the framework of a face that he once knew intimately, however briefly.
The thickness gradually fades from his throat, and Kurt realizes that he’s been stroking his thumb over a sharply etched cheekbone. The man . . . Noah . . . pushes his face against Kurt’s touch as if seeking more.
“Noah.” Kurt tries the name on his tongue, just to make sure that the happy delirium of the day hasn’t corrupted his mind.
“Yes,” Noah answers, acknowledging his identity or answering some question that Kurt hasn’t yet asked.
The simple reply seems to bring him into focus and Kurt at last fully recognizes the RAF pilot who had departed his life more than four years before. “You’re alive,” he says, feeling a bit stupid and slow witted.
“I am,” Noah agrees, “although it was a near thing a few times.”
The conflicting feelings rush back into Kurt then and he’s torn between joy at their reunion and sorrow for what he can imagine has been done to Noah to turn him into such a wreck of what he once was.
“I’m glad,” is all he can manage.
Noah cups his cheek, hands rough on Kurt’s skin. “Do you know that I could never remember what my daughter looked like? Or even my mother. When they were hurting me, the only thing I could remember was your face.”
The delicate balance of his emotions topple over at that moment, and Kurt can’t hold back his gasping sob. He tightens his arms around Noah, and sniffles against Noah’s neck.
He gets control of himself and then says, “I thought of you. Many times.”
Noah doesn’t reply, merely squeezes him tighter. Kurt wants to drown in that embrace but his protective instincts come to the fore as he feels the thinness of the flesh covering Noah’s bones. He doesn’t like to think about what Noah meant when he spoke of being hurt, but he puts aside his squeamishness. Kurt has seen more than enough suffering while he’s been in London, but the idea of anyone hurting Noah is intolerable. Now though, he’s back and Kurt knows the man needs tending and pampering. The American troops no doubt saw to the basic needs of the freed prisoners, but Noah has Kurt now to see to his welfare.
“Come home with me,” Kurt suggests softly.
He doesn’t know what they are to each other, not after four years apart, or even what they would have been if Noah hadn’t had to leave. What Kurt does know is that he can’t tend Noah’s hurts in the middle of the street while the rest of London celebrates its freedom.
“All right.”
Kurt feels the nearly imperceptible sagging of Noah’s frame as he lets go of whatever force of will is holding him upright. Kurt wraps his arm around Noah’s waist and they slowly make their way back through the crowds towards Kurt’s bedsit. With all the milling people and them moving in the general direction against the flow of the migration, it takes them longer than usual to make it back to Chelsea. Noah is trembling against his side while Kurt digs through his pockets for his key and tries to think of what nourishing food he has in the cupboard that he can feed his guest.
He steers Noah into the room, settling him on a chair. The blackout curtains have already been donated to a more worthy cause and his window has a free view of the night sky where fireworks continue to decorate the air like brilliantly lit flowers. Kurt smiles a little at the sight as he busies himself with some of the freeze-dried rations that he gets from the American garrison. He puts the kettle on the hob to boil the water while he opens the tins of meat and potato hash. The rations are disgustingly bland on a good day, but with Noah looking so sickly, Kurt imagines they will go down better than something slightly more interesting such as fish and chips.
Noah watches him, dark eyes full of something Kurt can’t quite name. He still hasn’t recovered from the shock of finding Noah in the midst of the street like that.
“Those are Army rations,” Noah says finally. He waves his hand at Kurt. “And the uniform?”
“Yes, well. After you left, I wanted to do more. I volunteered for the Home Guard. When the Yanks got in the fight, I went to the American embassy to get my status clarified. They assigned me to General Hayes. He commands the American Squadron.”
“What do you do?” Noah asks.
He looks more relaxed now, his body heavy in the chair. Kurt stirs the mash into the boiling water.
“Learned to shoot for one thing,” Kurt says, rolling his eyes at himself. He never once imagined when he was younger that he would be familiar with firearms. “We mostly patrolled the seacoasts, on the lookout for invaders, whether by small boat or otherwise. We helped out when the bombs hit, clearing wreckage, looking for survivors.”
“Like the National Guard, I suppose.”
“Well, yes, but all of us weren’t eligible to serve for one reason or another.”
“What will you do now?” Noah asks.
Kurt stops his stirring a moment, gazing out the window. “I don’t know. The Guard disbanded last December, but General Hayes is still here, so I’m back to doing courier work for him.”
Noah makes a non-committal noise. Kurt turns around with the mash, working it with a spoon to make it mix better and make it softer. He puts the dish on the table beside Noah, and then hovers uncertainly.
“I’m not an invalid,” Noah says, eyeing the dish with distaste.
“No, but you could surely stand to put on a little weight,” Kurt says, keeping his voice crisp and unsympathetic.
Without arguing further, Noah puts his fork into the food. He can’t hide the slight tremor in his hand as he lifts the bite to his mouth. Knowing that the pilot wouldn’t want Kurt to see his weakness, Kurt turns around, forcing his own hands to steadiness as he puts away the remains of the small meal. Maybe in the morning, he can go to the corner market for some fresh bread. He tries to remember what else he still has ration coupons for.
Noah pushes the plate away with a sigh. There’s not enough of the food missing to satisfy Kurt’s newly found mother-hen instincts, but he doesn’t say anything. Noah slumps lower in the chair, and Kurt guesses that the man is exhausted. Kurt would suggest going to bed, but he’s afraid of what vermin might linger on Noah’s body and clothes. In the few times that he allowed himself to daydream about their reunion, he has never imagined this – Noah broken physically, if not in spirit. He always thought that Noah would come back to him healthy and triumphant. Kurt swallows down his tears again.
“Why don’t we go bathe?” he suggests, deciding that he won’t try to sugarcoat his distaste for Noah’s current state.
“Afraid I’ll give you bugs?” Noah asks, but Kurt’s relieved to see the slightest gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“Who knows what new species might be lingering in that mop?” Kurt shoots back, keeping his voice light.
“Yeah.” Noah tugs on one of his curls, glaring at the offending strand. “Can you . . . ? Do you have clippers?”
“I have scissors. And a razor.”
Kurt turns to the wardrobe and pulls out his shaving things, along with his entire supply of towels. They make their way down the hall to the bathroom. Kurt assumes that the rest of the residents are off dancing with the crowds, so he heats the water up without any consideration of the other tenants.
Whatever manic energy possessed Noah out on the streets seems to have disappeared as he leans against the wall watching Kurt prepare the bath.
“Sit down,” Kurt orders and Noah lets his legs collapse out from under him as he slides to the floor. He seems in control of his movement so Kurt doesn’t offer to help him. He picks up the scissors and hacks at the growth of hair on Noah’s face, pulling off large chunks of matted beard. He concentrates on the job and not what might be lurking in the tangle. When he’s cut as close to Noah’s skin as he dares, Kurt drops a small towel into the heated water and then presses it against Noah’s chin and jaw line.
“Hold that,” Kurt says.
Noah puts his hands up and then Kurt dips his shaving brush in the basin before swirling it around in the shaving mug, loading the badger bristles with the creamy soap. Kurt kneels between Noah’s spread legs and slowly moves the brush around in circles over the remaining stubble. Noah watches him with dark eyes and Kurt feels shaky again.
He steadies his hands and then picks up his safety razor. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” Noah replies.
Kurt sets the blade to Noah’s skin, his other hand pulling the flesh taut to make the shave as close as possible without cutting the other man. Noah relaxes, the tension flowing out of his body. Kurt wants to linger, to feel Noah’s warm skin under his fingers. Noah puts his hands up and rests them on Kurt’s waist, completing the circuit between them. Noah watches his face while Kurt works. When he’s finished, Kurt can’t stop himself from tracing Noah’s prominent cheekbones and his fingers drift over Noah’s full lips. Noah nips at his finger playfully, and Kurt’s memories fling him back to four years ago when the man currently sitting on the bathroom floor could annihilate all of his inhibitions and leave Kurt begging for him. Feeling like his desire is inappropriate, Kurt struggles to control his breathing.
Drawing away reluctantly, Kurt picks up the scissors again and attacks the wealth of curls surrounding Noah’s head. He’s almost sorry to see them go, for he had no idea that Noah’s hair was so curly. It’s best that they start over though, he thinks as he chops off the filthy strands. When he has most of the growth cleared away, Kurt uses his comb to get the locks as even as possible. The hair falls in loose waves over Noah’s head.
“We’ll see about a barber in the morning,” Kurt says finally. He picks up the newspaper where he deposited the hair and beard waste. “You can just . . .” He gestures to the tub.
“Stay,” Noah murmurs.
“All right.”
Kurt puts his hands out and helps Noah to his feet. The pilot stands passive while Kurt shucks him out of his clothes. He feels wool under his fingers when he gets to Noah’s pants and he realizes that they’re the last remnant of his RAF uniform. They are some indeterminate grey-brown color, and Kurt wonders if they can be salvaged. He’ll take them to the laundry when he gets a chance.
“They burned my jacket,” Noah says, as if he knows what Kurt is thinking.
Nodding, Kurt works the buttons of Noah’s chambray shirt. He slides it off Noah’s shoulders, trying to be impersonal about it and not violate Noah’s privacy, but with Noah standing naked in the bathroom, Kurt can’t control his reaction to the other man. Even with his frame pared down to the bone and him standing unsteady on his feet, the power of Kurt’s attraction to Noah hasn’t diminished with the years or distance between them. He’s embarrassed by it, knowing that Noah is weak and ill, but he’s helpless against the craving for the pilot.
As Noah turns to get into the water, Kurt can’t stifle his gasp at the sight of Noah’s back. Scars litter the olive skin, scars that definitely weren’t there the last time Kurt saw him. Thin lines and burn marks that speak of a wealth of pain.
“Noah . . . what is this?”
“Nazis,” Noah replies bitterly as he sinks into the water.
“But the Geneva Convention . . .”
“Doesn’t apply to civilians. Or spies.”
“A spy? You had an RAF uniform!”
“And a British plane. But I’m clearly American. I was shot down just after the Americans got in it, but there hadn’t been time to transfer to the American forces. A lot of paperwork, you know? The Germans decided I must be a spy. Or a traitor. Not deserving of any consideration.”
“That’s horrible.”
Noah shrugs, making ripples in the water. “They never tripped to me being Jewish, at least. And they kept me at a Stalag with the rest of the troops. Could have been worse.”
He’s clearly done with the subject because he holds up the washcloth, a smirk on his face. “Well, princess? Going to wash my back?”
Kurt takes the cloth with a snort and rubs the soap into it to produce a lather. He moves the rough cloth carefully over Noah’s back, not knowing how much the pilot’s wounds might still pain him, but Noah makes no sign if they hurt, just leaning forward to give Kurt better access to the base of his spine. When his back is finished, Kurt dips the cloth in the water again, rinsing it and then getting more soap. He works his way down Noah’s arms, even raising them to get his pits clean. He moves the washcloth carefully over Noah’s chest, not trying to arouse the other man.
Noah stands up and Kurt washes his legs, getting in between his toes and the backs of his knees. He cleans the crease between Noah’s cheeks and the secret place underneath his balls. He slides the cloth down Noah’s prick and is relieved to feel it stirring to life under his hands.
The whole process feels almost too intimate on some level, and Kurt thinks he’s being foolish. He’s had Noah’s cock in both his mouth and ass, after all. But the feeling remains, as though by his act of tending to Noah, they’ve become more than just casual lovers. He can’t help his instinct to fuss over the man, and doesn’t fight it as he holds out a towel when Noah steps out of the bath. Kurt only wishes it were bigger and fluffier.
When he’s finished drying the other man, Kurt hands Noah his dressing robe. As Noah belts the sash, Kurt picks up all their used towels and shaving implements. Noah follows him down the hall quietly.
Kurt doesn’t really know what they should do next, but Noah solves the problem for him, shedding the robe and then crawling into Kurt’s bed with a groan. Kurt hesitates to join him, but Noah looks at him sleepily.
“Kurt. Get in.”
His bossiness hasn’t diminished any with his captivity, Kurt thinks snappishly as he takes off his clothes and carefully puts them away in the press. He eases into bed beside the other man, trying not to jostle the mattress too much.
Noah rolls against him, and Kurt can’t mistake the hardness grazing his hip. His body answers in an instant, desire flooding through him. He tries to stifle his groan of need, but can’t quite keep it in.
“Really?” Noah asks. “Even with me looking like this?”
“Noah,” Kurt whimpers, letting the want flood his voice. How could Noah ever doubt Kurt’s reaction to him?. “Do you want . . . ?”
“Oh, baby, do I ever want,” Noah answers. “But I don’t think I can fuck you properly tonight.”
Trembling a little at the idea of Noah doing him ‘properly’, Kurt reaches for his bottle of lotion and then rolls to his side, tugging on Noah’s hip until the pilot faces him. Kurt slicks his hand and then wraps his fingers around their erections.
“Kiss me,” he demands.
Noah complies, once again the masterful stranger who accosted Kurt on the street and left him panting for more, against all sense. Kurt moans into Noah’s mouth as their bodies rock together and his hand moves on their dicks. The feel of Noah’s hard flesh next to his is indescribably delicious. Their orgasms overtake them slowly and easily, as they moan into each other’s mouths.
Afterwards, Kurt gets a cloth and wipes off the mess. He settles down into the bed with Noah in his arms, not feeling sleepy as the excitement from the day still affects him, but not wanting to be anywhere else.
“You were a light in the darkness,” Noah says, his voice rough on the edge of sleep. “Not ever going to let you go again.”
Kurt draws a shaky breath, thinking sadly of Noah alone with his sorrow and bitterness.
Noah sings softly, like a child singing himself to sleep, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”
His voice is a rich baritone, and Kurt realizes he’s never heard him sing before. Noah’s voice drifts off as his breathing becomes deep and even.
Kurt thinks about what Noah has just said, wondering what it means. Whether they’ll be lovers for the rest of their lives. That’s quite a commitment. Kurt isn’t sure that he wants to be with one person all his life, but he can’t deny that they forged some sort of connection on that long ago Christmas. And now Noah needs him. Kurt can’t turn away from the urge to help Noah, to nurse him back to health and strength. After his ordeal, Noah may never be the man he once was, but Kurt decides he’s willing to be there for him not matter what.
In the morning, they’ll go find General Hayes and take him up on that offer of a ride home. Kurt knows that General Hayes tolerates him because he’s useful, but he hopes the General will overlook the ‘homosexual partner’ aspect of the situation and focus instead on the ‘heroic pilot tortured by the Nazis’ part of it. Hopefully the General will agree to ship the Triumph back too. Kurt finds himself longing for the wide-open spaces of America after all the years he’s spent in the cramped and narrow parts of Europe. He imagines riding the open highways with Noah on the motorcycle.
They’ll have to go to the embassy too. Kurt isn’t exactly sure about the legal status of those American pilots who snuck into the RAF, but there were enough of them that he’s sure the US government must have some policy towards them. He’ll just have to convince someone that Noah is an American citizen and get him some papers so they can go home.
And after that . . . Kurt doesn’t know what they might find back in the States, but he won’t leave Noah. They’ll make their way together somehow.
He turns his head and sings quietly into Noah’s clean curls.
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey.