Schatzi

28

With his newly found motivation and with a bit of a leg up, he was able to scramble out of the pit, pushing what remained of his physical strength to the limit as he hauled himself up, muscles aching and spasming when he finally dragged himself into the mud on the surface, collapsing in a heap as he caught his breath, eyes clenched shut to try stop himself from crying again.

"Printz?"

Peter opened his eyes when he heard a familiar voice calling his name. He recognised it, but he wasn't sure where from. It was there, right at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite place it.

But then one of the beams of light from the watchtower swept over them and he finally saw a face to match to the voice, and then he remembered.

Wolf.

The guard who'd caught him, threatened him and ensured he was treated badly in the camp was stood in front of him once again, soaked through and holding a rifle to Peter's chest.

"You're alive," he said bluntly, not moving as he stared at Peter, a small smirk slowly creeping onto his lips. "I was just thinking about you, wondering what the fuck happened to you after I so kindly brought you here."

"Kindly?" Peter repeated, sitting up slightly only to be pushed back by Wolf's gun. "I'm sure you're a lot of things but kind is definitely not one of them."

"Trust me, Printz, this is kindness," Wolf said, pulling the gun away finally. "You must realise what you are is sinful. It's not right. You can change that here, and if you can't change it, you can at least pay for your disgusting sins. We're doing you all a favour.

"And in terms of me personally, I think you'll find I'm much kinder than the rest of the guards here who would kill you without a second thought if they found you outside at night. They'd shoot you like a dog in the street. But me? Well, I'm more...creative," he snarled, a sinister look on his face. He gestured for Peter to get up.

"Follow me."

————————————

Eli was at home again, alone, passing the time by doing nothing.

It was the same every night.

He'd talk with Lotte about what they would do in terms of their tiny, petty rebellions for that week, and then she'd leave and he'd be alone again, staring at Peter's drawings and trying to convince himself he was over him.

Because he wanted to be over him. It hurt him every single day to still be so completely and painfully in love with him. It would be so much easier if he could move on.

He was drawn from his thoughts by a quiet knock at the door that he wouldn't have heard if he'd been upstairs. But he was downstairs in the living room, fire roaring in the hearth, moonlight pouring in from the open windows.

He quickly gathered up Peter's sketches and shoved them in a drawer of a cabinet in the corner of the room. They were private. No one else got to see them.

He ran over to the door, peering out to see who was there before he opened it. There was always the danger it would be the SS or Gestapo, there to take him away, like how they'd taken Peter. Lotte and the organisation would be at a loss for where he'd gone. So would his family, his mother. He'd just disappear off the face of the earth like he'd never existed.

But it wasn't any kind of police. It was Tig.

He stood outside the door, rocking back and forth on his heels, what looked like a picnic basket hung from his arm.