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Jul 11, 2025

1338 DAYS [2/2]

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Summary: Marc was like all of the other men, starved and bald. His bones peeked out. He was in need of a bath, a proper one, but all of them were. He was small-framed and looked young, less than the twenty-one stated on his card. But he looked determined, and Vale hadn't seen that determination in years.

Chapter summary: The war ended on a cool night at the end of summer.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, prisoners of war, internment setting, descriptions of war and acts of torture, blood, injury, malnutrition, homophobia, minor character death

E, rosquez, 8.6k words.

[Part 1]

Vale could be forgiven for dismissing the concept of a future with Marc as a pipe dream. It sufficed to know that Marc was outside, free to grow old and healthy, and grasp at the beauty of life with his greedy hands.

He tried not to dream at all, but from time to time, loneliness caught up with him. He would sometimes find his mind wandering to Marc and thinking about how he must be doing. No longer hungry, he prayed. His home was far away, but presumably, Marc would find his way back, and the family he spoke so highly of would spoil him silly for the rest of his life. Vale hoped that life outside of prison had given Marc back everything he wanted.

As for himself, Vale did not fantasise too much - nothing about growing old or a forbidden marriage that would not be recognised. He would only take comfort in the echoes of his memories: of a warm smile, enjoying a passage from a book together, and the assurance of knowing that he was adored by someone still living. He referred to Marc's note on rare occasions and touched the heart in the corner gently, so as to preserve the graphite that Marc had put onto the page. Marc had never accepted that Vale was unkind to him.

He hoped that Marc wouldn't take it too hard when the war ended some day and Vale wasn't in any condition to see him again. He might be in ruins, mere bones in the dirt. He might be destroyed in worse ways.

Maybe not. Vale pushed himself like he always had to live to see another day, because his love for life inched slightly clear of his fear of suffering. Despite the futility of such a dream, he longed for his freedom too.

In September, a deafening explosion shook the infirmary. Vale poked his head out of the door, wondering if the end of nigh. The patients who were able to walk tried to catch a glimpse as well.

Smoke erupted from the distance, stinking up the air, obscuring sunlight. Vale observed with a detachment from his own body. So this was how it would feel death loom upon you, like many had before him. The men gathered with bated breaths, waiting for a second bomb to drop atop their heads. Of course, there was no escape for them. Most in the infirmary were too unwell to risk the climb over barbed wire-topped fences, let alone evade the gunfire that awaited them if they dared try.

Vale would depart the world with regrets. He did not want to die. No matter how poor his conditions were, he was not yet ready to let go.

He clenched his fist around the carton of unsmoked cigarettes in his pocket. He was sorry - he already gave it all he could.

Vale survived that day, but many others perished. He would not hear an explanation until hours later.

Enemy fire had targeted one of their factories. It didn't matter to them that they were killing the healthier members of their own.

Numbers in their camp flatlined. Ironically, the sick who occupied the infirmary remained.

Mealtimes were more sombre than ever before. Where overcrowding had long since been a problem, Vale could now see across the room. The living men did not have to sit shoulder to shoulder to eat anymore. Many of his acquaintances, for he had no friends here, were gone.

Their numbers would never come back up fully. There was an effort by the soldiers to capture more prisoners and no more releases, but the largest nearby factory was no longer functional, and it was a pointless endeavour.

Silence was oppressive. Everywhere they looked, there was emptiness.

The war ended on a cool night at the end of summer. One day the soldiers were there, the next they fled for their lives, leaving the prisoners without supervision.

It should not have come as a surprise, but after spending the better part of a decade in prison, Vale never saw the end coming. He could hardly accept that hope had come to fruition.

There was confusion. The prisoners were sitting ducks. Dare they try to leave, across the barbed wire and fences? What if this was a trap, and they were gunned down for trying? Memories of people being whipped to death or shot for escaping stuck vividly in their minds.

It was just as well that enemy forces trooped in en masse to liberate them within the day. Vale was inherently distrustful of any man with a gun, but he knew to follow when they asked. When a handful of people looked to him for an answer, he lined them up orderly - first to retrieve what little they possessed, then to line up at the entrance. The new soldiers were patient, but people were still afraid. Vale hoped he was not leading his companions to a death march.

The prisoners murmured among themselves, tapping into collective wisdom to make sense of their situation. Even if freedom did not await, there was nothing worse than their present.

Soon, they all shuffled together in a pack in their uniforms and shoddy shoes, in straight lines like they had been trained to do. They were free men who did not know how to be free. Like a flock of mindless sheep, they huddled together as they were led to a town.

It was cold and far away, so far that their feet blistered as they travelled on foot. As Vale walked along the straight path, he couldn't believe how far away things were. Paths were wide, and vehicles lined the roads. He had not seen outside of the library, the infirmary, the bathroom and the dining hall in years, ever since he had been converted from factory worker to doctor. He didn't feel amazement; he felt fear.

He thought of Marc and wondered how he dealt with his freedom. Little Marc never stopped aiming for the big world. He never got used to the fences of prison. Maybe it had been normal for him to be free, because he remembered all of this so clearly. Vale felt too small for it.

They were taken to a cathedral where good samaritans poured them hot drinks and placed plain clothes into their hands. The stronger among them were given food rations and money and told to go.

Vale put on something other than scrubs or prison garb for the first time in years. He did not know precisely where he was, but he needed to find his way home.

It was hard to navigate. He used to have friends, and he used to have wealth. He could transport himself around and ask for favours with ease. Now he did not know how.

He slept on the floor that first night, with many other lost men. They found their way into a smaller church and rested there. In the cold, the shared a cigarette. Alone, Vale hoarded one for himself. His hands trembled as he held it to his mouth, and he told himself that it was the cold, or nicotine, or something he could explain. Because the feeling he had towards freedom should have been happiness.

The next morning, others stirred and joined Vale in his wakefulness, and they took a trek to find the trains.

Everything looked unreal. Tracks, stations, people all were intact. These had to be tracks that the prisoners shed blood to construct.

There were happy children there, dirty but capable of laughing no matter what happened. There were women who were neither crying nor dressed in grey. Newspapers were on sale. Vale bought one - he fumbled his money, he had momentarily forgotten how to tell apart coins by touch. He bought a ticket, and it turned out that he was only an hour away from home. Impossible.

With only half a mind present, he bid farewell to the men who were leaving the country for home. Then he got onboard an early train and sat down next to a window. The seats were soft, though peeling. He could not believe it. He leaned backwards. The cushion moulded against the curvature of his spine, providing luxurious support.

The train moved, and every rumble and sound was foreign. He stared out the window almost the entire time, as they moved through town and past countryside. Rolling hills heaped with orange leaves. Cows. Blue sky and warm light. It was all so beautiful. He could not take his eyes off his surroundings.

Where was the war? There was damage and debris lying about if he chose to focus on it, but there was so much beauty. He had been so sure that the world would be devastated and grey, never to be the same again. Eight years, it was, that they had been fighting a war. Now they lost, and perhaps they would stop hurting.

Everything was so colourful. Beautiful people were about, and they had hair.

He used to live like this.

The train rolled to a stop quicker than he expected, and this place-

He gulped down a big breath of air. This place, he did know, intimately. The signs were still the same. This town he knew so well.

He took the unread newspaper with him and stumbled off the train before it moved on without him. He had to look around to get his bearings. Find the stairs again. Figure out how to get home. If his home was still around.

Enemy soldiers (not Vale's enemies) were all about the station, policing with their guns. They took one look at the tattoo on Vale's arm and allowed him to roam freely. They looked upon him with dreaded sympathy. Vale had caught glimpses of himself in the dusty glass window. He would also be sorry for such a dreadful creature.

He went in search of his clinic first. He did not want to return to practice - could not stomach the thought of trying to be a normal doctor yet - but he had less dread for its loss. He did not expect to find anything there after the raid that had expelled him from his regular life, and sure enough, the building had been flattened, as had his accommodation. Vale did not walk too close to its ghosts.

He could not put off going home any longer.

He walked to his family home on foot, even though it was far away and he was tired. Still, he made it when the day was bright.

There was a man sweeping outside of a restaurant, not far from the place Vale grew up. Vale realised he knew this man in the passing, but the man glanced at him without recognition. Gone were the days where The Doctor was ubiquitous, and he might be better off for it.

He thought he would feel happier to return to familiarity. It was proving to be a challenge.

His feet carried him to his best friend Uccio's place first, where he found a round-faced woman hanging clothes to dry. He did not recognise her, but he told himself not jump to dreadful conclusions.

Awkwardly, he hid his arm so she would not see the numbering, in case she thought him a traitor. He summoned courage to speak.

"Excuse me Madam, do you know where Alessio lives? He is my friend, and this used to be his house."

She gave him an assessing look, and Vale wondered what she saw. He had not taken the opportunity to look at himself from head to toe, but he must appear unclean and shrunken. She must think him a beggar. She might look at the newspaper tucked under his arm and imagine that he was going to sleep on it.

"He moved down the road, red roof," she said. She did not say more, and Vale took his leave politely.

The house with the red roof turned out to be a bigger, newer unit. Uccio was moving up in life, Vale supposed. He was-

The apt word would be relieved for his best friend.

Uccio did not have a fence, which was good. Vale was discovering that he had developed a funny thing about fences, which made them harder to approach.

Although it was not difficult to walk to Uccio's door, it was difficult to bring himself to knock. He told himself that it was possible Uccio was not even there, and his hesitation was for nothing.

He didn't know what to say. Vale had always been the interesting one, the more successful one. Uccio had been his loyal companion. He elected to be pharmacist when Vale had chosen to be a doctor. He was by default the first name on Vale's invite lists, but never hosted the parties.

Eight years would change things. He supposed Uccio would be married; it already used to be a minor source of discomfort, that Uccio would someday marry and have a family and Vale's phases of life would only be "young" and "old".

He was better than his misery. He knocked the door hard to make sure he could be heard.

Uccio was not home. It was an anticlimactic development, but as he was already there, he just sat down and waited. And waited. For the better part of an hour.

He started to dread. He even wondered if Uccio might have taken the wrong side in the war - but he would never put his allegiance with people who punished those who were like Vale. Vale held his faith and stayed put.

Then, from the dimness, he heard his friend's familiar voice, calm as ever, though he could not discern the words.

A woman responded, and Vale realised that he knew her. Oh how he knew her. For all her flaws, she was the only woman he had ever loved.

He scrambled to his feet to gain a better vantage point. He could not believe his ears.

He saw them when they turned the corner, and his stomach swooped. A woman in her thirties and two children he had never met. His best friend. And another figure, even more familiar. Excitement heated his face.

"Stealing my mother, Uccio?" he shouted in greeting. He had not used his vocal chords in such a manner in a long time. His levity felt incredibly forced.

The figures froze in the distance.

"Vale?" Uccio called out hesitantly, squinting at his house. But Vale stood with his back against the setting sun, and he was cast in shadow.

His mother screamed incoherently, and ran towards him. Normally she was calm and purposeful. He raised his arms just in time to catch her. She broke out into huge, gasping sobs, and shook against him.

Uccio came around and wrapped his arms around both of them. He was so warm, so sturdily built, so safe.

"Welcome home," Uccio said simply.

Vale found himself in tears for everything he lost, and everything he still had. For the first time in eight years, he permitted himself to sob.

"Know you missed me," he said thickly. He wanted to diffuse the situation somehow but it was too much to ask for, because his mother was alive and well, his friend still loved him, and he was home.

The relief of having a home to return to was quickly replaced by frustration, though Vale did his best to keep it at bay. He was nothing if not resilient.

He found himself having difficulties fitting in, which was novel and unpleasant. Even in prison, he had gravity.

His old life could not simply return to him. His past friends, acquaintances, and lovers had largely scattered or even died, and he was in no condition to play host. He was also no longer twenty-eight and trivial, with no cares and no worries in the world.

Vale could potentially return to being a doctor, but he did not want to. He had enough of disease and pain, and he had lost his passion. The thought of having to smell flesh and blood for the rest of his working life sickened him.

He had a limp in his leg so he could not do manual labour, nor he did not want to. Not after seeing factory-related maulings day after day after day.

He considered becoming a historian. It had seemed a good idea while in prison, but he would be an expert only in his personal accounts. He did not want to understand from the distant view of an analyst, to explain reasonably why everything had devolved into people dying in masses in his hands. No justification would be suitable for him.

"Just stay at home with us, Vale," his mother said in reaction to his restlessness. She was his only family left. His father's soul rested after an air raid, and his brother was uncontactable in the big city.

Vale listened to her for a while because he did not have other options. His stomach had adapted to prison, and while he knew he needed to return to normalcy for his own health, it was a struggle to eat meals and follow the circadian rhythm of normal people.

Real food was too rich and flavourful. Sweet, salty, and milky foods made his stomach churn. They were difficult to digest. Often, he would find himself lying in bed feeling nauseous for hours after meals. Sleep was also hard to come by, as he was haunted by screams of pain and the smell of rot and disease.

He wondered why he felt worse now that everything was better. His body adapted to suffering with great difficulty, and continued to punish him while he adapted out of it.

He was reticent about his experiences. He wanted people to understand without having to voice and relive what he had gone through, but he knew no prisoners from his town, and had intentionally gone through internment without friends.

Freedom was a struggle in itself. He knew he would one day come to appreciate it, but in the immediate months after leaving, he almost wondered why Marc had yearned for it so badly. He supposed he had been locked away for much longer, and that after eight years, one could be granted mercy for forgetting how to live.

When Vale first brought himself to Uccio's full-length mirror, he was convinced that he had missed out on all the best years of his life. He was already thirty-six and looked at least ten years older. An unfamiliar reflection looked back at him with gaunt cheeks and dangerous shadows. What short length of his hair that had been allowed to grow was thinner than before and haunted by strands of grey. He had on occasion shaved it as a rebellious fashion statement in his youth, but he did not think he would ever do so again. Knobbly joints protruded through his clothes, and they punished him in more ways than just looks. He could not relax painlessly with no fats to cushion his bones.

A part of him was ashamed that he dared to flirt with Marc while wearing this appearance. As though he could invoke any pleasure with this body. They never had the chance to touch each other, and while part of Vale mourned that there had been no appropriate time or place, the prideful part of him was also relieved.

He used to be a star attraction of his community. Looking at himself now, he didn't believe that the young men who were untouched by war would want him anymore, and he thought that Marc deserved better for his suffering. Insecurity was a foreign plague that he would like to disregard, had he the choice.

He could easily withdraw completely, forever, from society. This was even a tempting prospect.

It would represent the complete fall of Doctor Rossi - some would surely be dancing on his grave. Some had likely been dancing for years, seeing as he had been sold out so early in the first place. He was disinclined to give anyone that satisfaction, but it was unfair that he had to suffer to make themfeel slighted.

Uccio had kept in touch with several of Vale's old acquaintances and wanted to reintroduce them. Vale put it off repeatedly. He did not want to eat or drink around people when it posed such a struggle, and he refused to entertain the thought of sleeping with anyone until the appropriate bones were hidden by flesh again. The ghost in the mirror stared at him, too hideous to be fucked, too haunted to be loved.

He needed time.

Weeks passed before Vale could look at himself without recoil. It helped that his hair grew back slightly, hinting that it would eventually be fuller than he feared. He spent his waking hours without focus, in a delicate routine of eating, sleeping and reading fiction. Uccio put on the radio for him on occasion, but he did not seek it out himself as he was easily demoralised by his unfamiliarity with all of the new songs. He played and read stories to Uccio's children and rather enjoyed their company because they enjoyed his, having never met him before he left.

Eventually, he was able to study his reflection and figure out a route to becoming attractive again. It would clearly have to be in a different way from before. He wasn't sure he would like it as much, but the passage of time would have found him eventually, no matter how the events of his life had unfolded.

"Vale," Uccio said uncertainly, hovering at the open door of his bathroom. Uccio's bathroom, because Valentino didn't have a standing house to call his own for now.

Vale liked being looked at by Uccio now even less than he liked looking at himself. Uccio often regarded him as though he had grown a third head, but he rather deserved it in this instance. Vale was finally pushing himself to take part in a communal activity and was in his new Sunday best for it. He had left the house to purchase him a dignified cane to help with his limp the day before, and it matched new, sedate, black coat he had tailored to fit his new figure. He still had some money. His mother never touched his savings, even though he was presumed dead.

He wondered if his deviance was still clear as day to people in church. He didn't care.

"I'm ready," he said. He tore his eyes away from his image and walked out.

Uccio appeared to be very uncomfortable, and he couldn't be blamed for it. If Vale's friend had disappeared for nearly a decade and returned refusing all social activity except Sunday Mass, he would also be extremely concerned.

It was too tedious to explain that he had no intention of proselytising or decorating the house with images of Jesus and Madonna. He merely sought penance, and the only God he knew happened to be the one he had been raised with.

The walked together to the small church they had both been baptised in. Vale did not know the prayers, he did not know tradition, and he did not know the attendees. His ilk had never been particularly seized by organised religion. He followed when others stood and sat, and managed to flip the prayer book to the correct pages.

Chants of prayers washed over him when he closed his eyes. Calls and refrains. He called to mind the faces of dead men whose names he did not learn. He remembered the good Christmas. He let the first group of companions come to his mind for the first time in years; the ones he met before he learned that nobody lasted long in prison. He thought fondly of Marc who had given him hope, towards whom he no longer held anger.

He let his wrongs be forgiven. He handed over his memories to something bigger than he was, who would presumably be more equipped to handle his burdens than himself. For all that he never believed in larger forces, it was easier to give in to the fantasy temporarily.

At the end, he even stood to receive his bread and wine, before he wondered if there was such a thing as being too deviant to qualify for it. But it didn't matter - he didn't believe he deserved retribution for goodwill, and his wrongness of character was a secret kept between himself and God, if God did exist.

Walking out the exit with Uccio, he enjoyed the feel of the sun and cool air in his face. He seized this tactile luxury. He would seize them all.

"I will only be back for my funeral," he announced to Uccio, shameless to the fact that other attendees would judge him poorly if they overheard.

Uccio looked at him in askance, then grinned when he realised that Vale was smiling. He gave Vale a good-natured slap on the back, like he had not since Vale came home fragile.

"You better. I thought you turned Catholic and I didn't know you," Uccio accused.

Vale shrugged. "It wasn't as helpful as I expected," he said, facetious.

Vale's younger brother Luca returned home in early December and shocked everyone with the news of his survival. Vale's poor mother had believed she lost two sons, and it turned out that she had lost none.

Luca had left for the city to pursue a semblance of an education, and due to idiosyncrasies of the wartime postal system, had failed to inform everyone that he had a change of address after losing his campus accommodation in a raid.

Vale rushed to the door upon hearing Luca's name. He obviously did not recognise his voice, as Luca still spoke with the squeak of a ten-year-old the last time they had seen each other.

"The prodigal son returns at last," Vale said. He then noticed the girl next to Luca, who was incredibly pregnant. "Aren't you both a little young for that?"

Luca's jaw dropped. His eyes were opened comically wide.

"Vale?" he asked, unsteadily.

He had grown tall, and quite handsome too. Perhaps what Vale had missed out on most of all was watching his brother turn into an adult.

"Yes. Give me a hug Luca, don't stand there."

His brother was too large to pick up now, but he still fit in his arms quite nicely.

A small feast was whipped up for Luca's return. Vale was thankful that flavours didn't turn his stomach anymore, because he would have forced the food down his throat regardless. Never would he be the one guilty of ruining a festivity.

Everyone wanted to know what Luca was up to, and whether he was married (he was, at eighteen), while Luca only had questions for Vale. It took several glasses of mulled wine for Vale to conjure up answers he could bear.

"What happened to you, Vale?" Luca asked, broaching the question nobody else had arrived at directly. Vale guessed that his disposition must have improved significantly from his arrival, for him to look capable of talking about his experiences.

He sifted through his memories to curate an answer. "I was a doctor for most of the time," he said carefully. "It's why I lived. I treated many patients. And well..." he searched for a positive. "I met a charming young man, if you must know."

Luca smiled. Same old Vale, he must have thought. He knew nothing at all.

Their mother leaned in with interest. "You never said, Vale. What's he like?"

"He's a dreamer. He cannot read but he can tell stories. He was very strong," Vale said. But Marc had not been strong. Rather, he had been emaciated and terribly injured, in ways that hurt to think about now that Vale had returned to normal life. How close Marc must have been - everyone must constantly have been - to death.

The smile faded from Vale's face. "I suppose he's still waiting for me," he added.

There was so much he couldn't explain about Marc. They'd have to live in the depths of despair with him and hear his optimism from his own mouth to understand. Looking at the polite, attentive expressions on his company's faces, he knew they would never fully appreciate it. In the same vein, they would never fully understand Vale either. Good for them.

On what might have been the last night of the old year or the first morning of the new one, Vale lit up a cigarette and gazed out of the window of Uccio's study. There would be seven left in the carton, going stale. He might never finish them - would probably keep at least one as a souvenir. He did not offer Uccio any.

Uccio gave him an inquisitive look, and Vale realised that his actions had been uncharacteristic. He had never smoked and not spared one for Uccio.

Vale placed the carton back into his breast pocket and patted it. "These are special, sorry." He let Uccio take a drag from the one he had already lit.

"That's a small pack," Uccio observed.

Vale laughed for no reason. "They come in this size in prison," he said.

"I didn't know you still smoked. You said it makes people's breath smell bad," Uccio said. Beneath his impartial tone was a cautious accusation. In the past, there hadn't been many things that Uccio did not know about Vale. They were both aware that Vale had been secretive since his return.

"I don't," Vale said.

He had brought Uccio to have a private conversation. As he emptied his lungs of smoke, Vale took his place on Uccio's seat behind the desk. He spread his legs and rested his right ankle atop his left knee. He would carry himself once more like he deserved.

"I have reached the limit of my self-pity," he announced.

Uccio perched himself on the table with his arms folded. It reminded Vale of their youth, when they set out to connive at every available opportunity, and he briefly considered that this friendship would be the only partnership he required for life. That was an eternity ago, before Uccio ascertained that he could only be fully sated by women, and Vale refined his sexual preferences.

Vale reconsidered offering his friend a cigarette. He still decided against it.

The silence that befell them was different rather than awkward. Once nearly telepathic, their divergent life paths had ruined their ability to read each other's minds. But given time, Uccio usually got there.

"I can't decide if that's a good thing or not," Uccio said.

Rather than respond directly, Vale brought Uccio through his thought process. "Cast your mind to us ten years ago," he said. "Even to myself, I was in a position to be envied. Imagine, Uccio, if you paid a visit to this young, virile Valentino, and told him he was going to be imprisoned for the best part of a decade. What would he say?"

"I hope you would have the sense to run away," Uccio said, settling in for a story.

Vale laughed. "I suppose I would. But what if I was caught, and you told me that I was going to be the longest-living survivor of them all?"

Uccio smiled softly. He took pride in Vale's achievements as though they were his own. "You would be surprised to live for so long with no comforts."

"Indeed," Vale agreed. Prison life suited nobody, but Vale had the arrogance to feel that it suited him least. Though he had never been extremely wealthy in the monetary sense of the word, he had always been rich in his experiences. He continued, "so imagine I was freed. What would young Vale do to commemorate his first new year's day out?"

"You would throw a party," Uccio realised.

Vale nodded once, having finally reached the point he had wanted to make. He stubbed the cigarette out on Uccio's ashtray, now rarely used because his wife hated how the smell stuck to their curtains. Vale thought to keep the cigarette bud, but that level of sentimentality was useless over a man who was still living. Presumably.

"Yet I am in your study with no festivities to speak of. Self-pity has done me no favours," Vale said. He signed dramatically, and leaned his forehead against Uccio's arm. "How would your family enjoy a holiday to the city? I am planning to enjoy my freedom again. I thought to wait for my birthday to make an event, but six weeks seems a long time."

"The city?" Uccio asked.

Vale grinned widely. He still liked having the element of surprise on his side.

"I read in the news that the city theatre is reopening in two weeks. You know how our sorts - the interesting people - like theatre. Obviously, I reached out with a proposal to organise a suitable opening event, and now what's left is to take care of the attendance."

"You schemer," Uccio responded, grinning in kind. "Then what about your birthday?"

Vale looked away. He knew that Uccio wouldn't like to hear it.

"I shall leave for a trip to settle some unfinished business," he said. He didn't know when he planned to return. His home country no longer gave him the assurance he needed, and he wanted to live without having to conceal the number branded on his arm. He wanted to be free.

It would be the day before Marc's birthday, when Vale aged another year. The weather could get chilly where he was from, but perhaps Marc's home would be a little different. Vale would feel terribly cheated if there was no sunshine and no oranges to juice when he got there.

Alongside working out a contract to be paid for organising a party, Vale had spent December negotiating a deal for his autobiographical accounts. He penned his words with a angry viciousness that he was discomfited to ever share, but it was his responsibility as the only one to oversee the prison from its beginnings to its end. He might as well earn a living off it.

Finally, a local publisher made an offer for his sample, and combined with the slim monthly payouts the new government offered to compensate for his suffering, Vale could afford to fund his own travel without digging into his savings.

Equally importantly, he could afford to dress himself smartly for one party, against the trending colours of wartime austerity. He had a suit made in cobalt blue, and sourced for bright yellow printed silk to be made into a tie. Certainly, he would stand out in the crowd, but thought it necessary to show that he could return to such a position at will.

He stepped out of a car for the theatre's reopening with a cane in hand and his best friend dressed smartly by his side. A photographer took pictures of them for the local press to credit them for orchestrating the whole affair.

Recovery stories were all the rage in the media, for a society grappling with the difficulty of returning to normalcy. Vale's presence alone deflected from discussion of offending sensitivities for such revelry amid suffering. If a survivor wanted to celebrate, then a celebration had to be held.

Uccio had rounded up what remained of their old acquaintances to guest in the festivities. Vale found himself in a once-familiar place, encircled by interesting people who loved him, and beautiful strangers who didn't take things too seriously. For once, he paid less heed to the latter than the former.

Conversations faded into each other. "Vale, how are you?" "Vale, what happened?" "Vale, we thought you were dead!"

Vale nimbly avoided answering their questions with any sort of seriousness, and summarised his time in several short lines. They could find out from his book.

He clinked glasses of sweet wine with acquaintances who had moved on from him too long ago to be called friends. He met with strangers, who somehow passed the last decade without as much as a wound. He spoke with a veteran with a missing arm, but they had been on opposite sides - an actor forced to conscript, and regretted the experience, but whose presence filled Vale's throat with bile.

By the time the theatre put on her first opera in three years, Vale had already lost the presence of mind to care what was being sung. It didn't matter. He proved that he had the choice to surround himself with the interesting and beautiful if he wished, and they would welcome him back with open arms. It no longer brought him the same satisfaction. Now, he would look for something better.

"Have you really not had sex for almost ten years, Vale?" asked the handsome playwright who had taken Vale back with him. His name started with an "L". Maybe Luciano. Vale was proficient at recognising people without learning their proper names anyway.

"It's a bit difficult to come by in prison, isn't it?" Vale drawled. He had wasted a precious cigarette in bed, deeming it necessary to steel his nerves before he unclothed his hollowed-out body for anyone else. It was not enjoyable. When Luciano traced his fingers along the dip between Vale's ribs, Vale had been close to walking out on him - would have if he wasn't so bent on expelling self-pity from his life.

Luciano flushed, likely hating to come across as callous. He portrayed himself as a sensitive artist. Vale took any interest at all because he was short and handsome, and he spent his leisure writing sensual poetry about homosexual sex. Vale had been amused to hear that he brought his manuscript to the event in hopes of striking conversation with a publisher. Regardless of what person the quality was attached to, bravery could be admired.

"I just find it hard to imagine, that's all," Luciano defended himself. "It must be difficult."

"It's prison," Vale said flatly. He looked on the bright side of this encounter. Luciano stayed in a hotel room nicer than Vale's own, and had a generous family who would pay for every drink they put on his tab. He was intellectual, refined, fair-faced and bouncy-haired, and Vale would have half loved him before the war. As a trial run, he would serve quite adequately.

Luciano ran his fingers over Vale's scars with what he must have thought to be open-minded appreciation. Vale allowed for the attention. After years of violence, the sensation of being held and touched tenderly required adjustment. Much as it would be easier to tear himself away, he forced himself to learn to accept it again.

"Dare I compel you to stay until morning?" Luciano asked. He really was rather nicely built, especially in contrast to grimy, emaciated Marc with his frighteningly large mouth and eyes and terribly shorn hair. But Marc's pretty smile that lit up prison - Luciano didn't have that and never would.

"No, I am quite unattainable at the moment," Vale said placidly. He ghosted a hand along the length of Luciano's neck and watched him shiver. Vale still had it.

He might not make it through the night without a nightmare and a scream. There was a possibility that he would never be free from the terrors. For that reason, men who did not share the worst of his experiences could not be considered to become companions. But of the thousands of men whose paths had crossed his in prison, Vale had only been interested in Marc.

Luciano pouted in disappointment, upon seeing Vale's focus wander. "Don't be mysterious. I can go again, if you want. I recover quickly," he offered. He put on a confident front and presented himself, chin tilted, eyes earnest, cock heavy against Vale's thigh.

Vale thought of Marc's curious, kittenish lick of his lip, with no intent of seduction at all. He would be moved by only that.

A gracious rejection was on the tip of his tongue before the night grew too old, but he decided that a little more practice would not hurt. "Let's see how much you can take," he said.

He poured oil over his hand and flexed his fingers. Marc had seemed quite interested in experimenting, but Vale wouldn't put him through it until he was sure he remembered how to induce pleasure rather than suffering. He would never cause Marc more pain with his own hands.

Fortunately, it turned out that he remembered quite well.

A middle-aged man with big muscles directed Vale to Marc's exact address, after he finally found his way to the off-road town. Vale didn't usually give men like that a second glance, but he supposed it spoke to his good mood that he was attentive. Birds were chirping, the air was too fucking frigid to be outdoors, and Vale had a simple room in an inn with a clean bed large enough for two. He could easily be content.

Vale understood how Marc could be so confident that the war would leave his home untouched. His town was a multiple-hour trek from the nearest railway station, and was thus strategically useless. Hobbling there with a cane and no car had been an ordeal on its own.

At points of his path, defined roads disappeared, and Vale consulted his map with fingers crossed that he would not find himself lost in the wilderness come nightfall. As it happened, he made it by mid-afternoon with time to spare.

Marc's fabled home was a comfortable-looking place with a beige exterior, small yard, and no fences. Vale could smell whiffs of delicious food from various homes around him and hoped the Marquez family turned out to have one of the proficient chefs. If luck was on his side, they would take well to him and invite him in for dinner. He had designs on their son, after all.

He stood at the door with a bouquet of red roses he'd bought from the train station and candies from his home to whet Marc's appetite. He knocked confidently.

A boy opened the door. Vale derived that he was in the right place once he saw him. The betraying details were not obvious - this boy was half a foot taller than Marc, and far more radiant than Vale had known Marc to be. He was deer-like and awkward, but somehow still had a manner that Vale had grown accustomed to. Vale had to be looking at the beloved Alex, with his big heart for all dogs and cats.

"Hello Alex, I'm here for your brother," Vale said clumsily in a language that was not his own. He pulled out a well-loved slip of paper from his wallet to show him. He had never let it become creased, but all of his handling reduced the edges to worn, soft pulp.

"Doctor Vale," Alex guessed. How vivid Marc's stories must have been for them both to recognise the other without ever meeting.

Quietly, Vale was relieved to see Alex's reaction. It was one of shock rather than sadness. Vale had occasionally wondered, then prevented himself from pondering too deeply, how it was possible for Marc to successfully make his way home. His journey had to be trecherous. Stories had emerged of people dying while on their way to border towns.

An older woman emerged from behind him, untying her apron. "Who is it, Alex?" she asked.

"It's Marc's doctor, mama," the boy said, not taking his eyes off Vale.

Marc's mother regarded Vale with some worry, but as she approached the door, she put on a smile. "Doctor, I must thank you. We've heard so much about you." She looked humble and homely, in a frock slightly too large for her and her hair held up in a messy bun. But he knew that it was the discerning members of humble society who were hardest to impress.

Vale lowered his head politely. "Just Vale will do. It is nice to meet you, Marc asked me to come a long time ago."

She laughed. "Oh I know, he's talked about you a few hundred times. We threatened to send him back. I'm Roser," she said. She held out a firm hand for Vale to shake and gripped his fingers in a vice when he reciprocated. There was no doubt that she knew he had come calling as a suitor.

He did not complain. Where a mother's precious child was concerned, poor character and fickleness would be worse crimes than Vale's age or gender, which he could not change.

Finally, Roser let go. "Be careful. He's young," she warned. She turned to give her other son a light pat on the shoulder. "Why don't you take Vale to see Marc? He'll be so happy."

Alex eyed Vale cautiously, but he nodded in agreement. He gestured for Vale to follow and led him out of the house.

"Marc is fixing bicycles at the back with papa," he shared, switching to speak in Vale's mother tongue. Vale was surprised that he spoke it, though with less surity than Marc. "Do you really want to be his man?"

"Yes," Vale said, difficult as it was to admit. He had never been the type to settle down, but after his experiences, finding himself a peaceable, loving companionship with a man from the enemies' land seemed to be the most subversive thing he could do with his life.

"Okay. You have to take care of him properly. And if he wants to stay here, you have to stay here," Alex said, puffing himself up to look more intimidating. It was quite endearing.

Vale was about to respond, but Alex had taken him to the direction of a rather distracting commotion. Someone played crooning pop music on a phonograph. What sounded like a small crowd of people were singing along. Vale turned his head to catch a glimpse, and realised that the group was their destination rather than a distraction.

In the middle of a circle, a young man danced with a little girl sitting on one arm. His ability to find a beat was woeful, but it didn't seem to trouble him. He was a slight, sun-kissed thing, with three different tools tucked into his waistband and a bright laugh, as cheerful as could be. The girl shrieked happily as he spun them around, and clung on to him for life. The young man's other arm was noticeably thinner, and under-used by his side.

"MARC," Alex shouted, barely audible through the noise and distance.

The young man - Vale's Marc, wonder of wonders - set the girl down gently and turned to the direction of his brother. His face scrunched up in an impossibly wide smile. "Alex!" he called back, and moved excitedly in his brother's direction, by appearance re-enacting the reunion of people who had been separated for several weeks, not hours.

Vale's breath caught in his throat. He had been dreaming of this since Marc had been freed - no, before. Since the first time Marc had given him a dream, and he pretended not to believe in it.

The magnitude of his good fortune suddenly dawned on him. He drank in the sight of Marc, hale and hearty, vibrant with the force of life that had come back to him in full.

He was pretty, quite breathtakingly so. He looked strong and healed, the ghost of prison barely a whisper against his character.

Marc stumbled in his step when he realised there was someone next to his brother. Vale looked quite different from his days in prison. A noticeable improvement, he hoped.

He gasped. He mouthed under his breath - "Doctor?" Vale read from the movements of his lips.

Then he had his young man barrelling towards him at full speed and skidding to a stop right before him. They were making quite a spectacle, but it was hard to worry too much. Marc seemed fearless of the people he knew. Vale could tell which was the father - the one with a hard stare in Vale's direction, but he left them to it.

"Doctor, you're alive. You came," Marc breathed.

Vale held out the roses to him with both hands. "My love, happy birthday. Of course I came. And I'll never be a doctor again."

"Vale," Marc corrected himself, "happy birthday." He tucked the bouquet against the crook of his arm and made for a pretty picture. Red brought out the colour beneath his skin.

He examined Vale's face searchingly with his eyes. Briefly, he eyed the cane, and swept his eyes up again. "Vale, I waited. I didn't know if you still liked me. You look so good. I didn't recognise you."

He wet his lower lip with his tongue, that infernal habit. He gazed at Vale through his lashes.

The cane fell from Vale's grasp to the ground. He cradled Marc's lovely little face in his hands, soft with a new roundness in his cheeks. The too-big features fit harmoniously, now that they were balanced with flesh. This man was a marvel, a gift, whose lifeline would have faltered had they both not been strong. Vale had never been more grateful for his own hands. This was his best work.

"I'm sorry I took so long. You are beautiful, did you know? You must never be hungry now," Vale said. His fingers shifted to lie to the soft side of Marc's throat, finding a strong pulse, constant, lively. Marc predictably drew a trembling breath.

"Oh Vale," he said, as though repeating the name would make Vale more real. His tongue licked his lip once more. His eyes were wide circles.

Vale had not planned to give him any kisses until they were alone, but the moment was too opportune to pass up on. Under the bright light of the day, with a curious audience of onlookers, where Marc was loved so everyone would be kind to them. Vale didn't want to be ashamed of wanting men again, when he now found his way to someone as worthy as Marc.

He stole a kiss less chastely than he ought to. Someone wolf-whistled, while Alex faked retching sounds, and Marc sniffled.

Vale pulled away to check on him. "Are you crying?" he asked fondly. For all of the hurt that Marc had been put through, he had been stoic. He would cry over one kiss.

"I'm happy," Marc blurted.

"As am I," Vale said. He collected a tear on his fingertip, and brushed one of Marc's curls behind his ear. Marc had not lied during their first conversation. His hair was beautiful, thick and glossy when permitted to thrive. "Are your oranges in season?"

Marc nodded jerkily. A smile threatened to burst from his face. "They harvest in winter. Tomorrow, I will take you to buy some. And you can see the bakery I like, and mama can cook us lunch, then we can lie under a tree to watch papa work, and you must spend time with Alex. We can help him feed the cats."

He had been planning this for a long time. An innocent man's idea of a perfect day. How wonderful, that he had retained the softness of his soul.

A foreign warmth filled every crevice of Vale's wounded heart. He felt born anew, youthful with a simple joy that need not ever fade. He would not permit it to be taken from him. "I would like that," he said.

#shu's fics #motogp rpf #rosquez #i'm donee #thank you to everyone who has read <3

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