Resistance

by Mark S. Bowne

For “Linda”...Resistance is never futile

Gilles rounded the corner.  Turned onto Rue Jacobe.  En route to the Paris flat he shared with his lover Tristan.  He'd just returned from the boulangerie, the bakery, when he noticed Nazi officers herding people out of the building.  Tristan in the group.  Madame Poitier quickly pulled Gilles into her butcher shop when she saw him standing on the sidewalk, shocked and confused.

“Tu ne veux pas voir ca, mon cher,” she said as she pulled him away from the window.

“But they have Tristan.  There must be some mistake.  He works for the Louver.  He's an important man.  I don't understand,” he replied almost in a whisper.  “I have to save him.”

Gilles stepped back out onto the stoop of Madame Poitier's shop.  Fear gripped his gut, rooted his feet to the sidewalk.  Totally helpless, he caught Tristan's eye.  Knees on the sidewalk, hands on his head, Tristan looked straight at Gilles and shook his head slowly, so as to not draw attention to his lover across the street.  His eyes pleaded with him to stay away.  Stay safe.  He mouthed the words...je t'aime, just as the first gunshot echoed off the ornate Empire facades of the surrounding buildings.  Gilles jumped as the sound reverberated within his skull.  Stunned his body.  The Nazi officer in charge had executed the first man in the line. 

Gilles suddenly understood his lover's life was over and his blood ran cold.  Only minutes left.  There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.  Nothing.  He couldn't even give his own life, for the life of his lover.  The Nazis would simply execute them both.  He stood rooted on the sidewalk like the regal trees that lined the street.  He reached out to Tristan with his eyes.  Stared at his kneeling Tristan, held him gently in his loving gaze.  Cradled him in his love.  Tears fell quietly from his eyes.  Powerless.  Guilty.

Helpless to save Tristan, he stayed by him in his last moments.  Gilles' body shook with sobs, but he refused to allow himself to look away.  Would not let Tristan break his gaze, push him away.  He wanted to take him to another place.  Take him out of his body.  Take away his fear.  Love him until his last moment on Earth.

Gilles didn't hear the gunshot.  Only saw Tristan fall forward into the gutter.  Blood poured like a geyser from his head.  Horrific. Madame Poitier rushed out to grab Gilles when she thought he might run across the street to his lover.  She once again pulled him back into the store.  Sat him in a chair.  Brought him a strong brandy.

“But I don't understand,” he sobbed.  Tears still flowed in torrents from his eyes, down his face.  “He was simply an art historian.  He repaired paintings for a living.  He was never political at all.  I wanted to go, but he refused to leave Paris.  Leave his work, his paintings.”  Gilles broke down completely.  Madame Poitier hugged him to her ample breast.  Both men were like grandsons to her and Tristan's murder was terrible, but she'd already lived through one war.  Lost a husband and a son.  She knew what German soldiers were capable of.

“Ecoutez-moi, mon petit,” she said in a whisper.  Whispered into Gilles' ear.  “It was you.  My boys together.  The pink triangle.  That's what the Nazis found out.  Why Tristan died.  Someone ratted on you.  Sold you out to les Boches...”

“Killed Tristan simply because he's Gay, was Gay?”

“And what of the Jews?  Mon petit?”  Madame Poitier guided Gilles' weak body into the back of the shop.  Placed him on her napping cot.  “You will stay here tonight.  You must not go home.  Do you understand me, Gilles?”

“But my clothes, money.  Our cat?” he questioned his old friend.

“We will have someone watch the building.  When we feel it's safe, someone will escort you inside.  But you must leave.  You must flee Paris.  Find shelter in the countryside.  I will help you.  For now, you must sleep.”  Madame plied the poor grieving man with more brandy.  It warmed his cold body.  Invaded his head.  Made him sleepy, cry for sleep.  He fell back onto the cot.  Kissed his chere Madame on the cheek.

Taken by sleep, he dreamed of Tristan.  Their happy times.  Their lovemaking.  Tristan's naked body against his own body.  Erection against erection.  Their passion, joined.  He felt Tristan inside him, still.  Deep and hard.  Pounding his body. 

Gilles arched his back in his sleep.  Moaned softly.

Kisses, mouths open.  Bodies joined, moving against each other.  Slick with sweat, their passion...then the release.  Heavenly release.  Their slim bodies now slick with cum...

Tristan's belief in Gilles' talent as a painter remained strong within him.  They had already shipped Gilles' paintings to Switzerland.  Shut down his studio.  His art at least was safe, though he would give up everything to have Tristan back in his arms.  Soft and kind.  Sweet to kiss.  Full lips.  Gilles cried out lightly in his sleep, again.  Moaned in sorrow, this time.  Tossed and turned as Madame watched over him.  Fretted.  Unable to leave her boy.

Late that night, closer to morning than evening, Madame Poitier woke Gilles.  Urged him to drink a bowl of cafe crème.  Her butcher led Gilles across the street into his apartment.  He retrieved money from a secret place in the floorboard.  His cat, a few clothes.  Especially winter clothes.  He left his beloved cat, Maurice, with Madame.  She promised to care for him.  Treat him as her own. 

The butcher led Gilles to a wagon full of hay bales.  Shoved him into the back of the wagon, covered him with the remaining bales.  The driver, a farmer from a northern department above Paris, smuggled the artist into the countryside, the forests surrounding the capital.  One less Gay man for the Nazis to kill.

Outside the city, within the light of early morning, they traveled on the small-unpaved roads.  The farmer stopped momentarily.  He fished Gilles out from the mountain of hay bales.  In partial shock, he sat next to the driver, the farmer, his rescuer.  The farmer gave him a slice of peasant bread when his stomach began to growl. 

Late in the afternoon, almost evening, the sun low in the sky; they pulled onto his farm.

“You'll be safe here,” the farmer shyly said.  Silent the whole way, though he'd stolen glances at his passenger.  Gilles looked at his rescuer.  Stunned.

“I don't understand.”

“Madame Poitier is my Great Aunt.  She asked me to do her a favor.  I couldn't object, she helped me so much in the past.  And then I saw you.  Saw how sad you were.  How hurt.  My home is your home.”

“I don't know what to say,” Gilles whispered.  He choked back a sob, tears in his eyes.  Guilt filled his heart.  He was safe.  A roof over his head.  A warm bed to sleep in tonight.  And Tristan...dead.  His body in the gutter.  No one to claim it.  Claim him.

“I'll show you to your room,” the farmer said.  “Then I must tend to the horses.  The hay.”

“I can help,” Gilles offered.

“Not this time.  You should rest.  You've had such a horrible experience.  I'll fix a light dinner later on.”

“Alright,” Gilles replied.  He had no strength left.  Simply followed the farmer into his house.  Into the small room on the second floor.  He collapsed onto the bed.  Fell immediately to sleep.  Cried in his sleep.  Cried out to Tristan.  Cried out to his love.  Cried for his lover.  Begged for forgiveness. 

Cried for the black guilt that filled his heart. 

He woke to a knock on the door.  The farmer, quite handsome he now noticed, carried a tray.  A small supper of rabbit stew and some bread.  Milk from his cows.

“This really wasn't necessary,” Gilles said with a wan smile.  His body and his brain exhausted beyond belief.

“You need to keep up your strength.  Especially if you're going to help me on the farm.”

“I'm to stay here?” he replied confused.  He'd never really given much thought to were he was likely to end up.  He simply wanted, needed to flee Paris.  Escape the Nazis, and his former life.

“If you want to.  I'm hoping you will,” the farmer blushed.  His face betrayed his attraction to Gilles.

“I thank you...oh my.  I don't even know your name!”

“Loic.  Loic Poitier.”  The farmer smiled as he pronounced his uncommon name.  Said it with pride.  “My people fought with Jeanne d'Arc.  Were with her when she met the king, Francois I in Poitier.  Or so the family legend goes...”

“It's a pleasure to meet you Loic Poitier.  And thank you.  Thank you for risking you life to smuggle me out of the city.”

“You're very welcome,”  Loic replied.  Blushed again.  Shy, he lowered his head to mask his attraction.  “I'll call you for breakfast in the morning.  Teach you to milk the cows and the goats?”

“I'm a city boy, born and raised, but I'll do my best to help you.  I promise you that,” Gilles said with a smile.

“I'll leave you to your dinner.”  Loic returned the gentle smile and left the room.  Left Gilles to the country silence, to his solitude. 

His ears had never heard such silence before.  Attuned to city life, his ears had filtered much of the noise from his brain, but now...

He left his uneaten dinner on the tray, on the bed.  He walked to the window, opened it.  The wind rustled the simple lace curtain that had yellowed with age.  He felt it against his tired body.  A plethora of farm scents filled his nostrils.  Pungent manure, dry earth, and a floral fragrance he couldn't place.

He removed his jacket, his shirt.  Sat back down on the bed in just an undershirt and well-worn trousers.  After the first spoonful of an amazingly delicious rabbit stew, he devoured the meal.  Drank down the milk in a few gulps.  Wiped the bowl clean with a hunk of bread. 

Gilles removed his shoes, reclined back on the bed and within seconds fell asleep.  His disturbing dreams, dreams of Tristan naked in his arms, blood flowing from his temples kept him tossing and turning the night through.  He woke to a rooster's crow early before dawn, screaming Tristan's name.

“Tristan!” he screamed.  Burst into tears.  Loic ran into the bedroom without knocking.  He found Gilles on the bed, his body tucked into the fetal position. 

“Shh...”  Loic whispered in his houseguest's ear.  Ran his hand over Gilles head.  Smoothed down his bed hair. 

“They shot him...”  Gilles mumbled, still half asleep.  He turned to Loic looked into his kind eyes.

“I know.  Aunt told me.  Calm yourself, Gilles.  You are safe here.”  Loic kissed his brow.  Smoothed back his hair again.  He bent down and lightly kissed his lips.  He didn't mean to take such liberties with Gilles.  With someone who was plainly hurting.  Was in such pain, but he couldn't help himself.  Wanted to stop the pain.  Take away the hurt.

Gilles smiled back, pulled him into a tight hug.  “Thank you, Loic.  You're very kind to check on me, but I'm fine.  Just a nightmare,”  Gilles said, then rolled over.  Turned his back to Loic.  He rose from the bed. 

“Try to get a bit more sleep if you can.  I promise to tire you out today, so you'll be so exhausted you won't be able to even dream,” Loic said before he closed the door to the guest bedroom.

Gilles remained awake.  Didn't even try to sleep.  He simply watched the sun rise.  Listened to the farm animals wake.  Listened to the farm wake. 

He made his way downstairs once he heard movement below him   He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen.  Watched Loic at the stove.  Bare chested, his worn wool work trousers hung low on his hips, exposed the very top of his ass.  A glimpse, a peak at his firm mounds.  His braces lay against his thick thighs.  Gilles felt his dick swell involuntarily and felt shame.  The image of his lover's body in the gutter flashed in his mind's eyes.

“Morning,”  Loic smiled.  He turned from the stove.  Gilles blushed at the sight of Loic's well muscled chest.  Dusted with a light cover of dark brown hair over his pecs.   The soft hairs narrowed into a thin trail that disappeared below his waistband.

Gilles found his feet, entered the room.  “Would you like some help?”  he asked.  He tried to keep his eyes from his host's chest. 

“Thanks, but everything is ready.  I was just going to wake you.  Have a seat at the table.”

Gilles sat down to a table covered with food.  Lightly scrambled eggs from the farm.  Slices of ham.  Homemade sausages with fennel, fried to a golden brown.  Apples from the root cellar were stewed, ready to top the ham. 

“Do you always eat this much?”

“Not when it's only me,” he replied as he poured coffee into Gilles' cup.  He returned the pot to the wood burning stove and sat down at the table.  “Dig in.  You'll need your strength today.  I plan to work you hard,”  he said with a grin.  Gilles stared at him.  Unsure the double entendre was intended.  

The men ate in silence.  Gilles had no real appetite, but he forced himself to eat.  Knew he needed to fuel his body. 

Finished with their meal, they washed the few dishes together.  Loic washed as Gilles dried. 

“You have any boots?”  he asked.

“No.  These are the only shoes I own, actually.”  Gilles looked down at his dress shoes.  Leather wing tips.

“Well, these just won't do on a farm.  You can borrow my old pair if you fit into them.  May be a bit big.”

“I'll make do,”  he replied.  Hoped he'd be a help to Loic, not a hindrance.

“Let me finish dressing, then we'll head out to the barn.  The animals need feeding, the cows and goats must be milked, turned out into the pastures.  Horses, too.  Then there's the matter of mucking out the stalls.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Not too bad when you get used to it.  Passes the day.”

Loic showed Gilles the chicken coop first.  They gathered eggs in a basket.  Tossed around some feed.  Filled their water.  Dumped kitchen scraps into an old bowl.  Gilles enjoyed the chickens and wasn't the least bit afraid of them. 

Next came the cows, goats and horses.  To Gilles, they seemed much larger up close.  A city boy through and through, he'd never actually been outside the city of Paris before this;  had only seen photographs of farm animals.  Loic sat him on a stool next to a cow.  Placed his hands on the utters.  Gilles pulled back momentarily.  The cows teats felt strange in his hands.  He fell back against Loic's strong chest.  Felt it shake lightly with laughter. 

“It doesn't feel familiar?”  he whispered the question into Gilles' ear and laughed again.  “Here, let me show you.”  Loic reached around Gilles' waist.  Rested his chin on his shoulder and gently pulled on the teats.  Milk sprayed into the tin bucket beneath the bag.  A barn cat crept close.  He twisted the teat and squirt the cat in the face.  She ran her paw over her face, licked away the milk.  “You try now.”

Loic brought Gilles' hands to the teats.  Held them there.  Guided his hands with his own in the correct movement.  Milk again squirted into the bucket.  The tinny sound of the stream hitting the bucket sounded good in Gilles' ears.  The cow lowed and again Gilles fell back against Loic.  This time he felt a bulge and quickly resumed his former position.  He said nothing to Loic, but Gilles had felt his erection, his excitement and Loic knew he felt it.  Had to know he felt it.  This knowledge put wood in Gilles pants, also.

“You think you can manage by yourself?”  Loic asked after a few minutes.

“I think so.”

“Good.  I'll milk the goats.  They can be a bit of trouble sometimes.  Better you master the cows first.”

Loic busied himself with feeding the stock.  Then returned to milk the goats.  Every once in a while a hoof would kick out at the wooden stall walls and curses flew from Loic's mouth.  Gilles laughed to himself.  Found that he enjoyed this work.  Lost himself in the rhythm.  In the scent of the hay, the warmth that came off the animals' bodies.  In his mind, he sketched the scene, complete with a shirtless Loic.

By lunch, the animals were all fed and turned out.  The cows and goats milked.  Gilles was ready for a rest.  His stomach, ready for lunch.  He fell into his chair at the kitchen table.  Loic grabbed a quiche from the icebox.  Cut them both huge slices.  Served them a large helping of string bean salad, then poured them each a glass of wine.

“I'll need a nap if I eat all of this,”  Gilles said as he filled his mouth.  Everything tasted so delicious.  His hunger had suddenly taken control over his body. 

“I usually do,”  Loic laughed back.  Amazed that his guest could eat so quickly.  “Worked up an appetite, did you Gilles?”  he teased gently.  “I sometimes sleep in the hayloft, or even out it the fields if I've taken my lunch.”  Gilles smiled at him, but kept silent.  His mouth full of food.  “After our naps, we muck out the stalls, then call the animals back into the barn.  Milk the cows and goats...”

“Milk them again?”  Gilles said with surprise.

“Oh, yes.  But then we'll be finished for the day.”

Their midday meal finished, the men followed the breakfast routine and washed the dishes together.  Their hands touching from time to time.  Lingered a few second.  Those touches like lightning for Loic, painful for Gilles. 

“You'll wake me then, Loic?”  Gilles asked as he placed the kitchen towel back on its drying hook. 

“Of course.”  He reached out to Gilles.  Pulled him into a light embrace.  Kissed him tenderly on the cheek.  “Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?  I should be...”  Loic cut him off.

“For working so hard.  Trying so hard.  This can't be easy for you.”  Tears welled in Gilles' eyes.   He turned away from his host.  “Oh, Gilles...I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to make you cry.  To bring up your loss.  I'm so stupid sometimes.”  Loic placed a hand on Gilles' shoulder.

“No, don't say that.  You're very kind and patient.”  Gilles turned back around to Loic.  Pulled him tight against his chest.  Returned his kiss on the cheek.  “I thank you.  And don't worry about making me cry.  It will happen for a long time to come.  Right now I'm filled with nothing but guilt and sadness.”  He turned back around and left Loic at the kitchen sink.

The tears returned as he sat on his bed to removed his loaned boots.  He tossed them onto the clean wooden floor, then reclined back onto the feather pillow.  He listened to the farm noises.  They lulled him to sleep as his tears dried, leaving behind their stain. 

Gilles woke before Loic came to call him, so he ventured downstairs.  He found him in the kitchen yet again, preparing their evening meal.

“Are you always working?”  Gilles smiled from the doorway.

“Seems that way doesn't it.”  Loic smiled back.  “Cassoulet for dinner.  Sausages, duck, beans.”

“Sounds good.  Need help?”

“No thanks.  I was just about to pop it into the oven.  You ready to go back to work?”  he asked.  Gilles smiled and nodded.

Now a rather practiced hand at milking, the late afternoon work went quicker.  Gilles stuck to milking the cows.  Loic still cussed at the goats.  Gilles gathered he didn't really like them.  They fed all the animals and bid them good night.  Closed up the barn doors against the still chilly night air.  Gilles' body aching and sore from cleaning all the stalls.

The kitchen smelled like a three star Paris restaurant when they entered the room.  They took turns washing up at the kitchen sink, then Loic pulled the cassoulet from the oven and sat it in the middle of the table.  He pulled an assortment of cheeses from the icebox and a loaf of bread from the larder.  Gilles set the table.

“I've been saving this,”  he said as he reached under the kitchen counter and pulled out a bottle of wine.  “I think today deserves to be celebrated.  And a great Bordeaux is the best way I know.” 

“Oh, Loic, no.  Save it.”

“Why?  Aren't you proud of the work you did today?  I'm proud of you.  Let me see your hands...”  Gilles pulled away his hands.  Placed them in his lap.  Loic grabbed for them.  Caught them, but also brushed against Gilles' soft dick.  “Sorry,”  Loic laughed and blushed, but wouldn't let go of Gilles' hand.  “Show me,”  he said.

Gilles turned over his hand.  “Both, please.”  He complied.  Both his hands were covered in sores.  In blisters.  “Those are the badge of honor for a farmer.  Wear them proudly.  And now, I toast!!”  Loic plunged in the corkscrew and with a flourish, popped the cork.  He let the wine breath the fresh country air while he searched for his best wine glasses.

Together, they lingered over the meal.  Drank glass after glass of the delicious wine.  They talked about their day.  The animals.  Loic explained how he made the cheese they ate.  Which ones were from goat milk, which were made from Cow's milk.  They discussed the differences.  The ones they each preferred and why.  Before they knew it, the bottle was empty and both men were a little drunk.

“I think the dishes will have to wait until morning,”  Loic confessed as he wobbled on his feet.  He covered the cassoulet and cheese.  Placed them into the icebox.  Gilles gathered the dishes and glasses and placed them carefully in the sink.  Together they climbed the stairs.  At the top, Gilles turned to his bedroom, but Loic pulled him back.  Took him in his arms and kissed him.

Gilles tried to pull back, pull away, but Loic held him.  Forced his mouth open.  Took his mouth.  Took his breath away.  He fell limp in his arms.  Had no energy left to fight.  Didn't know if he wanted to fight this kind and handsome man.  His mind and body wanted him, wanted to make love.  To forget the sadness, the horror.  Replace it with something wonderful...but his guilt filled heart would not allow it.

“Loic, I...”

“I know.  I'm sorry, but I just had to kiss you.  I had to...I've wanted to so badly since I first laid my eyes on you.  I want to make the hurt vanish.  But I know I can't.”  He suddenly felt ashamed.  Loic tried to turn away, but Gilles would not let him.  Pulled him back.  Took him into his arms.  Kissed him on the lips, gently.  Tenderly.  Whispered in his ear.

“You are a beautiful man, Loic.  Don't think I haven't noticed.  You're kind and patient.  Generous.  You will make someone very happy one day, but it won't be me.  I'm broken, Loic.  Broken and sad and full of guilt, of rage.”

Gilles turned and entered his bedroom.  Gently closed the door.  Loic stood outside on the landing for several moments.  Torn.  He knew he could love Gilles.  Knew Gilles could break his heart.  He turned and entered his own bedroom.  To his empty bed.  His empty heart.  Slept.

Before dawn, Gilles crept silently down the stairs and slipped into the cold kitchen.  He searched the tinderbox for fuel.  Lit the stove and once it caught, fed it with wood.  This simple act took him back to his childhood.  To his Grandmother's house on the Ile de la Cite.  One of the two islands in the middle of Paris, in the middle of the Seine river.  It's also the oldest part of Paris.  Romans were thought to have lived there.  And indeed, his Grandmother's house was ancient.  No running water.  The privee, outside.  The backyard, a stone courtyard completely walled.  She kept a few chickens who only managed to lay an egg every once in awhile.  Too lazy. 

From an early age he toted water for her from the pump in the courtyard.  Brought in the firewood.  Placed it in the tinderboxes.  One in the kitchen.  One by the living room fireplace which was rarely used.  Granny lived in the kitchen.  She even slept there.  Had a small cot by the door.  Gilles remembered filling the old cast iron stove with wood.  Feeling the heat scream off it. 

Lost in his thoughts, Gilles jumped when Loic entered the room.

“Sorry, Gilles.  I cleared my throat.  Tried to get your attention, but you were a million miles away.”

“I was thinking about my Grandmother.  Her house.  It was very old.  Had a stove like this,”  he said with a smile.  “Sit, breakfast is almost finished.”

“So what are we having?”

“Crocque Madame, with some of your goat cheese from last night.  And I brazed a red cabbage with onions, a sausage and a few apples.  I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”  Loic's mouth began to water as Gilles assembled the crocque.  He toasted a slice of bread left over from dinner.  Made a small hole in the center.  Cracked in an egg.  While it cooked, he tossed in a slice of ham.  Then turned the egg and bread to toast the other side of the bread and finish off the egg.  He also turned over the ham slice.  Once finished he topped the open faced sandwich with the slice of ham and a piece of goat cheese.  He placed it in the oven while he made another.  The cabbage not quite done yet.

“The plate will be hot, so be careful,”  Gilles said as he fished it out of the oven, hand protected with a folded dish towel.  He served the brazed cabbage and sausage on the side.  Sat his creation in front of Loic with a triumphant smile.  He then fixed his own plate and sat across from the smiling farmer.

“What a treat.  Parisian cooking in an old farmhouse.  And I didn't have to cook it, either.  What a treat!”

“My Grandmother taught me how to cook.  I learned at her knees from a very early age.  I was an only child.  My mother died in childbirth.  My father...”  Loic's voice trailed off into silence.

“I'm sorry, Gilles.”

“Oh, don't be.  Ancient history,”  he laughed.  “I always cooked for Tristan.  He loved my cooking.”  The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, but amazingly enough they caused no pain.  They were happy memories.  Of him in the kitchen.  Tristan reading some thick tome on the history of Art.  The radiator hissed steam, food sizzled in the sauté pan on the gas stove.

After their meal, Gilles pushed Loic out of the kitchen.

“You start on the goats while I wash the dishes.  Leave the chickens and cows to me, that OK?”

“Well, of course,”  he replied with a smile.  “I'm sorry about last night.  I didn't mean to force myself on you.”

“I was very flattered.  It was a wonderful kiss.  I enjoyed it.  Really, Loic.  It's just me.  You deserved to be loved.  I don't think I have that in me to do again.”

“I can wait, Gilles.”

“No, Loic.  You have quickly become my very good friend and I care about you, but it's best you forget that kiss.”  Gilles moved to him.  Brought his body close, he smelled of bed, of hay.  Sweet.  Gilles kissed his forehead, then turned him around and pushed him out of the kitchen.  Loic laughed, but inside he felt even more empty.  Knew he was in love.  So suddenly in love.  And powerless to make Gilles love him back. 

Their lives quickly fell into an easy rhythm.  Oppressive thoughts of war, of occupation removed from their daily lives, consumed by their farm work.  Their growing friendship.  They took turns cooking the meals.  Cooked their specialties for each other.  Gilles learned to milk the goats.  Was good with them.  Liked them and loved the cheese made from their milk.  Grateful to be relieved of goat duty, Loic began to concentrate on the fields.  Rode out to check them, the fencing; leaving the barn in Gilles' now capable hands.

They lived within a cocoon.  A world of their own making.  This weakness, this frailty was exposed one afternoon, late.  Their lives shattered, like a crystal wine glass hitting the polished hard wood floor.

Gilles didn't hear the large German troop tuck pull into the barnyard.  Didn't see the half dozen Nazi soldiers jump from the back.  Busy mucking stalls, sweat covered his bare chest, he only heard the loud spit of the machine guns.  His blood froze in their veins.  He quickly dropped the pitchfork and ran to the open barn door to see the horses, cows and goats slaughtered.  The noise deafening.  Their pain and suffering echoed within his ears.  He managed to keep from screaming.  His breath had already left his body.

He crept to the door's edge, saw soldiers toss can after can of petrol onto the house.  Set it aflame, laughing.  The image of Tristan falling into the gutter, head spewing blood, flashed in front of his already angry eyes.  He ran back into the barn, grabbed the fork.  He waited at the door.  Waited for just one to linger behind.  He gripped the wooden handle tightly, his blisters now healed.  He waited for just the right chance and when he saw it, he took it. 

He ran like a bat straight out of hell, ran straight at the soldier.  Fork extended.  Ran for all he was worth and didn't stop until the forks tines were lodged deep in the soldier's body.  He heard him scream out in pain, but it didn't really register in his brain.  He looked into the shocked man's eyes and smiled.  He pulled out the fork.  The man fell to the ground, a bloody mess.  Gilles picked up his automatic and shouldered it, then plunged the fork back into the Nazi's body.  A feeling of satisfaction tingled through his body.  He dick grew stiff.  He'd killed his first Nazi, and the road to revenge had begun.  A road he now knew he was destined for.

Gilles dropped the pitchfork.  Placed the automatic against his shoulder and pulled the trigger.  He'd never shot a gun in his life, but that didn't matter now.  This was kill or be killed.  Bullets tore through the side of the old barn.  Shattered the wood planks.  Gilles smiled again, then follow the sounds of the other soldiers, leaving behind Loic's burning home.  There was nothing to be done about it anyway.

He walked calmly, slowly around the barn.  Found the soldiers laughing.  Some leaned against the pasture fence, their work done.   A few smoking, others finished off the last of the livestock.  The bullets' muffled thudding entered the animals' helpless bodies. 

Chest covered in blood, eyes glazed over with anger and hatred, he let fly his own bullets.  Pulled the trigger, mowed down the Nazi killers.  Mowed them down like hay.

Loic noticed the smoke from a distance.  Out checking the fields of Timothy, he jumped onto his horse and galloped back to the farm.  Greeted with the carnage, the house blazing, he screamed Gilles' name. Dismounted and searched for his friend, the man he loved.  He found him in the barn.  Gilles held a Nazi officer captive, the man who had directed the slaughter and destruction of their lives.  He'd actually tied him to a stall door.  His uniform cut off him.  Feet still in his calf high leather boots.  Gilles stood in front of the naked Nazi, the blood that covered his chest now dry.  Loic watched as Gilles got on his knees, took the man's dick in his mouth.  Got him hard.  Ramrod hard, then bit him.  The man screamed in pain, but his dick remained solid, firm.  Loic watched as Gilles again stood.  Ran the blade of the officer's own knife over his naked body.  The remnants of his uniform dangled from his arms, his waist.  Gilles grabbed the Nazi's balls and yanked.  The man cried out.  Loic unsure if it was with pleasure or pain.  Gilles moved the blade behind them.  Whispered something into the officer's ear, but Loic couldn't understand him.  Didn't speak any German.  Not a word. 

Rooted in fear, in disbelief, Loic remained at the barn door.  Watched.  Horrified at his friend's transformation.  The officer's nipples hardened as the razor sharp blade ran over them time and time again.  Gilles jacked his enemy's dick.  Spit into his hand to make it slick.  He raised the knife to the officer's throat, whispered into his ear.  Encouraged him to cum, and as he came, Gilles slit it.  Slit the Nazi bastard's throat.  Blood and semen shot out against Gilles' body at the same time.  Covered him.  For a frozen moment, he stood before the dying man and smiled.  Took pleasure in watching him die.

Gilles then suddenly recoiled, fell on his knees and puked out his guts.  His back arched with each heave. 

Loic ran to his side.  Pulled him up and away from the dead man.  Blood still coursing from his neck.  His body covered in his own blood. The smell of fresh blood almost made Loic retch, too. 

“What happened Gilles?  Why did you do that?”  Loic asked, his voice hushed and trembling. 

Sobbing, his heart threatened to jump from inside his chest, Gilles answered.  “The bastards shot my lover in the head like a rabid dog.  Left him there like trash.  They deserve everything they get.  I'll do worse, next time.  I swear it to you and to God, if he actually exists.”

“Let's get you up, get you cleaned up.  We have to find some refuge in the woods.  Find safety.  They'll come looking for us once their men miss curfew.”

Gilles pushed him away.  Stood on his own.  Walked to the rain barrel outside the barn door.  He turned to Loic, pointed his finger at him, accusingly.  “Aren't you the least bit angry, Loic?  They destroyed your beautiful farm.  Killed your livestock.    And my poor little goats.  The goats, Loic?”  Gilles fell to his knees, his body convulsed in sobs.  He hugged his chest.  Smeared the dead officers blood over his chest.  Smeared his face.  “Before this is over I will bathe in their blood, Loic.  Do you hear me GOD!”  he screamed.

Loic rushed to his side again.  Pulled him into his arms.  Held him tightly.  Held him till he calmed.  He whispered sweet nothings into his ear.  Soothed the man he loved.  Covered his face with kisses.  Loic could taste the dead man's blood on his lips.

Once Gilles calmed, his breathing returned to normal, Loic spoke to him.  His voice level, but commanding.  “Of course I'm angry, Gilles, but I was more concerned for your welfare.  I care more about you than this farm.  It can be rebuilt.  New livestock purchased.  I cannot replace you.”

“Loic, you saw what I did.  What I've become.  I'm at the edge...”

“I can pull you back, Gilles.  Let my love heal you.”

“I don't think I want to be pulled back.  Saved.”  Gilles stood.  Stripped off his clothes.  Naked, in the middle of the barnyard, his body half covered in blood, Loic watched him scrub himself down.  Attempt to scrub away the pain, the anger and rage.  Loic looked into Gilles' eyes and saw them burning.  Saw them burn with a fire out of control...but that passion was not for him.  Was born of hatred. 

It was the fire of retribution.  And revenge.

Together they drug the dead soldiers into the barn.  Loic drove the troop transport into it, too.  They stole the last of the petrol and set the dead animals on fire.  Then the barn.  Loic had some old farm clothes hanging in the tack room, including coats.  They took them, as well as the German automatics.  They mounted Loic's only remaining horse and rode out into the night.  Into the forest.  They left their former lives behind to burn with the remnants of the farm.  Now they were nameless.  Hunted.

The never looked back, even when they heard the transport explode.  Knew the barn burned out of control.

Loic led them deep into the forest.  So deep there was no light in the waning hours of twilight.  He rode them directly into a large cave.  A place he knew from his childhood adventures...where he played Robin Hood.   

They settled in the rear of the cave.  Stowed away the guns.  Let the horse graze on the grass outside.  Loic pulled Gilles to him once they rolled out the thin sleeping mattress Loic had tied to his saddle.  He resisted at first, but relented.  The day too much for him.  His emotions a tornado inside his head.  He needed to be held and Loic needed to hold him.  Take care of him.  He was sure that if he could prove himself to Gilles, he would return his love.  Would love him as he needed to be loved. 

The men fell asleep with no conversation.  How could you talk through a day like theirs.  The night descended.  The night animals woke to hunt and scavenge.  Small forest mice chewed the lush tips of small grasses, the owls picked them off, one by one.  The moon shone bright overhead, but its light barely penetrated the dense forest.  Safe for the moment, the men slept deep within each other's arms.   

 At dawn they were woken by a dozen men.  All pointing guns at them.  Gilles sat up quickly.  Ready for a fight.  Loic calmed him.  Stood slowly, placed himself between them and Gilles.  He knew these men from his childhood, hopefully they remembered him.

“Que voulez-vous, ici?”  asked the tall older farmer with the broad brimmed hat.

“Suis le fils, Poitier,”  he said quietly. 

The tall man smiled and lower his gun.  Loic exhaled a sigh.  “The Nazis burned my father's farm to the ground last night.  We took refuge within this cave.  A favorite of my childhood.  My friend here, killed them.  We have their guns.  Ammunition.”  Loic produced the arms and with that, the rest of the men smiled.  Brought out cigarettes, a flask of home distilled brandy.  Some bread and cheese.  The partisans, as both men soon found out, lived in the forest.  Hunted by day by the enemy they tried to kill at night.  Or at the very least cause them no end of trouble.  They blew up the train rails, blocked roads by felling trees.  They disturbed the transportation of troops and supplies.  The more militant of the group, relished the occasional ambush of small groups of Nazi soldiers.  They enjoyed culling the herd. 

“I knew your father, when I was a young man,”  the brimmed hat man said.  “Too young for the last war.  Now, I'm too old for this one...”  Henri Tovek was a peasant farmer who not only lost his farm to the Nazis, but also his wife.  Like Gilles he was bitter and angry.

“Yes...he was a good man.  What I remember of him,”  Loic replied quietly.  He had failed to tell Gilles that his father had been killed by the Germans in the First World War.

The rag-tag militia, this loose group of partisans, band of brothers, fought because they had no choice.  Fight or find themselves six feet under the Earth.  An odd assortment of men.  Sons, father, uncles, and grandfathers...socialists, communists, ¼ Jew, a Polish name and a blind man who could shoot a squirrel from the tip top of a tree,  another part Gypsy, one perceived homosexual.  And two openly Gay men.

The group made no mention of finding their new comrades in each other's arms.  It made no difference to them.  Their goal was to kill Nazis, and that alone mattered to them.  They talked of what was needed, what needed to be done.  Of De Gualle in England.  Of free France, of the Vichey regime.  Of collaborators.  The volume of the voices rose with the amount of brandy consumed from the flask they passed.

They loaded the cache of arms onto Loic's horse.  Encouraged the men to join them, to follow them deep into the forest, to their summer camp.  Loic and Gilles felt they had no choice.  Knew that they'd never survive on the own here in the forest.  Alone.  Even if they never met another Nazi soldier for the duration of the war, their chances were slim.  They had no resources.  Then winter would be here before they knew it...and how would they survive that.  It was unthinkable, not to join. 

Gilles remained oddly silent during the whole initial meeting.  He needed to play his cards close to his chest, didn't want the entire band of partisans to know his own plans.  His plans to kill as many Nazi as he could.  As the two friends followed the loose affiliates of the Maquis into the dense forest, they whispered quietly to each other. 

“Gilles, your silence frightens me more than your actions in the barn.  What are you thinking?”  Loic asked under his breath.

“That God has granted me my chance for retribution.  That I will see Tristan's murder avenged.”  His voice sounded flat and emotionless.  As icy cold as if his heart had suddenly frozen.  As if he were no longer human.  Loic reached out his hand, found Gilles' and grabbed it within his own.  It was indeed cold to the touch, but he held on tight to it.  Silently, he prayed to God to heal Gilles.  To remove the blackness from his heart.  To free him to love again.  To love him. 

After a mile or so, Gilles dropped Loic's hand and walked away from him.  Walked up to the old man with the wide brimmed hat.  The man that knew Loic's father.

“I want to learn how to fight.  I want to kill Nazis,”  he said flatly.  Emotionless.

“The old man looked into his eyes and understood instantly.  They were of like minds.  Bound by their hatred.  Their anger and desire for revenge.

“If what young Poitier says is true, I have nothing to teach you.  It is in your heart now to kill.  You have tasted blood.”

“Yes, indeed I have old man,”  Gilles said and smiled.  “But I need to know how to shoot.  To fight...to fight them hand to hand, if necessary.”

“You have suffered much at the hands of the Nazis, have you not?  I see it in your eyes.”

“That, sir is of no concern of yours...or of anyone’s.  It is ...”

“Revenge.  Retribution.”

“Again, sir...it is of no...”

“Yes I understand...of no concern to me.  Well, of course we will train you.  Teach you all we know.  Many of us are specialists.  Knives, guns, even explosives...but that is hard to come by.  We can even teach you to kill a man without a making a single sound...”  Gilles smiled, and then fell back in with Loic.  Even took his hand to comfort his friend.  Calm himself.  Reassure himself he remained in the land of the living.  He felt ghosts all around him.  Pressing against his frame.  He was tired; his bones were tired.

They arrived at camp before nightfall.  A small glade surrounded by thick forest.  The mouth of a large cave opened before them.  It was if the Earth itself had opened its mouth and dared them to enter.  Sleeping inside it made Gilles' nightmares even worse.  He woke several times that night.

The friends slept together, in the rear of the cave, away from the others.  No man dared say a word.  The look in Gilles' eyes was enough to keep them at bay.  Loic cradled Gilles in his arms.  Talked him back to sleep.  His voice rhythmic, low whispers of reassurance.  His own softly flowing tears lulled him to sleep.  He dreamed of his burning farm.  His father's anguish, or what he felt would be his despair over loosing the farm.  And Gilles.  His transformation into revenge killer.  His single minded obsession to right the wrongs done to him.  To Tristan.  But it will never bring Tristan back.  A mountain of dead Nazis won't bring his lover back.  Why can't he see that.  Why can't he see that Gilles means everything to Loic.  Why can't he live in the present.  Give up the past.  He vendetta, the revenge.

Loic slept as the tears dried on his face. 

In the early morning, the mouth of the cave enveloped in fog, Gilles watched Loic sleep.  Carefully kissed his forehead, his chapped lips.  He cared deeply for his friend, but couldn't risk him.  Couldn't risk the distraction.  He had chosen his path and must stick to it.

Outside the men were talking quietly over coffee, cooking rabbits over an open flame.  Gilles offered to take over the cooking duties, and the others accepted quickly.  Too much like woman's work.  Gilles greeted Loic with a weak coffee, a hunk of stale bread and some rabbit meat.  He kissed him awake and handed him his breakfast, then returned to the men.  Loic was left alone for the rest of the day.  Gilles was in training, and he didn't want Loic around to watch him.  To watch him finish his transformation into the perfect killing machine.

Months flew by.  The weather turned nasty.  Their winter coats no real match for the climate outside the cave.  His training finished, Gilles busied himself with preparations for his first raid.  Loic had trained with explosives, and also radio communications.   

The winter night roared bitter cold.  The men almost frozen before they reached their target.  The train tracks just outside the village and train station.  Their goal was to assassinate the German general accompanying his troops to Paris.  And stop this particular supply line.

Loic busied himself attaching the explosives to the track.  Assisted by the specialist of the group.  They ran the lines back to a sheltered area at the edge of the forest.  The other partisans hid within the shadows of the naked forest.  On both sides of the track.  Then waited.  Waited for what seemed like an eternity.  Their cold bodies shivering in the winter night.  The stars winked at them like lovers, teasing them.  Tempting them.

Finally they heard the train whistle as it rounded the curve and came towards the outskirts of the village.  The station.  Loic plunged down the T-bar.  Fell back on his ass from the shock wave of the explosion.  While confusion reined, the armed partisans stormed the train.  Knives and guns drawn.  Shot and stabbed every soldier.  Gilles held himself back.  He and the old man with the brimmed hat.  Held back and waited.  Watched the Nazi guards descend on the last car to protect the general.  Gilles raced for the car, slipped into the entryway, the door open.  Brought his German automatic riffle to his shoulder and fired.  Mowed down the soldiers until there was none left alive.  He walked through the carnage, pistol and knife drawn.  Slit the throats of the men, not yet dead.  Wiped his blade upon their uniform jackets.  He searched for the general, but didn't find him among the dead. 

As he approached the end of the car, he discovered a small room.  The door closed, he presumed locked.  He blasted open the lock, kicked in the door.  He found the general cowering in the corner.  Gun pointed at Gilles.  He shot and missed.  Gilles felt the bullet whistle past his head, but paid it no mind.  He was a man with a mission.  A mission to execute this Nazi, this general. 

Gilles fired his pistol and hit the general in the shoulder.  He dropped his gun.  Gilles fell upon him quickly.  Whispered into his ear in German.

“