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Oskar climbed slowly out of the carriage, gritting his teeth against the pain. He leaned against the vehicle while Max reached back inside for his black bag then spoke in a low tone with the driver, too exhausted to pay attention to what was being said. He grunted when Max wrapped an arm around his waist to support him, flinching slightly when Max’s hand brushed against his heavily bruised abdomen. Even that pain, though, could not fully mask the pleasure of feeling Max’s body pressed up so close to his own, so close to something he’d spent months denying he wanted. He pulled away, causing Max to frown.
“You should let me take you to the hospital,” Max said, voice thick with disapproval. “You’re clearly in serious pain.”
“I’m fine. I’ve had worse,” Oskar replied, holding himself tightly so as to not rest too heavily against Max’s long, lean body.
Max sighed as they walked through the small overgrown garden outside Oskar’s lodgings toward the door. “You understand why that doesn’t make me feel any better, don’t you?” Before Oskar had a chance to answer, Max’s hand was delving into the pocket of Oskar’s trousers, fishing around for the key to his entry door. Oskar sucked in a gasp at the too-familiar touch, closing his eyes and hoping that Max attributed it to his injuries.
The warmth of Max’s hand disappeared, but Oskar kept his eyes shut, listening as Max unlocked and opened the door. Max supported him over the threshold and into his cold rooms, and he hoped that there was still a hot ember or two in the stove so they didn’t need to start the fire from scratch. He made to move toward the stove, only to be guided with surprising firmness through the kitchen and into the parlor. “Sit,” Max said, his tone brooking no argument.
Oskar frowned up at him, but obediently lowered himself onto the sofa, trying and failing to stifle his grunt of pain. He leaned back and tried to make himself relax as he watched Max move confidently around his kitchen, adding coal to the stove and stoking the fire, then filling the kettle from the tap and setting it to boil. Max was still wearing his evening clothes, his starched white shirt and deep black jacket looking severely out of place in Oskar’s shabby kitchen. Even his medical bag, black leather gleaming, looked too nice for this place. “I’m sorry about your concert,” Oskar said.
Max shrugged. “I’m glad Hausmann found me. At least this way someone’s watching out for you. Besides,” he added as he carried his bag to the parlor, “the evening was getting quite awkward, as my mother ‘forgot’ to tell me she’d invited the Offheimers to join our party.”
Oskar arched a brow at Max’s grimace. “What is wrong with the Offheimers?”
Max scoffed and shrugged out of his jacket, hung it carelessly over the arm of the sofa, then rolled up his sleeves and began pulling out supplies and setting them on the table. “Nothing. They’re a very respectable Viennese family and my father and Herr Offheimer have done business together before. Most importantly, they’re Jewish.” He pinned Oskar with his gaze, assessing him in a way that didn’t feel entirely clinical. “Here, let’s have you out of that jacket.” Between the two of them, they wrestled Oskar out of his coat with a minimum of pain, and Max laid it on the couch next to Oskar before pulling a chair up to the couch for himself.
Max began to remove Oskar’s tie, and Oskar swallowed. He didn’t want to know, but felt he had to ask. “You were saying the Offheimers are a fine Jewish family.”
Max hummed in answer, his focus on Oskar. “Oh yes, quite a lovely family. Who just so happen to have a single niece of marriageable age who just so happened to be visiting Vienna from Salzburg.”
“Ah,” Oskar said, dumbly, as Max’s nimble fingers made short work of his tie and collar before moving onto his waistcoat. “You didn’t get along with Fraulein Offheimer?”
“Oh, no, Rachael is lovely,” Max said breezily, and the pain in Oskar’s chest hand nothing to do with his bruises as Max finished undoing the buttons on his waistcoat and moved to his shirtfront. “However, she made it very clear to me that she has a sweetheart in Salzburg, which, I admit, was something of a relief.”
Oskar shivered as Max’s fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. “A relief?”
Max’s eyes snapped up to meet Oskar’s, and there was an expression there that sent a jolt through Oskar’s body. “Yes, a relief.” He dropped his attention back to Oskar’s shirt, tugging the shirttails from the waistband of his trousers and pulling the fabric apart to bare his chest to the cool air of the room. The muscles in Max’s jaw jumped as he traced the outline of the already livid bruising on Oskar’s skin. “Oskar, this looks like a bootprint.” He lifted his gaze back to meet Oskar’s, his blue eyes now flashing with anger. “Hausmann said you’d been in a fight,” he said, his voice accusatory.
Oskar looked away. “I fell to the ground just before Hausmann arrived. They managed to get in a few kicks as well.” He sighed. “I’m fine, Max.”
Max blew out an angry breath through his nose. “You’re not fine! You could have internal bleeding! Your spleen could have ruptured, or your kidneys bruised! Worse, you could have cracked or broken ribs, leading to a punctured lung!” He lay his hand against Oskar’s bare chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Does it hurt to breathe?”
Oskar shivered at the feel of Max’s skin against his own and the intimacy of the gesture. “No,” he said, voice rough.
Max shook his head, ignoring Oskar’s denial, and pulled his stethoscope from the bag. He pressed the small disc against Oskar’s chest, and Oskar gasped at the chill. “Again,” Max ordered, “deep breath, and hold it this time.” Oskar did so, then again and again when Max moved the stethoscope to different sections of his chest. Eventually, Max seemed satisfied, and sat back, removing the tool from his ears. “Your breathing seems clear,” he stated, sitting back and relaxing slightly. “And I couldn’t hear any sign of broken ribs.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Oskar said, earning himself a sharp glare. “I told you I was fine, Max.”
“Your definition of ‘fine’ and mine do not always agree,” he said sharply. “And if you were truly hurt, or died…I couldn’t—” He cut himself off and looked away.
Oskar’s heart tripped in his chest and he reached out, resting his hand over Max’s on the table. “You would be fine without me.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Max looked up, and that same expression was back on his face. “Oskar—”
With a flash of insight, Oskar knew what Max was about to say, and he cut him off. “Max, no. You can’t. We can’t.”
Max narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Why? Give me a reason.”
Oskar recognized the stubborn tilt to Max’s chin, and realized that he’d probably already lost this argument. “You are young. You should marry and have a family, not spend your time with a broken old man.”
Max arched an eyebrow. “You’re hardly old. And despite your best attempts,” he added, flicking his gaze down to where Oskar’s midsection was heavily bruised, “you’re not broken. Is that your only objection?”
Oskar closed his eyes and swallowed. “You deserve better than me.”
“Perhaps,” Max admitted, and Oskar’s eyes snapped open to see him smiling, “and perhaps you deserve better than a stubborn man who always has to be right and who tends to get so caught up in a puzzle that he forgets the people involved are people.” He turned his hand over so he could lace his fingers with Oskar’s. “I can play that game too.”
Against his own better judgement, Oskar clung to Max’s hand. “I’ve already lost one family, Max. I don’t know that I would survive losing another.”
“Then I shall endeavor not to become lost,” Max murmured, leaning in to press his lips against Oskar’s.