Work Text:
sprung up from a tender root
1.
Martin has never been quite so aggressively befriended before. He keeps to himself, even at Charité - friendly, but not inviting. He is almost certain that he did not invite Otto in, either, but here Otto is, smiling at him, grinning conspiratorially as they change beds or pass on the ward. Wincing in sympathy or letting Martin see the concern etched on his face when they are with a patient.
It worries Martin a little, how open Otto is. He wonders if he knows how dangerous that is: to let your feelings be seen like that. And that is new too - worrying about someone else in such a specific, personal way. It has been a while and he has to clamp down on it, push it away, so that it can’t take root. Otto is so unabashedly handsome, so openly friendly, that it is hard sometimes to remember how dangerous looking can be.
Especially on nights like tonight. It is the second time Otto has all but invited himself in. The first time was after Martin helped him to bed. Martin had assumed that Otto would try to avoid him after that, but he is learning that that is not the type of person Otto is. Instead, he had turned up after Martin’s shift the following day, carrying bread as a sort of peace offering.
“To say thank you,” he’d said, his cheek dimpling, and followed Martin into his quarters. It had been two hours before he’d left, and Martin had found himself laughing helplessly, feeling quite unlike himself, at Otto’s merciless dissection of the foibles of his fellow trainee doctors, at his over the top descriptions of his sister’s childhood mistreatments of him, shot through with his clear affection for her. They barely talked about the night before.
Tonight Otto is quieter, more thoughtful. His collar is unbuttoned, a gold glint of jewellery visible at his throat. He cuts the bread methodically, and gets up to put the kettle on for tea before Martin thinks to offer.
“It seems rude for me to not do something in my own quarters,” Martin says, gratified when Otto laughs a little.
“In a minute you can pour the tea,” Otto allows. Martin can’t help his own laugh in turn.
“Very gracious, I’m sure,” he says, but when the teapot is in front of him and Otto’s holding out his mug expectantly, he does. Otto’s eyes are very wide and they watch him intently. Martin wishes they wouldn’t. He takes a sip of his tea and winces as it burns his tongue.
“Blow first,” Otto says, demonstrating. Martin rolls his eyes.
“Thus speaks the doctoral candidate,” he says sarcastically. He gets a grin in return, but it isn’t quite Otto’s usual wide smile.
Martin almost likes it more. He distracts himself with the bread and paste.
“Can I ask you something?” Otto says after a moment.
Martin swallows. “The leg?” he asks, resigned. Otto looks baffled.
“No,” he says quickly and then, after a moment’s thought, he asks: “do people often want to know?”
Martin shrugs, then nods. “I don’t mind. I’ve been used as a teaching example often enough.” Something passes over Otto’s face then, but he shakes his head and presses on.
“No, that wasn't it,” he says and then he waits. Martin realises he is waiting for permission. He gestures for Otto to continue. “Lohmann,” he says and stops, looking down. “How did you - why did you decide to trust me? I could have reported you. My sister is De Crinis’ student.”
He looks so open, so curious, as if he can’t imagine the answer, and Martin can’t help the laughter that bubbles up, even as fear comes with it.
“Otto,” he says gently, seeing the way Otto shrinks back. “You are not - you made it very clear how you felt. About the war. About seeing soldiers suffer. I thought the risk of you reacting badly was low.” Even as he says it, though, he wonders if that’s entirely true. He doesn’t trust easily, and for all Otto was talking about being glad to be out of the war, he had also been flirting and friendly with Nurse Christel. He might still have turned Martin in. Martin steadies his hands, still holding his knife, and takes a breath.
It wouldn’t have been the first time Martin put his trust in the wrong person, but he is supposed to be smarter than this now. He is supposed to have learned. But he exhales and looks up at Otto, who is still watching him, brow furrowed slightly. Martin smiles. Otto smiles back almost shyly.
“And it was important,” he says stiffly, looking down at his hands. “To at least try to save him, save one more person.”
“Oh, yes,” Otto says fervently. “And I am grateful.” Martin can’t look up, has to keep looking at his hands.
“Well, don’t get carried away,” he says eventually, “we’ve not saved anyone yet.”
2.
Once Otto realises, it feels nearly impossible not to say it. He wants to say it when he meets Martin on the stairs, wants to say it when Martin stares down Röder, when Martin makes Elsa, her arm broken after falling over rubble running to the shelter, laugh despite the pain she’s in. Martin makes a sarcastic comment as he heads into his lecture, so quiet that only Otto can hear it, and his mouth almost forms the words without his permission.
He doesn’t know when he realised; looking back, he feels as if he knew from the first moment Martin shook his hand, standing over Lohmann’s bedside. Certainly, he remembers being grateful, and being intrigued by this man who wanted them to be careful. Or standing on the ledge together, aware underneath the urgency of what Martin was saying of his kind eyes, how close he was. Maybe it was the image of Martin standing over him, clear even through his angry, tearful, drunken haze, the recognition of their shared fears. But it could be any of a hundred small moments, Martin laughing as they shared a meal, Martin working quietly and efficiently on the ward, passing him bandages, telling him about his own experiences of the front.
And finally, unquestionably: Martin, fearless and calm, ripping up the flyer in front of Nurse Christel. Otto had wanted to kiss him then, the impulse sudden and blinding. Oh, he thought to himself, as if Martin had suddenly come into focus for the first time, that warm feeling in his chest suddenly recognisable and known. Oh, that’s what this is.
He busied himself with Emil, making him safe, scared of what his face might show.
Christel wasn’t about to let it go, of course, and Otto had to think on his feet. It was harder, now, to smile at her, to be charming, but he thought of Martin and invited her out. Afterwards he made a joke of it with Martin, trying to be light and easy, feeling the words trapped in his throat. He squashed the urge to reach out, stroke his fingers along Martin’s vulnerable nape; to say, “I did it because I love you, because I am in love with you.”
Then Martin told him about Lohmann, and his guilt whited out anything else.
**
It isn’t just around Martin that the words try to escape. He wants to tell Anni when they sit together over dinner, Karin snuffling quietly in the background; he wants to throw the words at Christel when she points out Martin at the police station. Sometimes he even wants to tell Artur, when he sees the way Artur looks at Anni, sitting at the kitchen table half asleep but still determined to read. The words are there, at the back of his throat. But he can imagine the horror on Artur’s face; how quickly Christel would turn on him. And he remembers how Anni’s mouth used to tighten, back when he was a teenager and used to drag Fritz, shy and sweet, with him everywhere, the concern that would pass over her face. How it had disappeared the first time he’d brought a girl home.
He loves his sister, but he can’t risk it. Not with this.
Instead, he writes letters in his head. Dear mama, he thinks as he is resting up after donating blood, I wish you could have been there today. I saved a boy’s life, I think. And Martin was there, watching me so carefully. His eyes are beautiful, I wish you could see them; when he looks at me, I feel like there is no one else there.
He daydreams in lectures, too, thinking of what he might write: Dear mama, I wish you could see how he looks when he laughs - he always seems surprised by his own happiness. I wonder why - what he’s seen in the war. Sometimes, when I am thinking of him, I go minutes, even hours without thinking about the Front. Without feeling guilty.
And sometimes, before he falls asleep, he lets himself think about writing the words, putting them down on paper: Dear mama, I love him; Dear mama, when I am with him I’m happy; Dear mama, I think you’d like him, I think you’d love him too, he is a good man and when we talk, I feel like a better man too. Dear mama, I think I could tell him anything and he would understand.
The words pour out into his imaginary letters, faster than his hand could write them, and sometimes he realises that he is halfway through a lecture and hasn’t heard a word; or the light is coming in the window and he hasn’t slept. But he doesn’t put pen to paper.
**
He makes up his mind during Advent, partly due to the announcement of the new exam policy. Even if Martin is disgusted, he thinks, he can make a good case for it being pointless for Martin to denounce him. And if he loses Martin’s friendship, well, he will have a limited time to mourn it (even as he thinks that, he knows he is lying to himself. He would mourn Martin’s friendship to the Front, into hell itself, but there is no point dwelling on it).
And maybe, just maybe, he thinks, listening to Sauerbruch talk about the importance of love, it will be worth it just to say it. He watches Martin’s flustered, pleased face as they sing ‘Silent Night’, his own voice loud and strong with everything he can’t say, and thinks: maybe if he doesn’t, he risks never hearing Martin say it back.
3.
Caring for Dohnayni was an exquisite torture even before he knew what Otto’s mouth tasted like, how his fingers would feel against his face. Dohnayni had quickly dismissed any attempts at protocol, insisting they call him Hans, and although he was always understanding of their responsibilities, given the chance, he would inevitably draw them into conversation.
He takes a particular shine to Otto, asking about his service, his experiences at the front, but also about his childhood, his interest in medicine. And Martin has found himself listening too intently, finding new reasons to like Otto, new things to store away and think about later, when he can’t sleep.
He is a study in contrasts, Otto - seemingly brash and confident, a handsome smiling example of everything a good German man should be, and yet clearly pained: by his experiences at the front, by what happened with Lohmann, by the growing distance between him and Anni. And underneath it all, angry and desperately looking for hope, for a better world.
He makes Martin want to reach out and reassure, to comfort. He makes Martin want to press closer, find out more. He makes Martin want a lot of things he shouldn’t want, and never more so than when he is talking to Hans, laughing one minute at an old film, seriously discussing Thomas Mann the next. Martin pushes it down.
Outside of Hans’ room, he had tried to avoid being alone with Otto - not easy, when Otto follows him into his room when the end of their shifts coincide, when Otto always stops to chat on the stairs. When Otto smiles at him like that, small and quiet, so different from how he smiles on the ward. The same smile he wears in Hans’ room. And Martin knows better than to give in; he knows how close he’s already come, Otto’s hands soft and efficient on his thigh in the prosthetics room, asking about the police station. The fear slicing through his arousal. But still, he gives in and gives in, until he is found out.
He clings to that fear after Otto’s confession; it keeps them both safe. But still he has to help take care of Hans, who is every day more active, more alert. He talks more about the need to end the war too, and it is strangely exhilarating, the faith he has in its end, in the defeat of Nazism. Somehow, when he says it, in his soft, gentle voice, it is easier to believe in. Hans tells them about his family, all of them dissenting in their own ways. Sometimes, his bravery takes Martin’s breath away.
Otto listens, rapt, asking questions about Dietrich, about Klaus, about Sabine and Christel. His face is bright with hope, and Martin cannot look at him. He thinks, more than once, that if their positions were reversed, Otto wouldn’t look before he leapt.
All the more reason to hold the line, and keep them both safe. But the memory of that night will not shift: Otto’s smiling admission; Otto, trembling with fear, promising not to put him in danger. Otto kissing him, desperate and intent, like he had been thinking about it for as long as Martin had. Otto’s shining eyes looking at him, even as he turned away.
It overlays everything: Otto on the stairs; on his way into lectures; ducking his head as they turn over a bed. Otto smiling at Christel, brittle now that Martin can see it properly. And most of all, though, here, in Hans’ room, smiling and laughing and hopeful.
Martin wants him so much, his hands ache from not reaching out.
A few days after Christmas Eve, he is in with Hans, helping him doing his physio exercises. Otto is revising for his exam, Anni having chased him to sit down and do the work. It is a reminder that Otto is only here for a few more months, maybe even weeks now, and the thought should be a relief. It isn’t.
“If I am found out,” Hans says, out of nowhere. Martin starts. Hans smiles at him, acknowledging his distraction. “If I am found out - I have told Otto already, but he refuses to believe that it might happen.” Martin grimaces, but nods. “I will try to end it myself, but I will need you to destroy everything here. There are too many people - my wife, my children. Dietrich, Klaus, Karl - all of them will be at risk.” His voice barely trembles as he says it and he looks steadily at Martin until Martin nods. “There are letters too. They are safe. I want Christel to have them, as well as the drawings.” Martin nods again. He clears his throat to speak when Hans adds, “There’s a copy of Dietrich’s book as well, for Otto. If it's of interest.”
Martin’s immediate instinct is to shake off any suggestion linking him and Otto. His second instinct is to snap at Hans - the last thing Otto needs is to have the work of a traitor lying around. He swallows both impulses down. “Of course,” he says and then adds, “but don’t worry. The boss won’t let anything happen.”
Hans smiles gently. “You’ll forgive me if I have gotten into the habit of planning in case it does,” he says. He sits down on the bed, his exercises done for the day. He reaches for his pad and pencil so easily, it seems unconscious, flipping to the page where the details of his Christel’s face are slowly, but surely revealing themselves.
And all of a sudden, Martin wants to ask, was it worth it, knowing you might be taken from her? Knowing you might never see her again? Hans looks at the picture with such care, such well-worn love, and it must be breaking his heart, however much he believes in the cause. Or maybe because of how much he knows it is worth doing - perhaps that is it. Martin doesn’t ask, either way. It is none of his business. And he is too grateful: for Hans’ bravery, for his sacrifice and for his steadfastness in the belief that the regime will end, that peace will return. Reminding him of what would be lost seems cruel.
His thoughts are interrupted by Otto bursting in. “Sorry,” he says, smiling widely at Hans. His face fades to something smaller, more tender when he turns to Martin, and Martin averts his eyes. “I am on my way to my surgery lecture, but I wanted to drop in. How’s the walk?”
“Good,” Hans says, all smiles, the seriousness of a moment ago forgotten. “Martin is a stern taskmaster.” Otto laughs at that.
“You’re in good hands, then,” he says and both Hans and Otto are laughing at him, inviting him into the joke. Martin can’t help but smile at the both of them, even though he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.
Later, lying sleepless in bed, he thinks about the question he’d wanted to ask. And it occurs to him that the real reason he doesn’t have the right to ask it is Otto: what right does he have to ask about the risk of losing love, when he can’t even risk having it? Immediately, he rebukes himself: images of the prison cell, of his interrogators filling his mind. Peter might be dead now, for all he knows, and he risks the same fate, even having kissed Otto.
But then, that’s it, isn’t it? He is already risking the same fate. Otto’s already risking the same fate, and has not been shy in making clear that he’s willing, even happy to risk it, for himself, if not for Martin. And Martin is too cowardly, too weak to take what is being given to him.
Except - Hans’ face when he was talking about his things being destroyed. That fear: that his words, his actions, could be used to hurt those he loved, could be used to turn them on each other. He still doesn’t know if Peter admitted fault - if he had sacrificed himself to save Martin - or if the judgement had been made on their ages. Or if Peter had been convicted before.
He turns over, trying to get comfortable, to still his mind, but it refuses to settle, turning always, inexorably to Otto. Martin misses him. Misses eating together, misses their easy jokes. Misses the smiles and chats on the stairs. He wants to hear him complain about his lessons, and Nurse Christel’s attempts at flirting, and make jokes about his professors. Most of all, he thinks, he wants Otto to smile at him properly, like a secret shared between the two of them. And to kiss that smile.
He digs the palms of his hands into his eyes. He doesn’t sleep that night.
4.
They are coming out of Hans’ room when Martin asks. Otto almost stumbles in surprise. “Tonight?” he asks. Martin shrugs, looking uncomfortable.
“Unless you have other plans,” he says. As if Otto wouldn’t cancel anything in a heartbeat, even if he weren’t spending all his time either on the wards, with Hans or revising. He nods, trying not to seem too keen. Martin gives him a small smile.
“Good,” he says, and then he turns away, heading down to the ward.
Otto doesn’t hear a word of his lecture - De Crinis on combat fatigue, and Otto can guess what he’s saying anyway. Instead he tries not to let himself hope. Maybe Martin has just been missing spending time together. Otto knows he has, the loss of it almost worse than being rejected (not rejection, he reminds himself, guilt flooding him at how easily he forgets that this is about keeping Martin safe). But he has missed talking to him, watching him move efficiently and calmly around his quarters. He has been trying not to watch Martin as much anymore, but it is hard: there is something about Martin, his understated practicality, his quiet reliability which draws Otto’s eye even as he reminds himself to be discreet, to respect Martin’s decision.
“Aren’t you staying?” Anni asks. She has Karin in her arms, and she looks exhausted. He comes over to kiss her forehead.
“Are you all right?” he asks, leaning forward a little to stroke a finger down Karin’s nose. She gurgles happily. Sometimes he is surprised by how much he already adores her, and the fear that brings too. He stays there a moment, watching her and Anni. Anni still hasn’t answered and he bumps her with his hip.
“I am tired,” she says, giving him a wan smile. “It is hard, being a mother.” It’s not the whole truth; there’s something else there, he can tell. But he doesn’t want to push, not when she looks so close to breaking. “Anyway, where are you going? Out with Nurse Christel?”
For a moment, he considers lying. It might be safer, more sensible. But the lesson of Lohmann looms over him, and he says, “Martin offered me dinner.” Her eyes darken briefly before clearing again. He smiles reassuringly. “And it’ll be nice for you and Artur not to have me underfoot, surely.” She smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. He kisses her again, deciding that if she still seems off in a couple of days, he will ask her properly.
“I am worried about Anni,” he says as he pushes the door open to Martin’s quarters. He pauses in the doorway, slightly embarrassed by how pleased just being here makes him. Martin is at the stove, the scent of coffee substitute creating a homey smell in the room.
“Oh?” Martin says, not missing a beat, and Otto smiles at him gratefully. He comes all the way in and closes the door behind him, sliding the lock in place. Martin hands him a mug, gesturing for him to help himself. He waves a hand over the pot on the stove. “Soup,” he says, “and bread.” He makes a self deprecating face.
“A feast,” Otto replies, grinning. He positions himself next to Martin, cutting the bread and sipping his coffee as Martin stirs the pot. There is barely room enough here for one person, let alone two, but Otto relishes it, every bump of the shoulder or elbow, his awareness of Martin’s hip close to his.
“Tell me about Anni,” Martin says, as he stirs, and so Otto does. Martin listens carefully and doesn’t offer empty reassurance. Instead he just nods as Otto hedges around his worry: that Anni doesn't trust Artur. That she might be right to. That Karin is as much as at risk as he is or Martin is or Hans is.
“Might your mother have advice?” Martin asks, and Otto blushes. He hasn’t written to his mother in weeks; too scared that his imaginary letters might bleed out on the page. He knows she’s worried about him, and he really should call.
“I will ring her,” he says out loud, making a resolution. Martin grins a little.
“No need to swear an oath or anything,” he says and Otto laughs, bumps their shoulders together intentionally. He doesn’t move away, and neither does Martin for a long minute. They stand there together, shoulders against each other. Otto smiles down at the bread, too thrilled to look at Martin, a little scared at what he might see.
“Soup’s ready,” Martin says quietly. Otto nods, but still takes a moment to move, plating up the bread still close. He passes Martin the bowls and lets himself enjoy their fingers touching. Martin gives him a look like he knows what he’s doing, but he’s still smiling slightly. Otto moves to set the table.
They eat peaceably, Martin telling him about a new patient, a candidate for a prosthetic leg, barely nineteen. He’s coming from the Eastern Front. “Hans is right,” Otto says, and Martin nods - it is becoming a common phrase between them.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be?” Otto asks, thinking of Hans. Martin shrugs.
“I try not to hope too much,” he says and looks down. “I think - I think one has to decide that it will end and start living a little like it might.”
At first, Otto isn’t sure he’s heard him right. He sits, gaping, undoubtedly looking gormless, until Martin looks up at him. He looks scared and that spurs Otto into action, getting up only to kneel in front of him. Martin blinks down at him.
“I don’t want to put you in danger,” Otto says, because Martin has to know, he has to know how important this is, “I love you too m-” but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Martin is kissing him, cradling his face and pulling him close, in between Martin’s legs. It is like falling: Martin’s mouth is warm, determined, and Otto lets himself be kissed, be held, trying to convey: whatever you want, whatever you want, with his mouth, his body.
Eventually, Martin pulls back. “We must be careful,” he says, wild-eyed. His glasses are slightly askew. Otto nods vigorously. “And if we are - if the worst happens. Promise me you will deny everything. Otto,” Martin’s voice takes on a warning tone in response to Otto’s shake of his head. “Otto. I want you to, I want to know you’ll keep yourself safe too.”
It hurts and Otto finds it odd that the regime’s ability to inflict pain can still take him aback. It doesn’t matter that he has been lying by omission for months now; the idea of being asked outright and denying how much Martin means to him is a cruel twist. But Martin’s mouth is set and he is right and it will keep Martin safe too.
“Martin, of course,” he says and doesn’t add anything , even though he thinks that he would, he would give up anything to have this. Martin must hear it anyway, because he closes his eyes for a moment, and then he reaches out, presses his thumb against Otto’s breastbone, where his necklace is resting, his palm close to Otto's fast-beating heart. And then they are kissing again, Martin’s mouth opening against his, and Otto forgets everything except the two of them. He winds his arms around Martin, pulling him close, and lets himself disappear into their embrace.
5.
It is something Dr Sauerbruch says that makes him think of it. He steps out briefly in between surgeries and bandage changes, trying to catch his breath. When he spots her, he turns to go in and leave her in peace, but she stops him, offering a cigarette. He takes it and the offer of a light.
“Thank you,” he says, leaning against the wall near her. She smiles, peering at him.
“How are you?” she asks, still watching him. The way she looks at him makes him wonder, not for the first time, how much she knows. Otto told him that she was his witness to Nurse Christel’s reasons for denouncing them, and he overheard her before, on the ward just after his release. Whether she has guessed about Otto’s whereabouts is another thing entirely, but she is sharp and in some ways more insightful than her husband.
He shrugs and says, “As well as any of us.” She laughs shortly at that, leaning back.
“I suppose that is true enough.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette. This close, she looks tired, and she can’t have been sleeping much. Then again, none of them have. The Soviets and the Americans are both closing in, the attacks near daily now. “Still. When everything looks lost, hope is I suppose the one risk worth taking.” She isn’t looking at him, but Martin nods anyway, lifting one hand to press at the cross that hangs around his throat.
He’d asked Otto about it once, during an air raid up in the attic. Otto had been dishevelled and putting himself back together, the necklace hanging out over his undershirt.
“Confirmation present from my mother,” he’d said, shrugging.
“A good luck charm?” Martin had asked, leaning forward to tug on it lightly, not displeased when Otto had grinned and kissed him, slow and lazy in what passed for an afterglow.
“Sort of,” he said, after. “A sign of something more. That nothing good can be destroyed forever.” He’d blushed then, and turned away, and Martin had let him, not sure if it was embarrassment at seeming naive or the glancing admission of faith in the context of their recent activities. He let Otto finish buttoning up his shirt before pulling him down next to him, settling his head on his shoulder and watching Berlin’s bombardment. The sight always filled Martin with a queasy mix of excitement and horror; the destruction of the city he’d lived in all his life, the deaths of so many people, blended with the fragile hope that it might mean the end.
Still, Martin found it hard to really trust that the regime might fall, that an end might come to the war. And he had envied Otto his faith, his certainty. Two days later, when Hans was arrested, that envy had become meaningless; Otto’s despair over Hans’ fate, his own call up to the Front, had seemed to make the sign lose its power. Otto had been, albeit briefly, impossible to reach, lost in his memories, his guilt, his pain, and all Martin could do was be there, at arms’ length, waiting to be left. And yet, when Otto had tried to hand over the necklace, Martin found he couldn’t take it.
What he’d wanted to say, the words he couldn’t find in the moment, had been: I need to believe it too. I love you and I need to believe you will come back. And somehow, miraculously, Otto had - and not just that, but he had pulled Martin out of hell with him.
Now, leaning against the wall of the Charité bunker, he presses the cross briefly, and lets himself think of Otto, up in the attic, hoping that his luck holds today. He lets himself hope that their luck might last a little longer.
Next to him, Dr Sauerbruch sighs, looking around her. “Here’s to getting through the day,” she says, echoing his thoughts as she drops the end of the cigarette, extinguishing it with her shoe. “And to when all this is over.” She squeezes Martin’s shoulder as she passes by him, glancing down at the necklace, still hanging loose. She smiles and he smiles back.
When it is all over. Martin is slowly letting himself believe that it will be over, to risk thinking about it. He and Otto have discussed the relative merits of the opposing forces, but realistically, if they survive (Martin takes a long drag on his cigarette, lets the familiar taste of the smoke calm him), Martin thinks he wants to stay. Looking out at the ruins of Berlin, he thinks that there might be meaning to it then: surviving the Front, surviving the bombings, surviving all the suffering, all the loss. To stay and rebuild, to ensure that Charité heals and reforms, even in a small way.
And, God willing, with Otto by his side. He puts out his cigarette and squeezes the cross between his fingers briefly, before concealing the necklace again under his uniform. A sign, yes, and a promise too, he thinks, taking a deep breath. Something worth risking hope for. If he makes it through the day, he’ll ask Otto tonight.