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Deep breaths.

Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest, and who knows it better than a man who can do anything.

That is exactly what Amon Goeth thinks of himself: he can do everything. In the strictest meaning of the word he doesn’t even think of himself as a man, for what he thanks absent-mindedly his father for choosing his name. Yes, he can do anything, and that is the reason why he gets bored so easily.

Boredom is one of the things that drives him crazy, just like his insomnia. There is a cure for boredom – thanks Scherner for the new rifle. And there is a cure for insomnia – thanks Schindler for the alcohol.

That is the only one problem that starts to give Goeth headache: he can’t have Schindler. Oh, yes, he visits the parties, he dines with him, he is always so correct and polite. Even while drunk – unlike Goeth, who goes absolutely psycho when drinking – Schindler is always a perfect gentleman, all politeness but none of it genuine. And Goeth, who is like a child, cruel, broken, but still always playful in his own dark way, always genuine – can’t stand it.

Amon finds it hard to think that he finally found somebody so opposite and is unable to change it in any way possible. Usually his plan is easy - take it, make it yours, play it, get bored with it and break it. Now it doesn’t work. Despite all his efforts, Schindler is not the man Amon can call his.

It only doubles his interest.

He feels slightly irritated when he finds himself thinking of the two of them being… well, not friends, for Amon can’t imagine himself being a friend to anyone… but at least talking to each other without a feeling of a role-play, where they have to hide themselves under some kind of masks. Irritation transforms into a weird sort of jealousy when he sees Schindler openly courting some girl at a party. He is all smiles and courtesy, but he doesn’t fake his interest, and the playful wrinkles in the corner of his eyes only strengthen the effect.

When Amon Goeth realizes that what he feels towards Schindler is jealousy, he gets totally drunk and excuses himself three hours earlier than he planned, knowing perfectly that practically everyone with the star band is breathing a little bit more freely. No more sudden deaths today, no more shooting or beating, thinks Helen Hirsch in her tiny cellar, and she has no idea who has the credit for these few quite hours.

Insomnia takes its part, and for extra hour Goeth lies in his bed, staring drunkenly through the balcony door at the rifle. He can hear laughs and cheers and music from the below floor, but has absolutely no intention to see anyone or to let anyone see him in this state.

He hears the car getting closer to the villa. A woman’s voice, a high-pitched laugh, heels clicking on the stairs, Schindler’s throaty, almost intimate, voice. Goeth supposes it’s Klonowska, who decided to finally appear publicly with Schindler.

For a split second he sees Oskar and Victoria together in his mind’s eye, kissing, touching each other. The image is not what he wants to think of, but – he certainly must stop drinking this much – seconds pass by and he still sees two bodies between the sheets. And he realizes that now he’d gone mad for sure, for this image actually angers him to the point of blind rage.

He doesn’t notice his brain go astray and catches himself thinking of himself in Oskar’s arms.

When he understands he’s aroused, he almost sees red, swept away by sudden desire to blow something up or just go straight to the balcony, take the rifle and shoot somebody. He would have, but when finally getting there, he sees that the Appelplatz is desolate, and the whole Plaszow, except for the guards, is asleep, and there will be too much trouble in getting up and starting a roll-call just to kill someone and get calm.

Amon doesn’t move for a couple more minutes, staring at the quiet camp, when he suddenly notices a grey shadow moving between the barracks.

Some unlucky prisoner’s life ends, the finally used rifle gets back in its corner, and self-satisfied Goeth finally gets some sleep under the buzzing and screams from the Appelplatz where a roll-call is held in the middle of the night.

But even when falling asleep, he can’t get away from the phantom feeling of strong hands all over his body, a faint smell of cologne, a shadow of a sigh, and this is the moment when he realizes, in the back of his mind, that this is exactly the forbidden fruit that he is going to desire with no visible solution.

This is not the first night he wishes to be finally fucking over.





“Not in my class. I’m a frigging Olympian.”

For some reasons he can’t figure yet, Oskar finds himself thinking of things he would never want to become real. He is not interested in Goeth, he is not intrigued by him and he definitely isn’t in a strange way attached to the darkest sides of Amon, which somehow replicate his own best sides with an opposite sign – but his eyes always darken just a little bit every time Goeth goes upstairs with another girl.

He knows perfectly well that there is no way for him to shut this part of his mind, since he always gets what he wants. Like Amon, he knows that the sweetest fruit is the one that’s forbidden. Like Amon, he knows that there are no doors closed for him.

Strange stares become regular, and so are visits to Goeth’s villa, which is something new for both of them. Goeth starts to wonder what Oskar wants from him, but says nothing, just smiles to himself and talks to him about some nonsense. Somehow it calms him, and after Oskar’s visits Plaszow sleeps a little bit more safely.




Days go by, and winter never forgets to be just on time. The balcony at Goeth’s villa is almost always empty, since no one wants to freeze their balls off, especially when there is a chance to get warm, get drunk and get a one-night stand within the walls.

In the middle of January all the SS officers don’t stay long after midnight and excuse themselves not as late as they do usually. What is more, they drive away earlier then Oskar, who went upstairs half an hour ago, Amon noticed that. Helen flees to the kitchen as quick as she can, and Amon seizes a freshly-opened bottle of Schindler’s cognac and goes upstairs.

He is not surprised to find Oskar on the balcony, standing there, smoking and looking down at the quiet camp. Swaying a little, he stands there hidden in the shadows, letting his drunken self admire Schindler for a moment: broad shoulders, strong hands, an aura of being someone too unusual for this place. He doesn’t know that half an hour ago, when they were having a dinner, Oskar left because he caught himself admiring Goeth’s looks (for heaven’s sake, the man is devastatingly handsome even despite gaining way too much weight) just the same.

Schindler sits down, taking a sip of cognac and lighting one more cigarette, casts an accidental look behind his shoulder and notices Goeth. He doesn’t smile, and Amon doesn’t either; it’s like they are trying to abandon false courtesy for a second.

Amon doesn’t think twice and enters the balcony; he can’t avoid the tense feeling in the air. It is suddenly hard to breathe, so he leans on the wall and looks at Schindler.

It’s not looking, it’s staring, but Oskar stares back, saying nothing. He salutes with a glass of cognac, Amon salutes back, and they drink in silence, eyes locked with each other, bodies taut.

“Tired of your friends, Amon?” he asks finally, raising eyebrows ever so slightly, voice raspy.

Amon smirks. “They left. We’re alone here.”

That sounds almost intimate, and the silence feels like Oskar is letting the implication settle in. Amon doesn’t look away, and his eyes, strangely bright in the lamplight yet so dark, are transfixing.

Amon is about to say something, but he’s not near enough, so he tries to make a step forward. If only he wasn’t this drunk, he’d make his step and said his line and everything would go on fine. But his legs don’t seem to belong to him anymore, so he trips over his own feet and almost falls. Oskar’s reaction is pure instinct – he catches him mid-air and Goeth somehow ends up on his lap.

For a split second nothing happens, and then slowly, ever so slowly, Amon rises his hand and lightly touches Oskar’s cheek, a strangely tender gesture he had no idea he was capable of.

He finds Oskar’s hands are on his back, touching him, holding him in a way he’d never thought possible, pulling him a little closer. His hands are distractingly warm, and in a million years Goeth doesn’t want them to stop touching him; and the slightest irritation crawls in, for neither of them is doing anything. Almost as if they are waiting, who will give up and finish with the ringing tension, which is almost unbearable.

Almost as unbearable as sudden overwhelming desire burning hot in his hips. Amon shifts uncontrollably, he is perfectly aware that he is rock hard – and when he hears Schindler sharply inhaling, when he sees his blown pupils, he knows that there are two of them burning wordlessly.

He is the first to break eye contact when realizing their faces are inches from each other’s. For a second he lowers his eyes and can’t stop looking at his lips, Oskar notices it – and that does the trick.

In a moment they are on each other, frantically kissing, losing themselves in the consuming fire. Amon clings to him without second thought, pressing lips to Oskar’s neck, letting his arms roam all over his body, and all of the touches and the kisses are rough rather than their usual sentimental, romantic, tender love-making they normally have with girls.

That is exactly what makes all the difference: this is no love, but a straight-forward fuck. Skipping all the gentleness and going straight to getting each other off was the only option they both would choose – and finally chosen, and here they are, on this opened cold balcony, enjoying each other every way possible.

He shivers and Oskar takes it as a hint, pushing him up on his feet and gently starting for the bedroom. Amon follows without taking his hands off Oskar’s shoulders, almost clinging to him, partly because he’s drunk on the alcohol, partly – and they both know that this is a bigger part – drunk on anticipation of all the touching and kissing yet to come.

Some part of him still doesn’t believe this is really happening. They are on different sides, they are both men, for fuck’s sake, but neither of them really ever stopped at fulfilling their wishes, however extravagant and impossible they might seem at first glance.

They stumble to the bed, crashing into walls, a table and a sofa on their way. Every time Amon’s about to fall – and it happens extremely often – Oskar’s guiding hands are around him, on him. He’s silently admiring their height difference, for it’s the only resemblance of kissing a girl – at least he still has to lean in a little bit.

That is the only thing that reminds him vaguely of his experience with women; everything else is completely new, raw and it’s impossible for him not to lose his head. The kiss isn’t gentle in the slightest, it’s rough and demanding, so he is absolutely aware he’ll deal with bruised lips for a day at least.

Amon’s hands are strong enough to turn them both over when they finally fall on the bed, so he’s straddling Oskar, holding his hands and moving his hips ever so slightly, so Schindler lets out a groan, entwining their fingers and pulling Goeth closer to him. His body is much bigger, less soft, less tender, and when Oskar’s hand slides down his front, he feels the hardness there and can’t stop smiling to a low groan from Amon’s throat.

Goeth ends up on top and it’s clear he’s not going to lose the initiative; his hands are unbuckling Oskar’s belt, throwing away his hands. They know perfectly well this is not going to last long, they both are too drunk and they both were longing too much for this to happen, and Goeth knows himself enough to be sure that he’ll doze off the very next second he’s finished. The strange thing is that he doesn’t want it. He sees Oskar’s closed eyes, feels his grip on his waist, and all he wants now – is to see this man coming under him, because of him. The thought is promising, and he feels dizzy and the best sort drunk when he sees the way Oskar moves to meet his hand.

He keeps going, one hand working on rhythmic strokes, the other caresses Oskar’s hair, and all of his kisses are deliberately slow, for he wants to feel every second of the moment when he’s the one to be thoughtful, the one to give pleasure. And as Oskar silently with a satisfied sigh arches under him, Amon grins, giving a bright red bruise on his neck a slow lick, touching him lightly, for the first time in his life feels like he found a good part of himself for a limited time.

Oskar relaxes silently for a minute, just letting himself enjoy Amon feathering kisses all over his chin and neck. And then in one quick moment he rolls over Goeth, sitting on his hips, zipping his own belt up, lowering down to kiss him fully on the mouth, while his hands, too skilled for his own good, start with slow strokes that provoke multiple groans. He is growing rougher by the second, staring intensely at Amon shifting under him relentlessly, working faster, seeing him arching off the bed, all so messy and completely at his mercy. And this is almost enough for him to fully understand why Amon likes to have people at his mercy so much.

He is almost addicted to the way Goeth pulls him into a wet, sloppy kiss, when his other hand touches Oskar’s wrist, making him go faster. Oskar doesn’t go for it; he knows that right now, when he can let his darkest desires roam freely, he wants to hear this man asking for it himself. And Amon is beyond all boundaries, ready to say whatever he is asked for to get what he wants so desperately.

“Schneller,” he growls, biting into Oskar’s shoulder; Oskar obeys, and with every movement of his hand Amon loses his head more and more. He didn’t think much when all this started; now, with skilled fingers touching his cock and rough lips on his neck, his mind goes blank and he simply groans in a kiss, uncontrollably moving his hips, tossing on the bed right under Oskar, needy and wanton, demanding more and more.

The orgasm is shattering, ripping through his body, and he bites his lip to stifle a long, loud, low moan, arching on the bed and falling back exhaustedly. Oskar smiles to himself, caresses his skin, leaves a ghostly light kiss on his bruised neck and looks openly in his eyes. They are not smiling, but an unsaid “fuck, that was good” lingers between them.

For a minute the room is silent, then Amon kisses him almost gently; Oskar enjoys it and doesn’t stop, touching his cheek, admiring the genuine tenderness he never thought to find in this man.

Amon drifts asleep almost immediately, and a dark smile shines all over his face. Oskar doesn’t have to see it to know.

He leaves quietly at dawn, knowing both of them wouldn’t exactly be glad to see each other naked in the same bed when the morning comes.




In the morning Amon wakes up early and stands alone on the balcony for half an hour, caressing the rifle and checking lazily on the prisoners. He pretends not to think about Oskar, but his lips hurt, there is a huge purple bruise on his neck and his body remembers everything perfectly.

He decides to leave everything that happened hidden in the deepest corners of his mind. He knows himself enough to be sure that if he ever gets the slightest impression that Schindler is more than interested in him, he may lose all the interest himself.

And that is the last thing in the world he wants.

When Helen knocks at his door and gives him an invitation for a “private dinner party” at Oskar’s place this evening, he smirks and goes back to sleep, leaving the rifle untouched.