I pressed my face to his cold body and cried. Soldiers did not cry, but I didn't know that I was one anymore. Looking back, I don’t know that I ever was. His achingly familiar uniform was dusty and crusted with blood. I closed my eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, I could not bring myself to look into the lifeless face. He was the one who had taken the bullet in the heart, but it didn’t feel that way. At least he could move on, he did not feel this persistent burning inside of him, his heart still, but not completely charred and empty. The pain did not numb; everything I felt was acute and searing, terrible in its rawness. I had dreamt the situation before, but it had never been like this.
It was so fresh in my mind. The anger, grief, and guilt.  The sound of a bullet, almost as familiar as the sound of my own name, but this one too close for comfort, heading towards me. My eyes darting to the source, realizing too late it would hit me. I felt panic, and then a rush of sweet relief at what I then believed to be my last thought: he was all right. And just then a body flung itself in front of me, intercepting the bullet right as it was about to hit. I shrieked. Klaus looked at me and smiled at my unscatched skin; my life, his final triumph. He had beaten me yet again. He closed his eyes. That was it.
A world at war does not stop for anyone, not even for death, not even for the death of the person you would die for, that was the strangest part. My face was soaked with tears, I was immobilized, clutching his body and wailing. Men kept collapsing beside me, shouting orders, firing their guns, they didn’t even turn their heads to stare. I was infuriated by it, the way nothing changed. The world had ended, yet it was as before; as chaotic and continuous as it had been from the day we arrived on the front. I had thought if this ever happened, everything would halt and the men would drop their weapons and fall into silent salute. Well, not entirely. It was war, I’d seen plenty of men die, plenty of friends, I can’t say I associated death with grand ceremony when I’d witnessed it so often, but somehow I’d imagined it would be different. Or perhaps I never imagined how it would be, but the burden of the pain crushed me, as if I were a wartime Atlas and all of France and Britain had just been dropped on my sagging shoulders. I had thought at least, that a couple of friends would come grieve alongside me, but they were caught in the middle of it all. No one had even noticed.
My best friend is dead, I stared furiously into the chaos, willing someone to notice me, to rush up and help me pull him aside, away from the ceaseless cruelty of battle. My lover, I thought savagely. The man I loved with enough strength to end this war is dead.

I was first drawn to his blinding smile, the way his eyes crinkled and changed colors in the sun. He had a smile that could make flowers bloom. He would seek you out in a crowd after only having met you once before and strike up jovial conversation, likely declaring he’d read the book you’d mentioned when last you spoke. He noticed things about a person and never forgot: the shoes they wore, their favorite song, their brother’s name. Klaus was an artist by every definition, both in spirit and in practice. He had an almost sensual attachment to his camera and never stopped taking photographs. He would look into a bare field after a battle, sigh sadly, and call it a “valley of forgotten dreams”. He hated the war. Maybe that was the best thing about him. His fierce kindness. I heard he once walked ten miles to fetch a wounded man a book he requested. As the man lay dying Klaus read it to him in a soft voice. The men told me it was a rumor, but I knew it was not. Few men, especially soldiers with their foolish image of stoic masculine heroism to maintain, had the courage to show their kindness. Such things were for women and the weak.

Shortly after we met, Klaus said he was going to tell me a secret. My heart started beating unusually fast, though I didn’t know why, he generally seemed to have that effect on me. He leaned in as if about to share something extremely serious and readied himself to whisper in my ear. I shivered with nervous excitement. He seemed to hesitate, drawing back slightly, his boyish, self-assured grin sliding off his face for the briefest of moments before he suddenly regained confidence and spoke.
“Here’s my secret Hugo: I’m in love with the stars” and then he laughed. We were 20 then, so young, so full of laughter still.
I smiled, perplexed, intrigued. The weight of the war was still new and easier to bear. In love with the stars? No man said things like that; I mean, what an odd confession. I knew then that he saw the world differently from anyone I’d ever met.
Klaus seemed to find it odd too. He looked up at me for a moment and then broke into a fit of laughter.
He smiled warmly at me when I laughed too, and maybe it was then that I started to love him. His openness. He knew himself so well and was so gifted with people. I swear in two weeks he knew me better than I would ever know myself. His name was Klaus Wedekind, he had five sisters and no brothers, he carried his Brownie camera with him everywhere, and he loved the stars. The stars and me.

“Have you ever been in love Hugo?” he asked me one day.
“Not really. I never understood girls, Klaus. They never say what they mean. That’s what I like about you. You only say things when you mean them.”
He laughed.
“Have you?”
“I don’t know” he said. He looked scared.
“C’mon, really? I would’ve thought all the girls liked you...I mean look at you.”
I thought I had been teasing him at the time, but I can feel now how sincerely I meant it. How could anyone not love Klaus? My eyes bored into his like a terrier’s, wide with blind adoration, they were a mysterious teal in the twilight.
He made a face.
“No?”
He shook his head deliberately, almost sadly.
"No"
"You never even went with a girl? I did with a couple of girls back when I was in school, but it never lasted long. I never cared for them. I remember when I was really young I used to always tell myself I liked the girls in my class even if I didn't really. Even if it was just because their hair looked nice that day."
I looked at his hair, thick and chestnut colored, spectacularly framing his face. I was willing to bet it was more beautiful than every silly girl in all of my childhood classes combined.
“No Hugo. I don’t like girls very much. Well not … never mind."
Suddenly his secret made sense. He hadn't said it in the end, but he had told me in a way and somehow I understood completely and all at once. My heart was beating too fast and almost out of instinct I pretended not to comprehend what Klaus had said. I had always been excellent at that as a boy, acting oblivious while I slowly pieced together the secrets of everyone's private lives. It did not even occur to me at that point that I had fallen irrevocably in love with him. All I knew was that I was sticking by his side, no matter what. Comradeship was man’s only comfort when enduring such a war. I had not considered it strange then, that I felt sure I would die for him. That I was prepared to thrust myself into the raging hurricane of battle that I so detested at the sliver of a possibility that it could help him. A devoted friend indeed.

My heart felt like a hummingbird’s whenever I was with him and we rapidly became inseparable. His affect on me was instant and astronomical. The men would tease me, ask me why I smiled so much. They figured I had to be in love. They’d ask if I had a girl back home, knowing smirks playing on their faces. Lying had always been easy for me, I’d nod and smile, maybe express my deep longing for her beautiful golden hair and loving embrace. It was enough. Nothing induces sympathy with soldiers like love and family. Some love however, was best kept quiet. The nights were cool and sweet and we’d always manage to get away from the group, signing up for some midnight patrol post or other, basking in the glory of each other and of being nobody; we were not important enough for our nighttime whereabouts to cross anyone’s mind. 
A blanket of speckled black engulfed us, taking us in its enormous arms, easing our worries. The universe was expansive and humbling, what did it matter who we loved when we were not even specks on the horizon compared to the stars. How, in the grand scheme of things, could a forbidden love ever matter? I think that is what comforted us. We drew courage from the faraway brilliance of the stars.

A year passed and Klaus and I became closer than I have ever been to anyone, or ever will be again. July of 1915,  Klaus injured his hand and was temporarily sent on leave. They were calling it The Great War, but in the two months he was gone I could hardly move, my world had been so completely altered. My heart shivered in his absence and my body ached with loneliness, I prepared for combat every day and nurtured a horrible emptiness inside of me. Compelled to the front only by his letters and the thought of his return to my arms. 
We embraced as brothers when at last he returned, as that was the extent of affection we were allowed to show, but in my surfeit bliss I squeezed his hand when the others looked away. My heart was light and I longed to be alone with him.
As soon as his small welcoming party dispersed, he pulled me aside.
“Hugo” his voice was urgent.
“What?”
“My mother, she knows.”
“What? What do you- How did she find out Klaus?”
“One of our letters,” he said.. She was making my bed back home and she discovered it in my sheets. I was out visiting my cousin.”
That night his lips liberated me from thoughts of the consequences. He smelled like cinnamon tea and jasmine, and our love was like the milky way; just one tiny piece of a universe full of beautiful enigmas. Our bodies rejoiced at their reunion. I was restless and greedy, a little boy devouring his sweets after waiting in too long a line at the bakery. Our kisses tasted like prolonged desire, furtive looks, and gunpowder. I don’t know what they looked like, but I knew it was something he’d capture in just the right lighting with his precious camera. And he would have if his hands weren’t otherwise engaged. That camera was his lens into a better world; one where our kiss was celebrated, not kept secret, and we didn’t go into battle every day.
He was Klaus and I was Hugo; he stroked my hair as we watched the metallic orange light glow from the bottom of the trench, and it didn’t matter that they were grenades because we were together down here, together and safe. And the war was beautiful.

“Hugo?”
“Hm?”
“What happens if one of us dies?”
“Don’t say that Klaus. We have each other, we won’t die.”
“But what if we do? What then?”
“Well then it must be me. I have no life outside of you and this war, I have no trade, nothing to contribute to the world. It would be much better if I die if it’s to be one of us. The world cannot do without you. You take photographs and write poetry and look at the stars so it must be me. And you must carry on as you were before we met.”
“No. No, no, no.” his voice was cracking. “It won’t be you. Anything can happen to me, but you can’t die.”
“Don’t get so upset Klaus” I whispered, “We always knew it could happen.”
“But we didn’t, we didn’t let ourselves know it. At least I didn’t, not really. But Frederickson died, so anyone can. I don’t know what I’d do if it was you.”
“You’ll marry, Klaus” I said, “You can go back home, have children.”
He did not speak. The silence was hot and pricked my insides like a needle, he glared at me, daring me to go on. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice.
“What about Freida?”
“What?”
“The girl Klaus. The one your mother speaks of in her letters. I’m sure you could grow to love her. You’d forget me and love her, you’d live a normal life."
I felt guilty that I only said that part because I knew it wasn't true, but I relished his love for me.
"Start a family, your mother would be so happy” there were tears in my eyes now, but he just looked angry.
“Forget you? I would sooner forget my own name.”
“Stop it Klaus, please. It’s the truth, it’s what would have to happen. You know it is.”
“What would I do with myself?” the anger was gone, replaced with helplessness.
“Just as you do now. Look at the stars at night, write poems, take photographs. Read and laugh and make everyone feel beautiful and loved.”
“How could I believe in stars if you were no longer here to look at them with me? How could I, if I didn’t see them in your eyes?”
“The stars were your first love, remember? Wasn’t it easy to believe in them then?”
“I only wished on them before I met you. Only when we met did I know I believed in them, before it was all dreams. Then I loved them, because I loved you, I saw them in your eyes, and they brought us together.”
That was too much for me, my throat burned as I willed myself not to cry, I had always pretended to be tough as a boy, but I was never really strong, not like him. We were opposites Klaus and I, Klaus who collected daisies for his little sister, hardened like the leather of his journals when protecting the people he loved. Men had always teased Klaus for his femininity and softness, but it had never once prevented him from fiercely standing his ground. I on the other hand, had been viewed as exceptionally ordinary as a boy, I’d understood what was expected and somewhat effectively maintained an act of passable masculine toughness. My heart however, had always ruled me, perhaps I had just never realized that until I met Klaus and was instantly captivated by his unabashed faith in his emotions.
We sat in silence. Tears rolled down my cheeks. He dug aggressively into the dirt with a stick.  His eyes were flames and I had never stood a chance. I spoke when at last I could take it no longer.
“I will send her your things Klaus’
“What?” it was a deadly whisper, he knew what I was saying, but didn't dare believe it.
“Your mother. If you die in the war I will send her your things. I have to.”
“No. Keep them, they’re yours.”
“It will be as if we never met. If she never gets your things people will talk. The men will know I have kept them. She will know. Your reputation will be saved, as long as my name is never associated with yours. Your mother will die happy and proud of you.”
“Damn my mother Hugo! Damn what they think. Damn them all. What of the memory of me? All that I truly am is here with you. Would you have that perish with my body?” 
“But you're right, it lives with me. It can't perish until I do. Please Klaus this one time-care about what other people think.
“I don’t care what she thinks, only you.”
“But I do! I care what the world thinks of you Klaus. I don't want you to end up a shameful stain that your mother has to bear. I’m sorry, but I will send your things to her, besides it is the least I can do for her, I have made a sinner out of her son.”
“My love for you is not a sin Hugo. And even if it is, I was like this before we met you give yourself too much credit, you just gave me the means to make my sin a reality.”
I laughed and tried to look away, but was too weak-willed once again. His being transfixed me, it always had.
He smiled for a moment, but tears slid down his face now too. He was a tragic beauty, almost like a statue with his perfect carved-marble face and bright blue eyes that always revealed too much, but when he spoke it was with a vitality and love far too warm to be a statue.
“Don’t be cruel Klaus, she is your mother. It is not much for her to ask of you to keep this a complete secret. You know she could have dealt with it in far worse ways. It is bad enough for her to know about us.”
“I never cared for her, you know that.”
He squeezed my arm and studied me, I wanted to relent, I wanted him to hold me, to ease me through this like he had so many times before with his voice that soothed the heart and mind like chamomile tea. It was a mark of how important this was that I resisted.

We stared death in the face everyday, but it was never real; it reminded me of a teenage Klaus lying in his bed writing poems about romance when he’d never been in love himself and I almost smiled. Nothing was real until it happened. 
The clearing was draped in moonlight when at last they collected the bodies that day. I lay there on top of Klaus’ body, shaking. I hadn't stopped crying; the tears had stopped flowing after a while, but my body continued to shudder, heaving up and down with terrible constancy. “I love you” I whispered to the corpse, over and over again and traced a line of kisses along his neck. I can’t remember ever touching anything so delicately.
I felt rough hands on my shoulders as the officers reached me. I vaguely remember kicking and screaming like a child as they pulled me off of him, hugging his body and refusing to let go.
“No! Don’t touch him. Don’t touch him. Leave him alone!” I had held him tightly, sobbing and kissing his frozen face desperately.

I do not know what they will do to me here but I heard the pyscotherapist talking about electroshock therapy, he said it was the only way for men like me. I refuse to speak to the doctors, they wear blinding white coats and whisper things about me to each other that they write on clipboards. They went through our letters the day I got here and yelled at me for being “disgusting”. I do not care. I think only of Klaus. Whatever they do to me will be nothing to the pain I have already endured.
On my bedside table sits a battered Brownie camera, they sent his other belongings to his mother, but I stuffed the camera down my shirt as they pried me from him that day.  It holds too many sweet memories and secrets for Klaus’ mother’s eyes. Now that he’s gone I can’t believe there was a time when I wanted her to have his things, when I cared about his reputation. It is I who should treasure his possessions into my old age. I am the one with the stories to tell about how I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him and I didn't know it, but I know it doesn’t matter. Not now that he's gone. I am different now, more like the other men. I remember watching them lose themselves. It was haunting the way it would happen suddenly- all at once. The light behind their eyes would disappear one day, their feet would drag, the world once a vibrant painting littered with color and brush strokes turned to charcoal; grey and coarse. I remember trembling with fear when I saw that look on their faces, inhabiting their corpses one by one like a demon, complete possession only perceivable through the eyes. They had been utterly broken, no longer caring for anything or anyone and were thus perfect killing machines, robbed of their humanity by the horrors they had witnessed, by their friends' corpses, their unanswered prayers. I would feel the warmth of Klaus' skin on my own and thank God I was not empty like them.
When he died that world, my one comfort, my immunity to the agonizing hollowness surrounding me, died with him. The world of beauty, acceptance and terrific make-believe, but all I have to do is look through the lens of that camera and it is there. I peer through it and I am staring through Klaus’ eyes upon a dream of a kinder world; one where our love was celebrated and no cannons were fired. Where everyone understood each other and the stars never left the sky. Even in daylight. What a world it is, I wonder at that, if such a place could ever exist. Maybe it did, maybe Klaus was there now, blissfully lost among his precious stars, light years away. The corner of my mouth twitches at the thought of having a piece of Klaus to cherish beside me forever. We will never be apart now.