"The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight, the weight we carry is love."

-Allen Ginsberg

Worcestershire, England 1941

Alan laughed incredulously at his own story, even though it was a painful memory. "That man had the nerve to tell me not to look at him like that because he was definitely not gay." He rolled his eyes and flapped his hands mockingly. "So I replied, "I shall poke my own eyes out, your majesty.""

Alan looked up, into the eyes of Christopher, who listened silently. He clucked his tongue before continuing his story. Not even a chuckle?

He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to heaven, with a hint of a smile. "You should have been there. With your sharp tongue, we could have taught the man a lesson. Just like with Cyril. James, on the other hand, didn't even defend me. Or maybe he was momentarily pained by that remark. With that, I stood up and told James – loud enough for everyone to hear – that he shouldn't count on me sharing the bed with him tonight."

Christopher's blue eyes stared back with deep disappointment. Alan sat down on the grass with a sigh, colouring his grey trousers green.

"Not one of my better actions, I know. I shouldn't have made that poor boy pay because I was hurt."

James Atkins was the first and only person – so far – who had declared his love for him. He had told Chris these stories countless times, but it relieved to have a listening ear.

Alan placed his hands behind him on the damp ground and closed his eyes. In his mind, he was back at university, at a party in the outdoor courtyard. The sweet and sour smell of lemon drizzle cake and above all, the warmth of James' ensuring arms around him.

Followed by the chill he felt when their first kiss, that same day, flashed before his mind's eye. Alan had taken the initiative. He remembered how James' long hair had tickled his nose, the awkwardness and novelty of first love.

Alan opened his eyes again. Love, was it really love when you secretly wished it was someone else's arms around you?

He would never forgive himself for his missed opportunities with James.

"It's a miracle he continued our relationship for so long," he whispered, still guild-ridden. "But somewhere we knew we could never really be together. Like two stars in the sky, knowing from the start that it would end in a blindingly beautiful catastrophe. Doesn't that sound familiar to you, Chris?"

When there was no answer, Alan grabbed a pebble and smashed it against the red wall of the church. Surely the stained-glass window depicting St Christopher would never open its mouth.

And yet. The image of the saint, who bore his friend's name, had been placed at Mrs Morcom's request. It was the closest he could get to Chris. His tombstone was also right next to him in the process. Over the past decades, some moss had wrapped itself around the stone. Not that he neglected the grave, he just knew Chris' love for nature was as great as his own. Now he was one with the earth. Every few years, he would come to lay daisies and fill Chris in on the twists and turns of his life.

"I'm sorry you know," he said in a suddenly serious voice, "I never got a scholarship to Trinity. The place reminded me too much of you and the event after the weekend we spent."

Mourners in the graveyard and visitors to the chapel stared after him, wondering why an almost thirty-year-old man was sulking on the ground like an ill-mannered child. Talking to a wall.

He simply continued. "Besides, King's College was quite a breath of fresh air. No silly rules of behaviour or narrow-minded minds. Apart from that one rotten apple, that is."

He bent towards the grave to stick another daisy between the plaque and the stone.

"Thanks to you, I am now a doctor in mathematics." Although he never used that title, who knew if someone mistook him for an actual doctor, that could lead to embarrassing situations. "The thought of your perseverance, optimism, and mainly your smile, dragged me through. Every single day."

He took his wallet out of his back pocket. "That reminds me." Behind the photo of Chris – which he carried by default – stuck a postcard he had recently received.

"James invited me, to a reunion party at King's." He rubbed his hand along his neck. "Maybe it's not smart to go, what do you think?"

After a long silence, he grinned. "Silence is consent."

Then his attention was diverted from the tombstone. If the cemetery visitors were not already irritated enough by Alan's snickering and laughter, they certainly were by the honking car.

From the ground, Alan could only see a forehead protruding above the stone wall. Still, he knew well enough who just got out of the dark green car and kept pushing the horn impatiently.

It was time. Alan leaned closer to the stone so that he was face-to-face with the plaque. He wondered what Chris would have looked like now. Like a grown man, who had finally gotten his growth spurt? A successful scientist with a beautiful wife by his side? He deserved that and Alan wished he could give him his life.

Now he was the so-called grandiose mathematician, they said. He considered whether it was a mockery.

The horn echoed through the graveyard again. Alan squeezed his eyes shut. The man waiting for him clearly had no decency, though they could say the same about him.

"Did you know I'm working on a secret project, Chris? No one must know about it, not even the dead," he whispered to the grave. Every second he had left with his friend, he would make the most of it.

The honking had stopped, returning the eternal dead silence. As he suspected, it meant that his time with Chris was truly up. The sunlight that once shone so brightly in his eyes was blocked by a red-hot head.

"By now I'm used to you retreating to go hiking in nature, but this place is really the middle of nowhere." Hugh Alexander crossed his arms and looked down with his stern gaze. Those furrowed brows were an occupational deformity; his thinking face had become petrified throughout all the chess games he had played.

"I needed some time to think," Alan said simply, "thanks for picking me up."

Hugh looked from Alan's tearful eyes to the tombstone and back to him. Despite his lack of manners, he still remained a gentleman and asked no further.

"No thanks." He held out his hand and helped his colleague get up. Together they walked towards the hideous bright green car with no roof. "Not to mention I had no choice, it's an hour's drive to Bletchley. Why do you refuse to buy a car anyway, then I wouldn't have to chauffeur you around."

With a loud roar, the engine started, the people in the graveyard seemed to be everything but indignant as the duo disappeared in a trail of smoke.

Alan smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. He had only known Hugh for a few months, yet he felt very familiar. Maths brought them together, just as it did with Chris. "I feel sorry for the clueless souls in the street the day I get behind the wheel."

Hugh laughed along, his hair blowing in the wind as he pushed the accelerator harder. "You're already enough of a thread with that bike of yours and would definitely be late. I don't think Churchill would appreciate it."

Alan's eyes grew big. He had forgotten that today the Prime Minister of England himself was visiting their Hut.

Hugh cursed and kicked at the white tyres, which had now turned brown. "Bloody clay pits."

Alan followed suit and got out of the car to inspect the situation. A single tyre was stuck in a pit, causing major problems for the other three. That perfectly reflected how rotten he felt right now.

"I don't want to pass judgment on your driving skills, because at best they are much better than mine, but couldn't you have followed the road better?"

Hugh stroked his hair back in an attempt to maintain his composure. "And be even more late? Fortunately, I can already see Bletchley Park from here." He put his hand to his forehead and looked at the gigantic mansion, perched on an ominously high hill. They left the car to its temporary fate and set off running.

Alan sprinted up the hill and proverbially still had enough time to devour his afternoon tea and scone before Hugh pantingly reached the top.

"Slow on the uptake, but quick on foot, I see," he said between gasps for breath.

Alan grinned; he trained for running for a reason. It helped him clear his mind – since he didn't bring notebooks with him on his marathons – which didn't always work out anyways. "I need to make up for the time I wasted in school running from the ball."

Again, Hugh laughed. They had now arrived at the red mansion. The many round arches and white panelling did not indicate that it was a hiding place of military intelligence. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Hugh's smile quickly disappeared as he took a closer look at Alan.

Alan followed his eyes down. There were holes in his tweed jacket, the back of his flannel trousers were most likely still green from the grass.

"Lord, are you using an old tie as a belt?"

Alan nodded, at which his colleague clearly lost all hope.

He rubbed his face and muttered between his fingers. "You're impossible."

Alan could not prove him wrong and willingly allowed himself to be dragged along by the other mathematician, who scanned the area as if a new pair of clothes were about to fall from the sky. However, there was no time to fix himself up.

A young lady poked her head through the window and beckoned to them. "Mr Alexander and Mr Turing, thank God." She clutched at her heart, Alan smiled embarrassedly. He had already given Hugh enough heartache for today, one was enough. "I just gave the prime minister a tour, since no one else was present. For now, I locked him in your office- uh I mean left him there." She glanced at the ground with a sour face, everyone was clearly walking on the tips of their toes here.

The two walked in under the circular archway, where the woman was waiting for them. Without a word, she spun around on her heel and started marching.

She wore a chequered vest with a matching pencil skirt. Alan's inquisitive gaze slid upwards. The curly, short blonde hairdo reminded him of Ms Morcom. Though this lady's face had a certain kind of youthfulness and merriness Ms Morcom's lacked.

He bent closer to Hugh, who could barely follow with equally large strides. "Now is that what they call easy on the eye?" Alan's uncertain question was well-intentioned, but was met by a distraught look.

"Now is not the time, don't you think?" hissed Hugh.

He wondered when was the right time, though. The obvious answer was "never". He rolled his eyes and quickened his stride. He just wanted to gain knowledge. And pester Hugh, too.

The clacking sound of her heels on the wooden floor merged with the noise of hundreds of typewriters. The woman who had accompanied them joined the other girls at a long wooden table. She began to gather the pile of papers in a structured manner and hurriedly set her typewriter to the correct starting position. Most of Bletchley was occupied by these ladies, whose job was to convert incoming German messages from Morse code to signs and so much more.

The men continued to wait silently. When her hands flew blindly over the keys and left loud pressing motions, she looked up. Surprised that the duo was still standing there, she nodded towards the door across the hall.

"Sir Winston Churchill is expecting you." She looked at them emphatically. "Immediately."