Archive of Our Own ^beta

A JET RING SENT.

by John Donne

THOU art not so black as my heart,

Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art ;

What would'st thou say ? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,

—Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?

Marriage rings are not of this stuff ;

Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough

Figure our loves ? except in thy name thou have bid it say,

"—I'm cheap, and nought but fashion ; fling me away."

Yet stay with me since thou art come,

Circle this finger's top, which didst her thumb ;

Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me ;

She that, O ! broke her faith, would soon break thee.

"Stamina, Dr. Oppenheimer," The Hungarian offered in an unusually playful lilt, circling the physicist at his coffee table-turned-workbench. 

"It's the…" Dr. Oppenheimer did not seem to care for the other’s tone. He flipped the radio over, grazing his fingers over the metallic casing. Such a model as this–mass-produced and mass-ordered, entirely befitting the hotel lobby they found themselves in–was soldered shut. The task was difficult alone, and damn-near impossible while being hawked down on by another. "The signal ought not lose stamina, when the tower is only…" he trailed off, perplexed. The crease in his brow deepened as he thought, and his cigarette—with a fair bit of ash accumulating—hung loosely from his lips. "This ought not to happen."

"Ought not, eh?" Teller couldn't help but poke a little fun at the latter's linguistic quirks. Though he had claimed fluency over the English language decades ago, Teller latched onto the other man’s words as if he cast each one anew. “What a steadfast position from a scientist-turned-thief! Yes, Robert Oppenheimer, thief!” he teased. Teller had made his way over to the lobby’s piano which sat nearby, his hands collided with it, producing a brief atonal melody before finding their way to the delicate pulse of Beethoven's fourteenth.

The music carried them both for a little while, until Teller arrived at something to say. "We wouldn't want to start a fire, now would we?" he bucked his head towards (what was left) of Oppie's cigarette. No response. "Opje?" 

“No,” the other man answered finally, pulling himself from the radio long enough to flick away a few centimeters of ash. God, Teller exhaled. He traced those delicate fingers with a gaze that betrayed far more than simple curiosity. The way he executes that perfect little gesture, the way he…  his playing had picked up in both volume and pace.

Oppenheimer, as if for the first time in a while, took notice of Teller. He fixed those blue eyes upon his companion and frowned. “You’re playing music.”

“Yes it–it would appear I am,” Teller faltered slightly. He hadn’t expected such a sudden deviation from the script he had finalized so long ago–about 15 minutes, give or take.  “You know this?” Teller asked, already anticipating an answer in the negative.

Oppenheimer furrowed his brow. “Beethoven? I would–I would not count him among the names lost to the pages of–” sensing his temper slipping, Oppenheimer pulled his arms close to his chest, as if tying himself into a knot. The cigarette thankfully made its way to his lips, and breathed a moment of calm into the man. “At a time like this, Edward?” He exhaled, his anger retreating. Ostentation in a time like this? 

“What? Is it such a crime?” A brief light entered Teller’s eyes as he continued his playing. “When a man is under stress…perhaps even scared,” He had picked up on the nervous, expectant air Oppenheimer had plunged them both into. “He can’t help but make a little music.” Teller sighed in an attempt to suffocate the chuckle he’d let slip.

“A little music?”

“Yes,” he breathed heavily through his nose, allowing his accent to curl around the phrase: “ Sonata quasi una fantasia.” 

Oppenheimer's eyes narrowed. For a moment neither spoke. 

“You know,” Oppenheimer began, directing his attention back to the radio casing. “If I didn’t know any better, I might say you were elated.” 

Teller’s hands jumped from the keys. “What? No,” He shook his head, making sure his voice remained in a worried tone “No, no, no. Elated? Forget about it, Opje…” the younger of the two chided. “You could not imagine how I am feeling right now.”

“The fourteenth is a composition that howls of romance and moonlight,” Oppie said flatly. “Of swans and lakes and–oh, hell!” he let his cigarette fall into the ashtray. A sharp corner of aluminum had sliced into the space between his index finger and thumb. He pressed his hand to his chest and winced. “Christ,” he hissed.

“What have you done?” Teller rose to his feet, plucking the handkerchief out of his breast pocket. “Oh Opje,” he cooed “You must be careful with these hands,” he kneeled on his good leg and eased Oppenheimer’s hand into his own. Oppie’s palm opened like a flower, with an arborescent stream of red staining his thin, pale skin. Lick it. Teller swore he could see Oppenheimer’s veins flex and pull with each gentle beat of his heart. I wonder what he tastes like. Of course there would be iron, but a sweetness as well. A sweetness made for me, a sweetness that only I could notice. Yes, something of his to be cherished, something to be celebrated by my faculties alone. Teller imagined pressing his lips to the cut in a kiss, then running his tongue across it, as if this single gesture could assuage all of Oppie’s pain–and more.

“It shouldn't be bleeding anymore,” Oppie interrupted. Whatever electricity was rushing through Teller must have been confined to him alone, an observation corroborated by Oppenheimer's curt withdrawal. “Thank you,” he mumbled, paying little mind to Teller’s handiwork before returning to the radio. Teller stood with the handkerchief still firmly in hand, casting not one, but two glances at the red splotch that had blossomed into the cloth. Such pain for such triviality. His brow creased as he watched the other man work. Why do you care so much about that piece of junk?

“Are you sure you should be doing this? You’re gutting the poor thing. How do you know you’re not just making it worse?” His brows still knitted with concern. If he cuts himself again, if he spills more blood, if this fabric is saturated, I... Teller saw himself suckling desperately at Oppenheimer’s impromptu stigmata, drinking him down, staining his tongue from the taste.

“Opje?” Teller realized that his words hadn’t registered. The Hungarian took a bolder approach, placing his left hand upon the radio. “Opje, look at me.” 

Oppenheimer, temporarily arrested by the gesture, frowned. “Where is your wedding ring?” 

Edward’s eyes flashed some mean and abrupt color. “What do you mean?” He gave Oppenheimer a chance to rephrase, as well as to regain his own footing.

“The ring,” he replied, ignoring Teller’s gaze. “The ones you and Mici…”

Teller withdrew his hand. “We do not wear them,” he scoffed, as if there had never been any indication otherwise. “We agreed not to.” 

Oppenheimer’s brow furrowed as he searched his mind for any instance of Mici Teller without a modest strip of gold on her finger. “You’re lying.”

“Lying! Why would I lie about something so–so–so frivolous, Opje? What reason would I have to take off my wedding ring and then lie about it? Tell me,” Teller’s voice carried the concern of a doctor, yet the warmth of a friend; a dangerous combination, especially from him. Oppenheimer knew this and kept his mouth pressed in a tight line.

“Well?” Teller invited. He must know how mad he sounds…between this and the radio…

“I don't know,” Oppenheimer replied quietly. “I don’t know what conditions turn a man into a liar.”

Teller’s teeth sank deeper into his bottom lip. “What about your ring, Opje?” he snarled, making some broad gesture towards Oppenheimer’s left hand. “You don’t wear yours. Is it so impossible that I don’t wear mine?”

“Yes! Yes it is!” Oppenheimer’s voice erupted like a sudden clap of thunder. “You have always worn your wedding ring. I am not an idiot, Edward, and it is certainly not within your power to try and convince me of the contrary.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Opje,” Teller quickly put in, his stern and stalwart air returning. His words slowed as he gave the two a moment to breathe. “Oh, look at us, Opje–is this really us? Quarreling over something as meaningless as jewelry?” Teller softened as he placed the affronting hand on Oppenheimer's shoulder. “You’re nervous, you need a distraction. I understand, but this...” he waved the same hand in some vague sort of way. "Surely it is not worth more than our many years of companionship.”

Oppenheimer stared blankly into the malignancies overshadowing his friend’s eyes. He lost sight of Teller as calculations populated his field of vision. Edward wears his wedding band. He took it off because…because why? Surely, he knows that a ring isn’t some scrap of metal, it’s a promise, a vision, an ashtray on a mahogany table, a stack of dishes in a soapstone sink, a whiff of nail varnish in the late afternoon, a pair of hands willing to straighten your tie, a… Oppenheimer brought his thumb to where his ring should have been. Oh, how he regretted not wearing his! Any proof–no matter how minute–would have been sufficient to pull him out of this Tellerian abyss. What he needed was an escape, a sign that arrived in a sudden gust of radio static. 

Any and all concerns over Teller immediately left Oppenheimer’s mind as he lunged back to the machine. “The military–” A pause louder than anything they could have anticipated followed. “We are being told that–” the voice, soulless as it may have been, seemed unsure of its convictions. “It would appear–” The signal vanished entirely; no static, only a silence that seemed to shrink the space between their four walls. Oppenheimer stared at the machine with desperation, begging it to work, but it was no use. The radio was dead. Entirely in spite of himself, Oppie turned the same reverential and pathetic face he’d given the radio to Teller and let slip some sort of confused, pathetic gasp. He looked positively beautiful like this.

Teller’s lips revealed a small, ecstatic grin. “How you’re breaking my heart with that sad expression. Whatever signal that was, Opje, it was a whole lot of nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing, Edward! Do you even care that the world could–” he collapsed inward like a star, choking on his words as his face fell into his hands. Saying it out loud proved too much to bear, especially as his wounds–both mental and physical–began to ache. Teller couldn’t have that just yet; he needed Oppie here for at least a little longer.

“Say,” Teller put his hand on Oppie’s elbow and rubbed softly. The warmth of the other man was delicious but he needed more; he needed Oppie hopeful, or at least removed from such morbid certainties. “Why don’t we go to the roof? We would have a better chance at getting a signal, no?”

Oppenheimer lifted his head, his defined nose angled firmly towards the other man. His eyes–bright, blue, and wet with emotion–glossed over Teller with some semblance of recognition. So my little Opje’s been moved to tears. Good . 

“Yes...” Wheels began to turn, and Oppenheimer sprang suddenly back to life. “Yes! Oh, Edward, that's–oh!” Never, in peacetime or otherwise, had Teller heard Oppenheimer’s voice ring with such gaiety. “Yes. Oh, Edward, that’s–” his lips moved, but words failed to precipitate. Either way, neither physicist seemed to care. Oppenheimer hoisted the radio into his arms, cradling as if it were one of his children, perhaps he needed to pretend it was. Oppie started towards the hotel’s vacant service stairwell. Teller followed a few paces behind, watching with the perspicacity of a predator as Oppenheimer made his ascent, though it was a genuine care that kept his arms relaxed, ready to accept the other man should he lose his footing and come tumbling down. It’s adorable, really, Teller was practically humming to himself. How little it takes to put the life back in him … He commended himself on both his scientific and social intuition, watching as Oppenheimer’s excitement cut in and out with the periodic buzzes and whirrs of the broken radio. Things had often come to pass like this; how many times had Teller stood beyond a beaming Oppenheimer, lagging behind him in publications, notoriety, respect and acclaim. He had spent a lifetime in the other man’s shadow, and was in it still–but Teller could sense things would soon be changing. The atom bomb and everything that preceded it was obsolete. They had entered the age of the technocracy, a strange and mysterious epoch where utility surpassed science, application trumping passion. Oppenheimer had resisted giving name to this strange new world. To recognize it would be to submit to it–to relinquish any right to the world over which Oppie reigned. A terrifying thought seized the physicist at once: this new world, this was not of his doing. It was Teller’s. He looked down at the larger man, huffing his way up the stairs with a slight grin.

For whatever reason, Teller was reminiscing. Replaying their choice moments in his head, right from the very beginning. Laying in the sun outside of San Francisco, his hands in Oppie’s curls, fumbling on the beach in La Jolla, heated arguments in Los Alamos. Teller imagined stepping inside Oppenheimer’s skin, loving him, fucking him, needing him, bleeding him, tearing him apart and nursing him back to health. He saw them together as old men, happy, paging through a wealth of shared memories. He saw a prophet and a heretic, a martyr and her pyre. He saw protons and neutrons, atoms splitting and reforming, shapeless and unknowable, yet powerful and real. Reality and fantasy had begun to blur on these stairs, memory becoming prediction, the end becoming the beginning. What was real? What was false?

Teller had fallen behind slightly having been distracted by his own imaginings and caught up with Oppenheimer near the final leg of their ascent. “I think,” Oppie had paused on the penultimate landing with the radio pressed firmly to his ear. His voice rang of hope, of freedom. Such naivety warmed Teller’s heart. “I think it’s okay. Just a scare. The general told us that the modus operandi includes a warning fr–” a sudden blast sent shockwaves through the building. The lights shot out as pieces of the ceiling fell towards the floor. Oppenheimer fell forwards onto Teller who, charged with both sturdiness and foresight, accepted both Oppenheimer and the radio into his arms. He held the taller man close, shielding him from the debris that only narrowly missed them. Oppenheimer, the perfect, trembling shape that he was, fit nicely against Teller’s chest. Half a minute passed in silence before the lights returned, swaying as they cast a single, amalgamated shadow against the barren walls. The heartbeats of the two physicists had all but synchronized by the time they pulled apart. Oppenheimer said nothing. His mouth had opened though no noise escaped. His eyes darted between the walls in what could have been a fit of mania–a mania which melted into confusion, but sank, like lead, into a hefty shade of grief. For a moment Teller felt as if he were a successful hunter, having ensnared a wily little hare. He could picture it clearly: the rabbit, with blood coagulating in its fur, fated to force and ritual entirely above its feeble comprehension. Teller noted the horror etching itself into Oppenheimer’s brow. Their eyes met, and Teller found the other man entirely unconsoled. What does he fear more? Me, or my creation? Rather than give the Hungarian an opportunity to utter a phrase out of place, Oppenheimer snatched the radio into his arms and took off running. He stumbled once, catching himself against the railing, and again a few steps later, though Teller had eased his way near-enough behind Oppie to place a hand on his waist and kept him steady, to ensure he abounded up the remaining set of stairs, pushing him forward, there was something awaiting them outside that could not be missed. Teller liked this; a certain buoyancy carried him at a pace well-suited for his prey.

The pair were met by a thick metal door when they reached the top of the stairs. Teller, rather than lead them into the next phase of their journey, snaked his arm around Oppenheimer’s waist. Holding him steady, holding him in place. My poor little Opje . The radio Oppenheimer had so-labored over hit the ground with a clamor. His face showed little emotion beyond stone-faced bravery. It was admirable, really, how Oppie could always manage to pick himself up. How long could he last like this? 

Oppenheimer gripped the handle but didn’t move immediately. Teller studied the door and saw that it was still shaking slightly, he watched as the vibrations moved through and up Oppie's arm, settling into his heart. Oppenheimer opened the door with a single swift motion. A warm gust of wind rushed into the room, wuthering and inviting, encouraging the men to step forward. In one feverish and kaleidoscopic instant a new world had been born; world of color.

Oppenheimer stumbled out as Teller strode beside him, arm fixed to Oppie's thin waist. The sky was scintillating, weaving itself into brilliant suggestions of hue and form. Yellows, as meek as they were, exploded into rich aberrations of orange, these then sank into a viscous red which, despite its intensity, did not clash with the purples and greens that crowned the landscape. Smoke pooled across the sky, just as blood gathers in a bruise, and Teller wondered if squinting would give one a better chance of spotting Apollo as he inaugurated this fantastic display.

The yield was…remarkable. Teller’s lips curled into a sinister grin. The numbers made sense, yes…a fantastic display of light, and only a small fraction of it along the visible spectrum. Oh this was fantastic. This was perfect. Teller very nearly clapped his hands in delight. Trinity was one thing–a novelty, a naive set of hopes, a mere proof of concept. This–this fantastic interplay of light and heat was practically cataphatic. His delight surprised him, as the blast only affirmed what he had known all along: he was the creator, the master, this was his .

Teller was torn from his ecstasy by a frail hand on his shoulder. It was Oppenheimer, Teller had almost forgotten he was here, looking as delicate and porcelain as ever. He collapsed into Teller’s arms, grasping at fabric, skin, hair, pressing his face into the heavier man’s chest, sobbing, weeping, in a way unlike anything Teller had ever heard from another living being. His grief was unimaginable, appropriate, offensive, divine. He felt Oppenheimer's legs give out, but that was of little consequence, Teller made sure to keep him supported. He rested his cheek against the top of Oppie’s head, closing his eyes so as the gesamtkunstwerk of the moment might better engulf him. He strengthened his embrace of the other physicist. Oppenheimer was much smaller than he looked; Teller felt the contours of his body beneath his suit, his feeble frame having gone entirely limp. Teller was at his apex; his science–his art–and his prized possession, all here, all together, all melding within a light over 800 times brighter than a desert sun. It was everything he had hoped for and more. He lost sense of himself and kissed the top of Oppenheimer’s head. If Oppie had noticed, he made no indication as his weeping continued, heart-wrenching, hiccuping, beautiful.

A minute or two passed and Oppenheimer lulled himself into a steady succession of gasps. He mustered the strength to stand, disengaging himself from the tangled embrace. Teller looked at him. Oppenheimer’s aquiline nose was set downwards, while the light caught those long lashes wet and shining with the confidence of a new sun. Teller smiled softly. “My poor, poor Opje,” He brought a thick hand to Oppenheimer's cheek and brushed away his tears. Teller kept his hand where it was, rubbing slow circles with the pad of his thumb. Oppenheimer swallowed. He exhaled once, his body nearly going slack again, as he brought his eyes to Teller’s. The men looked at each other in silence. Oppenheimer blinked away his welling tears before turning towards the fiery bloom. 

Oppenheimer’s acceptance of his new life–their new god–evaporated Teller’s self-restraint. He wrapped his arms around Oppenheimer, pulling their bodies together as if the lighter man might slip away. He smothered his cheek with frantic kisses. Oppenheimer squirmed on instinct but quickly thought the better of it. The hare, understanding its struggle to be futile, no longer struggled under the hunter’s boot. Teller planted kisses along his cheek bone, the corner of his eye, on his forehead. He loved him, he loved every piece of him. He had loved him for so long, since the moment they had met, and perhaps even years before. He loved him with a sickness. He had spent so many years craving him. Anger, adoration, resentment, worship, jealousy, exaltation. Teller burned as brightly as ever. Every emotion Oppenheimer had produced in Teller was finally bursting. He paused his onslaught of kisses briefly to admire Oppenheimer's face. Oh, how beautiful he was! This was the face Teller had imagined waking next to, the face he imagined smiling at him, for him. He saw it in expressions of ecstasy, sorrow, contempt, pity, admiration. It was too much, it was all too much. Teller kissed Oppenheimer properly for the first and last time. Teller, kind as he was, made sure it was gentle; there was so much he had to make clear, and so quickly, too. Oppenheimer didn’t react, he allowed it to happen, allowed the strangeness of the situation to bloom within and around him. The world was changing, and Oppenheimer kissed back. It was not passionate, but pure. Pure as science, pure as the bomb. Edward Teller and Robert Oppenheimer dissolved together.