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Determination
Will cannot say he is determined to win the war.
He does not know why they are fighting; no one seems to know. Some Archduke got shot, and suddenly the Germans were menacing all of Europe, just a breath away from English shores.
He loves his country just as much as the next bloke, but he doesn’t think he needs to die to prove that love. Frankly, if he felt he had had a choice, he wouldn’t have enlisted at all. He would have stayed home, would have continued his studies, would have helped Sarah out with the girls. But Richard had come home the day the war began and told them that he planned to enlist.
“I would rather go fight the damn Germans on their land than let them come here,” he says when Sarah protests her husband’s decision. “I can’t stand the thought of them coming to London, of you and the girls being under attack.”
He reaches across the table and clasps his wife’s hand, solemn and decided. Tears well in her eyes.
“I have to protect you,” he continues, low and earnest. “I have to keep them away from here.”
“But who will protect you?” she asks, voice thick, and the words echo in the small space.
Releasing a heavy breath, Will draws himself up. “I will,” he says, trying to look certain, to look confident in his decision.
Relief and fear cloud Sarah’s face. Her hand clenches around her husband’s, fingers pale from the strength of her grip.
She nods, resigned, and reaches for his hand as well. “Please keep him safe. Please keep each other safe.”
Will knows it is a false promise. There are no guarantees in war. “I will,” he tells her.
No, Will is not determined to win the war, but he is determined to survive.
Sorrow
He tries not to drag out the goodbyes. He’s never much cared for them. Even when he was a young child, he hated saying goodbye. Even more so after his father died.
Charlotte cries, and Georgie keeps asking why papa and Uncle Will both have to leave.
Will pulls them close, one by one. He presses kisses to their dark hair, tries not to crush them with the force of his hug, and gives their hands a squeeze before stepping away.
Saying goodbye to Sarah is easier and harder.
She does not cry. Not yet.
Lips twisting, she tugs him into a fierce embrace, and he goes easily. He feels young once more, young and small. The little brother not just in age but in size. It reminds him of their childhood, when their mother would spend the day working to make sure they had dinner on the table, and Sarah would look after Will, would keep him out of the worst trouble and bandage his cuts and scrapes.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, one hand around his waist, the other in his hair. His head rests on her shoulder, and he can smell the soft perfume she wears, the same scent their mother preferred. “Thank you.”
He withdraws, sees the understanding in her eyes, and nods, once.
Finished, he turns away to give them space to say goodbye. He is a brother and an uncle. Richard is a husband and a father. Will imagines the sorrow of parting is tenfold what he now feels.
Boredom
Before enlisting, Schofield had never given much thought to what it would be like to serve in a war.
All the stories he knew came from history books and old men reminiscing at the pub or café. Each story was glorious, triumphant, humorous, or vulgar.
None of them ever spoke of monotonous days spent beneath the hot August sun, running drill after drill. None of them bemoaned the lack of books, the inability to escape the warfront by reading a good Dickens or Brontë novel. None of them told of the food that was the same day in and day out: stale, watered down, unappetizing.
Lots of the men gather in large circles to play cards or tell jokes. They swap stories about their girls back home, each trying to one up the other.
Schofield loses interest quickly and wanders away, finding a decent-sized tree he can lean against and watch the sunlight fade. When his brain feels like it might melt from lack of use, he tries to remember algebraic equations and scientific theories. He recites poems he memorized for class and rehearses the dates of major historical events.
It is not enough, but it staves off the boredom.
Terror
His first battle is messy, confusing, and frightening.
Men run all around him, and shells fall from the sky like deadly raindrops. His pulse beats loudly, pounding against his skull and the backs of his eyes. He clutches his gun close, bayonet fixed just like they taught him, and follows orders.
He runs and shoots, dodges and dives.
By the end of the day, he is exhausted, but each time his eyes shut, he can see Johnson with a bullet through his shoulder or Houldsworth laid low by a shell. He vomits when he remembers the shrapnel protruding from Watson’s side, and the men near him grimace in sympathy.
Terror is his constant companion for that week at the Marne, and it lingers after the Germans retreat, after they get shovels and orders to dig, after they carve the French countryside into miles and miles of trenches.
Frustration
Schofield hates the stalemate of the Western Front.
They squabble over inches, let men die for a few feet. They gain a hundred yards, only to lose them a week later.
His company becomes a revolving door as the injured head for medical tents and fresh recruits arrive to take their place.
It all feels rather pointless, and it frustrates him. It leaves an itch under his skin, a nervous energy that has no outlet.
Distance
He gets his first leave fifteen months in. He is one of the last.
“I know it’s been a while, Private,” his Lance Corporal says. “It’s just that they wanted to make sure the men with wives or kids were given priority.”
Schofield shrugs and accepts the letter.
He boards a ship the next day and finds himself back in London by the evening.
It’s a different world.
In years past, the streets would be packed with men hurrying home to their families, vendors shouting out prices for clothing or pastries, families heading for the park, and couples strolling arm in arm.
Now, a silence rests over the city, heavy and oppressive. Shops sit vacant, and parks lie empty.
His sister and nieces greet him with bright smiles and exuberant hugs, and he does his best to return them, careful because he fears he has forgotten how to be gentle.
The girls tell him stories about school and the stray cat they found in the alley two houses over. They present him with small scones they made, a few precious fruits dotted throughout, and watch with rapt attention as he takes a first bite.
“Delicious,” he assures them, though the bottom is brown and the center a bit doughy. “First class work.”
They smile, delighted, and Sarah gives him a grateful look.
He spends three days at home, and each feels endless.
He loves the girls, loves his sister, but he feels out of place in their cozy home. It’s like the mud and muck of the trenches followed him back, dirtying everything he touches.
When his leave ends, he feels (shamefully) relieved.
He thinks he understands Richard better now, understands his desire to keep a distance between his family and the war.
Impatience
They haven’t done much in the last month.
They’ve dug more trenches, replaced duck boards in the old ones, laid fresh wire, and run drills Schofield could lead, if he were crazy enough to want that responsibility.
Nothing has happened recently, and Schofield thinks he might go crazy from it.
He’s restless. They all are.
Impatience is dangerous in a warzone though.
Horror
The Marne is child’s play compared to the Somme.
Although the officers try to keep it quiet, word spreads quickly about the slaughter of the first day. Tens of thousands of men dead. Many more injured.
The numbers send a chill through Schofield, leave him cold and empty.
Over the four, interminable months, he watches most of his company disappear. To the medical tents, the hospitals, the pitted fields of no man’s land.
He stops asking the new recruits for their names. It is not easier, but it is simpler.
His dreams are swirls of black and red, burning hot and icy cold, filled with the moans of dying men and the explosion of artillery shells.
He opens his eyes and sees the same.
Hell on Earth, they say. A horror previously unseen.
Anger
He gets a medal and a promotion for surviving.
He doesn’t want either, but they won’t let him refuse, can’t let him refuse with all the new recruits pouring in, young men who “need leadership and guidance”.
He pawns the medal as quickly as he can, trades it out for a bottle of French wine that helps him forget for one night.
He can’t pawn his new title, but he makes it clear that he isn’t going to be the new privates’ friend. He gruffly introduces himself, gets them settled in tents, and promptly leaves to find his chosen tree, far from the raucous laughter and jokes of the other men.
He stews beneath the trees. Angry at the levity the men can show. Angry at the officers for welcoming fresh-faced young men to their deaths. Angry at a god he feels has forgotten them.
Annoyance
When he can’t shake one of the new privates, he is confused.
Schofield has never been one to kid himself. He wasn’t the most popular boy before the war, not even close, and two and a half years in uniform has done little to change that. In the beginning, his fellow soldiers would try to draw him into conversation or card games, but after a while, the invitations petered out.
“He’s been here since the beginning,” they say.
“He fought in the Somme. Thiepval.”
“He got a medal.”
Every man has a way of coping with the stress of war, and they let him have his.
Well, most of them.
“Lance Corporal Schofield,” the now familiar voice calls, and Schofield can practically see the eager smile that accompanies the words. “Fancy finding you here.”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even twitch in response.
Grass crunches beneath the private’s boots as he circles for a moment before finding an acceptable spot and flopping to the ground. It reminds Schofield of a puppy, an overgrown, overly friendly puppy.
“Did you hear about the problems the lads are having over in the Fifth? Apparently they dug a trench too deep and hit a spring.”
Schofield wants to sleep. He wants peace and quiet.
Private Thomas Blake seems unfamiliar with either, and Schofield feels a bit ashamed of the annoyance that arises each time the private comes around.
Reluctance
Private Blake is persistent. Schofield thinks he could will the Germans into surrender with his sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness.
“You know,” the private says, sharing his thoughts, unsolicited as he is wont to do, “Lance Corporal Schofield takes far too long to say. And Schofield isn’t that much better.”
Schofield frowns. There’s nothing wrong with his name.
“Schofield,” Private Blake repeats. “Schofield,” he says again, dragging it out. “Yeah, that’s a right mouthful. Can I just call you Scho? Much simpler if you ask me. One syllable, easy as pie to pronounce.”
Schofield’s frown deepens.
“Oh, don’t be such a crotchety old man, Scho. If you hold that face for too long, it’ll stay permanent.”
“Maybe then they’ll think I’m too old for this war and send me home,” Schofield can’t help but snap.
Blake lets out a laugh, surprised and delighted, and he sinks further into the ground beside Schofield. “Was that a sense of humor, Scho? I didn’t know you were capable of such a feat.”
With great reluctance, Schofield snorts, amused, and he can practically feel the grin that stretches across Blake’s face.
Fondness
“Scho,” Blake whines, “I think my stomach is going to eat itself.”
Eyes still firmly shut, Scho replies, “You have to be properly starving for that to happen.”
“But I am starving!” Blake protests. “Right, proper starving, too.”
Scho’s head lolls to the side, and he cracks a single eye open to look at his companion. His eyes scan over the round cheeks and soft belly, the fat that still clings despite hard training and low rations. “I think your cheeks are a bit too full for anyone to believe that,” he quips.
A rosy blush colors said cheeks, and Blake makes a dismissive noise. “That’s just how my face is,” he blusters. “I’ve got a round skull. I can’t help it.”
Fondness washes through Scho, and he shakes his head. “You don’t know anything about anatomy, do you?”
Blake levers himself up to his elbows. “Are you about to brag about your posh education again? Are you mocking my humble country roots? Scho, that’s not very nice. I’m your friend, and you should be nice to me.”
Care
After a week of warmth, a cold front sweeps through in late February, and Scho finds himself shivering in the mud, blanket clutched around his shoulders.
The world outside his tent is quiet, muted. It’s like the chill has frozen them all.
He thinks of Blake on watch, hovering behind the parapets, cold because he never buttons his jacket all the way.
Another shiver wracks him, and he curls in on himself, knees to his chest as he clutches his thin blanket close.
A gust of wind sweeps through the tent, and he sits up, worried that the flap has come loose. Blake is crouched in the entrance, fingers trembling as he undoes his belt so he can crawl inside.
“Scho,” Blake murmurs between blue lips, “did I wake you? Sorry, sorry.” He lets out a frustrated groan. “I just can’t get this damned buckle undone. My fingers won’t listen to me.”
Scho watches him struggle for another minute before he leans forward and gently knocks Blake’s hands aside. “You really should keep your hands under your arms when you’re on watch in the cold. It’ll keep them warm.”
Blake nods. “I know. I just, I forget, you know.”
The leather slides through the buckle, and Scho eases the belt off Blake, tossing it to the side before scooting back to give Blake entrance.
“Thanks,” Blake mumbles. “You’re a life saver.”
Scho hums in reply.
“Fucking freezing,” Blake mutters as he pulls his blanket around him. “Thought winter had passed. It’s supposed to be warm now.
“The weather’s unpredictable at the best of times,” Scho says, concern furrowing his brow as Blake’s lips stay a worrying shade of blue.
Blake chuckles. “Right, of course. I forgot we’ve got a meteorologist among us.” He says the title slowly, mouth and tongue shaping the word Scho had taught him one day after he had mocked Scho for commenting on the consistency of snow in France in January.
Scho hums again. Blake’s skin is pale; even his cheeks have faded to a dusky pink instead of red.
“You forgotten how to speak again?” Blake asks through a yawn. “Typical Scho.”
“You’re cold,” Scho replies.
“Well aren’t you bright?” Blake teases.
“No,” Scho says, not in reply but in objection. “You’re too cold. Your fingers won’t work. You’re pale. Your lips are blue. You’re too cold.”
Blake shrugs, the movement jerky with each shudder that overtakes him. “It’s a bit nippy out there, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Scho mouth turns down. “Come here,” he says, lifting his blanket without a thought.
Blake slits one eye open. “Too cold to move,” he answers, honest and serious, and Scho feels his heart clench.
Blanket in hand, he shuffles forward, slides beneath Blake’s cover, and tosses his own over them. “Keep your hands between us,” he says. “And try not to spread out. Most of your heat comes from your core, so you want to keep everything close to there.”
Blake lays his hands between them, knuckles brushing Scho’s jacket, and he shimmies forward until his face is pressed to Scho’s neck, nose cold and shocking.
“Christ,” Scho gasps. “You’re freezing, mate.”
Blake nods, and his chill lips graze skin. Cold as ice. “You’re warm,” he murmurs. “It’s nice.”
With great care, Scho hooks an arm around Blake’s waist and tugs him closer, drifting off to the sound of Blake’s breathing.
Worry
As soon as General Erinmore gives them their assignment, a weight drops heavy in Scho’s stomach.
This is insanity.
They have to cross no man’s land, have to slip through German-infested territory to deliver a message worth sixteen hundred lives.
It is folly, pure folly.
But Blake accepts. Of course he bloody accepts, and Scho can’t fault him for it. If it was Richard’s division, he would accept without question.
So he understands, but that doesn’t stop the worry from filling him up, thick and choking.
Fear
He shoots.
He doesn’t even remember lifting his gun.
His helmet lies abandoned by the well. The German is at his feet, dead. And Blake—
He tries to stand, but his legs give out, and Scho rushes towards him.
There’s blood, so much blood. It soaks into Blake’s coat, stains his hands—stains their hands.
Scho can hardly think. He wants to throw up from the warm blood. He wants to scream at the sky in some poor imitation of a prayer and demand that god save Blake. He wants to tell Blake that no, he isn’t dying. No, everything will be okay. The barn is on fire. A plane crashed here. There’s no way someone hasn’t noticed and sent troops to take stock of the situation.
“Yes,” he says instead, “I think you are,” and fear clogs his throat.
Nothing
There is no color left in Blake’s cheeks. He is white, grey almost.
Scho knows what it means. He does. He does.
But it’s so much easier to push that aside, to deny it for a little longer because he has a mission. He has a mission to save Blake’s brother, and he must complete it. He must. He can’t lose another—
He swallows down bile and follows Captain Smith to the truck. He can hear the medic looking over Blake, making hopeless noises.
Numb, he climbs into the truck, sits with the other men, and feels as though he is falling into a pit of nothingness.
Infinite, empty, and black.
Panic
When he can’t push through the men, he climbs over the trench walls. It’s foolish, thoughtless, reckless.
But the attack has already begun. He was supposed to save sixteen hundred, and that count is quickly dropping.
He runs.
Men pass him, guns in hand. Shells fall around him, sending up dirt and grass. Cries of pain fill the air.
He runs.
He has to find him. He has to.
He has a message, a message for Colonel Mackenzie, very important, very urgent.
Let him through. Let him in.
He needs to speak with Colonel Mackenzie.
“Let me through!” he shouts. “Let me through!” Desperate and panicked.
Fury
Mackenzie’s words ring in his ears, and Schofield feels heat slither beneath his skin.
The man watches him with cold eyes like he wants to see Schofield react, wants to know that his words have hit home. He steps away, and Schofield bites his tongue.
“Have someone see to your wounds,” Mackenzie orders, and Schofield becomes aware of the pounding in his head and the throbbing in his hand once more. “Now fuck off, Lance Corporal.”
Fury burns through Schofield, white-hot.
Anguish
He leans against the tree and draws in a shuddering breath, eyes falling closed.
The sun shines across the fields, beaming and bright and golden. Laughter drifts on the air, heavy with relief. A breeze rustles the tall grass and tousles Schofield’s hair.
He needs to leave soon, needs to go see the medic, needs to find a way back to the Eighth. This is just another day on the warfront, another day in the trenches. There will be more orders, more plans, more lives lost in senseless violence. Schofield’s message saved them today, but someone else’s could end them tomorrow.
A sob rattles through him, soundless but jolting, and he curls his hands into fists, crosses his arms in front of him, and lets his head fall forward.
Another cry escapes his lips. Then another.
He muffles them in the thick material of his jacket, bites at the fabric to keep from shouting in outrage. Outrage over Mackenzie’s callousness. Outrage for the men, who tremble and cry, but are pushed over the trenches and sent into battle. Outrage at the injustice of this day.
He made it. He, William Schofield, crawled through no man’s land, crossed the German front line, survived a cave in and a shooting, jumped into a river, and ran over an active trench. He faced the cruelty of war, of Germans taught to hate him, of officers who never learned to care, and he lived to tell the tale.
Though he never will.
Never.
He rarely speaks of the Somme, of the Marne.
But he will never speak of this. Not to anyone.
He presses a scream into his arms. Falls apart.
His chest feels like it’s collapsing, his heart rending in two.
But that’s not true.
That’s not true.
Because he left his heart at a farmhouse in the French countryside, left it near a barn burning to the ground. He dragged it to a patch of grass, facing the cherry trees, and left it there to die.
He left it to die.
He left Blake to die.
Tom.
Anguish pours through him. Torrential, blinding, too much to bear.
Grief
When he returns to the Eighth, it’s like he was never gone at all.
That’s not true. Of course that’s not true.
He has a still-tender wound on the back of his head, a bandage wrapped tightly around his hand, and a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it, stuffed in his tin.
He was gone for seven days. One spent running through hell, the other six spent recovering.
Well, recovering as best he could. His head wound has scabbed over, and the infection in his hand has run its course. But the ache in his chest still sits heavy and painful, fresh and raw.
“Schofield, welcome back,” the Sergeant says. “Glad to have you with us once more.”
Schofield nods because he has nothing to say.
“Potter,” the Sergeant barks at a nearby soldier, “get Schofield sorted. With all those new recruits, I’m not sure where we have a free bed or tent.”
Potter hops to his feet and snaps a quick salute, before waving for Schofield to follow him. With a parting nod for the Sergeant, Schofield follows after the private, eyes trained on the dull brown of his uniform as they pass his company.
“So Schofield,” Potter says, peering over his shoulder curiously, “didn’t you have some special mission to go on? Something from the General?”
Schofield blinks at him, and he seems to take it as confirmation.
“Didn’t someone go with you? That chatty fellow? Blake, wasn’t it?”
Schofield curls his hands into fists, nails biting into the meat of his palms.
“Where is he? Why hasn’t he returned with you?” He looks back again and gives Schofield a quick up-down. “You look a bit banged up. Did he have it worse? Still on the mend?”
Schofield remains silent.
“You probably ran into some nasty shit. It’s been what? A week since you left? More than that? Yeah, must have been crazy.”
“Where is my tent?” Schofield asks. He is too weary for small talk, too exhausted for storytelling.
Potter frowns; Schofield can see the way it pulls at his cheeks and wrinkles his brow. He should apologize. He should.
“Right over here,” Potter mutters with a duck of his head. “You’ll be sharing with Fuller.”
A man near the tent lifts his head at the mention of his name, and Schofield recognizes him in a vague sort of way. Fuller has been with the company longer than Potter but shorter than—well, yes.
Fuller tips his head at Schofield, and Schofield dips his chin in reply.
“Well,” Potter says, “if that’s it, I’ll be on my way. Welcome back, Schofield.”
He strides away, leaving Schofield and Fuller across from each other, a warm breeze floating through the air. Fuller looks Schofield up and down, takes in the bandaged hand and sagging shoulders, and seems to understand.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Schofield doesn’t know what he is sorry for. The mission? The injuries? Blake’s absence?
Grief clogs Schofield’s throat, and he leaves, slogging through the trodden grass to the edge of camp, where he finds a tree and settles down, fingers already sliding beneath his jacket to brush the cool metal of his tin.
Confusion
He gets a letter and a promotion within two weeks.
(He got a medal a week after his return, but he had thrown it into the golden fields as soon as he was out of sight, flinging the scrap of metal far, far away before it burned him.)
“I don’t understand,” he tells the captain, fingers numb around the small letter. “What do you mean I’m moving companies?”
The Captain shrugs and gestures at the letter. “Everything is explained there, Schofield. I can’t give you any answers because I don’t have any.”
Schofield stares at the letter in disbelief. “But the Second, sir? I don’t understand. Why would they send me there? Why—Who would—” He snaps his mouth shut when the Captain raises a hand.
“Schofield,” he says with tired patience, “I don’t know. This came from higher up. I’m just following orders.”
Frowning, Schofield tucks the letter into his pocket and salutes the Captain, who returns it and dismisses him.
“Schofield,” he calls out when Schofield is almost out of the tent. He turns back with a raised brow. “Congratulations, Sergeant.”
Nodding, Schofield ducks out of the tent, confusion swirling in his gut.
Ache
He climbs out of the truck and blinks against the afternoon sunlight, raising a hand to shade his eyes. The camp looks the same as it did two weeks ago, three even.
Nausea twists his stomach, and bile rises in his throat.
He should have said no. He should have said no.
Of course, that wouldn’t be allowed. In the army, no is a word reserved solely for commanding officers. (“No, we don’t have any more food.” “No, we can’t send you on leave.” “No, there is nothing to do but sit here and wait.”) He lost the right to say no the moment he enlisted, and he has never regretted it more than in this moment.
“Schofield!” someone calls, and he turns towards the sound on instinct.
His heart thumps in his chest, pounds against his ribs like it wants out.
Oh god. Oh god, no.
He can’t do this. He can’t be here. He needs to go, needs to flee far away and never return. Damn the deserter status he’ll be given. Damn the friendly bullets that’ll fly his way and cut him down before he can even reach the tree line.
“Schofield,” Lieutenant Blake repeats, coming to a stop in front of him. His face appears thinner than it was two weeks ago, haggard and aged in a way that defies his years. “It’s good to see you again.” He rests a hand on Schofield’s shoulder, gentle but firm.
Schofield wants to jump like he’s been shocked, wants to shake off the touch and scrub his skin until he can’t feel the memory of it anymore.
“I’m glad you made it.”
How can he say that? How can he say that?
“I know it’s a bit unorthodox to move companies like this,” he continues, looking sheepish, “but when the Major asked who I wanted to name my second, you were the first person that came to mind.”
Schofield doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t.
Lieutenant Blake takes a shaky breath, and his fingers spasm on Schofield’s shoulder. “I know that sounds odd. We hardly know each other, but it’s just that… you see…” He averts his gaze, and Schofield feels like an intruder, trespassing on Lieutenant Blake’s grief.
“Tom would write about you all the time,” he finally says, and Schofield feels fragile, like he might shatter into a million pieces. “He said you were a good man, quiet and a bit reserved, but loyal, trustworthy, a hard worker.”
Schofield shakes his head, can’t help the disbelieving motion. He didn’t work hard enough. He wasn’t worthy of Blake’s trust.
“I know that to be true. After what you did for us—for him—I can’t imagine anyone else I would want as my second.”
Schofield thinks he might throw up.
“I know it’ll be an adjustment, but I hope you can settle in here.”
He has nothing to say.
Lieutenant Blake sighs and lets his hand fall back to his side. “We can’t change what happened, Schofield. We have to—” his voice trembles “—to move on, to keep going. It can’t be in vain,” he whispers. “We can’t let it be in vain.”
Schofield aches.
Hesitance
“I’ll never understand why they have to talk about those things,” Blake says as he drops into the seat beside Schofield, mess bowl in hand.
Schofield looks up from his food and follows Blake’s gaze. A large group of men sit around a dead fire pit, dishes clutched in hand as they laugh uproariously. Schofield can’t make out the details of the conversation, but he’s picked up enough to get an idea.
He shakes his head and turns back to his food.
“I understand that it can be hard to be away from sweethearts,” Blake reasons, “but I don’t think they need to turn into animals. Some men have lived their entire lives without sex. They can make it a few months or years.”
Schofield grunts in response.
Blake dunks his stale bread in the watery soup and chews on it for a good minute before swallowing. “Half the stories they tell are improbable, if not impossible. It’s absurd. It’s like they’ve never met a woman in their lives.”
Schofield scrapes his spoon over the bottom of the bowl, gathering the last drops.
“Were the men in the Eighth like this?” Blake asks, and Schofield shrugs.
“Yes. I think they’re like this everywhere.”
Blake chews on another bit of bread. “You’re not like that. Tom’s definitely not like that.”
Schofield nearly drops his spoon, heart stuttering in his chest. The air suddenly feels too hot, his clothes too tight.
“He would’ve hated hearing them go on like that,” Blake continues. There’s a solemnity to his words, a gravity. “Probably would’ve yelled at them about some of the stories as well.” Blake chuckles, hollow but he’s trying. “Tom loved a good story, but he never tolerated any disrespect towards others, especially not women.”
Blake falls silent, eating with slow, deliberate movements, but Schofield can feel his eyes on him, knows he is watching.
Drawing in a heavy breath, he folds his hands in his lap and twists his fingers together. “He hated it,” he whispers. “Always hated hearing them talk.”
Blake doesn’t press for more, but he sets his bread down and leans his arms on the table. He’s listening and willing to wait.
“I think that’s why we became friends in the first place,” Schofield continues, pulse thrumming. If anyone deservers these stories, these memories, it’s Blake. “He had wandered away from the men and stumbled upon me. He just flopped down on the ground and started talking, telling some crazy story from training.”
Blake makes a soft noise. Amusement. Encouragement.
“He kept coming back every day. I couldn’t shake him. Somewhere along the way, his chatter stopped being so annoying. I even enjoyed it most days.”
A hoarse laugh. “Yes. He’s quite good at endearing himself to people.”
Schofield’s lips twitch (small, hesitant, fleeting), but they twitch all the same.
Hope
Scho ducks out of the medical tent and scans the area, eyes seeking a familiar figure. He spots him after a minute, nearly hidden behind a gnarled tree, and makes his way over.
“Blake,” he calls in greeting, “Captain wants us in the dugout in fifteen minutes. He’s going to brief us on next week’s advance.”
Blake doesn’t reply, doesn’t even acknowledge Scho’s presence.
His eyes are fixed on a paper in hand, a letter from the looks of it, and there are fresh tears on his cheeks. Schofield stutters to a halt.
Blake reads the letter intently, eyes moving forward and back, forward and back. He reads and rereads, seems determined to commit the words to memory. And Schofield wishes he could walk away, wishes he could provide Blake with the space he needs after whatever news he’s received, but the Captain doesn’t like to wait.
“Blake,” he says again, gentler, and Blake startles.
His fingers crinkle the letter as he whirls to look at Scho.
Scho shuffles his feet and murmurs a sincere apology.
“Scho,” Blake says like he’s just woken up. Like he’s just come back from another world. “Scho,” he repeats, louder and brighter.
Scho glances up at him and finds a wide smile stretching his lips. It stuns him, so foreign in this world of mud and violence.
“Scho!” Blake shouts. Then, he steps forward and tosses his arms around Scho’s shoulders, grip fierce. “Scho, it’s okay. He’s okay. Everything’s okay. Oh thank god. Thank god!”
The hug shocks him enough that the words fly right over his head.
“He’s okay. Oh thank god, he’s okay. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!”
Scho doesn’t—He can’t— “What?” he croaks.
Blake pulls away and rests his hands on Scho’s shoulders, face suddenly boyish as he grins. “Tom,” Blake breathes. “Tom is alive. He’s alive, Scho. He survived!”
It’s like the collapsing bunker all over again, like falling down a flight of stairs or leaping into a roaring river.
“Scho, Tom is alive,” Blake cries, shaking him gently. “He’s alive, and he’s written me. Oh god, I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” He lets out an incredulous laugh. “It’s a bloody miracle. A bloody, fucking miracle.”
Scho feels like he’s drowning, like he’s flying. And hope, once abandoned and long forgotten, takes root in his chest.
Yearning
He gets a letter from Blake within the week, rerouted from the Eighth, and he reads it five times before he is called away for a meeting. With great care, he tucks the letter into his inner pocket, sliding it behind his little blue tin where he knows it will be safest, and he pulls it out again that night. Reads it five more times because he wants to commit the words to memory, wants to have Blake’s messy scrawl burned into his eyelids.
As soon as he manages to get some paper and a pen, he crafts a reply to Blake. It’s simple, unassuming. Just a recounting of his transfer to the Devons, life in a new company, and getting to know the older Blake.
He tries to keep a casual tone, tries not to come off too eager or desperate. When he signs it, “Please keep writing. Yours, Will,” he decides he probably missed casual by a mile.
It must not bother Blake though, who writes him again and again and again. Schofield soaks up the words, the updates on Blake’s recovery, and the ever-present optimism Blake exudes even in writing.
Scho,
Mum and I spent most of the day in the orchard. It’s the season for sour cherries, and it always goes by so fast that we have to be up early and go to bed late to get a good harvest before they get too ripe. I’m dead on my feet and nodding off over this letter, but I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to write you. (I know that’s foolish. The letters aren’t picked up from the post until the afternoon anyways, so there’s no point staying up, but I can’t help it.)
While we were picking today, mum asked how you were doing, how things are going on the front, and when you’d have your next leave (seeing as Joe is coming home in a couple weeks). I told her I didn’t know but that you’d probably spend it in France, locked away in some hotel with a book and a bottle of wine. She asked if you…well, she asked after your family and home life, and…I know it’s right personal, Scho, so I hope you’ll forgive me, but I told her you don’t much like going home because it’s so hard to leave again.
And she told me to invite you to come visit us. She said you needed to get out of France for a bit and have some good, home-cooked food. Now, I don’t expect you to say yes. I know how much you like your peace and quiet, and I understand how hard it can be to come back to England, but I would like it if you came to visit.
Truth is I miss you. I don’t miss the war, not at all. But sometimes, I think I wouldn’t hate being back there, if it meant I got to be with you. Then I could tell you all my stories in person, and you could shake your head at me like an old man, while also smiling just a bit.
Of course it’s your choice what you do with your next leave, but just know that our door is open, if ever you want to drop by. I know I would appreciate seeing you again, and I’d like to think you wouldn’t mind seeing my sorry mug again either.
Well, that’s it for today. I’m beat, can barely keep my eyes open.
Take care of yourself, Scho. Take care of Joe.
Yours,
Tom
He blinks at the page for a good minute, eyes unseeing. He hasn’t gone back to England in years, hasn’t wanted to go back, but something about Blake’s letter, something about the raw honesty of it makes a yearning well up in him.
Relief
The platform at Essex is quaint and nearly vacant, and it barely takes Scho a minute to locate Mrs. Blake.
She is a petite woman with the same chocolate curls as her sons and blue eyes that are sharper than Blake’s (the younger Blake’s), keener. When she catches sight of Scho, she breaks into a dazzling smile so reminiscent of her youngest son it makes Scho stumble.
“Hello darling,” she greets, warm and welcoming. “I hope the train wasn’t too bad.”
“No ma’am, not all,” Scho replies, fingers fiddling with his rucksack as he tries to remember how to be polite and proper, gentle in the presence of a woman.
She beams brighter, cheeks rosy and eyes sparkling, and she pulls him into a hug, wrapping Scho in her arms despite his larger frame. “We’re so happy you could visit. So very happy.”
Scho tries to return the embrace as best he can, one hand still clutching at his bag as the other flutters in the air around Mrs. Blake, unsure where to land. “Thank you for having me,” he says, and she squeezes him tighter.
“Of course. You’re always welcome.”
The words steal his breath away, and he has to swallow once, twice, thrice before the lump in his throat disappears.
When she finally relinquishes her hold on him, they tramp down the stairs, climb into her horse and buggy, and set off for the countryside, air cool with the first hints of fall.
Mrs. Blake fills the silence with chatter. She tells him about Myrtle and her infamous puppies, the orchard ripe with cherries, and the pig that got loose last week, wreaking havoc in the neighbor’s fields before she got ahold of him again.
Scho listens intently, drinking in the words and the way she tells the stories. He can see where Blake (the younger Blake; his Blake, he thinks a bit irrationally) gets it from.
When they arrive at the old farm house, he helps her down from the buggy and ties the reins off just as she instructs. He loops the leather round, then round once more, letting Mrs. Blake’s gentle directions calm his racing heart.
“That’s the wrong knot, mate.”
He fumbles the reins.
They slip between his numb fingers and knock against the post. Useless.
His mouth goes dry. His heart pounds. His vision blurs.
“You alright there, Scho?”
A single cry passes his lips, torn from his soul, and he spins round.
Blake leans against the fence, casual, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other propped on the slats of wood. His hair has grown out, and his cheeks have color, so much color.
Scho drags himself across the space between them. Sleepwalking, dreaming. “Blake,” he breathes.
Blake’s grin is brilliant. “It’s just Tom now.”
A gust of air escapes Scho’s lungs, punched out of his chest by the sight of Blake, alive and well.
Huffing, Blake straightens. “I see you haven’t become a chatter box in my absence,” he says, easy as anything. “But that’s alright. Mum and I are good enough at filling the quiet.”
Scho feels detached, cut free from his body and drifting on the breeze.
Blake gives him a look, fond if a bit exasperated. “Well, how about a hug for your best mate?” he asks, opening his arms. “I mean, you did come all this way.”
Reckless with relief and desperate for confirmation that this is real, Scho closes the distance between them and collapses into Blake’s arms, choking off a sob when Blake returns the embrace.
Happiness
Blake becomes Tom.
Mrs. Blake becomes Mary.
The stories he heard about Myrtle and the orchard, crazy Mr. Smith down the lane and the flirtatious Ms. Banks become lived experiences.
“Will, be a dear and spread out that cloth, please,” Mary tells him as she pulls a pot off the stove. “Then, make sure Tom’s washed up so we can eat.”
Will does as he’s told, reaching out to help place the stew in the right spot before heading off in search of Tom.
He can hear laughter through the backdoor, and he steps outside to find Tom on the ground with little Henry, Myrtle watching with what Will would describe as displeasure if she were human. He crouches beside her, rubs a hand over her back, and snorts when Henry jumps high enough to lick Tom’s nose.
Tom grimaces around a smile, leaning back so far he hits the ground. Delighted, Henry scrambles over his arm and onto his chest, yipping and licking at every inch of exposed skin. Tom tries to avoid his slobbery snout, but his efforts are half-hearted at best, and he even lifts a hand to keep Henry in place when he nearly slides off his shoulder.
“Will, you’ve got to help me,” he pleads, mouth drawing down in a pout. “I can’t escape this villain.”
“Seems you’re a willing victim,” Will replies, and Blake widens his eyes, betrayed.
“How could you, Will? I thought we were friends.”
Will laughs, can’t help but laugh at the words, at Tom’s face, at the picture he paints, sprawled on the grass, trapped by a small puppy. “We are, but you got yourself in this mess, and you’ll have to get yourself out.”
Grumbling, Tom curls a gentle hand around Henry and sets him on the ground, sitting up before the pup can weasel his way back into his arms. “Some friend you are,” Tom tells him, rising to his feet. “Look at the state of my clothes. Look at them.” He waves a hand at his dirt-stained shirt and trousers. “Mum’ll be furious when she sees, and I’m going to blame you.”
Will scoffs. “She won’t believe you for a second.”
Mouth turned down, Blake ponders the words for a moment. Then, he sighs. “I suppose you’re right. I think she likes you best anyways.” He aims an elbow at Will’s ribs with a teasing grin. “But it’s only because you’re so quiet and polite. She hasn’t yet seen the Will who would snap at me if I talked too much or if I did something particularly stupid.”
Unbidden, laughter spills from Will’s lips, and he shakes his head at Tom. “That’s only because you haven’t done anything particularly stupid yet.”
“I take offense to that,” Tom informs him.
At the door, he gives himself another pat down, hands futilely wiping at the dirt and only smearing it further. He gives up after a moment, but he doesn’t step inside, and Will pauses beside him, waiting, always waiting.
“I still talk an awful lot,” he finally says, voice soft. “Maybe even more now.”
A flush crawls up Will’s neck, and he fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve, worrying at a loose thread. “Yes, well,” he begins and promptly discovers he has nothing else to say.
Tom turns toward him, and a smile curls his lips, small and pleased. “I always knew you secretly liked listening to me talk,” he murmurs.
It sounds like a joke, but the look in his eyes belies a hidden seriousness.
He seems vulnerable almost. Like he fears Will’s response, like he might break apart if Will refutes his words.
Will looks down, scuffs his shoe on the grass, and mumbles, “It’s grown on me.”
Blake’s answering grin is bright enough to light a room at night or to illuminate the serpentine tunnels soldiers have carved through France.
It lights Will up, warms him from the inside out.
It isn’t until they’re seated around the table, joking about who will have to do the dishes, that Will recognizes the feeling for what it is.
Happiness. Uncomplicated, unadulterated happiness.
Dread
Returning from leave hurts in a new way.
He had hated it the first time and avoided it the second. He probably would have done the same this time, would have found some little French village to waste away in. But Tom had asked him to visit. Tom had begged him to visit. He had sent letter after letter to Will, had told him about everything they would do, had even confided in Will that he really, quite desperately wanted a friend his own age.
Will had yielded without a fight, wanting—needing—to know that Tom was actually alive and safe.
He doesn’t regret it. He could never regret it.
But the return still feels like coming off a high or waking up from a particularly good dream.
The trenches seem muddier, the stench thicker, the colors duller.
He struggles to adjust.
He wakes up in the morning and rolls over, expecting to see Tom on the bed roll opposite him, and can’t help the jolt each time he is wrong. He holds his mess kit out for lunch and frowns at the slop he is given, missing Mary’s cooking, sparse though it was due to rations. He sits under his tree and yearns for the sound of Tom playing with Myrtle and Henry, happy and carefree, instead of the vulgar chatter of men who seem to think only of women and their bodies.
“Mail’s here!” someone shouts, and Will rises from his slump. “Looks like a good haul this week, boys.”
That earns a few whoops and hollers, and the letters are dispersed, delivered to greedy hands and eager eyes.
“Schofield!” the courier shouts, and Will stands, warmth buzzing beneath his skin at the prospect of another letter from Tom.
“Damn, Schofield,” one of the men say. “You get a letter every week.”
Will reaches out and accepts the letter, can’t help the smile that curls his lips when he sees Tom’s messy scrawl.
“You got a bird back home you haven’t mentioned?” another shouts, garnering a few whistles.
“How’d you get her to write so much? Fuck, how did you get her at all?” one asks, disgruntled.
“Yeah, Schofield, how’d you land a bird like that? Charm her with your silence?”
Unwilling to join in the men’s teasing, Will takes his letter and wanders off, finding a secluded spot to pour over Tom’s words.
He reads the letter four times, traces his fingers over the words as he imagines Tom writing them, and wishes he could hear Tom say them. He misses his voice, misses his laughter, misses his smile.
He misses Tom. More than he expected. More than he should.
Oh.
Oh.
A sudden dread sweeps through him at the thought.
Acceptance
He feels off-kilter over the next week, trapped in his own head as he tries to understand how this could happen.
Tom is his friend. His closest friend.
Besides his sister and nieces, Tom is the most important person in his life. Might even be the most important, Will is surprised to realize.
Will’s…feelings could complicate that, could destroy it.
Goddamn it.
When letters come, Will snatches his and beats a hasty retreat.
Beneath his tree, far from the prying eyes of his company, he drinks in the words like a man who’s finally found a well in the desert. He laughs at Tom’s stories, shakes his head at his shenanigans, and swallows thickly when Tom says that he misses him.
“I think he writes you more than me,” a voice says, and Will jumps in fright, turning to find the source of sound.
Blake raises his hands as one would with a spooked animal, and Will flushes. “Didn’t hear you coming,” he mumbles.
Blake shrugs. “I should’ve said something. I didn’t realize how…absorbed you were.”
The flush deepens, and something like guilt settles in Will’s stomach. This is Blake, Tom’s older brother, his senior officer, and here Will is, fawning over Tom’s letter like some lovesick child.
With a contemplative look, Blake takes a seat beside Will and looks across the grassy fields, eyes far away.
Usually, these moments feel peaceful between them, easy. Blake has become a good friend in the last year, and Will enjoys sitting with him, talking about nothing or taking in the quiet. But now, he feels a strain, a friction where there was none before.
It makes him want to squirm, to get up and shake out his limbs, to take a lap around the camp just to feel like he isn’t about to crawl out of his skin.
“I’m glad he has you,” Blake finally says, and Will feels a tad sick. “I’m glad he had you when he first arrived, and I’m glad he had you on that godforsaken mission, and I’m glad he has you now.”
Will doesn’t know how to politely ask him to shut up.
Blake exhales, careful, deliberate. “I know it’s not my business, and I know this isn’t—” He frowns. “Well, I know this isn’t something proper society people would discuss.” He glances around and lowers his voice. “I know this isn’t something any ‘decent’ person would discuss.”
Will’s heart is in his throat.
“But it’s just that I know how much Tom cares for you, how important you are to him, and the last year has let me see how much you care for him in return.”
Has he been that obvious? Has Blake known for months but hasn’t said anything until now? Oh god, who else knows? Who else could know?
“Look, Scho, I don’t know how to say this.”
Say it. Just say it. Don’t drag it out.
“I know what the army would think about this, and I know what the rest of society would think, but…well…I don’t think that,” he confesses. “I would never think that. It’s foolish and ignorant and unchristian if you ask me. I don’t agree with it, and I don’t support it.”
Will is…confused. This was not what he expected. He isn’t even sure what this is.
“I think people deserve happiness; they deserve love. Especially with all the hate going on right now.” Blake sighs. “It’s pointless, a waste of time, and I don’t think we need to bring that spirit back home. I don’t think we should stop people from choosing what they want so long as it doesn’t harm others. And this doesn’t. It doesn’t. Frankly, I’m happy for you, for both of you.” He nods once, more to himself than Will. “Yes, I’m happy for you both, and I just wanted you to know that.”
Brow furrowing, Will stares across the fields, fingers still gripping Tom’s letter. This is…well, this is unexpected.
Not that Will had ever expected anything.
If he had though, he would have expected anger at worst and disappointment at best, but this…this is acceptance. Misinformed acceptance maybe but acceptance all the same.
Disbelief
He doesn’t correct Blake. He doesn’t actually say anything. He simply nods and continues to stare across the field, fingers clutched around Tom’s letter as he thinks.
Over the next few weeks, he turns Blake’s words over in his mind, pulls them apart and tries to put them back together. It’s like a puzzle or an equation. One he can’t solve. He’s missing a piece, missing a variable that keeps the picture incomplete and the equation unsolved.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He doesn’t know if he should do anything.
Blake wasn’t wrong when he said society and the military would denounce Will’s feelings as untoward, reprehensible, and perverted. But Will has never much cared for the opinions of others, especially those of strangers.
The only opinions he values are those of his family, which once only included Sarah, Richard, and the girls but has since expanded to encompass the Blakes, who carved out a home in Will’s heart without him even realizing.
He, apparently, already has Blake’s approval, as unexpected as it was. Sarah has always told him to do what makes him happiest. And Mary had made him promise to return because he was now as much her son as Tom or Joe.
Which leaves only Tom as an unknown. The missing piece, the indefinite variable.
Will cares for him. Deeply, desperately, and devotedly.
There is a chance Tom would return his sentiments, if he ever found the courage to share them, but there is also a chance—a much larger chance—that he would be repulsed by Will’s feelings and would turn him away, shut him out for good.
Will already knows how wretched life can be without Tom, and he would really not like to relive that time.
There seems to be no easy solution, and it keeps him up at night.
He runs through a million scenarios where he confesses his feelings to Tom, where he opens himself to rejection and dismissal. Many, if not all, end with a door in his face or an end to Tom’s weekly letters.
And Will feels sick with it, nauseous and dizzy.
“You alright, Scho?” Blake asks, when they’ve found a spot to take their lunch. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”
“Fine,” Will replies. “I’m fine,” and he stirs the mash around his bowl.
Blake shifts beside him and lets out a displeased sound. “You sure?” he asks. “You’ve been quiet recently, more quiet than usual, which is saying something.”
Shrugging, Will pokes at a chunk that might be meat.
“Come on, Scho,” Blake presses. “There’s something on your mind, I know it. Something with your family? Your sister or nieces? Not your brother-in-law, I hope.”
Will shakes his head and uses the edge of his spoon to cut the chunk into pieces.
“Something else then?” Blake asks, and he has discarded his meal, set his mess kit aside to turn and watch Will. “Come now, Scho, you’re my second. You can tell me anything.”
Will thinks this might be a bit outside the topics normally discussed between a Lieutenant and his second.
But they’re friends. Quite good friends, Will would say.
And Blake had technically been the one to bring it up first, even if it was weeks ago.
Looking around to make sure no one is near, Will sets his own bowl aside and folds his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“You know a few weeks ago, when you complained to me that Tom writes me more than you?” he begins, careful, tentative.
Blake’s brow furrows, but he nods.
“And you…well, you told me that you were happy for us.”
Blake nods again.
Will shifts in his spot and clears his throat, trying to swallow the discomfort. “It’s just that…You see… I’m not sure…”
He can feels Blake’s eyes on him, and he flushes under the curious gaze, feeling too warm beneath his many layers.
Silent, Blake reaches out and places a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder. He squeezes once, encouraging.
Will draws in a shaky breath and lets it out.
“What made you think there was anything to be happy for?” he finally asks, hushed.
Blake turns toward him. Will can see his mouth open and shut several times.
“It’s not obvious, Scho,” he tells him. “So if you’re worried about that, don’t be. I know the men give you a hard time about all the letters, but they don’t know anything. They just enjoy taking the piss out of you because they haven’t got as many letters.”
Will frowns. “No, I know,” he says, carefully choosing his words. “I’m not worried about the other men. In fact, I’m not worried at all. If I were to be completely honest, I would say I am confused.” Will turns to glance at Blake, and his hand slides off Will’s shoulder. “When you spoke to me that day, you seemed quite certain of the relationship Tom and I share, and though I appreciate the acceptance and support that you offered, I think it important to tell you that there isn't anything to accept or support. Tom and I are friends. Very good friends, but only friends.”
As he speaks, Blake’s mouth turns down, corners cutting deeper and deeper until a harsh frown mars his face. “Friends?” he repeats, eyeing Will strangely.
“Friends,” Will affirms.
Blake huffs, pulls his knees to his chest, and rests his arms over them. “Friends,” he repeats, but it’s more to himself than to Will. “Friends,” he says again like he can’t comprehend it.
Will twists a blade of grass around his long fingers, watching the fibers split when he tugs too hard.
“Is it—I know this is a rather personal question,” Blake starts, “but I’d like to think we’re close and you trust me enough to be honest.”
Will nods.
“Is it because you don’t lean that way?”
The question startles Will. “What?”
“Is it because you aren’t interested in blokes? Do you prefer women?”
Will gnaws at his lower lip. “No.”
“No what? There were two questions there, mate.”
Will has no idea when he lost control of this conversation. “No to both, I suppose,” he says. “I’m not sure I have much of a preference.”
Confusion clouds Blake’s features. “What do you mean by that?”
Will shrugs. “I was never one for chasing skirts growing up, but I also wasn’t eyeing any of the blokes in school. I remember having a flame for Edith Huntington down the lane, but that’s mostly because she was always so nice to me. We kissed once, and I enjoyed it, so I can’t say I’m not interested in women, but Rebecca Wilson tried to kiss me at a barbeque one summer, and I absolutely hated it, so I don’t think I can say I’m interested in women as a whole.”
“And men?”
Will shifts, pulls up another blade of grass, and shreds it with his fingers. “Can’t say I ever gave them much thought. Though I guess I didn’t give girls much thought either.” He watches the torn bits float in the breeze. “I expect it’s much the same though. I care more about the kind of person they are than the body they have.”
Blake nods, contemplative. “And you care about Tom?”
Sighing, Will runs a hand through his hair and watches the swaying grass before them. “I do,” he admits.
“As just a friend?”
“No.”
Huffing, Blake shakes his head and mutters something about fools under his breath. “And why haven’t you told him?”
Will recoils at the words, a hundred ways that Tom could reject him passing before his eyes. “Because I’d ruin everything. Our friendship, my relationship with your family. Everything.”
“How would this ruin anything?”
“How would it not? I would tell him how I feel; he would tell me he doesn’t feel the same; and we could try to remain friends but would eventually be unsuccessful.”
Blake stares at him. “Bloody hell,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “Bloody buggering hell.” He laughs, short and surprised. “Are you serious, Scho? Do you actually believe that?”
Heat floods Will’s cheeks, and he ducks his head. “You don’t have to laugh,” he mumbles. “It really isn’t very funny.”
Blake laughs again, louder. “It’s actually quite funny. It’s hilarious, in fact.”
Frowning, Will shoves at his shoulder, and Blake rocks with it, nearly tipping over when he can’t control his laughter.
“Weren’t you just going on about trust and honesty and friendship?” Will demands, almost petulant. “And here you are, laughing at me.”
Blake waves his hand, face red and eyes watery. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m going back to camp,” Will informs him and makes to stand.
“Wait,” Blake cries, humor forgotten. He snags Will’s arm and tugs him back down, suddenly somber. “Wait,” he repeats, “please.”
Will crosses his arm and watches his friend catch his breath, embarrassment bubbling in his gut.
“I’m sorry,” Blake says again. “I mean no offense. It’s just…Tom always said you were the smart one, said you were going to go to university before the war happened. In his letters, he would always go on and on about how bright you were with your big ideas and big words. And you are quite bright, Scho,” he shakes his head and grins, “but you are also incredibly dense.”
Will thinks he should take offense, but he’s mostly just confused.
“God, both of you are so dense,” Blake mutters. “Tom never said anything to you when you visited for leave?”
“No.”
Blake sighs. “Then I suppose I shouldn’t either.”
Will frowns. What is there to say? Why can’t Blake say it?
“Look, Scho,” Blake continues, rubbing at his temple, “just…just be the brave one here. Tell Tom how you feel. I promise it won’t ruin anything. I know it.”
Will stares, dumbfounded.
“Do it, Will. You won’t regret it.” With those parting words, Blake stands up, brushes the grass from his uniform, collects his food, and turns back toward camp.
Will watches him go, shock and disbelief stirring in his gut.
Joy
Will is understandably distracted over the next week.
When he receives Tom’s letter, he can’t help but read it with a fine-toothed comb, trying to see what Blake apparently sees. It’s boisterous and bright, optimistic and humorous just like its author.
It also ends with the now familiar ‘Take care of yourself. Yours, Tom’ that Will hadn’t wanted to look too far into when Tom sent that first letter, but now, well, now he does. Now, he looks a lot. He looks enough that he thinks he maybe might just see what Blake sees. Possibly.
“Blake,” he says one morning when they’ve been sent out by the captain to assess supply routes.
Blake hums in response.
“When you said I should tell Tom, what did you mean?”
Blake marks something down in his notebook, then squints up at Will. “I meant you should tell him.”
“Yes, but how?”
Blake sighs, put upon. “Something like this: Hello Tom, hope you’re doing well. Just wanted to let you know I fancy you, and when this war is over, I’d like to take you out to dinner if that’s alright. Love, Will.”
“That’s very forward, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but I reckon you two need to be if you want this to go anywhere. Subtlety apparently failed you so far.”
Will flushes and scuffs a boot over the trodden grass. “Right, I know that. It’s just that they read over our letters to make sure we’re not sending anything we shouldn’t, and when they see me writing to a bloke and telling him I fancy him, they’ll give me a dishonorable discharge and that’ll be the end of it.”
Mouth turning down, Blake looks at him. “That would be a bit of a problem.”
Will nods.
“Guess we’ll have to find a workaround then.”
Will nods again, and they continue on their path, brainstorming ways to get a message to Tom. At some point, Will says he can just wait until his next leave or the end of this bloody war, but Blake shoots that down immediately because they’ve already lost enough time being stupid.
The solution they end up with is quite simple, and Will worries it won’t be enough, but Blake assures him it will.
“They don’t keep up with who is writing who, I promise,” Blake tells him. “They only care to make sure you don’t include anything sensitive or too depressing. Other than that, pretty much anything gets by.”
Nerves eating at his stomach, Will takes pen to paper.
Ms. T. Blake,
I hope my letter finds you well. We’ve just come off the front and have a few weeks to regroup in the back before we are moved forward again. On our march, I saw several cherry trees and couldn’t help but think of you and the short time we had together on my last leave.
I hope that this is not too forward, but I feel that I must be honest with you.
Not a day goes by that I do not think of you, and I believe, quite firmly, that not a day will ever go by when I do not think of you. You have managed to capture my attention, my thoughts, and, if I may be so bold, my heart. You are the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I think of at night. I wish desperately to be by your side once more. To walk through the orchard, to read together in the sitting room, to play with Myrtle and Henry in the yard.
I miss your laughter, your voice, your stories. I miss your gentle hands and your eyes that are more beautiful than any summer sky. I miss your lips. How? I do not know. My biggest regret is that I did not kiss you in October, a regret I hope to erase at the soonest moment possible, if you would be amenable.
I shan’t carry on. I fear I have said too much already.
But know that I care for you, that I miss you every day, and that your letters are, without a doubt, the best part of each week.
Yours,
Mr. W. Schofield
He sends the letter and waits.
A week passes, then another. Each day drags on, unending and merciless.
He feels like he might drown in a sea of worry, regret, fear, and nerves.
“Schofield!” the courier calls, and he leaps to his feet, extending a shaking hand to accept the letter.
His stomach somersaults, flipping and turning, until he thinks he might throw up.
“Stop worrying,” Blake tells him, a firm hand on his shoulder. “Go find somewhere to read it, and then come back so I can tell you I told you so.” With a gentle smile, he pushes Will until he stumbles away from the group, letter clutched in his hand.
He wanders out into the grass, beyond their tents, beyond the cooking fire, and finds a tree to hide behind, a shield between him and the world.
With something approaching reverence, he unfolds the letter and cradles it close.
Mr. W. Schofield,
Your letter was unexpected. Quite unexpected. But not unwelcome.
Mum and I are doing well. We’ve finished planting the garden, and the cherry blossoms are beginning to fall. Myrtle is getting older by the day, and I fear she may fade completely soon. Thank god, we have Henry. If we didn’t, I don’t think I would survive.
Will, you were always better with words than me. You know what to say. You have all the pretty words. But I’m no good at poetry or anything of the sort. You know how partial I am to stories, so let one be my response.
There was a day, the first week we met, when mum had sent me to fetch some water at the well. She had told me to be quick, so I nearly ran the whole way there. It had rained the day before, and the ground was still muddy and slippery. When I reached the well, I tried to stop, especially when I saw you right by the pump, but I couldn’t. I lost my footing and fell right on my ass. And the worst part was that I took you down, too, knocked your legs right out from under you. Your pail went flying, and mine did, too, and we ended up in the mud, all tangled in a heap.
I was so embarrassed, just completely mortified, and I was scared that you would be mad. I hardly knew you, just knew that you were quiet and preferred to be on your own. I think I mumbled out a million apologies, face white as a sheet as you tried to get your knees under you in the mud. It was right slippery though, and you kept falling back down, getting more and more dirty. You even managed to get a streak of mud on your cheek, though I don’t know how.
Anyways, after the fourth or fifth failed attempt, I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It probably seemed right mean of me, but I promise I wasn’t laughing at you. The entire situation was just ridiculous, and we were covered in mud from head to toe, and I knew mum would be upset with me, so I just laughed because there was nothing to be done.
I think you were upset at first, thinking I was making fun of you or something, but after a minute or so, you started laughing, too. It was quiet, real quiet, but you were laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a nicer sound than that, and when I looked up, well, you stole the air right out of my lungs.
I had thought you were handsome before, but when you’re smiling, when you’re laughing, I’m really not sure there are words to describe the way you look. (Though I’m sure you could think of some better ones than me.)
Anyways, all of this is to say, I fell in love with you that day, and I still love you now.
Come home, please.
Forever yours,
Ms. T. Blake
P.S. I would be very, very amenable to a kiss. In fact, I’d be amenable to much more than a kiss.
Will reads the letter twice, then thrice. He runs his fingers over the words, traces Tom’s messy scrawl, and feels his heart swell with joy.
Redemption
It feels like a dream when the war ends. Wonderful but impossible.
There is cheering and drinking, congratulations and hugs all around. Will stumbles through it all, almost sick with relief, and follows Blake (“Just call me Joe now. We’re practically family.”) onto the first available transport home.
Large crowds greet them at the dock, and it’s overwhelming. Loud and bright and blinding.
Will feels almost guilty when they board a train and suddenly there are windows and doors between them and the outside world and he feels like he can breathe again, like he can hear himself think.
“It’s a lot, yeah?” Joe says from his seat across from him. “Bit too much almost.”
Will nods and watches the faces blur as they begin to move, pulling out of the station and heading toward London, toward home.
When they pull into Waterloo Station, they file out of the train and find themselves once more in a crowd, surrounded by cheering women and grinning children. Will weaves his way through the masses, nodding when people shout congratulations and trying not to stumble beneath the firm pats that land on his back.
“Will,” Joe calls when he’s nearly reached the exit, and he turns. “I need to catch the train for Essex.”
Right. Yes. London is Will’s home, but Joe must continue on.
For one singular, desperate moment, Will wants to return to Joe’s side. He wants to find that train and go home with him, go home to Tom.
It’s foolish. Not because he wouldn’t be welcome, but because it would be so unfair to Sarah, to Charlotte and Georgie.
With a not insubstantial amount of self-control, he reins in his desire to find Tom, steps back to Joe, and wraps him in a hug.
“Travel safe,” he tells him. “Pass my hello along to your mum and to Tom.”
Joe returns the embrace with a fierce strength. “Not sure I can give Tom the hello you would want to.”
Will huffs out a laugh and buries his reddened cheeks in Joe’s shoulder. “No, you can’t,” he agrees. “Thank you, Joe, for everything. For making me your second. For putting up with my shite personality. For not hating me that first month.”
Joe’s arms tighten. “I could never have hated you. Even then, I knew how much you meant to Tom, and even if he hadn’t survived, I still would have been grateful he had you as a friend.”
Will nods.
“He doesn’t hold what happened against you, you know. He never did. None of us did.” Joe’s fingers curl in the thick wool of his coat. “Don’t hold it against yourself either. If not for your own sake, then for Tom’s.”
Voice choked by tears, Will can only nod, the words washing over him, and it feels like redemption.
A new beginning.
Excitement
“Are you sure you want to move out already?” Sarah asks him over breakfast. “You’ve barely been home a month. There’s no need to rush.”
“I know,” Will replies, helping Charlotte cut her sausage into more manageable bites. “But I think it would be good for me, and I think it’s high time you all had your home fully to yourselves.”
Sarah gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re family, Will. This is your home, too.”
“Yes, of course, but I’m going to be starting my studies back up in the spring, which will mean rather late nights between classes and my work at the bookshop. I’d rather not keep you all up.”
“It wouldn’t be a bother,” Sarah reassures him and reaches over to wipe some jam from Georgie’s chin. “Anyways, your own flat might be a bit expensive, yeah? You don’t need to take that financial burden on, especially since you’ll only be able to work part time when classes begin.”
Will is shaking his head before she even finishes. “It won’t be my own flat. I’ll be sharing with Tom.”
Sarah pauses, tea cup in hand, and looks at him over the rim, eyes sparkling. “Tom?”
“Yes, Tom.”
A grin splits her face, and she sets her cup down, using her now free hand to capture Will’s. “Tom is moving here? You’re moving in together?”
“Yes.”
She laughs, delighted. “When? Before they visit for the holidays?”
“No, he’ll come down with his mum and Joe and bring all his stuff. That way Mary can fuss over the move in.”
Sarah beams and releases his hand, picking her cup back up to take a pleased sip. “Well, isn’t this wonderful news? How come I haven’t heard about this before today?”
“I only got his letter yesterday,” Will shrugs, munching on his toast. “I had hoped he would say yes, but I wanted to be sure before I told you.”
Returning her cup to its saucer, Sarah claps her hands. “This demands an even bigger celebration than I had planned!” she declares, and Will quickly shakes his head.
“No, no. That won’t be necessary, really.”
Sarah waves a hand, dismissive, and Will can already see the gears turning in her head. “Nonsense,” she says. “When Richard and I were married, we had a whole party. Mum invited half the town. She saved for months for that.”
“Yes, well, we’re not getting married,” Will counters, frowning at a dent in the table.
“No,” Sarah agrees, sobering, “but this is as close as we are going to get, and I think that should be celebrated. Even if it’s only a small celebration within the walls of our home, that’s something.”
Will thumbs over the dent, nail catching in the wood.
“Please, Will,” she says, soft, “let us celebrate this. Lord only knows we could use more things to be happy about right now.”
Letting out a slow breath, he meets her eyes. They are large and pleading, a deep brown just like their mother’s. “A small celebration wouldn’t be so bad,” he concedes, and she whoops, bounding out of her chair and pulling Charlotte to her feet to dance around the kitchen.
“Will,” Georgie says, tugging at his sleeve.
“Yes?”
“Are we really going to have a party for you and your friend?”
Will looks over at her, takes in her eager eyes and blossoming grin, and finds himself just the teeniest, tiniest bit excited. “Yes, we really are.”
Desire
The Blakes arrive like the first hints of sunlight after a rainstorm.
They spill into the house with bright grins and vibrant voices and are met by the equally energetic duo of Charlotte and Georgie, who pull them into the sitting room and pepper them with a million questions.
Over their joyful noise, introductions are made, and Sarah manages to sneak in one or two rather risqué comments about Tom’s good looks before Will can shush her.
“Oh, don’t be so embarrassed, Will,” she teases. “You’ve found yourself a right handsome lad. Nothing to be ashamed of there.”
Shaking his head, Will looks at the ground, too flustered to meet anyone’s gaze.
“Now be a dear and grab the tea tray from the kitchen,” Sarah tells him with a light pat on the arm. “And Tom, if you wouldn’t mind going with him to grab the cake. I’m afraid there’s just a bit too much for one person to carry.”
Will shoots her a betrayed look, and she laughs, waving them toward the kitchen while inviting Joe and Mary to take a seat. Swallowing his nerves, Will moves out of the room and towards the kitchen, Tom right behind him, close enough to touch.
He pours the boiling water into the pot and tosses the nearby napkins onto the tray, pointing out the cake, even though Tom is perfectly capable of seeing it himself.
“Will.”
He hums in reply, nudging a few cups around so they won’t knock against one another.
“Will.”
“Yes,” he replies, checking the sugar and cream to make sure there is enough.
“William Schofield, would you please turn around?”
Tom sounds exasperated, fond but exasperated, and Will doesn’t know what to do with his hands when he turns to look at him.
“Hello,” Tom greets, cheeks flushed with color, eyes bluer than Will remembers, and lips pulled into a wide, beautiful smile.
He still has perfect teeth, Will thinks nonsensically. “Hello.”
Tom takes a step closer, and Will feels all the air leave the room, sucked right out so he can’t breathe properly. “Are you alright?” Tom asks him, soft and low.
No, he is most certainly not. From this distance, he can appreciate the full fan of Tom’s eyelashes, the thick lines of his brows, the soft curve of his cheeks, and he finds himself speechless, robbed of all the words Tom always teases him for knowing.
“Will,” Tom murmurs, now close enough that Will can feel the warmth coming off him.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells him, though that word feels so inadequate.
Tom’s smile softens, deepens, and becomes something almost shy. “You’re quite good looking yourself,” he responds, and molten heat pools in Will’s gut when Tom looks up at him through his lashes.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers. Then he reaches a careful hand out and, when Tom doesn’t protest, places it on his waist, fingers curling over the soft fabric of his shirt.
“I know,” Tom replies, and he lifts a hand to rest on Will’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you, too.” His fingers trail over Will’s collar and behind his neck, toying with the hairs there and making Will shudder. “Could I finally have that kiss?”
Will mouth goes dry. “Yes.”
With a cheeky grin, Tom draws Will down and presses their lips together, close-mouthed and chaste.
It lights a fire beneath Will’s skin, burns him up in a split second, and leaves him breathless for more.
When Tom pulls away, Will follows. He winds an arm around Tom’s waist and tugs him closer, eliminating the meager space between them. Then, he lifts a hand to cradle Tom’s cheeks, to rub his thumb over the ruddy skin, and to find a better angle as he descends for another kiss. Then another and another and another, until he doesn’t know where one ends and the next begins.
Desire courses through him. Pure, heady, and all-consuming.
Embarrassment
They eventually separate, though neither wants to, and they spend a few minutes in the kitchen, trying to make themselves presentable.
Will thinks it’s a hopeless endeavor, but he doesn’t stop Tom from fussing over his hair and tugging at his wrinkled shirt. It does little to help. Frankly, Tom’s hands on him do the opposite of help, but he’s not going to complain.
“Right,” Tom says, fiddling with Will’s collar. His fingers are soft and warm. “The tea is probably a bit cold now, but there’s little we can do about that. You grab the tray, and I’ll grab the cake, and we’ll hope they don’t notice anything.”
Will snorts and reaches up to catch Tom’s hand. “There’s no way they don’t notice, love. I’m quite certain we’ve been in here long enough they all know something has happened.”
The flush that colors Tom’s cheeks is quite fetching. “Yes, well,” Tom mumbles. “You really shouldn’t hold my hand and call me that, if you want to make it out of here.”
Lips quirking, Will strokes his thumb over the thin skin of Tom’s wrist. “What makes you think I want to make it out of here?”
Tom whines. There really is no other word for it, and Will finds it has a particularly…rousing effect on him.
“Will, you can’t talk like that,” Tom pouts. “It’s not fair.”
“The way you look right now isn’t fair,” Will counters, and a pleased smile steals its way over Tom’s lips. “But unfortunately, there is nothing we can do now to make this more fair, and I’m sure we’re already in for it between Joe and Sarah, so let’s grab the tea and cake and get this over with.”
Tom sighs and steps away, leaving Will cold. “I think my mum’ll actually be worse than Joe. She’s been waiting for this ever since you came to visit last year.”
Gathering the tray, Will shakes his head and heads for the door, Tom at his heel, cake in hand. “I don’t understand how everyone suspected something long before there ever was something,” he grumbles.
“Oh, there was always something, Will,” Sarah replies, having heard them in the hall. “From that first letter you sent mentioning Tom, I knew there was something.”
The other adults nod in agreement, and Will sets the tray on the table, cheeks heating in embarrassment.
Contentment
They move from tea to dinner and from dinner to dessert. Afterwards, Richard puts the girls to bed and pulls out an old bottle of cognac, pouring everyone a glass before lifting his own.
“To the end of the war,” he intones. “It was hell on earth, but at least it brought us all together.”
They raise their glasses and take a sip, the liquid burning on the way down.
“To new beginnings for all of us,” Mary adds with a tender smile, “but especially for Tom and Will.”
They cheer again, and Tom manages to worm his way under Will’s arm, grinning up at him when Will is forced to switch his glass to his other hand.
“To finally figuring things out,” Joe says, earning a few laughs and gentle ribbing for Tom and Will.
“Oh yes,” Sarah agrees with relish, “I want to hear the full story, Joe. All I have is Will’s side of things, and I think there’s a fair amount missing from that.”
“Please don’t,” Will begs. “No one needs to hear this.”
“We all need to hear this,” Richard counters, settling onto the settee with Sarah. “Please, Joe, spare no details. Will is always so put together, it’s hard to find anything to mock him for.”
Will groans in dread and considers leaving, but when Tom nudges him toward the couch with a pleading look, he goes without complaint. They make themselves comfortable, Tom curled up beneath his arm, and listen as Joe begins his story.
It’s long-winded and overdone, clearly embellished and occasionally ridiculous, but it has everyone laughing from start to finish.
Tom is warm against his side through it all, his laughter filling Will’s ears and his fingers curling around Will’s hand over his shoulder.
When Joe finally finishes, Sarah follows with a story about Charlotte getting stuck under the back fence after she tried to chase a dog, and the laughter continues, suffusing Will with a quiet contentment he hasn’t felt in years.
Desperation
When it’s past eleven and the streets are quiet, Will rises from the couch and offers Tom a hand up.
“Are you leaving us?” Sarah asks through a yawn, and Will nods. “Breakfast will be at ten, so be up before then, alright?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After they’ve wished everyone goodnight, they gather Tom’s things and head out the door, walking down the street to the squat building where Will—they—found a flat to rent.
Inside, they kick off their shoes and hang their coats on the hooks.
Then, Tom curls his fingers in Will’s shirt, tugs him close, and leans up for a kiss. It’s even better than their kisses in the kitchen: hot, wet, and perfect.
“Tom,” Will murmurs, breathless. “Tom.”
Tom’s teeth nip at the skin beneath his jaw, playful, and Will shudders.
“Tom, please, don’t be a tease,” Will tells him, hips hitching against Tom’s, seeking much-needed friction.
Humming, Tom presses closer and sucks at the skin over Will’s pulse. He tugs at Will’s shirt until it slides out of his trousers and slips a hand beneath the fabric, fingers soft against Will’s ribs.
Will arches into the touch, needing more, needing everything. He feels wild with it, drunk off it. Tom’s hands are like brands on his skin, his mouth like a stamp, pressing his mark into Will. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating.
“Tom,” Will moans, hands tight around Tom’s hips. “Tom, please.”
Tom leans back enough to look Will in the eye, and the sight of him sends fresh heat coursing through Will. His cheeks are a lovely red, vibrant and flushed. His eyes nearly glow, vivid blue and alive. And his lips—god, Will would write sonnets about them if he could. His lips are wet and red, swollen from their kisses and stretching into a smirk that leaves Will weak in the knees.
“If I had known this is what it would take to make you a talker,” Tom begins with a smug grin, “I would have kissed you the first day we met.”
Rolling his eyes, Will pushes forward, walking Tom into the wall and slotting a leg between his. “I don’t think we would be here now if you had tried to kiss me the day we met.” He lifts his hands and undoes the buttons of Tom’s shirt, fingers shaking in anticipation.
With a languid smile, Tom tips his head back to look up at Will, eyes half-lidded and tempting. “You’re wrong,” he contests. “You might have panicked a bit in the beginning, but my expert kissing abilities would have won you over eventually.”
Will snorts and eases Tom’s shirt off his shoulders, letting it flutter to the ground as he stares at Tom’s torso. He still carries a softness at his core, but the scar on his lower belly signals that his young looks are deceptive and that he has endured far more than anyone ever should.
Will’s eyes catch on the scar, the knotted flesh that looks almost angry, and he lifts a hand with great care. Breath shaking, he lets two fingers graze the nearby skin, touch feather light.
“I know it’s right ugly,” Tom says, pulling Will out of his head.
He looks up, and the color in Tom’s cheeks has deepened, awkward and ashamed.
“But the doctor said it will look better the more time that passes,” Tom continues like he needs to convince Will of this. “In a year or so, you won’t even notice it. It won’t be a bother.”
Will’s brow furrows. He looks at where his fingers rest on Tom’s skin, then he looks up at Tom. His eyes are a bit glassy, and he has his bottom lip caught between his teeth, scraping over the skin.
Will’s heart aches.
“Tom,” he says. “Tom.”
He falls to his knees, cracking them on the hardwood, and Tom jumps in surprise, confusion clouding his features.
Will strokes his thumb over the skin just beneath the scar and takes comfort in the warmth of it. “Tom,” he repeats, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. “This will never be a bother,” he tells him, voice raw. “Never. I understand if you hate it. I understand if you want it to fade. That’s your right.” He looks back at the wound, remembers their blood-soaked hands and intertwined fingers. “But I will never hate it, not ever.”
He shuffles forward on his knees and listens to the shaky breath Tom drags in. “I almost lost you that day,” he whispers. “I thought I did.” Tom’s fingers skate over his nape and catch in his hair, grounding. “I hate that I turned my back. I hate that I let you be the too-kind, too-generous person you are. And I hate that pilot for hurting you. But this,” he continues, thumb sweeping over skin, “I will never hate this because it is a constant reminder that I didn’t lose you. It was close, too damn close, but you survived.” He exhales, unsteady. “You survived, Tom. You survived, and you’re here with me. You’re mine,” and it comes out rough.
Tom shudders beneath his hands.
Reining himself back in, Will leans forward until his lips hover over the scar, breath fanning over the skin. When Tom doesn’t protest, he closes the distance between mouth and skin and presses a gentle kiss to the twisted flesh.
Tom trembles.
“This is proof that you made it through hell,” Will says, lips grazing Tom’s belly. “This is proof that you’re alive and here.”
Tom releases a soft noise and sinks into Will’s arms, into his lap. He is a welcome weight, warm and solid and real, and Will wraps him in a tight embrace.
“We made it,” Tom breathes, nails pressing into Will’s back. “We made it through hell.”
Will nods and presses a kiss to Tom’s hair, his cheek, his ear—anywhere he can reach, and Tom lets him. He guides him even, tilting his head this way and that and humming in contentment when Will sucks a kiss in the hollow of his throat.
“Will,” he murmurs when teeth press to the fragile skin. “Will, please. Please, please, please.” He grinds his hips down, and Will thinks he might die from the exquisite pressure.
He grins at the reversal. “Desperate, aren’t you?” he teases, and Tom huffs.
“As if you aren’t, too.”
Will grows serious for a moment, face somber. “Tom,” he says, fingers hooking in Tom’s belt loops, “I’ve been desperate for you for weeks, for months. Hell, maybe even years. Don’t ever doubt that.”
A happy flush infuses Tom’s cheeks, and he rests his forearms on Will’s shoulders. “So what’s stopping you from taking me?” he goads, and Will hauls them up, careful control breaking.
Tom laughs, delighted, and lets himself be led to bed.
Love
When Will awakes in the morning, it’s to the sight of Tom sprawled out beside him, face relaxed and limbs akimbo. Will props himself up on an elbow and watches the gentle rise and fall of Tom’s back, counts his breaths, and finds himself tempted to reach out and trace senseless patterns over Tom’s skin.
The realization that he can in fact do that now feels more like a revelation, and with no small amount of awe, he reaches a hand out and rests it on Tom’s back. His skin is warm, and his heart beats strong enough for Will to feel.
He skates his fingers around Tom’s shoulder blades and over his ribs, sweeps them down his spine and through the dip at the small of his back.
Tom shivers and shifts, arms drawing in as his eyelashes flutter.
With bated breath, Will waits for him to wake, palm spread wide over his skin.
When Tom finally cracks an eye open, Will grins down at him and slides his hand up until he can cradle Tom’s cheek. “Good morning.”
Tom beams in reply, “A very good morning,” and shuffles closer, nudging at Will until he rolls onto his back and lets Tom curl against his side.
“Did you sleep alright?”
“Bloody fantastic,” Tom replies, hooking a leg over Will’s. “Best sleep I’ve had in ages, if I’m honest.”
Warmth blooms in Will’s chest, and he presses a smile into Tom’s hair, followed by a kiss.
“And you?”
Will curls his fingers over Tom’s hips. “I’ve never slept that well before.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
Propping himself up on Will’s chest, Tom peers down at him. “You’re not having me on, are you?”
“No.”
Tom narrows his eyes, searching Will’s face before ducking down for a kiss. It’s languid, tender, deep, and when he pulls away, Will feels light-headed from it.
He blinks up at Tom, takes in his brilliant grin and flushed cheeks, and decides he is the luckiest man alive. “I think you look even better this morning than you did yesterday,” he tells him, and Tom ducks his head with a soft grin.
“I expect the marks you left all over have something to do with that,” Tom teases, and heat moves beneath Will’s skin, part embarrassment and part arousal.
He clears his throat. “Yes, well...”
“Never took you for a possessive one, William Schofield.”
“Not sure I did either,” Will admits.
Tom releases a delighted sound, his eyes glittering with mischief. “I must bring it out in you then,” he decides. “My natural charm and allure driving you to stake your claim.”
The words are said in jest, but Will isn’t sure they’re too far off the mark. Embarrassed, he drops his gaze and shifts beneath Tom.
“Oh Will,” Tom huffs, “don’t be that way.” He shuffles forward and lays a hand on Will’s cheeks, turning him enough that their eyes meet. “I believe I told you this last night, but I have no problem repeating myself: I enjoy it, Will. Quite a bit, if you hadn’t noticed. I didn’t want you to stop last night, and I certainly won’t want you to stop in the future. Frankly, you could add a few more right now, and I would be more than happy with that. Do you understand?”
Will shifts again, but more from arousal than anything. “Yes.”
Tom nods in approval. “Good, now how much time do we have until we need to get ready to go to your sister’s?”
Will glances at the clock on his nightstand, calculates the time, and looks back at Tom. “Forty minutes maybe.”
A wicked smirk pulls at Tom’s lips. “Excellent, plenty of time then.”
“For what?”
Tom throws him a dubious look, before flopping on his back and tugging at Will’s arm. “To add a few more bites to my already impressive collection.”
Flushing, Will follows, bracing himself over Tom and settling between his thighs. With a pleased grin, Tom loops his arms around Will’s neck and hooks a leg around his waist.
“I love you,” Will tells him. “Quite desperately.”
Tom’s grin grows softer, more intimate, and his fingers card through Will’s hair, gentle and soothing. “And I love you,” Tom replies. “With all my heart.”
Will groans at the words and sinks into Tom’s embrace, pressing fevered kisses to his skin while Tom gasps and moans.