“You never have,” said Martin, glancing up at Archibald and then back down at his hands, flexing them again. “He didn’t think he’d make it.”
He. Archibald wondered who he was, how close they had been. But this wasn’t the time or place for such questions, if he even had the right to ask them. “What do you need?” he asked instead.
Martin took a few more deep breaths, clearly trying to collect himself. “Do you have work I can do?” he asked, voice rough as he looked back up at Archibald.
“Always,” said Archibald, with some attempt at levity, knowing Martin wanted distraction. He went back to his desk, finding some reports that had nothing to do with that morning’s fighting. “These need to be compiled.”
Martin accepted them and settled at his table, dashing at his eyes with the back of his hand.
Archibald watched him for a moment, then made up his mind. “I’ll be right back.”
Martin looked up at him and nodded before turning his attention back to his work.
Archibald pulled on his coat and unbolted the door, stepping out into the trench. He ducked his head and hurried, trying to ignore the soldiers he passed. Even so, he couldn’t help but notice the ones having minor injuries tended to and the others gathered together speaking in solemn hushed tones. He couldn’t help all of them, but he could help the one in his care.
He quickly found the canteen and ducked inside, collecting fresh cups of warm tea and a small lunch for them. His stomach reminded him that he’d barely touched breakfast. He wasn’t sure that Martin would eat, but they both needed something.
Archibald returned to the bunker, finding the papers on his desk had multiplied. There would be time to deal with them soon enough, for now, he deposited the tea and food on the table before shrugging out of his coat.
As they’d done so many times before, Archibald drew his seat up to the table, but this time he was the one nudging the plate at Martin. Martin gave him a tiny, sad, smile and picked up his fork. They ate quietly, both of them ignoring the sorrow in the air and the pile of reports on Archibald’s desk.
Chapter Thirteen
When they finished their meal, Frank picked up a stack of pages, and Blythe went back to his desk. The quiet echoed like the violent silence after a shell.
Blythe glanced at him as he worked, worry and guilt in his eyes. But it wasn’t his fault. The man was doing his duty, same as the rest of them. Frank rubbed his eyes, wishing he could collapse again and grieve in the man’s arms, but they both had work to do.
The day passed slowly, inexorably. There was no going backwards through time, only forward. One foot in front of the other as he’d always done. He’d done it when he lost the first man he’d kissed and when he’d been transferred away from the second. When the first one he’d made love to had died in front of his eyes. And a handful of others besides. All of them gone, most of them dead, but he had to carry on, hold their memories locked in his heart. He pushed the thoughts away. Time enough to dwell on them in the dark hours.
Frank got up and got them dinner. He ate automatically, glad for Blythe giving him his silence, but also wishing for another distraction. When he finished, he got up to get ready for bed. Blythe watched him, collecting the plates. “My flask is there, if you need something to help you sleep,” he offered.
Frank shook his head. “It won’t help, but thank you,” he said, crawling into bed. The nightmares would be there either way, his head full of the screams of dying men, lost faces flashing before his eyes.
He rolled onto his side and took a breath, allowing himself to remember the first man he’d crossed the line with, Kundi. They’d both been fighting about six months when Frank was assigned to his unit. He hadn’t meant to fall into an affair, but Kundi’s warm brown eyes had seen him in a way few others had. It had felt natural to grow close, to share a kiss. Then Kundi had been killed a few hours later.
That was the way it seemed to go with anyone who snagged his heart. Quick assignations, stolen kisses, sometimes more… but then they were killed, or Frank was reassigned, and they vanished into the poisoned mists of the battlefield.
How dare he lay any claim on Blythe when destiny deemed he should be alone? And yet, and yet…
Frank slipped into uneasy dreams, haunted by shadows and gunfire and the taste of mud. He knew no details of how Wilson had died, yet he dreamed of himself kneeling by the man and closing his lifeless eyes.
Waking with a choked sob, Frank sat up and rubbed his face, taking gasping breaths. Blythe was suddenly by his side, warm hand on his back as he offered the flask again. Frank leaned into his touch, shaking. This time he did take the flask, tipping it carefully and taking a long swig. The fire burning down his throat reminded him he was alive. Surely that must be for a reason, shouldn’t it?
As much as he wanted to fold himself into Blythe’s arms, fear held him back. Too much could happen in the dark. Frank pulled away and rolled back onto his side. He could feel Blythe watching him for a few long moments before standing and tucking the blanket around Frank.
Frank closed his eyes, listening to Blythe get back into bed, wishing he could reach out for him. Frank took a breath, at least finding comfort in his close presence, knowing he was not alone.
Frank opened his eyes in the morning to the sound of plates being put down. He rolled over and sat up, seeing Blythe had breakfast for them. Blythe looked over at him, face unreadable.
Breathing slowly, Frank got his boots on and made his way over. He took his usual seat and sipped his tea. Blythe hesitated, then reached out to touch his hand for just a moment before pulling back again.
Frank didn’t know what to say, or if he could speak at all. He was bone-weary, despite the night’s rest, eating quickly from habit but not tasting a thing. Blythe watched him as if trying to figure out what he could do to help, but nothing could fix this. Grief weighed him down. It wasn’t just Wilson and the others. It was two years of war. Two years of being away from his children. It was knowing that his wife had stopped loving him long ago and sought out others to ease her needs, and he was so alone. Frank rubbed his eyes and pushed the plate away, reaching for some papers to sort.
Blythe stacked the plates and went back to his desk, both of them absorbing themselves in their work. There was little need to speak, a gesture or silently handing over papers saying what they needed. Sometime in the morning, Frank found his eyes heavy and put his head down on his arms, knowing that Blythe would understand.
Sometime later, Blythe nudged him awake. Frank felt a little better as he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“I need you to take this to Colonel Adenet,” said Blythe gently, offering a message. “If you’re up for it.”
“Of course,” said Frank, standing and tucking the paper away. “I’ll take the plates back too.” He stretched and put on his coat. Frank glanced at the concern on Blythe’s face before shouldering his rifle and stepping out.
Blythe wanted to help, that was obvious, but how could he when he’d never served at the front in the same way Frank had? Not that there was anything wrong with Blythe’s service, but it just wasn’t the same. There was no way to explain all the things that Frank had seen and done.
Frank pulled his coat tighter, dropping off the plates and hurrying along the quiet trenches, as if the world was still reeling from the previous day’s attack. The few soldiers he saw spoke in hushed tones, huddled close together.
It was a relief to walk into the French lines and see Dupoy. The man even gave him his usual smile as he approached. “I knew you would come,” he said.
Frank shrugged. “Always something that needs doing. You know how it goes.”
“I do indeed.” Dupoy watched as the Colonel’s aide opened the door and all but snatched the message from Frank’s hand. “It was bad, here,” he said.
Frank sighed and walked over to him, taking a seat. “It was bad everywhere. I know things didn’t go according to plan.”
“They never do o
nce the bullets begin,” Dupoy offered Frank his flask. Frank took a large swig and handed it back.
“You lost someone,” observed Dupoy.
“A whole unit,” said Frank.
Dupoy nodded and took his own swig. “I understand.”
Frank suspected that he did. Dupoy always seemed to be around the headquarters, though he wasn’t an officer. Frank wasn’t quite sure what his job entailed. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Seeing him was a familiar comfort, brief though their conversations might be.
“Corporal,” grumbled the aide from the doorway, getting his attention. Frank got up to take the return message, listening to the aide mutter in French about where Blythe could stick his orders and being careful not to react.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, tucking the message away and adjusting his rifle.
“Take care, my friend,” said Dupoy with a wave.
“You as well. Keep your head down.” Frank nodded to him and hurried back towards the safety and comfort of the bunker.
Frank was unsurprised to see Collins leaving as he stepped back inside. His heart ached at the way Blythe watched Collins go. Putting the message down, Frank nodded at the closing door. “It’s good you have someone.”
Blythe froze. “Excuse me?” he said.
Frank took a step back. If he’d misread the situation this could all go very, very badly. “Ah. I thought… You and Lieutenant Collins…” He stood at attention though he wanted very badly to walk away and pretend he’d never said anything at all.
Blythe looked at him for a very long moment, studying Frank’s face.“Collins is merely a colleague, nothing more.”
“Ah.” Frank took a breath and another step back, leaning his rifle against the wall and shrugging out of his coat. “My apologies,” he said quietly, looking away.
“You lost someone… close to you, from your old unit.”
It wasn’t a question, and Frank didn’t see any point in denying it. A line had already been crossed. “Yes.”
“Then I am doubly sorry for your loss,” said Blythe. He could feel Blythe hesitate before speaking. “I… too prefer the company of men,” he said softly. “But I’ve never… indulged.”
Frank bit his lip and looked back at him. “You know I’m married. But I’ve always had other feelings, too. I never acted on them until I was here.”
They shared a long gaze before Blythe looked back at his desk and picked up his pen. “Did you have a reply for me?”
A smile creased Frank’s lips. “I do. And his aide had some rather choice words about where you could stick it.”
“Of course he did. Thank you.” Blythe took the paper and turned back to the work on his desk. Martin sat at the table, feeling a shift in the tensions between them.
Chapter Fourteen
Archibald looked at his work, avoiding glancing over at Martin. He’d rarely admitted his desires out loud. And never to anyone else. Yet in their brief time together, he’d learned to trust the man—even with this.
Martin had been with men. One of them recently. Which certainly explained his grief, beyond losing men he’d fought beside. He’d heard rumors of relations between soldiers, but the army tended to turn a blind eye as long as they were discreet. By necessity, certain rules of polite society had to be put aside for warfare. And certainly, Barclay had been implying something.
Archibald sorted some papers, trying to focus on his work, but his thoughts wandered. Martin intrigued him, certainly. He was absolutely trustworthy, worked hard, and, perhaps more than all of that, it felt comfortable and right to have him by his side. Not in the same way as he’d always had servants, but more like a partner. An equal. Despite their differences in rank and class.
Martin wasn’t the first person to suspect his interests. One couldn’t be a bachelor as long as he had without some rumors. But while he’d never been outrightly accused and had done his best to ignore the gossip, he’d answered Martin almost without hesitation.
Sighing, Archibald ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll get us dinner,” he said. He got up and pulled on his coat before he could change his mind.
The weather was chill, a cold rain beginning to fall, trickling down the back of his coat. He took another breath and walked quickly, noticing a few soldiers looking at him as he walked, some of them whispering to each other. Did they know it was his orders? He walked a little faster, ducking in to get dinner.
“Major,” said a voice as he waited.
Archibald turned and looked at the man, recognizing the pain in his eyes though not the man himself. “Yes?” he asked, heart in his throat.
“We’re going to end this war, aren’t we?” he asked quietly, leaning closer.
“End and win it, yes,” said Archibald. “They’re growing desperate.”
“Good,” said the stranger, looking Archibald over and then stepping back.
Archibald collected the plates for himself and Martin. “Stay safe,” he told the man.
“No such thing,” he smirked.
Archibald nodded and hurried back, the rain falling harder now. Martin looked up at him and smiled. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“Thank you,” muttered Archibald, putting down the food and taking off his coat. They sat down to eat together as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
They both slept fitfully that night. Archibald could hear Martin murmuring in his sleep, but didn’t dare reach out to him. For himself, he found his dreams alternately haunted by staring soldiers and by the faces of men he kept at arm’s length. Basil was the only one he’d allowed near in a very long time, secure in the other man’s marriage and the differences in rank. But neither of those factors seemed a hindrance with Martin.
The next day passed with the same quiet tension, neither of them moving closer or stepping away. The work remained the same, providing an anchor in the uncertainty. No matter what might happen between two men, there was still a war to be fought and won.
Martin went to bed at his usual time, Archibald pulled together a few more pieces, wanting to complete one more report before seeking rest. The bunker shook as a shell landed nearby. Archibald looked at the bouncing lantern, heart in his throat. Another shell landed on the heels of the first, then a third. He reached over and turned down the light before it fell and started a fire.
“Come to bed,” Martin’s voice was steady in the darkness.
“What?” Archibald’s voice sounded small in his own ears.
There was the sound of movement as Martin got out of bed. His arms settled around Archibald’s shoulders. “Come to bed. You need to rest, sir.”
Archibald wanted to argue, but yet another shell made him jerk. Martin’s arms were warm and firm around him. “I doubt I’ll sleep with this,” he muttered.
“Still,” said Martin, guiding him over to his own bunk and making sure he sat before crouching down to take off his shoes. “Nights like this, it’s better not to be alone.”
Archibald found himself unable to argue, laying down on his side. Martin settled behind him, pulling the blanket over them both and laying his arm over Archibald’s chest.
Sighing, Archibald found himself relaxing into Martin’s embrace. Another shell landed, but somehow, it didn’t seem quite so terrifying from here. He closed his eyes. “Goodnight,” he murmured.
To his surprise, Martin gave a small, affectionate nuzzle to the nape of his neck. A few moments later, he heard Martin quietly snore before shifting and falling into deeper sleep. He wondered if the man was even aware he’d made such a gesture. Archibald closed his own eyes, letting the sounds fade like spring thunder.
When Archibald woke, he found Martin already out of bed and putting down breakfast. Martin smiled gently at him. “You were sound asleep; I didn’t want to wake you.”
Sitting up, Archibald rubbed his eyes and reached for his boots. “I did sleep better than usual,” he admitted.
Martin nodded. “The bombardment’s over. For now, anyway. Come and
eat.”
Archibald tied off his boots and stood, stretching. He felt off-balance. What was the proper etiquette after sharing a man’s bed for the night? Even if they had only spent it sleeping, it had been an act of intimacy.
Martin said nothing about it, settling at the table as he did every morning. Archibald scratched at the scruff on his chin and made his way over, smiling back at him. “Thank you.”
“Welcome. The rain let up, too. Were you able to make a dent in your work?”
Archibald eyed his desk and looked back at Martin. “There is always more to do.”
“That’s very true.” Martin took a bite and looked into Archibald’s eyes.
Archibald’s heart skipped, and it had nothing to do with anything outside the bunker and everything to do with Martin’s warm gaze. He swallowed hard, hand freezing as he reached for his fork.
Martin reached over and covered Archibald’s hand with his own, his touch chill. “It’s all right,” Martin said softly.
Archibald remembered to breathe and opened his mouth to speak, but a knock on the door shattered the moment. Their hands jerked apart, and Archibald turned away. “Come in.”
Collins stepped in, closing the door behind him. “It’s cold,” he muttered, oblivious to his interruption. “Morning.”
“Good morning, Collins, how can I help you?” asked Archibald, keeping his tone light even as his heart tried to return to a normal beat. That had been very close.
“I’ve got orders from the General. You’re to return to the farmhouse.”
Archibald blinked, wondering if the attack had gone worse than he’d thought. “Are we returning here?”
Collins shook his head. “I don’t know, but the General wanted you and the Corporal to pack up everything, so you might be reassigned.”
Archibald tried to ignore the relief he felt knowing that Martin was going to remain by his side. Martin was already getting to his feet. “Of course. Just give us a bit of time to pack.”
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