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It was in the early days of summer that things began to change. Those days were endless and warm, the sunlight the rich golden colour of butter, the sky unusually clear. They were filled with the steady crack of bat against ball, bell-bright laughter, the dry rustle of pen on paper.
For the past two months the Captain had been driven to distraction. He prided himself on his good sense, on his sharp mind, but lately there had been only one thing in his thoughts, far more often than he cared to dwell on. Dark eyes, a gaze thick as treacle, muscular arms and dimples carved into ivory-smooth skin.
His sleepless nights were filled with him, his voice, his smile, his laugh. He had lain awake night after night, staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing but his face. Of course, he had his hopes - that the occasional brush of Havers' hand on his, the smaller, sweeter smile that he reserved just for him, meant more than just duty or friendship.
Then again, he always had been a terrible fool when it came to love.
---
It was late in the evening. They were in his study. Alone. The other men had gone into town for the evening, taking their constant chatter and sharp, watching eyes with them. For the first time in weeks, their only company was each other.
Havers leaned back in his chair, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. The Captain tried not to glance at the clock. With each second that passed, the end of the few magical hours they had together drew closer. He wanted to freeze this moment, to keep it pressed over his heart like a treasured photograph of a sweetheart.
He placed the last of his paperwork on the stack, cracking his knuckles. There were ink stains worn into the grooves of his fingers, tracing the lines of his palms. He wondered, briefly, what one of the palmists who the men so enjoyed visiting would see laid out there. Was his future already certain, his actions finite, his path set?
Havers cleared his throat. "Sir, if I may -"
"Of course." He waved a dismissive hand at him, trying to mask his disappointment. He had hoped, stupidly, foolishly, that they would have a while longer. "Go out. Have fun."
"Actually, sir, that wasn't what I was going to suggest."
The Captain looked up. Havers was close enough that he could smell him, like wet cedar and sunlight and ink. Their hands rested just inches apart. If he reached for the ink pot just so -
His traitorous body, however, had other ideas. As he reached for the pot, bringing his hand closer, unbearably, torturously closer to Havers', he was hit with a sudden urge to cough. In his haste to cover his mouth his hand shifted too quickly to the side, knocking the pot over. Ink spilled everywhere, seeping into the crevices of the desk and edging towards their newly completed paperwork.
"Damn and blast!"
Havers stood quickly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and using it to blot the ink. Through the fog of his panic the Captain couldn't help but admire his capability, the shift of his muscles beneath his shirt.
"Nothing to worry about, sir." A fleeting smile. "Happens to the best of us."
"I - ah, yes. Terribly sorry."
Havers straightened up, leaning over to the small waste bin under the desk to deposit the soiled handkerchief. As he did so, he drew close enough to the Captain that their hands brushed. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through his body, ember-bright and burning.
"Are you alright, sir? Your hands are shaking."
"Quite fine. Wonderful, in fact. Now, what was it you were suggesting?"
"Ah. Well, I thought since it's just us here, we could perhaps try some of that brandy? I mean, it would be a good way to relax after a long day. And it would help your nerves -"
"My nerves, Lieutenant?"
"Oh - I'm terribly sorry to be presumptuous. It's just that you seem rather tense, and I thought - oh, bother. Forget it."
"On the contrary. I think it's an excellent idea."
He thought later, as he lay in bed, cheeks flushed, that he would have given all of his worldly possessions, all of his past and his future, to once again see Havers' face light up like it did in that moment.
---
Half an hour later they were both pleasantly tipsy, the bottle half empty. Havers leaned forward, chuckling. "And I said, sir -"
"You can stop with that, Havers."
"Sorry?"
"Calling me sir. It's just us here. There's no need for that kind of formality. You can call me -" He paused for a moment. It had been a long time since he had told anyone his name, so long that it had almost ceased to feel like his own. "James."
A funny kind of smile crossed Havers' face, his eyes unreadable. "Anthony."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Anthony."
"And yours, James."
His name from Havers' - Anthony's - lips was the sweetest poetry to him, like a prayer, like the birdsong at dawn, like the first crocus of the spring.
Anthony's cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining. James had no idea what state his own face was in. His features felt loose, open, and he could feel that his hair had fallen free of its coat of gel. He feared what Anthony could see in his eyes, displayed proudly as a coat of arms.
"I've just realised, sir - sorry, James - I know rather little about you."
"There's not much to know."
"Go on. Humour me."
Nobody had ever asked about him before, nor looked at him with such interest in their eyes, like his answers were of vital importance. His heart began to hammer in his chest, the beats tripping over themselves, going far too fast.
"Well, I was born in Bledlow - well, technically on the boundary with Kingston Street, but within the civil parish of Bledlow-cum-Saunderton - that's in Buckinghamshire."
"Rather vague."
He had already opened his mouth to formulate a response when he realised that Anthony was joking. Someone was joking. With him. The concept was so novel that he froze for a moment, mouth hanging open.
"I - ah, yes -" He laughed awkwardly. Anthony laughed with him, the sound rich and full.
"Don't worry, James. I'm impressed."
He wouldn't have believed it from anyone else, but from Anthony's lips the compliment sounded genuine, like it could be nothing but the absolute truth. He wondered absent-mindedly if Anthony had ever lied in his life.
"Well, thank you. What about you?"
"Ah, nothing interesting. I was born somewhere in Cambridgeshire - I know, unspecific. Normal childhood. Grew up and joined the army, same as you. Shall we move on to something more interesting?"
"More interesting than our life stories?"
Anthony smiled at him, his movements languid, and downed the rest of the brandy in his glass in one swallow. "Favourite colour."
"Green, I suppose."
"If you had a cat, what would you call it?"
"Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery, 1st Viscount Montgomery of Alamein, KG, GCB, DSO, PC, DL. Monty for short."
Anthony raised one perfect eyebrow. At some point in the evening he had run a hand through his hair, and now it was dishevelled, one dark strand hanging down over his face. James thought that he had never seen anything quite so attractive in his life. "And if you had a dog?"
"Barry."
And Anthony tipped back his head and laughed. If his laughter before was like music, this was a royal orchestra, a heavenly chorus of soaring strings and vaulting notes. It was full-bodied, sweet as the finest wine and just as intoxicating. It was rich and heavy and made James lose whatever semblance of sanity he had left.
"James?"
His voice was low, sultry. James shook his head. The evening was getting to him. This was a drink between friends, nothing more. He needed air.
He was acutely aware that their knees were touching under the table, hyper-sensitive to every movement of Anthony's legs, every brush of fabric on fabric. His chest felt tight. A whole flock of butterflies had broken loose from somewhere deep inside him, and were now turning somersaults around his ribcage. He feared that if he opened his mouth he might simply float away.
"Yes?"
"It's your turn to ask."
He was a sensible man. That was something he prided himself on, but when Anthony looked at him, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips quirked up in a slight smile, all logic left his body in a rush.
"Do you have a sweetheart?"
The words were out before he could think to regret them. They floated between them like bubbles stretched to bursting, fogging his vision and casting the shadows into rippling bursts of colour.
"No. I don't."
"But - a handsome man like you - I mean, all of the girls must be after you - surely?"
"That sort of thing... has never been for me."
Suddenly the room seemed very quiet. The brush of a branch against the window, the hoot of an owl. He could feel the alcohol churning inside him. And that was all it was. They were both drunk. The brandy had made them bold, and it was foolish and stupid and insane, but when Anthony looked at him, suddenly his fantasised future didn't seem so distant after all.
"James." His voice seemed so certain, like a lighthouse beam on wind-tossed waves. "You know how I feel about you."
His heart stopped dead in his chest, a useless lump of meat that now seemed all too fragile in the face of those immense, magnificent words. All of his thoughts clogged in his throat like tangled spiderwebs. The swirling of the butterflies intensified until they filled his head, all the delicate folds of his brain crammed with fluttering wings, and the only thing he could think to say, voice calm as the centre of a storm, was, "Do I?"
"You do."
"I - I - I'm not sure I know what you mean."
They were both standing now, and suddenly there was no desk between them, no barrier but the open air and a lifetime of mistaken beliefs and fears. He felt weak at the knees.
He's drunk, and you're drunk, and this isn't happening.
And yet as Anthony stepped towards him his eyes seemed strangely clear, unfogged by alcohol, aware and bright as the day they first met, the day he had fallen into a love so deep that he feared he would never rise from it.
"James."
"Anthony." His voice was whisper soft. It sounded foreign to his own ears, like he was watching someone else's life, someone else's happily ever after.
Hands grasped his lapels, and all he could do was stand, frozen as a deer in the headlights, as Anthony stepped forwards, as he kissed him.
He tasted like brandy and ink and coffee and sunlight, like wisteria growing up the side of a cottage, like long Sunday walks hand in hand, like swimming side by side in the cold waters of the lake, like the whistle of a kettle and the crash of the sea, like early mornings and birdsong and mulled wine on Christmas and laughter and a million more things, a million more possibilities, a future he hadn't dared imagine until now.
He made a small noise, like a whimper, pulling closer, needing to be near, to be with him. Hips against his, the warmth of Anthony's muscles through his clothes, the softness of his skin where his shirt had ridden up, the silken feeling of his hair. He couldn't breathe, he was drowning, and it was a beautiful feeling. He opened his mouth and let the water flood his lungs, and it tasted like relief.
And then, from some far-away place, he heard the slam of a door, the distant sound of laughter, and painfully, agonisingly, Anthony pulled away.
His hair was ruffled, his cheeks bright pink. His lips were soft and red and swollen, as if beestung. His dark eyes were shining with the heat of a thousand suns and the promise of unfinished business.
"Anthony."
The trembling of his voice, the shaking of his hands. He was certain that the butterflies had escaped, that they had flown down Anthony's throat and that now, no matter where the wind took them or how the world tried to tear them apart, Anthony would always carry a part of him with him.
"Goodnight, sir."