Work Text:
Sinclair thinks about peace. Not the peace which might follow this war. He daren't think that far ahead. Besides, a stolen moment like this would hardly be permitted then.
His eyes rest on the slight form reposing in the grass close to him. This is peace. To let his weary eyes rest on that beautiful boy, whose plush mouth and honey-toned locks remind him there's still sweetness and light in the world.
Even while Croft is dozing, a gentle, almost mischievous smile lingers on his lips, and Sinclair sighs as he reclines and drinks in the sight — both intoxicating potion and solace for his soul.
Would his peace shatter if he knelt beside the boy, leaned over him, and kissed that smile? Or would a soft gasp of surprise part those lips, and a pleased sigh invite further exploration? To know his longing might not be in vain, that his affection might even be returned… Oh, it would be heavenly in these hellish times.
But he has no right to risk disturbing that innocent angel's own peace. To risk breaking his trust, if Croft should think of him only as a kindly older man who has taken him under his wing. No, this moment has to be enough for his foolish, pining heart.
When had it started beating only for that beguiling boy? He knows the answer well enough. It ceased to be his own when the boy first looked at him in that charmingly shy way, with eyes which seemed to mirror his own epiphany. Wishful thinking, undoubtedly.
Those eyes are closed now, allowing Sinclair to fill up his soul with the sight of everything he loves. Everything that means peace to him now: Stephen Croft — safe, relaxed, at peace himself. And, for this delicious moment, Sinclair's very own.