Archive of Our Own

“Write me,” Alex says, pressing a scrap of paper into Tommy’s hand. “Please.”

He looks earnest, pleading almost.

He doesn’t look like the man Tommy pulled out of the water five weeks ago, soaked through and gasping for breath.

“Tommy, I’m serious,” Alex continues, when Tommy doesn’t answer. The paper feels worn, smooth like it’s been worried at by fingers for hours on end. “You have to write. I need you to write.”

His eyes, green like the stormy sea, catch Tommy’s and hold.

“Please, write me.”

Tommy’s fingers spasm around the paper before clenching into a fist. He nods once.

The relief on Alex’s face is immediate. It washes away the worry and concern between one breath and the next.

“Take care of yourself,” Alex tells him. “And please, for the love of God, don’t go running through German-occupied towns, alright?”

A minute smile pulls at Tommy’s lips, there and gone in an instant. He nods again.

Alex looks like he wants to say more, eyes full of questions and orders and well wishes, but he remains silent, jaw set.

“Be safe,” he tells Tommy, and it sounds like a command. For Tommy or for some higher power, he isn’t sure.

17 July 1940

Alex,

I think your warning about German-occupied towns was a bit of a waste. I haven’t seen a single one of them since coming to the Mediterranean. Lots of Italians though. I don’t know if that’s better or not.

Greece is beautiful. It’s hard to see that sometimes, what with a war going on, but there will be moments, when we’ve got nothing to do but wait, and I look around and think that this is what paradise must be like. If you take away the guns and tanks and uniforms, of course.

The Greek people are very kind. I’ve been able to pick up some of their language, though it’s rather difficult. I think I prefer French. At least it’s got the same alphabet as us.

Anyways, I hope my letter finds you well.

I hope my letter finds you.

Be safe,

Tommy

3 August 1940

Tommy,

God, it’s good to hear from you. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes when the courier handed me your letter. Not that I didn’t expect you to write. You said you would, and you keep your word. It just feels like it’s been ages since we last saw each other.

I’m more bored than I think I’ve ever been. We wake up and train. Eat lunch and train. Dinner and train. I think they’re just trying to keep us busy as they figure out a place to send us. It’d be just my luck that they finally decide to take their time and plan things out now.

The boys are all getting a little stir crazy, and I feel the same. None of us like waiting, especially not after Dunkirk. Waiting is a sure way to get killed, and I don’t think any of us have forgotten that. I’m not sure we will any time soon.

You’re a right lucky bastard being off in Greece. You’ve got the sun and the sea, good food and pretty landscapes from everything I’ve heard. You better enjoy it. I’ll be upset with you if you don’t.

Take care of yourself.

Yours,

Alex

26 August 1940

Alex,

I promise that I’m trying to enjoy Greece as much as I can during a war. It really is a beautiful country, and there’s so much history here. If I had the time I could see the Acropolis and the Parthenon and so many other important sites that I’ve read about and learned about in school. Unfortunately, we don’t really have time for sightseeing or field trips. I take in what’s around me though.

I hope the waiting doesn’t go on for too long. That has to be unbearable.

I’d write more, but I don’t have much time today, and I want to get this letter off before they ship them out.

Be safe,

Tommy

20 September 1940

Tommy,

I’m right glad I got your letter before they shipped us out. If you couldn’t tell from the address, I’ve been sent to the Pacific. I think it’s only been a week on the ground, but I’m not sure. Time moves strangely here. Every day feels like ten, but I think that’s mostly because of the heat. It’s not like anything I ever felt before, Tommy. I remember summers back in Scotland with the sun beating down, not a cloud in the sky, and I thought I would melt beneath the heat. That’s nothing compared to this. Nothing. I’ll wipe my face, and in two minutes, it’s soaked again, and I’m dripping sweat everywhere.

Also, the language here is a right mess. First time I saw it, I was convinced my CO was having me on. It just looked like a bunch of lines and squiggles thrown together on a piece of paper. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Then again, languages were never much my thing. I was shite at French in school, and I’m shite at Burmese out here.

The food is good though. They use spices here I’ve never even heard of before. Stuff that sounds foreign and exotic and is hot enough to burn your tongue off. Nearly cried the first time I tried some. Wilson said my face turned red as a tomato. I’m getting used to it though, and it makes the meals more bearable. Not quite as flavorless and bland as they were back in France.

How’s the food in Greece? How’s your Greek coming along? I want to hear everything.

Take care.

Yours,

Alex

8 October 1940

Alex,

It sounds like a different world. Greece feels so different from home, but at least it’s still a part of Europe. You’re on the other side of the globe though. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like.

The food is decent. We eat lots of fish and other seafood, and everything has olives in it, absolutely everything. I never much cared for them before, but they’re beginning to grow on me. As are the sundried tomatoes. They seemed a bit odd at first, strange texture and thick flavor, but they’re not so bad now.

The Greek is coming along. They’ve actually got me working on communications here. I spend a lot of time with the translators, listening to them go back and forth between our men and the Greeks. It’s helped quite a bit, and it keeps me from getting too bored. I’d be interested to see what Burmese looks like, what with your rather colorful description.

The weather is beginning to cool down. Not much obviously, but enough that it makes a difference. We’ll take any good news we can get.

Don’t forget to drink water what with the heat.

Be safe,

Tommy

22 December 1940

Tommy,

Can’t believe you fucking beat me to Lance Corporal. Never would have thought it possible. But I guess it makes sense, since you’ve got all the COs impressed with your Greek. What are they going to have you learn next? Picked up any Italian or German in your free time? They going to make a code breaker out of you?

I can’t lie, Tommy. I think I’d be happy to hear that. Code breakers stay in cozy rooms with ear pieces in and pens in hand. They take notes and send letters and don’t have to see the battlefield. Obviously, no position is really safe in war, but you’d be much safer doing that than you would be participating in attacks or defending against invasion. It’s a nice thought.

We were on the move again this week. Swear to God, I’ve already walked over the whole of this goddamn country. My feet feel like they’re going to fall off at any moment, and the thought of getting up for dinner later has me wanting to throw up. I’ll do it though. Of course, I will. Can’t miss out on the good food Richards makes for us.

I know this letter won’t get to you in time, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Happy Christmas, Tommy, and Happy New Year, too. They say we’re going to have a day or two to celebrate, so I’m looking forward to that. Not sure what I’ll do with the time though. A lot of the men are talking about finding one of the local brothels and getting to know the birds here. I know it sounds odd, but I’m not sure I want to go.

That’s crazy, right? You probably don’t believe me.

A year ago, I would’ve been right in the thick of it with them, but now, I don’t know, mate, I don’t like thinking about it. The women here have been through hell. They’re caught in a war that has nothing to do with them, and they’re just trying to have enough to make sure their families have food on the table and a roof over their heads. It doesn’t seem right to… Well, you know what I’m talking about.

It’s strange though, Tommy. I know war changes people. I know it changed my da and his brother, but when I thought about being changed by the war, this isn’t really what I thought about it. I’m not complaining, mind you. It’s just odd.

I’d rather go to one of the bars and drink with a few of the boys. Actually, if I’m honest, I’d rather drink with you. I don’t think you’re much of a drinker, but that’s alright. We could just have a pint or two, and that’d be enough.

I’m rambling now, and none of it’s important. Just ignore that last bit. I think the heat (that never seems to go away) has me dreaming about impossible things.

Take care, Tommy.

Yours,

Alex

23 March 1941

Alex,

I knew you’d catch up with me. Congratulations, Lance Corporal.

I’m being transferred this week. Not my unit though, just me. They’re sending me south to Egypt. Apparently your prediction last year wasn’t too far off. I’ve managed well enough with the Greek that they’d like me to try my hand at Arabic. Not sure how that’ll go. Greek was difficult, but at least they’ve got distinct letters. Arabic is something else entirely. It’s beautiful to look at, but I’ve got no idea where one letter ends and the next begins.

They haven’t given me any information to pass on for letters, but I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything. Don’t be too surprised if it takes a few extra weeks to get something. I have a feeling they’ll throw me right into things as soon as I get there, and there won’t be much time for letter writing. There probably won’t be much time for anything besides work and sleep. Honestly, I’m already tired at the thought.

I’m glad to hear you’re making headway with the Burmese. Though after eight months in country, that should be expected. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Alex. I know school wasn’t really your thing, and you’re more a hands on person, but you’re smarter than you think. Don’t forget that.

Be safe,

Tommy

1 June 1941

Happy anniversary, Tommy.

God, how has it only been one year since that godawful beach? It feels like ten.

I’ve been thinking about this letter for ages, trying to think of what to say. Seems a bit daft, right? Fretting over a letter to a mate this much, but I feel like there’s a lot to say. I feel like there’s a lot I need to say, and I want to say it right. You’re clearly better with languages than me, even English, but bear with me, alright? And hopefully I won’t fuck it up too much.

I never thanked you for pulling me out of the water that day. I was tired of waiting to get out of France and angry that our boat had gone down and pissed off that we were even stuck on that godforsaken beach in the first place. I was just focused on trying to survive another day, and I didn’t know who you were, but I knew you weren’t supposed to be there, so I thought it was thanks enough to just keep my mouth shut. I’m sorry for that. I should’ve thanked you then because you didn’t have to save me. Frankly, leaving me in the water probably would’ve saved you a lot of trouble later on. So thank you.

I also should never have said the things I did on that Dutch trawler. There are a million reasons, but when I think about them, they all sound like excuses. So I won’t bore you with those. You deserve better than any excuses I have to offer. I treated you like shit. I said things I shouldn’t’ve. I didn’t care about anyone but myself. And I am sorry for that. I’m sorry for being a dick. I’m sorry for threatening Gibson and you. I’m sorry for not treating you like a friend. Actually, for not even treating you like a person.

And shit, I’m sorry about Gibson. I know I didn’t actually kill him, but I feel like saying the things I did, offering him up, cursed him. I wished for him to die, and he did. God, Tommy, I think that’s the worst of all. I think that’s a shame that’s going to stick with me for the rest of my life, however long that is.

I’m sorry for picking my regiment over you. God, what a shit idea that was. Those wankers never did anything for me. The only connection we had was home, and that seemed like enough at the time. That seemed like a good enough reason to choose them over you. It wasn’t. It absolutely wasn’t. Tommy, I think you did more for me in a few days than they ever did. If I could do it all over again, I’d pick you. I’d pick you over all of them, every goddamn time.

And I’m sorry for saddling you with my company for that month we were back home. You could’ve gone and been with your own regiment, your own friends, but I’m sure I made that right difficult, always sticking to you like a shadow. I can’t explain it. Even now, I can’t explain why I was like that. Actually, I’m a bit ashamed to admit that if we were together now, I would probably still be like that.

There’s just something about you, Tommy. I can’t let you out of my sight, if I don’t have to. You’re just good, like really actually good. It’s genuine and honest, which is rare in life and even rarer in war. I think being on that beach made me forget what I was fighting for. Being on that beach made me realize I wasn’t fighting for anything but my own life, and that’s the coward’s way. Meeting you was like a slap in the face. You still cared about others. You still valued their lives. It took me a while to wake up to that, but once I did, I realized that I needed to make sure that goodness remained in the world.

Right, where was I? Yes, I’m sorry for ruining the time you had home with my sorry company. I’m sorry for keeping you from friends.

I’m sorry for pretty much everything that happened in Dunkirk. It was shit from start to finish. But I’m not sorry for meeting you. I won’t ever be. You’re the best person I know, Tommy.

Take care of yourself. Stay safe.

Yours,

Alex

27 June 1941

Alex,

I think I’ve read your letter six times since receiving it earlier today, and I’m trying to figure out how to respond, but there is just so much to say, almost too much.

I’m sure you meant it in jest when you said ‘happy’ anniversary, for there is little about that week in Dunkirk that I would consider happy. But I appreciate the sentiment, and I think it is something that should be remembered. Just as the Somme or Passchendaele should be remembered.

You don’t have to thank me for pulling you out of the water. It’s what anyone would have done. By that point, there had already been so much death, so much loss of life without reason, the thought of losing one more person was too much to bear. The fact that that person happened to be you was coincidence, a coincidence I have come to see as a blessing, if I am to be honest.

I hated that moment in the trawler. It still haunts me to this day. We didn’t know each other very well back then, but I thought I knew you enough to be surprised when you acted the way you did. It was a shock. It was frightening, and I was scared for my life for a moment there. But in the end, we made it out, so there is no reason to dwell on the what-ifs and might-have-beens. It is easier to say I forgive you. I do not say that lightly though. I have wrestled with that day for the last year, have tried to understand what was going through your head at that moment, and I think I understand better, even if I do not agree. I forgive you for it though. Please don’t let it weigh you down with guilt.

I know how you feel. God, of all the regrets I will have by the end of this war, Gibson’s death will be the greatest. I let him out of my sight, and I shouldn’t have. It was chaos though, pure and utter chaos, and by the time I realized where I was and what had happened, it was too late. I know it does not make anything better, but know that his death has stayed with me, too. You are not responsible; neither of us are. But that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

You may have chosen your regiment in the moment, but you did not chose them in the end, and that is enough. Our lives are riddled with mistakes and shortcomings, and though we could focus on the past, I think it more valuable to think about the present and the future. You chose me over them in the end. You still choose me now.

Your presence never was a burden, and it will never be. I felt lost at Dunkirk, unmoored and left to float on the raging sea. Finding you was like finding a small piece of dry land in the storm. I don’t really know how to explain it, but being around you kept me from going insane. Getting your letters now still keeps me from losing it just a little bit. You have, by some strange path, become my closest friend, and for that, I will never let you apologize.

Be safe.

Yours,

Tommy

19 November 1941

Tommy,

Before you worry too much, I am fine, just a bit banged up.

We had a run-in with some Japs that we found hiding out in the jungle. We don’t know how long they had been there, spying on us, sending information back home, but it’d been a while from the looks of it. They had quite the set-up. It reminded me of something from a film. Anyways, I caught a bullet in the arm (left one, thankfully) and bled a fair amount. The boys got me to the nurses as quickly as possible, and they’ve stitched me up pretty well.

I won’t be doing much for the next few weeks though, so feel free to write as much as you want. Anything to kill this boredom. I think I might die from it. Honestly, finding the Japs was the most exciting thing to happen in a while and now I don’t even get to be a part of the search parties looking for more hideouts. I’m a bit disappointed about that.

Liza, that’s the poor nurse who’s been forced to look after me, thinks I’m writing my sweetheart right now. She says it’s quite ‘adorable’, her words not mine. Little does she know I’m a poor old sod writing a war friend in Africa. I won’t tell her that, though. She seems to enjoy creating stories about me and my sweetheart waiting back home, so if it’s alright with you, I’ll just let her continue to think that because we could all use something nice to think about.

Take care of yourself.

Yours,

Alex

15 February 1942

Happy Valentine’s Day.

You can show that to Liza, and let her think what she wants. Though I’m a fair bit confused how she hasn’t caught on to your ruse yet. Does she not look at the address on the letters? It’s quite obvious you’re sending them to a bloke and a bloke who’s stationed in Egypt on top of that. But I suppose we all need a little willful ignorance in times of war.

Now, just because you have two functioning arms and a shiny new title doesn’t mean that you need to go putting those all to use. Christ, Alex, I nearly had a heart attack reading that story. You need to be more careful. Your life has never been disposable, and it certainly isn’t now that you’ve got so many men under your command.

I told you you’d get the hang of Burmese eventually. Languages aren’t as hard as you think they are. Just try, and you’ll be alright. I’m sure you’ve got all the local girls charmed now.

I’ve got a meeting I need to get to, so please be careful. No stupid heroics, alright?

Yours,

Tommy

21 April 1942

Tommy,

It’s been rather hellish here lately. The people are fleeing to India in droves. Half the houses are abandoned, I reckon. It’s not the best for the men’s morale, and even on the best of days, I struggle to keep in good spirits. Have to set a good example and all of that, right?

You mentioned charming the local ladies a few months ago, and I wish I could tell you that was true. My Burmese is mostly used to give people directions, to tell them about the safest routes, and to warn them against certain areas. It’s not too glamorous, but I’m glad to be useful in some way. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not doing anything useful.

We can’t stop the Japs from advancing. We can’t stop the people from fleeing. It’s no good, Tommy. It’s no good.

Shit, I wish I could tell you something better than that. You’ve always got such interesting things to write about, and I feel like I just say the same things over and over and over.

I’m sorry. How are you? How’s Egypt? I’m sure your Arabic is coming along beautifully. You’re too damn smart for your own good, Tommy. Too damn smart to be wasted on this war.

Take care of yourself.

Yours,

Alex

1 June 1942

Alex,

Happy Second Anniversary.

Tell Liza we’d be drinking champagne and eating strawberries in front of a fire if you were home. She’d like to hear that, I’m sure. Though a fire in June would be quite ridiculous, I think it fits the romantic image she probably wants.

I hope Tenant and Smithson learned their lesson about using beer to ward off the mosquitos. That sounds foolish in theory. I’m sure it’s even more ridiculous in practice. Where do people even get these ideas from? Who is ignorant enough to start these kinds of rumors? That makes me think of a saying I learned in Arabic:

الافتقار إلى الذكاء هو أكبر فقر

It means ‘Lack of intelligence is the greatest poverty.’ Smithson and Tenant sound very poor if you ask me. I hope you’re not picking up any of their bad habits.

In an attempt at lighter news, I should tell you that I got to ride a camel the other day. We usually just stick to trucks to get from place to place, but as I was traveling with only a native translator, they didn’t want to spare a transport. I climbed on the camel, or I tried to at any rate, and promptly fell off the other side and got a face-full of sand for my troubles.

The Egyptians all laughed at me and joked that they would need to fill my clothes with sand to weigh me down on the great beast. I have, regrettably, put on little weight since you last saw me. Translation and communication are not physically demanding tasks, so the only strength-building comes when I go for runs in the early morning.

Be safe.

Yours,

Tommy

16 July 1942

Alex,

I hope this letter makes it to you. I’ve heard nothing good coming out of the East in the last month. Our troops have all been pulled out of Burma, and I pray that you are among them.

I don’t know where this letter will find you. I don’t know if this letter will find you.

Please, wherever you are now, be safe. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be braver than you should.

Take care of yourself. Please, take care of yourself, Alex.

Yours,

Tommy

29 August 1942

Alex,

It’s been almost four months since I last received a letter from you. Four months since I saw your rather dreadful handwriting grace a paper. I’m worried.

There are no reports of your death. Your name has yet to appear on any of the lists published in the papers. I admit, I’ve even leveraged my rank to get some of the reports that aren’t published, but I’ve heard nothing. No news of you. No news of your death either.

I feel like I’m sending this letter with blind hope. I don’t expect you to answer, though I wish you would.

Be safe. Wherever you are, be safe.

Yours,

Tommy

30 October 1942

Alex,

I sent my last letter two months ago. I have received no answer and no new address to write to. But I haven’t received news of your death, and so I hold on to hope.

Let me know you’re okay. Please. Just a quick word is enough.

Yours,

Tommy

25 November 1942

Alex,

We managed to win at El Alamein. I am more relieved than anything. It feels like we’ve been on the run for years, and I suppose we have. Ever since Dunkirk. There are many more battles to come, but at least this one is behind us and we came out the victors.

I don’t know if I even hope for an answer at this point, but giving up hope seems so dreary that I can’t allow myself to do it.

Yours,

Tommy

21 December 1942

Alex,

I have my answer, though I wish I didn’t.

If you are alive (and the captain who gave me word said that is a rather large if), you’re still in Burma, captured by the Japanese. I have heard rumor that’s a fate worse than death.

Is it cruel of me to hope you are still alive? It probably is. But I do. God, forgive me, but I do.

I won’t send this letter, not when I know that it won’t reach you, but I feel like I need to write it anyways.

I joked, so long ago now, that you kept me sane in the weeks after Dunkirk. That was a lie. It was lie because you have kept me sane for much longer than that. Your letters have been a source of joy, of laughter, of solace these past few years, and I wish I could tell you that.

I thought about telling you that after you joked about Liza thinking you were writing a sweetheart when you were actually writing me. You see, when you said that, it made me think about how much I look forward to your letters, how much I cherish them. I suppose I do act a bit like the men who receive letters from girls back home each time I receive one of your letters. I was afraid to admit it then, but I’m not anymore. Those kinds of fears seem so small, so insignificant, as I sit here and fear for your very life.

Therefore, I will tell you now, in words that you will never read. I have loved your letters since the very first one. I have kept them all, stuffed in my bags. I have carried them across Greece, the Mediterranean, the Egyptian desert, and they will go with me wherever I am sent next. I can’t let them go, just like I can’t let you go.

If I ever had any faith, it died within the first few months of this war, but in the last weeks, I have found myself praying to whatever god may be that you are alive, that you will come back. To the west, to England, but mostly to me.

Be safe, Alex. Please, be safe.

Yours,

Tommy

9 January 1943

Alex,

Happy New Year.

I wish I could tell you to pass that on to Liza, so she knows your sweetheart is still thinking of you.

I have been reassigned. They sent me home for a week, let me have the New Year with my family. It was strange, so strange to be home. I felt like I didn’t belong. I have quite a few younger siblings. (I never got the chance to tell you that because it didn’t seem right to talk about them when I didn’t know if I would ever see them again. That is yet another thing I regret.) Anyways, they all welcomed me home with bright smiles and laughter, and I didn’t know how to be with them anymore. I think they knew I didn’t fit in. They did their very best, but I could see the sadness in their eyes, the worry. My mother especially seemed worried; after all, she knows what war can do to men.

I am so grateful that my sisters are the oldest after me. Hopefully, my brother—fifteen now—will never see the battlefield.

I’m still in England, but I’ve been assigned to a location I can’t disclose as we prepare for the next phase of the war. I don’t know much of what is going to happen, but I know it involves France. God, Alex, just the thought of that country makes me nauseous. I can’t imagine going back, especially if you aren’t with me. You probably won’t be.

You might never be.

I try not to think about that too often. If I do, I usually lose the last meal I ate to the toilet. It’s unfortunately happened enough that the nurse believes I have a stomach condition, and she tuts over everything I eat. It’s rather bothersome but well-intentioned.

I pray for you every morning and every night, for your safety and your health, for your safe return home. I think, at this point, I am heaven’s most frequent caller.

Be safe.

Yours,

Tommy

11 March 1943

Alex,

I’ve written so many letters to you that I’ve lost count at this point. I keep them all tucked in with your letters because I can’t discard them. To give them up would be to give up hope. I can’t do that. Hope is all I have.

You’d be happy to hear that my German is coming along quite well. It’s not easy, not at all, but after Greek and Arabic, it seems more manageable. Of course, the generals are demanding a much higher ability with German than I needed for Arabic or Greek, so it’s never truly good enough. It keeps me busy though. Thankfully, because there is little else to do right now, and I need to keep myself occupied to keep myself sane.

The reports that come back from the Pacific are horrific. God, Alex, sometimes, I hope you didn’t survive to be taken as a POW, not with the way the Japanese treat them. As soon as I think that though, a terrible, selfish part of me hopes that you did survive. Better in a POW camp than in a grave.

I miss you. I don’t think I ever told you that, not in any of the letters we exchanged. I should have. I did, and I still do. I missed you the moment my train pulled away. I thought about you for the whole journey from England to Greece, then from Greece to Egypt, and then from Egypt to England. I miss you every day. How odd, right? We knew each other for a month before being separated, but I miss you more than my family some days. Most days, if I’m honest.

Well, I have classes soon (in a war? I know), so I’ll end this here.

Be safe.

Yours,

Tommy

1 June 1943

Alex,

Happy Third Anniversary.

I still have not lost hope that you’re alive. Even if that means you’re stuck in a Japanese war camp, building that godforsaken railroad. I feel I should apologize for saying that because it’s not a kind thing to say—it’s not a nice thing to wish upon someone—but I can’t. Any apology would be false.

Though I still hope for your life, I am not sure it is wise for me to guard these letters, not anymore. Of course, I still have yours. I’ll never let those go. But these letters? The ones I’ve written and not sent. I shouldn’t keep them anymore. They are…damning in a way I hadn’t realized until I read the last one again and thought it sounded exactly like the letter a sweetheart would write her soldier in the field.

How funny that you asked me to play pretend for Liza and now I find I don’t have to act at all. I’m not sure when that changed. Actually, I’m not sure if it ever did change. Maybe it was never an act. The thought is frightening in its possibility.

You consumed my thoughts and time at Dunkirk and in the weeks after, but I thought that was just because our lives became so intertwined in so little time. But you continued to consume my thoughts, even after you had disappeared in the distance at the train station. Even after you were sent to the other side of the world. Even after you stopped answering my letters.

I know the world would burn me for the thoughts I have about you. I know the military would kick me out without a thought. But they’ve already taken so much from me, I won’t let them take this, too. It’s all that keeps me going. You are all that keeps me going.

Be safe.

Forever yours,

Tommy

16 October 1943

Alex,

I’ve heard the railway is almost finished. I hope you are still alive working on it. I hope you will still be alive when it is finished.

I had to attend a dinner the other night with some of the other officers, and I hated it. I think these sorts of events are the worst part of my position. I know you once wished for me to be a code breaker, a communications specialist, because it would keep me out of the line of fire, but I think you forgot the tedium of such work and the fact that I have to interact with all the men pulling the strings of this war.

I can’t stand it. They act like they own the world, like if they said stop, the world would cease to spin on its axis and stand still just for them. This expectation extends to women as well, and it makes me sick. They had a singer perform at the dinner, a kind French woman with a lovely voice, and after she performed, the colonel beside me called her over. He told her to meet him in his rooms within the hour, and then, he asked if she knew anyone who could accompany me for the evening. (I had intercepted and translated a message about a German attack the day before, and they had been able to avoid the surprise, so he thought I deserved a…reward.)

I couldn’t turn him down. They don’t care if you have a wife or anyone else waiting for you. So I found a girl in my rooms an hour later, and I felt sick to my stomach. She looked scared and tired, and she was so small, Alex. As you know, I’m not all that big, but she was tiny in comparison. I shut the door and locked it. Then I told her (in my broken French) that I didn’t want anything from her but that I understood the expectation others had for me and for her.

I told her I refused to meet those expectations but that they didn’t need to know that, so I asked if she wanted to talk over a glass of wine. I don’t think she believed me at first. She was very hesitant, but she accepted, and we had a good conversation. It was a bit messy with the French and English, but we managed.

She told me about her village that had been ravaged by the Germans and how she had had to flee with her sister to avoid death. They ran as long as they could and managed, through no small miracle, to catch a boat over to England. They had been taken in by one of the general’s wives, and since then, they do what they can for the war effort. I shudder to think what they ‘do for the war effort’.

When it was late enough to avoid suspicion, I asked if she needed a ride or an escort home, and she politely declined. She said she would simply ask the staff for a taxi; they were used to it. On the way out, she turned and looked at me.

‘You already have someone, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Someone very important to you.’

I told her I do.

‘She is very lucky to have you,’ she told me.

I nodded and showed her out the door.

I was talking about you, Alex. I know that isn’t appropriate, and I’m going to throw this letter in the fire as soon as I finish it, but it’s the truth. She was a kind woman and very beautiful, but I felt nothing for her, nothing more than companionship. I had no desire to kiss her, to hold her, to love her, not like I do for you. There is an awful lot I want with you, Alex, so much that I shouldn’t, but I can’t be bothered to care.

Be safe.

Forever yours,

Tommy

27 February 1944

My love,

We are nearing the end of preparations for Operation Overlord. It’s insane, truly insane, but I believe it will be successful. At what price? I do not know. I do not wish to know. French beaches have already seen too much blood. The Channel has already claimed too many bodies. But there will be more, so many more, and the thought I will have played a role in that makes me sick. Even if it is a small role, practically insignificant.

I wish you were here so I could tell you these things in person. I wish I could see your messy hair and your sea green eyes. I wish I could hear your voice and feel your touch on my skin. I dream about you sometimes. Now, it is more often good than bad. The nightmares of Dunkirk have faded over the years, and I remember the heat of your hand more than the chill of the ocean, when I dream about you. Like Paris dreamed of Helen, like Victoria dreamed of Albert.

In the quiet hours of the morning, I indulge myself and imagine it is you. That is one perk in all of this. I have my own room with a door that locks. I can shut the world out and pretend, for just a while, that no one exists besides us. It’s the only bright spot in the bleak winter of this war.

Be safe.

Forever yours,

Tommy

30 June 1944

My love,

Happy Fourth Anniversary.

I am so very, very late. I know. I am sorry for not writing earlier. We have been rather busy.

I am back in France. God, Alex, I can’t describe how it felt to step foot on this soil once more. I was nearly sick on the boat over, and though I am ashamed to admit it, the nightmares of Dunkirk have returned. Even though it’s been four year—FOUR YEARS—I suddenly feel like not a day has passed. I catch myself scanning the air for spitfires and turning to find you, but neither are there. Not the spitfires and not you.

Fighting continues. We’re back in the thick of it with the Germans, trying to push them the rest of the way out of France. Churchill thinks this is the final push, or at least, he tells the people that this is the final push. I don’t know if anyone believes him. I’m not sure I believe him.

I want this war to end. I need this war to end. I can’t do it anymore, Alex. Every day takes me further away from you, and I’m beginning to understand how foolish it is to hold on to hope, to believe that you are still out there, somehow alive.

I’m sorry for saying that. I still have hope. It’s small and foolish, but no matter what I do, I can’t get rid of it.

Be safe, please.

Forever yours,

Tommy

27 December 1944

My love,

I am home for Christmas. It feels even stranger than before.

My mum keeps looking at me like I’m a ghost. She says I’ve gotten too skinny, too pale, and she tries to feed me, but everything is rationed, and I don’t eat like I did when I was eighteen. I think she does it because she doesn’t know how to talk to me anymore. I’m not sure I know how to talk to her.

Five languages and not a single one I can use to tell her that I can’t eat anymore because there are men on the front lines without enough to eat or that I don’t want to talk to Susan Wellesey down the lane because someone else already has my heart.

I do try though. They deserve that. They deserve so much more than me. I think they would’ve liked to meet you. You’re so friendly and charming; they would probably love you. The girls would swoon over you, and the boys would look up to you, and mum and dad would laugh at all of your stories. They’d love you.

Not as much as I would. Not as much as I do.

This is absurd, I know. I should stop writing these letters, but I can’t help myself. This is all I have. This is my last connection to you, and I can’t sever it.

Be safe. Be well.

Forever yours,

Tommy

10 May 1945

My love,

We’ve won. Hitler is dead.

I’m not sure I ever thought that this day would come. It feels surreal, like a dream.

Everyone is celebrating. We are starting to send men home. People are flooding the streets and hugging strangers.

I am happy. I am.

But even as fireworks light up the sky, even as wine fills our glasses, even as men and women embrace beneath the stars, I can’t help but think of you. The war in Europe has ended, but it still continues in Asia. The Japanese are just as fierce, just as determined as they were before, and I don’t know if the end is in sight over there.

I hope it is. I pray it is. Then our men can go in and clear out the camps. Then they can find you. God, I hope they find you. I don’t know what I would do if they don’t. I really don’t know.

Be safe. Be alive.

Forever yours,

Tommy

1 June 1945

My love,

It’s been five years. I’m not sure how that is possible. That beach feels like a lifetime ago.

Things are getting worse in the Pacific, and I don’t want to think about that. I already think about it too much. Most of my waking hours and many of my sleeping ones as well are filled with terrible thoughts about what could happen to you. About what might have already happened to you.

To distract myself, I’ve thought about those too short weeks we had together so many years ago in an attempt to figure out when all of this began. I’m not sure I can, but I think, if there was one moment, it was on that boat back to England. I was tired and covered in oil, sick of it all but unable to sleep. I went above deck to look at the cliffs, and you followed me. We stood at the rail until we docked, and when I got off the boat, you followed me. You kept following me, or I kept following you. I don’t know which. I’m not sure it really matters. But somewhere between Dunkirk and England, I decided I wanted to keep following you, and I wanted you to follow me.

So now, please follow me home. Please.

Forever yours,

Tommy

5 September 1945

Tom,

I found the soldier you were looking for. He’s on the first boat back to England. For your sake, I hope he makes it.

Cpt. Leslie

Tommy is at the docks before sunrise. Even though he hates it, he wears his uniform because it opens doors. People may not know what the stripes and medals mean, but he has enough that they speak for themselves.

“Bit early, ain’t it?” one of the dock hands asks him, and he shrugs. “Don’t they usually send the lower ranks for pick-up? What have they got you here for?”

Tommy’s eyes are locked on the horizon, searching. “The others will be here soon,” and they will. He doesn’t know when, but they’ll be here. Surprised to see him, and confused, too. But they won’t send him away. His stripes guarantee that.

After an endless wait, he spots a ship coming into port. It’s a destroyer, large and imposing, straight out of his worst nightmares, and the irony of it all is not lost on him. He spares a humorless smile for the situation.

“Excuse us,” someone calls. “Let us through. Move out. We need through.”

Turning toward the noise, Tommy sees a line of nurses and doctors, medical bags strapped to their backs and stretchers in their hands. They move between the dock workers with practiced ease, likely born of years in the field, carrying the wounded and dying through craters and over trenches.

“Major,” one of the doctors greets, eyeing Tommy curiously, “I wasn’t told to expect anyone here. Is there a problem?”

Tommy shakes his head. “No. I have a friend on that ship.”

The doctor lets out a noise of understanding. “That’s very kind of you to come. Were you in the Pacific as well?”

“No.”

“Friend from home then?”

The ship draws near, and Tommy fights the irrational urge to leap onto its deck. “No.”

“How do you know him then?”

The workers shout at the sailors on board, calling for ropes as they hover near the edge of the dock, hands extended.

Tommy glances at the doctor before focusing on the ship once more. “Dunkirk,” he says, and the doctor winces.

Five years on, and it’s still an open wound for anyone involved.

“Bloody hell,” the man mutters. “What a place to make friends.”

Tommy pays him no mind. They’ve dropped the gang plank, and the door has opened, metal clanging as it falls against the wall. He keeps himself in place, feet planted on the wet ground, but it’s a close thing.

The nurses and doctors move onto the ship in neat rows, disappearing into the inky blackness beyond the doorway without a word. The doctor near Tommy takes his leave, and Tommy lets his eyes slide shut for a brief moment, drawing in a lungful of salty air.

It’s a painful taste. It reminds him of Dunkirk, of Normandy. The sea has taken so much from him: friends, family, strangers whose lives mattered to him because they were people too, they had loved ones just like him. He hopes—prays harder than he ever has—that today the sea will finally give something back.

The first soldiers emerge from the ship on stretchers. They lie motionless, faces ashen and bodies gaunt, and Tommy forces himself to look at each one. He looks at their ragged hair, their hollow cheeks, their thin limbs and feels a shameful gratitude each time he doesn’t recognize them.

The next men come off with slow, hobbling steps. Tommy doesn’t know if it’s worse to look at them lying down or standing up.

Shoulders tense, he watches the men shuffle down the gang plank. If they notice him, he nods in recognition, but they exchange no words. There are no joyous greetings here, no cheers from adoring crowds like there had been in May. No one wants to see the ugly side of war.

Stepping onto solid ground, one of the men stumbles, and Tommy moves forward without thought. He wraps an arm around the man’s narrow waist and takes a few steps with him until he has his bearings. The man murmurs his thanks, but Tommy waves it away.

He turns back to the ship and fixes his eyes on the doorway, watching, waiting.

“Tommy?” It’s quiet and disbelieving, shocked.

He whips around so fast he nearly falls.

“Is that really you?” The man who speaks is bone thin with gnarled hair and a haggard face. He looks like a stiff breeze could tip him over.

But those eyes. Tommy would recognize those eyes anywhere.

“Alex,” he breathes, and his heart stutters in his chest.

The man steps towards him, unsteady, and Tommy moves to meet him.

“It’s really you? You’re really here?”

Tommy nods. He nods so much he feels like his head might rock off his shoulders.

“Tommy,” Alex murmurs, and Tommy falls into his arms. “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I am. I’m here,” Tommy tells him, fingers scrabbling for a hold on the threadbare material of his shirt. “I’m here. You’re back. You made it back.”

Alex releases a choked sound, and it cuts Tommy to the core. Desperate to soothe, to reassure Alex that this is real, he pulls him closer, takes his weight, and lets him cry into his shoulder, tears soaking the wool in dark pools.

“Never thought I would see you again,” Alex cries, sobs muffled against Tommy’s uniform. “Thought I might die out there. God, I swear I knew I was going to die out there.”

Tommy shakes his head and cards a hand through Alex’s hair, fingers catching in the mangy locks.

“And I thought,” Alex goes on, voice rough, “that even if I did make it, maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d died in the Mediterranean, in the fucking deserts of Africa. God, Tommy, I thought about that all the damn time. I was scared sick, and not even for myself.”

Heart clenching, Tommy shushes him. “I’m here. We’re both here,” he murmurs. “We made it, Alex. We survived the war.”

Another sob wracks through him, and Tommy feels a tear or two slip down his own cheeks, silent.

“We’re here. We’re home,” Tommy whispers, and for the first time in years that word feels true, feels right. “You’re safe.” His grip tightens. “Oh thank god, you’re safe.”

Eventually, a sweet-faced nurse approaches them and tells them the last transport to the hospital is about to leave.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says for the tenth time, and Tommy waves the words away.

They climb into the truck and set off for the hospital, only the weak groans of men filling the air. Alex’s fingers curl in the sleeve of Tommy’s jacket and stay for the duration of the ride, pinching when they go over a bump and massaging in the aftermath, like an apology.

At the hospital, a woman intercepts them before they make it far. “Patients and family only beyond this point,” she says, giving Tommy a sympathetic look. “You’ll have to wait in the lobby.”

Alex pushes his hair back and grins at the woman, teeth practically gleaming beside his dirty skin. “He’s my brother, miss. We haven’t seen each other in five years. You’re not going to ask us to separate now, are you?”

Her brow furrows, and she gives them a once over.

Tommy is under no illusion that they look alike. They’ve both got dark hair, but the resemblance begins and ends there.

Alex tugs Tommy closer, though he’s so weak, it’s more a press of fingers that Tommy follows. “Five years is a long time, miss. Far too long. Don’t ask us to make it even longer.”

Her expression wavers, indecision playing over her features.

Alex’s grin widens. “And I promise he won’t be a bother. Tommy’s real quiet. You won’t even notice he’s there.”

She bites her lip, rolling it between her teeth.

“Please, miss. Please, don’t separate us again.”

She huffs. “Oh alright, he can come back, but if it becomes a problem, he’ll be right back out here. Is that clear?”

Beaming, Alex nods, and Tommy mirrors him, trying to look unobtrusive.

With a resigned sigh, she waves them toward the door.

“Thank you,” Alex calls in their wake. “You’re wonderful.”

She lifts a hand and makes a shooing motion, a small smile tugging at her lips, and they leave with a final wave and thank you.

Beyond the doors, nurses and doctors bustle to and fro, wheeling equipment through the halls and ducking in and out of rooms. Most of the men who returned with Alex have already disappeared, sequestered into rooms based on severity of condition.

“You can walk?” a man asks, looking them up and down.

“Yes.”

“Any injuries you need to report?”

“I don’t think so. Just tired and a bit hungry.”

The man snorts, shaking his head. “I’m sure it’s more than a bit. Head down that way and go in the last door on the left. They’ll set you up with a bed and an IV,” he tells them. “Are you in need of care?” he asks Tommy, doubt clear in his tone.

Tommy shakes his head, and his fingers clench around Alex’s waist. “No, I’m his brother. Just wanting to make sure he gets the care he needs and actually listens to the doctors. He’s not the best at that.”

“Hey,” Alex objects, “that’s not true.”

The man eyes them critically, and Tommy straightens up, hoping his uniform will continue to do its job.

“Alright then,” the man sighs. “As long as you stay out of the way of the staff, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

With grateful smiles, they shuffle down the hallway, passing doors that fail to contain the pained groans of broken men.

“You think they actually believe us?” Alex wonders. “Or do you think they just feel bad for my sorry arse?”

Tommy gently guides him to the left. “They definitely just feel bad for your sorry arse.”

Huffing, Alex leans into him. “At least something good can come out of this then.”

Tommy doesn’t think this really qualifies as good. That’s a rather large overstatement of the present situation in his opinion, but he keeps that to himself, instead waving a nurse down and leading Alex to an empty bed at her order.

As she fusses over the IV, Tommy takes the time to really look at Alex. He hadn’t had the opportunity at the docks, since Alex had spotted him first, and they’ve been too close in the subsequent hour for him to take a good look.

He could feel Alex’s thinness, could feel his ribs beneath his hands, but it’s somehow worse to see it. His shirt hangs off his wide shoulders, neck open enough for Tommy to see the harsh line of his collarbone. His shorts cling to his hips with the help of a length of twine, dirty and knotted. His elbows and knees look sharp, bone jutting against his pale skin, and his face has lost any softness it once held, cheeks sunken and eyes hollow.

It’s enough to make Tommy want to cry. He doesn’t, but only just.

“You’re all set up, love,” the nurse says, breaking Tommy out of his thoughts. “I’ve got you on a slow drip. If you finish this without any problems, we’ll get you some nice warm broth to eat. Any questions?”

Lips curling charmingly, Alex asks, “Yeah, is there a spare chair for my brother? He’ll probably be here a while, and I don’t want him to have to stand up if he doesn’t have to.”

The nurse spins around and nearly jumps when she spots Tommy. “Oh Lord,” she gasps, bringing a hand to her chest, “I hadn’t even seen you there. Such a quiet one.”

“Sorry, miss,” Tommy says with a tip of his head.

“No need for apologies,” she replies. “You can grab that chair in the corner, if you’d like.”

Nodding his thanks, Tommy strides to the corner, grabs the chair, and places it beside Alex’s bed.

“If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. My name’s Mary, and I’m here to help out however I can.”

“You’re too kind,” Alex grins. “I’m Alex, and this quiet one here is Tommy.”

“Pleasure,” Mary tells them, before bustling to another bed.

Grin wide, Alex turns to look at Tommy. “I see you got a couple promotions in my absence,” he teases, nodding at Tommy’s uniform. “Congratulations, Major.”

Tommy shrugs. He didn’t care for the promotions then. He doesn’t care for them now. They were only useful in getting information not available to the public and are only useful now in so far as they keep him close to Alex.

Alex chuckles, and his hand finds Tommy’s on the starched bedsheet. “Always so humble, Tommy.”

“Not really sure there’s anything to brag about,” Tommy counters, earning another chuckle from Alex.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Alex suddenly says, and the words make Tommy’s breath catch in his chest. “Missed your sad face and your quiet way. I missed your letters so much. Shit, Tommy, I missed your letters every day. More than anything else.” He shakes his head. “Isn’t that crazy? I’m stuck in a war prison in fucking Burma, and instead of missing my family or missing the girls back home, I miss you and your fucking letters.” He fights off a yawn, and Tommy’s fingers tighten around his. “Bit odd, right? I don’t care though. Thinking about you kept me going. Sometimes, it was easier to want to live for you than for my own self.”

His eyelids are heavy, sleep pulling them down, and Tommy’s heart aches. “I missed you, too,” he confesses. “I kept writing you, even though I knew you wouldn’t get my letters.”

A soft smile tugs at Alex’s lips, and his thumb strokes over the back of Tommy’s hand, warm on his cool skin. “Good, I’m glad you did.” His jaw cracks with another yawn. “Makes me feel a bit less crazy, a bit less strange, you know?”

Tommy nods.

“You’re not going to leave me, yeah?” he asks, hushed, and Tommy’s grip tightens.

“Not unless they kick me out.”

Alex grins. “Keep flashing all those fancy medals, and they won’t even try.”

A flush creeps up Tommy’s neck and across his cheeks, and Alex’s grin deepens, becomes something secret and intimate, something Tommy doesn’t understand.

“Missed seeing that,” Alex mumbles, accent thick with exhaustion. “Missed seeing you, Tommy.”

His cheeks feel like they’re on fire, and Tommy is grateful that the room is empty save for slumbering soldiers. “Go to sleep,” he tells him.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Of course.”

He is there when Alex wakes a few hours later and manages to down a cup of broth, one sip at a time. He is there when Alex wakes the next day and works his way through a small bowl of bland porridge. He is there when Alex wakes a week later and has a few, triumphant bites of potato.

Unfortunately, he is not always there. He returns home most nights to sleep in his own bed, and his days are sometimes full of meetings, his work with the military not yet finished as they try to rebuild the world.

But he is there as often as he can be, often enough that he knows all the staff by name and helps them out whenever Alex is asleep.

“You look happy,” his mum comments one evening, voice soft as she watches Tommy finish the leftovers from dinner.

He stiffens, and the food in his mouth loses all flavor. He swallows with some difficulty and takes a sip of water before responding. “Do I?”

Nodding, she drops the napkin she’d been fiddling with and reaches across the table to clasp his hand. “You do. You’ve got color back in your cheeks, and you’ve found an appetite again. You smile more, and I actually feel like you’re here with us and not a thousand miles away.”

A lump swells in his throat, shame and fear churning in his gut. “Mum,” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Now, none of that, darling,” she chides, squeezing his hand. “I didn’t say it to make you feel bad. It’s just an observation, a good one.”

Her lips curl in a soft smile, a shadow passing over her eyes. “I know you don’t much care to talk about the war, and I understand that, really I do. You never have to share anything you don’t want to. But I hope you know you can. I love you. You’re my son, and all I want is your happiness.” Her smile widens, pulling at her cheeks and scrunching her eyes. “And I think you’ve found happiness,” she tells him, a hint of tears in her voice. “I think you’ve found the kind of happiness that your dad and I share, and I hope you know that we are nothing but happy for you. And I hope, someday, whenever you are ready, you’ll let us meet this friend of yours because we’d quite like to.”

When she’s finished, she keeps her hand on his, small fingers caught in his palm, pressing warmly against the skin. The kitchen is quiet in the wake of her words. The younger kids (though not so young anymore) in their rooms, while the older are out with friends.

Relief, fierce and unexpected, courses through him, and he grips her hand tighter. “Mum,” he starts. “Mum, I…”

She nods. Encouragement. Understanding. Support.

“As soon as he’s up for it,” he finally settles on, and she beams.

It takes another few weeks for Alex to look like something close to what Tommy remembers from Dunkirk.

He’s still thinner, leaner than before, and there’s a heaviness to his eyes that Tommy hopes will fade with time, but he’s on his feet again. He can walk from one end of the hall to the other without any help and has ventured to other wards where he’s managed to make friends with all the men and staff. He’s even weaseled his way into the children’s ward with some charming words and well-placed winks.

The kids adore him. Of course they do. Everyone adores him.

It takes Tommy by surprise the first time. He’d been late coming in from a meeting, and when he hadn’t found Alex in his bed, he had searched all his usual haunts with little success.

“He’s with the children,” Anna tells him. “He usually goes about this time on Thursday.”

Tommy didn’t even know they had any children in this hospital.

Dazed, he follows her directions and finds himself in a small ward on the third floor. Scraps of paper line the walls, paintings and drawings clearly done by small hands. It’s quieter here than in the other wards, a special kind of sadness hanging in the air that only comes when people are forced to face the very worst realities of life.

Music floats through the air, a soft voice and the strumming of a guitar. Tommy follows the sound, shoes clicking in the empty hallway, echoing. He peers into a room and finds Alex cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by children in hospital gowns. They look weak and frail, practically swimming in the gowns, but their faces are alight with joy, some even singing along.

If Tommy ever had any doubts about his feelings for Alex, they are washed away in this moment, erased completely like footprints in the sand.

When Alex finishes, the children call for another one, shouting out names Tommy hardly recognizes.

“Last one,” a nurse gently informs them, and the children groan.

“We’ll make it a good one then, yeah?” Alex says, looking around. He spots Tommy, and something passes over his face, something Tommy cannot begin to understand. “And I know just which one.”

He strums at his guitar, fingers nimble on the strings, until a familiar tune resonates through the room.

“There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover tomorrow, just you wait and see,” he begins, and the children join in, swaying to the melody.

Something in Tommy’s chest constricts, and he feels like he might burst from it. It presses and presses and presses, leaves him short of breath and misty-eyed. When his knees fail, he leans on the doorframe, letting it carry his weight as Alex sings.

The song comes to an end; the children grumble when the nurses step in to whisk them back to bed; and Alex bids each of them farewell, voice gentle and kind as he wishes them well.

Tommy watches. He watches and tries to quell the emotions twisting in his gut, turning his stomach and making him ache for things that are not possible. When a small girl asks Alex to carry her back to her bed, he thinks he might die from it. The careful way Alex’s arms cradle her. The sweet words he whispers only to her. The soft kiss he presses to her fine hair. It’s too much. Too much to bear.

“Fancy meeting you here,” a voice calls, and Tommy startles. Alex lifts an intrigued brow, and a flush heats Tommy’s cheeks.

He must’ve spaced off for a bit.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” he blurts, and Alex shrugs.

“Not really useful in the army.”

“You’re good. Really good.”

Alex’s lips curl in a smirk. “Yeah? Were you impressed?”

Tommy nods, incapable of lying.

“If they’d let me take that guitar home, I’d use it to serenade you. Something from Sinatra or the Andrews Sisters maybe.”

Warmth pools in Tommy’s stomach. “Alex,” he breathes, pulse thrumming.

They’ve never talked about this. They’ve never had the chance. It was only forming in the weeks after Dunkirk, fragile and uncertain. Then it was impossible to discuss when censored letters were their only means of communication. In the past month, they have been surrounded by nurses and doctors, recovering men and those who did not make it.

“Tommy,” Alex responds, husky and low.

Tommy shivers.

But this is not the place. This is neither the place nor the time, despite how desperately he wants to.

“How are you feeling today?” he stammers, trying to pull back from whatever is between them.

Alex drags his eyes over Tommy’s face and down his body. Heat licks up his spine. “Haven’t felt this good in ages,” he murmurs, close enough that Tommy can feel his warm breath on his cheek. “Mary said I should be good to leave this afternoon.”

Tommy’s pulse skyrockets. “Today?”

Humming, Alex licks his lips. “Today.”

The word sits heavy in the air between them, weighty and significant.

“And then what?” Tommy asks.

“I believe I have a promise to keep to your ma. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

Relief spills through Tommy, followed by anticipation. “You’ll come tonight?”

Alex’s fingers curl around his cuff, brushing over the thin skin of his wrist. “I’ll come as soon as Mary discharges me.”

“Well, then,” Tommy stammers, “let’s go find Mary, shall we.”

His family loves Alex just as much as he expected they would.

Everyone has gathered for dinner, the eldest sisters arriving with their husbands, Sarah with her new baby swaddled in her arms. The table is full and loud, not an open seat left, and Tommy finds that it isn’t so overwhelming when he has Alex beside him, joking with Michael and teasing Jane until she flushes.

Alex asks about George’s studies and Helen’s piano lessons for local kids. He swaps stories with Tommy’s dad about training camp and compliments his mum on her cooking until she waves the words away, a wide grin pulling at her lips.

After dinner, they make their way to the sitting room, and his dad pulls out an old bottle of sherry, pouring generous glasses for the adults and watering some down for the kids. They toast their health, their family ties, and the end of the war. They chat around the fireplace for hours as the kids drop off one by one, energy flagging as the hour grows late.

When even Tommy can’t fight his yawns anymore, Alex rises from the couch and offers him a hand up.

“Oh goodness,” Tommy’s mum exclaims, “is it really past midnight already? Good grief.”

Her husband stands and helps her to her feet. “Should probably head to bed if I’m to be up for work in the morning,” he says. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Alex. We’re all glad you made it home safe and have been able to recover. You’re welcome in our home anytime.”

Nodding, Alex shakes his hand. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to meet you all as well. Felt like I already knew you after everything Tommy has told me.”

Tommy’s mum grins and wraps Alex in a hug. “You’re family now, love. When he says anytime, he means anytime.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Now, we had Michael put Helen’s old mattress in your room, Tommy. There are blankets as well, but if you need any more, you can look in the linen cupboard.”

“Alright, mum.”

“Goodnight, boys,” she calls, following her husband out of the room and down the hall.

Tommy feels suddenly aware of the room, the fading heat from the smoldering remains of the fire, the ticking of the clock on the mantle, Alex beside him, alone for the first time in months. Truly alone for the first time ever. It makes him dizzy, makes his blood heat and his cheeks flush.

“Bed?” Alex asks, and Tommy can only nod in reply, feet clumsy as they head up the stairs toward his room.

Once inside, he stares at the mattress taking up most of his floor, blankets stacked haphazardly to one side. He doesn’t know if he should offer to help Alex make it or if he should offer his own bed instead. He doesn’t know what they are. He doesn’t know if Alex wants the same things he does.

“Tommy.”

He turns, and Alex is closer than he expects, scant inches between their bodies as Alex looks down at him, gaze intense.

“Tommy, say the word and I’ll never bring this up again,” he says, voice rough. “Say the word and I’ll never look at you as anything more than a friend, a brother in arms. Say the word and I’ll learn to be happy with that role in your life.”

His fingers curl around Tommy’s forearms, pressing into the skin where his sleeves are rolled up. They burn in the very best way, light a fire in his gut that seems set to devour him.

“But, Tommy, God, Tommy, if there’s even a chance, if there’s even the smallest possibility that you’ve been thinking of me as much as I’ve been thinking of you the last five years. If there’s any way that you could want me as more than an old war friend, if you feel even half of what I feel, please, please tell me. Please. I can’t live without knowing anymore. I can’t stand it. I just need you to—”

“Kiss me.”

Alex words cut off, dying in this throat. His mouth snaps shut as he stares at Tommy.

“Kiss me,” Tommy repeats. Demands.

“What—” Alex begins. “I—”

“Kiss me.”

“Are you sure?”

Tommy gives him a flat look.

“Right. Well, that’s good news, yeah? I mean, if you want me to kiss you, that means you fancy me, right? That means I’m not alone in this. You’ve thought of me, too then. In that way, you know? God, what a relief. What a fucking relief, eh? I really was worried for a minute that—”

Pushing onto his tiptoes, Tommy places his hands on Alex’s cheeks, draws him near, and presses their mouths together.

It’s rather messy. He got him midsentence, so Alex’s mouth is partially open, forming around the words. Tommy hasn’t kissed many people in his life, hasn’t kissed anyone since the war began, hasn’t wanted to kiss anyone besides the man in front of him, so he’s a bit out of practice, a bit inexperienced.

Alex doesn’t react, eyes wide and hands frozen in the air, and fond annoyance fills Tommy’s chest.

He pulls back enough to ease Alex’s mouth shut. Then he moves forward again.

It’s better, still a bit odd with Alex so motionless, but it’s better.

When he withdraws again, he gives Alex a shy smile, resisting the urge to bite his lip from nerves.

Alex blinks once, then twice.

“Bloody hell.” His eyes come into focus and bore into Tommy. “Bloody hell.”

With a desperate sound, he surges forward and brings their mouths together once more, arms winding around Tommy’s waist, clutching at the fabric like he wants to feel skin. He kisses Tommy like he wants to consume him. Fierce, deep, and drugging.

When Tommy tries to pull back for air, he follows, biting at the skin beneath Tommy’s jaw in punishment, teeth shivery sharp. He sucks at Tommy’s earlobe, nips at his lips, and laves his tongue across Tommy’s neck in wet strokes.

“Alex,” he gasps, when fingers sneak beneath his shirt, spreading possessively over his back. “Alex.”

He hums in reply, content to keep his hands and mouth on Tommy’s skin. Sucking a bruise into the hollow of Tommy’s throat, he pulls at the buttons of Tommy’s shirt, undoing them one by one.

“Alex, we can’t,” he says, though the words hurt. “We can’t.”

It’s enough to make Alex withdraw.

“What do you mean?”

His mouth is wet and red, and the green of his eyes has nearly disappeared in the blown circle of his pupil. Tommy wants to kiss him again, wants to drop to his knees and use his mouth in other ways, wants to get Alex on him and in him and over him.

He pushes those urges down.

“My family,” he says. “George is right next door, and Jane is across the hall. I don’t want them to hear. I’d die if they heard.”

Face falling, Alex nods. “Suppose you’re right. They’ve only just met me. I don’t need the first impression ruined because they heard me shagging their brother.”

Tommy moans, soft and bitten-off.

“We can still kiss though, yeah?” Alex continues, fingers back on Tommy’s skin, pushing his shirt off his shoulders. “That’s not loud. No one would hear.”

Tommy doesn’t stop him when he tugs at his belt, pulling the leather out of the buckle and sliding it through the loops.

“We’ll be quiet,” Alex promises. “So quiet. No one’ll hear. I just, I need to feel you, Tommy. I need to know this is real and not something my head made up because I finally cracked.”

“Okay,” Tommy whispers, helping Alex get his trousers off. “You too, though. I want to feel you, too.”

Alex makes quick work of his own clothes, dropping them onto the floor unceremoniously. Then he nudges Tommy toward the bed, palms warm and wide over his ribs, and crawls on after him. Settling into the messy duvet, he braces himself over Tommy, arms bracketing his head and hips sliding between his thighs. The friction makes Tommy gasp and writhe, hips hitching to meet him.

“You’re so pretty,” Alex tells him.

There’s no teasing in his gaze, no mocking in his voice, and the raw honesty of it makes Tommy flush.

Alex moves a hand enough to cradle his cheek, touch reverent and worshipful. “Prettiest person I’ve ever seen.”

“Thought you wanted to keep kissing,” Tommy mumbles, caught between pleasure and embarrassment.

Alex’s gaze drops to his lips. “I do, just thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” Then he hooks his arms around Alex’s neck and drags him down, rising to meet him.

“Are you sure you have everything you need, dear?” his mum asks as she looks around the small living room. “I could pop down the way and grab some more shopping if you need me to.”

Tommy sighs good-naturedly and shakes his head. “Alex is already out doing the shopping, mum. We don’t need anything more.”

“A little extra never hurts.”

He gives her a dubious look. “Mum, if you just want to stick around to see Alex, you can say so. No need to find empty tasks to do.”

Feigning offense, she opens her mouth. Then, she shuts it. A giggle spills from her lips, and she breaks into a wide grin. “Am I really that transparent?” she asks, and he nods, resigned. “I’m sorry, love. It’s just that he went home longer than we expected, and I know that you were very supportive of that choice and you wanted him to get that time with his mum and sister, but I also know how hard it was.”

He wants to protest, but she lifts a hand before he can open his mouth.

“Things can be bearable but still difficult, Tommy. Just because you can live without him, doesn’t mean you want to. So yes, I am rather excited to see him again and to see you two together again. He makes you happy. Can you fault me for wanting to bask in that for a bit?”

Chastened, Tommy scuffs a socked foot over the hard wood, “No, I suppose I can’t,” and she steps close to pull him into a hug.

“Good, because I am so very, very happy for you, dear, and I wish I could tell everyone that. I wish we could have celebrations like we did for Kate or Helen, when they got married.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “But society just isn’t ready for that, so instead we’ll have to celebrate in the privacy of your new home and let that be enough.”

Overwhelmed, Tommy presses his face into her shoulder and swallows around the lump that’s developed in his throat. She pulls him closer, making him feel small despite the inches he has on her.

A key slides into the lock, and the door clicks open.

“Oh, are we having hugs?” Alex asks, before shutting the door, dropping the bags to the ground, and joining their hug. His long arms encircle them both, and Tommy fists a hand in his shirt, fingers curling around the material.

When they pull apart, his mum places a hand on each of their cheeks. “Oh, my boys,” she murmurs. “My dear boys. What ever shall I do without you?”

“Mum,” Tommy huffs, “you’re not more than a quarter hour away on foot. We’re not leaving the country. We’re not even leaving London.”

She sighs and pats his cheek. “I know, but things’ll be different now. With Helen and Kate married and George busy with his studies and now you moving to your own flat, I’ve just got Michael and Jane left at home, and they’re not far behind you.”

“You’ve still got us, mum,” Tommy reassures. “We’ll come for dinners on Sundays and for all the birthdays and holidays. There’s no reason to make a fuss.”

Shrugging, she wipes at her eyes, and Tommy reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief. “I know,” she says with a grateful nod when he hands it to her. “I know. I just—I’m just so happy for you, for both of you.” She blows her nose and gives them a pitiful look. “Tommy, dear, you have to understand how hard it was to send you off back then. I knew plenty about the hell of war. Your dad had been in it, my brother as well, and I saw how it had affected them, how it had changed them.

“And you were so young, so young and gentle and not made for war. You’ve always had such a big heart, and I’ve loved that about you. But big hearts don’t do well in war. They become a weakness instead of a strength, and I worried about you every day, every single day.” She swipes at her eyes, but the tears continue. Tommy wraps his fingers around her free hand and squeezes. “And the first time you came home,” she pauses for a moment, shaking her head, “I…I hardly recognized you. You had always been quiet, but the silence felt different, worse. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to support you.

“And then you were gone again, off somewhere we weren’t allowed to know about, and you continued to write us, but every letter felt more and more distant. I felt like you were slipping away from me, slipping away from the world. Then last Christmas—” she cuts off, choked up, and lifts a hand to her mouth to muffle her cries. Eyes misty, Tommy wraps her in another hug, finally feeling his size as she fits beneath his chin. “Oh Tommy,” she sobs, “I thought we’d really lost you then. I thought the war had finally broken you, and I didn’t know how to put the pieces back together again.

“You would hardly eat, and you rarely spoke, and I just didn’t know what to do. I felt like I didn’t know you anymore, like you were a stranger that the army had sent home in place of my son. And I know that sounds terrible. God,” she cries, “what kind of mum thinks those things about her own son?”

“It’s alright, mum. I understand. It’s alright.”

She leans back enough to cradle his face in her hands, lips twisted in a bittersweet smile. “What did I do to deserve a son like you?” she asks. “You’re the best of us all.”

Ducking his head, Tommy shrugs.

“You are the very best of us, Tommy,” she repeats. “I didn’t see it then, but I do now. You saw so much. Violence and death and pain. You lost so much. Friends and family and your love. Oh, I can’t even bear the thought of losing your father. I don’t know how you were able to go on not knowing if Alex was alive. It’s incredible. Terrible, so terrible, but incredible. You bore that all, dear, and it didn’t break you. I was wrong. It didn’t break you. You weren’t broken. You were suffering, and because of your too big heart, you didn’t want to make us suffer, too.”

She smooths a thumb over his cheek, catching a stray tear.

“And you survived. By the grace of God, you survived, and I hoped that you would come home and start to heal, but even when you were back in England, you were still at war. Every day, I would come downstairs, and you’d be at the table, newspaper all spread out, reading about the Pacific, about the Japanese and their godawful camps and all the deaths. You would go to work, doing whatever they had you doing, and still be in the war. Then you would come home with a different paper in hand and read more.

“Sometimes I wanted to throw those papers in the fire. I wanted to burn the words right out of existence to break whatever hold they had on you. I’m right ashamed to admit that now, knowing all I do, but at the time, it seemed right. I just wanted my son back. You were mine first. Not England’s. Not the war’s. And certainly not the goddamn Pacific’s.”

She lets out a heavy breath, and her hands fall from his face. “When the Japanese finally surrendered, I thought that would be the end of it for you, too. I thought we could finally start to move forward and put the whole bloody affair behind us. But you just seemed more worried, more anxious. I remember hearing you pacing your room the day the surrender was announced. I swear you wore a hole right through the boards in one night.

“I didn’t understand. The war was over, completely over, but you weren’t over it. I talked to your dad about it, wondered what we could do to make things better, but he just said you needed time, that every soldier was different and that we just needed to continue loving you.” She huffs out a laugh. “Turns out he was right. Just a few days later, you came home, and I nearly fainted when I saw you.”

She reaches for his hands again. “You were smiling, dear. It was small, nearly invisible, but it was there. A real smile. Your smile that I hadn’t seen in years.” His lips twitch at the words, and she mirrors him. “I cried that night, cried like a baby in your dad’s arms. I was just so relieved, so incredibly relieved. And each day, you came home looking happier than the day before. You were eating again, too, and I thanked God for it every day."

Fresh tears in her eyes, she turns enough to look at Alex. “I know you say Tommy saved you, but I think you should know you saved him, too. Maybe not from death, but something like it, something worse even.” She extends a hand, and Alex takes it, letting himself be drawn in. “You saved each other, and I couldn’t be more happy for you both. I love you both so much. We all love you.”

“We love you, too, mum,” Tommy tells her, and Alex nods.

“Couldn’t think of a better family to marry into,” he jokes, and her eyes go wide.

“Oh yes,” she exclaims, suddenly pulling away, “that reminds me. I’ve got a present for you.” She hurries across the living room and picks up one of her bags. “We have a few more at the house, but the kids all wanted to wait, so they could give those to you themselves.”

She holds the bag out, and Tommy takes it carefully. With Alex’s help, he removes the box it contains, gets the lid off, and reveals a fine set of tea cups, creamy white with pale pink roses climbing across their surface.

“They’re lovely,” Alex murmurs, gently taking one out for inspection. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

She beams. “They were my grandmother’s. They were my favorite set of hers when I was little. Every time I went to her house, I’d ask if we could have tea from the roses.”

Cradling the fragile cup in his hand, Alex looks up at her. “That’s too much,” he says. “You can’t give us something this important to you.”

“I can, and I am. I am giving them to you because they are so important.”

“Mum,” Tommy begins, but he doesn’t know what to say. He grew up listening to her stories about her grandparents, the adventures she would have in their sprawling lawn and the tea they always took in these cups. Each time, she would point out the beautiful tea set sitting in a place of honor in the china cabinet because her grandmother had given it to her as a wedding present. Now, she was passing it on to them.

“I know you’ll take care of it,” she says.

“Thank you,” Alex says. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

After she leaves, Tommy unpacks the tea set with great care as Alex puts the shopping away.

“Have I ever said how great your ma is?” Alex asks, a packet of sugar in hand.

Tommy hums. “I think you’ve mentioned it a time or two, yes.”

“Well, she’s bloody great.”

Smiling, Tommy glances over his shoulder. “I’m sure she’d love to hear that. Make sure to mention how bloody great she is at dinner on Sunday, alright?”

The sugar finds a home next to the flour, and Alex grabs the produce next. “I think I will. It’s not like your family hasn’t heard talk like that before. Only one we really need to watch out for is Isabelle, but she’s still too little to pick up on it.”

Tommy huffs. “Well, as long as you watch out for Isabelle, I think there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Excellent,” Alex grins, dumping the last apple in the fruit bowl his ma had sent him with. “In that case, I’ll make sure to work it into conversation over shepherd’s pie. I think your ma would find it funny.”

Tommy places the final tea cup on the shelf and steps back to admire his work. “If you said it, she would definitely find it funny. She thinks you’re charming.”

Arms wrap around his waist, and a kiss lands on his neck, warm and close-mouthed. “You think I’m charming, too, though, don’t you?”

Rolling his eyes, Tommy threads his fingers through Alex’s. “Everyone always says so. My parents, my brothers and sisters, all the boys who were stuck with us in the barracks, Mrs. MacIntosh down the hall.”

Alex exhales in a rush, and the hot breath sends a shiver down Tommy’s spine. “Yes, but do you think I’m charming?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Tommy can feel the grin Alex presses to his throat, and he leans into it, letting Alex support his weight.

“Is it still too early?”

“Hmm?”

“Is it still too early?”

He opens his eyes, unsure when he let them close, and turns just enough to give Alex an inquisitive look. “What do you mean too early? Too early for what?”

Alex presses closer, hips flush against Tommy.

“Oh.”

Alex hums.

“No, I suppose it isn’t too early now.”

Teeth nip at his neck, eager, and Tommy tips his head to the side, giving Alex all the room he could need.

They stand there for long minutes, Alex leaving a trail of bite marks across his nape, light enough that they will be gone in the morning.

“We should probably move to the bedroom though,” Tommy says, when Alex’s fingers sneak a bit too low. “I don’t think the table or counters would be too comfortable.”

“Live a little,” Alex purrs, drawing Tommy’s shirt out from his trousers.

Tommy wraps a hand around his wrist. “Yes, well, I’d quite like to live a little longer, if that’s alright. How about we figure out what the hell we’re doing first, hm? We can save the adventuring for later.”

Alex twists his hand and catches a couple of Tommy’s fingers. “Is that a promise, love?” he asks, low and sweet.

Tommy thinks for a moment, eyeing the kitchen critically before nodding. “Yes. Someday, just not today.”

“Excellent.”

Then, he spins Tommy around, gives him a roguish wink, and scoops him up, flailing limbs and all.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tommy shouts. “Put me down! Put me down now!”

“No,” Alex replies. “Now, would you stop flapping about? You’re making this quite difficult.”

Tommy stills, though with great reluctance.

“Thank you.”

“Why are you carrying me?”

Alex moves out of the kitchen and down the hallway leading to their bedroom. “Because it is tradition.”

“Tradition?”

He nods. “Groom always carries their spouse over the threshold. I know we can’t have the whole ceremony in a church with a priest blessing us with happiness and wealth and a million babies, but I think we can still keep with some of the other traditions. I mean, your ma did bring us a tea set.”

Looping his arms around Alex’s neck, Tommy narrows his eyes. “Are you saying I’m the bride? I am a man, you know.”

“Oh I know,” Alex replies with a heated look. “But do you want to try and carry me over the threshold? I may not be back to the weight I was before, but I’ve still got a fair few stone on you. I’m not sure we’d make it too far.”

Tommy flushes and ducks his head. “Fair point,” he mutters.

When they make it to their room, Alex carefully returns him to the ground, gaze palpable, and Tommy feels heat slither down his spine. The air is thick and heady, and his clothes suddenly feel too heavy, a weight he no longer wants to bear.

“You’re not just going to stare at me, are you?” he asks, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “Have to say I expected a bit more.”

Alex shakes his head immediately. “Just can’t believe this is real.” He continues to stare at Tommy, eyes raking over his figure.

“Right.” Tommy works his shirt over his head, not bothering with the buttons. “Well, it is real, just so you know, so if you wouldn’t mind doing something about your clothes, that’d be great.”

“I have to undress myself?” Alex sputters. “That’s hardly romantic.” He reaches for his buttons though, so Tommy can’t complain. “Whatever happened to the Tommy who wrote me long love letters for years and years? Whatever happened to the Tommy that sat at my bedside for weeks, nursing me back to health?”

Tommy works his trousers over his hips. “Pretty sure the doctors did more for you than I did.”

“Physically, sure,” Alex concedes, letting his shirt puddle at his feet. “But emotionally? Morally? That was all you.”

Rolling his eyes at the theatrics, Tommy hooks his thumbs in his drawers, but Alex stops him before he can get them off. “At least let me do this part, yeah?”

He drops his hands, and they hang at his sides, awkward and ungainly. With a triumphant grin, Alex steps close, rests his hands on Tommy’s hips, and strokes his thumbs over the skin, back and forth and back and forth. He ducks down enough to press a quick kiss to Tommy’s lips before leaning their foreheads together.

“Have I mentioned yet today that I love you?”

Tommy snorts a small laugh, lips pulling up in a grin. “If I’m not mistaken, it was the first thing you said when I picked you up from the station this morning. You practically shouted it to half of London.”

Alex hums, thumbs still working over Tommy’s skin, painting goosebumps across his flesh. “Of course, how could I forget? Because then you blushed, redder than the poppies of France and wouldn’t look me in the eye the whole way home.”

A heavy warmth settles in Tommy’s stomach at the words.

“Even so,” Alex continues, “I think it bears repeating. I love you. Quite a lot, in fact. I think I could make that blush come back if I were to tell you how much I love you, if I were to list all the many things I love about you.”

“You don’t have to,” Tommy grumbles, cheeks already warming.

“Maybe not,” he agrees, grin turning cheeky, “but I want to.”

His thumbs finally still, fingers pressing into Tommy’s skin, holding him in place like he’s afraid he might slip away.

“You see, Tommy,” he begins, “I love your messy hair and your lovely hazel eyes. I love your perfect lips and even more perfect smile. I love your hands and the way they fit in mine, like they were made for it, like you were made for me. I love the warmth of your skin and the feel of your heartbeat beneath my hands. They remind me that you’re alive, that you’re here with me.

“I love the way you look in the mornings, like you’re angry at the sun for waking you up. I love the way you look in the evenings, seated at the dinner table with your family or on the couch with Isabelle. I love the older brother that you are, always watching out for the younger ones, making sure they’re safe, making sure they’re happy. I love the son that you are, so kind to your ma, letting her faun over you and cry on your shoulder. I love the friend that you are, loyal and dependable, always there. I love the husband that you would be, if this damn world ever let me call you that.”

“You don’t have to keep going,” Tommy mumbles, and Alex smiles fondly.

“I love your legs,” he continues, fingers finally finding the waist of Tommy’s drawers and pushing them down. “The way they wrap around me, pull me in tight, and keep me close. I love the way you kiss me, like there’s nothing else you’d rather be doing, like the rest of the world doesn’t matter.” Needing the release of motion, Tommy reaches out and works at Alex’s trousers and drawers. “I love the way you say my name when you’re on the edge, out of breath and desperate for it. I love knowing that you’ve thought of me, of this, as much as I have over the last few months. And I love knowing that I get this with you, that I get you like this.”

Emboldened by the words, Tommy steps close enough for their skin to touch, for their chests and thighs to press together, and for him to feel Alex’s heartbeat keeping time with his own. “And you said I’m the romantic,” he teases, lifting his arms and twining them around Alex’s neck.

“That wasn’t romantic,” Alex protests. “That was honest.”

Tommy hums and tilts his head back, brushes his nose against Alex’s jaw and drops a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I think it can be both,” he murmurs and presses their mouths together before Alex can reply, sliding his tongue over Alex’s bottom lip and catching his moan between his teeth.

They kiss until Tommy’s mouth feels swollen and used. They kiss until his head spins from lack of oxygen. They kiss until he finds himself straddled over Alex, knees bracketing his hips and hands braced on his chest.

“God,” Alex groans when they finally pull apart. “God, Tommy, please.”

As he leans over to rummage in their bedside table, Tommy feels a deep satisfaction at the way Alex grips his hips, bruising and desperate, and the way he looks at him, like a capsized sailor finally spotting land. The noise Alex makes when he spots the oil in Tommy’s hand is practically criminal.

“What are you doing?” Alex demands, once Tommy has a few fingers slick with oil, arm twisted behind him to tease at his entrance.

“Preparation,” he replies, rubbing his middle finger over tight muscle, “we’re not like women. Our bodies don’t provide anything to make this easier.”

Alex waves the words away. “No, no, I know that. But what do you think you’re doing now?”

Tommy’s brow furrows, and he works the tip of his finger in. “Preparation.”

“Yes,” Alex groans, “obviously. But why are you doing it? I wanted to.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He’s done this so many times that it feels natural, normal to do it himself.

“Oh,” he says, fingers poised to push in.

“Yes, oh,” Alex mocks. Then he sits up, wraps an arm around Tommy’s waist, and turns them until Tommy is spread out beneath him, oil-covered hand curled to keep it from touching the bedsheets. “You’ll have to teach me how,” Alex tells him, grabbing the oil and pouring some into his hand, “but I’ve always been a quick learner when it’s hands on.”

Tommy snorts and rolls his eyes. “Of course, you have.” Reaching down, he wraps his slick fist around himself and arches into the touch. “Start with one finger, alright? Just the very tip.”

Transfixed, Alex nods. “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It doesn’t hurt, not ever. There’s some discomfort, some stretching and spreading that his body still isn’t used to, but there’s no pain. Not when Alex works a full finger in. Not when he manages a second and begins to scissor them apart. Not when he’s pushing for a third and Tommy tells him that’s enough, that’s enough because he feels moments away from losing control.

“Wow,” Alex breathes, and Tommy lifts his arm off his face just enough to peer down at him. “Tommy, I—I never thought—I didn’t know—”

“Please don’t talk right now,” Tommy pleads, letting his arm flop back over his eyes. “I can’t deal with that.”

Alex falls silent, and Tommy breathes in and out several times, focusing on the sound of a drawer opening and closing, a packet ripping open, to keep his mind off the white-hot pleasure coursing through him, demanding release.

He can feel the bed dip and rise with Alex’s movements, can feel the heat pouring off him when Alex settles at his side, and he concentrates on that until he doesn’t feel two breaths away from coming.

When he’s ready, he tips his head to look at Alex and finds him in a lazy sprawl, one arm crossed behind his head while the other drapes over his stomach, fingers teasing the flushed skin of his cock. Tommy swallows at the sight and wets his lips.

“Alright?” Alex asks.

“Yeah, I’m good. Come back here.”

Alex shakes his head, “No, you should come here,” and his fingers curl around Tommy’s wrist and tug, bringing him up and over until he’s once more straddled across Alex’s waist. “I quite liked this earlier, so if it’s alright with you, I’d like to try it this way first. If you don’t care for it, we can do something else, yeah?”

Tommy can feel the heat and length of his cock right behind him, pressing against the skin of his ass and sending shivers up his spine. “I’d be alright with that,” he admits, and Alex fits his hands around his hips.

“Good, that’s good.”

Nodding, Tommy rises enough to get a hand between them, curling it around Alex’s cock and lining him up. With a slow exhale, he lowers himself down, sinking into the stretch and burn.

“Go slow, love,” Alex murmurs, stroking his hips. “We’re in no rush. We’ve got all the time in the word.”

Tommy hums, head tipped back as he focuses on staying relaxed, staying loose.

“That’s it. Nice and easy, darling. It’s not a race. Take it slow.”

Tommy lifts a hand to touch himself, but Alex bats it away.

“Let me,” he says, fist curling around Tommy. “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.”

It feels endless, deep and slow and long, but finally, Tommy can feel Alex’s hips beneath him, and he exhales in relief.

“So good, Tommy. You’re so good. God, I’m the luckiest bloke in the world.”

Laughter spills from Tommy’s lips, and he tips his head down to look at Alex, pleasure spiking through him when he sees the red, bitten lips and dark eyes.

“I forgot to tell you earlier that I love you, too,” he says, and Alex groans. “I could list off a million reasons why—”

“God, Tommy, please, I can’t.”

“—but it’d be rather cruel to keep you like this for that long.” He circles his hips carefully, testing, and Alex grabs at his thighs, grip tight enough that his fingers go white. “So for now, I’ll just content myself with saying that I love you and showing you how much.”

“Yes, love. Yes, please.”

“Always so polite,” Tommy murmurs, rising an inch before falling again.

Alex gasps, a sharp inhale, so Tommy does it again and again.

He builds a steady rhythm, hands braced on Alex’s chest as he moves. Up then down. Forward then back. Like waves crashing against the shore.

When Alex tells him he’s close, Tommy takes his hand and fits it around himself, urging him to move it over the wet head and straining length. He gasps and moans, spine bending as he tips his head back in pleasure.

“So fucking beautiful,” Alex growls beneath him, and Tommy isn’t sure who finishes first.

It’s a blur in the aftermath, world hazy and indistinct beyond the sure press of Alex’s hands on his back, in his hair.

Eventually, he slumps to the side, exhausted, and Alex crawls out of bed to find a towel, returning with one that he uses to clean up the mess on their stomachs and between Tommy’s thighs. When they’re acceptably clean, he tosses it into the bin in the corner and climbs back into bed, tugging the covers over them and wrapping Tommy in a solid embrace.

“How do you feel?”

Tommy hums. Words require too much effort.

“Nothing hurts? No pain anywhere?”

He shakes his head and burrows further into Alex’s arms, breathing in the scent of him, of them.

“You enjoyed it?”

He nips at Alex’s collarbone, teeth sharp on the thin skin.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

A soft kiss follows the bite, gentle and reassuring.

“So you wouldn’t be opposed to doing it all over again in the morning? Maybe in the kitchen?”

Tommy abruptly withdraws, putting enough space between them to shoot Alex a deep frown. “Absolutely not. We aren’t trying anything in the kitchen for a few months at least.”

Alex pouts, or he tries to. He’s smiling too much for it to work.

“Ask me again in March or April.” Tommy pauses, reflecting. “Or better yet, June. We can christen the kitchen to celebrate our anniversary.”

Alex breaks into a full-blown grin, and he surges forward to scatter kisses across Tommy’s cheeks and nose. “Brilliant idea, love. Positively genius.”

Tommy pushes at his head but just ends up with his fingers tangled in the soft, shorn curls, watching Alex watch him.

“It’ll be six years,” Alex whispers, eyes clouding over with memories. “Six years since we met.”

Tommy runs his fingers over Alex’s brow, smoothing out the wrinkles with careful strokes. “Six years,” he echoes. “And to think, we’ve only been in one another’s company a handful of months in that time.”

Alex frowns and reaches up to catch Tommy’s fingers, bringing them down so he can press gentle kisses to each one. “I’ll fix that,” he swears. “I’ll spend the next six years at your side, the next sixty if God’ll let me.”

Tommy shivers. From the words, from the kisses, from the weight of Alex’s gaze.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he whispers, interlacing their fingers. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”