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When Tom is seven, he dies.
There isn't much that he knows, because Tom is seven — he is born from the dirt and the trees and the soft soil of spring, so when Joe says climb, he climbs.
"Be careful," Joe calls. From this high up, his voice is starting to sound distant. Tom can no longer see him in-between the leaves, just the basket; a quarter full, and they have an acre to go.
"I'm always careful!" Tom shouts, and proceeds to throw cherries down by the handful.
And here is this, something that changes:
Tom does not know death yet. There is no trace of it, not when you are young; there are mentions of it in the radio, in the pulp-made magazines his mother likes, in the great big cathedral he is dragged to. Tom does not know death — life goes on.
His grip on the branches is sturdy, his nails bitten from where he chews on them. He climbs, and he climbs - and he slips.
(Or, he slips, maybe. Or there is a crack from up above, from down below, from all sides. Or the bark he latches onto breaks off, and everything is much thinner, up here. It doesn’t matter. Tom falls.)
Oh shit, Tom thinks, because he is seven and that is a new word — and then his head hits the ground first.
If you ever asked him, this is the part Tom would tell you first. Because he doesn’t remember much about picking the cherries, or if he fell or slipped at all. The greatest stories start at the climax, and it’s the work put into making a second one that makes it worthwhile. Tom knows this better than anyone.
He remembers this, and it’s waking up on the ground staring at the white petals and the leaves above him and thinking, did I die?
“Tom! Tom, please, c’mon - “
“I’m up, I’m up,” Tom groans weakly, swatting at where Joe is hovering over him. “Did I look cool?”
“The coolest,” Joe promises. “I’m - I’m going to touch your head, ok? You’re really bleeding a lot. Don’t scare me like that.”
Tom still hisses, despite the warning. Joe ends up balling up his shirt and pressing it to his head, and they never end up finishing that acre of trees. Tom stays with his mother and drifts through her scolding, sleeping through the afternoon and barely waking to eat dinner.
But Tom is seven, and pain is somehow brief. There are places to explore, and adventures to see. He brings an extra basket “to catch his fall” and a wooden sword his grandfather made, and the next day they’re picking cherries again. The trees are similar, and the white petals end up getting everywhere - it makes the ground look like snow, or mounds of white feathers. It is hard to see the ground beneath, but he ends up faltering by a tree, their baskets just beneath.
There’s a lot more blood than there should’ve been.
-
When Tom is twelve, he dreams.
He’s at a train station - though, Tom’s never really been to one a whole lot, before. Their village is small, and their community smaller. The Blake’s are fortunate to have a sturdy gal for a horse and a coach big enough for almost all of them to go with her, so outside of church on Sundays, he doesn’t really see much. But the station is packed, and bustling - the city.
Tom’s never been. His imagination isn’t big enough, but the sun almost feels real.
“How did you do that?”
Tom blinks, and turns. There’s a boy his age standing next to him, but he’s taller and suspiciously lanky, and his calves peek from where his trousers end and his socks attempt to cover his ankles. His eyes are bright, and blue. It’s the first thing he notices about him. He’s got a leather suitcase in his hand - there’s no one else with him.
“Do what?” Tom retorts.
“There was nothing. And then you were there,” the boy says, frowning. “You weren’t there before.”
“Maybe I’m a magician,” Tom grins, because he quite likes the boy’s look of confusion. Or - the way he looks at all. He’s twelve. He doesn’t really want to think about it.
“Do you know any card tricks?” He asks.
“I don’t have a set on me,” Tom says woefully, looking up at the platform number above them. “I’m a shit rummy player, but I can do a good coin trick or two.”
A horn blares. One of the trains is leaving. There are shouts, there are cries. A mother kisses her husband before he leaves.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
Tom turns, looks at him. “What, that I’m bad at rummy?”
“No. You shouldn’t curse.” The boy says, blankly. He’s a bit proper, Tom decides. He looks too rough to be actually proper, but it’s the way he says it, the way his shirt is tucked in but has dirt on it. Huh.
“Why are you here?” Tom questions. “Where’re you going?”
“I’m leaving. For Brighton.”
“Brighton!” Tom says, excitedly. “I’ve never been! What’s it like?”
“I don’t know,” The boy says, looking at his shoes. “I’m just going to visit my uncle.”
Okay, so, Tom isn’t as stupid bloke. He’s a right bastard, in Joe’s own words, but he isn’t stupid. He knows when someone is running, he knows what those people look like. There’s something a little rugged, about them, even if it isn’t their physical appearance. There’s a little bit of a lost look, like they’re trying to be found - or that they have been. The boy doesn’t look like a runner, but he doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it, either.
Tom doesn’t ask.
“So, um,” The boy says awkwardly, “What’s with the nightgown?”
It’s only then that Tom realizes he’s still 100% in his pyjamas and feels his face flush furiously. It makes sense, now, what all the odd glances towards him and the boy were for, now. The people passing make mind of it, but nobody’s said anything. Tom can’t believe nobody has said anything. He wishes he could die on the spot.
Luckily, a train starts pulling in before he has to respond. The boy checks the watch, on his other hand - and nods, firmly.
“I have to go.”
“When - When will you be coming back?” Tom bursts out, because if this is a dream, he wants to make it last. Maybe he can dream about the boy coming back, later, and they can keep being friends, standing at the train platform and watching everyone go by.
“I don’t know. A week, maybe. Are you - why do you ask?” He says, glancing at the doors of the train beginning to slide open, of the people spilling outside of it, before meeting Tom’s gaze again.
“I was just thinking. Maybe I could be here, when you get back,” Tom fidgets, tugging on his nightgown. God. Mortifying.
He - he laughs. Well, chuckles, really, but Tom’s head still snaps up eagerly at the sound. The boy looks less worn when he smiles. Less tired. “Maybe,” he says.
And then something hits Tom, this forbidden force - like all the strings in the universe have aligned, or something, and he’s got the sudden urge to grab and never let go. A friend. A friend, he’s made a friend, and —
And a man’s getting aboard the train, and something in Tom distinctly yells run.
“Wait,” he panics, “Wait, don’t get on the train. Wait.”
The boy raises an eyebrow at him, almost like he plans on ignoring him, and Tom hastily tries to explain himself.
“Go to London first. It’s - it’s out of the way, yeah? But you can get to see the sights. And all. Bring something for your uncle. Cheaper than going directly there.”
(No, it isn’t. Tom has no idea if it is, honestly. He’s making this up on the spot. It doesn’t matter, in the end, because they’re already shouting for last call and he’s two seconds away from just grabbing the boys hand and tugging him.)
“That’s stupid,” he says.
“You just hate my ideas,” Tom backfires. It makes the boy laugh - it’s enough. The door closes, and the boy’s forced to stay.
“Maybe,” he grins. Tom smiles back, ready to ask for a name, for a friendship, for anything at all -
But then he’s gone.
(Tom wakes up at 9:02 in the morning, to his ceiling. Joe sneezes from somewhere in the house, downstairs, and a city stands a boy with blue eyes and lanky limbs, alone.)
-
Tom joins up in January. By late February, he’s in France.
It takes a little while to find his battalion - they’ve been recovering heavily after Thiepval, still, having barely had time to make up for their part in the Somme before that. Let alone trying to get back to it afterwards, in November; the Sergeant next to him in the convoy says its been hell.
Tom sees lush green fields and burned out cottages, of the daisies lining the dirt roads, and thinks - how could this be hell?
“It’s Elysium.”
“What?” The sergeant asks, turning to look at the Lance Corporal in front of them. Tom sees blue eyes, but they’re not staring at him. The ghost of a smile and a laugh graves his memory, but he can’t remember from where.
“The Greeks - they thought Hell had layers. Elysium was the paradise. It was for the privileged dead.”
The sergeant snorts. “What, you saying France is where heroes go to die, Schofield?”
The Lance Corporal - Schofield - looks away. “No.”
“Well, I think it looks a little like paradise,” Tom says. “Can’t help if a few heroes mind staying.”
“Don’t go leaving your wife now, Blake,” a private pipes in. There’s laughter - but Schofield doesn’t join in. Keep to yourself, don’t you? Tom thinks.
Schofield thumbs at his sleeves, before pulling out a blue tin from his pocket. Doesn’t open it, just holds. He says nothing for the rest of the ride, save for a soft chuckle now and then. Keeps to himself, definitely. Jolts away when someone accidentally bumps his shoulder, like he isn’t used to it.
Well. Can’t have that.
-
Tom makes it his personal mission to befriend Schofield, because — in Joe’s own words — he’s a right bastard. He can’t help being a little nosy, especially when it involves learning something, because he is always in the need of a good story. Schofield looks smart, and quiet - that he happens to be extremely handsome and possibly also a hero is a happy coincidence.
He cases him by asking others questions, first. Where’s he from? How long’s he been in the Eighth? Got a family? Frankly, it’s almost as if nobody knows — Either Schofield hasn’t shared, or the people who did know have been dead long enough to be skeletons. (Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating.) It ends up with Tom having to take his questions to the source, and he ends up even less fruitful than before.
“I’m from Cookham,” Schofield says, and that’s it.
No, seriously, that’s it.
“How is it it’s been three weeks and I don’t know anything about you?” Tom whines, flopping onto his back in the grass. He’s covered in mud, and his fingers practically ache from having to hold a shovel for so long.
Schofield groans in response, from where he’s slumped over.
“Seriously,” Tom huffs out, inbetween pants. “I mean, we’re mates, yeah? You can tell me things.”
“I don’t want to,” Schofield says.
Tom turns, looks at him. “Why not?”
Schofield says nothing, shifting only to slide his pack off and to the ground, off to his side with an audible thump. Tom mulls over what he knows, trying to list it out in his head.
“You like flowers,” he notes. “Your name is William. You were in the Somme, you were in Thiepval, you’ve been wounded at least once. You’re a light sleeper, you don’t eat jerky, and you know about the Greeks.”
Will hmph ’s a little laugh, still not turning to look at him. “Well noted.”
“I’m a great genius, I’ll have you know,” Tom boasts, jokingly. “Very renowned for my maps.”
“You might just get a promotion, for that.”
Tom sits up on his elbows at this, so he can look at Schofield clearly. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“You might,” he shrugs. “We’re spread thin. Any skill is better than nothing.”
“I hope I am,” Tom hums, thoughtfully. “Maybe we can be paired together more often, then. When I’m not a Private anymore.”
“If I have to see you any more, I might strangle you,” Will says, very seriously.
Tom just laughs.
-
Tom wakes up, on his transport to a hospital. He stares at the canvas above his head, whimpering against the jolting against his side when the truck moves. He lays, and thinks, did I die?
Heaven is where a hero goes. Not Hell, not Elysium. It can’t be, he thinks, because when he closes his eyes he dreams of soft blue eyes and cherry petals, of running water and the chirping of birds. Hell doesn’t have rivers, doesn’t have fire, or gentle french and poetry.
Hell is not for the heroes.
-
Tom’s sure there’s something wrong with him, because he doesn’t die.
It’s lucky, for sure, the first two times. That time when he was seven can be pretty easily excused as a concussion, and head wounds bleed a lot, anyway. And then there’s getting stabbed, and he can attribute at least 99% of that to Schofield — but then he’s getting shot in the head while in the trenches from a sniper, and he gets up and laughs from where it’s knocked him on the ground, the bullet still crumpled against his helmet. And then he’s waking up in the infirmary in November because he’s caught that cold going around; the one he hopes not even Schofield can get.
It’s crazy. It’s insane. Tom would be seen as mad if he brought it up, so he doesn’t. He gets really good at not dying and trusting his gut, which ends up right half the time, at least, if the scar from his stab wound is anything to go by. Schofield isn’t breathing in chalk or dust, even if Tom has to reach over and check at night when he gasps awake.
Apparently, getting stabbed brings people close. They don’t have a name for it, not really — Will holds him, and Tom tells him stories, and sometimes they’ll grasp for each other’s hand in the dark, when it’s just them and the tents and the fear of dying. But they don’t kiss, or anything, and that’s fine. It’s good, absolutely. Tom isn’t complaining in the slightest.
(But it would be nice, sometimes. He allows himself this, when it’s dark, and Will sleeps with his eyebrows drawn together.)
In the colder months, things slow down. Everyone is less likely to cause any real attack or plan strategies when it’s below freezing before dark. Apparently, even the Huns can see the reason, in that. Tom gets sick in November, but he doesn’t die, and he’s back before Christmas.
Things go quickly downhill, from there.
Will’s gloves were stolen, while he was gone — the benefits of having a friend (lover?) during all of this were making sure each other’s things didn’t get taken. If Will gets called out for a task, and Tom doesn’t, he can trust his tin is safe - Tom never rifles through it, because it isn’t his to know. Or anyone else’s, either.
Tom tries to give Will his gloves the second he finds out, and is quickly shot down. He’s not allowed to freeze, not after getting sick. And well, there’s not much else to do but hatch a plan. He’ll just have to get him some.
The gloves are easy - a common necessity in the trenches, but a necessity nonetheless. It’s Will’s threadbare scarf that’s the problem.
“It’s army-issued,” Tom argues. “And nearly a hundred years old! You’re better off not wearing anything at all.” If he ends up mumbling the last half into Will’s neck from where he’s pressed against his side, it’s no matter. They’re not shivering under their own blankets, anymore, and Will’s probably the best human pillow he’s ever had. (Hopes to have. Both, maybe.)
“It works fine,” he says. “I don’t get cold with it.”
“Yeah, but you scratch your neck to hell,” Tom huffs, intentionally pressing his cold nose into Will’s neck, just to make him flinch. “You’d think you just got attacked by a dog.”
“If you haven’t noticed, there’s not a whole not of room for comfort.”
“No reason not to be,” he says stubbornly. “We’re getting you a new one.”
Thing is — nobody is willing to part with their scarves unless they’re dead. And by then, most scarves are long gone. Tom’s gotten used to seeing the frozen bodies in the morning, because they look no different from the living - like they’re just sleeping. Like they froze to death and didn’t even realize it. But Tom is resourceful, and Mama Blake knits in church, though she’ll never admit it, and Tom will never admit to have been watching.
Finding the material is hard, and he ends up having to ask her to send some yarn his way. It takes long enough, and Tom ends up making several attempts before he’s able to get the first few stitches right.
It isn’t done by that week, or the next — It isn’t done by Christmas, either, but it’s close enough.
Tom invests in stealing another blanket. Will doesn’t freeze during the night, and Tom doesn’t either. He finishes the scarf, and Will ends up cupping his face in his hands and kissing him for it.
“Thank you,” he says kindly. Tom kisses him back, and they don’t die that night. Or the next, or the next, or the next, or the next.
(Will, for all his softness, looks astonishing in blue.)