Work Text:
December 1918
Evander's war was physically easier than Clive's, at least. Posted by the army as a driver and nurse's assistant to field hospitals, initially in Miracourt for training, later several others which merged into one long horror, he saw the worst that bullets and shrapnel can do to human flesh, all the while knowing that somewhere on the Western front, Clive could be torn into pieces by exploding metal just the same, any day, any hour, any minute.
He remembered that the conscription officer in Salisbury had given him a certain appreciative look, and it later transpired that he had put a non combat code on his card. One man could live, while another be sent to die, just for pretty blond hair, and the chance of who manned the desk that day.
He coped by caring for every wounded soldier as if he were Clive, until nearly broken in body and spirit, making it to the armistice before suffering a collapse, not officially a war casualty, he was put to bed in the sick bay of the barracks where he was demobilised near Manchester, his service record stating nervous exhaustion.
In the four years of the war, a few short letters had been exchanged via Alec and Maurice. Censored, they told him little, apart from that Clive was alive. Code for 'I love you' kept them both going - FRANCE - Friendship Remains and Never Can End. Clive's letters had stopped in late October, the last a plain postcard in someone else's handwriting, just a shaky 'C.D.' by Clive, stating only that he was wounded and at Armentières, the casualty clearing station for the front at Lys. Ev had found himself in the deplorable position of having to hope that Clive was severely enough wounded not to be sent back to the front before the madness was over, but not enough to die. He knew from experience exactly what level of injury this meant. He had immediately replied to the postcard, written again several times since, but received no reply. If his lover had died, he would not be notified: he was officially nothing to Clive.
Now he must regain his strength to leave the barracks as soon as he was allowed, and find him, if he lived. He wrote to Archie London, as his former employer, asking after the family and the possibility of his old job back, and received a reply in an unfamiliar hand. He walked by the parade ground to open it. Pippa wrote that Archie was missing in action since 4 November at Guise, enquiries were still in progress via his unit and the Red Cross, but she didn't hold out much hope now of him being found in a hospital. Her brother Clive had by God's grace survived and was at the County of Middlesex War Hospital, near St Albans. She had just been allowed to see him. Wounds to the head, arm and leg, serious, but healing well and two days ago out of bed. Had several incapacitating episodes of shell-shock but since up and about much improved. He leant his back on a wall, eyes closed, holding the letter in his outstretched hand, and then bent forward and vomited on the ground from pain, mixed closely with relief. Others saw but didn't approach - they all received such correspondence.
-----
The letter galvanised him. Certified fit and demobilised just a week later, he'd already written to Clive and replied to Pippa, but set off for his sister's home in Salisbury, unable to explain to his family that there was someone dear and injured he was desperate to see urgently. Pampered for two days by Eleni, doted on by Theodore, now a fine big boy of 6, concerned for his brother in law still in France, waiting for transfer home and sick with the Spanish flu tearing through the camps, he then travelled to his parents' home in London, joyfully received and finally within easy reach of St Albans. Still no word from Clive. He telephoned Pippa to confirm he was still there, making up a story about a pal in the same hospital, in case she thought it odd that he knew his former employer's relative well enough to make a special trip to visit him.
The military hospital was a former county asylum, vast, in extensive grounds, one of many such taken over during the war. It even had its own special motor bus service from St Albans station. He checked in at the gate, showing his demob card, pretending to have served with Clive. The hospital had nearly 2,000 patients, so likely no one would check.
He was told Wing F, Ward 41d - Ambulatory Orthopaedic. That meant Clive's head wound was the least serious of the three, or he'd be in Neurological. Good news at least. What would he look like? Was his face disfigured? Pippa hadn't elaborated, maybe couldn't bear to. Ev remembered patients with mis-shapen heads, areas of skull missing, jaws shattered, eyes gone. Surgeons were pioneering plastic surgeries, but at an experimental stage.
"Good afternoon, Sister. I'm looking for Lieutenant Clive Durham." Trying to read the nurse's expression.
"He's in the kitchen gardens at the moment, you may find him there. It's clearly signposted. Or wait here for him to return for tea at four."
Ev could not wait, went to the extensive vegetable gardens. Wounded men worked slowly and purposefully. He asked for Durham, was told he was working in Glasshouse E. This was it. Four years. What were the odds of them both having survived? The reunion scenes he'd imagined swirled in his mind: hospital beds, parks in London with spring flowers, Paris cafés, Green's Hotel, Pendersleigh boathouse even. Definitely not a greenhouse. Memories of their idyllic day at the watercress farm surfaced - Clive's happiness at orderly, healthy, growing plants. He hoped being able to garden was bringing him comfort and strength.
He first caught sight of him through the greenish glass, sitting on a high stool at a large bench, potting cuttings slowly with one hand. He watched him for a few moments, absorbed in his work, but unable to clearly see his face.
Running his hands through his hair and straightening his tie, ludicrous really, Ev checked no one was within sight, and stepped inside the glasshouse, cool damp air on his face. Clive didn't notice him at first. Was his hearing damaged? He looked thinner, a little older. Shorter hair that didn't suit him, but still beautiful. Ev stepped forward and touched his shoulder.
A gasp of surprise. One brief, frantic embrace and tender kiss was all that was safe - Clive utterly shocked, had to sit down again, both breathless, hearts racing, murmuring quiet words of love.
"I didn't know if you got back alive. My letters often get lost, because there's the Durham Light Infantry I imagine."
The rest had to appear to be formality, distance. Now sat on a bench, Clive's crutch propped by him.
"How have you been?"
"There's everything to say, and nothing, Ev. I can't speak of most of it. I may never be able to. You can see how I am. Shot in the leg, nice clean wound, out the other side. I have good hopes to walk without the crutch soon. Arm will never be right, it's a mess. My hand is there but muscle and nerves damaged further up."
"And your head?"
"Ha, just a scratch." In fact, a tiny burn scar pulled his left eyelid down just a fraction, almost unnoticeable, a larger burned area the same side above his ear, that could likely be hidden when his hair got longer. Evander could see how very near he had come to losing an eye.
"Are you in pain?"
"Not now."
"What can I do for you, my love?"
"Come and see me. Nothing could help more than your face. It's hard for us to be alone here, as you see, but I'm hoping to be out in a few weeks. We could go to Green's for a night or two on my way home?" He looked sideways at Ev, hopefully but cautiously, not assuming for a moment that all was right with him, despite his intact appearance.
Green's Hotel. Their old trysting place, with cascading hot showers, soft beds, and fluffy towels, felt a world away, could it still be the same? Memories of their intimacy came to Ev, Clive's touch, the sounds he made. His stomach turned over with emotion, admiration - Clive still wanted him that way, and as soon as he could, or he wouldn't suggest it. He feared seeing the injuries.
"Yes, I want that."
"Pendersleigh is a war hospital now, and the park still desperately needs an estate manager. I'm told both the gamekeepers' cottages are empty - we could live next door to each other, unless you want to go back to... to Archie's." He had nearly said Pippa's.
Ev took a deep breath. Clive was moving too fast. "Let me think about it. We've been apart a long time. Let's spend some time together."
------
Green's was just as good as before the war, in fact better. Many demobilised servicemen and nurses were staying there, which provided a jolly atmosphere and the constant bustling, chat and comings and goings gave excellent cover for secret lovers, of whom there were probably plenty within its walls.
4pm and they were sleeping off a celebration lunch, and two bottles of excellent wine. Ev had been so careful when they'd got up to the room, at first just holding Clive in his arms, cheek to cheek. They kissed tentatively, learning to play their tongues together again after so long, feeling and listening for responses, breaths, little murmurs and moans, remembering how to read each other again. Ev let him undress at his own pace, gently caressing his wound scars. The damage had upset him, and despite his years caring for injured men, he'd not been able to hide it.
Clive's leg was not so bad, neat entry and exit wounds in the outer thigh, the bullet missing the bone by an inch, otherwise an amputation would have been needed. Another inch over, femoral artery. Definitely 'curtains', as they used to call it, they would bleed out before the stretcher bearers could get to them. He was walking with a cane now, barely needing it. His left arm was, however, a nasty sight, a big piece of his tricep missing nearly down to the bone, skin roughly healed over it, obviously pulled across and stitched in a hurry, leaving a huge dent. Ev could see it had been infected, which could easily have been fatal, he must have received excellent treatment. His forearm muscles had wasted away and his hand was partly numb and nearly useless due to the nerve damage.
He was still very beautiful though, despite the small areas of burns, and he said he was on the list for a minor surgery to untighten his eyelid, but there were many severely disfigured men to go before him. It didn't bother him and could wait. His hair was longer now and fashionably barbered, hid the scarred areas on his head perfectly.
"You have a tattoo!" Ev stroked a beautiful diving kingfisher design on Clive's shoulder blade appreciatively.
"Oh gosh, I forget it's there. Yes, all the lads were getting them at Waterloo the day we left for France, and I got talked into it. Flags and other patriotic things, but I wanted something that represented Pendersleigh."
"Ah the lake. Good times. I love it. More happy days there to come, I hope."
They enjoyed the now famous Green's Hotel torrential shower experience, washing each other's backs and hair, massaging shoulders lovingly and kissing chastely, neither knowing if trauma had caused loss of function in the other, so happy to see firm ons in the bathroom, but taking their time. Retiring to bed, they savoured kisses and nervous embraces, twining their limbs together carefully, feeling welcome hardness and giving loving hand jobs, feeling the blessed connection and release, before letting the wine soothe them to sleep.
Now they were awake again, drowsily cuddling. Clive spoke hesitantly, into the skin of Ev's collarbone.
"Ev, my love, there's no need to treat me like a piece of china you know. I don't need or want it."
"I want to be sure I'm not hurting you, or stopping you healing."
"I was thinking of you all the time, in France and in hospital. So many memories, kept me going." He paused. "I missed our sharing, and our... shower times." He gave his lover a squeeze and breathed him in.
He meant the times he'd taken Ev at Green's, and twice in a bathroom at Pendersleigh, the latter a hugely risky endeavour. They'd shared plenty in the boathouse and the Lodge, but went all the way only in bathrooms, Clive's obsessive fear of being filthy happily coinciding with Ev's growing love of the sensuality of shower sex. Ev's eyelids drooped, he exhaled, remembering, and felt a heat spreading over him, a craving he hadn't satisfied for too long.
He'd been true to Clive, apart from fumbled hand jobs with a Scottish orderly, after they'd had to share bunks for several months when the hospital was shelled. They hadn't kissed, it was just basic tension release, he didn't even think the fellow liked men particularly. He didn't intend to ask Clive if he'd been faithful, it seemed unfair after all he'd been through, to make him feel judged if he'd had moments of weakness. Clive had indeed had a similar experience, a fellow officer had jerked him off in a ruined farm building after a drunken night out on leave, when all the other officers had gone on to a brothel, and he'd returned the favour. They'd kept up their arrangement on their leaves for over a year, pretending they had religious scruples about whoring, until the fellow was killed by a shell. They'd never kissed, or even had a friendly conversation. Both Ev and Clive privately decided to put those empty experiences in a box with the war, and stay true from now on.
Clive spoke into Ev's neck again.
"I've been having dreams."
"Ah, I know your sort of dreams!" A kiss to his temple.
"Well these went a little beyond. Than the old one about the wall I mean."
Evander had loved it when Clive told him about his dream of thigh sex, like on the Greek vases in the museum, of being gripped hard from behind, face against a wall, in the hot sun. They'd acted it out several times indoors, finally against a sun warmed wall in the yard of a disused cottage on Archie's estate, the day before Clive went to training camp, specially planned by Ev as a loving sendoff, and followed by a quiet afternoon making lunch together at the Lodge, and taking a last siesta. Clive's absence the next day hit Ev like a punch in the face, he barely ate again for two days, existing on sugary tea.
"I'm trying to say that I want you to go further than before. I can't get the thought out of my head."
"You mean I take you, all the way? Are you sure Clive? You're wounded."
"Yes, and that's all part of it. I think I really need to just let go, be completely done to, not be Lt Durham, Squire, bloody MP or whatever. If it's awkward because of my injuries, or hurts a bit to start with, I don't care. Do you want to?"
Ev's imagination was forming pictures, sensations. He had only ever taken a man like this during a brief romance at college, and after half a year together, had assumed Clive would never want to, and accepted that. He wondered for a moment if Clive had experienced it with someone during the war, but the way he spoke didn't sound like it.
"Yes, I do. I really want to, but I need you to tell me what you want, tell me exactly, so I don't harm you."
"I want it like the wall scenario, but in the shower and all the way. I don't want any asking me if I'm OK, tiptoeing around me, kid gloves sympathy stuff, Ev. I want you to... grab me and push me around and... and... fuck me hard. I do need you to help me not fall over." His face looked troubled, but determined.
"Then we need a signal or a random word to stop, if you need me to."
"I'll say...mm... 'Renault'. Can't believe they requisitioned my damn car! There's to be no talking though, from either of us. We know each other well enough. We can be romantic any time we like, but I need this first."
"Have you touched yourself there, to try how it feels?"
Clive blushed. "Yes! Look, stop pampering me. I'm sure I want this. I've been shot and blown up remember."
"I'm sorry Clive. You've been through far more than I have. I need to trust you and take you at your word."
"I'm not saying this has to happen tonight by the way. Let's go and get a drink and hear some of this jazz music people keep talking about, and see how the night turns out."
-----
As he dressed to go out, Clive was deep in thought. Evander wasn't like he'd remembered before the war. They'd talked at St Albans about their war service and family news, friends, who'd made it home and who hadn't, Maurice and Alec and their farm, Pendersleigh, etc etc, but Clive always said five times as much as Ev did, and was more lively. He'd looked at and touched Clive's wounds earlier, shedding a few silent tears and holding Clive very gently, stroking the back of his neck like comforting a poorly child.
The war had changed everyone, of course. Ev's body was still perfect, but what hurt did he hide? Clive was being open about his wishes, both for sharing and their life in general. He'd suggested coming to the hotel, dammit. What did Ev want? He was quiet, hadn't teased or joked, wasn't flirty like before, didn't show or teach Clive interesting things. It felt like they hadn't properly connected since that feverish kiss in the greenhouse several weeks earlier.
Clive knew it had partly to do with Ev needing a job, he seemed half of himself when not striding about an estate, measuring and fixing and planning things. Clive imagined him working in the field hospitals. The nurses were probably wild about him, his tall, strong body, golden skin, blond hair and gentle manners. Had he had lovers? Probably a relief arrangement, like himself: it didn't seem that Ev had fallen out of love with Clive, just behind thick glass with everyone. Clive wouldn't ask him about fidelity, it was unfair - their longed for future together had started on November 11 when the guns fell silent. A fresh start, he hoped.
-----
They asked servicemen in the lobby about where was good to hear jazz, and were invited by a group to go to Betty's, a smoky dive bar in a basement nearby. Black musicians played the new music, a restless, jumpy sound which reflected the energy of everyone swarming back into London, milling about, trying to go back to normal life, except normal life from before the war didn't exist. Before, Clive and Ev would have stood out as very suspicious companions, Clive so clearly gentry, Ev lower middle class. Now it mattered much less. Everyone could say they were 'thrown together' with anyone by the war, strong friendships between men were the norm. They noticed that two of the group of men around the table seemed to have a subtle understanding beyond friendship, which the others didn't seem to register - Evander moved seats and introduced themselves.
"Evander Barton. This is Clive Durham. How do you two know each other?" A loaded question of course, intended to be taken as such, if he was right.
"Johnny and Teddy." He only gave first names, which hinted at concealment. "We met on a troop ship to Turkey." Vague, didn't elaborate on which regiment, campaign or camp - Ev knew he was right about them, bought them drinks. They were good company, ardent jazz enthusiasts, talked about how they'd like to go to America to see the big bands, whether the famous jazzmen might come to London soon. Where the music came from, how they knew little about Black people and their culture, but wanted to know more.
Soon people were dancing. No one danced with partners, which seemed strange and new, but somehow freeing. Everyone going crazy from the freedom, the music, the drink, but mainly from having somehow cheated death.
"Go on, have a dance, I'll stay here with Clive, he's wounded." Clive's expression changed instantly.
"Fuck off, just fuck off Ev! I'm not on the scrapheap! Fuck you! I'm so sick of your pitying shit! I'll do what I want! Leave me alone!" Clive was furious, got up, red in the face, he'd never shouted or used such language before the war, nor ever argued with Evander. Their new acquaintances smoothed it over, said he should try to dance, they could all stay close by and help if he got unsteady. Ev, pale, shocked, silent, excused himself to get some air. Then realised too late that rushing out in an emotional state would make it obvious to the whole table that Clive's outburst wasn't a normal soldier rant between pals - the wounded man and his quiet companion were more than friends.
He walked back to the hotel, downed a triple scotch in the bar, and went to go upstairs. In the elevator, a good looking navy rating shot him a look, their hands touched as they both tried to close the folding metal gate. His groin twitched, and he nearly spoke. No, he wouldn't be weak and petty like that, sneak about, have a quick fuck with some sailor out of spite and then be trying not to act smug when Clive got back, so he would knew something had gone on. Assuming he did come back tonight, of course.
Upstairs, he stripped naked and washed his face, staring at himself in the mirror. He could hear a couple making sexual noises in the next room, they must be leaning on the wall, kissing. His heart sank and he sat on the bed, head in his hands. A key in the lock and Clive came in, walking without his cane, head held high, defiantly.
They looked at each other, very angry and gentle at once. Then Ev snapped - rushed him, shoved him against the door and kissed him hard, almost violently, pushing his tongue as far as he could into Clive's mouth, grabbing clumps of his hair. Conflicting emotions flooded him - why did Clive want rough handling, after all he'd been through? But he did, and Ev had to trust that. He was also actually livid about being shouted at, embarrassed and exposed in the club, and the anger made his dick hard.
Clive's hands roamed frantically over his lover's naked body as they kissed, and Ev paused a second, caught a breath, relishing the unusual imbalance of Clive's sober suit versus his own nudity and blatant erection, before tearing at his lover's clothes, yanking off his jacket, pulling at the intrusive fabric, ripping off a shirt button, breaking a cufflink. He bashed Clive's bad arm against the door by accident, gasped in horror, but his lover didn't care one jot, groping Ev's smooth buttock with his good hand, and offering his neck to kiss and bite.
Both naked now, Ev turned Clive round and pushed his good arm up behind his back and his face against the door. Clive took in a loud breath and leaned his head back, trying to touch his cheek to Ev's, dark hair against blond, but denied, instead he was shoved harder into the door, then turned to the side, his head pushed submissively forward, and firmly manhandled into the bathroom. Ev wanted to tell him he was dirty, must be washed, but remembered he'd been asked not to talk. Clive's wishes were paramount, despite appearances. Shunted forward, forehead against the cold tiles, Clive waited, arms by his sides, blood rushing to his groin, panting, as he heard his lover turn on the hot water and steam filled the room. The couple in the next room were clearly audible now, the bed squeaking and banging on the wall, rhythmic cries and grunts. Clive had never overheard other people like this before, it turned him on a great deal - his penis harded and made him feel bolder.
Cracking the lid off a tin, Ev scooped up coconut hair pomade with his fingers. The sweet scent threw Clive back to their sharing before the war, made him break into a sweat - he breathed it in and thought he would develop a fetish for coconut at this rate. The pure, natural oil was hard in the tin, but would quickly turn liquid when warm. He felt Ev take firm hold of him round the waist, kiss his neck, pull him back and press a handful of the solid, waxy balm into him, revelled in the most sensuous new feeling as it melted and spread, and a little dripped down his thighs. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep it in.
Ev now grabbed him hard by the shoulders, propelling him irresistibly into the shower, under the torrential stream of hot water, and he felt the familiar, much missed crook of his arm around his neck, the hand gripping his shoulder tight.
Ev's body was right behind him, holding him up, braced on the wall, no chance of them slipping or falling. Clive gripped the pipework with his good hand, felt an oiled hand slide firm round his hip, reach and take hold of his cock. This was it, what he'd dreamed of, in the filth of the trenches, pulling bodies out of shell holes, soaked in mud and freezing cold for weeks, in pain and terrified. Having to lead his men to do things he didn't believe in, that would end in their deaths. Determined to live one day, one hour nearer to being back here, under a torrent of hot water with this beautiful man, taken, sexual, free.
Evander hyperventilating into his neck, Clive closed his eyes and felt Ev's hard, beautiful cock sliding between his well oiled buttocks, teasing, denying, the head breaching him a little then withdrawing. Clive felt a hunger, a thirst, a lack, like the time he'd first had Ev's (anyone's) tongue in his mouth. Ev gripped his shoulder harder as a signal, lined up, and slid purposefully and firmly inside him, no hesitation, sending a severe mental and physical shockwave through Clive - he thought he would come and faint at the same time. Ev was very still, breathing on his shoulder, slowly palming his dick, letting him adjust and absorb the sensation. Clive had expected pain, but there was none, only a fierce, exquisite new pleasure - he moaned, pushed back, turned his head, and feeling Ev's tongue probing between his lips, opened his mouth to him. Ev began to fuck him very slowly, moving his tongue and jerking his cock in perfect synchrony, soon drawing out sounds he was unable to stifle. How was this even possible, taken from three directions at once, pushed, gripped, held, beaten by hot water, possessed, loved?
He didn't move his body, let Ev do everything, have his way with him. Letting go and being done to, his only responsibility to have his mind and body fully attuned, ready to come. He groaned loudly and sharply at every thrust, encouraging his lover without words. Ev obviously remembered about taking him hard, now speeding up, ramping up the pressure, banging him thoroughly, giving no quarter. Clive had seen Ev and Anne taking it from him of course, but hadn't imagined the emotional side of it, so different receiving than giving, an opening up, an inhabiting, a vulnerability, he now knew his dream was so right - he needed this so badly.
Ev himself, almost delerious, no longer worrying about hurting Clive, just wanting to give him everything he needed, work him over to the nth degree. His own pleasure fierce, but secondary, reading Clive's sounds and responses, when he wanted more, harder, when he was near to coming. One day he'd toy with Clive like this, edge him and make him beg, but not today. This was about trust, reconnecting, body and soul, fucking the hurt of being parted out of both of them, giving Clive the first time he wanted, on his terms, just as in his dream.
Pliant, yielding, satiated, Clive came hard and slumped forward, Ev supporting him safely, taking all his powers of concentration and physical strength to keep Clive from slipping over while coming himself, driving it home, forcing Clive to physically know to whom he belonged. This was what Clive had craved, not fussing or pampering, but collision, melding, respect for his still vibrant body and mind.
They separated, rinsed, turned and then kissed, held each other, trembled and laughed a little. This was their old connection, the force that took hold of them that first day at the Lodge, now they leant on each other with relief and gladness, the warm water battering their faces. They heard the couple next door climaxing loudly, giggled and grinned at each other, feeling glad for them, fellow survivors and thrivers.
"I think they were listening to us too!" Ev mischievous now.
"Oh heck, I hope not! Was I loud?"
"Oh, not really" Ev lied. He'd been as quiet as he could so it didn't sound like two men, all the while taking pride in the racket he was causing Clive to make.
Ev supported him carefully as they stepped from the shower, mindful of the half tin of balm they'd just washed off. "Dry my hair please, Clive." said imperiously with a smirking glance, still a little bossy, just for fun.
Clive rejoiced that Ev's humour and sass were coming back. They dried each other and got into bed. Embracing and kissing softly, things felt completely different between them, not so much that Clive had got done at last, but that the trust, the respect, the equality was back, the lust, uncontaminated by pity and fear, the humour.
"You taught me something new again" They laughed.
"They say teaching is the best way to learn and improve." More mirth.
"Sorry I shouted at you."
"Sorry I underestimated and patronised you." He paused. "Do you still want me to come and manage Pendersleigh estate? Pippa's offered me my old job back, so I fully intend to play you off against your sister" He smirked and Clive poked his ribs.
"Yes I do. But not on a salary. As an equal, like Alec. Let's talk about it tomorrow."
Jazz music could be heard from somewhere nearby. They kissed and slept.