Chapter Text
They were in Hundreds the first time they got drunk together. Ellwood was fifteen, and Gaunt sixteen. Pritchard had somehow - “at great personal cost” he told them darkly - convinced his brother to give him five bottles of cheap whisky. They locked themselves in the bathroom at the top of Cemetery House: Roseveare, Pritchard, West, Gaunt, and Ellwood. Ellwood had insisted on buying his bottle off of Pritchard, even though Pritchard had snorted loudly and practically forced the money back into his palm. But Ellwood had heard enough whispers about himself at Preshute to know how hard he had to work simply to prove he deserved a place there. He would not be seen as a scrounger.
West spat his first mouthful into the sink, and Pritchard laughed. West was a strapping boy from the Rugger first XI. Ellwood was sure he would have been excellent in the ring if he wasn’t too afraid of meeting Gaunt there.
“Christ alive, that’s abominable stuff,” West said. His tie was crooked. It always was, no matter how many times he was punished for sloppiness.
“Keep drinking,” advised Roseveare, from his lazy position on the floor. Ellwood saw Gaunt take a drink from his bottle out of the corner of his eye before lowering it with a strange expression on his face, his eyes locked on Roseveare all the while.
Ellwood turned away and took a swig of his own whisky. He turned the bottle over in his hands, trying not to wince. In small letters on the label, it read ‘45% proof’.
Ellwood’s poetry was coming along fine, especially now that the War was underway and his head was filled with images of knights on horseback and banners waving, but he’d always felt it was missing something. All the best poets had lived lives of debauchery and scandal. There was only so much of that available at Preshute.
“I quite like it,” he said mildly, trying to hide the burn at the back of his throat. “Perhaps I shall develop a habit. I think Byron had a habit.”
“So do monks,” said Gaunt. Ellwood heard the warm crease in his voice, and looked up to find the shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“That was nearly funny, Gaunt,” came Roseveare’s crisp voice from down on the floor. “You’ll get there.”
A cloud passed over Gaunt’s face, so subtle that Ellwood knew no one else would notice it. Gaunt took a great gulp of whisky and climbed into the bath.
“Lord Byron was a sodomite,” said West. His eyes were filled with awe as he looked around at them all from his perch on the toilet, like some kind of impish, overgrown prophet. The effect was ruined somewhat by the fact that Pritchard’s knees were bracketing his ears. “My father told me. Said he ought to have been shot.”
“Your father thinks everyone should be shot,” said Roseveare. Ellwood snorted loudly.
“Not everyone,” protested West.
“Well, let’s see,” said Pritchard, counting on his fingers. “There are the homosexuals, the Catholics, the Irish, and anyone who doesn’t like dogs.”
“You’ve forgotten the poor,” said Ellwood, grinning at Pritchard as he clambered into the bath with Gaunt. “The Great Unwashed.” He settled himself between Gaunt’s legs and sat facing him.
“Oh, and the Jews, of course,” added Pritchard. “Can’t leave them out. Bad luck, Ellwood.”
Ellwood looked at him serenely. “I’m Church of England.”
Pritchard winked at him before ruffling West’s hair aggressively. “What do you say, West? Does conversion cut it with the squire?”
“Look-” West said, shoving Pritchard off.
Pritchard wobbled precariously on the cistern. “Are you circumcised, Ellwood?” he asked loudly, scrabbling at West's head for purchase.
Ellwood could feel Gaunt’s gaze burning through him from the other end of the bath. He smiled and raised the bottle to his lips. “Shall we have West’s father check?” he said lightly.
“He isn’t,” came Roseveare’s voice from over the edge of the tub. “Not that it will matter, West’s father is very definite. ‘Fraid it’s death for poor old Ellwood.”
“Now-” said West.
“Alas,” interrupted Ellwood, a warm euphoria rolling through him all of a sudden. He stretched back in the tub and pushed his feet towards Gaunt. “And there was so much I wanted to do! Still - what’s that Euripedes quotation I’m thinking of, Gaunt - about death?”
“βροτοῖς ἅπασι κατθανεῖν ὀφείλεται,” came Gaunt’s voice.
“That’s right. ‘Death is a debt which every one of us must pay.’ If I’m to die tragically young, I suppose it may as well be for West’s father.”
“All right, all right,” said West, “I never said I agreed with him.” He rested his chin on Pritchard’s knee in order to get a better view of Ellwood where he was now slumped in the bath.
“No, really, don’t let me dissuade you,” said Ellwood, peering over the rim. “A bit of blood-letting is just what this country needs. I’m with your father. Slaughter everyone, why not?”
“Stop winding up poor West,” said Pritchard, stifling a laugh. “He hasn’t the brains for it.”
“I have plenty of brains!” said West, indignantly turning to bat Pritchard on the leg.
Ellwood grinned to himself. “By the way, Pritchard, just what did you have to do for your brother to procure us such excellent drink?”
“It’s unspeakable,” said Pritchard, shaking his head. “Suffice to say, you all owe me some tuck.”
Gaunt chuckled quietly at the other end of the bath.
“Pritchard Major made him lick his shoes in front of the Upper Sixth,” said West, his prophet voice returning. Pritchard immediately yanked his hair. “Ouch, lay off!”
“I told you that in confidence!”
Ellwood sat up in the bath, his euphoria spiking. “Did you really lick his shoes?” he asked gleefully. “Which ones?” Gaunt was shaking with silent laughter; he could feel it, because their legs were touching.
“What do you mean, which ones? Why should that make a difference?”
“No, that’s fair,” said West sagely. “I wouldn’t mind nibbling on a shoelace if it was from someone’s Sunday best.”
“It’s important to have standards,” agreed Roseveare.
“Right. Give me back my whisky. I shall find more grateful recipients.”
Ellwood pressed his leg harder against Gaunt’s and grinned at him. Gaunt leant his cheek against the cool porcelain of the bath and smiled back.
Two hours later, Gaunt had barely spoken, but Ellwood was completely sozzled. He was getting a headache; the lights in the room were hazy and much too bright. With some effort, he sat up and turned himself around in the bath to get the glare out of his eyes. That was why he turned around: to get the glare out of his eyes.
He leant back against Gaunt’s chest.
Behind him, Gaunt took a deep breath and clutched his whisky tightly. Slowly, inconspicuously, Ellwood lifted his hand and rested it on Gaunt’s thigh.
Gaunt didn’t move, or shove him off.
Ellwood breathed out, and took another sip of whisky. His bottle was half gone. It tasted better now that the burning sensation had turned numb.
“I had a second cousin on the Titanic,” said Roseveare suddenly. It was 1913, and the Titanic was the subject of frequent and fascinated discussion. Roseveare and Pritchard lay on the floor. West had perched himself cheerfully on the sink before falling in almost immediately, and then committing all his energy towards whistling ‘The Blue Danube’ rather than getting himself out. Ellwood couldn’t remember a time when West hadn’t been whistling ‘The Blue Danube’. He looked over and saw Pritchard smiling as he toyed with the ankle of West’s trousers.
Gaunt was utterly still behind him. There was a loose thread of cotton on his trousers, near Ellwood’s finger. Gaunt was always immaculately dressed, his tailoring elegant despite his bulky frame. Ellwood smiled at the little thread, and a thousand thoughts ticked over in his mind.
He hadn’t been in such close contact with Gaunt for weeks. He knew because he always wrote it down, and he had been coping just fine, tended to indulgently by John Maitland. Maitland was one of the upper form boys who had taken Ellwood under his wing soon after he’d arrived in Shell, and Ellwood, knowing as he did the fate suffered by many boys at boarding school, had made sure he was very clever about what Maitland’s guidance could afford him. Lots of boys were siphoned off by athletes from the upper forms, though not always for the same reasons, he had lately learned: only the week before, Sandys had hauled Gaunt inside his study and beat him. Gaunt had appeared wordlessly at supper, tucking into his bread roll as if there wasn’t an egg-sized bruise forming on the right side of his forehead.
The fact that Maitland had turned out to be a gentleman through and through was a rarity not lost on Ellwood, and just as he reached forward to pinch the rogue thread of cotton on Gaunt’s trousers, two things happened in quick succession: he remembered that Maitland would be leaving Preshute at the end of that year, and Gaunt shifted tensely away from him in the bath.
All the lights in the bathroom seemed to dim. Ellwood let his head loll back, onto Gaunt’s shoulder.
“What?” Gaunt asked straight away.
“What do you mean, ‘What’?” Ellwood replied, a thrill cutting through his sadness.
“You just went all cloudy and glum.”
Ellwood waited to see if his heart would stop racing before answering.
“It’s Maitland,” he said. “You know he’s leaving at the end of the year.” He wasn’t surprised at how easily the lie came to him; he’d had plenty of practice. Besides, it wasn’t completely untrue. Maitland was leaving at the end of the year, and his special friendship with Ellwood would come to an end. Ellwood would miss his company, but moreso his kindness.
Behind him, Gaunt said nothing.
“I’m very fond of him,” added Ellwood.
Pritchard and Roseveare were still discussing the Titanic.
“I should be ashamed to survive something like that,” said Pritchard.
“It does seem unmanly,” said Roseveare.
“Just…” continued Ellwood, wondering whether he would regret speaking come the morning, “... not the way I’m fond of…”
He waited to see if Gaunt would speak.
“My sister?”
There it was. Ellwood laughed nastily, feeling nauseous all of a sudden.
“Yes, Gaunt,” he sighed. “Your sister.”
Roseveare sat up abruptly and peered at them over the edge of the tub.
“You two look awfully cosy.”
Immediately, Gaunt forced Ellwood forwards, but there was no fight in it. Gaunt was strong as an ox; if he’d wanted to dump Ellwood over the side of the bath, he could have done it easily. Ellwood realised distantly that he should probably care more about sitting in such an incriminating position in the company of their friends, but he didn’t. He relaxed his body weight back into Gaunt’s.
“Don’t embarrass him, Roseveare,” said Ellwood, his voice surprisingly easy, “or he won’t be my cushion anymore.”
Roseveare laughed brightly. “Only you would use Gaunt as a cushion.”
Ellwood breathed out, but he felt Gaunt tense behind him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Gaunt, his hands balling into fists. Ellwood was tempted to curl his own hands over them.
“Only that you’d punch the living daylights out of anyone else who tried it,” said Roseveare.
“I’ll punch you if you don’t stop sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted,” said Gaunt.
Ellwood shushed him, laughing, and Gaunt unclenched his hands. His head felt rather fuzzy.
In his most indulgent moments, when walking the fields behind Cemetery House or writing poetry, Ellwood allowed his mind to wander to the years beyond school. What would it be like? He would be married to Maud, he knew that. They would live at Thornycroft, and Gaunt would visit every weekend. Maud would go out with her girlfriends, shopping for ribbons or new muslin, and he and Gaunt would take brisk walks down the country lanes and through the woods behind the estate. Perhaps they might go to the theatre, or take a trip somewhere together. They were already due to go to Munich that summer, to stay with Gaunt’s cousins there. Ellwood pictured them strolling the clean countryside and wondered what it would be like to hold Gaunt’s hand, just as he would one day hold Maud’s. How would it feel to go out to dinner, or into town? Would Gaunt’s hand feel different to Maud’s when it was in his, not simply because it was larger or more muscular, but for another reason entirely?
Ellwood pictured a camping trip, a tent shared, a room and board at a wayside inn. He and Gaunt, laying in bed together each night. He could feel it vividly, Gaunt’s warm body under his. It filled him with desperate longing, but also a quiet rightness, a feeling of safety and contentment.
And then his mind filled with images of sneers and scuffling feet, of faces pressed sharply into gravel.
Only that you’d punch the living daylights out of anyone else who tried it.
Ellwood smiled to himself. Gaunt was strong. He would protect Ellwood; Ellwood was sure of it. But sometimes, when Gaunt would look at him, there was something delicate beneath all the strength.
Ellwood wanted to protect Gaunt, too.
“What are you two discussing, anyway?” asked Roseveare, and Ellwood’s eyes snapped open.
“Girls,” he said quickly.
“Hmm. Carry on,” said Roseveare, dropping back to his elbows.
“Say you were on a sinking ship,” said Pritchard, as if Roseveare had never left. “Wouldn’t you rather drown than live, knowing you’d been a slimy little coward?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Roseveare. “Anyone would.”
“I wonder how the girls were, as the ship went down,” said Pritchard.
“Quite desperate for comfort, I expect,” said Roseveare. Pritchard gave a lecherous sort of laugh that Ellwood hadn’t heard from him before.
Lost in a daze, he felt Gaunt lean close until his hot breath wisped against Ellwood’s ear.
“I’m sure Maitland feels the same way,” Gaunt breathed. “You’re just passing the time until you can marry Maud, aren’t you?”
Maud. Ellwood blinked. Maitland. His thoughts were still on the trip to Munich, on Gaunt’s hand in his as they walked beneath sunny green trees.
Ellwood sighed. “Yes, I suppose so,” he said without really thinking. He turned and pressed his forehead into Gaunt’s neck. “I’m sorry, I know it makes you uncomfortable when I speak about him.”
Ellwood could feel Gaunt tensing underneath him again, and wondered how far he could push until Gaunt threw him off in disgust.
The other boys sometimes asked him about Gaunt, whether he had a sweetheart from the engagements they attended during the summer season. But Gaunt never seemed to join in any of the discussions about girls. He was much too respectful, much too conventional. Even when his German cousins, Ernst and Otto, had sent letters about their summer trip, speaking excitedly of the May Festival and girls in dirndls, Gaunt had remained tight-lipped and polite as ever.
But whenever Ellwood mentioned his friendship with Maitland, a sort of cloud would ghost across Gaunt’s face.
“It doesn't make me uncomfortable,” said Gaunt.
“Yes it does,” said Ellwood, the euphoric warmth in his belly spiking inexplicably again. He turned to place one hand on Gaunt’s strong neck. “I can feel how tense you’ve gone just now. Like you’re waiting for me to hit you.”
“I don’t mind you making me uncomfortable, Elly,” Gaunt whispered.
Ellwood’s ears rang. Gaunt had been saying things like this more and more lately; phrases that seemed innocent but which seemed to chime with meaning when Ellwood was alone.
He turned his head on Gaunt’s shoulder to look up at him, his breath catching in his throat when he noticed how hungrily Gaunt was staring at him. Ellwood’s fingers twitched automatically around Gaunt’s thigh, and he forced himself not to close the small gap between their mouths.
“I just want…” said Gaunt, his eyes on Ellwood’s lips. Ellwood closed his eyes before he could do something utterly stupid, but his lips tingled with hope. “...to be your friend.”
Ellwood turned away, his euphoria snuffed out like a candle. “I’ve had too much to drink,” he croaked.
“Bed?” asked Gaunt, and tears spiked in Ellwood’s throat. He gave a dry huff of laughter.
“Propositioning me, Gaunt?” he joked hopelessly, raising himself out of the tub.
“Obviously not,” said Gaunt. Ellwood thought the words sounded strangled and strange, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t simply the drink.
“Obviously not,” he repeated absent-mindedly, clambering slowly out and trying not to tread on Pritchard as he went. “Cheero, boys. I’ve an appointment with some sleep I’ve been meaning to catch.”
They wouldn’t miss him enough to make a fuss. It was nearing midnight, and Roseveare’s bottle was half-empty, too. West was already asleep in the sink, his head snatching awake with frequent, melodic snores that sounded suspiciously like ‘The Blue Danube’.
Ellwood cast one look back as he closed the bathroom door. He could just make out the sandy top of Gaunt’s head over the rim of the tub.