A/N I can't make this any better (I wish I could) since I'm no good with dialogue, and I didn't do my research, not like Shaara. My attempt of capturing those beautiful characters (particularly Longstreet; he's so great) just shrinks in comparison with the original story, so if you REALLY want to see why Longstreet and Fremantle are so great, just re-read their parts of the book. I'm sure it was all intended platonically, but this is just to hold myself over, when I feel there's something more there.
Longstreet settled himself into a wooden chair at the long table. The men respectfully followed him into their owns seats. One whiskey, he said, he'd drink. But he soon took a second as he became wrapped in warmth and smiles. He had to remind himself he was still their superior General, and keep at least most his senses about him. So two whiskeys. For now.
One of Lee's aides, Clarke, tipped his hat in greeting, "Now that you're here, General, I gotta tell you what I was telling the boys. Fremantle had been convinced that you were English, like him."
"What do you expect me to think of that?" said Longstreet, not entirely bored with the topic. Most people already knew that he was Dutch. To his continued chagrin, the poor colonel was out of the loop.
Fremantle broke his almost perpetual smile. His movements and expression were much more exaggerated than the rest, very tipsy. But he was one of the fortunate few who would not punish the army with a hangover. "Well, excuse my conjecture! It should be an honour that I mistook him for one of Britain's own. I mean nothing against the….Dutch, was it? Of course. Excuse me." No one had heard him burp. "It's amazing how composed he is. Only speaks when he absolutely must, drinks like a true gentleman." He gestured to Longstreet's largely untouched cup. To this Longstreet didn't agree, himself. He shouldn't have been drinking at all. "I must say, I've only been acquainted with one other person with as much class as our dear General! She was a woman I met in…"
"Woman?" All laughed. They meant no harm, and hardly anyone would remember how Fremantle's already flushed face reddened in the blithe uproar. Mostly shadowed in the firelight, Longstreet grinned wildly at the colonel, who had turned to his cup and did not notice. The simile of the General with an Englishwoman became a running gag for the rest of the gathering. Fremantle spoke little from then on, focusing on further intoxicating himself.
Pickett happily maintained peak control over the table talk until the campfire began to burn low and everyone agreed to withdraw for the night. It was a long day tomorrow; they couldn't forget that.
Longstreet gave farewell hugs to Armistead and Garnett. In their reverie he didn't behave like it was a "farewell", but they all knew it was. By the end the evening, only two and a half cups proved to be all he took. Fremantle had a point, there….
Speak of the devil. Fremantle appeared in front of them, having not resigned to his bed quite yet.
"Fancy you still being here!" he said, not aware of how ridiculous he sounded. "I imagine you still need to sleep, just like the rest. I'm not tired. I feel very alive! You know, I still stand by you having such class. Those men were very silly not to think so." He spoke quickly. "You're the most admirable here… maybe not so much as Lee, but he is hard to best. How are you, sir? Still very handsome, I see."
"Still? Well, I am old. It's been ten years since Louise called me that," said Longstreet, having to push back his memories of the last winter. He wished only to enjoy himself tonight, and the alcohol helped with that.
"Pray, is this Louise your wife?" He waited for Longstreet to nod. "I am sorry to hear that! I mean." He dipped his head. "I'm not sorry that you're married. I simply regret that she fails to recognize… your good looks. Charms."
Longstreet laughed, even buried his face in his right hand. Had the Brit been flirting, this whole time? How ironic that it wasn't until they were both under the influence that he did realize this.
"Am I really that amusing? You always laugh around me." Fremantle sounded a little curious, if not hurt. Worry passed over his face, evident in moonlight. He sputtered, "I never mean to intrude. I don't, not at all!"
"You're not," replied Longstreet. Stupid, unnatural thoughts came into his mind. But he didn't shove them away, not like the other ones.
Fremantle said politely, "Tomorrow is going to be quite a big day, for us all. Glorious battle."
Grimly he replied, "There's going to be great losses."
"I'm very excited to see it, sir, and all your shrewd exploits." It was the passionate spectator again.
"It's not about the brains," he grumbled. It was then Fremantle seemed to remember their old conversation on the way to camp.
"I apologize," he said, looking uncertain. But Longstreet didn't mean to argue.
He put a hand on the gentleman's bony shoulder. He hoped it would do comfort. The colonel twitched at the touch.
The reaction could have been worse.
"Colonel… tomorrow the men are going to charge up that hill, and try to take it. Nine brigades. I don't think they'll make it. And don't argue with me on this one. Not tonight," he said sadly. "Everything's going to be different after tomorrow. So I think this is the only time we can be happy, you know, enjoy ourselves, you understand?"
He glanced at the large hand on his shoulder, then back to Longstreet. "I think I'm beginning to."
"My memory is very hazy, Colonel." He blamed the whisky. "What was your name?"
"Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle"
On their way to the tent, Fremantle fluidly explained to whomever they walked past that the General was going to show him some brilliant Rebel battle plans on the map in his lodgement. Longstreet was amazed he was so apt to give an alibi; he would have said nothing. But an alibi seemed to relax the gentleman.
They talked placidly about poker and songs, until they arrived: it was Fremantle's second time in the general's tent. He looked about, feverish and unbalanced. He smiled at Longstreet. "It must surprise you we both happened to have been given the brand James. An unlikely coincidence. I say, it only further demonstrates that we are not so different, you Dutchman and I Englishman." He found a chair and sat in it. "Pray sit beside me!" He tapped the only other chair in the tent, right beside his chosen one.
We're nothing alike, Longstreet thought. But he didn't like Fremantle because he was a bitter, scarred veteran. He took the seat. Fremantle was very drunk. He kept swinging forward and back, like a rocking chair. Longstreet was worried he'd had some seizure until he realized the colonel was going in for the kiss, to little avail.
That's not how you do it at all. He steadied the flailing romantic, considering his options. This wasn't something a married man should do, far away from his wife. And it wasn't something a general should indulge in, only hours before a battle. But everything was out of his control now: his corps, his orders, and his own heart.
What the hell. He returned Fremantle's attempts in a firm but wet kiss. After a moment Fremantle ventured with his own tongue, and they locked in drunken fervor. He tasted good and clean, clashing with all the fear and anxiety in his own self. At least he wasn't jeopardizing a relationship professional and on the battlefield.
"General, I should hope no superior has qualms with you lying with a tourist," Fremantle panted, breaking from the kiss. "Or mine own with a Confederate… If that is what we are about to do."
"Now you need to be quiet; I don't want to wake up any of the soldiers," he said. "Or make news of a general sleeping with a guest. Do I make myself clear?"
Fremantle gaped as he often did whenever Longstreet turned blunt. Then, mouth closed, he nodded.
He took the bewildered Fremantle's hand and, with a lord's grace, guided him to the other side of the tent. The wondering look bemused Longstreet, and he briefly wondered if this would be the man's first time. For his sake, I hope not. The flasks of alcohol were dissipating from his mind, and he critically regarded the situation. No going back now.
"Now I think, Colonel, I might show you our battle scheme."
Very unlike the gentleman he was made out to be, he shoved the colonel to his knees. Fremantle held to his promised silence, and did not resist as Longstreet lay him flat against the low planning table. Good. Tonight, if not any other night, he was to enjoy himself.
Quills and model pieces scattered off of the table as he adjusted himself over the prostrate gentleman. He often had to lean over this table, but for reasons more orthodox. He snapped down both their breeches, and from below he heard Fremantle gasp. Oh, what'd he expect?
He frisked for Fremantle's entrance and made it slick with lubricant before pushing himself in. That didn't stop him from making sounds of distress immediately on entry, and Longstreet had to pull himself out with a heavy sigh. It would not do with all these men about; the Englishman was too noisy. But God he ached for release. So he leaned over to Fremantle's ear. "Can't you try and be a little more quiet?" he said frustratedly.
The face with faltering dignity looked him in the eye and shook its head.
"Well." He frowned. "I'm going to have to muzzle you, if that's alright."
"That… that's fine," he replied. No sooner than he'd said fine his mouth was bound.
Once again Longstreet went inside him, and Fremantle tried his best to keep his whines within the cloth. Longstreet did not blame his difficulty; he was a war horse in more ways than one. But of course it was Fremantle whom he was riding. If time and places could be different, maybe they could have tried the other way around. The Englishman was fairly young, fourteen years his junior if he could remember anything.
On closer inspection, Fremantle had a very nice body for such a dandy. The huffing Longstreet couldn't help but lift some of the genteel shirts from his body, revealing a smooth and muscular back. He thrust faster.
He was so captivated by the English anatomy he had Fremantle very gratuitously nude once he ejaculated, followed by one final jerk from Longstreet and some last several rocks from Fremantle. When Fremantle was certain they were done, he removed his own gag and regarded the dark and fuzzy Longstreet with more wonder than he could possibly contain.
Fremantle explicitly announced his gratitude, wherever it came from. "It has been…. an honour, quite and honour to have laid with you…." After several tries he re-buckled his pants. "...James. General." He corrected himself. In what little Longstreet saw from the two candles, Fremantle was blushing terrifically. "I'm actually very tired now and…"
Before he let him go scurrying from the tent, Longstreet chuckled through his beard, "You forgot your shirt, Colonel."
"Oh." He blushed again. "I'm very drunk." Longstreet laughed in agreement.
"And…. I don't think there's anything honorable with what I just did to you."
"I would firmly disagree, sir…." Longstreet raised a hand.
"If there's any decency left in me, I think I ought to return the favor. Arthur."
Fremantle looked like he wanted to say something, but his lips formed a line and he blinked in all modesty. Almost a minute, it seemed, passed that way. Longstreet didn't know why that set him more speechless than any other thing, but he liked it.
It was such a funny thing to do. The colonel was right: they should be sleeping. But whenever he thought of that an infallible guilt ate at him. But being with Fremantle… things felt so easy. He invited him over to the cot, and Longstreet knew he wouldn't turn him down. He'd seen the erection knock repeatedly into the table as he was being wracked. It was a fond memory.
Longstreet reclined onto the cot and looked up at Fremantle. He was hesitating and said diffidently, "I am astounded by the offer, you should know."
"I know. Come here." He waved his fingers encouragingly, and soon Fremantle followed down next to him. He was a little light, being thinner and an inch shorter than Longstreet: the colonel was pulled into his lap.
"Um." He awkwardly leaned against a bed-stand, trying not to effeminately wrap his bare torso around the Confederate. Longstreet was indeed exhausted, so he did not wait for Fremantle to adjust himself, and reached for the upright member.
"Oh." was Fremantle's second expletive. Longstreet stroked him vigorously, and the colonel hugged him close. "James, sir, James." He was probably falling asleep as he said it, which was fine by James Longstreet. When his hand was wet and coated by the climaxing Fremantle, he let himself close his eyes and doze off, without a worry.
A/N Wow, they were so worried about getting caught and they just fell asleep like that? Well this fic is fucking stupid. Anyways, hope you enjoyed. I know I did.