AN – Guys, I want to thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter. I usually reply to reviews, but I couldn't find the time last update. Please know that I read every single one and they make me smile like a complete idiot.
Sorry that the update is so late in coming; I've been really busy. Quick note that this is where the M rating really comes into play. Maybe it will be worth the wait, ha. In any case, enjoy!
The weather warmed and the countryside blushed with spring. The war became a faraway idea, almost like a dream despite the steady flow of injured pilots and the hissing of the radio broadcasts day and night. Alfred improved steadily. He began to smile more often, to remark on how he wished he could fully appreciate the touches of color that spring lent to the hills. Arthur would smile sadly and let his hand linger on his shoulder. The countryside was a watercolor painting, he would tell him softly, swirled strokes of green and grey and then sudden matte explosions of pink and yellow. Alfred would sigh and reached up to squeeze his hand briefly, before the nurses could see.
Matthew had long since fully recovered, but he would not leave the infirmary without his brother, and Arthur dared not to complain. In fact, he would be lonely without the boy; he had begun to respect and love him as a dear friend. He saw no reason to send him away sooner than was necessary. The infirmary grew to be almost lively. At his suggestion, Francis had been installed as an assistant surgeon. He bemoaned the demotion and was ignored. Arthur knew how glad he was for the work.
But perhaps it was not only the work for which he was glad. Several times, as Arthur went from bedside to bedside jotting down notes or administering injections, he had caught Francis and Matthew talking at the counter, or just outside the door smoking cigarettes, or watching Alfred sleep with identical concerned expressions on their faces. He asked Matthew whether they had become friends and received a surprised look and a bashful nod in reply.
"He is an interesting man," murmured Matthew, running one hand through his hair. "He seems almost enchanted by the fact that I speak French."
Arthur chuckled. "That's Bonnefoy, for you. You'll have his trust all your life now that he knows you speak the language of…ah, les gens de France, oui?"
Matthew smiled gently. "I suppose. He certainly has some fascinating stories to tell. He has seen so much of war, more than I ever will. He has risked so much for his country, more than any soldier here. From what he's told me I can only assume that he must be very…" He paused. The tips of his ears turned faintly pink. "Passionate, that is, about certain things."
Arthur was unable to keep himself from smirking.
"He's a bastard," he replied easily. "But an admirable one, at that."
Matthew laughed softly. The tips of his ears were still blushing. "Is there such a thing?"
Arthur shrugged and balanced the tip of his pen between his lips. "Well, from what I've seen and overheard, mon cher Mathieu…" He outright grinned. "That seems to be up for you to discover."
And with that, he left Matthew gaping at the door to his office.
He was surprised to find Francis inside already, rifling through his old medical files and chewing on the end of an antique glass fountain pen. There was no need to ask the reason for his presence; Arthur merely set his clipboard down on his desk and went to his drink cabinet to mix two gin and tonics. Eventually Francis sighed and tucked the manila folder back into the filing cabinet.
"I cannot find the necessary data for that young man who has twisted up his spinal column," he sighed as he accepted the drink and swirled the ice about in the bottom of the glass. "In fact, how he even managed to achieve such an injury and survive is entirely beyond me. Arthur, my dear friend, I am rather far from fond of this menial labor." He gestured at the bookshelves and filing cabinets. "I do hope for a promotion soon."
Arthur snorted into his gin. "It's hardly menial labor, Francis," he replied. "And besides, it isn't as if the work were the only thing keeping you here."
Francis looked at him curiously. A smile was playing with the corners of his mouth.
"So you've noticed, then," he murmured after a moment. "You've done so rather quickly. I'm impressed."
Arthur took a long draw from his gin before he set the glass back down atop his desk. "Matthew is more obvious than you are. He seems to like you, Francis. I don't suppose you've…" He paused, not wanting to say it. Francis chuckled warmly.
"No. In fact, I haven't said anything to him at all." He smiled appreciatively at Arthur's surprised expression. "There is something different about him. I have trouble finding the right words. It requires more…planning, more finesse, when he is such a subdued and soft-spoken person. From what he has told me I can infer that he has a strong heart, and yet he does not feel the need to broadcast this. It fascinates me. He is…a challenge, to say the least."
Arthur gazed at him for a moment before he leaned back on the desk, tipping his head to look up at the ceiling. "I must say, Francis, I've never heard you talk about anyone exactly like this before."
Francis laughed dryly. "Nor have I. Seems that both Jones brothers are intriguing specimens."
"Matthew's last name is Williams," corrected Arthur with a smirk. "Don't ask me why; whenever I wonder aloud, they both look away and mumble some flimsy excuse such as it's complicated or you really wouldn't be interested. My best guess is that it must have something to do with the divorce of their parents."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well then, my dear King of Pedantry…" He winked. "Let's say that the family bloodline certainly seems to carry something enrapturing, non?"
Arthur smiled. "I'll drink to that. And to your good luck with young Williams." He raised a finger warningly. "Provided that you treat him seriously, that is."
Francis tipped back his glass. "I don't think I ever could do otherwise." He swallowed deeply. "And to you and young Jones," he added, and as an afterthought: "Whenever you move along, of course."
Arthur set his glass down sharply. "What's that supposed to mean, pray tell?"
Francis ducked his head but couldn't hide the grin that stretched around the rim of his glass. "It's only that he's nearly healthy again," he said innocently. "I would think that he'd be quite capable of getting up from bed, going for a walk, other…such activities…considering that he is constantly bouncing from the walls of this establishment, non?"
Arthur stared. "Other such activities? Surely you do not labor under the delusion that you are actually achieving subtlety, my dear friend." He drained his glass. Francis shrugged.
"I meant nothing by it," he replied. "Do not misunderstand me; it was little more than a suggestion."
Arthur snorted. "We've talked about it, but I haven't gotten to see him much. You know that. This war is waxing, Francis, to whatever end. We cannot tell what tomorrow may bring."
Francis snorted. "Now you're just…ah, waxing, if I may…philosophical in order to evade the matter at hand. Why don't you take him out for an afternoon, just to the countryside? The war is not going to climax in the span of several hours. In fact, it would probably benefit his health, as well as your own. I can see that you still miss him, even though he is returned." He paused. "You do love him, don't you?"
Arthur stopped trailing his finger along the rim of his empty glass. He frowned faintly. "I…well, to be honest, I haven't…I haven't been considering…that. Love. No, it…there hasn't been time. I've been so busy. Maybe I do. Love him, that is. I'm not sure. At any rate, I couldn't tell him even if I knew. Not enough time. A confession like that…well, there has to be some time. Time to…enjoy it, I suppose. Time to appreciate the moment. I mean…" He glanced up helpessly. "It's sodding love, Francis. Even if I were sure that I loved him, I wouldn't want to just drop by his bedside and tell him and then go back to work. I need time, time more than anything. Time." He trailed off wistfully. "I need the time to get to know him again."
Francis was quiet for a moment. "I could offer you a hand," he said eventually, "provided that you might trust me for a few hours."
Arthur frowned. "You're thinking of taking over the infirmary for an afternoon? What with the number of new arrivals that come in every day?"
Francis nodded. "You know I could do it."
Arthur's frown deepened. "Of course you can. It's rather a matter of personal pride for me, however."
"Two days," said Francis, leaning across the desk with a raise of his eyebrows. "In two days, let me have the infirmary for the afternoon. Like I said, the war won't climax in three hours. Take the Jones boy out to the countryside and let him get some sunshine and show him the nice flowers that grow out in the forest and hold hands and blush and giggle and perhaps bring some food and then let him fuck you senseless on a picnic blanket."
Arthur stared. "I never mentioned anything of the sort!"
Francis smirked and tapped him on the tip of the nose. "Why my dear, I thought it was only implied."
Arthur was somewhat reassured by Alfred's enthusiastic reaction to the idea. When the surprise had faded from his expression, he smiled more brightly than he had in weeks and a new light crackled into his eyes. Arthur was tempted to kiss him but a group of nurses was floating past; he only scarcely managed to resist the impulse, instead pressing one hand deep into his shoulder. The way Alfred looked at him spoke volumes. There was no need for more words.
Arthur was nothing if not clumsy with romantic gestures. In fact, he had so little experience with such things that he hardly had any idea of how to execute them at all, let alone successfully. He had spent most of his life dedicated to his work and had never needed to know how to arrange a bouquet of roses or buy good champagne or pack a picnic basket, after all. He began to fervently wish that Alfred were in his place. The boy had the good luck to possess genuine charm, an ease of self-expression, however bumbling. Arthur had no such ability. He began to agonize over every detail.
But then the morning of the next day arrived, and he crept into the infirmary, and Alfred was already awake, waiting for him. There was a tattered old copy of Vanity Fair spread on his lap, but he had tilted his head towards the ceiling rather than read. His eyes were tracing the cracks that jutted through the plaster. The other patients were still asleep and the soft sound of their breathing filled the air. The early morning sun drew gentle golden patterns on the floor, across the mattresses, light pooling in the sheets and trickling into puddles by the feet of the beds.
"Get dressed," said Arthur crisply. He had left his medical coat behind in his office and was wearing plain pressed trousers and a wool sweater, just enough to keep away the chill that saturated the early morning air. Alfred blinked and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood carefully. It vaguely pained Arthur to see the hesitant way with which he carried himself, as if on the point of folding over at any moment. There had been this same uncharacteristic uncertainty to his movements since the accident. It struck an unpleasant juxtaposition with the reckless boy he had been not months ago.
Alfred carefully slid on his glasses and accepted the clothes Arthur had brought him: military trousers nicked from Francis, and a white undershirt. He felt heat rush to his ears and stumbled to explain that he couldn't find anything nicer because he hadn't known the proper measurements. Alfred just smiled and stepped out of his hospital gown. Arthur flushed and looked away, though he felt extremely foolish immediately afterwards, all things considered. When had they become so unacquainted?
Alfred plucked his dog tags from his collar and ran one hand through his hair. He was grinning when Arthur turned to face him again, sucking on his lower lip.
"Alright, then," he said when the silence stretched on. "Ah, shall we?"
Alfred's grin only stretched. Arthur frowned. He could tell when he was being made fun of.
"Do shut up," he growled. "And come along."
Morning spilled over the horizon like a broken egg yolk, a flood of brilliant yellow that bathed the countryside as if it were a green china plate. The air was unseasonably mild and tasted like passing rain showers. Dew clung to the grass but, the road was dry and Arthur and Alfred immediately fell into an easy rhythm. One foot forwards, then the next, repeat, enough to get the blood pumping but not so much that they might miss the scenery. For the time being they didn't speak; Alfred was smiling blissfully and Arthur was struggling not to reflect the expression. At some point their hands intertwined, broke apart again, clung to each other by the index finger or the thumb. The sunlight gradually strengthened; the day was almost warm.
The infirmary had long been lost in the green velvet folds of the hills when Alfred turned and gave Arthur a curious smile with misted-over blue eyes like the sky on a cloudy day.
"Tell me, Arthur," he said softly, "what are the colors like? I always wanted to know."
Arthur felt a lump rise in his throat. Without thinking, he reached out and gripped Alfred's hand fiercely, pressing his thumb deep into the soft spot at the center of the palm.
"You can see that it's a beautiful day, of course," he said quietly. He feared that if he spoke too loudly his voice would shred and tear and flutter away in the breeze pockmarked and bruised. "Where would you like me to begin?"
Alfred briefly ran his thumb over Arthur's knuckles. "The sky, please, and then go down from there."
Arthur swallowed hard. "Of course." He paused, composing himself. "The blue is…it's like the saucers in that tea set that I liked so much, the one the nurses gave me for Christmas, do you recall?" Alfred nodded and Arthur bit down on his lower lip. "You know the color after it's just rained and everything is clear and saturated?" he continued. "Today the sky is almost like that, but softer. It's not as oppressive. It's somewhat…" He looked at his feet. "It's like your eyes."
Alfred beamed and dropped an easy kiss on his temple, just like that, as if it were nothing at all. Arthur felt his heart stammer. Alfred squeezed his hand.
"The countryside," continued Arthur, looking for a distraction. "It is unusually green. It strikes a laughable juxtaposition with the current situation, actually. Makes me wonder if this will be the year when the war finally comes to a close, or if it's just another spring. But it will give to a grey winter no matter what, I suppose." He paused. "Oh dear, you asked about colors and here I am waxing symbolic. Come along then, let's continue. It is the color of…oh, that canvas uniform the British officials tote around sometimes like they're something bloody special." Alfred chuckled and Arthur sighed, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Almost exactly that, if not a little lighter, more natural," he added. "At this distance the grass really looks like cloth, though."
"I can see that much," laughed Alfred, and Arthur colored brilliantly.
"Do forgive me, then!" he spluttered, dropping his hand in shame. "My fault for trying to help out. Give me some pointers or something next time, alright?"
Alfred immediately sobered. Suddenly there was an arm winding around Arthur's waist and fingers catching in his collar and then he was being kissed, gently but thoroughly, with the taste of the sun on his lips. Alfred pulled away and touched his cheek.
"Thank you," he murmured. "Please don't worry about it. Keep going."
Arthur breathed again and allowed his hand to be held. They were nearing the end of the paved road. Soon they would break into the winding trails that stitched tapestries of mud and dust through the countryside. The trees began to grow thicker; Arthur hoped to stumble upon a secluded clearing or meadow and take their lunch there. Privacy was imperative, though the idea brought heat to his ears.
"There are wildflowers," he observed at one point as they turned onto a slender dirt road, more out of surprise than anything else. "They're so early this year."
Alfred let go of his hand to crouch by the side of the road and pluck at bunch from a clump of grass; he returned and thrust them beneath Arthur's nose. A predictable stunt, but Arthur smiled even so.
"Describe them," demanded Alfred when he had bundled the impromptu bouquet into his arms. "Every different color, please. I want to know."
Arthur saw the look in his eyes and couldn't imagine saying no. He took a flower between his fingers and considered it for a moment.
"This one is like a little blotch of violet paint," he said eventually. Their pace had slowed so that they were barely strolling along the path; the sunlight poured through the overhanging branches of the trees in thick yellow bars. "It has a tiny golden center. Honestly, it looks like something out of a Monet." He smirked as Alfred pretended to understand the allusion. "This one…" He took a delicate white blossom between his index finger and his thumb. "Pure as a bridal gown." He winked and took another flower. "And this one is the same shade of pink as…as the nurse uniform back at the hospital, but less…repugnant, if you will."
They laughed clear and long. Another kiss landed on Arthur's forehead to be lost in his hair. The path narrowed and narrowed and the trees thickened overhead until they came to the cusp of a hill and looked out over a small meadow, surrounded by forest. Arthur smiled victoriously.
"Here will be lovely, won't it?" he said, glancing back over his shoulder as he led Alfred onto the grass. The ground gave slightly beneath their feet, still moist from the last night's rain. He set out the picnic blanket and basket while Alfred watched bemusedly.
"It was Francis, alright?" hissed Arthur in horror when he began to unload the food and discovered bread and cheese nicked from the military kitchen and cut into the shape of hearts. There were two flasks of straight scotch as well. "If I had known he was going to do this…"
Once Alfred had stopped laughing, he wiped at the corner of his eye and kissed Arthur on the tip of his nose. He settled down onto the blanket beside him and only barely managed to accept a sandwich without dissolving into hysterics again.
"You should've known better," he said around a mouthful, eyes dancing. His glasses were smudged with dust and humidity. Despite everything, Arthur felt a wave of fondness threaten to overcome his composure.
"I suppose," he managed, and swallowed to distract himself. Above the sky was like a circle of porcelain cut clean by the circle of trees. The sun was strong on their backs. At some point, Alfred unscrewed the flasks of scotch and they each drank gratefully. The alcohol was warm in their stomachs. Eventually Arthur found himself with his head pressed into the crook of Alfred's shoulder, their fingers intertwined on his knee. They spent some time like this, wound together beneath the steeping afternoon sun.
And then they were kissing, without much urgency, tasting the earth and the scotch on each other's lips. Alfred shifted forwards and drew Arthur onto his lap and reality began to melt away at the edges. Need began to sharpen the lazy movements of their hands, their mouths. Arthur dug his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Alfred's neck, arched forwards as his arms looped securely around his waist, as the flat of his palm pressed into the small of his back. Another moment and they broke apart, breathing heavily.
Alfred made a vain attempt to adjust his glasses and grinned sheepishly up at Arthur when they immediately fell back askew over his nose. "I missed you," he said easily. Arthur swallowed.
"I know," he murmured. "I missed you, too." A moment of silence. He shifted over Alfred's thighs. He was already uncomfortable. It had been too long. Alfred began to smirk. His fingers drummed erratic rhythms up and down the bend of Arthur's spine.
"What's the plan?" he asked quietly, leaning upwards slightly. Arthur bit down on his lower lip.
"That depends," he said carefully, "on you."
Alfred gazed at him for a long moment, let his knuckles brush against his cheek, and then kissed him fiercely, opening his mouth and digging his fists into the fabric of his sweater. Arthur inhaled sharply and recovered himself in time to smile against his lips. His answer was perfectly understood.
Alfred had soon slid his hands beneath his sweater. His sweaty palms seemed to map the jutting planes of his back and shoulders, to drag him closer with every new coordinate discovered. Arthur cupped his cheeks and arched into the kiss so much that the edge of his glasses bit into his cheek. They laughed breathlessly and Arthur went to Alfred's neck, biting down softly at his singing jugular. He sighed in response and Arthur shivered. At some point his hands found their way beneath the ratty white military undershirt. A few more minutes of unbearably hot sun and they were both rid of their shirts.
Alfred inhaled sharply and Arthur leaned away, curious. He was staring down into his lap, biting on his lower lip. Arthur was puzzled for a moment, but then he looked beneath his own hands and saw the tapestry of scars, the pink and twisted portrait of war painted strikingly across Alfred's chest. He felt his throat constrict. He reached for Alfred's chin and lifted his face. No words were necessary. He stroked at his hair, kissed him softly, first on the forehead, then the tip of his nose, both eyelids, down his cheekbones, the strong square line of his jaw, both corners of his lips.
Vanity is for foolish children. You are lovely.
Finally on the mouth, gentle at first, then frantic and reckless with love and relief.
Alfred broke the kiss to grip Arthur by the shoulders and press him gently into the picnic blanket. They stared at one another for a long moment, Alfred suspended above Arthur, chest heaving. The question in his eyes went unspoken; Arthur rolled over and retrieved what they needed from the picnic basket. Alfred was already desperate enough that he didn't bother to mock him for thinking ahead. He groaned quietly and dove for his throat. Arthur sighed and arched into him, cursing his trousers, his clunky shoes, his very socks themselves, innocent as they were.
After a few minutes more of ferocious kissing, Arthur fumbled for the button on Alfred's pants. They came down with a soft rustle and Alfred kicked them away, sneering as if they somehow offended him. His boots had disappeared when he returned. Arthur was already struggling from his trousers. He finally flung away his shoes and socks and collapsed back into Alfred's embrace with a soft groan of relief.
They kissed as Alfred pressed Arthur back into the picnic blanket and reached around to support his lower back as he spread his thighs, biting down on his lower lip. A pause, a moment of consideration, a whispered flurry of words of encouragement, and he began. Arthur dug his fingers into the flannel of the blanket to keep from showing his pain, but Alfred sensed his distress and frowned, taking away his finger.
"No," hissed Arthur, his voice roughened with pain and arousal and annoyance. "It has to be done; we'll have to do it. Get it over with."
Alfred glanced at him once, saw the determination in his eyes, and nodded. He began again, painstakingly. The process was as lengthy as it was mortifying. Arthur gasped and bit down on his lower lip and could do little else but scrabble at Alfred's shoulders until the pain had subsided. But finally, finally, he thought he might be ready, and gave a little nod. He didn't miss the hitch in Alfred's breath, the flush that spilled from his cheeks down his neck and shoulders. There was a long pause as he hovered between Arthur's thighs. Silence. Alfred ducked downwards for an instant; a fleeting kiss that stole what was left of the breath from Arthur's lungs. They began.
Arthur arched from the blanket with a gasp. In the dim recesses of his consciousness he wondered if the snap of his back was audible. He dug his fingernails almost savagely into the flesh at the small of Alfred's back, felt the desperate coil of his muscles, the labored rush of his breathing, the powerful undulation of his spine beneath his outstretched palm. His head fell backwards. He floundered for air and found none. He was dying. Alfred kissed him again, thirstily. He was parched. He kissed him back desperately. Another thrust of the hips; a dry crackling moan. How had the meadow become a desert?
And despite the burn in his lungs and the suffocating warmth of the afternoon and the sunshine that flowed thick and wet and unbearably hot between them, despite the erratic bump of Alfred's elbows against his thighs and the halfhearted scrabble of his own heels against his trembling hips, he felt impossibly wonderful. The afternoon softened at the corners and began to melt together like a soaked watercolor. Yellow and green and pink and purple blurred and streamed past them, poured over their bodies in pounding rivulets of color, flooded their noses and mouths and eyes. The sky seemed to close around them like a pouch of blue silk. The scar tissue beneath Arthur's hands, tracing blind pathways over the strong geometric planes of Alfred's back and shoulders, twisted away. The war disappeared.
They were the only two things that existed in the entire world.
Alfred came with a soft groan that sounded almost disbelieving. He bit down on his lower lip and shut his eyes and shivered into Arthur's shoulder. A moment passed and then his hand was wrapped around his cock, clumsy but consuming. Arthur felt himself snap forwards without meaning to. His shins began to slip from Alfred's shoulders; a few more long strokes and he was finished. Helpless with love, he grabbed Alfred around the neck and kissed him desperately until they were both breathless and returned to the world where the war was real and they each had duties to fulfill, but could still take a moment for each other's arms every once in a while.
That was alright, Arthur decided. Their world was alright.
Some time passed. Alfred propped himself up on one elbow and grinned at him sloppily. Arthur rolled his eyes and reached out to fix his glasses. They only fell out of place again. They both laughed. At some point, they kissed again, lazily. Arthur found it quite the challenge to stop smiling. Contentment was soft surrounding them; it clung to their minds and their muscles with sleepy fingers. Eventually, they both sat up and gathered their clothing with considerable difficulty. The sunlight had turned bronze. The afternoon was draining away like golden water in the porcelain blue basin of the sky.
They walked back through the countryside with their hands joined as if melted together by the sun. Only when they crested the lip of the hill and gazed back down upon the network of roads and cottages and military bases, stitched and nestled safely into the rolls of green, did Arthur truly understand what he and Alfred had done. He came to a stop at the edge of the hill with his heart stammering. He pressed his thumb into Alfred's palm, almost uncertainly. Alfred looked at him for a long moment before he smiled and lifted their intertwined hands to press a kiss to each knuckle.
"The colors, Arthur," he sighed after what seemed an eternity and an instant of silence all at once. His eyes were soft and hard as crystals and sad and overjoyed. He was a juxtaposition merely by existing. "The colors, please."
Arthur held his breath. He didn't know why. "What about them?"
"Please," replied Alfred quietly, squeezing his hand. "Please tell me what are the colors like now."
AN – Again, my apologies for not replying to all the lovely comments on the last chapter. Life has been biting me in the ass as of late. I truly appreciate every single one. You guys are too wonderful for words.
As always, enormous thanks to Trumpet-Geek, the brave provider of the historical backbone of this fic.
And of course, thank you all so much for reading!
