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Will’s fingers flexed around the edge of his desk as the shrieking whistle outside set his teeth on edge. The firework exploded, and Will flinched so hard he nearly upset the bottle of whisky next to him. Bracing himself for the explosion didn’t make it any easier to bear. He gritted his teeth and took a long gulp from the bottle.
Another explosion. Another pull from the bottle.
The artillery hadn’t bothered him half so much in the trenches. Peacetime was making him soft.
Another explosion. He let his breath hiss out through his teeth.
In the weeks leading up to Guy Fawkes Day he’d fended off invitations from Kim and the girls who were in town for some kind of interview for the society pages that promised to make waves in the world of frocks.
Phoebe had plotted a course through a succession of parties, and when Will begged off from that, Kim had suggested a twilight picnic at Greenwich Park. He’d insisted, several times, that he had to inventory the bookshop, sort through the receipts, update the bookkeeping, leveraging every bullshit excuse he could think of to avoid the festivities that he knew he couldn’t manage.
Somewhere nearby, far too near, another firework exploded. Will shuddered, and took yet another pull.
Already, his head was swimming with drink. He knew that, if he stood up from his three-legged stool, the world would lurch helter-skelter around him. He had vague aspirations of drinking himself into unconsciousness as quickly as possible so that this night could be over sooner.
Another, another, another explosion. A whining, crackling bang that sounded nothing like any of the bombs that had plagued him years ago. Still, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise.
He slid off the stool, and allowed himself to sink to the floor, huddling beneath his check-out desk, surrounded on three sides by the sweet-smelling oak counter he’d inherited from his uncle, with one side open only to a wall of his small, familiar bookshop, where he’d spent so many long, safe, peaceful hours, where he’d met the love of his life. He knew he was safe. He knew, but it did nothing to banish the taste of blood and sweat that he swore seasoned his spirits-soaked mouth.
Another explosion. He squeezed his eyes closed and turned his head into the side of the counter, pressing his forehead against the cool wood. Sooner or later, this would all be over. In the morning, Kim would come by, and he would make them both tea. Will was fine. Will was alright. Everything was alright, and this would soon be over.
Every one of Will’s attempts to soothe himself evaporated at the scrape of the front door opening.
Without making any conscious decisions or plans, Will found himself springing to his feet, crouched, ready to spring, the Messer, which had just a moment before been laying on the shop counter was now in his hand, trembling but at the ready.
Kim, who had been beaming when he opened the door, paused, frozen, as he took in this scene. Will let out an embarrassed huff, attempted to adopt a smile of his own, and tried to lower the knife as subtly as he could without betraying the shaking of his hands.
“Will,” said Kim, his voice careful but placid. “Is everything alright?”
“Er, yes,” said Will, unable to think of how to play this off. “Just… you know. Inventory.”
Kim’s expression didn’t change, except for an almost-imperceptible tightening of his mouth.
“I came to tell you to join the fun,” said Kim, approaching slowly, hands still up. “I didn’t want you to spend the whole night shut up in the shop. I came to tell you that whatever work you needed to finish, I’d help you with tomorrow.”
“Oh,” said Will, unintelligently. “I, ah. That’s kind. Thank you.”
“My love,” said Kim, gently, carefully. “What’s going on?”
Before Will could formulate an answer a firework exploded, Will felt it as much as he heard it: a shock reverberating through his chest. He jumped, and just barely stopped himself from sheltering again beneath the counter. He jumped a second time at a clattering near his feet, and realized he’d simply knocked the Messer off the counter.
He forced himself to look up at Kim, whose frozen expression had thawed into a softness that made Will’s throat tighten.
“I-” began Will, but he didn’t know what to say.
“Right,” said Kim quietly. “I’m going to walk over to you now, okay?”
Will managed a small nod. He stared determinedly at his own shaking hands, unable to look at Kim as he quietly skirted around the check-out counter and placed a hand on his arm.
“The fireworks,” said Kim quietly.
Will closed his eyes and nodded. Outside, he heard a hiss and succession of small bangs. Glass shattered. Bottle rockets, Will guessed. When Kim’s hand settled on his shoulder he realized how tense he was, how hunched. Curling up into himself like a kicked dog. Shame flooded through him.
He didn’t want Kim to see him like this, but knew that Kim wouldn’t stand for him actually saying so. “Stop being strong at me,” Kim had said once, but he couldn’t stomach anyone, least of all Kim, seeing him so irrationally, pathetically weak.
A crash overhead. A small sound escaped from the back of Will’s throat. Kim’s hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his neck, guiding him carefully so that his face was buried in Kim’s lapels.
“It’s alright,” murmured Kim, as Will felt himself beginning to shake yet harder. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
Will heard Kim pick the bottle off the counter, heard the slush of the whisky being swirled contemplatively. He didn’t remove his face from Kim’s jacket, comforted by the familiar chafing of the fine wool, the smell of aftershave.
“This was full last night,” observed Kim.
Will couldn’t think of a response.
“I didn’t think,” said Kim quietly. “But of course. The trenches. The bombs. I can’t imagine. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“I didn’t want…” Will’s voice, muffled by Kim’s coat, trailed off. He could barely piece together a thought. Speaking was a bridge too far.
“I understand.” Carefully, Kim pulled Will away from his coat, holding his face gently between his hands. One of Kim’s thumbs traced a path across his cheekbone. “Is it alright that I’m here now?”
As if on cue, another firework exploded. Will flinched and hung his head. “Yes. Please.”
Somehow, Will found himself with his back against Kim’s chest, both of them crammed beneath the checkout counter, trading the bottle of whisky back and forth. At each firework explosion, Will felt Kim’s arms tighten around him, and he was so intensely, acutely relieved he couldn’t bring himself to care about the thickening in his throat, or the prickling in his eyes.
“We’ll stay here as long as you like,” whispered Kim, his breath tickling the back of Will’s neck. “When you’re up for it, we can go upstairs and lie down. I’ll be here the whole time. Next year we can go on holiday, alright? It could be just us, or we can go visit the girls, whatever you like. But tonight, I’m staying right here with you.”
Will closed his eyes, and let out the first deep, steady breath he’d taken that night. He couldn’t marshall his thoughts, couldn’t tell Kim about the smell of mud and blood and gas that he could swear still choked him at night. He couldn’t explain the pervading, existential horror of hearing the whistle of a bomb and knowing that it might be the last thing you know of this world. Seeing men, boys really, boys just like you torn apart, killed, utterly obliterated, and knowing that anywhere, anytime, that could be you. That sooner or later it probably would be you. He couldn’t explain to Kim that any relief he felt about surviving came with an equal measure of cloying, suffocating guilt. He couldn’t explain, and he knew Kim didn’t need him to.
He leaned back, trying to push his body as close as possible to Kim’s, and pressed a kiss to the back of Kim’s hand, still intertwined with his own.
“Thank you.”