Chapter Text
It’s a grand old house they’re billeted in, pigeon-coloured, stony-winged. Paddy tires quickly of its shadowed velvet rooms, and spends his free hours wandering the gardens. There’s a spot beside an ivy-bound wall where he likes to smoke, frosty-fingered in the pure grey air. His men huddle indoors for warmth, chicks in a charmless nest, seeking the downy comfort of each other’s bodies. He’s had no joy in their company of late. It’s a brave man who’ll attempt to coax Paddy inside to sit by the fire with the rest of them, and these days, not even Jim Almonds dares to try.
This evening, the sky is filigreed with thin clouds. In the last of the weak sunlight, even the grass takes on a touch of colour. The chill settles into Paddy’s bones, soothing a throat sore from the day’s shouting. Rum sits warmly in his empty stomach. He almost feels himself a man again.
But he’s to have no solitude tonight. Somebody else is already leaning against the wall: Bill Fraser, hair silvered by the oncoming dusk, cigarette burning down to bloodless fingers. He raises an eyebrow as Paddy approaches.
‘“I have lost beauties and feelings, such as would have been most sweet to my remembrance even when age had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness,”’ Paddy recites. ‘You’re in my spot.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had staked a claim.’
Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls to its fellows. Paddy steps unbidden into the shadow of the wall, placing a cigarette between his lips and shielding it in his cupped hand as he lights up. Fraser watches through narrowed eyes. Whisky sweetness rises from him like heat from a furnace, but he’s steady on his feet. Paddy inhales deep enough to sear his own lungs, taking in smoke and the scent of him.
‘Why don’t you go drink with the others?’
Fraser stubs out his cigarette on the back of his own hand, making Paddy’s eyebrows rise. ‘No.’
‘Damaging yourself, are you?’
The distant, incurious look Fraser wears in his quiet moments has given way to the hawklike focus reserved for Paddy. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘The enemy will maim you soon enough without you helping them along.’ Paddy flips open his pack of smokes a second time. ‘Have another.’
Fraser studies him for a heavy second, expression unreadable, then nods and pulls a cigarette from the pack. Sullen creature that he is, Fraser hesitates before leaning in, touching the tip of his cigarette to Paddy’s and inhaling sharply. The end flares to life. Fraser turns his head away, considerately exhaling smoke in the other direction even as he leaves Paddy’s mouth tingling from the phantom contact.
‘“He knew the anguish of the marrow,”’ Paddy murmurs, ‘“the ague of the skeleton; no contact possible to flesh allayed the fever of the bone.”’
Fraser regards him wearily.
‘“Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?”’ Paddy takes a long drag. ‘I’d leave you to your brooding, major, but I confess I am loath to desert you, seeing as you’ve only got your fucking demons for company.’
‘Please,’ says Fraser, and his scorn sets something alight beneath Paddy’s skin, ‘don’t feel you have to stay.’
‘I’ll have some of that.’ Paddy gestures to the half-empty bottle by Fraser’s feet. ‘You’re not finishing that on your own.’
Wordlessly, Fraser hands it over. The burn is familiar, reassuring. After a day spent ankle-deep in heather, tussling on hillsides, the promise of more violence makes Paddy’s blood sing. Fraser is private about his madness, but he can be goaded, and Paddy craves the heat of Fraser’s hands on him. He’s no fool. Fraser looks at him with the intensity of a man about to break. If Fraser truly despised Paddy, he wouldn’t look at him at all.
‘So.’ Paddy grips the neck of the bottle like it’s personally offended him. ‘You’ll kiss your dog on the mouth, but not me?’
‘What?’ Fraser says flatly.
‘Did you not hear me?’ Paddy takes another fortifying swig, relishing the knowledge that he’s putting his lips on the imprint of Fraser’s own. ‘It’d do you some good, so it would.’
‘Right,’ says Fraser after a moment, his voice peculiar, ‘for officer morale.’
‘Make no mistake—’ Paddy taps ash off the end of his cigarette. ‘—you and I are holding this regiment together. I consider it my duty to keep your spirits up. Fucking queer like you,’ he adds, not without affection, ‘should be grateful for the chance to kiss anyone at all.’
For a blissful heartbeat, Paddy thinks Fraser will hit him. He tenses in anticipatory joy, his whole body thrumming like a plucked string. But Fraser doesn’t; he merely pushes off the weathered stone with a sigh.
‘Good night, Paddy.’
Paddy catches his wrist. Fraser looks down at Paddy’s fingers wrapped around it, a brief and sunless light flaring in his eyes, and then the look of long-suffering restraint returns.
‘Let go of me.’
‘Tell me you sleep at night,’ Paddy replies, ‘and I’ll let you go unmolested to your bed.’
‘I sleep perfectly well.’
Fists would be preferable.
‘You’re a poor fucking liar.’ Paddy tightens his grip. He’s leaving white marks, but Fraser makes no move to free himself. ‘Pull a knife on me, or shoot me if the whim strikes you, but don’t look me in the eye and try to fool me.’
‘You overestimate the amount of time I spend thinking about you,’ Fraser says.
This is a lie so bold that Paddy bares his teeth in admiration. In Fraser’s soft accent, the most scathing of retorts can sound mild. Yet there’s venom layered under his self-control, banked fury in the way he shifts to grasp Paddy’s forearm in turn. He’s young, Fraser is, though with the eyes of a man grown impossibly old, and it’s easy to bait him. After all, he rises so beautifully.
‘Put out your cigarettes on me, then,’ Paddy tells him, ‘like the ashtray I am. And then I will leave you alone with your rage. Or, and better still, let’s give up this tiresome pretence that you don’t want to fuck my brains out.’
‘I’m not one of your dark-haired Catholic boys.’
Paddy recoils. Fraser shakes his hand free, a satisfied smirk playing about the corners of his mouth. He’s got only a moment to gather himself before Paddy draws back and punches him. His head snaps back with the force of the blow, and he spits blood onto the ground before swinging at Paddy in glorious retaliation—and his disdain is false, anyway—Fraser liked Eoin.
The scuffle lasts less than a minute. Fraser slams Paddy into the wall so hard that he thinks something cracks, and Paddy laughs dizzily, grinding up against him. He’s warm; he reeks of spite and liquor. Fraser’s grip loosens, startled, as Paddy arches up to kiss that unhappy mouth. They both taste foul—blood and whisky and nicotine—and Fraser fights him for a second, teeth gritted, then closes his eyes and gives in.
It’s Paddy who pulls away first, lifting Fraser’s unresisting hand to his mouth and licking along the split knuckles. ‘Come on. I’ll take you to bed.’
Fraser looks trapped, even though he’s the one pinning Paddy against the wall.
‘Aye, come on.’ Paddy wipes his blood-flecked lips on his sleeve. ‘Why the fuck not?’
Perhaps it’s the whisky, or the wildness which claims all of them in due time, some sooner than others. Whatever it is, Fraser’s resistance exhausts itself in a sputtering of fumes. He lowers his head. His pale eyelashes flutter as Paddy meets him hungrily, and then Paddy’s hands settle on his waist, stroking away the tension there. This kiss is slower, sweeter. Paddy’s head is still spinning from striking the wall, which adds a pleasant haze to the proceedings. Fraser looks steady, but he isn’t faring much better; he’s holding himself with the careful poise of someone trying not to sway on their feet. So Paddy draws him close, forcing a knee between his thighs for Fraser to grind against, letting him lean on Paddy.
Before long, they’re both panting. Fraser reaches down to cup Paddy through his trousers, making Paddy groan and press into his hand. They could do it like this, rutting in the shadow of a great house as the light dies around them. But Paddy made a promise to himself in the desert—said he’d take care of his men, didn’t he—said he’d take Fraser to bed, didn’t he? So he stills Fraser with a hand on his wrist when he moves to undo Paddy’s top button.
‘Not now. Come inside.’
Confusion flits across Fraser’s features.
‘Fuck me, you thought—here?’ Paddy’s hips twitch despite himself. ‘Thought I’d have you on your hands and knees out here, where anybody could see?’ He clutches at Fraser’s shoulders as they rock together, the image warming them both. ‘No, no, I’ll treat you right. Come along.’
‘Is this your idea of compassion,’ says Fraser, adding with lingering malice, ‘sir?’
‘Call it whatever you want in the privacy of your own head.’ Paddy brushes his lips over the hollow of Fraser’s throat, which is just about eye-level with Paddy. ‘I’ll see to it you’re looked after, so I will.’
By some miracle, they’ve avoided knocking the bottle over, although their cigarettes lie trampled on the ground. Paddy scoops up the whisky, knocking back another mouthful before tucking the bottle under his arm. He steadies himself with one hand against the wall; then he steadies Fraser, sliding an arm around his waist. Together, they stumble up the path towards the servants’ entrance, passing the bottle back and forth between them.
Down a long, bare corridor lies the bedroom Paddy’s claimed for his own. He feels the urge to take Fraser upstairs to the family quarters, to fuck him on a feather bed as he deserves; but it’s been a hard, winding road to get them here, and he’s weary of fighting Fraser at every turn. He pushes Fraser against the closed door instead, and cares for him the only way he knows how—which is to say, with teeth.
Fraser fists one hand in the softness of Paddy’s jumper, the other fumbling Paddy’s trousers open. Paddy mouths at the crook of his neck and thrusts into his palm without grace or rhythm, seeking a friction that’s almost painful. Liquor prickles under Paddy’s skin, pleasure keen as a knife, and he thinks they’re both enjoying themselves. But when he glances up, Fraser’s staring off into the distance, eyes dull.
‘Enough of that,’ Paddy says hoarsely. He drops to his knees. ‘I’ll service you.’
Fraser allows Paddy to unbutton his trousers, breath hitching when Paddy palms his hips and nuzzles the newly bared skin of his inner thigh. He’s hard in his pants, and Paddy laps at him through the thin cotton, searching for the slightest hint of approval. Fraser’s head tilts back; his eyes fall shut. He’s silent as Paddy tugs his pants down and eases his cock into his mouth, stroking what he can’t swallow, moaning at the taste of him.
For several seconds, the only sounds in the room are Paddy’s own, sloppy, desperate. Then Fraser’s hands settle on his shoulders—cautious as one’d expect, with his commanding officer on his knees in front of him—and Paddy shivers at the touch. He reaches down to roughly grasp his own cock, his other hand tugging Fraser forward, urging Fraser to make use of him. After a moment’s hesitation, Fraser rocks his hips very gently, and Paddy hollows his cheeks in response.
He works Fraser over with long, thorough strokes, swallowing around him as saliva pools in his mouth. One of Fraser’s hands moves to cup the back of Paddy’s head, not quite holding him in place, although he’d be well within his rights to force his cock into the back of Paddy’s throat. The other comes to rest on Paddy’s aching jaw. If he were a different sort of man, he’d push his fingers in alongside his cock, fuck Paddy’s mouth and leave him bloody. Instead he cradles Paddy’s face as though he doesn’t know what else to do.
‘Paddy.’ Fraser’s voice is soft. ‘Let’s move to the bed.’
‘Ah, there you are,’ Paddy rasps as he pulls away. ‘Thought you’d fucked off somewhere.’
He gets to his feet and runs his hands through his hair. Fraser lets Paddy crowd him against the bed, stumbling backwards with a hand on Paddy’s hip whilst Paddy kisses his throat, his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. With a face like that, he ought to have a mother to dote on him. Unfortunately, there’s only Paddy, offering what tenderness he can give.
They shuck off the rest of their clothing. It’s dark outside now, the window letting in a slice of slate-coloured sky, and their dim shapes are hidden from God and man. Fraser falls onto the bed, breathing hard, limbs tensing as Paddy climbs on top of him and noses along the line of his neck. Again, his hands find their way to Paddy’s shoulders. Paddy licks him from collarbone to earlobe, fingers frantic in his hair.
Deep in the bowels of the house, there’s nobody to witness them rocking against each other, gasping into each other’s mouths. They could both get off like this, Paddy’s forehead resting on Fraser’s, Fraser lifting one knee to give Paddy’s cock better purchase against his own. But Paddy needs more, and he senses that Fraser does too; it’s the way his breath stutters when Paddy’s hand slips down between his legs, pressing dry fingertips to his hole.
‘Paddy,’ Fraser whispers, and Paddy thinks he’s about to push him away until his gaze slides to the bedside table. ‘Vaseline.’
‘Aye, I have some.’ Paddy raises himself on his elbows, reluctant to leave him but conscious that they can’t fuck dry, determined not to make himself another of Fraser’s tools for hurting.
‘Get the whisky too.’
Paddy fetches the bottle from where they’ve left it by the door, and the tin of Vaseline from his drawer. Fraser drinks deeply, throat bobbing as he swallows, and gives Paddy a nod. Paddy coats his fingers and shuffles forward on his knees, watching Fraser’s eyes go unfocused when Paddy touches him. His mouth is held in a thin, precise line. Paddy leans over him, lips brushing his temple and the bridge of his nose, trying to pull him back into himself.
With one hand, Paddy massages Vaseline into the tight ring of muscle, fingers rubbing over the same spot again and again. With his other hand, he picks up the bottle of whisky. Fraser’s staring at the ceiling, which is at least a fixed spot within a hundred yards.
‘Don’t you start up again,’ Paddy snaps. Fraser’s eyes flick back to him. Paddy lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a gulp, holding the whisky in his mouth; then he bends down for a kiss. Fraser opens his mouth, and Paddy lets the whisky pour into it.
Fraser chokes even though he’d been expecting it, swallowing hastily. He curses. Paddy presses a fingertip into him, finding him looser now, almost relaxed, and sweeps a soothing palm over his ribs. He takes the first finger easily; the second meets more resistance. Paddy drinks again and again, feeding him blood-warm whisky, until they’re not sure who’s trembling harder.
Thumb rubbing at his rim, Paddy coaxes him to accept a third finger, which he does with his mouth half-open, gaze intent on Paddy’s face. Paddy crooks his fingers, bent on wringing pleasure from him, and when he finds that sensitive spot Fraser’s hips jerk. Paddy strokes it once, twice, till Fraser hisses through his teeth in what must be the first noise he’s made all night.
‘“These are men whose minds the dead have ravished.”’ Paddy fucks him open a little more, fingers vanishing up to the knuckles, wanting to put his whole hand inside him. ‘“Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black…” Come here to me.’ Paddy sets the bottle down, putting his now-free hand to Fraser’s cheek and tilting his face towards him. ‘Look at me.’
At last, the full weight of Fraser’s attention settles on him. It’s overwhelming.
Paddy reaches for the tin again and slicks up his cock, already panting from anticipation. He withdraws his fingers—Fraser makes a small, lost sound—but memorises the angle of them, lining himself up the same way. When the head of Paddy’s cock nudges at his entrance, Fraser exhales quietly; when Paddy slides in, he inhales, barely audible, drawing Paddy into his body.
‘Fuck—’ Paddy rolls his hips. ‘Fuck, that’s it. There you are.’
Fraser says: ‘Here I am.’
He arches his back when Paddy begins fucking him properly, a flush rising to his cheeks, bottom lip caught between his teeth. His hand wanders to his own cock—almost in surprise, as if he’d forgotten it’s there—and he strokes himself, silent, thumb circling the head. Paddy kneels between his legs at first, lifting one ankle over his shoulder, then loses patience and slumps onto him, burying his face in Fraser’s neck. Fraser’s hand comes up to rest on his head. Paddy bites him. He doesn’t react.
He does buck his hips when Paddy finds the right angle with his cock, clamping a hand over his own mouth to muffle a startled cry. Wide-eyed, sweetly responsive now, Fraser rocks upwards to meet Paddy’s thrusts, a sight far more welcome than his earlier grim endurance. Paddy knocks his hand aside and kisses him hard. The bed creaks beneath them. Fraser sucks on Paddy’s tongue like a man starved, and Paddy pulls back when they run out of air, hissing, ‘Breathe, breathe,’ even though he can barely fill his own lungs.
It’s Fraser who comes first, gasping, the fever-heat of him intolerable. Paddy fucks him through it, feeling him shake from the aftershocks. It must hurt at least a little—to be fucked when he’s still so sensitive—but Fraser makes no complaint. He’s pliant afterwards, eyes half-closed, wrapping his legs around Paddy as Paddy jerks and shudders and spills deep inside him.
For a minute or so, they lie still. Then Paddy lifts off him. He’s made a mess of Fraser, and he gathers up the come on his fingers, pushing it back inside him. Fraser whines low in his throat, completely vulnerable now, worn down to the animal parts of him.
They don’t speak. They do kiss. Fraser rests his cheek on Paddy’s shoulder, face drawn with fatigue, the whites of his eyes just visible beneath lowered eyelashes. Paddy pets along his side. Maybe in the morning they’ll fuck again, Fraser’s back against Paddy’s chest, Paddy’s leg slung over him to keep him in place. For now, Paddy only holds him.
‘The bed’s too narrow for both of us,’ says Fraser after a long time.
‘No. No, don’t go.’ Paddy’s fingers card through Fraser’s hair. ‘I’ll sit up all night at the foot of your bed, and bark at your nightmares.’
Somewhere in the house, the men are singing. The cold disc of a moon watches them through dust-streaked glass. Paddy stares it down until his eyes ache from staying open, and at last he puts his lips to the shell of Fraser’s ear, and joins him in sleep.