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1945
Three days. They’d agreed on the troop ship home. Three days in London, just the two of them and one bed. Well, on the ship was when Sam had finally agreed after two weeks of answering all of his pleas as they’d crossed Europe with a quietly spoken “no” and a rapid change of subject.
He still wasn’t sure quite how he and Sam had ever happened in the first place. Most of the men of his generation said the war changed everything, but he didn’t agree. His life had just bumped along and that included war interrupting it just like it had his father’s. No, it was meeting Sam that had changed everything, not the war. One day it was just like any other day, only the scenery had changed, and the next Sam was assigned to his artillery regiment and he’d felt a want so keen he couldn’t believe it. He’d put it down to loneliness, to the brilliance of Sam’s smile, to the completely unexpected but immediate connection between them. Only men weren’t supposed to have softer emotions about each other, a mutual hand job behind the wash tents never anything more than a little stress relief. He’d tried to distract himself, tried to concentrate instead on his home and his family, his wife and his sons. He’d been surprised to catch himself whistling “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” endlessly, the way his father had done after his World War, when he’d come back to them remote, sombre and broken.
He still wasn’t sure who’d kissed who first only that it had happened in a small tent in the middle of a sea of other small tents and that they must have been mad to risk it. In fact they’d agreed that it was madness and that it had to stop. They’d kept agreeing that it was madness and it had to stop even as it had kept right on happening, right up until the day he’d told Sam he loved him. “Don’t,” Sam had grated out in response and walked out of the tent. It had been three days of carefully not reaching out to touch before Sam had pinned him to his sleeping bag, admitted he felt the same way and proceeded to suck his cock with an expertise he hadn’t want to think about how Sam had acquired.
When his regiment had been told the war was over he’d been devastated, even as the rest of the men had cheered around him. He knew he couldn’t abandon his family and yet couldn’t stop thinking about what his life might be like if he could. The guilt almost ate him alive. He knew Sam would slip through his fingers no matter what he did. If he abandoned his family Sam would lose all respect for him, had said he knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of that. He also knew that Sam would never agree to a life in the shadows, knew Sam would think less of him if he even asked. That was when he’d started asking Sam for his three days, three days he could always remember even after he had to return to his real life.
They’d been very nice about it when the B&B landlady in Streatham had regretfully explained that she only had a double room left. He’d blurted out something about being used to having to make do in the army while Sam had stifled his laughter. Finally alone, in their little room that looked out over rows of handkerchief sized gardens sandwiched between rows of handkerchief sized houses, he’d turned down the bed while Sam had turned on the radio. Everywhere they’d been in London they’d heard Vera Lynn singing “We’ll Meet Again” and now it was playing in their room, helping to conceal the sound of Sam’s groans as he hovered over him, weight on his elbows. He didn’t want to move, just wanted to have this moment suspended in time, staring in to Sam’s passion glazed eyes, his cock balls deep in Sam’s arse for the first time. Only the first time and he already couldn’t think how he was supposed to give this up.
“Sam, I’ve been thinking, I—”
“No.” Sam had thrust up against him and he’d thrust back, breaking the moment.
On their last night together, Sam draped across his back , his orgasm still sending little shuddering waves through his body, he’d tried again.
“Sam, I think you should come home with me.”
“No.” Sam had pulled carefully out of him and slumped to the side.
He’d turned and pulled Sam in for a kiss. “C’mon Sam, be reasonable. Come with me. I know the foreman, I can get you a job at the factory with me. We could still see each other.”
Sam dragged his hand across his face. “No. The answer’s still no. I’m no one’s bit on the side.”
“Course you’re not but if you really loved me you’d—”
“No, we’d end up hating each other. This, this is all we have.” Sam rolled over on to his side facing away from him.
“...You’re tired. We’ll talk about this again in the morning. I’m not taking no for an answer, Sam.”
But he’d had to take it. When he’d woken up the next morning Sam had been gone and he’d realized for the first time that they’ve never once talked about where Sam was from.
1973
He had cold feet. No, not cold, his feet were bloody freezing. He should have put his slippers on but they were in the bedroom and he wasn’t going back there for them, wasn’t going to risk waking Sam just yet. He picked up his loafers from behind the back door and slipped them on, tightened his bath robe and went back to staring out of the kitchen window at his snow covered garden while he waited for the kettle to boil.
How had they got here? He could try to blame it on how much he’d drunk the night before. Yeah, CID’s Christmas Eve piss-ups were legendary. In fact, once Sam did wake up that’s exactly what he planned on doing. He was going to blame it on how much he’d drunk and how lonely he’d been since the missus had left him. Sam didn’t have to know that Gene had drank less than usual and had planned on fucking Sam if the chance arose, that in fact he’d worked hard on making that chance happen. Sam also didn’t have to know that Gene had danced a jig in the kitchen when Sally had left him. So, lying to Sam? That wasn’t a problem, but lying to Gene Hunt? No, if there was one person he was always brutally honest with, it was himself. Gene busied himself with making the tea, steadfastly ignoring the voice inside that pointed out he’d long since started being honest with Sam too and that tried to ask exactly what did that mean?
Drinking his tea in the living room he faced the fact head on that he’d felt punch-drunk when Sam had told him that he loved him the night before and that he’d had to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting out his own feelings for Sam. It was impossible. Men might fuck each other, well, if they were careful to make sure no one else found out about it, but they certainly didn’t fall in love with each other. No, when Sam woke up, he wouldn’t tell him that he’d drunk too much and that he missed Sally. He’d tell him that the fucking had been good and that as long as Sam didn’t get all Nancy boy about it he wouldn’t mind fucking him again, if Sam could just be discreet.
He was staring at the Christmas cards hanging on strings across the walls, wondering when Sam was going to wake up when he realized that he was humming a tune, had been humming it since he’d woken up. An old tune, one his dad had loved. He stood up, went and pulled the trunk of his dad’s old things out from the cupboard under the stairs and carried it back in to the living room. Right in the top of the trunk was a record. He pulled it out of its cover and put it on the Hi-Fi, the strains of Vera Lynn’s voice soon washing over him.
Course Gene knew it meant the night before would be a one-off because Sam didn’t have it in him to be a bit on the side, but still that’s how he’d have to handle it. Gene pulled his dad’s old uniform out of the trunk, running his hands over the regimental insignia. A man couldn’t always have what he wanted, understanding that was part of what made a man a man, his dad had always said. There were a handful of photos underneath the uniform, his dad in uniform and his dad with his comrades. With the passing years Gene had forgotten just how much he looked like his dad. Gene pulled everything else out of the trunk and there at the bottom was one last picture. It was of his dad again, his arm thrown across the shoulders of another soldier, the pair of them turned slightly inward and smiling broadly like they’d never seen anything as good as each other and never would. The other soldier looked just like Sam.
He remembered how his dad had gone to war, a man easily given to laughing, and returned as a remote and sombre man he recognized but no longer knew. His dad would sit in their garden shed for hours, drinking heavily and playing that bloody Vera Lynn record over and over, staring at a picture, this picture.
Gene knew he should be disturbed at the resemblance between his dad and his mate and himself and Sam. He knew he should be wondering if he’d remembered that picture at some level and been drawn to Sam because of it. Strangely enough though, the only thing he felt was a deep welling happiness, that this time he was free to get it right, third time lucky.
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