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Grace was most certainly not the word to describe Tom Blake.
He was Lance Corporal ‘trips-whilst-going-up-the-stairs’ Blake, he was Lance Corporal ‘occasionally-misses-the-ball-during-football-because-his-hand-eye-coordination-is-so-bad’ Blake, he was Lance Corporal ‘force-over-finesse’ Blake.
So how come when he plummeted to the ground clutching his stomach he looked like a fallen angel? Ironic that this was the first comparison Will’s mind made as his closest friend gasped “God no!” Ironic that the elegant shadow of death was the thing that finally caused Will to see the beauty of his comrade, in both the physical and inner aspects.
The realization was like cruel hands had tipped a bucket of all things frozen and harsh over his head yet sprinkled tiny drops of relief in, so the blow was both hardened and lessened.
Tom was nothing like the ‘ideal man’ created by Da Vinci, bore no resemblance to Aphrodite rising from the ocean, had no drop of the paint to create the Sistine Chapel’s roof flowing through his veins. He was above that. A creation unlike anything else. Tom Blake was the embodiment of life and laughter.
But none of that had a place here, in this place held together by abandonment and ghosts of the past. A place where people had been driven out by fear, a place where animals have been slaughtered only for the purposes of bringing more sorrow to the world, a place where fallen men come to die alone and in pain. Will did not want Tom to become one of those men.
Never had Will moved so fast or with such urgency. Not in his childhood, playing tag amongst the trees. Not in the Somme, when men of all ages, nationalities, types, were slaughtered under the pretence of honour. Not even in the bunker, when the rubble slid down his throat and he was sure it was the end and all he could think was if Tom would leave to save the lives of 1600 men or stay to try and save his.
As Will cradled Tom’s head and begged him to get up, the overwhelming urge to hold his hand and bury his face against the younger man’s cried out. This may be the last opportunity. But would that be selfish? It risked losing their friendship that had been founded over many months in a split second of stupidity. It risked Tom dying alone, far from his family and betrayed by life.
So, he allowed himself one of those things. Will grasped the younger man’s hand, and it fitted well with his. Not perfectly, because the rifles that were not meant to fit together had pressed moulds into their hands. No man that had held these rifles, used these rifles, owed his life to these rifles, would ever fit their hand with someone else’s perfectly. How could they?
The moment stretched and Tom reached his hand up, Will thought he meant to get the picture of his family that he had always carried- and would always carry- in his pocket, but instead the hand rose up all the way to Will’s face. It rested on his cheek, soft and gentle, much like the man it belonged to.
“Scho…” Will changed his gaze from the wound to Tom’s eyes, “Will…” the stare was burning with intensity, but it would kill either man to look away now, “Before I do... anything else… too stupid,” Will almost smiled at that, even now he made jokes, “Am I dying?” The tears that had just begun to dry on Tom’s face were once again renewed. Though from which Lance Corporal it was hard to tell.
“Yes, I think you are.”
“Well that’s… good, nothing to lose then.” Wrong. There is everything to lose. But he could never be cruel enough to break this to the brunette. Tom pulled Will’s face closer to his as if about to whisper the world to him.
“Tom, what do you- “
Tom’s lips fell against Will’s and the world erupted and fell silent simultaneously. The barn crumbled noiselessly, and the embers glowed like fireflies. The wind curved around them, and every atom vibrated within his body.
Nothing means everything.
This kiss meant nothing- it is a desperate last act from a dying man.
This kiss means everything- it is two people who have found meaning in each other.
The push and pull of their lips was more hungry than any man in the trenches, held more words than any message, confessed more than any priest had heard in his lifetime. Tom’s hand moved across Will’s face, lighting every molecule with life; Will clutched Tom closer to him, so neither could possibly forget this sensation.
When the finally pulled back, just a centimetre, so they could look into each other’s eyes, Tom looked more alive than ever. His grin was infectious and if Will hadn’t already been smiling wider than he ever had he sure as hell would have been after seeing this.
For a moment breathing was all they needed, just to know the other was alive and there and content. Neither spoke, they didn’t need to, nothing could amount to what they had just said. So, they stayed like that, for minutes, for hours, for days. The world could be dead, and they wouldn’t know.
The infinite moment crumbled into another as two soldiers came running around the farmhouse and noticed them. Two Lance Corporals and a German pilot. One dead, another at death’s door, and the third having just dined with death. They ran for backup and all of a sudden, the steady weight of Tom was taken from him, someone asked him what had happened, he was shown to the back of a convoy, something cold and metal was pressed in his hand.
Will looked at his hand and the ring pressed into it and then at Tom who was being put with the medics, who gave him a wobbly smile and a wink. He smiled inwardly, Tom. That was it. Such a Tom move. Then he climbed in through the truck, sat down and looked at the ring.
He could make it alone. He could save those men. He could do it.
He could do it because Thomas Blake meant nothing to William Schofield.
And nothing means everything.