Part One

 

"Do you like singing?"

"Not really."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Because apparently I can sing, and if I can sing I get to attend this school for free. People like me don't usually come to places like this, you know."

"What kind of person are you?"

"The kind of person whose father runs a butcher's shop. What about you?"

"My father's an attorney."

"Must be proud of him."

"Not really. He's not much of a father."

"That so? Sounds like mine, though I bet yours doesn't drink and push mum around."

"I don't have a mum."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's all right, I don't remember her. Father does, though, but he doesn’t tell me much about what she was like. Actually, he doesn't tell me much about anything."

"Still better than mine. Mine had half an arm chopped off in an accident so he expects me to help out and take over the shop when I'm old enough, which is just awful."

"Why is it awful?"

"I don't want to be a butcher. I want to do something with money that people look up to, maybe an engineer or something. Takes a lot of school, but it'd be worth it. What about you, what do you want to do?"

"I ... want to see Africa."

"Really?! That's brilliant! Tell you what – you and me, we'll work hard and when we're old enough to do what we want and have some money, we'll go to Africa together, me as a doctor and you as whatever you want to be. Sound good?"

"...Yes!"

"It's a promise then. I'm Tom, by the way, Tom Williams. What's your name?"

"Elijah Baker."

"Nice to meet you, Elijah Baker. Hey, if we're going to be next to each other in choir, mind if I call you Eli?"

 

For Whom Do You Sing
by Leareth

published 2008

 

[Upper North West England, November 1916]

Snow crunched beneath Thomas's shoes as he headed for the cathedral, carefully avoiding eye contact in case someone stopped him to demand what he was doing on the streets during school hours. It didn't seem to be necessary; most people Thomas saw were either hurrying someplace warmer, or crowding around the newsstands where headlines and the paper-boy were shouting about the latest German air-raid on Britain's south. In this group Thomas caught a glimpse of girls handing out white feathers, and he pulled his cap down to hide his grimace. At seventeen years, Thomas Williams wasn't of conscription age; he'd heard a lot of the white feather brigade didn't bother about technicalities when bestowing their tokens of contempt, however, and it was better to avoid trouble entirely. Besides, his watch was pointing to 10:20am – matins would be ending soon.

Picking up his pace, Thomas jogged into the cathedral's shadow to pause beneath the looming stained-glass window and listen. From here the choir was clearly audible, the purity of boys' soprano soaring above the deeper voices, and Thomas's face wryly twisted as he recognised the Mozart piece. Once upon a time it had been him in there singing, and he remembered all too well what it had been like. Endless rehearsals, twice-daily church services with three on Sundays, music lessons and concerts... it was a demanding life for a young boy for whom schoolwork was already enough trouble. Throw in the fact that choristers had to sing in services all year round, giving up most of their holidays, and Thomas celebrated the day his voice broke as the day he escaped. It would have been even better if his friend had escaped as well, but that hadn't happened yet, hence why Thomas had come here today. Not that he minded – chorister years had left him with an appreciation for good music – but he did wonder when he could stop.

There was an echoing rumble as the congregation stood for the final hymn. Thomas grimaced at the off-key entrance and circled around to the south entrance to wait, amusing himself by thinking up silly names for the gargoyles glaring at him from their stone perches, and doing his best to ignore the messy warbling from inside. It seemed an age, but eventually the cathedral was thundering with footsteps, and the doors opened to let out a tumble of choirboys in white surplices. Thomas spotted a familiar black-haired head and waved. "Hey, Eli!" he yelled. "Over here!"

The person who owned this name turned with a startled expression, and Thomas grinned as eyes as blue as the winter sky widened in surprise. "Tom!" exclaimed Elijah. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in class?"

"It's recess, dolt." Dodging a gaggle of younger choristers, Thomas walked over and draped an arm about the slighter boy's shoulders. "Besides, French translation was easy, so I talked the school-master into letting me out early, which, by the way, is good for you since this—" here Thomas pulled an exercise book from his bag, "—is the history homework you left in my room last night and just happens to be due this afternoon."

"I was wondering where that was, thank you!" Relieved, Elijah took the book and flicked through it, frowning as he got to the recent pages. "I thought I only got up to question six? Did you finish the rest for me?"

"'Course I did, just copied off my own. Got to make sure you get to Africa, and payment of chocolate is always welcome." The gratitude on Elijah's face was almost glowing, and uncomfortably Thomas pulled his arm back changing the subject. "How was matins, anyone mess up?"

"Not unless you count White getting bored and chucking stones during psalms. Mr. Darlington caught him at it, though, so White's staying back for three strokes."

"Only three? Is the slave driver sick or something?"

The expression Elijah gave him was pained. "Please don't call him that. Mr. Darlington's a wonderful choirmaster."

Thomas snorted derisively. "You say that because you’re soloist and he's never caned you before whereas half the pranksters in school have a bruised backside that says otherwise. The bastard gives out so many floggings Lord Derby could probably send him to whip Germans from the front. But enough of that," Thomas added quickly, seeing Elijah's lips thinning. "We've got what, fifteen minutes before history? Race you back to the school-house?"

"I can't, I have a singing lesson."

"In the cathedral? What's wrong with the school's music-room?"

"It's the acoustics; Mr. Darlington wants me to work on voice projection."

Thomas scowled. "Voice projection. You do realise finals are in a week, right? How do you expect to pass anything if you keep missing class for choir? Bad enough we had to do it in prep-school, but we're secondary now and the only reason you're even managing is because I tutor you. I know your voice hasn't broken yet but if you spoke to—"

"No. I love singing, I'm not quitting until I have to—" here Thomas's scowl deepened in exasperation and Elijah shrank into his surplice. "Are you mad at me?" he asked in a small voice.

Silently Thomas kicked himself; there was a reason some boys jeered Elijah as a sissy and while Thomas preferred to think of his friend as 'sensitive' the other students had a point. "No, I'm not. Singing's your thing, I know, I should stop pushing you to quit. Next time I do give me a punch." Elijah couldn't help but smile at this – to him – ridiculous idea and Thomas forced a grin, ruffling the other boy's dark hair. "All right, I'll cover you for class again but I expect chocolate in return, you hear? Chocolate."

Elijah blinked as Thomas began walking backwards down the path. "Just how do you expect me to get chocolate with a war shortage?"

"No idea!" Thomas spread empty hands. "But you're the one with the chorister's stipend so I'm sure you'll manage something! See you in class!"

He gave a cheeky salute before turning to join the tail of the crowd filtering out the gate. Elijah was watching him, he knew, but with back turned Thomas could let his grin disappear. Sixteen and still Elijah wanted to sing despite the cost to his schoolwork ... Thomas was seriously beginning to wonder if Elijah cared about their promise anymore, and the only reason he hadn't given up completely was because Elijah's voice had to break eventually. When that happened, his friend would have no choice but to quit.

Thomas just had to be patient.

Ten-forty. History would be starting soon. Grim-faced, Thomas began to run.

 

* * *

 

Quietly Elijah watched Thomas leave, the snug fit of the navy blazer over his shoulders and the way he wove through the crowd with the confidence of a bright student who gets away with more than he should. It was a confidence Elijah loved, but while he knew his friend loved him back it wasn't in the same way. Elijah had long accepted and was trying to move past this; it was just whenever Thomas did things for him ... the last of the crowd was disappearing now, leaving Elijah alone beneath the grey cathedral surrounded by trampled snow. Despite the surplice and thick cassock, Elijah shivered.

A bang from the heavy door behind him made him jump. Startled, Elijah turned to find another white-robed figure fleeing down the steps, tear-streaked eyes almost as red as his hair and sniffling. In such a state it wasn't surprising that Colin White didn't see Elijah immediately, but when he did he drew up short and glared. "What're you looking at, Baker," he snarled.

Elijah wisely didn't rise to his rival's bait. "Nothing," he said politely.

"Damn right it was nothing!" Colin snapped. Then he spotted the book in Elijah's arms. "What's that?"

"History."

"Your husband do your homework for you again, is it?" Elijah immediately coloured and Colin smirked, striding forward with head held high in a manner that almost negated the way he had been clutching his backside earlier. "Out of my way, faggot."

Quickly Elijah stepped aside before the other chorister could slam a shoulder into him, keeping his head down just in case his rival had any more stones. Only when Colin had passed and gone well down the path to the gates did Elijah finally feel safe. "Three strokes and crying like a girl," he muttered. "Wimp."

"Elijah."

Something prickled Elijah's chest at the sound of that voice, rich with a baritone's training. Briefly he took a deep breath to compose himself before turning to face the speaker with a smile Thomas would not have recognised. "Mr. Darlington. Are we to start now?"

"We can start, yes." Dressed in a sombre brown suit that reflected his eyes and hair the thirty-year-old choirmaster looked especially critical as he glanced over Elijah. "You shouldn't be outside like this – how would you sing if you caught a cold?"

"I was waiting for you, and I'm fine, really," Elijah reassured, stepping up to join the other in the shelter of the door's archway. Already he felt warmer, and when the choirmaster reached up to touch the back of his head he forgot the snow entirely.

"Does it hurt?" the man asked gently.

"Not really. White isn't that good a shot." Which was a lie, but Mr. Darlington didn't need to know that. Neither did Thomas, for that matter, and besides, the fingers in his hair were too wonderful to interrupt. Already they were drifting, hesitantly stroking his neck just above the surplice's ruffled collar, and Elijah closed his eyes, wondering if this time, finally, something more would happen.

It didn't. As if bitten the touch abruptly pulled away – disappointed, Elijah opened his eyes to find Mr. Darlington wrestling with the door-handle. "You should already be warmed up, so we'll just do a few scales to start," he was saying, the words clipped like a toneless staccato sequence. Noticeably he was avoiding looking at Elijah's face. "Once that's done we'll work on upper register support – I refuse to add the Allegri to the repertoire until you have those top Cs perfect. Understood?"

Silently Elijah gave a little sigh. "Yes sir," he said. Scales and upper register. Removed from any melodic context they were some of the most unexciting things ever, right down there with breathing exercises, but if Mr. Darlington wanted to work on those then work Elijah would, patiently and without complaint. Mostly. He could probably get away with a bit of complaining.

The door creaked open. Mr. Darlington stood to one side, waiting for Elijah to enter. Obediently Elijah stepped past, sneaking a glance at the choirmaster as he did so. Interestingly enough the man was still refusing to look at him directly, and Elijah bit his lip against the skip in his pulse wondering – again – if he was just imagining things. It had been a long time since his fascination with the unsmiling choirmaster had turned into something more, and while that certainly made lessons more interesting it was also making his life rather complicated. Thomas would be scandalised if he knew, but truth was that nowadays if Elijah wasn't singing he was imagining the choirmaster's fingers pressing down not on cold ivory but skin playing music of a far different kind.

Daydreams like that could get him into trouble. In many ways, they already had. Just not with Mr. Darlington.

Elijah wondered if he should do anything about that.

 

* * *

 

Boarding school dinners were never quiet, it being one of the few times of the day all students singing and not gathered together, but with European battlefields demanding and devouring soldiers by the thousands the dining hall nowadays was noticeably filled with the hollow absence of students and staff who had either been infected with patriotism or shamed into joining the war effort. Thomas for his part wanted nothing to do with the war – two years of fighting and casualty lists with no end in sight was dampening everyone's enthusiasm – and did his best to go about life as normal, which right now meant preparing for finals. He had his evening planned out: after dinner he would return to his room, finish off that last bit of geometry, then spend the rest of the night revising algebra with Elijah. Well, more like he'd spend the rest of the night teaching algebra to Elijah since his friend had missed so many classes in the hope he'd prevent Elijah from failing completely. Whatever, Thomas had his evening planned, which made it all the more exasperating at dinner when a junior student passed him an unexpected message:

"Mr. Darlington wants to see you."

Thomas looked up from his pudding, not sure if he had heard right. Seated beside him Elijah was also looking confused. "What'd you say?" Thomas asked the junior.

"Darlington. Asked to see you. His chambers, now."

Thomas and Elijah looked at each other. "What does Mr. Darlington want to see you for?" whispered Elijah, blue eyes wide.

Thomas shrugged. "No idea. I was out of choir long before he got here, I didn't even think Darlington knew my face. Guess I'll find out." He got up, wiping his mouth and dusting off his blazer. "Shouldn't take long, I'll see you in my room afterwards, all right, Eli?"

"Right," said Elijah, face unreadable, and then Thomas was weaving through chairs and hungry boys towards the door. He passed Colin White on the way, sitting at a corner table with friends, and received an unfriendly look as he passed. It was easily ignored – he'd beaten Colin up once for picking on Elijah and never let the red-head forget it – and then Thomas was in the hall heading towards the teachers' quarters where students never went without a summons. Summonses were usually for a flogging, but Thomas hadn't done anything that warranted one as of late, or at least he didn't think he had.

The choirmaster's rooms were on the third and top floor. Of course, the door was closed. Thomas took a deep breath then knocked.

"Enter."

Here we go. Back straight Thomas opened the door and went in. He found himself in a good-sized space that apparently was a dining-room, sitting-room and study all in one. There was small table to Thomas's left, a desk beneath the window, another door that presumably led to a bedroom, and to his right a pair of worn lounge chairs before the crackling fireplace. Standing in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine was the choirmaster. "Mr. Williams," Darlington said calmly. "Good evening."

"Evening, sir," replied Thomas, trying to be polite and not really managing. Warily he watched the figure before the fire; he'd never liked Mr. Darlington, who despite only being appointed some seven months ago after the old choirmaster's retirement had quickly established a reputation around school as an unsociable, unfriendly sort who was far more eloquent with a cane than words. Apparently Darlington had been choirmaster at an Oxford college, but why he would give up such a position to come to a small school in England's far north no one knew, though schoolyard gossip had gone through all sorts of reasons none of which Thomas liked. "You asked to see me?"

"I did, yes. Don't hover by the door, come over here." Darlington waited until Thomas stood beside one of the lounge chairs. "You used to be a chorister, yes?"

"Yes sir, from when I was nearly ten until when my voice broke three years ago."

"And you had a stint as soloist?"

"Yes sir." How did Darlington know about this? "It was only for a few months, though."

"Why is that?"

Thomas hesitated for a moment, mentally debating whether to be blunt or diplomatic, but considering his opinion of the choirmaster he couldn't be bothered with diplomacy. "I kept missing singing lessons so I got dumped. I didn't really care, and besides, Eli deserved the position more than me."

"By 'Eli' I'm going to presume you mean Elijah Baker," said Darlington, apparently finding something of great interest in the fireplace. The flames cast flickering shadows on his face. "And you're correct, Mr. Williams – Elijah is a wonderful soloist and a pleasure to teach, though it's a pity his father isn't more appreciative of his talent."

Thomas blinked. "Why do you say that, sir?"

"I suggested that Elijah invite his father to the Christmas concert. Elijah told it would be pointless because his father wouldn't be interested and has too much work anyway." Thomas didn't reply to this, not liking the idea that Elijah had been talking so much about himself to the choirmaster. Darlington placed his now-empty wine-glass on the fireplace's mantle; there was a small blue vase there, one that held a handful of white feathers rather than flowers. "But enough of that. The reason why I've asked to speak to you is because I have a request. I would like you to join the choir again."

There were several things Thomas could say to this, over half of which would get him flogged, so he cleared his throat with something polite. "Ah, with all due respect, sir, I left the choir because my voice broke, it's impossible for me to sing soprano any more."

"Who said anything about soprano? I need tenors and basses to replace the ones who ran off to the Continent wrapped up in all that idiocy about fighting for king and country. Even if you've never trained with your older voice, Williams, I know you can sing, I hear you every Sunday at church."

"I stand up the back."

"Exactly."

Thomas wasn't sure what to say to this, that or the choirmaster's earnestness that was making things difficult. "What voice would I be?" he asked suspiciously.

"From what I've heard? Tenor, most likely."

"Would it be just for the Christmas concert?"

"The Christmas concert, any other concert, even matins and evensong. You were a chorister for over four years so most of the music will be known to you, it'd just be a matter of learning a new voice-part. Besides," added Mr. Darlington, off-handedly though there was something strange about how he again preferred to look at the fire. "Elijah would like to perform with you again."

That was a low blow, and unsettling because until now Thomas had had no idea the choirmaster knew so much about him. He drew himself upright. "I'll think about it," he said curtly. One concert he could have lived with but regular church services? Absolutely not. "If you please, sir, I'm due to tutor someone this evening, may I be excused?"

If Darlington was disappointed he wasn't showing it. "Yes, you may go. But I'll expect an answer after finals."

"Yes sir," said Thomas, bowing perhaps a little mockingly before turning to go. Finals, now those were something to worry about. Darlington and his proposal? Not even worth considering, though he wouldn't say so immediately. Let the choirmaster wait and wonder for a little while, he had no authority over Thomas and right now all Thomas wanted to do was get back and ask Elijah just what he had been talking about with Darlington in music lessons, and why. Particularly the why part. Possibly before algebra study.

Darlington was looking into the fire again. Thomas left him to it; all teachers had their eccentricities and students learned quickly to ignore them. Whatever Darlington's eccentricity was, Thomas wasn't interested. It wouldn't have anything to do with him anyway.

 

* * *

 

Elijah had intended to follow Thomas after dinner and wait for him outside Mr. Darlington's rooms, if nothing else than to reassure the inexplicable prick of jealousy that had come up when Thomas had been summoned by the choirmaster, but he didn't get any further than the hallway before Colin White and two of his crew accosted him and pulled him into an empty study room.

"Fancy meeting you here, Baker," said Colin, putting on a show of surprise as if he hadn't just shoved Elijah down into a chair. He pulled up another chair for his friend, an alto chorister named Peter; the other student Andrew who like Thomas was an ex-chorister sat between Elijah and the door. Colin remained standing. "So where were you heading, hm? Off to hide from us in Williams's bed again?"

Peter and Andrew laughed rudely at this, their faces spread in too big a grin for Elijah's comfort. Elijah told himself to remain calm. "What do you want, White," he asked, trying to sound bored.

"A little faggot like you wouldn't know, but us three are still hungry and we know you made a trip to the tuck-shop on your way back from matins and got some chocolate. You're soloist, you shouldn't be eating the stuff, bad for your throat and all, so why don't you hand it over to those who can actually enjoy it?"

Colin had put a hand on Elijah's shoulder during this, and that hand had been squeezing down with every word. The red-head had grown a lot in the past two months, and no doubt his voice would be changing soon which was probably the reason why he was so desperate to get at least one solo before he lost his singing voice. Unfortunately for him Elijah was a much better singer and not one to share. "If you want to negotiate something why don't you sit down," Elijah said loudly. "Or is your bum still sore from the flogging this morning? You know, the one that had you crying like a girl?"

The hand on his shoulder clamped down as Peter and Andrew glanced quizzically at each other. "Shut up!" Colin hissed, but Elijah wasn't listening.

"Only three strokes and blubbering, I mean really even prep boys can take at least five or six before—"

The chair was kicked out from under him. Elijah went sprawling and whacked his head on the floor. "Watch it, princess," said Andrew casually. "Your knight in shining armour isn't around, so keep your mouth shut."

"Looky here." Elijah twitched as Peter stuck nosy hands into his blazer pockets and came up with a block of chocolate. "Here, Col, catch."

The chocolate went flying; too late, Elijah tried to snatch it back. Colin caught it easily and took a look. "Mm, Cadbury, brilliant choice, Baker. Thanks!"

"Give that back!" snapped Elijah, trying to scramble to his feet only to find the blurry ceiling as Andrew knocked him down again. When the fog cleared he was alone in the classroom. All that was left of the chocolate he'd bought for Thomas was a scattering of silver and purple paper. Wincing at the new bruise on the back of his head Elijah crawled over to clean it up before leaving – knowing Colin he'd find some way to get Elijah flogged for littering – promising that next concert when he was singing solo and Colin was seething in the choir-ranks he was going to turn around and give him the finger. And then find something painful to do to him. Maybe. Physical violence wasn't really Elijah's thing; the problem was that Colin knew it.

The halls were quiet after dinner, and Elijah made it to the top floor of the student quarters unmolested. Unlike the lower years in dormitories the seniors got their own rooms, and Thomas's was particularly nice as it was on a corner and had two windows instead of one. Thomas had given him the spare key, but it wasn't needed tonight because Thomas was already back and at his desk. "Hey," he said, smiling at his friend. "What took you so long?"

"I ... had to clean up," Elijah replied neutrally as he shut the door. Once last year after locking Colin in a cupboard for a few hours Colin had warned that if Elijah ever told Thomas about the bullying Colin would tell Thomas about the time he caught Elijah in bed after lights-out with hand between his legs and Thomas's name on his lips. Nowadays whenever Elijah did that he was usually thinking about Mr. Darlington, but since that was his secret alone Colin's threat still stood and the last thing Elijah wanted was to spoil what he had with Thomas. "I couldn't find any chocolate today, sorry, so we don't have study rations. What did Mr. Darlington want to see you about?"

"You'll never guess." Thomas, Elijah noticed, had already changed into pajamas and dressing-gown, and in the light his hair was burnished gold. "Darlington asked if I was interested in joining the choir again. As a tenor, he says it's because he needs replacements since so many have enlisted for the war."

"Oh." Relieved, Elijah sat down in the spare chair beside Thomas and leaned against his friend. Thomas absently put an arm around his shoulders. "Well, we have lost quite a few of the lower voices so it's not surprising Mr. Darlington is looking for people to join. So what did you say, are you going to sing?"

"Probably not. No offence, Eli, but you remember how little I liked the chorister timetable and besides this is my final year, I need to concentrate on getting into a university. Hey," added Thomas, looking down at Elijah as if he'd just thought of something, "do you talk to Darlington much? Actual talking I mean, not just about music lessons."

Elijah wondered what Thomas was going on about. He tried, he really did try to talk to Mr. Darlington but given the choirmaster's taciturn nature and the narrow scope of conversation in music lessons his efforts rarely went anywhere. "A little. He knows you and I are best friends, and I mentioned you used to be in choir, if that's what you're asking. "

"Did you say anything about your father?"

Elijah blinked up into hazel eyes. "I might have? I think it came up when we were talking about the Christmas concert. Why do you ask?"

"Darlington said something about how it was a pity your father didn't come to hear you in any concerts. I was surprised because I didn't think you talked about your father with anyone except me." Thomas shrugged. "Bit of a weird conversation, though Darlington did say that you were a wonderful soloist and a pleasure to teach."

Something warm crept up Elijah's spine and bloomed in his cheeks. "Really?"

"Uh huh. Anyway, that's all Darlington wanted to see me about, so how 'bout we get on with algebra?"

"All right." Algebra was a subject Elijah disliked intensely, but since Thomas was spending time and effort to make sure he passed he would at least try even if the whole night would go by before Thomas was satisfied with his progress. He'd have to make sure to return to his own bed tonight, though; the urges that took him in the darkest hours of the night were coming more often as of late, and even if the face he imagined was no longer Thomas's the last thing he wanted was for his closest friend to see that other side of himself.

Thomas shifted in his seat, pulling Elijah closer to look at the book, body heat shared against the chill. Elijah sighed a little, taking pleasure from it, but then he caught sight of the black-and-white photo of a herd of elephants in a grassy savannah Thomas had tacked above the desk, and inwardly winced. It had been a long time since Elijah had thought of elephants, or lions for that matter. That childhood dream had long been forgotten, outgrown like a favourite toy, but Elijah hadn't dared to tell Thomas yet.

Elijah probably never would.

 

* * *

 

December's onset brought with it all the usual ills: snowed-out sporting activities, students laid up with colds, term finals, and for the choristers, extra rehearsals for the Christmas concert which of course ate into study time. Thomas tried his best to prepare Elijah for the tests but most of the time he was simply helping Elijah catch up and obviously every night Elijah spent in his room for tutoring was a night of his own revision sacrificed. He wouldn't have minded so much if his efforts had been worthwhile, however as things turned out Elijah not only did badly but apologised to Thomas for it, as if the only reason he was even trying was to keep his friend happy. In a way the apology upset Thomas even more than his friend's poor performance – he himself had only managed to stay on at the school by earning a scholarship even his father couldn't argue with – and the thought that his friend was not only failing but not caring was a painful disappointment. He kept it to himself though, not wanting to spoil things when he left to go home at the end of term.

"Will you be safe?" asked Elijah worriedly. They were in Thomas's room, and Elijah was helping him pack. "Apparently the Germans are starting to use planes now, not just airships."

"Sure I will. The Germans aren't going to bomb tiny Kelmscott when London's just a few miles away." Thomas threw a shoe into his trunk. "Really, Eli, I'm less worried about a bomb falling on my head than I am about my father coming home from the pub drunk and doing something to poor mum. Hand me those shirts, will you?"

Elijah passed over the pile of shirts he had folded. "You definitely can't stay for the Christmas concert, then."

"Given that how my mum's letters have been gushing over how much she's looking forward to seeing me again, no. Much as I'd like to hear your solo that's the way it is." The pile of shirts was sticking out of the trunk preventing it from closing. Thomas glared at it for a moment before turning to give Elijah an encouraging smile. "You'll be fine without me. You sing good enough to knock everyone's socks off."

"... I suppose."

Thomas looked at his friend, the way the weak sunlight fell on his face. Elijah's lips had thinned in the manner they always did when he wasn't happy about something, and was folding Thomas's pants with far too much concentration. "You know," said Thomas carefully, "if you wanted, when the concert is over you could always come down to stay with me for the holidays. The teachers won't care, and you don't have to tell your dad, he can just think you're staying at school for Christmas like always."

Elijah shook his head. "It's fine, Tom, I don't want to trouble your family. Besides, I remember last time I went – your father doesn't exactly approve of me."

To this Thomas could only grimace. Didn't approve was an understatement; the first and only time Elijah had spent the holidays with him his father had – admittedly in a drunken fit – yelled at Thomas that he shouldn't be consorting with pansy fairy boys, and in front of Elijah himself no less. "Point. Still, I feel bad about you spending hols here by yourself." He sighed, finally deciding on halving the shirt pile and stowing the extras in his wardrobe – he'd be back in three weeks anyway. "You have the spare key to my room, so feel free to hide here whenever you want while I'm away. I told White that if I catch even a whiff of him in here when I get back I'll break his legs so he shouldn't dare bother you. If he does do anything to you while I'm away you tell me, all right?"

"Sure," said Elijah, though there was something forced about his answer. Thomas put it down to disappointment over him not going to the concert but as he'd said, there was nothing he could do about it. Elijah would just to have to accept it.

They packed in silence for a little while, Elijah folding clothes, Thomas trying to make everything in the trunk fit. The lack of conversation felt hollow, and for the first time Thomas wondered at the distance that had grown between them. That, and how long it had been there. "Hey, Eli," he said lightly, trying to restart some sort of communication, "I heard Darlington's the teacher that stays here over Christmas. You think he's going to be better or worse to live with than school-master Davies?"

"What?" As if jerked Elijah's head shot up to stare at him. "Mr. Darlington is going to be looking after m— the students not going home for Christmas?"

"Uh, yes." Why were Elijah's eyes so wide at this news? "Apparently he didn't even pull a straw for it, he just volunteered. Something about not having a family to spend Christmas with, so he'd might as well stay and let Davies see his grandchildren. Better watch out – Darlington may be a conchie with all those white feathers, but he packs a hard whipping hand and I'm sure he'll be a stickler for house rules even on holidays. No talking after lights-out, no running in the halls and such. Yet another reason for you to hide up here, right?"

"Right!"

Elijah went back to folding pants, a small smile on his face. It made Thomas frown, wondering why Elijah seemed mighty happy about this latest piece of news, but he didn't question it. Although Elijah's marks had slipped in all his subjects his skill and enthusiasm for singing proportionally increased and it was only natural that of all the teaching staff Mr. Darlington was the one Elijah got along well with. A bit too well, actually. On the other hand, if it meant that Elijah had someone else to look after him and shield him from the likes of Colin White, then what could Thomas do other than approve?

A neatly folded pile of uniform pants was placed in the trunk. "That's the last of it," said Elijah. "Don't close the lid yet, there's something I want to give you."

Thomas blinked as Elijah knelt and reached under his bed. "You didn't—" Elijah stood up with a huge grin and a medium-sized box wrapped in coloured paper, and Thomas shook his head in disbelief. "Oh, Eli, you didn't have to."

"Sure I do. It's not my fault your birthday falls after Christmas when you've gone home for the holidays. Ahem." Closing his eyes Elijah cleared his throat, then began to sing. "Happy birthday to you ..."

Like spun crystal Elijah's voice floated on the air, delicate and clear that for a moment seemed to transform Thomas's small room into a cathedral. Touched beyond words Thomas could only smile, even blush a little – disappointed as he was with Elijah's marks there was a reason his best friend was principal soloist and this was it: his ability to sing pure music of extraordinary brilliance that made anyone and everyone sit up and listen in awe. And right now he was performing for Thomas alone.

The song finished. Thomas let out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding. "Well," he said finally, and then he had to stop because he didn't know what to say. "Um. That was ... great. Fantastic, I mean, ah – damn." He took a breath, tried again, this time looking straight into Elijah's face. "You were wonderful. Thank you, Eli."

Elijah bowed extravagantly. "You're welcome. Now, you're not allowed to open this present until it's your actual birthday, so how 'bout I put it in your trunk before you close it up, hm?"

"Sure."

Elijah put the present on top of the clothes, and together they tried to close the trunk only to slip and fail, and when they tried again they managed to get it to shut for all of two seconds before the lid popped open again. Only when Thomas had exasperatedly pounded his clothes flat and Elijah was sitting on the lid did they finally get the catches to close, and then they could cheer their success over chocolate and some brandy swiped from the kitchen. The brandy made Elijah's blue eyes sparkle, and laughing into them Thomas found himself wondering what it would be like if he said to hell with going back to his maudlin mother and drunkard father and simply stayed here with Elijah, just the two of them, perhaps studying or singing together, or maybe feeding each other chocolate in bed.

Thomas blamed such thoughts on the brandy. He went home the next day.

 

* * *

 

Christmas Eve. Although every chorister worth his surplice knew the Messiah off by heart under Mr. Darlington they had been mercilessly rehearsing for the concert until even Elijah with his love of music wished he could for once fall asleep without endless semiquavers in his head. His music lessons had been even worse; the solo carol Mr. Darlington picked out for him looked simple on paper but had enough high sustained notes to be troublesome and so Mr. Darlington made him practice over and over again until he felt faint. The only thing that made lessons worthwhile were the moments when Mr. Darlington, in trying to get Elijah to open his mouth fully, would place his hands on Elijah's throat or chin to physically show him what to do. Once he even put his fingers in Elijah's mouth, and Elijah had been so startled the first and only thing he could do was blush and freeze, which immediately made Mr. Darlington pull away. The choirmaster had looked at nothing but music and piano keys for the rest of the lesson.

(That night Elijah had guiltily taken advantage of the privacy of Thomas's room and physically imagined Mr. Darlington taking the fingers-in-mouth moment with him down to the music-room floor until he gasped into his friend's pillow. He had to wash the sheets after that, but it wasn't the first time.)

In the end, but, all the hard work paid off. The cathedral was packed, the town orchestra enthusiastic, and even though the voice balance had been slightly tipped towards the upper voices despite the last-minute tenors and basses drummed up from town the Messiah performance wonderful. Elijah's solo had been particularly good, exhilarating even, for he loved the electric thrill of standing alone with all eyes and ears fixed on him as his voice soared beneath the vaulted ceiling, and when he had finished Mr. Darlington looked almost euphoric and Colin looked like he had swallowed a frog. That, in Elijah's opinion, made everything worth it – along with the thunderous applause, of course.

When the choir and orchestra gathered in the cathedral crypt afterwards for congratulations, Elijah was still giddy.

"Good work, everyone," said Mr. Darlington, already out of his choir robes which were folded neatly on a bench. The crypt, despite the stories that were told to frighten juniors, was large with good lights and in any case the novelty of centuries-dead priests quickly wore off the choristers who regularly used the crypt as a back-stage space, to the point that the tombs were treated as all-purpose tables. The stone walls and ceiling also amplified the buzz of relieved and happy students making Darlington raise his voice. "Quiet, please." The chatter died down. "I've had some wonderful feedback from members of the audience, all praising your performance so you can take that home to your parents. I'd like to particularly thank those gentlemen who responded to my request to fill the lower voice ranks—" here there was a round of applause and cheers, "—and also the orchestra—" More cheers. "—and of course, finally, to all of you boys. You can be proud of what you've worked here tonight, and go home tomorrow morning for a well-deserved holiday. Merry Christmas."

The cheers that followed this could have woken the dead. Sitting at the back Elijah was quiet, savouring the headiness of the moment, and watching the choirmaster. Tonight the man in shirtsleeves seemed a stranger from the stern and suited teacher of the music room: Mr. Darlington was animated, smiling even, and his dark eyes still seemed filled with the cathedral's lights as the choristers for once dropped their usual respect to shake his hand and wish him merry Christmas. All of them would be gone tomorrow to start their short holiday, and Elijah couldn't wait. Still, however, he made himself be patient, and eventually the mass of musicians began to make their way up the stairs back into the cathedral to head back to the school-house until, finally, the last was gone. Elijah was alone with Mr. Darlington.

Mr. Darlington looked at him as if only just realising he was there. Elijah looked back; the adrenalin of performance was still beating in his veins. Then he smiled, stepped forward thinking to hell with this, I'm going to do it as he ran over and caught the teacher in a heady embrace. For a heartbeat Mr. Darlington hesitated, but then he too was wrapping arms around Elijah, clutching him with the violence of absolute joy. "You were brilliant, absolutely brilliant," he whispered into Elijah's ear. "Never have I heard anyone sing so beautifully, you were perfect, Elijah, just perfect—"

Elijah kissed him. Mr. Darlington shut up. It lasted a delirious heartbeat only, and when Elijah pulled away the choirmaster's eyes were wide in shock. "You—" He broke off, caught his breath, tried again. "What are you doing?"

The choirmaster's voice sounded so flat, so mechanical, and stabbed Elijah in the gut. What had he done? Had he been mistaken like he had with Thomas, had he been imagining all this time that there had been something in Mr. Darlington's gaze when he looked at him? Elijah found his mouth dry. "I just – I mean, sir, I—"

"I'm not talking about what you just did, I'm talking about you. I thought you loved your friend. Thomas Williams."

For a moment Elijah could do nothing but stare, replaying those words in his head. Mr. Darlington was looking down at him, dark brown hair already damp from the exertion of conducting, and although his expression was confused there was also ... longing? Plus his hands were still tangled in Elijah's surplice. "Tom is my best friend, but nothing more," Elijah found himself saying, face flushed. "He's not like me."

Slowly, ever so slowly, Mr. Darlington reached up to touch his face. "And how did you know I am?" he whispered.

"I don’t know." Hand on his cheek, his throat, just like all those times in music lessons but now feeling so different. Burning. "I just did."

The hand travelled to brush his lips, hesitant as if Darlington couldn't quite believe this was happening. Elijah shared that opinion, but unlike the choirmaster thought little about consequences. His lips parted, once more taking the choirmaster's fingers into his mouth, and that seemed to make up Darlington's mind; he pulled his hand away and replaced it with a fierce kiss that craved as much as it gave. Triumphantly, Elijah met him.

What happened afterwards passed in a blur to Elijah. He vaguely recalled his choir-robes falling away in a drape of maroon and white, vaguely recalled Mr. Darlington spreading them out so that when they sank to the floor he lay on cloth instead of cold stone, and vaguely recalled Mr. Darlington eagerly stripping off his shirt and bundling it beneath his head, but they were practical details and irrelevant considering that was kissed and touched all the way down in a way that spoke little of thoughtfulness, only starvation. Elijah had never kissed before but it was easy to learn, especially beneath a teacher who paid as much lip-service to his neck and chest as his mouth until he felt almost feverish with need. Soon there was a hand pushing between his thighs, a strong, pianist's hand, and Elijah shivered as Mr. Darlington began to stroke him there, far more satisfying than what he had ever done to himself, only to squeak in startlement as the choirmaster bent his head to hungrily take him into his mouth. Sensation took him then, almost frightening in its intensity, and then Elijah could do nothing more but buck and moan, trying to push himself further into the man's hot mouth to be sucked only to be forced down, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his own surplice. Elijah heard himself begging. "Please, sir, oh god—"

It ended then, loudly and messily. Elijah gulped for air, eyes wide as the trembles in his body crested through him, and for the first time realised there were stars carved into the crypt's ceiling. The hands on his hips were heavy; there was sweat-soaked hair on the inside of his legs. "Are you all right?" Mr. Darlington asked.

Elijah closed his eyes as his toes uncurled, indulging the blissful looseness of his body. He could feel warm breath on his softened cock. "Yes."

"I'm glad to hear it." Cold air as the choirmaster stood up, and after a bit of effort Elijah managed to raise himself up on his elbows to look at him. The choirmaster still had his pants on, but it seemed that fact was about to drastically change. "Because unless you say something now, I'm going to keep going."

Elijah blinked as the belt came off. "Wh-what?"

"You noticed yourself, I'm like you." The pants came down, were stepped out of, and then Elijah could only stare at the erection that was presented to him. "There is, however, a significant difference: I know what I'm doing."

Elijah swallowed as the choirmaster licked his hand and rubbed himself before kneeling beside him; he had an idea of what was coming, and while he'd be lying if he said he didn't want it, he would also be lying if he said he wasn't a little scared. "Will it hurt?"

A small, unexpected smile. "Not if you relax. Turn over."

Slipping a little on the white cloth, Elijah did so. Once again there were hands on his hips, this time pulling him up onto his knees, and Elijah couldn't help but make a small tense sound. "Shh," said Mr. Darlington, fingers stroking the soft inside of his thighs, forcing him to unclench. "I'll take it slow, I don't have any oil and I don't want you to hurt anymore than you do, never have."

The stroking was moving higher, deeper. Elijah's eyes rolled in pleasure as he was spread. "But how long have you wanted me?" he murmured hazily, almost dreaming.

Hard heat against his entrance. "Since your first music lesson," was the answer, and then Mr. Darlington pushed in.

Elijah gasped, arching his head back with the thrust – it hurt, despite Mr. Darlington's assurance, really did, but then there was another push, slower, more languid as if Mr. Darlington was trying to draw things out, and Elijah moaned brokenly as the invasion overwhelmed him. One arm wrapped around his chest to clutch him, pull him in as he moved again ... he could hear Mr. Darlington's harsh breathing in his ear now, even a name once or twice, and he found himself pushing back against the choirmaster trying to meet and take him further. That, if anything, undid what little control Mr. Darlington was exercising and soon the thrusts came faster, striking hard and deep until Elijah gave up trying to anticipate them and simply squeezed his eyes shut, riding the pain as it inexorably rounded out to something incredibly intimate that throbbed and gloried in the way the choirmaster filled him—

He felt Mr. Darlington buck against his back, the man expelling a hoarse cry – Jon – as he came warm in Elijah's body. Elijah shuddered with it, his cock spasming despite himself, and then, just like that, it was over.

Elijah was somewhat disappointed.

Heartbeats against his spine, then, a little awkwardly, the choirmaster withdrew leaving him empty. Suddenly Elijah realised how cold the air was in the crypt. He was too limp to want to do anything about it, but, other than collapse and curl up on his now crumpled and damp choir-robes and take in what had just happened. Painful though some of it had been – still was, actually – it had been terribly thrilling, and he knew that from here there would be no going back.

Sweat-cooled skin pulling up alongside his. Mr. Darlington's hand was touching his face again, and looking up at him Elijah could only luxuriate in how dark his eyes were. "Did you get what you wanted?" the man asked softly.

"... Almost." Elijah caught the hand in his own. "I want more."

 

* * *

 

They met every night, sometimes every afternoon, usually in Mr. Darlington's bed but occasionally in the music-room, and once, to Elijah's mischievous delight, the library. There was only the two of them at school, after all, and they had almost a fortnight before the first students arrived back for spring term. Every time Elijah learnt more, took more, and even though he was worked just as hard in music lessons there was a new intimacy to the choirmaster's admonitions, one that encouraged Elijah to sing louder and higher.

"Your voice is at its strongest now," Mr. Darlington said one lesson. "Presuming it isn't going to break any time soon there's a new piece I plan on having the choir perform next term, and it has a solo that's perfect for you."

Elijah grinned; he was singing with his shirt off, ostensibly so they could do some diaphragm work but really they both knew how the lesson was going to finish. "Is it long?" he asked.

"The piece is a requiem, and you get the whole Pie Jesu to yourself." The choirmaster gave him a small smile from the piano. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Hm." Elijah straddled Mr. Darlington's lap and kissed him deeply. "Let's see after the lesson, all right?"

It wasn't all just fun and singing, though. Sometimes the two of them walk in the school grounds and talk about songs they liked, performances they had done, and also themselves. For Elijah who hadn't been able to talk to Thomas properly for what felt like years this was a wonderful release, and he found himself telling Mr. Darlington about his schoolwork, the bullying, even his father who other than an impersonal package of sweets and clothes was not heard from at all. In return Mr. Darlington told him about Oxford, the choir tradition that had taught him, and also, the reason why he left.

"There was a chorister there, one of the tenors, his name was Jonathan. Seventeen years old, dark-haired like you but with green eyes and a voice like honey. He shared my feelings, and at night would sneak up to my rooms for love or I'd sentence him to a flogging for some reason for another and we would meet in secret that way. He liked strawberries, which of course you can't get in winter; I remember spending half my stipend getting some in from the continent when he was sick once, though of course they were frozen when they arrived."

"What happened to him?" asked Elijah; they were in Mr. Darlington's fire-warmed rooms, drinking in the New Year with wine.

"We were caught. By the college dean. Someone had found out about us, and I was turned out in disgrace. Jonathan was taken home by his parents. Last I heard he'd been one of the first to sign up for the war and his name was on one of the lists of dead from Ypres."

"... I'm sorry."

Mr. Darlington lifted his wine-glass in a silent salute to a ghost then drained it. When the glass was put down he was smiling again, albeit forcedly. "It's all right. It's past, and besides, I have you now."

Elijah didn't say anything to this. "Tom said you were a conchie," he replied instead, nodding at the bouquet of white feathers on the mantle. "Is that why you're not over there fighting?"

"I don't want to go, simple as that. Also thus far I've been lucky enough not to get a conscription notice." Mr. Darlington poured himself another glass. "Though speaking of your friend Thomas, he never gave me an answer about the choir. Do you know why?"

Elijah laughed. "Tom wants to get into university, not skip classes for church singing and music rehearsals. He probably didn't bother to give you an answer because as far as he's concerned you've got nothing to do with him and he has better things to worry about."

"I see." Mr. Darlington didn't seem at all offended by this. "I asked him for you, you know."

It took a second for that to hit Elijah. "What?"

"I asked your friend to sing not just because I need the tenors – which I do – but because I thought you would like to sing with him again, even if it was just once. You love him, right?"

Elijah didn't know if it was the wine that was making his cheeks heat or irritation. "I told you, Tom's not like me," he retorted. "Can we not talk about Tom, please? He's not going to sing in choir again, you can take my answer as his, and besides, it's holidays, he's not here. I am."

"All right, all right," Mr. Darlington soothed. Elijah sighed with relief, watching the choirmaster draw near, and then he was being kissed, pushed down into the worn lounge chair and fondled until eventually his pants were around his ankles and Mr. Darlington was shoved between his legs. The choirmaster could be less gentle now, and made Elijah twist and spread with the teasing until Elijah pleaded to be taken only to cry out when he came. Delightful, naughty stuff, really, but Elijah was under no illusions – while Elijah felt certainly something for the choirmaster it wasn't what he treasured for his best friend. He was hoping, however, that if he tried hard enough somehow between now and next term one feeling would replace the other, and as Thomas's spare key lay forgotten in Elijah's shirt pocket and Elijah's shirt regularly lay on Mr. Darlington's floor, Elijah thought that short space would be enough.

Then, in the first week of January, term started again, and Thomas came back to school.

 

* * *

 

Thomas glared at the page of French before him. Last time he'd looked the words had made perfect sense in his head, but this morning they were refusing to behave and Thomas was considering chucking the book out the first-floor window. Which was unfair to the book, since it wasn't its fault Thomas was in a sour mood. Between his father drinking away shop troubles, his mother ineffectually trying to keep order and the odd German zeppelin terrifying the countryside Thomas's Christmas holiday hadn't been much of a holiday at all, and the only bright spot had been opening Elijah's present after Boxing Day to find a mix of chocolates and toffees covering a book about trains and ships. Inside the cover had been written, For Tom, happy 18th birthday and thank you for everything, love Eli, which had been wonderful and warm until it hit Thomas that being eighteen meant he was now liable for conscription. That had been the proverbial rotten cherry on top of his non-holiday, and it had hung over his head through his return to the relative sanctuary of school where he'd been hoping to settle back into a normal routine of class, residency, and Elijah.

Except that hadn't happened. For some reason, Elijah was now avoiding him.

The French was starting to blur now, along with the school-master's droning. With an exasperated sigh under his breath Thomas pushed the book away and looked to stare out the classroom window. Elijah would be having a music lesson right now, his second in three days, so once again he wasn't in class. Thomas had invited him to his room last night to finish off last year's brandy, but Elijah had turned him down saying something about a concert rehearsal. Last night had been a Wednesday night. Concert rehearsals were on Fridays. What's more, that had been the third invitation Elijah had declined since the beginning of spring term.

Something wasn't making sense.

Across the courtyard, one level down, were the windows of the music room. If Thomas cocked his head right and the clouds behaved, he could look right through them. Since the wind was sweeping the cloudy sky and French currently nonsensical, he did.

It was difficult to see past the window bars, but there seemed to be a scuffle going on in the music room. One figure in dark brown who could only be the choirmaster had a smaller figure in the school's navy uniform pinned against the piano and wrists clasped between his hands. The smaller figure seemed to be struggling to break free, but succeeded only in making the larger figure press closer. The smaller figure froze.

Thomas stared. Then the clouds came back.

The rest of morning classes passed in a haze as Thomas tried to watch both the music-room windows and the clock at the same time. When class was finally let out for lunch he nearly flew out the door and ran to the dining hall where he found Elijah carrying two trays. "Tom!" said Elijah in delight. "They've given us chicken soup today; guess they're trying to make sure none of us fall sick. Here."

Before Thomas could say anything Elijah handed him a tray with a large bowl of soup and a roll of bread. Thomas almost spilled it as Elijah led them through the other students to a free table. "I wish they'd put a bit more variety into meals," Elijah was saying. "I know the war's caused shortages but this is the second time this week we've had—"

"Did you have a music lesson just then?" demanded Thomas as they sat down.

"Uh huh. We started on my solo for the February concert." Elijah broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into his bowl. "The sustained notes are going to be a killer; I have to sing them with practically no backing other than organ chords—"

"Did Darlington do anything to you?"

"Unless you count making me sing top Cs until my head hurt, no." Dip, drip, chew, swallow. "Why do you ask?"

"You—" Thomas broke off. Elijah was focused on his lunch, carefully lifting bread out of his soup bowl so as to not make a mess. His wrists were unmarked. More than that, Elijah didn't seem to be in any kind of distress at all, far from it. In fact, it seemed to Thomas that his friend's face was almost ... glowing?

Blue eyes blinked innocently at him. "Tom? Is something wrong?"

It took a moment for Thomas to speak. "No. Nothing's wrong." He picked up his bread and began to eat. Pretended not to see the way Elijah did the same as if he hadn't just told a bald-faced lie to his best friend.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, right before Evensong, Thomas excused himself from class, strode over to the music-room and, completely ignoring the scales being sung inside, shoved the door open. "Excuse me, sir," he said crisply.

Mr. Darlington looked up from the piano his face black with irritation. His interrupted student – Colin White, part of Thomas's brain noted – stared at Thomas in astonishment. For a moment it seemed that the choirmaster would yell, but then he realised who it was. "What is it, Williams?" Darlington asked, mostly civil though there was a definite underlay of severe impatience.

Thomas refused to be intimidated. "I just realised, sir, that I never gave you an answer last year. About the choir, I mean."

"What are you saying?"

"I'll sing." He met the other's startled gaze, daring a reaction – I'm watching you, bastard. "Next concert, I'll sing in your choir."

Part Two