For Whom Do You Sing
by Leareth

"Are you sure you should be coming here still?"

"Mm, it's long past lights-out, everyone's asleep. If someone did me leave they'd probably just presume I've gone to Tom's room like I used to."

"What does Thomas think?"

"Tom thinks I'm asleep."

"You're playing a dangerous game. How do you know your friend isn't watching you every night the way he watches in rehearsal?"

"Don't be ridiculous, sir, he hasn't found anything out—"

"But he suspects. Your friend is worried about you, Elijah, and he already knows something is up -- why else would he suddenly change his mind about the choir? Welcome as his voice is it does make things complicated and I've already been turned out of one school in disgrace; a second time and I might as well enlist in the army for all the future I'll have."

"...are you telling me to leave?"

"I'm telling you the reality of the situation, and that if we want this to continue we're going to have to be careful. That means no falling asleep in my bed anymore like you were about to do."

"I was?"

"Oh yes."

"Would you have woken me up?"

"Most certainly."

"How would you do that?"

"With a kiss, though whether or not it would go on your lips is yet to be decided."

"Mm, that sounds exciting. What are my other options—ah!"

"Let me show you."

 

* * *

 

[February 1917]

 

Warm-up. The stones of the cathedral's crypt were buzzing as choristers picked notes at random making them swell from whispers to fortissimo and back again. Standing with the tenors in cassock and surplice (had the ruffled collar always been this itchy?) Thomas looked over to where the sopranos were clustered practicing high notes. Elijah stood in the middle of this group, and he seemed to be leading the whole exercise. He was not looking at Thomas.

Thomas's lips thinned. Although Elijah had been delighted last month when he found out about Thomas rejoining the choir that delight had quickly turned into something approximating irritation as Thomas, unable to get the image of the choirmaster pinning his friend over the piano out of his head, spent the entirety of singing rehearsals watching either Elijah or Mr. Darlington trying to find confirmation of his suspicions. Of course he never saw anything, but then again he never saw anything to dissuade his suspicions either, especially considering that every time he tried to ask Elijah about what happened in the music-room Elijah either changed the subject or ignored his questions entirely. Already it had led to a couple of quarrels, quarrels after which it was usually Thomas to make the first move to making up. Elijah always accepted, but it never stopped them from having another fight.

Something had – was, happening with Elijah. Thomas was sure it was all that bastard Darlington's fault, and once this concert was over he was going to do his damned best to find out exactly what.

Once this concert was over ...

Thomas hadn't sung in a concert for over three years.

Heavy steps from the stair-well. The crypt-full of choristers fell quiet as Mr. Darlington appeared in the doorway. "Line up," he ordered, unsmiling and critical. "We're on."

 

* * *

 

Stepping onto the cathedral dais Elijah scanned the nave as he always did before a concert trying to judge how full it was. From the looks of things over half the town had paid to see the best choral singers this end of England – that, or they all wanted a distraction from the increasingly despondent news from the continent. Whether or not they would get that Elijah wasn't sure, as tonight's performance was a requiem in honour of all the young men who had gone off to war and never come back. Young men like Mr. Darlington's Jonathan.

The small town orchestra stood up, and the audience broke out into polite applause as Mr. Darlington came out onto the floor. He bowed, and Elijah felt a surge of pride: the choirmaster was resplendent in white and had all eyes upon him, but Elijah was the only one who knew what the robes concealed. Maybe after the concert he could indulge himself in taking those robes off – presuming he could slip away from Thomas, that is. It wasn't that Elijah minded his friend suddenly joining the choir with him, in fact it made him happy; it was just that it made things awkward. Make that very awkward, and in more ways than one, but there was no time to think about that now because Mr. Darlington was lifting the conductor's baton to bring in the orchestra ... and from then on there was nothing but music in Elijah's head.

 

* * *

 

Three years between performances is a long time, and in Thomas's case his three year break was starting to negate whatever concert experience he had gained as a chorister. Suddenly all his concerns and suspicions over Elijah and Mr. Darlington seemed puny in comparison to the fact that he was standing in front of what seemed to be a thousand people wearing a white dress with a ruffled collar, and even though there were other singers around him the harmonies in this piece were such that should any mistake it would be instantly apparent and magnified by the cathedral's arched ceiling. Given how long it had been since his last concert, Thomas couldn't help but dread that that 'anyone' would be him.

Something of this panic must have shown in his face. Mr. Darlington caught his eye from the conductor's podium, and Thomas blinked as he realised the choirmaster was giving him a reassuring smile. Then he brought them in.

 

Requiem aeternam

 

The Introit surfaced above the orchestra's chord like the first hint of winter sunrise. Thomas felt his head ringing with the resonance and briefly wondered where his voice was before the old choirmaster's adage was thought: if you can't distinguish your voice from your companions you have all created music. Already old habits thought forgotten were asserting themselves – back straight, rounded mouth, eyes out of the score – and Thomas fixed his gaze on Darlington's hands as they pulled the choir into a crescendo, settling into the music like a warm bed so that by the time the Offetoire came around he was actually enjoying himself. Now that they were actually performing instead of picking the music to soulless pieces in rehearsal Thomas could finally hear how beautiful this requiem was; it was peaceful, almost like a lullaby, and as it moved into the Sanctus with its water-like strings and floating soprano-and-tenor exchanges Thomas couldn't help but think that if there were any ghostly soldiers listening in they ought to be pretty content at their send off. No wonder Elijah still wanted to sing if he was getting music like this all the time.

The Sanctus grew softer, drawing to its close. Elijah's solo was next, and Thomas couldn't wait.

 

* * *

 

The first few rows of the audience, Elijah noticed as he stepped forward, looked as if they were being carried on a particularly peaceful dream, and there was no small amount of people with handkerchiefs to their faces for whom the music was particularly poignant. No doubt these were the ones who had lost relatives to the monster that was the war on the continent, and it would be to those that Elijah had to particularly sing. His task, so Mr. Darlington had whispered in the dark last night, was to be the angel who asked the lord to lay their loved ones to rest. Pie Jesu Domine, the man had said, Merciful Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest. You're imploring for those who have lost their lives to be given peace. Sing that to them.

All right, I will, Elijah had replied. For you.

He remembered the choirmaster smiling at that.

Elijah took his place beside the conductor's podium. Met Mr. Darlington's eye and nodded. Somewhere behind him Colin White was glaring and Thomas was also watching. Then the organ started, and it was his turn to sing.

 

Pie Jesu Domine
Dona eis requiem

 

It was hard, supporting the long phrases and keeping them sounding as languid as possible. On the other hand it was absolutely gorgeous music, a pleasure to sing, and he threw himself into it, drawing out the crescendos and diminuendos as much as he dared in such a simple melody, determined by the end of it to have at least someone weep. It went perfectly until he turned to the final page and realised he didn't have it.

Wildly Elijah looked down at his music, singing the next bar by memory – he'd practiced this enough times by now – as he tried to figure out if he'd turned two pages at once or done something else. He hadn't, because his next page just wasn't there. What was there, however, was a scribbled and graffitied piece of paper that was haphazardly filled with insults Elijah had so often heard from Colin and his mates, and also some lewdly creative sketches of characters who apparently were Elijah and Thomas with ridiculously sized body parts fucking each other into the paper. Scrawled beside it was the caption, Sleepovers in the senior's quarters!

Elijah was shocked. Elijah stopped singing.

The orchestra trailed off, allowing silence to fall upon the cathedral like a bomb. Too late Elijah realised what had happened, that it was just him alone standing there in front of everyone staring at him wondering what had gone wrong and he wasn't sure if he was blushing or the blood was draining from his face because he had been through enough concerts to know that if something went wrong in a performance that would be the only thing the audience remembered and to hell with the music. Desperately he cast a glance at Mr. Darlington; the choirmaster's expression was unreadable but he caught Elijah's look and quickly summoned the orchestra to give a bar's lead-in at the point Elijah had stopped. Elijah would have preferred to fall through the floor, but he made himself sing from that point from memory trying his best to pretend that nothing had gone wrong. He sang to the end, but compared to the heavenly purity he had started with the end was tense and flat. Never had Elijah been so relieved to get off the dais and return to the relative safety of numbers in the soprano ranks, though they did give him questioning sympathetic smiles. Colin and Peter, they just ignored him. He couldn't see Thomas.

On the conductor's podium, Mr. Darlington's jaw was set in a manner that promised a later explosion when not in public, but still he lifted his baton for the next movement, the Agnus Dei. From here on to the end of the concert it would be just the choir and a short baritone solo sung by a local professional, meaning Elijah was safe. He dreaded to think what would happen when the concert was over and they were all back-stage, though.

When finally the concert finished the applause was thunderous, the praise effusive, but the one thing everyone was heard to mention as they exited and began to go home was pity about that poor boy who forgot his music; the music would have been perfect otherwise.

And then, the cathedral was empty, and the choir gathered in the crypt.

 

* * *

 

"Explain yourself."

"I can't, sir."

"You can't? Why not!"

"I just can't, sir."

"May I remind you, Mr. Baker, that I do not appreciate it when my hard work of whipping this choir together and individually teaching its members in order to maintain its standard is upended like a box of potatoes just because one person makes an unexplainable cock-up! All that time I spent drilling and training you and what? You forgot the words? You got distracted? You are the principal soloist, you should be above careless mistakes like that farce tonight—"

Standing offside with the rest of the morbidly fascinated choir, Thomas could only wince with every word as he forced himself to watch Mr. Darlington dress down his friend. Elijah stood in the middle of the crypt, head bowed and hands folded, looking for all the world like a condemned man before a noose as the furious choirmaster raged over him. Unfortunately it sounded as if Mr. Darlington was just getting warmed up.

"—even if you do make a mistake you do not, repeat, do not simply stop the music entirely and make it obvious to everyone you've made a mess of things! You completely spoiled the concert, you whom I expected far more from—"

Thomas couldn't take it any longer. "Ah, sir?" he said, trying to interrupt. "Isn't that going a bit far, I mean, it was just one mistake—"

"QUIET!" Thomas immediately shut up as the choirmaster turned on him with a face like thunder. "You, Mr. Williams, despite having acquitted yourself tonight, have no part in this so remember your place and shut up."

Ears burning, Thomas did as he was told. Elijah was refusing to look at anything other than his toes, and as Mr. Darlington continued to rant and vent seemed to grow smaller and smaller. There were, however, some who seemed to be enjoying the show for at the far end of the crypt Colin and Peter were watching Elijah's ordeal with barely concealed grins. "Flog him, sir!" said Colin suddenly.

The choirmaster whipped his head around to look at him. "What did you say?"

Colin balked at the man's expression but kept his ground. Thomas wanted to kill him. "Baker should be flogged, sir," said the red-head. "You've flogged others for less, and Baker messed up big time."

"Yeah, he spoiled the concert we all worked so hard for," Peter chipped in. "He should get punished for it, right boys?"

Peter had aimed this last at the rest of the choir, and much to Thomas's horror over half a dozen "ayes" were heard, even a whisper behind his head about "'bout time teacher's pet got something!" that completely undid the illusion of unity from the concert. He had always been aware that Elijah wasn't popular but to see such stark evidence of it ... Thomas got to his feet. "No," he said loudly.

Every eye in the crypt turned to him. Thomas ignored them and looked only at Elijah and the choirmaster. "I said no," he said calmly. "I vote against flogging Elijah."

"Vote, is it?" said Colin archly. He turned and swept an arm to take in the white-clad mob. "Well, if it's as Williams says, a vote, then how many say 'aye' to punishing Baker?" The response was emphatic. Colin smirked. "There we go."

Thomas seethed, but he was obviously fighting a losing battle. However, the final decision wasn't Colin's, or the choir's, and as one everyone looked expectantly towards the choirmaster.

Darlington looked back. Met Thomas's eyes briefly, and for a moment Thomas saw something stricken there that gave him hope. Then the choirmaster turned back to Elijah. "Six strokes back at the school," he said shortly. "My rooms."

The approval from the mob of choristers rumbled through the stones. Deflated, Thomas could only look at Elijah; his best friend was still standing statue-still refusing to look up. He remained standing even as Darlington, refusing to look or speak to anyone, stormed up the stairs and left, followed by the chattering choir. A few boys aimed grins and ridiculous "ooooohs" at Elijah as they passed only to cut themselves off as Thomas pushed through them to his friend's side. "Eli," Thomas whispered urgently. "Eli."

Elijah didn't look up. Biting his lip Thomas attempted to put an arm around his shoulders, only to step back, startled, as Elijah almost violently pulled away and ran for the stairs. He disappeared with catcalls at his back. Thomas's first instinct was to follow, but then he caught sight of Colin, the instigator of all this. "Hey, Williams," the red-head taunted, "when Baker comes running to you crying you'd better get the cold-cream and towels out cause I bet Darlington'll make him bleed. Or maybe you prefer something else, maybe you'll just kiss his bum better?"

It was three steps to get to Colin, four if he counted the last step to shove the red-head into the wall. Peter did try to protect his friend but the advantage of being a butcher's son was that Thomas had a rather fine punching arm. "Listen here, White," hissed Thomas into the terrified red-head's face. "I know you had something to do with what happened to Eli tonight, and I know you know that if I find out what it is I'm going to make sure you're singing soprano permanently, got that?" Colin whimpered, and Thomas twisted his surplice collar even more. "Got that?"

Colin didn't answer, cowering instead into his robes. Disgusted Thomas loosened his grip; there would be no point beating the other boy up right now, not when the real injury being done to Elijah was by someone else. He did, however, give Colin a shove that threw him onto the floor next to his bloody-nosed friend. Only then did Thomas run off, up the stairs and through the now-empty and dimmed cathedral in search of Elijah.

Of course, Elijah was nowhere to be found.

 

* * *

 

Elijah stood in front of Mr. Darlington's door. Like so many other times when he had come here he was in pajamas – choir-robes were difficult to clean, and having spent half a morning scrubbing them after his encounter with Mr. Darlington in the crypt he didn't want to mess his robes again – but this time was different. This time, instead of furtively knocking on the door in anticipation he would be rapping clearly and sharply, and in dread. Hopefully the dread wasn't necessary, but it was there all the same. He knocked.

"Enter."

Apprehensively Elijah opened the door and went in. As usual Darlington was standing by the glowing fireplace. The choirmaster's face was unreadable. "So," he said quietly. "You came."

"You ordered me to." The door shut behind him, heavy and final as the catch fell to lock it. Elijah took a deep breath – he had been caned only once in his school life, years ago by the old choirmaster, but he'd never forgotten it or the rituals that were expected. "For my actions this evening, I have come to face the consequences."

"For your actions this evening I would prefer an explanation," said Darlington tightly, a complete contrast to his fury of earlier. "What went wrong?"

To this Elijah could only bite his lip. What Colin had sketched, what he had implied to be the case between Elijah and Thomas wasn't in itself so shocking to Elijah given his relations with the choirmaster, but there was no way he would have revealed it in front of everyone – and especially not in front of Thomas. Thomas was his oldest friend, his best friend, but more than that Thomas was good, a student who saw and worked towards a bright future, who protected and taught Elijah, and for whom love was not something sweaty and throbbing but something pure. Innocent. It was the way Thomas was, and Elijah wanted to keep it that way. "I can't say," he said again.

"Why, is it something to do with Thomas?"

Elijah stared. "How did you know?"

"Over the past few weeks you've told me so much about yourself, but whenever your best friend comes up you immediately shut down. So, once again, I'll ask – is it something to do with Thomas?"

"...Yes."

Darlington sighed. "I won't ask anymore, however I will insist on you answering my next question: what shall I do with this?"

He brought out a cane from the shadow of his leg, holding it in the firelight. The very sight of it made Elijah's muscles clench, though he refused to show it. "The dilemma that faces me now," said Darlington, very quietly, "is that I really would prefer not to use this on you, but given the public circumstances of your sentence it will be quickly obvious if I do not. I have a reputation and leadership role to maintain, Elijah, so I put it to you: what should I do?"

Elijah swallowed thickly. "You're going to have to flog me, sir. You said yourself, if we want to continue like this we have to be careful, and we both know that when I go back to that dormitory people are going to want to see the damage. If there's nothing to see ..."

"I know."

Long silence. Elijah could hear his heart thudding in his ears as he looked at the cane, and for his part Darlington seemed torn. In the end, but, he tapped the end of the cane on the ground before him. "Come here," he said softly.

Elijah's feet felt like wooden blocks, but after what he had said he could do nothing but obey. He stood on the spot Darlington had indicated, feeling cold despite the fire's heat. Darlington, he noticed, was refusing to meet his eyes. "Bend over."

Slowly, ever so slowly, Elijah obeyed, spreading his legs until he could touch the floor with his fingertips. "Do I at least get an option?" he asked nervously.

"Six with it on or five with it off."

The choirmaster's voice sounded so flat, so businesslike. Elijah supposed it made it easier. "Five with it off, then," he said. Get it over and done with quicker.

Cool hands on his hips, pulling his pants down and off and making his skin tingle. Somewhere behind him he heard the choirmaster sigh, and had this been any other night Elijah would have closed his eyes. Briefly he felt something cool and thin being placed against his bare ass as Darlington got the measure of his aim, but then it was pulled away leaving Elijah to clench in anticipation – and then the first blow came down with a thwack.

Elijah fell forward, catching himself on his fingertips as he let out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding. His ass felt numb, but then after a few seconds he could feel a burning line stretching across just above his thighs like a red-hot wire, and Elijah grimaced in agony – don't cry out, don't cry out. "One," he said through gritted teeth.

His only reply to this was a thin whistle as the cane came down, ending with a second sharp thwack almost right on top of the first mark. Instinctively Elijah clenched up as the pain, quicker this time, stabbed through his flesh and he couldn't help but whimper as it beat up his spine, through his groin ... he squeezed his eyes shut trying to anticipate the next. "Two—"

A third blow. Elijah's legs were beginning to tremble and the blood was rushing to his head like wine, but before he could say "three" the fourth struck. By now it felt as if his entire backside was enflamed around a series of sharp lines laid straight across his skin, and despite himself Elijah was moaning, wanting as the pain pulsed through his cock bringing him half-erect—

The fifth and last came down, hard as thunder. Elijah couldn't help but scream.

There was a clatter as something fell to the floor. Dizzily Elijah stood up, wiping saliva from his lip and stumbling a little to find Darlington collapsed in one of the worn lounge chairs, face shining with sweat and hair in disarray. His very expression seemed pained, as if it had been him beneath the cane instead of Elijah. "I'm sorry," he was saying, "I'm so sorry, Elijah, but I had to—"

Elijah sank onto him, catching the choirmaster in a fierce kiss. Darlington stiffened but immediately returned it, hungry and desperate. A knee pressed between Elijah's thighs, and moaning Elijah ground against it, making the bruises on his backside burn all the more and trying to find his release. Blindly he tangled his hands in the choirmaster's shirt looking for buttons only to be pulled down to fumble at the closure of Darlington's pants instead. Darlington was breathing hard. "Help me," he said, low and urgent. "I need this, need you forgiving me—"

"Yes," breathed Elijah, and then there it was, hard and hot in his hand. Experimentally Elijah stroked it, marvelling at the way Darlington's face changed, before sinking to his knees. He could feel Darlington's eyes upon him as he pulled the pants down further, eventually stripping them off entirely so that Elijah could kneel between the man's legs. For a moment Elijah stared, feeling his pulse pounding along the perfectly aligned bruises on his backside, but then he heard a hiss of breath above him – do it now – and before he knew it he was opening his mouth and taking Darlington in.

Heartbeats in his ears. Elijah shuddered, teeth scraping against the man's erection and felt it twitch against his tongue. Too difficult to do like this, so he reached up and clasped fingers around the base, massaging the way Darlington often did to him. The reaction was immediate, a low growl somewhere above his head, and Elijah felt his own groin clench in response as he sucked. An insane thought struck him – what if he tried to sing the way he did in lessons when Darlington would put fingers in his mouth to make him open? – and before he knew it Elijah found himself humming scales, exercises, anything as he tasted Darlington sliding towards his throat thick and sweet. It must have pleased the choirmaster immensely, for now there were fingers tangling in his hair urging him on, urging him to take more until it was impossible for Elijah to make any sound louder than a whimper and Darlington was groaning and writhing in his chair.

A sharp jerk, and then warmth spilling thickly down his throat. Elijah choked, more from the unexpectedness of it, and, squeezing his eyes shut, forced himself to swallow as Darlington softened in his mouth. Only when he was sure he wasn't going to gag did he pull away and release the choirmaster. His lips were tingling, still aroused, and shivering Elijah reached down to touch himself—

"Here. Let me."

—he was pulled up, gathered into the chair and onto Darlington's lap, hissing a little as the bruises on his backside were stretched. Darlington hushed him, pushing his legs apart and grasping his cock in his own larger hand and beginning to stroke. Soon Elijah was panting, little broken cries spilling from his mouth as the pain from his flogged backside mixed with the arousal into something incredibly acute, helpless thrusting until finally he buried his face in the choirmaster's neck and bucked wetly into his hand.

Shallow breaths, slowing and deepening. Vaguely Elijah opened his eyes to find the choirmaster looking at him in concern. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"...Mm." A non-answer, since although his body felt wondrously loose his backside was still throbbing along the lines where the cane had landed. It would be at least a week before he could sit down... Elijah sighed, curling up against the choirmaster's chest. "I'll be all right."

"I'm glad to hear it." Darlington gave a sigh, stroking Elijah's hair. "You should go. Floggings aren't supposed to take this long."

Easier said than done, for Darlington's lap was warm and comfortable making standing up in cold air all the more unpleasant. Still, however, Elijah forced himself to do so, and snagged his pants to pull them back on. Darlington also stood and retrieved his own pants, putting them on and tucking his shirt back in. That done, he walked Elijah to the door and gave him a long kiss. "Thank you," said the choirmaster quietly.

Elijah smiled. Then he unlocked the door, pulled it open to leave – and stopped dead.

Thomas looked back at him from the corridor. He had Elijah's dressing-gown draped over one arm, and a tube of cold cream in the other. As he stared at Elijah and Mr. Darlington standing together in the doorway, his face was unreadable.

Elijah felt the blood drain from his face. Behind him, Mr. Darlington might have been a statue. No one dared to speak.

Thomas's lips tightened. Then, he dropped the cold-cream on the floor, dropped the dressing-gown, and began to storm hurriedly away. The lines of his back were visibly trembling in anger, and dismay uncurled in Elijah's gut like snakes. "Tom!" he cried out, making as if to go after his friend, "Tom—"

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Wildly Elijah turned to find Mr. Darlington looking down at him. The choirmaster's eyes were tense, and said only one thing.

"Let him go."

 

* * *

 

"Hey, have you heard?"

"What is it?"

"Apparently the knight and his princess aren't speaking to each other. At all."

"Really? Since when?"

"Since the night Baker stuffed up the concert, that's when. No one knows why, but the two of them, they no longer sit together at meal times and Andrew on the top floor says he hasn't seen Baker go to Williams's room even once in the past few days ..."

 

* * *

 

Thomas stared gloomily at the photograph. There were six elephants in it, he had counted them long ago, all of them frozen mid-stride as they crossed the photographer's field of view though given the age of the photo some of their legs and trunks were broken by creases. He had found this picture back in his third year at the school when doing a project on other countries and kept it for Elijah. At the time he had believed that it was Elijah's fondest dream to travel and see such exotic animals. Until four days ago he had still believed it.

Grim-faced, Thomas looked away. It had been four days since the ill-fated concert, four days since Elijah's flogging and Thomas's eavesdropping from the corridor. He hadn't meant to do it, all he had wanted was to wait for his friend and help make sure he was all right after the flogging, but the sounds that come from Mr. Darlington's rooms after the familiar thwacks had been strange and intriguing, calling Thomas to try and listen closer. He immediately wished he hadn't. Those moans and soft cries, he'd never heard anything like that before but he knew what they meant, and to hear them coming from Elijah and Darlington together hadn't just been a shock, it had been disgusting. And then the way Elijah had opened the door smiling at Darlington like that ... Thomas's disgust had twisted at the right of it, morphing into something else. Something resentful.

Darlington and Elijah. Darlington spending time with Elijah, Darlington talking and singing with Elijah. Darlington touching Elijah. Kissing Elijah. Fuckin—

A knock on his door jerked Thomas out of his growing rage. "What!" he shouted.

The door opened and Andrew, Colin's friend, stuck his head in. "Mail day, Williams," he said, looking bored as he held out a yellow envelope. "Looks like it's your lucky day."

He flicked the envelope onto the floor. Thomas reached out with a toe to snag and pull it over. "Thanks," he said curtly. Andrew shrugged and shut the door. Glowering a little, Thomas picked up the envelope which had no return address. Apparently has originally been sent to his home in Kelmscott but someone – his mother, judging by the hand – had crossed out that type-written address and put his school address in neat cursive. Certainly it didn't seem to be very thick. Curious, Thomas opened it and unfolded the yellow paper inside.

 

 

ARMY FORM W.3236

NOTICE PAPER to be sent to men who belong to the Army Reserve under the provisions of the Military Service Acts, 1916.

CHRISTIAN NAME: _______Thomas________________
SURNAME: ______________Williams______________
ADDRESS: _xxxxxxxx_ Kelmscott, Gloucestershire

YOU are hereby warned that you will be required to join for Service with the Colours on the 1 MARCH 1917. You should therefore present yourself at the RECRUITING OFFICE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE on the aforementioned date not later than 9:00am bringing this paper with you.

A Railway Warrant is enclosed herewith.

DATE: 17 February 1917

 

 

Thomas let the paper fall from his hands to the floor. Stared at is as it were a poisonous snake.

Oh no. Oh, no.

 

* * *

 

Ever since the incident in the crypt Elijah kept his head down in the dining room hoping not to attract attention. It was a ploy that worked but sometimes; since word had gotten out that he no longer guarded by his knight protector he was now particularly vulnerable to the odd bone or food-scrap being lobbed across the room at his head. Elijah ignored them mostly, they were irritants at best, especially compared to his current torment of being not only avoided but in disgrace with his best friend. No matter what reassurances and distractions Mr. Darlington used Elijah was sure Thomas now either hated him or at best wanted nothing more to do with him, which made it all the more unexpected when after getting dinner Elijah turned around and found Thomas standing before him.

Elijah blinked. "...Tom?" he asked hesitantly.

Thomas didn't answer. He didn't look as if he was still mad or disgusted with Elijah, far from it in fact: the face beneath his golden hair was ashen. Immediately Elijah tensed – something was wrong, terribly wrong. "Tom, what is it?"

Slowly Thomas raised his hand. There was a crumpled piece of yellow paper in it. "It's a notice," he said, and even his voice sounded dull.

"Notice?"

"A call up notice." Elijah's face froze. Thomas looked distressed. "I've been called up to go to fight."

Whatever ill-feeling or despair they had been feeling over the past four days was forgotten. Quickly Elijah put down his tray and, putting an arm around Thomas's shoulder, guided him out of the dining hall and the curious stares into an empty study room. He snagged a chair and sat Thomas down in it, kneeling before him. "When did you get this?" asked Elijah urgently.

"This afternoon. I have to report at Gloucestershire recruiting office by the first of March."

"First of—" Elijah broke off. Counted the days. "That's next week! And travelling to Gloucestershire you'd have to leave by Monday—"

Thomas didn't seem to hear him. "I don't want to go, Eli, I don't want to fight, I read the papers, I read about the Somme and Ypres and Gallipoli and I don't want to go to those places, I just don't—"

His shoulders were shaking; desperately Elijah put an arm around him and pulled him close. "Could – could you just not turn up?"

"And get hauled up before a tribunal? They sentence you to prison if you refuse to answer a call-up notice, and in any case do you have any idea what would happen if word got out to people that I ran away? I'm not like Darlington, I can't sit in my room with a bouquet of white feathers, I just can't—"

Thomas broke off, buried his head in his hands. If he was crying he wasn't going to show it – he had never cried in front of Elijah, ever. Elijah felt his eyes stinging. "So what are you going to do?" he asked in a small voice.

For a long time there was no answer. Then, finally, Thomas raised his head and looked up at him. His hazel eyes were red, yet somehow he was smiling painfully. "Guess I don't have a choice. I'm going to have to go."

 

* * *

 

"So he will be going?"

"...Yes."

"When?"

"Monday morning. First train out."

"...Are you crying?"

"He shouldn't have to go. He's no coward, sir, but he's terrified, and – and it's Tom. Tom should be going to university, he should be making himself an engineer like he's always wanted, not a soldier and going off to war—"

"Shh, it's all right, he'll be all right, let me kiss those away—"

"—he wanted to take me to Africa, you know, he thought it would be brilliant if after school we could travel together, or he did until he found out how horrible I am—"

"You're not horrible. Don't ever think that. No matter what others or the world may tell you, what you and I did, what you and I <>are is perfectly natural, and you should never be ashamed of it as long as you do it with love. You do love me, right?"

"........."

"...Elijah?"

"...I'm sorry, sir."

"...Why."

"I thought I could. I tried to, I really did, but now that you've asked me ... all I can think about is Tom. Are – are you mad at me?"

"No. Just ... disappointed."

"...I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You can't help it. But now that you say this, what are you going to do about Thomas?"

"I ... want to do something for him. He's always looked after me ever since we first met in choir all those years ago, always done so many things for me without asking for much back. I never gave him much back, and now that he's leaving ... I don't know what I can do."

"You're his best friend. You love him. And you can sing."

"...Can I pick the anthem for this Sunday's service?"

"Of course."

"Thank you ..."

 

* * *

 

Sunday church. Elijah stood on the dais, white surplice almost glowing in the light that came through the magnificent stained glass window. Before him the nave was full, every seat filled with the faithful and less faithful, but Elijah wasn't seeing them. Seated in at the aisle-end of the second row was Thomas, his blond head bowed. He had been walking like that for days.

Elijah wanted to make him smile.

The organ sounded, making the broken chord crescendo as it introduced him. Off-side, Mr. Darlington was watching with anticipation. Elijah caught his eye, smiled ruefully, and then it was time to start.

 

Hear my prayer, O God incline Thine ear
Thyself from my petition do not hide

 

A Mendelssohn hymn, one for which a soloist needed nerves of steel and one of Elijah's favourite solos. It was also, he knew, one of Thomas's favourites and one of the few things he had truly enjoyed singing back when he had been a chorister. Immediately Thomas stiffened, sat up with wide hazel eyes, and Elijah met them. Held them as he sang.

 

The enemy shouteth, the godless come fast

 

The chorus came in then, replying to Elijah's soaring calls under Darlington's guidance. The choirmaster had promised to let him sing how he saw fit, and would conduct the choir accordingly. For this Elijah had nothing but gratitude, and maybe had they met in other circumstances, had Elijah not had a best friend he wouldn't have had to say I'm sorry. As it was, Elijah was singing for Thomas alone.

 

My heart is solely pained within my breast
My soul with deathly terror is oppressed

 

The chorus behind him was pleading for release, filling the cathedral with tension through which Elijah's ethereal voice could soar, like first sunlight after a storm. A reminder, that no matter what the darkness of despair there was always hope. Some weary souls in audience might have been moved by this, but as far as Elijah was concerned as long as he brought some peace to Thomas, that was all that mattered. The final would do that.

 

O, for the wings of a dove
Far away would I roam
In the wilderness build me a nest
And remain there forever at rest ..

 

The last note died away leaving behind a reverent silence. Elijah realised his heart was in his throat – had it been good? had he done well? he had lost himself in the music, in Thomas and completely forgotten everything else ... the audience was getting to its feet now, applauding not with the usual politeness of a Sunday congregation but the roaring enthusiasm of a concert-hall, and then Elijah sighed, almost wept with relief. He would have given anything to see what Darlington's reaction was – anything, that is, except Thomas's face.

He looked down at his best friend. Thomas was still seated, gazing up at him with nothing but intimate gratitude. There were tears in his eyes, but at least he was smiling.

 

* * *

 

"Come on, Eli, have some more—"

"Aha, I think I've had enough—"

Thomas slammed down his glass and gave his friend a bleary glare. "Eli," he said seriously, "I'm leaving tomorrow. This brandy was already left over from Christmas, and I'm not going to leave it here for some other student's benefit when he takes over my room. Have another."

"All right, all right," said Elijah reassuringly, picking up the bottle. He shared the contents out into a pair of chipped mugs, Elijah's second and Thomas's – fourth? fifth? – of the night. The two of them were sitting on Thomas's bed and pretending not to see the small suitcase packed and waiting behind the door, something which was becoming easier to do with every drink. "Here."

Thomas snagged his mug and swigged half of it down. "You know, it's kinda funny – we haven’t done anything like this together since last year, and now that we are it's only because once again, I'm leaving. Did we ever do this for the sheer hell of it?"

"We ate a tonne of chocolate on my fifteenth birthday. Oh, and there was the time we stole a bottle of wine and tried that out behind the cathedral and ended up singing really, really badly at evensong."

"Oh yeah." Thomas hiccupped. "Didn't we get flogged for that?"

Elijah grinned. "Oh yes. Three strokes each, I remember, and afterwards we spent the rest of the night rubbing cold-cream into each other's battered bums."

The memory this brought back made Thomas giggle. It also brought a more recent one that made him stop. "Hey Eli," he said, "before I go tomorrow, can you tell me something?"

Blue eyes found his, let him in. "Anything."

"Do you ... love Darlington?"

"No." The answer was calm, final. "I don't."

"Then why ...?"

"Because I thought if I tried hard enough, if I did it enough with him, I would. I thought I could make myself love him because unlike the person I do love Mr. Darlington was like me. Also he wanted me."

"...Oh." Thomas thought about this, tried to get angry, and realised he couldn't. Probably it was the brandy, but more likely it was the fact that he was leaving tomorrow and he did not, would not leave angry with his best friend. "So if you're not in love with Darlington, then who?"

"It's you."

Thomas digested this, swallowed it into his heart. "Oh." Then he thought about it. "Um. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Elijah smiled, an expression tinged with sadness. "You care for me, I know, it's just not quite in the same way as I do for you. I'm fine with that."

"Same way—" Thomas broke off. Thought back to the night had heard Elijah in Darlington's rooms, the sounds of pleasure he had made and immediately blushed. "You love me in that way? The way you did with Darlington?"

"Well, yes." Elijah's fair face was flushed with embarrassment. "But I know you never thought of me like that, so I never brought it up."

The room was far too warm now. Thomas licked his lips. "You know," he said nervously, "now that you have brought it up, and well, since I'm leaving tomorrow probably to end up in a trench and possibly never come back, maybe we could ... um ... try?"

Blue eyes stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"I guess so?" Thomas attempted a grin but it came out lopsided. "I do love you, it's just that ... hell, I never thought about it that way ever and while the brandy's probably helping the fact is that I might not ever see you again and—"

Elijah kissed him. Thomas squeaked a little in astonishment, but then felt his best friend moving against his lips, soft and gentle, breathing against his skin, and shivered. Elijah pulled away. "How was that?" he whispered.

Thomas's mouth was tingling. His first kiss. "Um ..." He took a deep breath. "Pretty good. Try again?"

The delight in Elijah's face was almost shining. Before Thomas could say anything his best friend climbed over his legs, straddling him before bending down for a second kiss. This time Thomas met it, hesitant but willing, only to melt as Elijah moved into his mouth, strengthening the kiss. Strange, but certainly far from unpleasant, especially with this person, this person whom he knew so well and yet in some ways not at all ... Thomas reached up, grasping Elijah close enough to feel his heartbeat only to tilt his head back as his friend began to kiss down his throat. Already there were hands fumbling in his shirt, and Thomas let them, content to be guided. Obviously Elijah knew what he was doing.

His shirt opened, was slid off. Thomas trembled as Elijah placed a line of kisses down his chest, warm breath against his skin. Already he could feel himself shaking, shuddering as Elijah moved lower making his groin tighten in a way he'd never really thought about before, and when Elijah reached into his pants to grasp him there Thomas could only moan. "Eli ..."

"This is where you take your pants off." Blue eyes, gleaming up at him with mischief. "I'm going to need your help here."

"Um, yeah." Feverish, Thomas fumbled at his waist, opening the close of his pants and pushing them down. Elijah did the rest of the stripping, and despite the fact they had seen each other in the buff before there was something obviously very different this time and Thomas couldn't help but redden with embarrassment. That, and arousal.

He shrugged off his shirt, let it fall to the floor. Elijah for his part was slipping out of his clothes in a way that indicated a lot of practice with – no. Thomas wasn't going to think about it. Elijah was with him now, and that was all that mattered. Though he would have liked to take his friend's clothes off himself.

Hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently against the pillows. Elijah's eyes were shadowed as lay down beside him. "I must say this isn't quite how I imagined things to be with us," he said, far too evenly. "I imagined you on top."

Thomas licked his lips; the erection his friend was pushing against his stomach was hot and hard, much like his own. He slid his hands up Elijah's waist. "How often did you imagine?" he asked.

"You don't want to know." A rueful grin, then Elijah reached up to clasp the back of his head. "Close your eyes."

Without even needing to think about it Thomas obeyed. Felt Elijah trailing fingers up his leg, coming up to grasp him tightly, and Thomas gasped from the pleasure of it, like noting he had ever felt before as Elijah stroked him, rubbing him from tip to root leading him jerk and moan that made the hand in his hair clench. There were kisses on his chest, his neck, a leg twining with his as Elijah's hand picked up pace, so much sensation, so much touching and it was all Thomas could do not to cry out as he thrust helplessly into his friend's hand— "Eli!"

Whiteness in his head, like a high note held too long. Thomas wondered if he was falling.

A slim hand took his, slick and wet. Thomas opened his eyes to find Elijah smiling at him. "That face you make," he whispered, "do you have any idea how beautiful it is?"

Thomas swallowed, embarrassed by the looseness of his body. "No."

"Well, now you can see it." Slowly, inexorably, Elijah drew Thomas's hand down and closed it around his own cock. Thomas's eyes widened. "Touch me, Tom," Elijah breathed.

It was warm, hard and thick in his hand. Face burning Thomas did as his friend ordered, a little clumsily and nowhere near as smoothly as what he had just received, but with a little imagination it was enough. Soon Elijah was moaning, his blue eyes rolled back into his head as writhed against Thomas's hand, urging Thomas on – more like that, yes, please. Thomas felt delirious, he worked his friend's cock as if to break it, watching watched Elijah's face with something like awe – Tom, Tom – wondering why the hell they had never done this before now, why it was only when he was leaving that they found out about this side of each other, desperately squeezing until Elijah froze and climaxed wetly against his palm with a bone-deep shudder and Tom's name on his lips. Thomas could have wept.

They talked afterwards, Elijah playing pillow and Thomas the blanket, remembering little things, mischief gotten up to, lessons they had had, music they had sung. It soothed Thomas, that and the feel of Elijah lying naked against his skin, and he never wanted it to end.

Of course, it did.

 

* * *

 

Carefully, oh so carefully, Elijah extracted himself from Thomas and climbed soundlessly over him onto the floor. Found his clothes and pulled them on, not caring about the stickiness of his skin as he dressed himself properly just as if he was going to class. He kept a close eye on the sleeping Thomas throughout this, watching the way his friend's bare chest rose and fell with his slight snores – Thomas always was a sound sleeper – then gingerly reached under the bed to pull out a small bag, a pair of shoes and a hat. The bag was slung over his shoulder, the hat went on his head. The shoes could wait until he was further away.

The yellow form was on Thomas's desk. Elijah folded it up and put it in his pocket. Still Thomas did not stir, and, very gently, Elijah bent down and placed a light kiss on his lip. "You're going to be mad, but let me do this for you," he murmured, eyes stinging. "I love you, Tom."

His sleeping friend did not wake. Given how much brandy Elijah had encouraged him to drink hopefully that wasn't going to change for a long while. Casting one more look over his shoulder, Elijah took a deep breath and began to walk.

The door opened, shut. Elijah didn't look back.

Outside, the sky was dark, but the eastern end was starting to grey. Elijah let out a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and began to walk towards the school gate. There was someone waiting for him there. "Is there anything I can do to stop you?" asked Mr. Darlington quietly as Elijah approached.

Elijah shook his head. "Forgive me, sir, but no. This is my choice."

"You love him that much then."

"Yes. Always have, actually."

Darlington sighed, a soft, forlorn sound in the pre-dawn dark. "So that's it, then. I meant nothing to you at all."

"You did mean something," said Elijah firmly. "You meant a lot. But not in the same way. Think, sir, do I mean the same to you as your Jonathan?"

"No." The dark eyes shifted, met his accusingly. "But my Jonathan is dead."

There was nothing Elijah could say to this, so he didn't. Instead, he stepped forward, went up on his toes and kissed the choirmaster gently on the lips. Darlington did not respond, but that didn't matter. Then Elijah stepped back, straightened his hat, and, without looking back at the choirmaster who stared reproachfully after him, walked through the gate down the road that would take him to the train station, to the recruitment office where he would introduce himself as Thomas Williams, and then to war.

He never returned.

 

* * *

 

[February 1919]

 

Church bells ringing. Sebastian Darlington, teacher, convicted war objector and choirmaster, stood like a guard dog to the side of the cathedral's south door and critically watched the choristers file through for matins. His hand rested on a cane, a souvenir of two years incarceration, but otherwise he gathered little attention, not even from the choristers who had long dismissed the strange, silent teacher as old and boring and were chattering as they passed him. The only time he was taken notice of was in rehearsals and lessons, and while it was respectful none invited further friendship, let alone intimacy. Certainly there was no Elijah in this choir.

Darlington was rather glad of that.

The last chorister passed, leaping through the door with a whoop as if over an invisible hurdle. Two years ago Darlington would have flogged the boy for such mischief, but he had little care or taste for such things now, and let it go. Whatever the characters, mischief, and differences these boys had, all that mattered now was that they lift their voices together as dictated by the score and his conducting and for a few minutes come together not as a collection of individuals, but a choir in the splendour of music. As long as they could do that, and well, it would be all Darlington would ask of them, and no more. No more furtive glances, no caresses or trysts in the deepest hours of the night, nothing but music from his singers, he had been hurt too much for that—

A shadow fell upon the south stairs. "Mr. Darlington?"

Darlington stopped. Turned carefully on the top step to face the speaker. The young man before him gazed back with haunted hazel eyes. "Mr. Darlington," said Thomas Williams, voice rasping like autumn leaves. "So you came back here as well."

"Eventually." Thomas, Darlington noticed, was wearing a worn jacket and the hands that hung beneath the frayed sleeves were rough and scarred. Certainly they weren't the hands that had railed and fought against him in horror after discovering what Elijah had done two years ago. "What happened to you?"

"Ended up quarrying granite in a work camp. You?"

"Conscription caught up with me not long after you ran off; when I objected the tribunal threw me in a cell. Came down with a bout of tuberculosis there, hence the walking assistant."

"…I see." Awkward silence. Thomas took a deep breath. "Sir, I've come here because I have something for you. A letter. I was asked to let you read it."

Darlington stared at him for a moment, feeling as if the stone step had shifted beneath his feet. Thomas looked back at him, his hazel eyes filled with obvious pain. No need to ask, then, who this letter was from. Darlington found his voice again. "What does it say," he asked mechanically.

In response, Thomas pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. It was yellowed and stained, and looked as if it had been opened in haste. Silently Thomas handed it over.

Darlington took it. Wondered that it didn't burn his hand. As Thomas watched he pulled out the letter – also yellowed, also stained, with spots that could be either dirt or blood – and, unfolding it, began to read.

Above them, the bells had fallen silent.

Darlington put the letter down. Gave it and its attendant envelope back to Thomas, who seemed to cradle it before placing it in his breast pocket. For a moment the two of them stood there, not speaking, each feeling in their own way the acute absence of the one who was gone, until at last Darlington was forced to speak. "The service will be starting soon," he said quietly. "We're singing Bach today, the Jesu bleibet meine Freude. Elijah said it was one of your favourites, will you stay?"

It seemed for a moment that he'd be turned down. Then, unexpectedly, Thomas smiled, small and sorrowful but a smile all the same. "Yes," he replied softly, and in that word Darlington knew then that somehow, everything would be all right. "Yes, I think I will."

 

 

16 October 1917, Mahiwa, East Africa

My dearest Tom,

If you're reading this, then it seems the worst has happened. Don't be afraid for me, even if you are still mad about what I did, this was my choice and mine alone. You deserve so much better in life than what fate would have had you do.

That one night, our last night, it sustains me here in the sand and smoke. Even the shells that pass over my head sometimes, those can be endured because I have that memory of you. My only regret is that we found out about each other too late, otherwise the things I would have done to you and made you do to me ... well, I'll let you imagine. As things are, know that if I go, my last thoughts will be of you.

Give this letter to Mr. Darlington, if you can. I treated him horrendously, and while I would never have taken back a single moment I do regret. Let him know that I did love him, loved what he did to me and in a way he's the reason why I had the courage to do what I did despite knowing the pain that would await. If he can find it in his heart to forgive me I'm sure I'll rest all the easier.

I wish the both of you well. Just don't weep for me.

Love,
Eli

P.S. Almost forgot – my voice broke last month. Am now forever out of the choir.

 

~fin

 

Part One