Chapter 12

Memphis, May 8th, 1945

They were disturbed from their studies by a student bursting out into the corridor shouting, pulling everyone else out of their rooms. Bobby, as was often the case, had been invited by Bill to stay with him for the evening and was postponing walking home by himself.

They all gathered around the little radio post, holding their breaths to hear the confirmation of what their classmate had just told them.

Peace had been signed a few hours earlier, in Berlin.

The war was over.

A few of them cried. Some, of relief.

The others, because there weren't actually many of them left populating the campus. Not when so many had been inducted of late, sent to the shores of France to fall under German bullets, and be shipped back home in a coffin, or not at all.

Bobby had reached out to Bill on instinct, holding onto him for dear life.

We're still here. You and I both.

Bobby had been saved by his bad eyesight. Bill, by a psychological evaluation that he'd refused to address ever since. It still could have meant nothing, as the number of healthy, alive soldiers still in the country dwindled.

But no matter what, they were still here. And now…

Bobby wasn't sure how they found themselves back in Bill's room, some time later. Everything felt hazy, time slowed down to a crawl as the fact slowly sank in.

That it was really over.

The threat that had loomed over them for the past five years, gone, vanished.

He fell against the closed door, laughing. Adrenaline making his body vibrate, shaking with the need to get rid of the past years, of the fear, the horrors that were slowly making their way across the Atlantic of what had been done to people like him. For a last name, or a first, for prayers, different to the others.

He would have to unpack that later. And it would probably take the rest of his life.

But Bill was still here, looking about as shaken as him. Running his fingers through his hair, staring around the bedroom in confusion.

Bobby's chest felt tight, all of a sudden.

It had been some time since he'd understood the depth of his feelings for his friend. And a little less since he was seriously thinking they might be returned. But what good was it thinking about it when any decree could load them aboard a ship, and send them to a likely death?

Now…

"We should go out and celebrate," he breathed out. "The others will probably want to get a drink."

He had to do something, at least, to stop himself from reaching forward to grab Bill by the collar, and push him against the nearest surface. It would have been a terrible idea, when they were both still processing the news, and what it could mean for their future.

Bill sank into a chair, still holding his head.

"Yeah, you're right. We should do something."

They stayed in silence for a while, both frozen in time and space as the tension in the room grew. In the end, Bobby didn't have to find the will to restrain himself. A loud knock on the door behind him startled him out of it, and they were both swept along with their peers to the nearest bar.

Bill was beautiful.

Bobby had made his peace with this information during the summer they'd spent at his mother's house. They'd indulged for so many hours, playing cards and sunbathing in the courtyard, that it had become impossible to ignore the shape of Bill's shoulders, or that of his smile, the exact shade of his hair under the summer sun.

Back then, Bobby had worked extremely hard to keep all those thoughts to himself. He was well aware of what his neighbors thought of people like him, had heard enough comments made in passing on the street, in school, that he had no illusions as to what the future held for him. A life of secrecy, at least. Celibacy, maybe.

Besides, there had been no sign that Bill thought the same of him. He trusted Bobby, that was for sure. Loved him, even, though at the time, Bobby would have bet a lot of his pocket money on a brotherly affection, more than anything.

It was only when Bill joined him in med school that things took a different turn. Of course, he had offered to help Bill whenever he liked, with reading, assignments, and to get acquainted with this new life and all those new people, knowing how Bill tended to keep to himself and retreat into solitude as soon as he was a little overwhelmed.

It was on those nights, when they pushed two chairs in front of Bobby's desk and huddled close, peering over the same anatomy manual and brushing hands on top of the pages, that he started noticing little changes. Bill blushing, or looking away when Bobby caught his eye, as if he'd been breaking an unspoken rule in watching him.

A growing awkwardness when it was time for Bill to return to his room. After all, they'd grown up sharing one, and it had never been such a big deal, saying goodnight, before. Now Bill lingered by the door, palm on the handle and looking at his feet until sometimes, he mumbled something to himself before storming off, or, more often, disappeared in silence.

Leaving Bobby to lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering. Heart bursting with hope and fear alike, two sides of one same coin that he was slowly coming around to naming.

And tonight, pushed against the counter of a bar full of women and a few students, the air damp and hot already, Bill and Bobby stood looking at each other with the weight of understanding finally dawning on both of them.

Bobby's hand was clasped around a pint of beer that he hadn't even taken one sip from yet.

Bill had seemingly forgotten to order for himself.

Around them, there was talk of men returning, of life starting again, and grief too, all mixing with the heady smell of alcohol-infused bodies, voices rising until Bobby couldn't hear the sound of his own mad heartbeat anymore.

They said nothing to each other all evening. Only spoke when addressed by their classmates, who made them drink a few pints before rushing off to another bar when they understood they wouldn't get much more from them.

Around midnight, Bobby slipped a banknote over the counter, paying for both their tabs, and they left in silence. They walked back with their hands in their pockets, the occasional silence quickly broken by cars honking, passengers hooting their relief out the windows.

They went back to Bobby's apartment. The lobby to his building was eerily silent, faded ‘We want you' posters still up on the walls, as if taunting them for the time lost. Nevermind that.

Their footsteps echoed in the corridor, just like they had on that very first day, when Bobby led a bruised Bill up to the infirmary, his own heart already painted with what he now knew was his first love.

He closed the door behind them quietly, but the sound of the lock turning was deafening. Bobby stared at his own hands for a while, knowing that when he would take a glance back, everything would change.

He slowly peeled his fingers away and pivoted on the ball of his feet, eyes still downcast. His heart jumped when he found himself to be standing toe to toe with Bill, the point of their shoes almost touching.

He reached a hand forward, never knowing what he was aiming for, and found Bill's forearm, so warm under the white cotton of his shirt. He palmed at the muscle and tendons, holding on for dear life.

He was fairly sure he let out a whimper when Bill's own hand closed around his elbow.

This was it.

He looked up. Bill's own eyes were as serious as they'd ever been, but there was knowledge in them. When they fell to Bobby's lips, he knew his life would never be the same again.

They met in the middle, shaking.

It was Bobby's first kiss and, he was sure, Bill's too.

They were as awkward as each other, hands squeezed tight around shoulders or napes, mouths sliding together until one of them thought to part his lips. Bill moaned softly, and pressed closer to Bobby, bringing them chest to chest, Bobby's back hitting the door with a soft thud.

They made out for what felt like hours, until Bobby's lips were numb and his chin felt raw with the constant scraping of stubble against it.

He couldn't have cared less. Bill smelled as divine as he always had, and Bobby was discovering that he tasted good too, that a simple swipe of his tongue against his sent shivers down his back and to his groin.

They were both hard, could feel it between them as they gently rocked together, but neither of them remarked on it, or attempted anything. This had been so long in the making, Bobby figured they could have kissed for days on end before he would have wanted more.

Bill's hair was soft under his fingers, and exactly the right length to wrap around them, too. When Bill bit around his lower lip, Bobby squeezed his hand on reflex, effectively pulling at Bill's hair and making him groan.

It was that sound that eventually pulled them out of their frenzy long enough to look at each other, panting to get their breath back. Bill's own chin was red as well, and his lips were swollen. Bobby's doing. The thought made him gasp aloud.

Bill's hands were still wrapped around his jaw, and it didn't seem like either of them were keen to move. They could have simply gone to sleep, then. It would have been a tight squeeze in Bobby's single bed, but after years of wondering what it would be like to wrap his arms around his friend and nuzzle his neck before falling asleep, he wouldn't have minded.

Except that was when Bill said:

"We shouldn't do that again."

All the heat that had built up inside Bobby, melting him from the crown of his head to the tip of his fingers, was brutally replaced by the same biting cold that had nearly taken their toes, on that day out in the snow. His arms fell limp at his side while Bill pulled away from him, avoiding his gaze.

The room felt enormous then, those few feet of air between them as big as the Atlantic Ocean that they had feared to embark on for the past years. Bill turned to the window.

"Why?" Bobby whispered in the dark.

Bill shook his head.

"It's too… we just… we just shouldn't."

Bobby did his best to hold back his tears. He could let go once he'd be alone, as he was apparently meant to remain.

"Alright."

Bill turned back to face him, but it was the door he was looking at.

"I'll…"

Bobby moved away without even feeling his body, numb to his core.

Bill had taken his heart with that kiss, but he'd forgotten to put it back.

He stood with his hands trembling, waiting for Bill to leave so he could lock the door again and slide against it until he was crouching on the floor, hiding his face in his palms and gathering his tears there.

Bill was nowhere to be found, the day after that kiss. Not that Bobby particularly hunted for him, after the way that had ended.

He'd been fairly sure nothing of importance would be happening for a few days while people would be busy celebrating the end of the war.

Bobby wasn't so sure he wanted to party any more.

He laid in bed, curled up as tightly as he could, immobile for hours. Hunger was a distant concept that his body could feel, but his mind found no urgency to remedy. All he could focus on was the memory of the night before, Bill's fingers on his jaw, in his hair, the smell of him so close and the strength of his arms.

Part of him began to grieve.

What he'd vaguely known all his life was now a certainty.

He would never feel about a woman the way he felt last night, squeezed between Bill and the door. And now that the one man he felt drawn to had rejected him…

He dragged himself out of bed in the early hours of afternoon, and went for a walk to their campus. The door to Bill's room was closed, and he wasn't outside. Probably moping away like Bobby had been doing.

He sat on a bench, and accepted a cigarette from a fellow student – the first one he ever smoked in his life. The taste stuck to the roof of his mouth all day, bitter and dry, and as soon as he got home, he brushed his teeth a dozen times before he felt like himself again. Whether he cried, bent over the sink, that was irrelevant.

By nightfall, he had started convincing himself that he had dreamt the whole thing.

He couldn't possibly have kissed Bill, who likely didn't even exist at all.

The stress of his studies and the looming threat of being sent off to war must have turned him mad and he'd invented himself a friend. Why his imagination would have made that friend hurt him that much, his logic at that point wasn't so clear on that.

He was pulled out of his ruminations by a knock on the door. Snug as he was in his bed, he groaned, and readied himself to send whoever was out there to hell.

"Bobby, it's me."

It was a good thing no one was there to see how fast Bobby shot to the door.

Bill didn't even ask permission to come in. He slid past the door and closed it himself, head bent low. He looked awful – but then, Bobby assumed, so must he have.

However, all of his strength had been drained out of him, so he let himself fall onto his bed again, ignoring Bill who was walking paces around his small bedroom. Bobby knew his tells, by now. Bill was hyping himself up and when he would be ready to speak, he would. Nothing was to be done to rush him.

"I'm sorry."

Bobby kept his eyes trained on the ceiling. On any other day, he would have been broken to hear Bill's voice so strained with emotion. Today, he already felt like a shattered vase, and the scattered pieces of him weren't feeling much at all.

"I'm just…"

Bill came to stand closer to the bed, bringing himself in Bobby's peripheral vision. He was scratching madly at the skin of his hands and forearms.

"Stop that," Bobby sighed.

He knew Bill's wince then, and what it meant. They'd lived that scene hundreds of times. And if he didn't do anything soon, there'd be red welts on Bill's skin before he'd even begun talking.

With a grunt, Bobby scooted closer to the wall on his bed, leaving space on the edge of the mattress.

"Sit."

Bill complied. It was a familiar dance, and what had happened the day before couldn't have broken years of habit.

"Give me your hands," Bobby instructed, still lying down but extending his arms towards his friend.

Bill's fingers soon tightened around his, squeezing until it hurt, and Bobby closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. He made soothing sounds, muttering nonsense and rubbing his thumbs on the back of Bill's hands until he felt Bill start shaking again.

When he opened his eyes, Bill's own were squeezed shut so tightly that it had to be painful. It still didn't hide the wet line on his lower lashes.

"I'm just…" Bill hiccuped, now trembling with his own body. "What if… what if we get caught?"

He didn't have to say much more. Bobby pulled on their joined hands until he could hold Bill against his chest, and thread fingers into his hair again, with a different purpose this time.

"I don't know," he whispered, because there was really no reassurance he could offer to Bill's very real and reasonable fear.

They could live a life in secret. What kind of happiness it would bring them, though… there was no way to be sure.

They held each other until Bill had no more tears to give and he became limp, a heavy weight pushing the breath out of Bobby's lungs. Bill had wrapped a hand around his waist, his fingertips tucked just under Bobby's back, and with his eyes closed again, he let himself imagine a life when this would be their normal, and neither of them was sad.

He felt Bill's lips low on his neck before his friend moved; pushing himself fully on top of him and slotting their mouths together. It wasn't meant to be like that. He wasn't meant to be tasting salt.

When Bill slipped a hand between their torsos and cupped Bobby's crotch with it, he shook his head, and grabbed his friend's wrist.

"No, not like that."

Bill fell against him again, hiding in his shoulder. And Bobby wished there was someone to comfort him, too.

"I'm sorry," Bill mumbled again.

"It's not your fault," Bobby mouthed against his forehead, wondering in all of this mess, who was really to blame.