Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

S tanley woke up on the couch where he'd fallen asleep. He realized that he could hear the sound of rain pattering against the thick windows as if fighting to come into the warm room with them. The fireplace was filled with low flickers of light, and at the kitchen table stood Devon. He had his arms crossed on his chest and he was looking down at the canteen with a scowl, as if attempting to decipher it.

When he saw that Stanley was awake, he uncrossed his arms and, smiling, came over to the couch.

"Did I wake you?" asked Devon. "I didn't mean to."

"I don't want to leave again," said Stanley with a croak as he sat up, pushing back the sheet and blanket.

"I don't want you to either," said Devon.

As he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, Stanley struggled with the wave of dizziness that threatened to put him out flat on the couch, and clutched at the sheet.

He wanted Devon near him. He wanted Devon's warm steadiness. He wanted the weight of him on the couch so they could be together that way, even if just for a little while, in case the forces that had brought him out of the war suddenly decided to take him back to it. None of this was real anyway, so it would be okay if he wanted what he wanted.

"Devon," Stanley said, a little desperate and a little vulnerable. He spread his fingers across the edge of the blanket and tapped it. The gesture turned into a pat-pat-paaaat motion, which he hoped Devon would understand because he couldn't for the life of him articulate what he felt just then.

Devon's eyebrows flew up, black curves in his forehead, though instead of being shocked and drawing back, he seemed pleased. He sat down next to Stanley with enough haste that it threatened to knock Stanley over.

"I just wanted," said Stanley, attempting to start to say what he felt needed saying. Except he didn't know how to stop it rising up within his breast, didn't know how to say it out loud. He wanted a nameless, formless thing, a sense of expectation and need filling him.

But he didn't have to. Devon curled his arms around Stanley, warm through his thin cotton t-shirt, and pulled Stanley to him. Against Devon's broad chest, his eyes half closed, Stanley titled his head back with a wordless sigh. He felt a hand cupping his chin, Devon's strong hand, warm and gentle, and opened his eyes.

There was a question on Devon's face, a look of asking, and if Stanley said no, then Devon would move away. He didn't want Devon to move away, didn't want to be separated from Devon ever again, so he nodded. And then Devon kissed him.

It was not the forceful pushy motion that Stanley had experienced at the Bon Voyage dance. The army had organized the dance before they'd shipped out, where, to the rousing tunes of Pack Up Your Troubles, Stanley had his first kiss. The girl had been one of the blowsy types. She had been energetic and friendly, though her kisses had tasted of wax. Stanley had told nobody that he'd not enjoyed it, but instead had smiled at the jokes and the shoulder punches and nodded that yes, it had been the best fun.

All of that memory was nothing compared to the warmth of Devon's plush mouth, the tender moisture, the sense of Devon's breath on his skin. The feel of Devon's heartbeat speeding up in his chest, so close to Stanley's heart. And the way Devon held him as he kissed him, a bulwark against the fear of the unknown thing that was yanking him back and forth through time. Nothing could get at him, nothing could take him if Devon were near, of that he was sure.

He leaned into the embrace, sliding his arms around Devon's waist. He felt quite bold, shaking all over, for never before had he held another man with such an intent as he had, to get even closer, to somehow touch Devon's skin.

"Can I, Stanley, can I?" asked Devon, his voice rough, and Stanley realized that Devon was shaking too.

Not understanding what Devon wanted, but willing to give him everything, Stanley nodded, opening his eyes all the way so that he could watch what Devon was doing. Not because he was worried or needed to keep track, but so that he could memorize this moment and store it in his heart forever.

Devon took both of his hands and reached down to slide them up under Stanley's t-shirt. The motion, the sudden contact, took away Stanley's breath, but he was glad to lose it if he had this, Devon's hands on his belly as they curved upwards, tracing the line of his ribs, circling around his waist. Every movement tickled him a bit, but it was good, so good, to have Devon's hands there.

Stanley held very still, wondering, his whole body at attention, as to where else Devon's hands might go. Except that was a very wicked thought. Folks who weren't married didn't have relations, and especially not two fellows , whose mother neither of them had ever met, nor were likely to—all of a sudden, Stanley moved forward and flung his arms around Devon's neck, pressing close to his chest, causing Devon's hands to go all the way around his waist, sliding over bare skin.

"Can I touch you anywhere?" asked Devon, his breath warm on Stanley's neck.

"I'm not a girl," said Stanley, a little shy as his mind filled with all the places that Devon might touch him. "You don't have to ask."

"Doesn't matter," said Devon, and Stanley felt him smile. "No means no, and yes means yes, period. "

He seemed so adamant about it that Stanley smiled in return. He tipped his neck, though without actually saying yes, Devon wasn't going to do anything else.

"Yes," Stanley said. "Yes, a hundred times, but I don't know what to do—"

Devon pulled back, his face flushed as he looked at Stanley with serious eyes. For a moment, he thought that Devon was going to stop altogether. His hands remained on Stanley's waist, though, and he didn't actually move away, so maybe it would be okay.

"Have you never—?" asked Devon. "Wait, are you a virgin?"

"I do know how to use my right hand," said Stanley, a sudden blush warming his cheeks. "I'm not a virgin that way."

"But you've never been with anybody, never been kissed."

"I've been kissed by the girl at the dance hall when we shipped out," said Stanley, somewhat defensively.

"Before the war?" asked Devon. His eyes lit up. Stanley could see that he wanted to get out his laptop and start taking notes about the dance hall, about the girl, about what it was like to be shipped to a foreign land to fight and die for one's country. Stanley was tempted to start whistling It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary . Except that would distract Devon even more and focus his attention in a direction other than Stanley.

Devon shook his head, as if shaking off his thoughts about his paper and his degree. Then he smiled at Stanley, looking a little chagrined.

"You wanted to take notes just then, didn't you," said Stanley, teasing because he could.

"I did," said Devon. "But it can wait till later."

It could wait till forever because Stanley didn't want to talk about the war anymore, although Devon, buried in a pile of paper and being excited about his notes, was terribly endearing. But not now, not just now.

Stanley leaned forward, sliding into Devon's embrace, and tipped his neck sideways, the ID tag moving to a new place on his skin so the metal felt cool .

"Please kiss me," Stanley said, the words coming out breathless. "Kiss me anywhere, touch me anywhere, I'm saying yes, do you hear? Yes ."

The yes turned into a soft sound that came up from the middle of Stanley's chest as Devon kissed him along the length of his neck. The sudden prospect of hands upon him that were not his own made his heart race. In the middle of his head was a space of quiet expectation, a waiting place, as if he'd been preparing for this moment all of his life. That through all the intervening years since the moment of his birth, there'd been the knowledge that he'd be with Devon just like this.

Devon kissed Stanley on the neck again and then drew back to ease him onto the couch so he could kiss his mouth, then circle his waist with strong arms and cover him with the weight of his body. Surround him with warmth. Still him into quiet with the force of his attention, which was so very focused that Stanley almost felt on display. He would have been startled when Devon began undoing the fastenings on the borrowed blue jeans, except that Devon's hand was so very gentle.

When Stanley opened his eyes, Devon's eyes were also open, and soft, and his eyebrows were raised, as if he was watching Stanley and making sure of him.

"I missed you," said Devon, softly. "I missed you every day you were gone. I looked for you, all over. I even called les gendarmes in a panic, except they were worse than useless—"

"I'm here now," said Stanley. It made him feel strong to be the one to comfort Devon, strong and powerful. He surged up to grab Devon to pull him down so that Devon's body was all the way on top of Stanley. "Go on with what you were doing."

Devon huffed out a laugh and buried his face in Stanley's neck; his ink dark hair was silky on Stanley's skin, and smelled sweet. Devon's scent was warm and salty and filled Stanley with the sense that all was right with the world now, now that he was with Devon. Like this. On the couch with his t-shirt rucked up and Devon's hand at the waistband of his borrowed underwear .

It was good that Devon's hand was steady because it seemed to take a long time till it was all the way to where it ought to go, under the waistband and along the curve of Stanley's belly. There, where it tangled briefly in Stanley's pubic hair and circled around Stanley's cock.

Stanley took a sharp breath because Devon's hand was cool against the heat of his skin as he stroked and tugged, an urgency sharpening Devon's breath in his ear. When Devon raised himself up, pushing Stanley's underwear and blue jeans all the way down his legs. He eased his knee between Stanley's thighs, pushing them apart, rendering him open and helpless and lush as blissful tingles swept through him.

Stanley closed his eyes and let the feelings take him where they would. They rose up from his belly, clenching and unclenching inside his chest as he succumbed to the loopy, heady sensation of being brought close to pleasure without touching himself. His cock was as stiff as a rod, his spine swirling, sending little shocks inside his head. Devon's breath was in his ear, that hard knee between his legs, spread far enough so that Devon could stroke the length of his cock, pumping him, sliding up and down.

Suddenly Stanley's head jerked back and his hips jumped, pushing his cock hard into Devon's hand. Then Devon squeezed, just right, at the base, and Stanley came across the taunt skin of his belly.

With panting breaths, Devon settled next to Stanley. Stanley could feel Devon shoving into the space between Stanley and the back of the couch as he used Stanley's t-shirt to wipe at the come. Stanley didn't open his eyes right away to see any of this, but wallowed in the moment, at ease in a way that he'd not been since before the war. Before his Pa had gotten sick, before all of this had started, and the ill-realized dreams of the glory of war had not yet become the order of the day.

"How was that?" asked Devon, whispering in Stanley's ear, pulling Stanley away from the darker thoughts that seemed to be waiting at the edge of everything, as they always were .

"I've had better," said Stanley, smiling behind his closed eyes. "With my own hand, because you missed a spot."

"I did not," said Devon, insisting, whispering as he kissed Stanley's cheek and the corner of his mouth, tickling Stanley into a smile. "I didn't miss anything, not even how your breath quickened when I curled my fingers like this."

Devon reached down to cup Stanley's cock quite gently, now that Stanley's cock was soft against his belly. His fingers combed along the trail of hair that led down below Stanley's belly button. He pressed at the base of Stanley's cock, in the back where the flesh curved to become Stanley's balls. The touch was quite tender, and Devon stroked for a moment, then drew away.

"You like me touching you there, don't you. Just right there."

"Yes," said Stanley, a little breathless as his heart slowed. "I guess I do. Never had the patience to find out. Not when I had to be quick, so the other fellows didn't find out what I was doing."

"They were probably doing the same," said Devon gravely, in a way that told Stanley that this was not something from a book or Devon's notes, but something Devon knew himself. "Or spending their money going to a red lamp district."

"We didn't have one," said Stanley. He opened his eyes and looked at Devon, who was concentrating on the path his hand was making on Stanley's belly. "The village was too small, and the fighting—well, there just wasn't any time."

"And you and Isaac never—"

"I never even told him." Stanley shook his head and reached to brush the dark hair back from Devon's forehead, in the hopes that Devon would look up at him. Which Devon did, his eyes green and dark. "I couldn't be sure of what he would say. I think he had a girl back home anyway, and besides, we both would have been shot. No court martial, just shot at dawn."

"Right," said Devon. "I keep forgetting that part. I'm only thinking that you might have been a little less lonely if you could have told him."

Stanley was coming to realize that Devon was like that, concerned about such things like having a friendship to offset the loneliness, the sensation of being adrift in the world without anyone to connect with, to be with. And that was because Devon himself was alone, alone with his books and his papers and his notes. His metal laptop. His goal of getting a master's degree in a field that nobody else thought was interesting in the least.

That made Stanley a little worked up about it. If anybody had ever paid attention to Devon while he was talking about his interests, his paper, they would have seen the light in his eyes and heard the passion in his voice and been instantly drawn into how alive Devon was, how smart he was and how fine and good.

Stanley turned on his side so that he was inside of the curve of Devon's chest so that the only thing Devon could do was wrap his arms around Stanley to keep Stanley from falling off the couch. Devon obliged him with a deep-throated sigh, pulling Stanley close, his legs weaving with Stanley's in a way that bound them together in a steady, warm embrace.

Stanley felt a little sleepy now, which always happened after he came, but he wanted to let Devon know that he was interested in Devon, in Devon's work.

"Tell me about the war," Stanley said with half a yawn.

"You don't want to hear about that," said Devon. "Besides, you were already there, and know all about it."

"I do," said Stanley. "I want to hear what you know about it, and your theory about the weather."

"It's just isobars and isotherms," said Devon, his voice a little faint, as though he was prepared to defend himself if Stanley was teasing him. "Temperature anomalies and climate patterns. A cold front that stayed and stayed and stayed."

"Why did it stay?" asked Stanley.

"Because it didn't have anywhere else to go, not with the low pressure coming from the North Atlantic," said Devon. "That part's a fact, you understand, because the data proves it. My theory is about how that cold front affected what was happening at ground level on the battlefield. "

Stanley was quite sure that Devon's theory was absolutely spot on. As Devon talked, he had a great many facts at hand, and described, in some detail, a chart he was developing that showed the various forces at work. And how the chart, though it might not be accepted as part of his thesis, was definitely helping him work through the patterns in motion at the time.

Stanley wanted to ask what the weather had been like at the end of the war, whether the sky had been sunny and blue, or whether it had been raining and, indeed, when the war had ended, which it had. Devon had said it had ended. Stanley opened his mouth to ask, but the breath turned into a yawn, and the rumble of Devon's voice in Stanley's ear where it was pressed against Devon's chest was too powerful a lullaby to resist.