Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

" I shouldn't have told you," said Devon. He'd taken his research too far, again, as usual, and upset Stanley, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Stanley deserved better than to have Devon keep dragging him back into the past, when both of them knew that was the last thing either of them wanted.

He put the book down on the pile of books that belonged to the university and that would be shipped back home when his research was done. Scanning the room, he fought against the impulse to get up and tidy the piles, or to get to work. It wasn't a hard impulse to fight because, after all, he had an American doughboy sitting right next to him.

"I wanted to know," said Stanley, his whiskey-colored eyes on Devon and that sad expression, as though all he wanted to do was to be of use. "I wanted to know if what I'd done had made any difference, and of course it hadn't. None of it mattered."

Then Devon did give in to the impulse to pull Stanley into his arms, to pet his shorn hair, to kiss his temple.

"None of it matters," said Devon. "After what you've been through, my paper, all my studies, they just seem stupid. I'm going to throw in the towel— "

"Throw in the what?" asked Stanley.

"I'm just going to stop," said Devon, dismissing the idea that Stanley should have known the idiomatic expression but didn't. "Stop everything and switch over to meteorology."

He felt a chill as Stanley pulled away and sat up straight, not touching the back of the couch.

"Why would you do that?" asked Stanley. "You're so close to finishing. Why would you do that?"

Devon wanted to ignore the question and to pull Stanley close and tell him how he felt, how he promised himself a second chance. How his dreams about American doughboys had turned into something more meaningful. How Stanley had touched the place in his heart he'd never told anybody else about.

"Why?" asked Stanley.

"It's stupid," said Devon. He got up from the couch, checking the thermostat to give his hands something to do, and to make sure that Stanley was warm enough.

"The whole thing is stupid," said Devon. "After everything you've been through. After hearing about it from you and having you show me the trenches, and telling me about that guy who lost his leg—which isn't in the records anywhere —because you were there, and you suffered for it. For me to write a paper about it, it's like I'm benefiting from that without having paid the price."

The twisted feelings that had started when Stanley had shown up on the green grasses that were all that was left of a disastrous battle had risen to the surface, and he'd said them aloud. He could barely look at Stanley with this confession ringing in the air. His constant awareness about the futility of war was only the half of it. The other half was the loss that war brought, inexplicable and never-ceasing, and Stanley had been the one to go through that. Not Devon.

"But you're telling the story," said Stanley as he stood up and came over to Devon, so close that as he took a step forward, Devon found himself against the wall. "You're telling all of our stories, mine, Isaac's, everybody's."

"Nobody will care," said Devon. His voice broke on the last word because he realized that it was true. None of his friends cared, and his thesis advisor had strongly suggested he focus on another aspect of the Great War. In the end, he was alone, except for Stanley, who could be dragged back through time at any moment.

"I care," said Stanley. "And you care. You can put the stuff that I told you in your paper, and then one day, somebody will read it. It'll matter to somebody, someday."

"You think so?" asked Devon.

"Promise me," said Stanley. He moved close and wrapped his arms around Devon's waist, as if he'd been hugging Devon all of his life and had no hesitation whatsoever about it. "Promise me that no matter what, you'll finish. It's important to finish what you start. And then you can go and study to be the weather guy, like you told me."

"Will you come with me back to the States?" asked Devon. He leaned into the warmth of Stanley's body, and echoed the motion of Stanley's arms, wrapping his arms around Stanley's waist, pulling him close. It felt warm and right to be like this, the question on his lips as Stanley lifted up to kiss him. "I'll have to start over and we'll have to live cheap for two years."

"I don't care about living cheap," said Stanley. "But what will I study?"

"Whatever you want," said Devon. He meant it as more than that. Stanley could study what he wanted, and Devon would help him in every way and support him. Show him the world. But maybe he needed to say that out loud.

Except that Stanley smiled and distracted Devon from his own thoughts.

"I want to learn how to get cats with spectacles on the screen, on the server. I want to do that."

"Computer science it is," said Devon. He returned Stanley's smile and leaned down until he could see the lights in Stanley's eyes. See the faint shadow of Stanley's lashes against his cheeks. "I'll help you with your GED, with all of that, but first I want to tell you what I was thinking when you disappeared before. "

"Tell me," said Stanley. His voice was hushed, and he leaned in and met Devon halfway, his lips brushing Devon's. "Tell me everything."

Devon lifted his arms until he was circling Stanley's shoulders. His hands were on Stanley's neck where he could feel the warmth of Stanley's skin, the low pulse beneath that echoed Stanley's heartbeat. He traced the length of hemp cord from which hung the ID tag that Stanley never took off.

"It's easy to take care of you," Devon began. "To get you hot coffee and to feed you and loan you my clothes." He paused to look into Stanley's eyes. He wanted to let him know that this was only the half of it; he needed to tell Stanley how he felt, like he told himself he would. "When you disappeared before, I promised myself that if I ever got another chance with you, I would tell you. I would tell you that I love you—"

"I made myself the same promise," said Stanley, his voice bright and clear and completely without fear. "When I was sitting next to Isaac, after I saved him but not the radio, I wanted the same thing. I wanted another chance with you, and if I got it, I would tell you."

"Tell me."

"I love you," said Stanley. "You're like the fellows back home, except you're not. And you make me feel safe."

Tears pricked Devon's eyes as he held Stanley's face in his hands and kissed him very gently on the mouth. He could not bear the thought of Stanley feeling scared, of being in the trenches with black dust raining down from exploded mortar shells, or up to his knees in mud with the blood of his friends on his uniform.

He could not hold on too tightly, though, because if he did, he might startle them when they'd each just confessed their hearts. Time could not steal this moment; it could try, but it would fail, for Devon had Stanley in his arms, and when he kissed him again, Stanley lifted his face, his lashes long on his cheeks.

"Yes," Stanley said. " Yes ."

Devon blinked back his tears, not because he was ashamed but because he wanted to concentrate on Stanley who was standing in front of him, safe inside Devon's arms, warm and safe inside the cottage, and as far away from the Battle of Ornes as he could possibly be.

They were both still too near the trenches, though, and Devon vowed to finish his paper as soon as possible, and get a passport for Stanley so he could go home to the States, as he should have done, all those years ago. Home with his army buddies, where they all grew old and kept in touch, and yes, even Stanley's Isaac, who Devon wanted to tell, You didn't want him, but I do.

"Devon," said Stanley. It was a small reminder that it was now, not then, and that he was with Stanley. That his heart's desire had always been this, the quiet evening, and him and his American doughboy.

"I was just thinking how lucky I am," said Devon, and he meant it. "So lucky to have met you."

"Lucky that I died, then," said Stanley, his mouth curling into a smile as though he wanted to make a joke of it. As Devon's chest filled with a weight of something black and awful, Stanley's eyes opened wide.

"No, that's not what I meant," said Stanley. "I mean I did die, but I don't regret it, even though it was scary, because now I have you—don't I? I have you and your metal laptop, which maybe you'll let me use. I didn't mean it like it sounded, but sometimes the words they just—you know? They get away from me."

"As long as you don't get away from me," said Devon, and he meant it with everything he had. "I'm sorry you had to die—"

"Twice," said Stanley, though there was a sparkle in his eyes as he said it, a true joke this time.

"Twice," said Devon. He felt a rush of passion within him, as though he was being lifted from the inside into a place of happiness and light, but if only he could be together with Stanley. "And never again."

"How do we stop time?" asked Stanley. "How do we keep it from taking me away again?"

Devon didn't know the answer to this, although he had a feeling that the question would remain an open-ended one .

"What I do know is this," said Devon. "We've been standing here for far too long, and you said yes to me before."

"I did," said Stanley. "I do."