#; a concept of love ( archie && bram ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

the-empires-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Different

Summary: Major Edrington met Lieutenant Archie Kennedy aboard the minesweeper, HMS Renown as he and his battalion were being rescued from the danger of impending Nazis. They had an exchange and, now that the war is over, Edrington hasn't been able to get the Lieutenant out of his mind. Feeling lost and missing the man he had only known for a night, he invites him to his home. Edrington soon comes to find the importance of an ally in the peacetime, which is, perhaps, an even greater battle than war.

tw: nazis, the holocaust, ptsd, depression, smoking, alcohol

There was much for Major Lawrence Bram Edrington to blame such a foolish idea on. Shellshock, for example, or perhaps a mite too much brandy to celebrate, or even the wild jollity that accompanied the end of the war, or perhaps the tidal wave of melancholia that set in deep in his veins before he knew what was happening. Confetti still blew down the streets with the fallen leaves, caked in dirt and misshapen with footsteps. Major Edrington didn’t know what to make of it, and his boot ground a soggy remnant of the “V.E Day” newspaper into the mud between cobblestones. The letter in hand, however, was pristine.

He had fought to locate the ginger - haired lieutenant aboard Renown , the minesweeper that had rescued him and his battalion from the misery of Dunkirk. Archie Kennedy was his name, and his eyes sparkled like sapphires in the wake of Hell. You can share my bunk . It was a fine trade for being coerced back into the metal depths of what very well might have been Edrington’s grave. It was only proper for a Lieutenant to surrender his berth to a Major, but both men knew that was not the primary drive behind such generosity.

They shagged like animals.

Major Edrington regretted the letter he penned to Archie Kennedy once he placed it in the mailbox. Edrington Manor was a quiet perch in Berwick - Upon - Tweed, a ghost of what it had been back in the 19th century in the age of high nobility. It was just Bram Edrington and his mother, Mary, that resided there now. The mansion was ancient and out of style, sporting the elaboracy of the Victorian Era, with long running rugs and great portraits of family members long passed hung on the great corridors. Was it too gaudy, too old - fashioned? Or would it be overwhelming? Bram hardly cared whether or not when he brought back old partners and lovers from university or otherwise. Archie Kennedy was different, he figured.

He watched the Lieutenant walk down the steps of the huffing train that dropped him off at the small station ( nothing more than a raised wooden platform and lamppost beside a wheat field ). Had it not been for the breeze running across the lowlands, Bram might have thought Kennedy’s locks of auburn hair were rays of sunlight brushing across his brow.

The seaman had little with him, just a rolled up newspaper and brown canvas duffle bag in one hand, the other holding onto the metal railing as he stepped down onto the platform.

It was then that Bram realised he had given no thought to what he would say, what he would do, when he saw the subject of his dreams, from both day and night, before him once more.

“You look different,” Archie said pointedly, dropping his bag by his side. The train gave a metallic groan and the smoke puffed once, twice, loud and dictated, and the wheels began to slowly turn.

“What’s that mean?”

He shrugged. “You just look different. How do I look?”

Bram drank him in. “Different.”

Archie’s lips quirked. “What’s that mean?”

He shrugged. “You changed your clothes.”

Archie’s smile grew into a grin and he closed the gap between them in a single stride. Instinctively, Bram tensed, nearly flinched, and a terse remark crossed his mind. Archie would never understand the plagues that ransacked every facet of Bram’s life, and nor would Bram to Archie.

Archie enveloped him in a hug, though. It was not joyous or bittersweet or sensual, but rather a grasp for life. Archie’s fingers curled at the nape of Bram’s neck, kneading through the curls of blonde hair that sprouted there. His body was warm and solid and human. Bram let out a shuddering breath, trying to still it to no avail. They were not inches from death any longer. They stood a fair distance away from war, but wasn’t that what they fought for? A false semblance of peacetime and Britain? From Bram’s pessimistic experience, peacetime was simply a handful of years from war to war to let the human supplies replenish before they could be thrown away again. But now, for however long, they had life and they had Britain, as damaged and fatigued as they were.

They pulled away. A thrush rustled and a fox screamed somewhere in the field, and it sounded nearly human.

“I parked the car just a ways away. Do you care to drive, or shall I?” Bram asked, directing them to where his Standard Nine rested along the boundary of the field.

“You drive,” Archie said with a grin. His gaze cast ahead, the Lieutenant was handsome, auburn hair spilling over his forehead and the corner of his mouth twitching again like he was thinking of something funny. He looks different , Bram decided. But again, this kind of different was not the same as before or even when they had first cast their eyes upon the other.

The drive was uneventful, as most things in Berwick - Upon - Tweed were. Children walked along the side of the street, worn footballs just a kick away from their feet. Sheep grazed in the fields worn down by the harvest. A half destroyed sentinel of a windmill stood upon a hill still burnt black. The rumble of the car engine could have been an incoming bomber. His forearms cramped and he realised he was gripping the steering wheel with such a great intensity, his knuckles were white. Self - consciously, he glanced at Archie, whose blue eyes looked away as he did. The seaman had enough respect for the soldier to not say anything of it.

They turned at the unbecoming mailbox with a fraying yellow ribbon wrapped around the wooden post. “Isn’t that what the Yanks do?”

“My mother finds America admirable,” Edrington said.

“I’m going to meet your mother?” Archie exclaimed.

The car slowed at the turn just in front of the mansion. Bram took the key out of the ignition and turned to Archie. “She’ll be impressed by you, I promise.”

“I don’t know,” Archie swallowed, “if I am the right sort of person for this.”

“Nonsense. We are more than prepared to welcome unfashionable company,” he said, and waited for his reward to manifest itself into a smile on Archie’s lips. It never came. Bram let them into the house, just as his mother came around the corridor from the kitchen, a platter of finger sandwiches propped against her hip.

“I made some treats before supper; I didn’t know if you boys would be hungry!” Mary Edrington was a grey haired woman with little spectacles perched on the little bridge of her nose. She was fond of argyle and paisley and a great equestrian, as well as financial wizard and master gardener: a widow with too much energy. She was much more sensible than a woman of her station would be, limiting herself to cotton dresses and shoes she had worn for years.

Bram cracked a smile and, instinctively, he glanced at Archie to see that he was smiling as well. It seemed so silly to be reduced to nothing but a target, an animal, a survivor, and return to finger sandwiches with cucumber and apples slices. It seemed silly to murder and destroy and still be referred to as a boy.

“Oh, now, what’s so funny?” Mary protested.

“Mother, you’ve no need to stoop.”

“I’ll have you know I do . I sent Mafalda and Jerry home early, and I didn’t want to see our guest ,” she said pointedly, “to be neglected.”

“I’m quite fine, ma’am, but your hospitality is refreshing,” Archie assured politely. “And your home is more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

Mary glowed. “Don’t flatter me or me house, Mister...?”

“Fourth Lieutenant Archie Kennedy, ma’am,” he took her hand and shook it vigorously.

“Sit down, both of you, and I’ll pour out.” For a moment, as they both went to the sitting room and reclined on newly upholstered seats, Bram thought maybe the expression had been nothing more than an empty expression of goodwill, that she would set them a pot of tea and go about her business. Mary stayed, however, and asked how Archie’s journey in was. It was fine, ma’am, but you get used to one form of transport or another in the navy. If it’s not a B-52, it’s a minesweeper, and if it’s not that, it’s a transport truck or destroyer. I was tempted to ask to borrow a carrier and sail her round the backside of the lowlands instead of taking a train . Mary gave a great snort of a laugh at that. Archie poured her another cup of tea with a wink and she took to him even more. He had that way with women, with people in general. He’s different , Bram thought again as he sunk into the loveseat and spectated.

Archie told stories of the war as the day drained into night. They were lighthearted and thoroughly watered down, of course. They were the versions for children and parents and civilians and bartenders and even other veterans. Bram only talked about what happened when he was with Archie. He tried with his mother, once, but she only wished to discuss the broken fence or the bitter weather or the business in town, as if he was on some weekend holiday in France. She seemed to take well to Archie’s tales, however, but she knew her son was safe, and Bram had never been a great storyteller.

“ … we were firing at the U - boats and Nazi destroyers from the promontory like we were throwing darts! The other Lieutenants and I would discuss our shots, running back and forth, perfecting the angles as if we were all three sitting here in this parlour. Sitting ducks, they were…”

“Stop going on so much about the war,” Bram reprimanded gently.

“I don’t mind it one bit,” Mary assured before Archie could get a word in. “I don’t mind being entertained, anyway. As long as you don’t go on about military tactics and makes of aeroplanes and German cars, and oh , those terrible camps .”

A note of tension as tangible as barbed wire and concrete walls stung the room and simmered low. Genuine anger bubbled in Bram’s chest. Or perhaps it felt like anger. Maybe it was guilt, pain, upset, disturbance, and the selfish realisation that he would eternally be ostracised for what he knew and saw, forever misunderstood and misjudged and hailed as a hero when he felt like nothing more than a man responsible . Skeletons haunted his mind.

“Sounds like Bram,” Archie smiled, but, as he glanced back at the major, he might have taken his hand and pulled him onto the Renown and offered his cabin.

“Oh?” Mary giggled, knowingly. Bram light a fag and puffed to himself.

…

A pot roast was served for dinner. A large cut of roast beef was arranged on a great orange platter and placed in the middle of the long wooden table, ornamented with bowls and plates of potatoes, gravy boats, rolls, and a large carafe of ale. The grandfather clock struck seven as Mary said grace. The pearl handled silverware felt strange in hand. Bram thought he would grow accustomed once more to it after a few days of being home again, but days turned into months and they felt just as foreign.

He forced himself to eat slowly. Paranoia seemed to creep up on him when he ate, if for no other reason than to remind him that his sense of security was false. Bram put his fork down between bites and sipped at the alcohol with deliberation.

Mid - meal, Archie spied the well tempered clavichord hiding beneath the black cover in the corner of the dining room. Without excusing himself, he went to it and tapped at the keys.

“Can you play?” Mary asked.

In response, he began tapping out a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore . “Things are seldom what they seem,” he sang, “skim milk masquerades as cream, highlows pass as patent leathers; jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers.” His voice was adequate, though whatever talent Archie might have possessed was marred by his attempts to roll ever ‘r’ in the gaudy, operatic way whilst doing the bass and soprano parts of the duet and play the right notes on the well tempered clavichord. “Though I'm anything but clever,” he went on, “I could talk like that for - ever, once a cat was killed by care, only brave deserve the fair.” The Lieutenant went on to finish the song and Mary clapped enthusiastically.

It was almost embarrassing to Bram that Archie thought he needed to earn his keep somehow within the house; he was a guest. As Bram was determining whether to tell him now before he could neglect his dinner for a show, or later that night, he faced a realisation. Archie stood and gave a flourishing bow, pantomiming the removal of a hat, sweeping it across his body as he bowed deeply. He’s an entertainer , Bram thought. None of this was for them, but rather for Archie to be liked, to be seen and heard, to be adored, and to be laughed with and at. To be remembered.

Bram retired later that night, though a great deal earlier than he usually did. He had not gotten adequate sleep the night before, yes, but he was eager to hole away in his room.

“That is terribly rude to your guest, Lawrence,” Mary insisted. Archie looked uncomfortable, as he always seemed to be when mother chided son. Bram was well into his twenties, but Mary would only relent when she herself was dead and gone. Archie would have to get used to it.

“Believe me, I’ve been far ruder to Archie,” he said, beginning up the stairs.

“Then we shall see you tomorrow,” Mary said. She turned to Archie. “Is he so awful to you, Lieutenant Kennedy?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t grown to like.”

…

Sleep evaded him. The curtains blew back and forth with the cold night air drifting in through the window thrown agape. Mary would have a fit if she knew the power from the furnace was being wasted. Bram snuggled beneath the covers, feeling much younger amongst the relics of his adolescence. Photographs from university, letters from his secondary school mates, medals from mathematics competitions all littered his bedroom. He might have been a child again. His eyelids drifted low and his breathing slowed.

Bram jerked atop his bed, eyes flying open and turning quickly to see who was at the door. Nothing but shadows. He wished he had his rifle to cradle; stuffed animals no longer gave him security.

He sat up and lit another cigarette. The moonlight gleamed in through the open window, pale rays almost making the smoke dissipate into nothing. His lips pursed and he tried to blow a smoke ring.

Bram threw the covers back and stood. His limbs were sore with fatigue. His skin prickled with gooseflesh and he abandoned his room and quietly snuck down the hallway. Light bled into the corridor from one of the rooms. He entered without knocking and saw Archie sitting on the floor, back to the bed, reading a book by flashlight.

“I hoped you would be asleep,” he said, not looking up from the dimly lit pages.

Bram took a long drag on his cigarette. “Me too.” He padded to the four poster bed and curled on the side closest to Archie, looking down and reading over his shoulder just to find that he couldn’t. “What book is that?”

“Hamlet,” Archie said as he closed it and looked back at Bram. “By Shakespeare. Have you heard of him?” Edrington wondered if this was how Archie survived the leftover hardships of the war when he wasn’t performing.

“I missed you,” he said sincerely.

Archie turned fully and rested his elbows on the side of the mattress. His hand ran through Bram’s hair. “I know.”

“I missed you so much,” Bram’s voice dropped to a whisper as it broke.

“You daft bastard, why didn’t you write me sooner?” Archie queried, pressing kisses to any bare flesh he could find. Bram leaned forward and kissed his lips softly, tenderly. Between horrifying dreams of shrapnel and fire and walking skeletons was the rare feeling of Archie Kennedy’s lips upon his, moving slow as hands grabbed and bodies pressed.

Archie climbed on the bed and straddled Bram, whose hands settled on his waist beneath his shirt. Archie abandoned his post at Bram’s lips and settled at the crook of his neck, nibbling and biting there and breaking capillaries. It would bruise, no doubt, and Bram thought as much. Archie’s hand went to the hem of Bram’s pyjama pant, but the Major caught him. “Wait, Archie, I don’t want - ”

“Tell me what you want, then,” breathed the seaman as he kissed Bram’s cheek, close to his mouth.

“I want to sleep.” Archie slid off of him and reclined beside him. He knew what he meant.

“Okay,” he said, and Bram noticed his lips were swollen. Bram’s arm rested on Archie’s waist as he turned, fitting his own body with Bram’s. He was warm and solid, heart beating just as unsteadily as Bram’s. The major wondered how long it had been since Archie had sleep. He might have asked, but a yawn overcame him. Archie pulled the hand that rested on his hip over and laced his fingers in it. Their cold legs intertwined and Bram smiled into Archie’s hair.

Bram had dosed on the battlefield, longing for the stillness, the regularity, that home would grant him. It was a strange thing to go from the coddled state of adolescence to the animalistic desperation for survival, and back to normal life. For some reason, he thought that once he smelled the marigolds in the garden and wandered through the streets of the township, it would come to him. Bram was never to return to that life again, and he was alone in that knowledge. He was different.

Well, almost alone.

Perhaps the closest he would come to that sense of innocence was with Archie Kennedy by his side, in his arms. The man that tells war stories as if they were naught but tall tales. The man that made light wherever he went. The man that sacrificed himself again and again. The man he chose. The man that chose him. The man that was different. They both were.

“Goodnight, Bram.”

“Goodnight, Archie.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#; a concept of love ( archie && bram )#let it be known that this was finished at 4:55 am and i stayed up all night writig this dumb gay shit #i'm not proofredding #any mistakes??? i dont care #i have to be up in two hours

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