Chapter Text
London, Armistice Day 1919, 05:30
Orym would never get used to the noise of living in a big city. It was still dark out when he awoke, but already he could hear people shouting on the street. A little further away, a loud bang signalled the failure of an autobus. Orym tensed up at the noise, but resisted the urge to drop to the floor. It was far away, and the war was over.
Three months ago, he was demobilised and formally discharged from the army. The medals he received laid in their box in a drawer, next to Will’s. He never once looked at them since receiving them. Nell insisted he kept Will’s, not taking his weak refusal for an answer. She had her daughters, photographs, the house she raised him in; Orym had nothing to remember him by but a small photograph of Will in his army slacks kept safely folded in his wallet and the ring Will bought for him in Southampton back in 1914.
He pushed the memory down as he washed his face in the sink in his room. A small luxury afforded to him by Lady Keyleth, when he refused to return to her employment when the armistice was signed. She still provided him with a salary, which allowed him to live in comfort until he found new employment or convinced himself to apply for a war pension.
After shaving, he put on a fresh shirt, pulled a comb through his hair, and smiled at himself in the mirror. Perhaps today would bring good news, he thought. He briefly touched the ring on the chain around his neck before tucking it away, and putting the rest of his clothes on. He picked up an apple and his messenger bag, and at the last minute remembered to put in Lady Keyleth’s letter of recommendation.
Today would be a good day, he told himself, and stepped out of his small apartment and onto the landing. He went down the stairs two steps at a time, only halting to pet the fat white cat belonging to the elderly lady living downstairs. The animal nipped at his fingers before rolling over onto her belly.
“Oh, you’re a good girl,” he softly said, reaching over to scratch.
“Good morning, Orym, you’re up early.” He looked up to find Zhudanna standing in her doorway, wrapped up in a brown morning coat and cradling a steaming mug of coffee. “Busy day?”
“Very busy, ma’am,” he said, “I’m speaking to a few people about jobs.”
“Well, maybe today is your lucky day,” she warmly said, not showing a sign of judgment that this was the third time this week he was applying for jobs. “After all, today’s the day the war ended. Good luck, Orym.” She made a tssk-ing noise to the cat, who meowed and immediately ran over to wind around Zhudanna’s legs. Orym nodded politely and stood up, ignoring the strange tension building in his chest.
Right.
He hadn’t realised the date.
He swallowed heavily, and wondered if he could make it to the address in Mayfair without passing any of the memorial services. He doubted it; his appointment was at 10 in the morning, which would leave him stranded in the city right around 11 a.m. He squared his shoulders, and pushed the front door open. There was no time to think about it all, he told himself, not right now. And if he clutched his messenger bag a little tighter than usual as he ran for the bus stop, that was nobody’s business but his own.
The DeRolo Residence, Mayfair, London,10:15
“This is an excellent letter of recommendation, mr. Tarrintell.”
Lady de Rolo sat in front of him on a couch that likely cost more than him and Will ever earned together in their entire lives. She handed Lady Keyleth’s letter to her husband, who put on a set of small spectacles before skimming through it.
“Just Orym, my lady,” he said with a small incline of his head. Lady de Rolo raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, and Orym quickly averted his gaze to instead stare at a painting behind her head.
“Well, just Orym, Keyleth is an old friend of ours,” she said, “Percival and I met her years ago, when he was still at Oxford, didn’t we darling?”
Lord de Rolo gave an absent hum, still reading the letter as if trying to decipher a hidden meaning. Lady de Rolo continued, and it was unnerving how she directly addressed him.
“Usually we don’t interview new staff ourselves, of course, but she personally recommended you,” she continued, “So we were curious about you, Orym. She spoke so highly of you, why did you not return to your employment on the Ashari estate? You could have been a butler, instead of applying to footman and valet positions.”
Lord de Rolo finally put the letter down and took off his spectacles to look at Orym, who felt as if his mouth was suddenly full of sawdust. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his mouth opening and closing without any words coming out.
“I- I- I can’t say, my Lady,” he eventually brought out, a familiar dread settling in his stomach. He’d blown it, again, His shoulders slumped slightly, but he forced himself to keep his chin up and gaze ahead, back ramrod straight like a proper servant was meant to stand.
“Did you fight?” Lord de Rolo asked, and Orym was surprised to hear his voice come out so gentle. He looked away from the wall to meet Lord de Rolo’s gaze, finding an expression of respect and understanding.
“Yes, sir,” he said, automatically falling into military habits, “Four years, sir.”
Lady de Rolo reached out to take her husband’s hand, holding onto it tight. “We’ve heard about what happened to your company,” Lord de Rolo said, “Keyleth wrote when news reached her, and my wife and I travelled up to be with her. Losing Derrig and young Wilfred hit her hard, but your survival gave her heart.”
“He’s not dead,” Orym blurted out, unable to keep his composure any longer. How dared they- how dared they make this about them, about Lady Keyleth, when he was the one who’d lost the two men closest to him. He was the one who had to watch the man who practically raised him get shot in the back, he was the one who tried to carry his father to safety before the shell hit their trench. It was him who watched the shrapnel fly and hit the man he considered to be his husband, legality be damned. He was the one who couldn’t get to him in time before the next bomb hit, burying him and Will both. He was the one who got out, the one they retrieved from the mud, screaming for them to dig deeper, to find Will, find Derrig.
They found Derrig.
“He’s missing,” Orym interrupted, his throat closing up as he fought back his fury, “They never- he still might-” Lord de Rolo held up a hand, and Orym clenched his teeth together tightly.
“My apologies, I understand,” he offered, “That is, we understand grief.” He shared a look with Lady de Rolo, whose expression reminded Orym of his own when he looked in the mirror most mornings.
“It is hard to grieve when there is no certainty,” she quietly said, “My brother- I don’t know where he is buried, if he received a grave.” She closed her eyes for a moment, before she abruptly stood up.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, voice strained, and Orym dutifully stepped aside when she strode past him and out of the room. Lord de Rolo hesitated, but then reached out to ring a bell attached to the wall.
“You will hear from us,” he told Orym, “I should go check on my wife- ah, wonderful, Kynan, could you show Orym the door, please?” And with that, he too was gone, leaving Orym alone with a young footman wearing a dark blue livery.
1 0:45
Orym’s feet carried him from the de Rolo residence through a busy Hyde Park. He pushed his way through crowds of people dressed in black and khaki, keeping his head down as he dodged past two laughing soldiers with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. A woman pushing a stroller gave him a disapproving look when he hopped over a fence to take a short cut across the grass, and usually he would have apologised. Now, though, he just wanted to get away from the crowd.
Before he knew it, he had left the park. In the distance, to the east, he heard a military band strike up familiar music. He continued north-west, through Grosvenor Square where he briefly stopped to drop a coin in a blind soldier’s soup tin. The clock in the centre of the square told him it was fifteen minutes to eleven. He kept walking, ignoring the thinning crowds around him heading in the other direction.
Without thinking about it, his feet carried him to Soho. There weren’t many places open at this hour, but there was one place Orym knew he would be welcome at. It was two minutes to eleven when he pushed open the door to Gilmore’s, finding the bar mostly deserted. Surely enough, Inanna swept the floors while Sherri put away the more outrageous decorations that only came out at night, when Gilmore’s catered to a more specific clientele. Orym made his way to the bar, where Gilmore himself was talking with a tall woman wearing a daringly low cut green dress.
“Hi Fearne,” he said. She turned towards him with a grin that quickly faded when she saw his expression, and when outside the church bells rang eleven, he couldn’t hold it back and collapsed forward into his friend’s arms.
“Hey Orym,” she said, her fingers gently combing through his still short cropped hair as he broke down against her chest.
“Oh my, here, soldier boy, you look like you need this. On the house.” Gilmore placed a glass of some type of alcoholic beverage on the bar. “There’s more where that came from, too.” Orym managed a pathetic word of thanks, and wiped the tears away from his eyes. He accepted the embroidered handkerchief Fearne pulled from somewhere and noisily blew his nose.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You can keep that,” she said, “I took it off of them anyway.” She nodded towards a heavily tattooed dark skinned individual wearing a coat that nearly matched the handkerchief currently asleep on the bar a few seats down from them. Outside, the bells had stopped ringing. From a few nearby pubs voices raised to sing God Save the King, and Orym picked up his drink. Fearne too had a drink in her hand, and raised it.
“To Will?” she said, and Orym was struck with affection for his friend. Fearne understood him to a degree few others in his life ever had, and more importantly, she showed him only sympathy, never pity.
“To Will, and Derrig,” he agreed, before throwing back the drink and promptly coughing when it was something much too strong for eleven a.m. in the morning, regardless of the date.
13:30
As much as Orym would have loved to stay in Gilmore’s and hide from the world for the rest of the day, Fearne had to go to work. There was a special armistice day matinee of the music hall she was a part of. She insisted Orym come along to watch from the back, and maybe it was the cocktails Gilmore poured for them, but Orym agreed; it wasn’t like he had anything else to do. On his way out, he carefully slipped the handkerchief back into the pocket of the still sleeping fellow.
It was only a short walk through China Town to the Pavillion. They went in through the stage door, and Orym welcomed the bustle of the backstage. He wasn’t overly fond of the theatre, but Fearne’s chaotic colleagues were a welcome distraction from his worries.
“Okay, sit here, we’re doing a new song,” Fearne said once it was nearly time for her to go on. It was always a delight to see his friend dressed for the stage. This time, she wore her hair in curls, and had swapped her dress out for a sharply cut suit. The two other members of her troupe- Imogen and Laudna- were dressed similarly, the same exaggerated makeup on their face.
“Break a leg,” he told them as he sat down on an upturned crate close to the stage.
“Thanks, Orym,” Imogen said, “Are you coming out with us tonight?”
“We’re going to the Lavish Château,” Laudna enthusiastically added, her wrist cracking when she spun the prop-cane in her hand.
“I’ll see,” he said, just as their act was announced and a roar from the audience welcomed the Witches to the stage.
~
Sheffield, November 11th 1910, 22:16
“You’re drunk,” Orym laughed.
Will twirled around a street lantern in the mostly deserted street. They’d just come back from the theatre, a rare night out while Lady Keyleth was off to London for a wedding, taking only Will’s father with her.
“I’m inspired!” Will called back, and Orym shook his head when he let go off the pole to nudge his shoulder against Orym’s. “Don’t you think that singer was marvellous? I could have listened to her sing all day and night.” He sighed wistfully, and Orym rolled his eyes.
“You just thought she was pretty,” he accused Will, who clutched at his chest with a gasp.
“Such accusations!” Will exclaimed, “Don’t pretend you weren’t making eyes at that acrobat, the one with the very tight pants and the very large bulge.”
“Shh,” Orym hushed him with a shove, shooting a polite smile at the officer passing them from the other way. To his credit, Will waited until the officer had rounded the corner before he slung his arm around Orym’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry, moon of mine,” he said with his lips close to Orym’s ear, “You were still the prettiest sight of the evening.”
“Sweet talker,” Orym told him, but he felt himself blush bright red. With a quick glance around, he even dared to lean up and press a kiss to Will’s cheek. They walked in silence, arms slung around each other as they traversed the dark city until they reached a small city park.
“I really enjoyed tonight,” Will said, breaking the silence, “I don’t think I quite want it to end, what about you?” Orym shook his head, pulling Will down to sit on an iron bench. The only light here was provided by the moonlight and a faintly flickering street lamp, its candle nearly burnt out.
“Then let’s not end it,” Will whispered, “An encore, perhaps. Do you remember that song she sang? I bet I could do it better.”
Orym snorted- he knew Will’s singing voice. There was no way he would be able to outdo a world famous music hall singer. Still, Will pressed his lips against Orym’s before he stood up on the bench and spread his arms widely. He cleared his throat, and called out: “Maestro, please!”
He loved this ridiculous man, Orym realised, and thanked his lucky stars for whatever fate allowed them to meet. Will hummed a tune, before he sang, quiet at first:
“I’m a young lad, and have just come over, over from the country where they do things big.” He winked at Orym, who buried his face in his hands upon recognising the song. Will’s voice got louder as he continued, uncaring of whoever might hear.
“And amongst the boys I’ve got a lover, and since I’ve got a lover, why I don’t care a fig.” He jumped down from the bench to kneel on the ground so he was lower than Orym as he launched into the chorus, his voice carrying on slightly off tune. Orym laughed, reaching out for Will to haul him back to his feet.
“The boy I love is up in the gallery, the boy I love is looking now at me,” Will sang, and pulled Orym up to his feet to twirl him around, “There he is, can’t you see, waving his handkerchief, as merry as a robin, that sings in a tree- come on, your turn.” He let go of Orym and dropped himself down onto the bench, batting his eyelashes at him in a poor imitation of the girls who had occupied the seats next to them at the theatre.
Orym really wasn’t a singer, but it felt as if he was on top of the world. “The boy that I love, they call him a cobbler,” he began, his voice a little warbly, “But he’s not a cobbler, allow me to state. For Johnny is a tradesman-”
“Johnny? Should I be jealous?” Will interrupted, and Orym rolled his eyes at his antics.
“Do you want me to sing the song, or what? Thought so.” Orym moved to straddle Will’s lap, skipping the rest of the lines to get to the next verse. “If I were a duchess, and had a lot of money, I’d give it to the boy who’s going to marry me,” he sang softly as he felt Will’s arms around him. He rested his forehead against Will’s, briefly distracted by how close they were.
Would that he could marry him, Orym thought, they would be in church by morning.
“But I haven’t got a penny,” Will whispered, “So we’ll live on love and kisses-” He punctuated the line with a long kiss, one that Orym did not dare break.
No, they couldn’t marry, but sitting on that dark park bench, Orym knew he would not love another as he loved Will. He would be happy with what he could have, with moments like this one and sneaking into each other’s rooms after curfew.
They truly were as merry as a pair of robins singing in a tree, and Orym didn’t need a vicar to confirm their love.
~
London, November 11th 1919, 21:13
Orym stepped into the dim lit interior of the Lavish Château, the air hazy from smoke and low lights. The space smelled like sweat, alcohol and incense. Worn out couches, woven rugs and pillows littered the space. There was a small bar in the back, manned by a tall man wearing a marine’s uniform, a poppy in his buttonhole. The electrical lights were dimly lit, allowing for anonymity in corners and on the dancefloor alike.
A jazz band played on a small stage, and although Orym didn’t recognise the singer, they had a lovely voice. He was handsome, too, dressed in an expensive looking and fashionable blue suit. Orym looked around the space to try and find his friends among the chaotic environment. There were couples dancing, exchanging partners as the music picked up in pace. A group of three pushed in behind Orym, the red haired man muttering a “pardon us” as he followed his friends to a group of couches and pillows.
“Orym! Over here!” Fearne’s voice was audible even over the music and noise of people talking. Orym spotted her waving him over from a table near the stage. The musician on stage gave her a confused look, which left Fearne entirely unphased.
“Hi,” he said when he made his way over, accepting the warm hug and drink she pushed into his hands, “That coat is new.” Fearne grinned, holding out her arms to look at the expensive fur coat she was wearing despite the warm temperature inside.
“It is! Someone left it at the theatre, so you know, finder’s keepers.” She pressed a drink in his hand and he sat down next to her.
“We didn’t think you’d come out tonight,” Imogen said, leaning over the table so he could hear. She had a foamless pint in her one hand, her other holding onto Laudna who was humming along to the popular tune the band now played.
“I almost didn’t,” Orym admitted, “But home seemed a little lonely tonight.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Imogen said, and raised her glass for them to clink together. Fearne rested her hand on his lower back, a quiet offer of support. He nudged her arm with his shoulder to let her know he was alright, all things considered.
“How’s your house search going?” he asked when the musician on stage left for a female singer, her voice low and sultry.
“Terrible,” Laudna cheerfully said, “But the hotel isn’t too bad. And they’ve not found out about Pâté yet!”
Imogen pulled a face at the mention of Laudna’s pet rat. “It is expensive, though,” she said, “But we have a few places that we might be able to afford.”
“I could ask the woman downstairs from me if she'd take you in,” Orym offered, remembering how Zhudanna lamented the difficulty of finding someone to rent out her spare bedroom, “She’s nice, has a lovely cat and a bedroom she rents out.”
“Really? That’d be grand,” Imogen said, “And she won’t mind us sharing the bedroom?”
“I doubt it, she’s not one to judge,” he assured her, “As long as you don’t mind living in Greenwich.”
“I hear it’s quaint!” Laudna cheerfully said, “Imogen and I go to the park sometimes, to look at the burial mounds.”
“She loves the burial mounds,” Imogen agreed, before she quickly nudged Laudna to her feet before she could launch into the gruesome details of bronze age burial traditions. “Come on, you promised me a dance.”
The two drifted off to the dancefloor to sway to the music together, and Orym watched them for a moment before leaning against Fearne.
“Don’t you want to go dance?” he asked her, noting how she kept stealing glances at a muscular woman at the bar. Fearne thought for a moment, and shrugged.
“No, I’d rather spend time with you,” she said, “Maybe we could dance later, but not to this song.” She slipped her fur coat off, revealing a loose fitting dress that nearly matched her skin tone if it weren’t for the shimmering glass diamonds.
“The last singer was much better,” Orym agreed, “You know, they should let you perform here some day.” He wasn’t looking at Fearne, but he could feel her shift and knew she’d set her mind on something that usually meant no good.
“They should,” she said, “But you liked him? The singer?”
“He had a nice voice. Why?”
“Just his voice?”
Orym pulled away from her and narrowed his eyes, wary of the innocent expression she put on. She put up her hands when he crossed his arms, and batted her eyelashes, a technique Orym was entirely immune to.
“Oh hey, isn’t that Ashton?” She pointed over Orym’s shoulder, and the moment he turned to look she was gone, leaving him alone among the cushions and coats.
Ashton was nowhere to be seen.
What he did see, however, was Fearne talking to someone he recognised as the handsome jazz singer in blue at the bar. She gestured in his direction and to his horror, the singer made direct eye contact with him and gave him a hesitant smile. Orym felt his cheeks flush and averted his eyes. He could blame that response on the alcohol, he told himself, as he quickly gathered up his coat and bolted for the door.
Outside, it was much cooler. Orym let out a heavy breath as he sagged down to the ground. He rested his forehead on his knees, attempting to get his erratic breathing under control.
He wasn’t ready for this. Not today, not yet, maybe not ever.