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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.

Chapter Text

London, New Year’s Eve 1919, 19:30

Orym dutifully took a sip of the sugary tea Zhudanna handed him. It was hot, scalding, and made his teeth tingle. 

“A new years party! How lovely. I remember the parties of my youth… You know, I used to be a singer in the Americas.” Zhudanna sighed fondly, before pulling out a sewing tin that likely contained biscuits. She handed it to Orym to open it, and then offered him a plain biscuit. He dunked it in the tea and took a bite. Her cat circled his legs, meowing pitifully until Orym reached down to scratch it behind the ears. He glanced at the door to her guest bedroom, where Laudna and Imogen were supposedly getting ready for the night out. They were taking long enough that he suspected they were also busy doing something else while he was present to distract their landlady. 

“Oh! That reminds me, I have something for you. Call it a delayed christmas gift.” She set the biscuits down on her cluttered coffee table, a ball of yellow yarn falling off much to the cat’s delight. 

“There’s really no need to,” he assured her, but as usual she waved his protests away and handed him a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and a twine string. 

“Nonsense, nonsense, you always look so cold when you’re heading off to that fancy house,” she said, “Really, they should pay you more if you can’t afford a nice thick scarf. We can’t have you catch a cold.” 

Orym opened the parcel to pull out a green scarf. The wool was soft and warm against his touch, and he smiled softly when he discovered some floral patterns stitched into it. 

“This is beautiful,” he said, “Thank you, Ms. Zhudanna. I’ll be sure to wear it.” She smiled fondly, and patted his shoulder, just as the door to the guest room finally opened and Laudna and Imogen emerged. Imogen’s cheeks were flushed, and Laudna’s hair was slightly too messed up to be intentional. 

“There you are,” Zhudanna said, not seeming to notice the state they were in, “You two look lovely.” They did look rather nice, Orym had to admit. Imogen’s dress was in the latest flapper fashion, her hair tied up artistically, while Laudna wore a slightly more old fashioned dancing gown, her hair held back by a shimmering headband that would’ve matched Imogen’s outfit more than hers. 

“Thanks, Zhudanna,” Imogen said, while Laudna smiled widely at her, “Don’t wait up for us, we’ll be back early in the morning, I think. Are you ready to go, Orym?” 

“Don’t forget your scarves!” Zhudanna called after them as they put on their coats. 

~

The Ruby of the Sea truly was a remarkable performer. Her sultry voice and red low cut glittering dress enchanted the entire audience. Even Orym had to admit he could see the appeal, although it was mostly amusing to watch how Imogen’s eyes glazed over as she watched the performance, mouth slightly agape. He nudged Fearne, who snapped out of staring at the tall woman on stage and nearly dropped the olives she was rapidly eating. 

“I’m going to get a drink,” he said, “Be right back.” She nodded, and quickly refocused her attention to the stage, whispering something in an equally enraptured Laudna’s ear. Ashton was at the bar tonight, and Orym greeted him with a little wave. 

“Didn’t think you’d be around tonight,” Ashton said by way of greeting, “Usual?” He poured Orym a watery looking beer, and held up his hand when Orym went to open his wallet. 

“Nah, your drinks are paid for tonight. Think you’ve got an admirer.” Ashton winked at him while Orym struggled to find words. 

“What?” was all he managed to bring out as Ashton out right laughed at him.

“Come on, don’t be surprised. Dolly omi like you, ‘course you’re going to catch eyes. Especially with that new tattoo of yours. Take advantage of it. Besides, be glad it’s not that fungus overthere.” He motioned to an old man with an unkept beard, clearly too deep into his cups as he tried to catch the attention of a young boy who couldn’t be more than seventeen, and who Orym was pretty sure he’d seen strolling on Picadilly before.

“Who..?” 

Ashton smiled conspiratory, and just handed Orym another beer. He leaned in close enough so his lips touched Orym’s ear. “He’s ogling you right now. Handsome guy in blue to your right.” 

Sure enough, when Orym looked up, he found the handsome singer he saw a month ago staring straight at him. He flushed a little when Orym raised a glass, but returned the gesture with a shy smile. He really was attractive, Orym thought. Rich, too, judging by his expensive looking coat and the fact that he was footing Orym’s bar tab tonight. 

And, well, it was New Year’s Eve. What did he have to lose? 

(Nothing, he’d already lost it all once before, a little voice in the back of his mind told him). 

“Hello,” Orym said, climbing onto the empty barstool next to the handsome stranger, “I’m Orym. Thanks for the drinks.” He held out his half empty glass to his admirer, whose expression of shock quickly changed into one of practised confidence. 

“Hi, Orym,” he said, “I hope you don’t mind. Your friend Fearne pointed you out last time I saw you here, but you disappeared before I could introduce myself. Dorian Storm.” He held out his hand, and Orym couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth twitching upward in amusement at the formality. 

“Good to meet you, Dorian,” he said, “So what brings you to the Lavish Château tonight?” 

Dorian shrugged with the familiar air of someone who didn’t want to admit to feeling lonely. “Oh, you know,” he said, taking a sip of his fancy cocktail, “The Ruby is an excellent singer. I was hoping to maybe talk to her about performing here again.” 

“That’s right, you’re a singer,” Orym said, as if he hadn’t recognised Dorian the moment he set eyes upon him, “I remember you from last time. You were really good. No, really!” 

“Oh, I dabble, is all. But the scene is nice here, better than in the States.” Dorian smiled bitterly at that, and Orym winced in sympathy. He’d heard about the segregation laws being passed from the papers and the American troops he served with during the war. Not that he was blind to the way some theatres in London turned away black audiences, or how some of Lord and Lady de Rolo’s noble friends whispered about Kynan when they thought nobody could hear them. 

Around them, a loud applause arose, followed by wolf whistling and an assortment of items thrown towards where the Ruby of the Sea was taking a deep bow. 

“Thank you, my beautiful gems,” she crooned into the microphone, “I am so glad to have each and every one of you here at the Lavish Château tonight. Let this be a haven, where we are safe among family and like minded friends. Share in your love tonight, dance, drink, and be merry!” 

A ragtime band replaced her on stage, starting up a fast paced song that had most of the club fleeing to the dance floor. 

“Want to have a go?” Orym asked, throwing all sense out of the window. Dorian hesitated, but then threw his drink back and boldly hauled Orym to his feet. 

“Do you know the Foxtrot?” Dorian called in Orym’s ear, and Orym nodded. 

“I’ll lead,” he called back, and quickly adopted the position. It was nice, dancing with someone; Orym truly couldn’t recall the last time he’d done so. During the war, a few times, when Will was still around and they’d managed to sneak away to Paris on leave. Will had been a terrible dancer, without a rhythmic bone in his body. Dorian, however, was very good, and before he realised it, he’d taken over the lead from Orym. They danced past the stage, where Dorian called something out to the band leader, who promptly changed the tune to something a lot faster. 

“Let me show you something new,” he told Orym, and much to his surprise spun Orym around wildly before launching into a wild sort of dance Orym had never seen before. 

“Come on!” Dorian said with a laugh, “Here, come on, I’ll show you the steps. You’ve got to twist your feet- no, faster, yes! Okay, and then you kick.” 

Dancing with Dorian made Orym forget about the dancefloor around them. For a while, it was only him, the music, and a handsome American jazz singer. Eventually, the band stopped playing and Orym cheered along with the rest of the audience. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and grinned at Dorian. Another singer came on stage, one Orym didn’t know or cared much about, and he reached out to take Dorian’s wrist in his hand. 

“Do you want to come sit with my friends?” he asked, feeling a little high on adrenaline from the dance. “I need a break from dancing, and neither of us have to spend the night alone.” 

It was strange how well Dorian fit into his little crew. He knew Fearne already, who kept shooting Orym unsubtle winks as she interrogated Dorian. Laudna clearly unnerved him, but he and Imogen got on well, bonding over rebuilding a life in England as Americans. And, of course, Orym enjoyed having someone to lean in against as he laughed at one of Fearne’s jokes. Near midnight, Ashton joined them, accompanied by an overly positive blonde youth they introduced as “Grass”.

“Smiley day!” he said, and Orym wondered if they were old enough to be up past ten. But before he could express his concern, the Ruby of the Sea appeared on stage again under loud cheering. Out of nowhere, servers dressed in an extravagant livery and wigs appeared around the room, carrying trays with flutes of champagne. 

“Midnight approaches!” the Ruby announced, and the lights around the room dimmed ever so slightly. One of the servers bent down to offer their group champagne. “Choose yourselves a partner, and hold them close, and join me in the countdown.” She gave a signal to the drummer, and began counting down from ten…

Imogen and Laudna quickly pulled each other closer, their foreheads pressed together in anticipation of midnight. 

Nine…

The Ruby laughed as a short man with slicked back dark hair and a goatee got pushed up the stage by a girl Orym vaguely recognised as her daughter.

Eight…

Fearne winked at Ashton, curling her finger to beckon him closer. 

Seven…

Ashton rolled his eyes, whispered something into Grass’ ear and took his champagne flute for themself, and sat down on Fearne’s knee. 

Six…

Orym shifted awkwardly, feeling Dorian’s body heat radiating next to him. They sat close together, thighs touching. 

Five…

The crowd grew louder and louder in anticipation of a new year, but Orym’s world narrowed when Dorian cleared his throat. 

Four…

“Orym, do you, um- Will you…?” 

Three…

Orym nodded, his mouth feeling very dry all of a sudden. He angled his face up towards Dorian.

Two….

Dorian leaned in closer, his free hand coming up to hesitantly cradle the back of Orym’s head.

One…

Man, his lips looked soft from up close, a little red here and there from where he worried at them with his teeth. 

Around them, cheers and well wishes of a happy new year arose. Quick kisses were exchanged between strangers and lovers alike, champagne flutes thrown back and some merrily thrown to the ground for luck. The band struck up auld lang syne, those who had not found a partner linking arms and singing along. 

Dorian’s lips were indeed very soft against Orym’s own chapped ones. As far as kisses went, it was a chaste one, but Orym hadn’t kissed someone in years and quickly discovered he was thirsty for it. He closed his eyes as he deepened the kiss, and tried not to compare it to that other first kiss he had years and years ago. 

A wolf whistle disrupted the moment, and when Dorian pulled back his cheeks were all nicely flustered. Orym could feel his own cheeks heat up too, and he pointedly ignored Fearne’s shit eating grin. He cleared his throat, quickly drank his half forgotten champagne, and ran a hand through his mussed up hair. 

“I um- do you want to leave?” he asked Dorian, who rapidly nodded. Orym quickly gathered up his coat and scarf, tugging them on and bidding the group a quick goodbye. 

“Lovely to meet you all,” Dorian said, voice a little higher pitched than at five minutes to midnight. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Ashton hollered after them, still from their position in Fearne’s lap. 

“Is there something you wouldn’t do?” Fearne asked innocently, and even in the dim light and smoky atmosphere Orym spotted her hand creeping ever so slightly closer to Ashton’s crotch. 

“Bye!” he pointedly said, hooking his arm through Dorian’s, and dragging him outside into the freezing night air. 

January 1st 1920, 08:15

They hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night, and Orym cursed himself for that decision. He turned around in bed with a groan, throwing an arm over his eyes in an attempt to block out the daylight. He startled when he collided with someone else’s warm body, nearly falling out of the bed. 

“Good morning,” Dorian said, his long hair sprawled out over Orym’s spare pillow. He looked beautiful in the meek light of another grey winter’s morning, and Orym had entirely forgotten about last night. 

“Morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep. Dorian gave him a soft smile, and nudged Orym’s legs with his feet. 

“How did you sleep?” he asked, and Orym bunched up his pillow to get more comfortable. Dorian sleepily reached out, tracing the lines of the tattoo on Orym’s bicep. Orym held still as if afraid he’d startle him, as Dorian gently caressed the two robins etched underneath his skin. His fingertips were slightly calloused as they followed the branch the birds sat on down to where he wore two poppies. 

“Does it mean anything?” 

Dorian wasn’t looking at him as he asked the question. Orym sighed, knowing there was no point of not telling Dorian. He’d already seen the ring Orym wore around his neck. 

“It’s in memory of my father in law, and my- my husband,” Orym said. He touched the ring, the touch of cool metal keeping him in the present. “We weren’t legally married, of course, but we made vows, exchanged rings on the Southampton Pier.” Orym rolled away from Dorian, and hung off of the side of the bed to fumble for his trousers. He retrieved his wallet from a pocket, and carefully retrieved Will’s photograph. 

“Handsome guy,” Dorian said, resting his head on Orym’s thigh as Orym sat up in bed, leaning against the headboard. His voice was slightly cautious, but there was none of the pity Orym was used to receiving from other sympathetic men, even though he had clearly guessed why the man in the picture wasn’t in Orym’s bed right now. “What was his name?” 

“Will,” Orym said, “His name’s Will. I served with him and his father, during the war. All five years. We had such big plans for what we’d do after. He called me his little robin. You know, after that one song that was popular before the war.” 

Orym hummed a few notes, and Dorian nodded in recognition. His hand was rubbing small circles into Orym’s knee, the gesture comforting. 

“It’s strange,” Orym quietly said as he traced the photograph, “Strange to mourn someone you never got to bury.” 

He took a deep breath, and cleared his throat to be rid of the lump forming there. 

“Anyway. Are you hungry? We should have breakfast. I hope you like porridge.” He carefully placed the photograph on his bedside table, and got up. He tugged his pants on, and wiped at his eyes. 

“Orym,” Dorian said, grabbing Orym’s wrist. He said nothing else, just gave a little squeeze and somehow, Orym found more strength in that gesture than in any words of support he could’ve said. “Porridge is fine.” 

Orym learned a lot about Dorian over breakfast in his small apartment. He didn’t like to use public restrooms, the fact that anyone could knock on the door made him too nervous to get his business done, for example. He also didn’t understand the appeal of milk in tea, and had a ridiculous sweet tooth. Dorian was also very funny, and looked really good sitting shirtless at Orym’s dingy kitchen table. 

At ten in the morning, someone knocked on the door. Orym had just found himself back in bed with Dorian, slowly kissing as he enjoyed the feeling of Dorian’s hands dipping below his waistband. 

“Ignore it, it’s just Imogen,” he whispered against Dorian’s lips, reaching back to keep Dorian’s hand on his butt. 

Another knock, this one more insistent. Orym groaned, and rolled out of bed. He threw Dorian a shirt, and motioned for him to act casual- just in case it was someone with bad intentions at the door. He kept the chain on as he unlocked the door, opening it ever so slightly. Behind him, Dorian had sat back down at the table, pretending to read a book and holding it just so it hid the bulge in his pants. 

“Oh, hi Zhudanna,” Orym said, slightly relieved, “Uh- Happy new year, can I do something for you?” 

“Happy new year to you too, dear,” she said, “Hopefully a peaceful one. I forgot yesterday, but these letters arrived for you a few days ago. Delivered to me by mistake, I think. Do you want to join us for tea tonight? You could bring that handsome man you snuck up here.” 

Orym accepted the letters, a little dumbstruck. She just smiled, and her heavily wrinkled eyes gave a twitch of a wink. “I know a thing or two about the world, young man,” she said, “Don’t be late, I’m making eel.” 

“Thanks, uh, we’ll be there?” He waited until she’d slowly made her way downstairs and the steady tap-tap of her cane vanished into her own apartment. 

“Coast clear?” Dorian asked, putting the book back down. Orym hummed, taking the other seat. He flipped through the envelopes, identifying one as a letter from his mother, and another as a response to a personal advertisement he’d placed on a whim back in October. The third one, however, made him freeze. He put the other envelopes down, and stared at the handwriting with a frown. That was Lady Keyleth’s hand; why had she written him a letter? It was heavy, too, and a heavy feeling of dread settled on his heart. 

“Orym?” He glanced up at Dorian, who was looking at him with a concerned expression. 

“Letter from my former employer,” he said, “I um- I should open it, probably.” 

“I could leave- do you want me to go? Give you some privacy? I could check if the toilet’s free at last.” 

“No, no, it’s probably nothing,” Orym said, and ripped open the letter before he could talk himself out of it. A small parcel fell out of the envelope, carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. It tumbled onto the table with a soft thud, and Orym unfolded the letter with trembling hands. 

His eyes scanned over the written lines, as Dorian watched on in concern. Orym stopped reading halfway through, his face paling until he nearly resembled a sheet of paper. 

“What’s it say?” Dorian carefully asked when Orym lowered the letter and picked up the small parcel. He unwrapped it with near reverence, and let out a choked sob when the parcel revealed a simple silver ring, with a small green stone set into the band. 

“They found- they-” Orym brought out, clutching the ring tightly in his fist, “Will- they found his- they found him.” 

Yorkshire, January 9th, 1920, 10:36

The weather was lovely, for once. A weak winter’s sun shone down on a small graveyard. A small group of people were gathered around a freshly dug grave. A mostly empty coffin was just lowered into it. It contained no remains, only a set of identity tags, half corroded and barely legible. Fragments of a uniform, bearing the emblem of the Prince of Wales’s Own. A dented lighter that had somehow survived. A photograph of a smiling young man in uniform, and a double set of medals. The empty coffin entered the ground to rest underneath a white headstone, next to a nearly identical one that watched over the grave of his father. 

A smattering of flowers rained down onto the wood, as one by one Will’s family said their goodbyes. Orym was last. His eyes were sore from crying, and he hadn’t been this tired since the end of the war. He took a deep breath, twirling the rose around in his fingers before letting it go. 

“I’ll miss you, my robin,” he softly said as the flower joined the others in the grave. “Suppose this is it, then.” He exhaled shakily, fingering the ring in his pocket. He’d add Will’s ring to the chain around his neck soon, but he wanted to keep it closer to him for now. He looked down at the casket, and suddenly felt a little silly speaking to a grave. “Well. I’ll see you,” he said, “I um- We’re going to mum’s. Lady Keyleth offered to host a whole banquet for everyone at the big house, but your mum refused. So now we’re having tea with Lady Keyleth at your mum’s.” He sniffled, and glanced around. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to him, although he did see a man dressed in formal black carrying a shovel waiting near the church until everyone had left. 

“I love you, Will,” Orym whispered, “And I’ll never forget you.” He closed his eyes, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the cold marble headstone. 

He stayed just a few seconds longer in the silence, listening to the wind as if expecting to hear Will’s voice carried on it to offer him some last words of comfort. 

Orym shook his head. He was being silly now. He pushed his shoulders back to straighten himself up, and walked over to where Dorian was leaning against the stone wall surrounding the cemetery, a little ways away from the rest of Orym’s family. 

“Thank you for coming,” Orym said, and Dorian briefly dusted some imaginary dust off of Orym’s jacket, letting his touch linger there for a moment longer than necessary. 

“It was a lovely ceremony,” he softly said, “It- Thank you for trusting me, Orym. Are you sure it’s alright for me to join you for dinner, though?” 

“Nell’s invited you, hasn’t she?” Orym fixed Dorian’s collar, smiling when he felt Dorian’s lips gently brush his hair before hastily retreating back up. 

“She has, and to be honest, she’s a little scary,” he said, “Your sisters are nice, though. Do they know…?” 

“They do. Haven’t told them about us, but I’m sure they’ve guessed by now. Come on, I heard Lady Keyleth provided a whole pheasant for the meal.” 

Chapter Text

I call you, and I call you. Oh come home,

You lonely creature. Curse the foreign clown

Who plugged you with that lead, and knocked you down.

Stand up again and laugh, you wandering friend; 

Say, as you would: "It's just a little hole; 

It will soon mend." 

Walk now into the room. Come! Come! Come! Come!

Come! we will laugh together all the night.

(We shall have poured ourselves a glass or two.)

Sit down. Our mutual mirth will reach its height.

When we remember how they called you dead,

And I shall ask you howit felt, and you -

"Oh, nothing. Just a tumble. Rather hot,

The feeling in my side; and then my head

A trifle dizzy, but I'm back again.

I lay out there too long, and I've still got,

When I think of it, just a little pain." 

I know the way you tumbled... Once you slid

And landed on your side. I noticed then

A trick of falling; some peculiar glide - 

A curious movement, not like other men.

But did your mouth drop open? Did your breath

Hurt you? What sort of feeling quickly came, 

When you discovered that it might be death? 

And what will happen if I shout your name? 

Perhaps you may be there behind the door,

And if I raise my voice a little more,

You'll swing it open. I don't know how thick

The black partition is between us two.

Answer, if you can hear me; friend, be quick...

Listen, the door-bell rang! Perhaps it's you. 

You're in the room. You're sitting in that chair.

You are! ... I will go down. It was the bell. 

You may be waiting at the door as well. 

Am I not certain I shall find you there?...

You're rigged in your best uni-form today;

You take a momentary martial stand,

Then step inside and hold me out your hand,

And laugh in that old solitary way. 

You don't know why you did it. All this while

You've slaved and sweated. Now you're very strong,

And so you tell me with a knowing smile:

" We're going out to Flanders before long." 

I thought you would come back with an ugly hole

Below your thigh,

And ask for sympathy and wander lame;

I thought you'd be that same

Grumbling companion without self-control -

I never thought you'd die. 

* 

Now let us both forget this brief affair;

Let us begin our friendship all again.

I'm going down to meet you on the stair.

Walk to me! Come! for I can see you plain.

How strange! A moment I did think you dead.

How foolish of me! 

Friend! friend! Are you dumb? 

Why are you pale? Why do you hang your head? 

You see me? Here's my hand. Why don't you come? 

Don't make me angry. You are there, I know. 

Is not my house your house? There is a bed

Upstairs. You're tired. Lie down; you must come home. 

Some men are killed... not you. Be as you were. 

And yet - Somehow it's dark down all the stair. 

I'm standing at the door. You are not there.