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It’s more the piercing contrast of the royal blue eyes against the red cotton jumper that attracts George to the pier every morning, rather than the light blue sky and the silky waves gently sanctioning to the shore, and waving away again. If one were to observe the waves for what natural beauty they truly were, one would say the soothing repetition was therapeutic. A way to control one’s breathing. George needed that. Whenever he lost his breath, or had a loss of control over his thoughts and feelings when a certain young boy looked his way and smiled at him, George always had to force his gaze back to the sea. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it just allowed himself some time for Peter to divert his attention to his father’s words, or something that needed to be done to the boat.
Peter Dawson had been George’s gift and problem for a while now. They had grown up together in this quiet town, next door neighbours in fact, and whilst they were not necessarily inseparable, everyone knew they did come as a package. A cotton pair. People in their little town thought nothing of it, just a couple of young boys having fun and running amok, some townsfolk even praised the behaviour. It was only when the Dawson’s pushed their youngest to behave more maturely, to grow into the splendid gentleman of an adult Peter would surely become, that it began to be a problem.
Peter rarely knocked on George’s door anymore; the blonde was always either working on Moonstone, or being taken out into the city by his older brother who was apparently teaching his younger brother the ways of the world. And, when they got to a certain age, the ways of women.
George’s mother always pushed him to go with them. Peter was only a little older than him, and George could stand to learn a thing or two.
Or that’s what she always said, at least.
He never went with them. And when he would watch outside his bedroom window to see the arrival of the Dawson brothers, there would only be one woman with them, draped over Addison’s arm.
Peter would always look up to George’s bedroom window to smile back at him.
The next morning, George would be down at the docks again, and this time Peter would stretch out his hand and promise a luxury sail in their boat, just for fun, because Peter’s been learning, and Mister Dawson had errands to run elsewhere. George would take that hand.
George didn’t even like boats.
---
George wasn’t as naïve as people liked to think he was. He knew tensions across the channel were brewing, he would always hear the warning tales coming from Mister Dawson, about the Jerries, about the allies made between Hitler and other nations. But war had not been declared yet. And with every waking morning he was still alive and watching Peter mull around on the family boat with dirt smudges across his trouser ankles, he couldn’t help but feel lucky and whole. And okay. They were okay.
---
“You should be at school, young man,” his mother scolded, and slapped her spatula against the kitchen counter, “Where were you today?”
George was never an intellectually inspired person, and whilst he dumped his— empty— school bag down by the staircase, he could only mumble, “Out.”
“You’re going to give your poor mother a heart attack one of these days,” she carried on, and if George had flinched when she threw his plate in the bin to signal no supper for him, she didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing it, “To your room, with you! Tell your sister dinner is ready.”
“Yes, ma.”
It felt like an echo sometimes. He never really existed at home.
His father would return from work later that evening, tell him what an utter waste of space he is, that he can’t do anything right, that his teachers were correct when they whipped him and insisted that if he didn’t smarten up and do his school work and pay attention in classes, he wouldn’t get anywhere.
George was starting to believe them.
---
“Have you been hearing about the Jerries?” Peter would inquire at dinner the next week.
Whilst Peter wasn’t allowed at George’s home anymore, George was always welcome at the Dawson’s.
“Oh, Peter, please,” Mrs Dawson sighed, and scraped more potatoes onto George’s plate, “No talk of that tonight.”
“But it’s all over the radio,” Addison piped up, swirling his fork in the air, in pensive concentration, “They’ll be wanting recruits soon.”
“That’s enough, Addy,” Mrs Dawson cut in, and gave her eldest a pointed look.
One filled with a warning.
“Peter will have to lie about his age,” Addison continued, ignoring his mother, “Do you think you’d do that George? I know what I’m gonna do when they announce it.”
Whilst George could plainly see exasperation scratched all over Mrs Dawson’s tired features, she didn’t say anything else, and George seemed to realise everyone at the table was expecting a response from him.
He didn’t think he’d be very useful at war. He had a bad hip most of the time, and was always losing his balance. Peter would often fondly call him out for being so clumsy. But he’d heard stories of heroes, from his father, from his dead uncles, and he couldn’t help but realise that this would be his chance. To show his mother that he could be something. To stick his medal in his teachers’ stricken faces. He could be a hero.
Apparently, he took too long with his answer.
“George isn’t doing anything,” Peter piped up, quietly sawing at the slab of meat on his plate, “He’s gonna stay at home. Y’know, where it’s safe.”
It felt foreign, with the way everyone was now looking at George, and the youngest at the table couldn’t help but sink back in his seat. He couldn’t help but notice how silent Mister Dawson had been throughout the conversation.
George was the first to offer his assistance when it came to clearing the table, and he followed Mrs Dawson into the kitchen to wash the pots. If he strained hard enough, he could still hear Peter and Addison bickering in the dining room.
“You can’t protect him forever.”
“I can try.”
---
It was the first of September that year when everyone’s luck ran out. Churchill announced the official declaration through the radio, and in George’s household, the fire was brewing, with the four occupants of the home surrounded and huddled by the only warmth they would be feeling for a long while now.
It was silent. No one said anything. There was nothing either of them could say. War had started, and even with the fire blasting the living room, George had goosebumps crawling up his arms.
When he curled under his blankets that night with his window locked closed, all he could think of was Peter. Those blue eyes and that red jumper.
---
When George rushed to the Dawson’s the next morning, he was welcomed by a broken home.
Mrs Dawson was crying hideously into Mister Dawson’s arms, the front door wide open, letting the cold September breeze envelope the house from the inside out. George couldn’t get a word in, not that he’d know what to say if he tried, and in the corner of his eye he could see Peter standing by the living room dresser, a note crumpled into Peter’s hands, all withered and torn up. The blonde stood still, breathing in and out, the only indication George had of if Peter was even still alive.
When he realised Addison’s coat was missing from the hanger by the door, George could only close his eyes and count to ten.
He could make out little wisps and gasps from Mrs Dawson, little mutterings of my baby, and George knew he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be witnessing one of the many heartbreaks this town still has yet to see. He wasn’t as close to this family as he thought he might have been. He didn’t have tears in his eyes. He didn’t feel like throwing a fit, nor did he feel his heart breaking.
Though, now that he was observing Peter properly, Peter wasn’t crying either. Maybe it was more of the shock. A different kind of emotion.
“He’s gonna be a pilot,” Peter whispered for only George to hear when George gets close enough.
George could only guess the statement came from the note ripped in Peter’s hands.
A pilot.
George wasn’t naïve.
He knew how long those lasted in the war.
“He’s doing what’s right,” Mister Dawson’s voice echoed across the room, “He’s going to make us proud, love.”
When George reached out to grasp firmly at Peter’s hand, he felt too numb to be surprised at the way Peter desperately clutched back.
---
“What have I told you about skipping school, George? You’re never going to amount to anything like this, with the way you carry on. It’s useless! Oi, look at me when I am speaking to you, young man. George? George?”
“Addison’s gone to war.”
It came out clipped. Broken. George was sat at the kitchen table, his mother towering over him, his father trying to read the paper.
How could anyone be caring about education at a time like this?
“Pardon?”
George raised his eyes, his eyes hard and wet, his fingers clenched under the table top, “Addison’s joined the RAF.”
“Good lad,” his father remarked canonically, not even looking up from his paper.
George felt numb again. It felt like no one really listened to him.
“At least he’s doing something for his country,” his mother hissed, cuffing him from the back of his head, making George lurch forward uncomfortably, “To bed, with you. Go on. Get Mary, then go to your room!”
“Ann—“
“No, I’ve had enough! George—Where do you think you’re going? George! George!”
If he heard his name one more time, George thought as he clambered out of his seat and made for the docks fifteen minutes away, he was going to throw up.
---
“Ah, George,” Mister Dawson crowed as he made his exit from his boat.
To his own credit, his stomach only churned lightly at the way his vocative was formed.
“Hello, Sir,” George bowed his head politely, and then made to sit at the edge of the pier, his legs dangling off the edge.
“You don’t usually come down here in the evening,” Mister Dawson observed, curling and tying the rope that held Moonstone in place without floating away with the tide, “Everything alright, son?”
George didn’t have much to say. He squinted at the sun going down, leaving a trail of beautiful colours behind, and he nodded his head respectfully. His throat felt restricted. He couldn’t try to speak now.
“Well, Peter’s down in the belly, why don’t you go say hi? I’m sure he’ll be thankful for the comfort you bring.”
George didn’t know what to make of that, but he turned his head just in time to see Mister Dawson retreating. He held his breath, then pushed himself up.
“What was the first war like?” George called after him, his throat closing up around him.
It was painful.
Mister Dawson didn’t turn around, but George could still hear his voice.
“Like a nightmare.”
George felt his face ache, but he didn’t say anything else as he watched the older man walk away, presumably back home, to comfort his broken wife. Mister Dawson was too old for this war, but hadn’t been too old for the first war. His father hadn’t been. But his father was young and healthy enough for this one. The thought stabbed George in his stomach. Maybe it should have said something about his family when the thought came with more worry for being left alone with his mother, rather than a worry for his father possibly losing his life to the war.
When George almost lost his grip and half slipped, half fell from the ladder going into the belly of the boat, Peter had been there to immediately catch him, to bring George into his arms, to keep him wrapped in a wall of safety that was a mixture of Peter’s arms, Peter’s familiar scent, and that red jumper. George often thought of what it would feel like if he ever got to wear this infamous jumper. If it would feel scratchy, or if it would bring him unbelievable comfort and warmth. Just to hold something that belonged to Peter.
He couldn’t help but have those thoughts now.
“You should be more careful,” Peter whispered into his ear, and George couldn’t help but whimper.
Maybe it was the sorrow of being attracted to another guy, maybe it was the heartache of having Peter so close, but so far, and maybe it was just because he was tired and scared and his throat still really hurt. And now he had a twisted ankle.
“Shhh, Georgie,” Peter crowed, and brushed his fingers through George’s hair, pressing his nose into the dark curls.
George let his mouth fall open, just slightly, and he used the ladder in front of him to turn in Peter’s arms, to look up at the blonde with careful concentration. If he tried really hard, he could see the sea waves crashing through Peter’s eyes. They made him remember to breathe, to feel so much more than this dull ache trapped inside of his body.
He pressed forward just enough so the side of his head could slot over Peter’s chest, his own arms coming up to hold Peter properly in this misshaped embrace. In this position, he could hear the thudding of Peter’s heart. The oral captivity of the sound made him feel more live than he ever has been, because Peter was still alive, and he was in Peter’s arms. It made everything feel worth it, just to get to this point exactly. Nothing had ever felt better.
Though that thought would immediately be wiped away with calloused fingers— probably from handling ropes all day— cupped under his chin and brought George’s face up, to see Peter’s blue hues on him, and his pink lips edging closer. Nothing, nothing, felt better than the soft, wet press of lips against his. It wasn’t perfect. They both had never kissed anyone before, and George couldn’t hear fireworks, nothing like those novels his sister loved to read with a bright embarrassed blush dusted across her pale cheeks.
This was real, not a fantasy, not a dream. And he could feel the boat rocking, the waves pressing against the wood, and George could only open his mouth and pull Peter in closer.
As it happened, the remedy of a sore throat just happened to be a certain press of hot tongue.
---
When 1940 came and George pursued his dream in being a hero, he followed Peter’s steps and he gave himself confidence in the way he allowed Mister Dawson’s boat to pull him to Dunkirk. He would be useful. He promised. He had to be. That’s all he wanted.
To be useful. To prove his family wrong. To prove his teachers wrong.
Not everything was about intelligence and education and obeying every order thrown at oneself. Sometimes the spark of life came from something completely different.
And George couldn’t possibly let his spark of life go off to war with his father without him by his side.
---
Losing his vision at the belly of the boat, with his head split open right at the back where a white compress was the only thing seemingly holding his skull together, was almost a lucky thing, in George’s morbid opinion. At least he couldn’t see the red blood that now stained the previous brown wooden planks.
George always had been squeamish.
Now, he knew he couldn’t be a hero anymore. He had fucked up. Just like he had fucked everything else up in his life. He couldn’t ever do anything right. He couldn’t even die right. He should be at the front lines, or at Dunkirk, being shot at by the enemy, or in some kind of self-sacrificing situation that would have allowed him to have his last breath as someone who fought for his country.
He was going to have his last breath in a dirty wooden tank with cobwebs hanging over his head that he could have sworn spelt loser. Maybe that was just in his head. At least he couldn’t see the spiders anymore either. He was scared of those too.
He only started to cry when he recognised that Peter was right there, but he couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see the strains in his features, or the worry in his eyes. He couldn’t see the red jumper stained with his own blood, and maybe that was the most morbid thing of all. If he didn’t survive this, Peter would have to go home and wash that jumper. Wash out the stains of George’s last remains. Of George’s soul. George’s insides were on that fucking jumper and that was almost a scary thought. Definitely disgusting, at any rate.
So disgusting in fact, that George couldn’t help but laugh.
“Stop it, Georgie,” Peter admonished, as if he was scolding an inappropriate child, “You shouldn’t be moving in your condition. Save your breath for when we get back home, for when they take care of you.”
In your condition.
When we get back home.
George didn’t have the heart to tell him that he might not make it. That most doctors aren’t much good for head injuries, no matter what Peter kept insisting. But George also knew that if it was Peter gasping for his last breaths, with his head split open, with his blood staining the floorboards….. Then, George would be fantasising for a better life too.
“You know,” Peter carried on, and there was a lilt to his voice, like he was going to start humouring thus child now, “You stained my jumper. My favourite one, Georgie.”
George snorted out another laugh, “At least no matter what, you’ll be taking me home with you.”
A sharp gasp made George almost double over.
“Georgie!”
It didn’t take long for Peter to join him in spirits though, and despite his condition, he felt alive again.
He couldn’t help but regret that he would never see those royal blue eyes again, or that red cotton jumper that Peter loved so much. He regretted that he wouldn’t ever be able to see the sea again, and that he never got to wave it goodbye from the shore one more time.
But when Peter leaned forward and whispered I love you in his ear, George couldn’t help but feel, once again, that it was going to be okay. That he would always be okay.
The laughter seemed to rouse the image of tousled blonde hair from the top of the steps, and Collins looked on at the two in bemusement.
“Is everythin’ alright?” the RAF pilot inquired.
George couldn’t see him, but when he raised his hand, he felt pain from his little finger. Shit. He didn’t realise he had gotten a splinter.
“No,” he rasped, “I bloody hate boats.”