Work Text:
2017
Chicago, Illinois
“Will,” Richie gains his attention as he sits at his drawing desk.
The apartment they share is somewhat small and it’s in Chicago. The center of the music scene, Richie had always said. Will liked it because of the art scene respectively. His desk sits at the foot of the bed, so he can look up and see that Richie has truly given up on whatever assignment he was working on.
“Yeah, ‘Chee?”
“You know, I read somewhere that when you find a true friend, you’re bound to them through time and space for five hundred years.” His attention had averted from his computer screen and he was now staring at Will even though he was laying on his back.
“You didn’t read that.” Will huffs, although there’s a lilt of laughter in his voice. “We just watched that episode of Criminal Minds yesterday.”
Richie rolls over onto his stomach and whines. “Can’t we pretend I read it?” He looks at Will with puppy dog eyes and props his chin up in his hands. “Pretty please, William?”
“Fine.” Will huffs. “Did you get the invite to Bev’s New Years party?”
“Stop changing the topic.” Richie says, scooting towards the end of the bed to get closer to Will. “You think we’re bound by space and time?”
Will rolls his eyes at that. “I think you’re a huge dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your huge dork, which makes all the difference.”
Will leaves his work at the desk and trades it for throwing himself down on the bed next to his boyfriend. “I’m sure you’ll be the same huge dork that you were in 2018 as you were five hundred years ago.” He jokes.
“Oh Will! My dear William! You really do think we’re soulmates.”
They’re a tangle of limbs, but the smile that comes to Richie’s face is worth playing along with all of his antics.
“I bet you were this annoying five hundred years ago too.”
-------------------------------
1518
London, England.
“Neighbors are getting sick.”
William is standing in the doorway of the cottage, ignoring the loud bustle in the cobble streets of London. It was always loud with people and merchants and horses and other monstrosities. Among sick people.
It is April of the calendar year and with it always comes some sort of ailment. This one, this one wasn’t like the others. Stuffy noses and a fever to break was easy. William would know, since both Richard and him had children of their own. This however, was not like the others. He had heard of one man that only lived a mere two minute walk from his own house that had died with an unbreakable fever, fatigue, and an uncontrollable sweat.
“They always are, eh.” Richard says as he stokes the fire. “Would be without a job if they didn’t.”
“Not humorous, not one bit.” William says from the doorway, obviously plagued with the fact that his dear friend will be without a doubt thrown into the midst of it all. Richard himself doesn’t seem to concerned, but he has always been good at hiding it. Ever since they were boys.
“Figured as much, my dear William.”
He blushes at the fondness in his voice, but stands his ground. “A different way to make coin is what you should be looking for.”
RIchard chuffs at that, turning around to finally look at his friend. “I’ve been cartin’ around the dead for years, Will.” There seems to be a somber tone even though the words seem to have an airy way about them. “There’s no way to learn a trade-”
“You can work for me!” William practically shouts.
“As if baking bread is noble,” He says, brushing the offer off without even a thought.
There are a million things William could say. How are you going to feed your wife when you’re dead? What about your children? He doesn’t say any of it. Richard had been stubborn since they were young boys. The much unwanted attention from the other villagers hadn’t helped the boy’s disposition either.
“When you are lying on your deathbed in the months that follows,” William catches a bad taste in his mouth as he pauses. “This plague,” A real plague. The thought itself begins to make him feel ill. “Do not expect me to come to your aid.”
He makes a hasty exit, lucky and smart enough to stand near the door.
Behind him, Richard is standing on the narrow street. “William!” He yells. “William!”
It was out of his hands now, he thought bitterly. When Richard digs his last mass grave or carts of his last load of the dead, William will not have the gall to say ‘I had told you’, but he will desperately want to.
He had done all he could for his friend. It was no longer up to him anymore.
∞
It was only May and the weather was no longer taking mercy on the poor people of London.
William hadn’t talked to Richard since that April day, and God had sent down his plague only a full week later. As if William was some magician, as if he had fated the whole city by speaking the plague into existence.
But it was still Sabbath, the Holy Day, and William still believed in God, just like he always had. So he had to go to worship even if there were dead lying among him.
Richard, even though they had not been talking, was not at worship. William sat with his whole family in the pew, wife and three kids. A sinking feeling had begin to grow in his gut, almost as if it was guilt. But what was he guilty of? He was unsure.
The long morning service seemed to drag, which it never had before. He seemed to have an itch under his collar everytime he noticed someone missing from the masses of people that attended, but his mind always went back to Richard. Richard who always sat in the pew directly behind him. Richard, whose wife and children were also missing.
He couldn’t just simply ask. Even if someone else knew, the answer was something William knew he didn’t want to hear. Benjamin, who always sat in the pew a few rows in front of him, was bound to know. He was a friend of Richard, one that Will had never really got on with. He liked to drink, Richard did too, and William didn’t.
But he’d know.
And for some reason, William couldn’t bring himself to ask.
When it is time to break and eat lunch, his wife pulls out a basket from under the pew. She disperses the apples and bread evenly among their children, but Will turns down his.
“I have some things to attend to.” He says, laying a tentative hand on her should. She seems to look confused, but he is off and out the doors before she can voice any complaints.
Richards home is only a five minute walk from church, and the man is lucky that it is or in the ten years he had lived there, he would not have made it to church on time once. Even with his wife, he was chronically late. But it is also lucky for William in that moment, when he is practically running in the streets.
Even on Sabbath, the streets are crowded. It is London, it never sleeps, William thinks somewhat bitterly. It’s impossible to weave through the crowd, although it appears thinner than it had been in weeks prior.
“Excuse me!” He says, a bit panicked when he approaches the home. There’s a man standing there, boarding up the door and windows. “Excuse me, sir!” It doesn’t seem to gain the attention of the man.
As he gets closers, his stomach begins to sink. “Excuse me.” William says more pointedly. Still no response. He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, who stops his hammering for only a moment.
“Do not touch me!” The man recoils from William’s touch. “Or I’ll get it too. Who will do Richard’s job then, huh?” He steps to the side and begins hammering away again.
“Why can’t he do his own?” William says.
“You knew him too, eh?” The man’s eyes seem sunken in, his short brown hair cropped. “Got the sickness yesterday. Died within hours.”
“Painless?” Will chokes out.
“There is nothing painless about dying from God’s plague.” The man huffs out. “Now leave me to my work. The sickness can’t leave this house, the street can’t afford it.”
Will leaves,not heading back to church. Instead he walks home from Richard’s one last time. One last time he will take this walk. Because his friend is dead and he thinks part of him has died too.
The rest of him dies after the plague has spread to Denmark and Ireland, everywhere except for the most Northern part of the countries regions. The man scared of death that had been outside Richard’s house was right.
There was nothing painless about dying from God’s plague.
1587
Roanoke Island, Virginia
Richard watched as the shorter boy went to reach for what appeared to be a trunk and found himself smiling. He struggled to reach, that enough was obvious, but he didn’t seem like he was getting up anytime soon.
“Need a hand?” Richie mused, already grabbing his own trunk family’s trunk.
The boy looks up at him, albeit he seems reluctant to. “I can get it myself.” His brow scrunches together and his striking eyes narrow just a little bit. He seems to concentrate all of his efforts onto getting the trunk now.
His shirt rides up and reveals a nasty scar, what looks to be from a burn, on his side. He doesn’t seem to notice Richard staring at that specifically, but he sure does know Richie is staring.
“Stop looking at me.” He huffs, and Richard can do nothing but grin as the boy reaches again. “I said I need you to stop looking at me!”
The raising of his voice seems to command some attention from the crowded quarters of the ship. Even though many had gone up to the deck to seek the land that they were about to arrive at, many were still collecting their belongings from the cramped space down below.
Richard complies and theatrically turning around, fixing the hat that sits atop his curls in the process. He hears a bit of scuffling, a hiss, and then what seems to be a sigh of defeat. Richard taps his toes. Tip tap tip tap .
“Okay,” The boy that was behind him said slowly. “Can I maybe have your assistance?”
“Aha!” Richie turns on heel, knocking into a woman he remembers being quite more portly only a few months ago. She throws him a cross look but he chooses to ignore it “I knew you would need my help.”
“I don’t need it.” The boy insists, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “I just don’t want to be the last on land because my brother chose to abandon me for the view.”
Richie lets out a laugh, one that rattles his weary bones, before reaching up and grabbing the trunk without a problem. He knows the boy’s brother, has seen them around on the small space that the ship offers, but he hasn’t ever actually talked to them. The boy, which he now thinks he can call a friend, doesn’t seem to happy that he performed the task with ease.
“You know, my ma always says that your face will get stuck like that if you keep it there long enough.” Richard grins. “She abandoned me for the view too, so it looks like you’re not alone.”
Will tilts his head at that. Like he’s not sure what not being alone is like. His grip is tight on the trunk and he shakes like a leaf.
“My name is Richard. My friends call me Rich.” He sticks out his hand for the boy seems to take, which he does reluctantly.
“My name’s Will’am” He mumbles a bit. “I assume I’ll be callin’ you Rich?”
“Only if I get to call you Will.”
The boy, whose name is apparently William, seems to contemplate this for a moment. He’s got an adorably confused look on his face, and Richard like it. A little too much.
“Rich it is, then.”
When they get up to the deck with their trunks in tow, the news has arrived that the fifteen men that were left there on the captain’s time at sea had been killed by savages. Murmurs made their way through the groups of people, some saying they were even unsure if they should leave the ship.
Will looked terrified.
Rich wrapped an arm around his shoulder as if to comfort him. They were here now, no going back. And anyway, he has Rich to protect him now.
∞
“We’re running out of supplies.”
Will had sounded incredibly forlorn as the pair sat on a hill that overlooked a river. They weren’t too far from the settlement. Afterall, George Howe was killed by a native while looking for crabs on the shore that same year.
“They don’t think we know.” Will had spoken again, as if Rich didn’t hear him the first time. He was fiddling with the laces on his shoes as Rich whiddled away at a piece of wood with his pocket knife, silent. “For once in this miserable existence, can you just say something?” Will snapped as Richie continued. “I beg of you.”
Richie, as they first touch the land, had seemed like he would keep his joking demeanor and humorous jokes forever. But as winter set in along with dread and the lack of supplies, so did what little fight he had left in him.
“Stanley keeps the books,” Richie says lowly, taking an uncharacteristic whack at his piece of wood. “They know we know. They just don’t want to admit it.”
Will eyes him wearily. “Why?”
“If they say it out loud, it makes it true. Makes it real.” He huffs, working more reverently at the piece of wood the longer he talks. “Gotta make everything seem fine, the elderly are weird about that.”
“They’ll send a relief ship soon, don’t you think?” Will practically whispered out onto the wind.
Rich looks at him, a sad faraway kind. “Will,” He knocks shoulders with the boy, taking a minute away from his project. “We were the relief ship.”
There’s no way he can keep lying to Will, telling him things will be just fine and that everything will resolve itself in due time. Rich and Will had that in common, a lack of optimism. But Richie usually could cheer up a crowd if needed.
Will seems to contemplate this, chewing on his lip. “They could send another.”
“With God’s will.” Richie laughs a little, looking up to face his dear friend. “And Will?”
Will looks up, lips slightly parted. Rich could do it, right now. Rich could kiss him, like he had been meaning to. But it was wrong, God save him, it was wrong. And it would be the end of him if he did it. His brain rights itself.
“It’s never quite a miserable existence with you.” Rich finished, and Will’s face floods with relief.
Later that year, the captain left on a boat.The whole colony had disappeared when he had managed to return with the relief that was needed. The houses were empty and threadbare, all of their crops had rotted, and they had only left behind one thing carved into a wooden post.
CROATOAN.
The fate of William and Richard were unknown.
1669
Paris, France.
It was by far one of the most gruesome things that William had ever seen.
He may be thirty, a little past his prime, but that doesn’t mean he had seen absolutely everything yet. Seeing a man die, well William had not even seen his own father fade away.
At one o’clock on a normal Saturday afternoon, all of Paris seemed to stand still.
The man, who had been condemned for many more crimes than William could count on one hand, stood on the scaffolding of St. Andrews. From what he can recall, his name was Roux de Marcilly. Conspiracy against the Crown, against the King. The man was a Hugenot, which already seemed to be enough to get one killed in France.
William would know.
For the past year he had been travelling to the countryside, attending services in an old barn. He knew it was dangerous, knew his whole family could rot because of it. It was selfish to think that they would be fine if he had kept skipping mass. So far, they had been.
He may be a dirty Protestant but at least he had no intention of killing the King.
The eleven strikes of the barre as they came down on de Marcilly’s back replayed in his brain and the headache he had pounded just the same. The guilt of standing in the crowd as the whole event took place was only amplified everytime he attended church.
Anyone of them could be next. He looked around at the men who sat with him, glancing. Anyone of them could be hanging from the scaffolding, being hit with the barre, tied to the wheel.
The pastor stood in front of them all, dressed in men’s clothing, reading from his own personal Bible. No lavish gold, no coins or collection bucket, no paying to be forgiven, only accepting the Lord as their way into Heaven.
“And in God’s name-”
A loud shout was heard from outside, interrupting whatever Pastor Henderson had to say, and only moments later one of their youngest members was laying on the ground. A rock, now shiny with blood, lay beside him.
They were next, all of them in the barn were always next.
The shouting only grew louder with every passing minute. Pastor Henderson ushered many of them to lay low, but William refused to sit like a duck. No, he had sat through the brutal beating of another Protestant, he had sat through too many Catholic masses, and now he was not going to sit as they were being attacked.
After the rock comes a torch, flame catching the hay that coated the ground immediately. It sizzled and crackled the longer it went, and William kept low as the smoke began to rise.
The barn door had never seemed more intimidating, but it was the only exit. He didn’t want to be incinerated in a barn, his family not even aware of where he was.
The other men dare not move, and Will felt his insides roll.
The barn door was louder than expected, but the hollers and whoops from outside died down as the creaking grew. William could feel the dirt and hay between his fingers, a certain itc settling and prickling across his skin.
Before he can stand, he’s picked up from his position on the ground and pressed against the wall of the barn. He tries not to think about the fact that he yelped, that he is vulnerable, that these will probably be his last few moments alive.
He feels a cold blade against his neck, and yes, it confirms his previous thoughts.
“William!” A voice he had never heard before is calling his name, but why? He doesn’t turn his head, too scared of the consequences. He feels the blade go lax in whoevers hand it’s in. “We said no blood was to be spilt!”
The voice, William can now see, comes from a normal looking man. He has thick black hair, the kind not many see in the country side of France, that’s pulled back in what appears to be a braid. He wears rags, and that’s probably because a decent pair of spectacles sit on his nose.
“My brother!” This other William spits out. “They killed him and now they’ll have to pay with one of their own, Richard.”
“You cannot play God!” Richard says. “Thou shall not kill, or have you forgotten?”
This man seemed to have a moral high ground compared to his companion, and William was glad that the blade had seemed to be removed. Although the man does not want to seem to let go of William’s shirt, or set him back on the ground.
“I’ve paid my dues!” This William fellow says, waving his blade in a way that makes the small man by him cower. “And it has always been an eye for an eye! No more and no less!”
“My brothers,” William gets out weakly. The smoke from inside is spilling out and the heat is rising, even in the cool August air. “Are inside. I’m sure they think,” Another cough. “That what you’ve done is, as you say, more.”
The crowd of men go silent, and William turns to him, and Richard’s mouth is gaping open just a bit.
“The suffering of your brothers was for the King, not for my own.” William huffs, grip tightening on the blade. “My dues have been paid.”
“Your dues mean nothing if you kill-”
“Oh, like you haven’t paid yours, Richard! We all have! Now that you’re faced with some adversity, you fall back on the reasoning of heretics!” With every word, the blade digs into William’s neck a little more. “Maybe you should burn with them!”
Richie steps back at that, obviously a coward. That’s what William would call him. He would never take another man’s faith and try to dissect it, but he did seem to not fall in line with the rest of the Catholics. Resisting.
The knife digs deeper and the last thing William sees is striking blue eyes and auburn hair.
The last thing he hears however, besides the hollering and whooping from the crowd of Catholics, comes from Richard.
“Don’t take revenge, dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath.” William, even in his last moments can recognize it as a line from Exodus. “Why, dear William, I believe you haven’t left any.”
1692
Danvers, Massachusetts
This whole mess had started out as a joke, really.
Well, Richard called it a joke, but really it was just self preservation. That’s what he tells himself anyway.
Him and Will always went out to the woods during the witching hour. The only other time they could even see each other without raising suspicion was during Sunday services, and that was only once a week. So they waited until the night, when things were dark and no one could see them sneak away.
That was until their secrecy was ruined by a group of tittering village girls that were sneaking away from gossip hour. Richard had recognize two of them: Jane and Maxine. The gaggle of girls had stumbled upon William and him in a most compromising position. Richard’s lips had been pressed against William’s cheek.
He remembers the boy’s blush, telling himself it was just from the cold. But the blush quickly turned to tears and blubbering. Some words he could make out like sodomy and hanged could be made out.
“I’ll fix it, Will.” Richie had whispered into his hair. “I’ll fix it.”
And fix it he did. That night, he rushed William back home and into bed, using due diligence to make sure that he was not seen.
Richard himself did not go to bed that night. Instead, he had waited outside the home of the Reverend. It wasn’t easy. The chilly October wind bit at his cheeks and he was positive the frost had bitten him, but he needed to fix it.
So that morning, three hours after arriving at the Reverend's house, the front door opened.
“Richard.” The old man says gruffly. Everyone knew of the Reverend, how he was simply there for the pay. He had thrown a fit over having silver candlesticks when the people under him were barely eating. But Richard had to fix it, and this man was the only way how. “What’re you doing here this early, young lad?”
Richard straightens his attire, stands up, and hopes the Reverend doesn’t notice that it’s the same clothes he was wearing the day prior. “Reverend. It’s urgent.”
“Go on with it.” The black coat he’s wearing picks up in the wind and he seems irritated with the boy in front of him.
“Witchcraft.” Richard breathes out. “Witchcraft in the woods.”
The Reverend whips his head around as if anyone walking by could have heard the boy. Richard is shushed almost immediately and ushered inside of the Reverend’s home.
There, he spins what must be a convincing tale. The girls were performing magic in the woods at the witching hour, chanting and making potions. He sold out people he used to sit in the school house with, claiming that they were possessed by the devil.
The Reverend believed him. Every last word of it.
∞
He knew it was too good to be true.
A chain reaction had spurred from what seemed to be his last resort, and he was not proud of it. Richard, although not directly, had blood on his hands.
Maxine had refused to confess. Wouldn’t tell if any of her other friends had been possessed. She already stuck out like a sore thumb with her fiery red hair, pale skin, and freckles. She had been hanged from the scaffolds only a week ago.
Hanged with her were a few other girls. Richard couldn’t remember all of them. He thinks five may be dead by now. Five lives taken because he was selfish.
You’re not selfish. He had told himself. He had done it for Will, to save Will’s life. Not his own.
But maybe it was fate that Will not be saved.
They took him at night, and being neighbors? The ruckus it made drew Richards attention. William’s mother was crying out in the street, his father standing at the porch step, his brother trying to quell his mother. Will himself was being shackled by the marshal.
Richie ran outside in his night clothes, watching the whole spectacle take place. Will wasn’t crying. That was a surprise. Will had always been a bit of a baby when they were younger, always cried about skinned knees and bruises. But he wasn’t crying now. His eyes were wide, like fear had shocked him.
“William!” Richard yelled. “William!”
That seemed to snap the boy out of it, but he was already in the cart and shackled to the post of it. He tugged on his restraints as if it would help. “Richard!” He cried out, although his voice seemed hoarse.
He glanced at the marshal, who was still talking to Will’s mother, before running over to try and pacify the whole ordeal.
“Rich.” William whispered, pressing his face against the bars that acted as a temporary prison. The woman that stands next to him is stoney faced, although it seems there is one on the other side that had been wailing.
“No, you listen to me.” Richard says, practically snaps. “When you get up on that stand,” Richard can feel himself breaking into a cold sweat. “You tell them, you hear? You say, my friend Richard has been dancing with the devil. You tell them that.”
“No, I’m not going to-”
“Lie? All the others have been doing it to save their hides. You tell them I’ve been playing with the devil. Give ‘em my name, say you want to be forgiven. You haven’t gotten a lick of land to lose.” Richard’s voice grows more desperate. “Say it.”
“Richard’s been-” William’s voice cracks. Richard doesn’t let up on his look that he’s been giving Will, one of expectancy. “Richard’s been dancing with the Devil.”
It’s meek, but it’s admittance.
“I love you.” Richard whispers, pressing his face against the bars. The woman besides Will doesn’t even blink. “And so God forgive me for it.”
“It’s time to get moving!” He hears the marshal say to whoever is steering the wagon.
“I love you too.” Will whispers quickly, pushing up against the bars as he feels the wagon shift beneath him. “God have mercy.”
“God have mercy.” Richard agrees, stepping back. Will tries to reach out to him, a futile attempt in his bindings.
“Richard!” The wagon is pulling away. “Richard!”
Richard can see the way the woman next to William shushes him, as if annoyed with the boys cries. He feels himself bristle at that. No one should talk to him that way, not ever.
“You tell ‘em! You hear me? You tell ‘em!” He shouts down the way. His voice echoes in the night.
William is held in the jail for three days. He does not confess. He does not create a spectacle. He does not tell them that Richard had been dancing with the Devil during the witching hour. He stands his grounds, he says that he isn’t a witch. He refuses to drag anyone else with him, to draw out this nonsense any longer.
After three days, he is ushered up to the scaffolding. Hands bound. The wife of the town’s blacksmith is walking in front of him, a widow is walking behind. They climb the stairs together.
The women looked forlorn and defeated, Richard remembers it. Not Will. He stood with his legs steady and faced forward. Brave. He can almost hear the words that are coming out of his mouth when the noose is thrown over his neck, his last words, words he couldn’t say if he had actually been dancing with the devil.
“ Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us and lead us not into tempta-”
Temptation.
Richard bites his fist instead of crying out when Will was finally pushed off the ledge of the scaffolding.
1776
Moristown, New Jersey
“Rich.”
The man sat in front of Will, focused on polishing his tomahawk. He’d never been one for swords or blades, which Will found odd but didn’t question. What did upset him was the fact that his friend was ignoring him.
“Will you put that dastardly thing down and listen to me?” Will snipped, adjusting his royal blue jacket and fiddling with the lapels. “This is important to me. Of utmost importance to everyone, Rich.”
It’s a blur of movement and the splitting of wood that Will hears next.
Rich has always had a temper, had always been a little bit moody as to where Will would be open. It’s no surprise that the tomahawk was now stuck in one of the nearby trees. He resists the urge to scold his friend, who knows not to throw weapons within the encampment. Instead, he stands his ground and ignores the onlookers.
“That important to ya, Willy?”
“I wouldn’t lie about the matter’s importance.” Will huffs. He was about to reach his third mishap in this conversation, because in all honesty, in front of his subordinates, Will should be referred to as Colonel.
Rich seems to mull this over a bit, resting a hand on the brim of his hat. Will just watches as he gets up from his spot on the stump and goes to collect the previously thrown weapon. He tosses it lightly between his two hands, back and forth. Back and forth. He seems light, carefree.
“I’ll tell you what.” Rich bristles, upper lip twitching.
“Ya will, won’t ya?” Will breaks into a hopeful smile.
The other man looks around dubiously at the men that surround them, talking among themselves, melting metals for bullets, cooking over the fires.
“Commander say this was okay?”
Will rolls his eyes at that remark. “When have you ever cared what the Commander thought, Rich?”
Rich throws an arms casually around Will’s shoulder, ruffling his hair a bit. Will would’ve killed him if he wasn’t...well, him. “This doesn’t mean that I’m wearin’ a fancy uniform like yours, ya hear?”
“I hear you perfectly fine, Richard.”
Rich had never worn a uniform, even though he had been enlisted in the beginning of the war. He mostly participated in the militia, only recently being reunited with Will a few months prior. They had been childhood friend, although their home hadn’t been New Jersey.
“And I’m not writin’ no fancy reports.”
“Understood, but you have to be careful.” Will swallows the lump in his throat. “Michael would want you to.”
Rich looks at him with a sense of understanding. Michael, whom Rich had fondly called Mike, had been one of Will’s college peers. Once the war had started, he had taken up espionage. Even though he was careful, he had been caught and hanged only within the span of a week. No goodbyes, but he had died for his country. Will had admired him, admired his work, believed it was important. Now he wanted to start a line of intelligence on his own.
He knew Rich thought it was stupid, but Rich also thought it was incredibly brave.
“Careful?” Rich chuffs, tossing his tomahawk in the air as if to prove his point. He catches it with ease. “I’m nothin’ but careful Willy. Nothin’ but careful.”
He tosses it one more time, and he misses the catch. It lands only a lick away from his foot.
∞
Rich, Colonel William had discovered, was not careful in the slightest.
It was when Rich was telling him about a spat with the Queen’s Rangers, led by Sinclair, that he had figured it out. It was obvious to see how excited he was getting wasn’t because he had witnessed the whole ordeal. He had participated.
Will wasn’t exactly mad, but he was agitated. He had trusted his friend to not do something so idiotic and careless. The Queen’s Rangers were not a group that should be toyed with, and doing so often resolved in death or a warrant for it.
Rich didn’t seem to understand that, even as they laid down in the tent.
“I just sent them for a chase in the woods, Willy.” He scratched at his facial hair and pulled his thin blanket up to his chin.
“What if you had gotten caught?” Will whispers harshly, blowing out the candle that sat on his rickety old desk. “Then what, Rich?”
“I haven’t gotten caught yet.”
“That’s because,” Will slammed his quill onto the desk. He was scared he might have actually broken it for a moment. “If you had been caught, you’d be six feet under or hanging from a tree.”
Rich seems to contemplate that for a moment, but Will can’t see the look on his face due to the darkness. He huffs and makes his way to his own bed roll, but a hand catches his as he walks past. One of their breaths hitch, but he isn’t sure which one it could be.
“Will.” Rich breathes.
“What is it?” Will snaps a little too bitterly.
“I’ll be more careful, I promise you.”
“You swear it?”
Richie seems to pause for a moment, and Will bets that he’s worry his bottom lip between his teeth like he always does when he’s mulling something over. He feels Richie’s thumb work circles into his hand, which he is gripping tighter.
“I swear it, Will. Swear it.”
Later that week, one of Rich’s letters is intercepted by a loyalist. Careful had apparently not included signing off letters with a codename that the two had agreed upon. He was crudely hanged from a tree that sat outside of Setaucket, where he was caught after trying to meet with his friend Beverly. Beverly, who was married to a red coat. Walking into the home of an enemy, how careful.
Will had heard through a chain of correspondence of the death. Rich would often disappear for days and weeks at a time, and Will always told himself the man would be fine. A sense of melancholy had overtaken him when he had received.
A letter from Beverly. Of course, encrypted.
Dearest William,
This is your friend, Agent 573, and I have news to relay to you that I am afraid I wish I did not have to bestow. Our dear friend has been caught among those who seek to hang him for treason. I am writing this on his behalf, due to the fact that he still remains illiterate even after years of convincing him to learn some civility. Regardless, his words to you go as follows:
Dearest Will, I’m afraid I have broken my promise. No, my swear. I swore it to you that I’d be more careful Willy. Yes, I did. I was careful, but I ought to get the idea through my head that I had never known what that ever meant anyways. I haven’t gotten much time to think of anymore words, you were always that man. My college educated boy, who doesn’t love those. So, my dearest friend that I have gotten the privilege to meet again in this life, I pray tell that I’ll see you in the next. Dearest Will, Until then. How do you sign off on a letter, Beverly? With love, R.
I can tell you now, William, that he did not take his breaking of the promise lightly. Although, in his last moment he did ask for a firing squad. In his head he must have been a Colonel. He cried, you deserve to know. God have mercy on his soul.
With best regards,
Beverly.
Will folded up the letter and put it in his breast pocket. He ignored the tear stain that he had left in the middle of the page.
1850
Prince Edward Island, Canada
“Hey!” Richard calls out after the boy in the woods. “Aren’t you going to be late?”
The boy in question was hunched over in a patch of flowers, obviously going to collect some. A few of the yellow and white ones were already tied together, and a few specks of lavender popped out in the bunch.
“And how do you know where I’m going?” The boy said, although there was no malicious intent in his voice. His legs are folded up under him, as if he has no intention of leaving his spot anytime soon.
“Well, you have books, and a bag, and you’re sitting directly on the path that leads to the school house.”
“And have you seen me at the schoolhouse?” The boy says, a bit haughty, as he ties together some more of the flowers.
“No.” Richard says shortly. “But that doesn’t really mean much. There’s new people showin’ up periodically.”
“Periodically.” He parrots, though he sounds a little bit wishful. “I quite like that word, don’t you?”
“I suppose so.” Richard tilts his head at the absurdity of this whole ordeal, adjusting his hat and hiking his bag further up onto his shoulder. The books were starting to weigh a little too heavy for his liking.
“Sometimes I sit and like to pretend that I’m adventuring in a kingdom, like in the stories, you know?”
And no, Richard does not know. He has a sick father to take care of at home and school to attend so one day, maybe, he can make something of himself. He does not have time to play pretend. But for now he can play along.
“Like a knight?”
“No, being a knight would be no fun.” Although, Richard has to disagree with this statement. The stories of Camelot were some of his favorites, even though he didn’t enjoy stories all that much. “I think I’d prefer being a prince.”
“A prince, you say?” Richard grins and extends his hand, hoping that this boy will get off the ground. “Any dragons around that need slaying?”
The boy smiles and takes his hand, hoisting himself up and grabbing his books and flowers. “So you’re a knight?” His voice is excited and it reflects in his eyes.
“Only if you tell me your name.” Richard bargains, eyeing the boy as he gathers all of his belongings, including his hat which had been thrown to the side. Who brings so much on their first day? He supposes the flowers weren’t necessary, but he’s sure this boy would argue.
“Will.” He says, setting his hat on top of his head. “Yours?” He looks up at Richard.
“I’m Richard,” He smiles. “And I think I’ll be escorting you to the school house this fine morning.”
Will looks far more excited about that than he should, and his hand leaves Richard’s to grab onto the strap of his bag. “You know what I think, Richard?” He muses as they begin walking down the path.
“What do you think there, dear William?” It’s easy, Richard thinks, to fall into some sort of familiarity with this stranger. He decides to slow their pace, since he was always tardy anyway.
“I think,” Will pauses. “We are kindred spirits.”
Kindred spirits indeed.
∞
It is that winter when Richard’s father passes.
Everyone within miles comes to the funeral, and even then it’s not many. His friend Mike is there, and every kid that’s ever stepped foot in the school house. William is included.
It’s snowing when they bury his father in the frozen dirt. The ceremony is quick before people are leaving. The small plot of land with the iron cast fence that served as their family cemetery and it suddenly seemed far more dreary than Richard could handle.
He stood there, facing the plot, hands in his pockets. He could see his breath in the cold weather, could feel it biting his cheeks.
It’s stupid to think that he had spread himself so thin. What for? He worked twice as hard in school, took care of his father, pitched in for all the community events, and now what? He had no options but to work. He was practically a man anyway, but this wasn’t part of his grand plan.
He chuffed. I guess if it was my only plan it would be the grand one. He wasn’t one for making plans, or thinking anything out really. Except this. He had this-
“Rich?”
He whipped his head around to see Will standing there, all bundled up in his coat. No flowers or books or bag to carry, but he was wearing a hat.
Over the past few months, Will had been a good friend. He was quite right about the whole kindred spirits ordeal, even though Rich hated to admit it. Other people thought he was weird for hanging out with the boy. He was eccentric, a little odd, a little loud, but Richard didn’t think that.
He wanted to say a cute boy was a cute boy, but he wasn’t exactly supposed to find boys cute.
“Rich, that was pretty grim.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, turns on his heel and walks towards the house. It’s cold. He is not in the mood for one of Will’s stories. He would listen to the boy talk any other day. Any other day but today.
“You’ll be fine? Yeah? I mean, I don’t think I quite get it.” Will says, bounding after him. Richard can hear the crunch of the snow under his feet. “My parents died when I was just a baby, you know, but you have so many more advantages than someone like me. You can fend for yourself unlike I could. And you’ll be able to remember your parents, I’ve always wanted to remember mine.”
Richard rolls his eyes and keeps trudging. He lets Will talk, he’s always let Will talk. He has never told Will to be quiet or to pipe down like the others.
“When you think about it,” Will continues. “You’re really very lucky.”
That’s when he turns to face Will, who’s standing here with a drooping hat and an ever present hopeful expression.
“You think I’m lucky?” Richard says incredulously.
“Compared to me.” Will says, although the smile doesn’t leave his face when he’s sheepish. “Yes, I think I’d say so.”
“And how is this about you?” Richard doesn’t raise his voice, but he does raise a very important question. How is this about anything except him? That’s all that’s left. Will would be foolish to think their two situations even compare.
“It’s not-” Will goes to defend himself.
Richard holds up a hand to stop him. “I’ll see you, Will.” He says before turning around and heading in the opposite direction of the house. The house that will be empty before the sun is down, but for now is filled with warmth and guests and food.
Will would being seeing Richie again, not in that lifetime at least. For when he went to Richard’s house to apologize, all the chairs were sitting on the tables and the curtains were drawn back. It was no longer inhabited, the warmth gone.
1969
Dublin,Texas
“And are you the fine man running this place?”
Will turns his head to to see who is talking to him. The rest of the diner is empty, and Stanley was in the back taking a ‘smoke break’. The guy didn’t even smoke, so he wasn’t exactly sure why he got to take them. So that just left Will, the bus boy.
“Do I look like I run the place?” He says, eyebrows raised while he throws the rag he was using to clean the table over his shoulder.
The man just takes a sip of his coffee and grins. “Glad you can keep up.”
“Keep up?” Will huffs.
“That’s besides the point.” The man said, taking a bite of his toast and adjusting the army greens that he’s wearing. Will wanted to tell him that was the whole point, nothing besides it, but he ignores him and goes back to cleaning his table.
The man doesn’t say much, just pushes his incredibly late breakfast around his plate.
It makes Will a little uneasy, because he knows the guy is practically watching him. This is what he hates about working at the diner, there’s always men that stare and sit by themselves. If Will was being honest, it was a bit depressing. That didn’t deter him too much, since he was seventeen and needed this job. Really, really needed it.
The man looks up again when Will is done cleaning the tables and begins working on the counter.
“I’ve got a favor to ask you.” He says, wiping his mouth and pushing his plates to the center of the table.
“And what’s that?” Will grabs the plastic tub and brings it over to the table to collect all of the man’s plates. Three plates and a water cup, plus a mug for coffee. But he keep the mug protectively wrapped in his hands, so Will skips it and just does his job.
“Would you mind,” The man clears his throat and pulls on his collar. “I’m just, would you mind talking to me for a bit? I’ve just been out for a while, you know, and I didn’t think-” His voice kind of fades out.
Will has never gotten a request like that really. He’s not really one to talk to strangers, but this guy had probably just got back from overseas. He thinks of the posters at school. THANK A VETERAN! SUPPORT OUR TROOPS! But he also thinks about the other posters he sees around town, even though they don’t stay up for long. BRING BACK OUR BOYS! and WAR: GOOD FOR FEW AND BAD FOR MOST.
He supposes that this man, however, did not have any say whatsoever on any war matters. The draft took anyone, really.
“Lonely.” Will finishes. “You’re lonely.”
The man takes another drink of his coffee. “I guess you’re right.”
“My break is in thirty.” Will says, but the man looks up at him. Will chews on his lip and thinks it over for a moment. “But I know a place where we can talk. And I can get off sooner.” The man smiles at that.
Will runs to the back, leaving the front of the diner unattended, and opens the back door. There stands Stanley, talking to Ben Hanscom, and not smoking a cigarette. He looks mildly annoyed when he hears the metal door slam against the brick.
“I need to go on break.” Will says, and God was it humid. “Please, Stanley.”
“Fine.” The boy rolls his eyes. “I’ve got you covered.”
“Thank you, Stan! You won’t regret it.”
“Yes, I will.”
Will ignores the jibe and runs inside. He tells the man he’s ready to go, ready to talk, ready to cure him of his loneliness. He gets a smile and a lead the way in return.
∞
Will remembered that day well, mostly due to the fact that is had changed his whole life. He remembers sitting on the pier, feet dangling over the edge over the lake.
The man’s name was Richard, and Richard had wanted him to write. But call me Richie. I just ain’t got no one to write to. He jokes about how he was probably going to make Will’s girlfriend jealous. It was easy to say that he didn’t have one, mostly because it was the truth.
Richie had held his hand, as a joke Will had thought.
His momma didn’t approve of him writing to a stranger, much less a man off fighting the war. She was against the whole ordeal overseas, and Will presumed she just didn’t understand. Not to mention that he smoked and drank and knew how to shoot a gun.
Richie was on her side, really. It’s not like he wanted to be overseas with the Agent Orange and fighting a good for nothing battle that had nothing to do with the States. And Richie was incredibly kind, a jokester, a good soul. It showed through every letter he managed to write and send.
Will spent most evenings going over the letters, putting them in chronological order, tracing over the words. Noticing how the sign offs changed from Sincerely (which Richie managed to spell wrong every time) to Love.
He had kind of liked holding Richie’s hand.
There’s another day that changed his life besides the pier.
Friday night lights shining over a football field had never been something that Will was fond of, but Bill had insisted that they go to the last game of the whole season. He liked watching the marching band, that’s what he told Will.
Will knew he totally had a crush on the cute girl who played piccolo in the marching band, but he kept his lips sealed shut.
The whole stadium, although a humble one, bowed their heads for the nightly prayer and then put their hands over their heart for the National Anthem. Really, Will was not a fan of how the show choir sang it. All showy and loud and a little off key.
A man stood at the microphone in the press box, and Will could hear his breathing in it. “Would you please stay standing,” His voice was scratchy and somber. “And bow your heads for a list of the locals who have been listed as casualties in Vietnam.”
Will listens to the list, knows there’s no real order to how they list them. Just how they’re discovered. It doesn’t stop relief from washing over him after names that come after Richard’s alphabetically.
There’s one name that sends the piccolo player that Bill loves so much to the space under the bleachers. Will can hear her crying as the list goes on. One, two three, four...The list keeps going and he wonders how many men in a small town can die for no good reason.
That’s when he hears it.
“Richard-”
“No!” He shouts. He pushes past Bill and runs down the bleachers. There’s tears streaking down his face and he suddenly feels like he has something in common with the piccolo girl, Audra is her name, and he doesn’t like it. Not at all.
No one else seemed phased when his name had been read out loud. No one cared that Richie was dead. No one except Will.
The man hadn’t been lying when he said that he had no one home to write to. No one even seemed to recognize him. He should have been less surprised. Apparently Will had gone to school with him this whole time and had never heard a peep, and Will knew everyone in the grade above him. Really.
He spends the rest of the night at home, curled up and bed going over the last letter.
Dear Willy, William, Willster,
It’s getting rough over here. You know how I can’t say much. California was much easier than this, I think. No, I know. But when things get really I think of the day at the pier. I wish I had known I loved you then. I would want you to hear me say it out loud.
Don’t worry if you don’t get any letters. I won’t be able to write for a while. Hopefully when this mess is over, I’ll be able to see you soon.
With Much Love,
Richie.
Will is bitter that he never got to hear Richie say the word love outloud.
2018
Chicago, Illinois
“I love you.”
That’s the first thing Richie says to him on the new year.
Will and Richie stand among a crowd of their close friends and loud noises. Champagne is popping and so are the party poppers. Jane was quite fond of those, and Mike might have taken one to the chest.
Lucas and Max were outside on the porch. Eddie, Bill, and Stan were over by the snack table. Mikey was over talking to Dustin, red solo cup in hand. Beverly and Ben sat on their couch.
Will and Richie, however, are still standing impossibly close to one another as the buzz fizzles down around them.
“I love you too,” Will breathes out, pressing another kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. “And you were right, I think.”
“Woah!” Richie steps back a little bit and raises his voice. “Did you hear that everybody? Will said I’m right!”
He gains only a moment of attention from the people surrounding him. Will catches Stanley rolling his eyes, and he is pretty sure Beverly mouths a very polite fuck off. Richie didn’t seem the least bit phased.
He leans back into Will’s touch, pressing their foreheads together. “Exactly what was I right about, dear William?”
Will huffs a bit, flicking Richie’s cheek with his index finger. “I can’t believe you got excited and you didn’t even know what I was talking about.” Will can though, he really can. “But if you wanted to know…” He looks off to the side as if he’s contemplating what would happen if he actually told.
“Tell me,” Richie whines, petulant like a child.
“I think we’re soulmates.” Will hums.
Richie’s eyes grow incredibly wide. “Five hundred years, bound through space and time?” He grins. “Do you think you were always this hot? Was past me just as lucky? Ooooh, do you think past me even got lucky? God, I hope so. You know, I’ve always thought that gay people really have existed since the beg-”
“Richie, would you shut up and kiss me again?” Will can feel the corner of his eyes crinkle up.
“Much obliged.” The voice is distinctly British and a little better than it had been the last time he had tried it on on Will.
“Yep,” Will sighed. “Still my dork.”
Richie shuts him up with a kiss.