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Schofield heard the shuffling of feet approach, quiet mumbling and apologies spoken as the person made their way down the trench. Burying himself deeper into his position, Schofield clutched the thin material draped around his body a slight but tighter and allowed his eyes to close. He wasn’t on watch for a couple of hours; he should really try to get some rest.
Though, that task proves to be near impossible with the constant sound of fighting in the not-so-far distance.
A figure collapses into the small space beside him and the idea of sleep leaves Schofield's mind faster than a bullet from his rifle.
“Bloody Pearson pushed me down into a puddle.” Blake muttered angrily. Schofield doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that the younger soldier has crossed his arms and is now sat with a childish pout. “Fucker slipped and we both ended up caked in mud. Ruined my blanket. It’s this damn rain, I tell you. Thought it was just Britain that had it this bad, that’s what my mum told me. She always wanted to come to France on our holidays. Fat chance of that now. If I ever make it back home, ain’t no way I’m letting her drag me back here-”
“Could you please shut up?”
Blake, to his credit, does hold his tongue when Schofield snaps. Eyes searching out the shape of a body huddled next to him, moonlight highlighting the soft curves of his face.
“Sorry...”
Schofield sighed, shifting his body enough to lessen the growing sting of pins and needles in his legs. “It's alright.”
They don’t speak after that, not for a good while. It’s not awkward, though. That’s something Schofield has always liked about Blake; sure, he could talk a man's ear off, but he can also be quiet when he needs to be. Many a nights, the two of them have shared a comfortable silence and Schofield has come to look forward to such occasions.
He's just contemplating whether it’s still worth trying to get some sleep when there’s a gentle nudge at his shoulder. Blinking one eye back open, Schofield looks at Blake and finds a rare frown worrying between his brows.
“Can we share the blanket?” Blake asks, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth as he gestures to the scraggly material that’s offering Schofield the bare minimum of extra heat.
Schofield suddenly feels like a dick. Blake had mentioned his blanket being wrecked by the mud earlier and yet Schofield hadn't even considered how uncomfortable the younger man must be right now. Cold, damp and tired.
“Fuck,” Schofield lifted half of his blanket up, gesturing for Blake to come closer. “Course you can. I’m sorry.”
Blake doesn’t waste any time, shuffling over until he’s covered by the blanket. Their bodies are flush together now, shoulder to hip to ankle, just to ensure they can hoard as much heat as is possible in a place like this. The younger man tilts his head, resting it on Schofield's shoulder – his short curls tickling under Schofield’s jaw. “Thanks.”
Schofield can’t help the small smile that finds it's place on his face. Turning his head, he brushes his lips lightly over Blake's hair – taking a subtle deep breath of the musky scent that’s grown so familiar to him over recent weeks. He feels Blake lean closer, his hand patting clumsily between them until fingers lace themselves with Schofield’s. Schofield sighs, squeezing Blake’s hand in his and pressing a proper kiss to the man’s head this time.
“Don't mention it.” he murmurs, and it goes without saying that he’s speaking about more than just the blanket.