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Five weeks after they met, Blake followed Schofield down to the river near camp. Five weeks to the day, in fact; Blake had introduced himself after Schofield had come up from the river that Sunday, hands still damp and cold. Schofield did not particularly understand why Blake did not follow him to the river every Sunday until he’d asked tentatively, “Mind if I join you, Scho?” and seemed surprised when Schofield replied, “‘Course.”
He filled the normally silent walk with idle chatter. “Christ, Scho, if I’d known I could’ve come down with you, I would’ve been bothering you weeks ago.”
Schofield smiled slightly. “I don’t know why you kept your distance.”
“Oh, come off it. You know exactly what you’re like, all brooding and silent and mysterious.” Blake grinned when Schofield laughed quietly and nudged him in the ribs. “Really! No one knows what you do down here. Whenever I asked about you I felt like my mum gossiping with the neighbors.”
“It’s not terribly interesting,” Schofield said.
Blake scoffed loudly.
“Really. I just wash my hands and feet.”
Schofield kept his eyes forward but felt the weight of Blake’s gaze against his profile. It was silent for a few long moments, long enough that Schofield’s ears started to get warm under the scrutiny. Eventually he caved in and glanced over at Blake, who was staring at the ground and biting his lip. He’s thinking, Schofield realized. Not judging, but thinking.
Blake was silent long enough for the two of them to reach the river, then finally asked his question as Schofield unlaced his boots. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
Schofield nodded and stood barefoot in the mud and pebbles lining the river, waiting for the follow up question.
“This a church thing, then?”
“‘Church thing.’” Schofield grinned when Blake flushed and flipped him off. “Yeah, it’s something like that. Not really connected to church, though. Just makes me feel a bit better.”
Blake nodded, smile fading a bit, and Schofield took this as a sign that the conversation was petering out. He waded out into the water, pausing every few steps to get used to the chill. With spring approaching ever so slowly, he thought the water would be getting warmer, but it stayed cold. It was a relief, really, as uncomfortable as it was. The cold seemed to strip him bare. That’s what all of this was about, anyway. Stripping him bare.
Schofield moved slowly out to a flat rock not too far from the riverbed and sat down. Methodically, he moved through his routine, first letting the water run over his feet, then hands, then finally splashing it onto his face. The whole time he pictured his nieces’ baptisms, mud on his hands, his friends’ blood warm and slick as he pressed into gun wounds to stop the bleeding and cried out for a medic. He washed himself, and he did not know if he was begging to be forgiven or to be healed.
It was only when he turned around that he realized Blake had said nothing the entire time. Instead, he watched as Schofield made his way back to shore, the corners of his mouth pulling down as Schofield came closer, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “Are you alright?” Schofield asked once his feet hit the dry pebbles of the shore.
Blake opened his mouth, ready to say something, then shut it abruptly, seemed to swallow the words. He merely nodded and bent down to grab Schofield’s shoes, and when he came up, he was smiling. “Walking back to camp with wet socks, are we?” he joked.
Schofield had no idea what to do with the sudden change in mood. He took his boots awkwardly and said, “If you’ve got a towel lying around, I’ll take it.”
They did not talk about anything of importance as they walked back to camp.
—
The following Sunday, Blake sat on the shore silently as Schofield sat in the river, weaving flowers and grass together. It came apart as he tried to give it to Schofield. He laughed it off and tucked the flowers into one of Schofield’s pockets. Schofield left them in there even as they wilted.
—
After two Sundays, Blake followed Schofield into the water. He did not say anything about it as though it weren’t unusual, but it sent Schofield’s mind reeling. Blake was all blue eyes and easy smiles and ruddy cheeks from the biting wind. You don’t need this, Schofield wanted to say, you haven’t got the blood on your hands. He let Blake follow him into the water all the same.
It was not terribly different than it usually was. Blake fixed his eyes on Schofield, watched his movements and repeated them exactly. He was being so careful, more than he needed to be, so Schofield nudged him and said, “It’s not an exact science, you know.”
Blake flushed in embarrassment, but smiled and nudged back and said, “Piss off.”
As they walked back to shore, Schofield’s hands clean and his heart full, Blake shoved him sideways into the water. With a sort of childish glee Schofield had not felt in months, he yanked Blake down next to him. They walked back to camp soaking wet. Blake ran around trying to hug unsuspecting victims.
Schofield bottled the memory up and tucked it away into the part of his mind that held his family and hoped it would remain untouched by war.
—
Two Sundays later, Schofield almost did not go at all.
It was after a particularly bad nightmare, one that managed to wake Blake and another lance corporal named Williams before it woke Schofield up. He did not manage to fall back asleep, so he went about the next day weary and jittery and had no energy to walk to the river.
Blake insisted, though, with a fierce determination Schofield did not understand. “It’ll make you better, yeah?” and “C’mon, Scho, budge up,” and finally, “Christ, Scho, just do it for me, would you?”
At that, Schofield furrowed his brows and looked up at Blake. His mouth was set in a hard line, his jaw tight, and Schofield knew talking him down would be pointless. He nodded and took Blake’s hand, pulling him up.
Blake did not talk as they walked to the river. He seemed drawn in on himself like Schofield usually was, just thinking. It was a horrible change of pace. If he could not brood Schofield would rather have Blake happy and smiling.
When they did get to the river, Blake was the first into the water, leaving Schofield to follow. He did not sit on the rock as he usually did. Schofield sat down and looked up at Blake. A few seconds passed before Schofield worked up the nerve to say, “Blake?”
Blake took a deep breath and said, “I’m gonna wash your hands, alright?”
Schofield stared blankly at Blake as his cheeks warmed. The words did not make sense when strung together, and it took Schofield a few minutes before he understood the sentence fully and managed to say, “Blake, you don’t have to - that’s not necessary.”
“I want to, Scho.” His jaw was still set tightly, almost like he was ready to throw a punch at Schofield, but as he took Schofield’s hands in his own he was achingly gentle. It was too much, the weight of his kind gaze and the feel of his barely calloused hands and the steady movement of cold water. It was entirely too much.
As Blake washed Schofield’s hands, Schofield could not help but think of all the blood that was now imparted onto Blake, all the terror and guilt. He wanted to jerk his hands away, but he was too selfish. He let Blake clean him off.
When it was done, Blake rose and hugged Schofield. Instinctively, Schofield pressed his face into Blake’s stomach and squeezed back. A few tears left over from the Somme made their escape and were absorbed into Blake’s jacket. Blake leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss into Schofield’s hair.
Before they were all the way back at camp, Blake gave Schofield’s hand a squeeze and smiled slightly. Schofield could not smile quite yet, but he squeezed back.
—
Three Sundays later was 8 April. He arrived back at camp late, hitching a ride on a supply truck. As soon as he got off, he walked down to the river, the thin sliver of moon the only light he had. He scrubbed his hands red and raw and numb. He tore the stitches on his hand and panicked when he saw the blood, thinking it was Blake’s, dark and terrible in the water. It took him a long time to realize it was his own, to recognize the sharp pain in his hand. He rose from the water slowly, took a bandage from his first aid kit and wrapped his hand tightly.
His tears were drying on his cheek when he came back to camp.
—
Blake arrived three weeks later on a Friday, a bandage on his side and a grin on his face. “What’s a bloke got to do to get out of France?” he said, accepting handshakes from other soldiers, eyes scanning the small crowd for Schofield. When he caught sight of him, Blake wormed past the other soldiers, his smile turning into something softer.
Schofield hugged him too tight and accidentally put pressure on the wound. He said, “I thought you were dead. I told your brother you’re dead,” and laughed helplessly when Blake pulled away with wide eyes and said, “Fuck, Scho, why’d you tell my brother I was dead?”
That Sunday, they did not walk to the river. Schofield forced Blake to stay at camp and lean up against their tree. He laid down in the grass and basked in the warm April sunlight as Blake told him about the hospital he was sent to. It must’ve been horrible - Schofield had seen the kinds of injuries men got in battle - but Blake only spoke of the funny Welsh man who wouldn’t stop talking about cattle. Every so often his voice would hitch on the edge of a more gruesome detail, but Schofield squeezed his hand and brought him back to their little patch of sunlight and momentary peace.
Schofield could almost forget the war and why he went to the river in the first place.
—
The first Sunday they had to themselves when they were back in Britain, they tried to go to church. Will couldn’t stand it. It was nothing like the quiet comfort of cold water, and he realized quickly enough that he barely retained any faith in God. Blake - though he was Tom now, he had to remind himself they were civilians - felt Will tense up beside him and silently led them out of the cathedral into bustling London streets. “Cup of tea at ours?” he asked, and Will smiled gratefully.
They spent the rest of the day on their second hand couch, given by Will’s sister, sipping tea from chipped mugs and talking quietly between themselves. It was a welcome change from their original plans. Tom’s laugh felt more holy and forgiving than anything the priest had said, and his eyes were a brighter blue than the stained glass. When Tom took Will’s hand and ran his fingers along the scar on the palm, it was far better than the water of that river in France.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Tom said, breaking the flow of one of his stories about Joe. He was glaring, but the effect was weakened by his smile. His fingers stilled, and Will took the opportunity to tangle their fingers together. “And you think I’m the sappy one. Are you even listening?”
Will grinned. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Tom’s lips. “‘Course I am. What’d Joe tell your mum?”
Tom kissed the back of Will’s hand briefly before continuing with his story. The sun peeked through the alley across the street and cast their apartment in soft orange light. Tom’s jacket was right next to Will’s on the coat rack. There were books on their bookshelf. They were curled under a blanket Tom’s mum had knitted for them. Their cups of tea were getting cold.
It was Sunday. Will finally felt like he might be absolved.