Work Text:
“For the second time in the lives of most of us, we are - at war.”
Thomas and Richard look at each other as the King’s words, delivered in carefully measured beats, crackle from the wireless in their sitting room. If they weren’t already holding hands, he thinks, he would reach across and take Richard’s now.
Most of us. That includes them, too. Of course, the proclamation of war with Germany is no longer a surprise to anyone; Chamberlain had the honour of announcing it to the British people when he gave his address from Downing Street earlier that day, and even that hadn’t surprised Thomas, or anyone else who had picked up a newspaper recently.
He squeezes Richard’s hand. Dear Dick - he’d kept hope in Chamberlain’s peacekeeping attempts long after Thomas had given up his. Between Mussolini and Hitler, the writing had been on the wall for years.
“You were right - you were right all along.”
“Trust me. This time, just this once, I would rather not have been.”
“We have been forced into a conflict. For we are called, with our allies, to meet the challenge of a principle which, if it were to prevail, would be fatal to any civilised order in the world.”
“I thought you said he had a speech impediment,” Thomas says. “Sounds all right enough to me.”
“Sh.” Richard is listening intently, eyes closed. Dear Dick. Once upon a time, he had been close to the fire at the Palace. Now, he has to get his information from the media like everyone else. He insists he doesn’t miss it.
Thomas is quiet, and they listen as the King delivers his sobering message to the nation. Sitting on the sofa, not standing to attention. They are citizens now, wearing citizens’ clothes, and this is their private home. No one will have a word to say about it.
“The task will be hard. There may be dark days ahead, and war can no longer be confined to the battlefield. But we can only do the right as we see the right, and reverently commit our cause to God.
“If one and all we keep resolutely faithful to it, ready for whatever service or sacrifice it may demand, then, with God's help, we shall prevail. May He bless and keep us all.”
The wireless goes silent for a bit, then follow several announcements. The air raid alarm that had rattled London that morning had been a false one, this time. Thomas can hear Richard slowly breathing next to him.
“We won’t be called upon,” Richard says, voicing what many civilian men must be thinking that very minute. “We did our duty the first time around. Now we’re old men.”
“Not that old,” Thomas says, bristling at the suggestion. He is a year and a half older, nudging closer and closer to fifty every day. “But no, they’ll pass us by, at least for now. If the conflict lasts long enough, if they get desperate enough, they may get to me and overlook the hand. I reckon you will be safe.”
“Christ, Thomas, don’t say that.”
Thomas shrugs. “Better me than you.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what I would say if such a summons were to arrive, which it won’t.”
“Not today, at any rate.” Thomas smiles and reaches up to caress the hair at Richard’s nape. “And not tomorrow. I’m not looking further ahead than that, and you shouldn’t either. So don’t let me catch you worrying about it.”
A smile touches Richard’s lips. “What’s made you such an incurable optimist?”
“Living with you.” It is trite as fuck, but if he’s officially an old man now, by Richard’s reckoning anyway, he can probably allow himself sentimentalisms like these. He gets up.
“If we’re not looking ahead further than a day,” Richard says, “I probably shouldn’t mention that I’m supposed to go to London later this week for a meeting with a supplier.”
Thomas’s hand freezes as he reached for the knob on the wireless, just for a second. He’d forgotten about that damn trip to London. Slowly, trying to keep his voice from trembling, he says, “There won’t be a meeting, because you’re not going.”
“But -”
“Richard Ernest Ellis, you are not trotting off to London with all this going on.” Richard doesn’t often get the full name treatment, but Thomas reckons it’s warranted here. “We’re at war, I’m sure the supplier will understand. Whatever business you need to discuss can be settled over the telephone.”
He’d gotten up to turn the radio off, to silence the warnings about air raids and gas attacks that have been invading their peaceful domain all day, but instead, he changes the channel and gets Cole Porter.
Now that’s better.
“All right,” Richard says, soft, conceding. “I won’t go to London.”
Dear Dick. Would sooner risk being bombed than offend a supplier. Entirely too good for this world, and entirely too good for Thomas, although telling him so is one of very few ways of getting him truly angry.
“Thank you.” He turns up the volume, just a notch. He is sure their landlord won’t mind, for once. His hearing is not what it was, anyway, and that is a good thing for more than one reason. They are not that old, after all.
“Come,” he says, as he turns around and returns to the sofa. “Dance with me, Mr. Ellis.”
Because who says he can’t dance with his husband on a day like today. No one, that’s who.
“I was going to make dinner…” Richard smirks. He does find himself hilarious, but Thomas likes that about him, even after all these years. They won’t make it if they stop dancing, and sharing silly jokes - if they stop being who they are, living their life.
Dark days ahead. So what can they do other than look towards the light?
“All right, Mr. Barrow,” Richard says, as he accepts Thomas’s outstretched hand and gets to his feet. “Let’s dance.”
And they do.