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“I feel like I can float off into the sky and dance with the stars.”
Farrier’s voice, nearly inaudible, sounds foreign.
He would have not heard anything if it wasn't for his sudden disinterest in the book before him. It’s not the first time Farrier randomly speaks out- his mutterings flow from the top bunk as he writes, and through their new relationship as roommates, Collins tunes it out of his brain during their lonely nights.
His ears perk up to hear if he can distinguish more words- he can’t tell what Farrier’s writing now, and he’s not about to ask a man he barely knows at a personal level to read one of the numerous journals that line the edge of their window. But he is still curious. The few lines he manages to catch are always filled with poetic mystery, a near baroque taste to their eloquence and cleverly constructed phrases. He does like to read, but the small words that come out of Farrier’s lips are far more attractive than the book in his hands.
But nothing else comes out of Farrier that night. Whether the man realized he had spoken a tad too loud or simply stopped having clever concoctions of letters, he couldn't tell. Eventually the scratching of a pen ceased and the light turned off with a quiet good night.
Collins never mentions what he heard. He respects Farrier’s privacy, but mostly he was scared that the man would never unintentionally share anything else again. He had never taken the tall, dark haired man to romanticize anything at all, to be attracted to anyone at all. Farrier is stoic, cold, perhaps friendly to his close mates, and flirtatious, but never genuine in his attractions. When the boys get tipsy in the bar, they spill out their flirting on nearby girls who just giggle or slap them.
He himself had nearly, stupidly, idiotically , given out his secret attraction when the level of whiskey in his glass got too high.
But Farrier never did.
Dance with the stars.
What a silly expression. They did dance in the skies, but instead of shuffling their feet , they moved a control around that made their planes form circles through the clouds. Perhaps not with the stars or the moon, but it was truly a magnificent show of skill.
Why not dance with me instead?
What a silly thought. Their lives were barely connected and Farrier would grow to marry some soft eyed, blonde gal with perky hips and a warm dinner every night. He would go off to forget the stars and the war and live the Americanised dream.
But Collins could still dream.
----------
They did in fact dance together, many months after.
It took a long time for Collins to get himself accustomed to their secret relationship, to feel Farrier’s arms around his waist and that boyish, free spirited smile that only twitched in the man’s lips when they were alone.
Neither owned a gramophone, but one of the boys in the hall played his from time to time. Behind locked doors and closed windows, Farrier taught Collins the joy of dancing.
He was terrible at it. His apology seemed to fumble out of his mouth in cascades as Farrier’s amused expression faltered from an accidental stomp on his foot. Collins would curse a lot, loudly, like a rowdy drunk, but his partner would only laugh and keep teaching.
----------
Dunkirk is no longer a ballad in the sky. The clouds don’t jump around him like the ballerinas at the opera, and his Spitfire only spins, it doesn't flow.
After that, with his partner gone and his heart in the cold sea, no future flights dance to an imaginary symphony. It’s too early in the war, he’s too young, too foolish to have ever predicted or known this would happen.
But it did, and the music ceased to exist.
----------
Though fighters glittered the skies with their green wings, it was rare, even impossible, to spot one at night. Bombers were mostly present when the darkened skies enveloped them, but radars were not yet fitted into planes. A pilot’s eyes were skilled, but they couldn't reach the divine levels of seeing through the black horizon.
Ironically, London was never bombed.
His squad was always called off to the coast, but he pictured how the tea shops and streets of London emptied with sirens, never to feel the blast of a bomb pierce through their buildings.
As a result of the rare night calls, the younger boys liked to sit around a gramophone and hear music until their beers run out or some older officer starts complaining.
He does not sleep much, only out of the duty in his head that reminds him of how affected his skills can be with dull senses. However, when he lays in bed, staring at the empty bunk over him, starless night creeping through the window, he remembers the music.
He remembers how they would dance, and golden phantoms form on the floor as he turns around to watch the empty room. The two figures, near transparent but clearly there, move and twist and laugh, and he laughs with them.
It might be psychotic, but he enjoys it and leaves no bitter aftertaste in his tongue.
The boys outside dance with girls in the bar, the young pilots perform balls in the skies, and he just watches, hoping one day the gramophone will come back to life and his partner will dance with him again. The stars hide behind the curtains of the sky’s stage, but one day they’ll come out to perform freely again.
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Flyboys like speed. The adrenaline rush that accompanies a flight lingers on his blood vessels long after the war, and sometimes manifests itself when he learns to dance tango. It's abrupt, elegant and eloquent, but short lived.
After their first week together, through Collins’ shaking hand and Farrier’s damaged bones, they limp through a quick tango that leaves them breathless.
The room is bare with white, unpainted walls, and Peter’s old gramophone plays song after song even when they both stop dancing.
And Farrier can't stop smirking.
“I know you liked dancing.”
He doesn't. “I really-”
“You do.”
Maybe he does. He likes it even, though he will never admit it, more than a fresh bottle of Malbec.
Some secrets are never told. Outside the sun is setting, and though dim, stars are beginning to glimmer.
----------
They're older now, less curious, less fresh.
His hand aches much more, as if the bone had thinned and become brittle. Sometimes he thinks it will break as he picks up the kettle, heavy with water, or struggles to open the front door with his keys. He's not as old as Dawson, who can’t walk around without aid, but the impact of the war has clearly left a mark on him. However, Farrier still kisses the edge of his palm, lips dried out by the years, with the same gentleness as when they were young.
The world around them has changed, so much that it sometimes overwhelms him. Though Weymouth’s coloured homes and ocean breezes remain the same, kids now trot through the streets with all sorts of outfits and the music is different, much more loud and aggressive. He doesn't mind too much, but it's still striking. Farrier seems to take each change of the coming generations easily as his position in teaching connects him to children.
The man tries to explain it to his husband during their dinner together, but Collins can’t quite wrap his mind around it all.
The one thing he notices, though, is how they slowly become less secretive.
Same sex marriage is far from being completely accepted, and they still have to ignore accusatory glares and harsh comments from certain inhabitants of the port town, but overall, it isn't as tight as before. They can wear their rings on their fingers instead of the keychains around their necks, they can go to restaurants and take long walks through the port. They can be more lively, let neighbours into their lives and hold hands in public.
But most importantly, they can dance.
Tonight, as guitar strings are pulled with calloused fingers in unison with a piano tune, Collins let’s Farriers hands brush over his hip bone and swing him around the wooden floor of the terrace. His feet have gotten sturdier and follow his husband’s pattern, with no particular choreography, sticking to the melody of the song.
A few couples dance next to them and laughter, happiness of the english country blankets over the tables like a mantra that makes them forget crueler times. But through the many distractions that might have caught his eye, Collins’s attention is centered on Farrier’s stormy eyes.
Farrier is distracted by the lights and scents that mix in the air, from wine to fresh bread and the salty, thin breeze that comes from the lapping shore just a few streets away. His hair is tousled, contrary to the usual gelled hairdo, and the sleeves of his turtleneck are rolled up to his elbows.
The song comes to an end, more abruptly than he’d care for, but they keep leaning from side to side. Farrier looks up towards the others and Collins bites down a smile. His jawline is so sharp with the night lights that illuminate their dancing floor, and the musicians start other slower songs. Soon enough Farrier has him flowing with the tune, and the lights flicker over the moving bodies.
“Jack?”
He looks up, and their gazes meet at the same time as the guitar starts playing, rhythmically following the keys of the piano.
His husband smiles, and the stars gather on the creased edges of his eyelashes, nearly blinding him.
“You do realize I am getting old-”
“And?” For such a usually stoic man, Farrier’s an awfully mushy romantic in private. “I'm not fresh either."
“You did once say, and I quote, I feel like I can float off into the sky and dance with the stars. ”
Collins clamps his mouth shut when Farrier's eyes widen in surprise. His gaze softened as it gleamed under the moonlight. “You remember that?”
“Why yes I bloody do, you wouldn't shut up back then with all your stanzas and wannabe tortured writer rambles and….” he blushes, even with the years weighing on his spine. “And I remember.”
Farrier smiles ever so sweetly. “I’m happy you heard me.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
He wants to shove his pretty face away for making him blush so hard, this man. “Well, they did send men to the moon already, all the way over in America. If you want it so much, you could train to go float with the moon.”
They both smile but Farrier shakes his head, and they spin lazily around.
“Well, I don’t need one of those fancy rocket ships, really.”
“Oh? Do tell, because though you have oh so many talents, breathing-”
“What I mean.” he’s interrupted, but Farrier’s expression is so beautifully carved by moonlight that he can stare forever. “Is that I don’t need all of that to float off and dance with the stars.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Smile, shine, love through each dance, whether it's hollow and cruel, or cheerful and bright. “I dance with stars when I’m with you.”