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Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Chessum calls Isaac, Captain Higgintoot so very often that the American soldier privately queries whether the British soldier has forgotten his first name.
Isaac doesn't complain about the matter.
They are supposed to be mortal enemies after all. The Americans vs the British. Using first names is something that is rather personal so the Captain accepts the sparse use of his given name around the Colonel.
More often than not, he's also found himself using the other man's title rather than his name. Maybe, it's due to the bitter reminder that he is so sure and heartbroken that they will remain Captain and Colonel of different sides of a raging war who died under premature circumstances.
Despite how Nigel rarely utters Isaac's first name. The American can't help but purely admire how the British man parlays through each of their conversations; pretty and punctuated and very much able to make his heart flutter at the melodious sound. (He has always been a sucker for a gentleman with an accent).
Rarely, Isaac bits down on his lip (especially with company); he does it often when parlaying with the red-coated man.
Even if the men were talking about a subject as pitiful and dull as the weather, Isaac couldn't help but be entertained and somewhat entranced by the little mannerisms Nigel performs as be speaks: small half-smiles and lifted eyebrows; he fiddles with his thumbs often enough for Isaac to notice how they are slightly calloused.
Isaac doesn't mind that his name doesn't leave Nigel's lips. He never expects it too. However, there's something so wonderful when it does…
–
"Oh Isaac look!! A butterfly, how beautiful!" Nigel grinned, pointing towards the majestic wings of the fragile creature, a bright spark of orange popping out against the lush greens and yellows and pinks of the flowering garden.
For a moment, Isaac halted in his tracks, wondering and clinging onto the thought that Nigel said what he thought he said.
Handsomely, blood rushed to his cheeks and his heart (if it were still able to beat) was running an intense marathon. One of the things he was most pleased about that afternoon was that Nigel was too fixated on the butterflies' flourishing dance to notice his ruddy complexion.
Nigel likes Butterflies; always has, despite rarely being able to marvel in their beauty during the war.
Issac likes when Nigel gets excited about things; he's passionate about most things, Nigel, butterflies and poetry being one of the top things on the British man's list.
Nigel is as handsome as a butterfly whenever he is excited. Through bated heart-fluttering breaths, he swears the brunet is desperately trying to tempt him with his charm and his divine devotion.
"It's a '"Falcate orangetip'" Nigel observed, listing how it was also a male ('the female's colours are much duller however they are still a glorious sight to behold') "I suppose you can well tell by their orange tips"
Absent-mindedly, Isaac had stopped listening to the string of butterfly facts Nigel was teaching. Radio static filled his mind and coating his palms with sweat. Undignified, he wiped them on his trousers.
All he could think of was how delicate and precious his friend spoke his name and how his name sounded so right pouring from Nigel's tongue. Not to mention how his voice was filled with wonder, the tone suddenly caused his mind to speed again; what would his name sound like coming from breathy lips and coming from a man thick and delirious with sleep. The idea caused him to swoon.
It wasn't until he heard a snort of a laugh and a selection of giggles that he snapped out of his (most likely unrequited) lovesick trance. Nigel was laughing at his own comment, Issac laughed along rocking on his heels and absent-mindedly puffing out his chest trying to clear his mind of how sweet the sight before him was and how he wanted to bottle it up and treasure it forever.
After the butterfly flew away, the men continued their walk around the winding garden path. Nigel’s words played on his mind.
He wanted to hear them again.
Was it a selfish request? Maybe . However, could you blame the fellow?
"I say, Nigel?" Issac started breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.
"Yes?" Nigel hummed orderly, reverting the majority of his gaze to the American.
Isaac breathed in and out, non-existent air filtering through his body as he tried to work up the courage to say his simple request. His hands were fixed behind his back as they walked Isaac's hazel eyes facing towards the path.
"Do you remember what you said a moment ago?"
Confused, Nigel raised an eyebrow trying to decipher why butterflies had anything to do with anything. His arms were swinging by his side, they ached for someone to slowly and lovingly slip their fingers in between his own as they walked through the springtime splendour.
To his left, clearly, Issac was trying to compose himself, biting on his lip courage slipping each moment Nigel continued to give him such a questioning glance.
"About the butterfly?"
Isaac shook his head, tone mixing with an embarrassed laugh: "No no, not the butterflies"
"The Baxter situation then? Do you have an idea how to stop him from practising his instrument during lights out?"
Issac shook his head again and as the garden slowly became a distant memory that would be replayed the next day and the next. Nigel continued to guess what Isaac was referring to, each guess being wrong.
"I am getting old.'' Nigel laughed slightly, bouncing on his toes after his 10th guess. Fully aware how they can’t age and if they could they would be over 200 years old. Isaac made an amused noise at the comment. "I honestly can't remember what I said. Would you care to enlighten me?"
There was a beat.
Isaac was fully considering fleeing and explaining how it didn't matter; it would save him the embarrassment of requesting such a minor thing which the green-eyed-man will no doubt see as ridiculous.
Cautiously, a hand was placed on his upper arm and given a little squeeze. Affection; Isaac for a second became drunk off the feeling. Until he sank again taking a non existent breath.
"You called me 'Isaac'!"
There .
He said it.
And the fact he did made his heart whirl and his face burn like fire. Especially as he watched Nigel purely blink, lips shyly upturned and eyes flooded with curiosity.
"Oh? I did... Because that's your name, is it not?"
Isaac with a bashful smile nodded, his tongue feeling dry and lip being bitten: "please say it again!" He directed.
"Your name?" Nigel queried, pleasantly surprised by the sudden request despite it being a slight unorthodox and rather peculiar. Issac nodded again, clearing his throat, explaining clearly enough that he was being genuine.
"May I ask why you want me to say your name, Isaac?" Nigel asked slowly tiptoeing forward, closing the small space between them. However, remaining weary of the dangers or the implications of what Isaac will say. Instinctively, both men looked over their shoulders making sure it truly was only them that shared this moment.
"I like how it sounds coming from you-"
Nigel's eyes widened and an incoherent noise split from his lips. Face burning in the same fashion Isaac often does. "Oh really?"
Secretly, Nigel enjoys saying Isaac's name just as much as Isaac enjoys hearing it. It's so utterly beautiful, almost sonorous as it sits so naturally off the edge of his tongue as if he was supposed to utter it and often as he speaks the Lord's prayer. However, he doesn't simply because he doesn't want to bring bitterness or doubts or any frustration to such a private and delicate confession of trust.
When both of them were alive, first names were given out sparingly, it was more formal and much more polite to call someone by their surname rather than their first name everyone believed. For all of his living life people called Nigel "Mr Chessum" similarly Isaac was called "Mr Higgintoot"
"I do-"
A lump formed in the back of Isaac’s throat; Nigel's breath altered yet there was a fond smile on his face. They had stopped walking;they were facing each-other but hazel eyes didn't have the courage to see green; they just plainly stared at shined boots.
"Do you like anything else, Isaac?" Nigel cautiously pried.
Not wanting to step too far into the ocean of emotions and hidden feelings that he hoped were a thing he had in common with the light haired brunet.
Each address of his name made Isaac feel as if he were talking on air.
"Oh, um- musical theatre is a passion of mine; and I like tea and good company"
Nigel's shoulders deflated and the breath he couldn't hold in escaped as an inaudible sigh.
Momentarily, Issac blinked wondering if the other was hoping for the same thing he was. Love and affection, a secret confession that blossoms into a budding relationship where they could hold each-other and smile and laugh and kiss... They do most of those things already, however kissing ! That sounds more wonderful than Isaac would admit. Also the concept seems as wonderful as the way Nigel talks and the sea-glass glimmer in Nigel's eyes whenever the sun hits them just right.
Should he say it? Should he tell him the reason he yearns to listen to his own name coming from Nigel's lips as if it were his favourite song for all entirety?
"and I also enjoy when a certain brunet is passionate about something, and how the same certain brunet is so ,well, lovely and it makes my chest feel all funny as if I were alive again. And when the certain brunet smiles at me in such a divine manner. Good Lord."
Hope re-sparked in Nigel's eyes. That divine smile returned hazel eyes could help but flicker to it and wonder how could the Lord make something so delicate and beautiful and bright and perfectly kissable.
Issac could only hear the very end of Nigel's question. ("Isaac?")
"I'm so sorry, could you repeat that?" Isaac repeated sheepishly, he looked up into lime eyes then down again at that smile.
"If you don't mind me asking, who is this certain brunet, Isaac?” Nigel repeated, green eyes doing the same rhythm as the set of Hazel. An ecstatic buzz radiated through his bones as he watched Isaac smile ever so tenderly as if he were smiling at his favourite thing in all of existence.
And the response came quietly; a whisper in the wind: "you."
The next thing Isaac knew, after carefully making sure there wasn’t anyone around there, was a very quiet question of: "May I kiss you?"
And a possibly all-too-excited-nod of the head on his part. It resulted in their foreheads to bash and laughter to seep into the sky.
Their lips tenderly brushed and the mention of Isaac's name was endless. The shorter man mumbled it with that kissable smile as if it were a prayer, a poem, a confession of affection.
In a similar fashion, 'Nigel' was uttered countless times, against a cheek and a temple and a throat and the corner of reddened lips.
Their hair was tousled and faces rosy pink when they pulled away. Nigel's hand rested at the back of Isaac's neck playing with the loosened strands and Issac had his hand splayed across Nigel's hip forehead leaning to press against the latter's.
He used to do the same with Beatrice, resting his forehead upon hers. It was the only affection the man didn't feel awkward about giving her. However, his smiles were never as wide as an opened orange segment and his eyes weren't glowing like gems as her breath fanned against his lips.
He could get drunk off the ecstasy he was coated with. Especially as Nigel lightly chuckled: “Isaac, if you couldn't tell you are clearly blind, but i hold the same sentiment, very much in fact"
Both men couldn’t be happier.
–
Years pass and now, Nigel calls Captain Higgintoot, Isaac (along with a long string of pet names: my dove and Darling being favourites of the gentleman) so very often that the American soldier privately queries whether the British soldier has forgotten his senior ranking.
Isaac doesn't complain one bit.