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He’s only just stepped out of the Mess, trying to bring a light to his smoke, when a hand shoots out from the shadows and drags him around the corner. His unlit cigarette falls to the ground, and he nearly trips over his own feet. Night has already crept in, and as his back suddenly hits bricks, it takes his eyes a moment to adjust.
“Collins,” Farrier grunts, straightening up, but kept pressed against the wall by the sturdy body in front of him. “I thought you were still inside.”
“Farrier.”
Collins breathes his name in an odd way, like it’s been ages since it’s rolled off his tongue. Like it tastes of Heaven. Even in the dark, his eyes shine, made ghostly pale by the moonlight. His hands tremble where he’s gripping Farrier’s shoulders tight, like he fears he’ll disappear if he doesn’t.
“What’s wrong?” Farrier says gently.
“What day is it?” Collins asks, hushed but hurried.
Farrier frowns. “The third. June. We’re flying out to Dunkirk again tomorrow, remember?”
A sigh, and Collins’ shoulders sag, his face peeling into an exhausted, almost delirious smile.
“Tomorrow…”
“What’s gotten into you?” Farrier pries Collins’ hands off his shoulders but keeps hold of him, keeping him close.
There’s something wrong here. Collins looks off, though Farrier’s hesitant to say how. He seems… older, somehow; something in his face, his posture, how he suddenly looks more filled out. His hair’s a bit longer that he recalls it being only minutes ago. His eyes weigh heavy with experience, like how Farrier’s father looked after the war.
A breeze catches, and the clouds shift. More moonlight beams down, and in the light, Farrier spies a mark on his neck. A scar, long and jagged, peeking up from under Collins’ collar, reaching all the way to his jaw.
Before he can think, Farrier sets a hand there, brushing his neck. Collins’ pulse flutters under his touch, warm palm to cool skin. His eyes fall, and though it’s subtle, he leans into Farrier’s touch.
It’s intimate, in a way Farrier tries desperately not to dwell on. But his thumb brushes over this odd scar, and he can’t pull away, not when he’s got Collins here like a wounded animal, desperate for gentleness and compassion.
“What’s happened here?” he says lowly.
Collins sighs and grips Farrier’s wrist, keeping his hand there, fingers pressing into his steady pulse. They’re barely a breath away.
“It’s been a long war,” Collins mutters. “Lot happens in the air.”
It’s not right; the more he looks at him, the more Farrier is sure. His suspicions—far-fetched as they may be—seem more and more plausible.
“Who are you?”
That gets a small, breathless laugh, and Collins pulls back, letting Farrier’s hand fall away. Not an inch of them is touching, and Farrier’s colder for it, missing it already.
They’ve never been so close. Not like that, not how he sometimes wishes they could.
“I’m him,” Collins says, smiling crookedly like the words are as strange to him as they are to Farrier. “Or he’s me, I guess. Not from now. Been a few years for me. It’s hard to explain.”
Farrier swallows, both those words and his dry mouth. “You realize how bloody ridiculous that sounds?”
“Aye, but it’s the truth. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Suppose there’s no point in me asking how that’s possible?”
Collins shakes his head. “Don’t think you’d understand. Not sure I do, either.”
Well, if he’s going to entertain such a notion…
“So then, when are you…?”
Farrier sighs. It’s too strange to say. This is Collins standing before him, for God’s sake. But it’s not, not truly. He’s too old, too wounded in body and soul, too worn at the edges. It’s awful to see him like this.
What’s happened to you?
“Last I knew, it was 1944,” Collins says. “Was June then, too. We’re about to fly out for this big operation. Suppose maybe I was anxious, thinking too much about you, wishing things were different… I don’t know.”
Farrier rolls that around in his head. Different how?
But his thoughts catch on the rest of it.
Four years.
“The war’s not over, then?”
Collins shakes his head, a frown settling across his lips, and his eyes go cold. “Don’t think I should spoil it for you.”
“Maybe it’s best you don’t.” Farrier fists his hands in his pocket.
Damn it all. Four years, and still no bloody end? What the hell is he supposed to do, knowing that? What is he supposed to think, seeing how that time has gouged itself in Collins’ bones?
His Collins is still sitting inside, none the wiser to all that this one has seen.
But if this Collins is here, then it means he lived. He’s survived up until now. Perhaps that the only reconciliation Farrier has for such a bizarre encounter.
“So then,” Farrier takes in breath, fighting to keep it steady despite his racing heartbeat. “What happens now?”
Collins stares at him for some time. The shadows thrown over his face contrasting sharply against the moonlight. His jaw clenches, eyes roaming Farrier’s face like he’s learning and memorizing. He looks unsure of how to proceed, until something flickers in that beautiful blue, his lips parting with a shallow breath.
“When you—when we fly out tomorrow…” He swallows, licks his lips, makes sure to meet Farrier’s eyes purposefully. “Don’t turn back. No matter what happens, hear me? Just get home.”
Farrier cocks his head, brows pinched. “What happens tomorrow?”
Collins shakes his head. “I told you, I can’t say.”
“That only makes me more curious.”
They’re not on even ground, here. Every word out of this older Collins’ mouth could be fatal.
“Just, please,” Collins says. “Don’t turn ‘round. Trust me.”
“I do. But you’re worrying me.”
Collins’ eyes fall to the ground, lips thinning. “Think I do that a lot.”
His thoughts wander off, taking with it the gleam in his eye. The wind strikes colder suddenly, and the darkness encroaches around them, suffocating. Even the crickets have gone silent.
Farrier doesn’t get the chance to speak before Collins snaps back to life, looking up sharply.
“Would you do one more thing for me?”
Farrier almost laughs. So many years on, and Collins still hasn’t realized he’d do most anything for him.
“What is it?”
“Would you kiss me?”
Ah, well, that… “Pardon?”
Collins sighs, digging his toes into the ground. His eyes only leave Farrier’s face a moment, up to the stars, before they’re back on him, intense as ever.
“We never had the chance, before… and I just… please, Tom.”
“We’re not—”
“Don’t. I know how I felt then, and I still feel it now. I made that mistake once; I’ll not do it again.”
“What are you talking about?” Farrier’s stomach churns, threatening to kick his dinner back up. “What happens to us?”
To me, is his honest question. Collins is standing here now, not some future image of himself. His eyes are too bereaved to think anything good has come with this passage of time.
Indeed, Collins smiles sadly again—it's horrid, the way it twists his handsome face—and shakes his head. He doesn’t say a word.
Sighing, Farrier nods dazedly. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t know. It won’t change what he does, tomorrow, or whatever follows. He can only hope he has days to follow.
The wind blows past, carrying that familiar scent of aftershave and cologne he knows innately. The breeze sways him, and he pulls Collins close with one careful hand on his arm, and the other cupping his cold cheek.
They’ve not done this before, though the thought has crossed his mind. He’s never found it shameful, merely tragic. He and his Collins have toed this line, but never dared cross it.
But the way this Collins sways into his arms, leans down to press his forehead to Farrier’s, breathing like he’s almost forgotten how; it’s clear that he never did, either.
Farrier angles his head up, eyes shut, and kisses him. It’s feather-light, and his lips have gone dry. Yet it’s warm too, tasting vaguely of cigarettes, as if Collins has been smoking before his arrival here. It mixes with the tingle of whiskey still on Farrier’s own tongue.
Collins pushes closer, fingers digging into Farrier’ upper arms to drag their bodies together, and he kisses harder, deeper, ignoring a need for air.
Where Farrier is satisfying a long-buried passion, Collins is satisfying a long-suffered grief.
He’s all but dropping his weight into Farrier’s arm, begging him to hold tight and never let go. Their mouths move together, slow but assured, sharing heat and breath, a slight slip of tongue and teeth.
Only when his lungs are screaming does Farrier pull away, dragging air into his body. He hovers close, almost cheek to cheek, hot breath in his ear and their chests pressed so tight he can feel Collins’ heart drumming against his own ribs.
Yet he still feels a fool. This isn’t his Collins, not truly. Maybe he could argue the point, but part of him feels he’s betrayed something.
What, he can’t say; he and Collins were never this. They couldn’t be. But this brief taste of it, of something, of allowing these emotions to spill over, it’s addictive, a sedative, a drug,
Maybe they could be…
“He won’t—I won’t say anything,” Collins whispers, practically in his ear, a ghostly caress. “I know I didn’t, back then. But when you see h—me, tell me. Don’t let this go to waste again.”
Don’t let us die in the silence.
To let them slip between the cracks of ‘maybe’s’ and ‘could have been’s’. That would be the act of a fool.
Farrier can’t summon his voice. He only nods as he cups Collins’ face between his palms, thumbs brushing across the jut of his cheekbones. The strong-willed look in his eye must be enough, because Collins smiles faintly.
He steps back, dragging out of Farrier’s hands and away from his heart. Then he turns to walk away, off towards the open fields, and it aches, like smothering a fire in his soul.
“Why did you come back?” Farrier calls out.
Collins—not his Collins, he must keep reminding himself—stops mid-step. Gravel crunches under his heel as he turns slightly. He doesn’t look at Farrier, but his profile is striking in the moonlight, eyes glittering with an age-old pain.
“I don’t know. Maybe to change something. Or maybe it’s pointless. I know you’ll do what you have to.”
“Then why?”
There’s that sad smile again. Farrier’s stomach clenches.
“Even if nothing changes,” Collins says. “It was… good, to see you again.”
He turns and walks away. The night is quick to try and swallow him whole.
“Best of luck, Collins,” Farrier says under his breath.
Still loud enough, it seems.
With a hitch of breath, Collins looks back over his hunched shoulder, creases appearing at the corners of his eyes. Something in those few little words seems to sting; one more mystery Farrier may never get the answer to.
Collins hauls in a breath, swallows, and nods. “Aye… take care, Farrier. Tell my younger the same, would you? Bit headstrong, that one.”