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“It’s not much, but I’ve had it for years.”
***
The pendant quickly becomes a daily fixture in his life, his companion. It dangles from the same chain that connects to his pocket watch, there for everyone to see.
He doesn’t think of it much during busy times, but in the evening, when the house slows to a lull, and they sit comfortably in the servant’s hall, enjoying small chatter and everyone else’s company, his hand drifts down to it, his fingers circling around it and his fingertips feeling the familiar ridges of the delicately formed chain, of the moon face, of the curved border. He presses his thumb into the curve and it fits perfectly; he knows he probably shouldn’t read much into that, but he can’t help himself. As long as no one finds out, it does no harm, he figures.
Reaching down to it becomes an unconscious habit; he does it when letters arrive and with them a burning hope in his chest, when he sees Phyllis and Molesley exchange fleeting glances and small touches, when conversation turns to the highlight of the year, the time they fooled the royal household, a story that’s been told many times and will be told just as much. He’s glad when they talk about it because it reminds him it wasn’t just a dream and the wonderful man that has stolen his heart wasn’t a figment of his imagination. The pendant and their frequent letters remind him too but it’s nice to receive confirmation from outside of his own head.
The exposure to air and to the oils on his hands have dulled its shine and he finds himself taking up the duties of a footman: polishing silver.
This is more meaningful, though. He takes a fine cloth and the polish and gets to work. He cleans the face and the back, then the small details; the ridge of the border and the moon’s features, the engraved initials on the back - E. C. - and he wonders at them once again. His fingers ache slightly from the force he’s put into the task but after he finishes with the chain, it lies between his gloved hands and amplifies the lamplight tenfold, and he feels pride settle between his ribs.
Carson would’ve been overjoyed if he’d put half as much dedication into polishing the silver goblets the family sometimes likes to drink from.
The next day it catches eyes, gleaming and glistening as it hangs from its chain. Mrs Hughes looks at him with a knowing glint in her eyes which he studiously ignores and Phyllis compliments him on it, wearing a small adoring smile. He wills the slight blush on his cheeks away.
He implements another habit, this time intentionally: every week he cleans and polishes it in the quietness of his pantry after composing a letter to Richard.
***
When they finally meet, Richard’s eyes fall down to the pendant and then go back up to him, a smile dancing in them.
“I’m glad you’re taking good care of it.” If he hadn’t said it so sincerely, Thomas would’ve been embarrassed by the obvious devotion that shows in the silver shine of it. He’s still a little embarrassed but more by the way Richard’s eyes practically devour him as he runs a hungry look all over his body.
They meet again between rustling clothes and crisp bed sheets in a borrowed flat from a trusted friend. His hands fly over Richard’s waistcoat, efficiently undo button after button. Richard replies in kind, but briefly stops their hurried exchange to carefully remove watch and pendant and reverently lay them on the nightstand. They resume their desperate attentions, and their shirtsleeves are undone and wrinkled by the end, lips kissed red and hair unkempt. They haven't gone all the way; that is reserved for tonight where they will see their deepest desires to completion.
There’s still plans for the evening and they reluctantly separate to ready themselves.
Thomas combs his hair back into a neat part while Richard shrugs on his waistcoat and buttons it close. He then reaches over to him, necktie in hand and pulls it through the collar to tie it into a knot at the base of his throat. In that same motion, Richard draws his knuckles against the line of Thomas’ jaw and he has to swallow his growing desire down. Richard follows with his waistcoat, holding it so that Thomas could easily slip his arms through, and his hands brush his sides lightly, almost as if by accident. Only then he realises that Richard is demonstrating his valeting skills in a manner that would be considered scandalous in the royal chambers.
Richard continues, steps up to him with pocket watch and pendant in hand and fastens both of them to his waistcoat, carefully making sure that the clasp is closed tightly enough. He lingers on the pendant, turns it over and brushes a finger over the engravings on the back.
He looks up into Thomas’ eyes, gaze turned contemplative, and says, “Remind me to tell you the story of how I came to receive it.”
Thomas holds his gaze and nods.
***
He doesn't need the reminder, it turns out.
They return to the flat, stomachs full and hearts bursting, Richard’s bright easy smile burning in the black night. It’s hard to look away from it, but Thomas needs to watch where he’s going, though he does sneak glances here and there.
The couch offers space enough for them to sit snugly, Richard’s head pillowed on his shoulder with Thomas’ cheek resting on his hair. Richard’s cologne had faded over the course of the day but it’s still faintly there, hanging around them in the air. They relax, Richard’s arm slung around his waist and his fingers almost naturally find the pendant to fiddle around with it.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he begins, “Back then, when the war started, I enlisted early. You too, I believe?”
Thomas nods against his head.
“Well, I enlisted with the arrogance of the young. I wanted to protect King and Country, thought I could make a difference. You know the type.” Thomas knows all too well and tries not to think about William.
“It wasn’t that bad at first. There were like-minded blokes at training camp but the front– it quickly changed most minds.”
A pause. Thomas presses a gentle kiss to Richard’s temple whose hand wanders from the pendant over to Thomas’ glove-covered one and rests there, fingers sliding over smooth leather. He’d told Richard when he’d sustained the injury, but not the extent of it, hadn't told of the desperation that had led him to that particular act of cowardice. That is a story for another day.
“I met him there. He was the bravest of us all and knew when to say the right words, how to encourage his men. A few months in, we lost almost half of our squad. It was terrible and shook me to the core. I tried to hide how I felt, of course,” of course, “but he saw right through my act, pulled me out. From then on, we were almost inseparable.”
“But?” Thomas prods, feeling that this isn’t the end of it.
“But he was to be sent away, to another outpost where he was desperately needed. He gave me this,” he picks the pendant up again, “to remember him by.”
“What is his name?”
“Edward Courtenay.”
—
He takes the letter addressed to Edward and goes over to his bed. Despite the cacophony of noises in the hospital ward, Edward notices his steps, their particular rhythm, and turns his head into Thomas’ direction. He’s getting better at this, Thomas notes with no small amount of pride.
“Sergeant Barrow,” Edward greets, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A letter.” Thomas sits down on the chair next to the bed, a rare break.
Edward grimaces. “Not from my brother, I hope.”
The joke, if it can be called that, falls flat. Thomas ignores the awkward silence.
“No, it’s not. It’s from a Private Dick Ellis.” He reads from the envelope.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, a bright grin lights up Edward’s face. “Read it to me, now!”
Thomas is baffled by his enthusiastic response, but acquiesces anyway. He’s never seen Edward so happy before, and intends to make it last as long as possible.
Private Ellis tells of the state in the trenches, weaves in jokes and references Thomas doesn’t understand, but make Edward chuckle to himself. He’s witty and quite good with words, and has written a three page letter. Where he found the time for that in the trenches, Thomas doesn’t know. Eventually the letter comes to an end, and Thomas reads the last few lines.
It’s not the same without you here. I hope you’re recovering well.
Your gift is in good hands. I look forward to giving it back to you.
I miss you and think of you often,
Dick
Edward reaches over to take the pages, leafs through them and runs his fingers over the dried ink, feeling the loops and curves forming the words that have made him laugh and smile like nothing before.
Thomas feels an unfamiliar type of jealousy brewing in his stomach and impulsively asks, “Who is he to you?” He’d tried to hide the harshness in his voice, but barely succeeded.
Edward turns his head, still with a small smile on his lips. “The little brother I never had.”
That statement hits hard when another letter arrives a few days later, from his brother-by-blood, filled with thinly veiled derision, that makes Edward bury himself beneath his blankets and turn away breakfast, lunch and dinner.
It hits even harder when he dies and Private Ellis writes again. This time, he gets a response from Nurse Crawley, empathetically telling him of his death. Thomas hadn’t been able to bring himself to write through his tears.
—
“Did you know?” Thomas’ voice breaks the silence that had descended over them, and he sounds so small, so breakable. It tugs at Richard’s heartstrings, stretches them until they’re ready to snap.
“Not entirely.” He reaches up and places a careful hand at the nape of Thomas’ neck. He allows the touch, leans into it, but his eyes are still downcast. “I wasn’t sure but I am now.”
Thomas takes a shuddering breath and Richard feels so guilty about all of it. He hadn’t meant to make him relive his past. He shifts closer to Thomas, presses them chest to chest, and his shoulder is wet with tears.
“I’m sorry.” The guilt is so big it makes his voice break and he clears his throat.
Thomas shakes his head against his shoulder. “No, don’t apologise.” He sits up and looks at Richard with bloodshot eyes. “I’m glad, really. I never could’ve imagined–” he breaks off with a sob and Richard takes him in again.
“I know, I know”, he whispers into the shell of his ear.
It all feels wondrous, out of this world. The impossibility of it, that he holds the same Sergeant Barrow in his arms who had taken such care of Edward, his beacon of light in a world of mud and blood, is staggering. But it feels right, almost fateful.
He moves his hand up and down his arm. His thumb slips under the sleeve and catches against a raised scar, and he realises with a jolt of fear what it is. Thomas doesn’t notice his discovery and Richard hugs him even tighter, almost crushes him to his chest.
He’ll make sure to not lose another beacon of light to the sharp sting of a razor.
***
“I loved him. And I love him still,” Thomas says later, when the sun spills onto the bed and picks out the silver strands in his hair and the impossible blue of his eyes.
“I love him too,” he replies.
I love you too, he thinks.