Archive of Our Own

Phil heard rumblings about the great Broadway star Bob Wallace before he’d had the privilege of meeting him, stories of a polite but reclusive man, timid and unwilling to engage in the talk of what life was like in New York, as if the memories had been left in his apartment along with the comforts of civilian life. 

He was homesick, or at least that’s what the men would say. 

Phil knew it was a hollow excuse, but it was an easy escape from any further questioning, none of them wanting him to take offense and shrink further into his shell at the barrage of voices. So reluctantly they accepted it, their murmured annoyances fading quickly as new problems occupied their minds. The prospect of a bright, glowing city waiting for them to return as heroes was all too tempting an idea to let go of without a fight, but they were tired, and cold, and homesick. 

Some nights Phil wondered if they were right about Bob’s condition; if he missed New York, if there was a girl crying at home over a photo in a locket, if he wrote letters back to her with the same lies he sent home to his Mother. 

He hoped not, for Bob’s sake if no other reason. 

He’d heard about his voice as well of course, low mumbled lyrics repeated as if a prayer in the darkest moments, when the gunfire was loud and the smoke was acrid. It hadn’t always been received warmly; complaints about the faint buzzing of a show tune on the quiet, suffocating nights were often the topic of conversation during the following morning’s breakfast. 

He’s seen the looks they’d throw him too, the frustration and the confusion, questions over how such a man could still find the energy to sing after witnessing the fall of humanity. It bothered Phil, but still he watched on, the voyeuristic need to study him from afar outweighing his own need to get involved. 

Besides, he was too busy trying to survive. 

Or at least his attention was on his own survival until it wasn’t, and then the burden of another person's life was stashed in his chest, another weight he carried as they progressed through the same conflict he’d begun to see when he closed his eyes. It was an unconscious decision on his part, and whether caused by guilt over his innocent but eager glances, or just a general need to protect someone who felt an unwavering connection to music that he’d feared he’d lost the moment he picked up a rifle; it was done and he couldn’t take it back. 

Admittedly, it was a strange urge, to care for someone he had little previous attachment and even less interaction with, but Bob Wallace had everything he wanted in life, so a little jealousy at the expense of Phil’s concentration was fair game in his eyes. 

Only Phil didn’t feel jealous when he looked at him. 

He felt too much of everything, a claustrophobic cacophony of wonderstruck and hope, even if he couldn’t figure out why. 

Regardless, he worked hard to keep him in his sights, a difficult task in the sea of khaki. He kept a watchful eye on his positioning even as the boots kicked up dust and they trudged down the endless empty, cobbled streets.  

Despite his professionalism, he wanted to reach out to him, to remove the distance between them until they were shoulder to shoulder and able to talk about the wonders of music. 

He feared the threat of active combat would make him reckless enough to make a bad decision, the growing proximity to death wearing him down until he caved into his urges, and caught up to Bob with a gentle hand on his shoulder, respectfully of course. 

He kept his eyes on the ground, settling for stolen glances, enough to satisfy his curiosity, but too brief to be a comfort. 

They’d been waiting on orders the first time they’d exchanged more than meaningless pleasantries, resting in a village that had suffered only marginally less than their division. 

The empty houses and broken walls told them everything they needed to know about the previous occupants, but it was a safer option than being out in the open so they lived with the ghosts of the past. 

Phil watched everyone disperse, the novelty of the remains giving everyone a brief respite from the brutality of the coordinated advance. He heard Waverly bark out orders at the splintered group of men, their roles coming natural after so long of being on edge. 

He was in a group of five as they scoped out the buildings west of the old church, their footsteps perfectly in sync and their discontentment shelved for a more suitable time. They progressed through them easily, the aftermath of the bombing leaving little space for an ambush. 

Waverly dismissed them once the village was secured, the streets occupied once again, as if life was normal, as if they were even allowed a shred of normalcy when waiting at the dangerous end of the gun. 

Phil tracked Bob’s lone figure as he cut through the square, reaching the same church they’d verified was empty. The balmy summer evening gave him more daylight than they’d be blessed to get in the months that he hoped would follow, but he was aware such guarantees rested on the orders of those well above their rank. 

He tried to be casual, following the trail with enough purpose not to be disturbed and enough to still be aloof. 

He came to rest at the open entrance, admiring the beauty in the destruction, wary of the loose stones littering the path lest they were an indicator of the structural integrity. Still, he kicked one impulsively, the ricochet drawing Bob from his thoughts as he took rest in one of the surviving pews. 

“I’m sorry.” Phil said, voice benefitting from the acoustics of the building, a musical quality to his tone he hadn’t felt since he was in the kitchen as a child, his voice melting seamlessly with his Mother’s. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“No trouble.” Bob shook his head easily, a soft smile resting on his lips, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. He looked beautiful like that, Phil decided, almost untouched by the violence. He could have been a world away from the horrors of war, he could have been back at home, finding God on a random Wednesday; but he wasn’t. “You’re welcome to join me if you want.” 

He desperately wanted to, his feet moving before he could even bring himself to answer. He slid into the space beside him as the silence extended between them, until they were broken by Bob’s words, a wistful tone to them. 

“I used to be an altar boy, way back before this.” 

Phil hummed in encouragement of the memories, unable and unwilling to speak, afraid of shattering the fragile moment. 

“I can’t say I’ve missed this exactly.” He swirled his hand, gesturing to the building they found themselves in. “Maybe I have, Maybe I’ve been missing my connection to-” 

Phil kept quiet as Bob stopped himself, the memories muddled with a sadness Phil related to, if not through religion, then to the closeness of another person. 

He supposed he had a connection to those around him, it was a necessity to trust them enough not to get him killed, but he was alone, and everyone he’d seen die had died alone. His greatest connection in the war was with a man who he’d barely spoken to, one he couldn’t understand why he felt so drawn to. It did little to ease his loneliness and it left him with a chill, the wind blowing straight through him. 

“Look at me, talking about my own problems, you’ve probably come in here for some peace.” Bob stood, brushing off his uniform, looking down at Phil with tight eyes. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

He had gone before Phil could even respond, leaving him with a heavy heart and an audience of holy figures forged in glass. The angel on the window looked at him with compassion as he stared back in shame. 

The season passed quicker after that, the shadows of the spire the only evidence time was still moving as the final burst of summer burnt into the ashes of the Autumn.

There hadn’t been much work during that time, the relative safety of their new home leaving them with nothing but time to kill as they waited for their next orders. The only potential threats to Bob being the rats that scuttled across the square and the instability of the structures they inhabited. 

It was a deserved rest even if the gunfire was still audible depending on the direction of the wind. 

He dwelled on the words shared in the church, returning to the building, less for comfort and more for the judgment on the faces trapped in the glass and etched on his mind. 

There was some solace in his actions being reactionary and not an active effort to harass a man who was focussed on keeping his head down and firmly on his shoulders. Yet he still felt as if he was committing a great crime, an unintended sin resting on his shoulders, even if his greatest evil was waiting impatiently for another chance to talk to the other man. 

The moment came when the leaves began to blow through the gaps in the bricks, the crunch under his boots reminding him of home. 

“Damned thing.” He heard a voice say, a call to him from down the corridor. 

He peered into one of the rooms from the doorway, the man who occupied most of his thoughts crouched in the center of the room, struggling with the water canteen in his hands. 

“Need any help?” Phil asked, holding back his amusement at the flush on Bob’s cheeks. 

Bob seemed to weigh up the situation, a whole conversation in his head that Phil wasn’t privy to concluding in a hand outstretched and the dented metal bottle placed gently in his hands.

“The cap won’t come off.” Bob said simply as Phil struggled with the offending item. 

“You might have to shoot it off.” 

Bob smiled, Phil’s attention on the canister waning as he took in the beauty of the expression. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had smiled at him and meant it. He felt his own smile grow as happiness bloomed in his chest. 

“Thank you for the suggestion, but I think the Major would be against it.” 

“I’m sure he wouldn’t object to one of this division's greatest singers avoiding dehydration.” 

Phil joined Bob on the floor, the cold concrete seeping through his uniform and reminding him winter had nearly arrived. 

“One of…” Bob repeated wryly. 

“There’s a few people I wouldn’t count out if I was taking bets on who has a voice like an angel.” Phil said, using all his force on the cap until it turned slightly and popped off easily. “Myself included.” 

Bob laughed off the humble comment, taking the bottle and drinking from it greedily. 

Phil regretted not just sharing his own before attempting to open it, but he supposed the gesture would have been too intimate outside of the front lines. Besides he could still see the invisible lines that shouldn’t be crossed, they were brighter when he was younger, but they were still there. 

“If we’ve got that much talent we might as well put on a show.” Bob joked. 

And with one small comment, Phil had an idea. 

He’d approached some of the guys before he’d got the courage to speak to Bob, his very plan of keeping his actions strictly in the realm of simple reactions crumbling like the town they were unexpectedly still stranded in. If it was boredom or stupidity he couldn’t tell, but they’d agreed with little persuasion and a guarantee they could stand as far from the front as possible. 

So he’d cornered Bob early one morning, their breath visible even in the relative shelter of one of the old buildings, his hands trembling from both the cold and his nerves. 

“Can I help you with something?” Bob had asked instantly when Phil appeared at his side, his curiosity at the sudden companionship plain to see.  

“Well, yes, you see,” Phil replied sweetly. His tone only made Bob’s brow crease further, moreso when he moved into the spiel he’d prepared. “I was thinking about what you said and I think we should do it.” 

Bob looked up at him blankly. 

“Do what?” 

“Put on a show.” Phil replied, confused at the confusion facing him as if Bob should have known the topic already. “Not a talent show, but a Christmas show, something nice for all the guys.” 

“A Christmas show?” 

Phil nodded eagerly, already picturing an icy blue backdrop and a soft smattering of snow on the ground. 

“It’s the perfect place for it and I know the guys get homesick this time of year.” 

“And who would be doing this show?” Bob questioned, obviously suspicious. 

“You, of course.” Phil quickly continued as he realized Bob didn’t look overwhelming into the idea. “And me, if you’ll have me, and some of the guys are up for doing the music. Martin can play the piano if we can get it out of the church, and Billy is gonna round up a group and see what they can find.” 

Bob looked at him, whatever annoyance he’d had at the expectation he’d perform being replaced with faint amusement.

“You’ve figured all this out.” 

Phil frowned, unable to help himself. 

“I know you’re probably used to big productions back in New York, but I’m afraid this is the best I can do.” 

Bob smiled, shaking his head slightly and placing an arm on Phil’s in an attempt to placate him. Phil felt his heart stop at the contact, its pace increasing at the genuine interest in the great Bob Wallace’s eyes. 

“I think it’s a great idea.” 

“You do?” Phil asked, unable to stop himself, the words slipping out with so much honest optimism it made his stomach churn. 

“I do.” 

Phil flushed slightly, not expecting the enthusiasm Bob suddenly had for the project. 

“Well, good, I’m glad.” He stuttered out, surprisingly proud at Bob's admission, his mind whirring with the possibilities for the show. He barely recognised the eyes still watching him. 

“You’ve never done this before? Have you?” Bob asked innocently, looking up at him slightly, expressionless. 

“I’m a quick learner.” Phil tried, his self-confidence hollow to his own ears, but Bob was too polite to comment on it. He patted him on the back firmly, a touching gesture that only made Phil feel worse about dragging him into such an under thought out plan. 

Phil conceded there was a sharp learning curve for performing on stage, or at least there was when attempting to live up to Bob's high standards. 

He’d bumbled through their first discussion, agreeing to music choices without even listening until Bob’s steely glare had forced him to attention, his back straightening as if the General had just entered. 

The singing had also been a struggle. The mental hurdle of letting himself relax enough to make a sound loud enough for anyone to hear was an unexpected difficulty, his thoughts still on the bullets that whistled through the air only a few miles down the road. 

It wasn’t a crisis of self-confidence either, even if he suspected that’s what Bob thought it was. 

It was just another thing he’d lost along the way, the motivation vanishing somewhere between the jerky plane ride across the Atlantic and the vacant expression of a freshly wounded soldier at least four years younger than himself. 

There was still music in his head, meaningless jingles caught up with romantic notes, but he could only really hear them in his dreams, and he could only really focus on them when safety was guaranteed, unless he was looking at Bob. 

He heard complete songs when he looked at Bob; melodies he didn’t have the time or effort to write in case they were eventually drenched in blood, like the photos of sweethearts tucked in the closely guarded pockets of the soldiers who had their futures snatched away. Even still they remained distant, almost out of reach, and nothing more than a hurtful reminder that life hadn’t always been explosions and ash. 

He feared Bob sensed his apprehension, a cautious look on his face as he watched him scribble a note on a scrap of paper pulled from an old workbook left behind. 

Bob seemed to be watching him a lot recently, or at least more than he had before they’d spoken, his eyes unreadable as they followed his movements. Phil could only hope his own were equally as guarded. 

Sometimes the weight of Bob’s stare would get too much, the nerves in his stomach making his hands shake uselessly. He’d put them in his pockets and try to ignore how much he hoped they’d make it out alive. 

They’d ended that session early, rumors of potential orders putting the entire group on edge.  

The second session was just as shaky, their temporary residence in the church being marred with the echoing footsteps outside and a fear the end would come before Christmas. 

Phil didn’t know if Bob shared his anxieties, it was a topic he could never bring himself to mention, instead they danced around it, talking only about the show and never straying beyond it. 

Their voices blended almost seamlessly when Phil pushed all his thoughts away. He forced himself to focus on the lights of Broadway, the money that could be made if he could convince Bob of his capabilities, and the way Bob closed his eyes in the sanctuary of the song. 

They were alone in the world they’d made, if only for a few seconds. It was precious time, time when the music drowned out their reality, time when they could be oblivious to the outside. 

Phil could only hope Bob agreed. 

The snow finally settled on the ground when their plans fell through, the show they’d planned being altered as news of Waverley’s impending removal spread through the camp. 

Phil had ignored the talk at first, the whispers of an old war injury plaguing him too far fetched to believe, but Waverley was a proud man, and the war needed more than pride. They needed leaders to lead and soldiers to die. 

Bob pushed for the show despite the unrest that made its company amongst the men. Dwelling on the sting of disappointment, Phil felt for Waverley, and the men, but however selfishly he mourned for the inevitable end to the normalcy they’d forged. It hurt more than he would admit, and if he wouldn’t admit it then Bob and Waverely surely wouldn’t even think it. 

Still they sang, Bob’s eyes as bright as Phil’s heart felt. 

And only a few moments later he found himself on the cold of the muddy ground.  

War didn’t seem the place for daydreaming after his injury, however minor it was, the damage was already done. There was an enemy out there and someone needed to fight, even if all he wanted was to be back at home, even if the thoughts flooded him with guilt. 

He chided himself as he lay in his simple hospital bed, and then again when they’d let him go back out there with the promise he’d avoid straining his injury. 

He’d been careless, and thoughtless, and needlessly flippant about the danger they were in; the show was evidence enough of that. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to give up hope completely. 

He shelved all thoughts of music beyond a determination to contact Bob Wallace the second the war ended, he even stopped hearing it in his dreams. 

Bob seemed to be expecting a call from him, and he answered, reluctantly. 

His exasperation wasn’t enough to dampen Phil’s spirit. He’d been expecting some pushback, after all he knew all about Bob Wallace, the solo artist, he’d spent more of the war collecting stories about him than he’d spent sleeping. But the world was different now, fame was changing, there was currency in being a novelty, and Phil knew exactly how to do it. 

He’d drag Bob into a new era even if he had to bring up his injury every time they spoke, and so he did .  

His grandmother had told him once, every person had half of them missing, and only when that half was filled did life really begin. Phil hadn’t found that to be the case for Debbie, Catherine, or Elizabeth, or even for the very few nameless people he could vaguely recall on lonely nights, but traveling across the country with Bob was almost evidence enough. Every single part of him was alive, the burning desire for fame and fortune only second and third to the feeling he had on stage every evening with Bob by his side. 

They were the greatest team Phil had ever been a part of, and he’d been on the winning side of the War. 

He knew every move the other man would make, every note he’d sing, and every pause he’d take when the applause extended. However effortless it came to him, Bob’s reluctance to admit how much he enjoyed being partners kept his ego from growing too big. Although it wasn’t enough to stop him from feeling their ascent, the wind in his well-kept hair as he tried to match his newly-expensive clothes. 

And growing alongside their status was the level of regard he held for Bob. 

He was tripping and falling into something bigger than himself, the sense of adoration he’d once denied as nothing more than jealousy leaving him with thoughts he didn’t want and emotions he couldn’t deal with, ones he’d previously been able to ignore. It grew harder to hide his motives, his excuses flimsy and his guilt greater. His persona on stage bled into his real life in messy bursts that left Bob’s brow furrowed and nauseating shame in his stomach. 

Phil scolded himself, boxing away the topics he couldn’t deal with as he bounced from city to city and flirted with dancers who knew his name before he’d introduced himself. 

He’d come too far to threaten everything over something stupid like love , and if love even did exist, Phil doubted it existed in a cramped carriage on the train from New York to Boston. 

Despite the self-belief Phil had, and the confidence he’d perfected when the bright lights of the stage covered him, he still had some reservations about his future, something made worse by a few rough shows in a row. 

He thought he’d shook off his doubts when the end of the war was announced and the fighting could finally stop, but on occasional nights they returned to him. His concerns stood at the foot of the bed silently, watching him toss and turn as Bob slept peacefully, taunting him with his own inadequacies. 

He tried not to compare himself to the resting man whose even breaths kept count of the seconds passing, but it was difficult when their differences were so plain to see. 

He was doing things he’d only previously dreamt about, and now he was taking up space on the stage with a professional who made it seem effortless. 

It made him uneasy, the time passing as his worries only picked up pace, whether it was one night he’d wasted ruminating on his failings, or dozens, he couldn’t tell. 

Lyrics and melodies came to him, his longing for something he couldn’t put into words finding a home in honest, melancholy songs. He kept the papers in his suitcase, stacks of crumbled sheets a constant reminder of how precarious his position felt. 

Some nights he felt like his appearance beside Bob was nothing more than a favor for an old pal in the army, he could only hope it wasn’t the truth. 

On the beach in Florida, Phil felt something change. 

“You know we don’t really have time for this?” Bob said. 

“We’ve got plenty of time.” Phil replied, doing his best to soothe the concerns of the man beside him. They’d barely even ventured near the sea, the hotel they were performing at still within view. “Besides this is my first time in Miami, and I want to enjoy some sun , some sea -”

Bob looked at him in apprehension, visibly bracing himself for whatever word Phil was about to choose to end his train of thought. 

“Some sand.” He settled on finally, a playful smirk gracing his lips. 

“As long as that’s all you’re enjoying.”

“You’re worried about me?” Phil teased, kicking up sand into the wind as they continued to stroll the perimeter. He hadn’t told Bob he had no intention of straying too far from the hotel, preferring to annoy him in one easy, harmless way. It did him good to put his frustration somewhere other than on stage. 

“Of course.” Bob said, almost too genuinely, his eyes firm on the horizon until he felt the need to remove the silence they’d settled into. “You’re half my show.” 

“Your show” Phil had repeated, looking over at Bob, carefree and drenched in sunlight. He forced himself to look away, but he felt the weight of Bob’s stare remain. “Well if it’s your show, they won’t me being a bit late, and I can take a leisurely swim.” 

Phil pointed to the choppy waters, the waves crashing onto the store and fading back into the ocean. He increased his pace as Bob fought to keep up on the sand. 

Bob did catch him before he jumped in fully clothed, Phil had let him and they both were all too aware of it, but Bob’s hand was on the crook of his elbow and Phil could only remember such an intentional touch once, when he was lying injured on a cold, foreign floor. 

They were still for a moment, a singular point when time stood still and not because they were bracing themselves for further shelling, and they spun into life. 

“Alright. Fine. Our show.” Bob said quietly, his eyes cast downwards so he missed the radiant smile that graced Phil’s face. “Now can we please get back to it before they assume we’ve been lost at sea.” 

Phil had seen Bob under the stage lights, with his hair perfectly styled and his suit freshly pressed. He’d seen him on the beach, with sand in his hair and life in his eyes. He’d seen him on the battlefront, with three weeks of mud caked onto his clothes and exhaustion in his heart. And even with all the situations, outfits, and various quantities of sleep, he couldn’t help but feel there was something special about when it was just the two of them in a double room they shared for cost purposes, with no other ulterior motives , as the moonlight streamed through the windows and they were still with a tiredness that only came from a couple of hours on stage. 

There was freedom in the solitude, a privacy not afforded in the many rehearsals they completed flawlessly or in the shows when a whole room's eyes were solely on them. 

If there was contact between them, a lingering look or a tentative brush of an arm, or a hand, then it was just for them. 

Phil had no objections to putting on a show, he’d been doing that all his life and a decent proportion of the time he’d been with Bob, his façade everything he wanted to be and free from all the emotions he didn’t want to dwell on. 

Still, being free from the pressures of being seen was a feeling unlike any other. 

Besides, he wasn’t completely unseen. He could no longer fade into the background of whatever mid-budget hotel they were at. Bob was always right there, his expression unreadable and captivating. 

It was intoxicating sometimes, numbing his senses enough that with the slightest of encouragement he’d make a move he could never take back. 

They had signals on stage, a smile, a nod, a wink. That’s what he found himself waiting for on nights like these, a sign of something more than mutual respect. 

A sign that there was something mutual. 

They slipped into bed, quietly and awkwardly, Phil’s desperately sought out sign never arriving. 

On unsteady footing, in a train carriage jolting to a stop, Phil was cushioned by the soft body he’d memorized. 

He didn’t comment on the color that bloomed on Bob’s cheeks, or the hand that rested on his lower back. 

They just stood closely, bags in hand, the world continuing around them. 

Cold nights reminded Phil of the war, the crunch of the ice and the early sunset transporting him back to the front lines. 

Sometimes he’d wake up and believe he was still there until the plush pillows brought him back down. He could never quite believe them as the images continued to replay in his head, the sounds still as deafening as they’d been when he’d experienced them initially.  

It was a harsh reminder he couldn’t ignore it all of the time, his own glazed expression in the mirror proof of something lasting beyond the ache in his arm when it rained. Besides, he figured it was natural, nothing more than a consequence of living through strife he feared he’d never escape. 

If anyone on the show noticed these melancholy periods, they refused to mention it, a small mercy that he believed he was owed. 

But that didn’t make his desperate gasps for air any easier. 

Or the worry etched onto Bob’s face as he sat beside him. 

“You’re remembering it again?” Bob would ask solemnly. He’d whisper it into the darkness as if talking normally could give away their position. 

There must be some parts of war that were impossible to shake, Phil decided, and the cold chill through his body was one of them. 

He’d try to brush off the concern, the weight of survival, an easy burden to bear when his life had meaning in the music, and the man beside him. 

“No. I had a lovely dream, a warm beach and absolutely no bombing at all.” He’d say, his back rigid as he lay perfectly still. 

“Miami?” Bob would say, humoring him as he either moved closer in a shared bed, or slipped in next to him if they were given singles. They were excellent guests, neither of them complained about the arrangement of the beds, a matter Phil refused to look further into. 

“Close.” Phil had said Key West the previous time, and Laguna Beach the time before that. They could burn through the majority of beaches with nearby hotels they’d performed at in a single frosty season. “St Petersburg.” 

It was a comfort to lie, his motives pure even if he did know Bob would listen to his troubles, but he couldn’t find the words and if he could, he wasn’t sure he’d know where to start. 

Whatever guilt Phil felt over the war was not a burden he wished to place on Bob, sure he’d hold his previously injured arm to get his way about the things he was certain about, but he never once regretted it. 

He’d have dived in front of anything if it meant he could shelter Bob from the pain. There was nothing he could do about the sights they’d seen, nor the blood they’d witnessed spilt, but he would have done anything within his power to stop Bob’s being spilled. 

He’d told him as much once, on a humid night, when Bob thrashed around in a shared bed, searching for his weapon in the safety of the blankets. Bob had stared into him, his eyes looking for any evidence of dishonesty in the admission. Content with what he’d found he’d nodded in response, smoothed his hair and slumped back onto the twisted sheets. 

They hadn’t approached the topic since. 

If the aftermath of the war was lingering around them in a haze, then Phil feared the influence of the emotions he felt searing under his skin. 

They were too close to the surface, his own actions so transparent to himself despite being written off as nothing more than nerves from the sudden trajectory of their careers. 

He wondered if he just kept flirting with the dancers who were only growing more impressed by his status, if it would go away, or if word would get out it never got beyond flirting, and that he’d always retreat to the shared living quarters of whatever expensive hotel they found themselves in. 

Phil felt unsteady, the pieces on the board moving as the turns went on without him, every action he took laced with danger and cut with guilt. 

Bob had looked at him with curiosity as he sank into a plush chair with a sigh. 

“You’re not feeling overworked are you?” Bob asked, busying himself with unpacking the necessities. There was an order to his actions, a monotonous dance from the suitcase to the wardrobe and back. “It was your idea to add the extra dates in New Hampshire.”

He hummed noncommittally, cursing himself for not asking for separate rooms now they could afford it. 

“If you’re nervous about the residency then we can arrange another rehearsal.” Bob tried, abandoning the suitcase and settling on the edge of the bed. 

Phil only scoffed at the idea of more rehearsals, he’d been the one to push for another two already, his desire to keep his body moving until the exhaustion kicked in an unfortunate side effect from the lovesick pain in his stomach when he looked at Bob from across the room. 

“Are you going to tell me what it is? Or should I go fetch Jane?” 

Jane was the dancer he’d been closest to making a move on, the prospect of asking her for drinks every bit as torturous as when they ran the same number three times in a row to iron out the mistakes. 

Not that he didn’t like her, she was fine. 

Phil conceded he was the problem in the situation. His undying love was merely a minor fault compared to the stupidity he’d had when he’d tried to force himself to date. 

“She’s only down the hall.” 

Phil hadn’t realized moving up in the accommodation game would have such disastrous consequences. 

“I might see her later.” Phil admitted, if not to go through with an ill advised plan then to apologize for leading her on. 

Bob seemed to take offense at the comment, the crease in his brow deeper than before he’d spoken. 

“Good.” Bob said as if he was trying to convince himself. “Good.” 

It was Phil’s turn to be curious, the flicker of hope in his chest a dangerous flame to have. He looked at Bob innocently, keeping his expression free from the desperation he felt. It only worsened his guilt how much he wanted Bob to give him a reason to not see her. 

“Unless of course we had plans.” 

Bob shook his head, standing and moving back to the half emptied suitcase, resuming the steady motions Phil believed he could do with his eyes closed. 

“No. I just thought we could go through the changes to the music again, after dinner of course.” 

“That’s a great idea.” Phil replied, the energy he’d lost returning to him with force. It was mystifying how simple Bob made everything seem. 

Phil didn’t try to date after that, easy excuses and placating smiles leaving the chorus girls mildly annoyed. He heard the whispers when he left the room, but was unable and unwilling to listen closer. 

He’d made his choice, or rather Bob had accidentally made the choice for him. 

Despite the accidental comfort of having a new excuse not to date, Phil remained overly cautious in his interactions with Bob, not that Bob was ever aware of any improper emotions between them, Phil hoped. 

Still, he tried to quell the desire that raged inside him and against his better judgment. 

He took great care in keeping his eyes in innocent places, his thoughts on the music sheets and new choreography, and most importantly, he kept his hands to himself. 

Or at least he made an attempt to. 

They’d stayed late at the venue after rehearsals, slight adjustments to the show being made as usual when they performed at a new location, the changes following them back to their hotel, a natural side-effect to the perfectionism within them both. 

Phil had grown used to the various requirements of the shows, the music practically playing in his head every hour of the day, but Bob was struggling with a new element of the dance number. 

It was simple enough to Phil, all Bob had to do was stand still, twirl the dancer on cue and then take a couple of steps, just enough to impress the ladies at the front and more than enough to justify the new costumes. 

Regardless of enthusiasm, or Phil’s many displays; Bob was struggling with it. 

Phil watched from the bed as Bob maneuvered his invisible partner and stumbled on the air. 

As if he could sense his growing annoyance, Bob’s voice cut through the silence. 

“I’m sure you’d do a much better job at this.” 

“I’m sure I would.” Phil conceded, shucking off his jacket and throwing it into the bed carelessly. “But the audiences would like to see the great Bob Wallace at his very best.” 

Seemingly preparing himself to occupy the role of the dancer, Elisa his mind supplied uselessly, he rolled up his sleeves and took up position in front of a bewildered Bob. 

“What are you doing?” 

“We are dancing.” He replied instantly. “I can ask to borrow a dress from one of the girls if it helps, but they’re brand new and I don’t want to stretch it out.”

“No. It’s fine.” Bob countered absentmindedly. “Just flutter your eyelashes and that will be enough.” 

Never one to not put on a show, Phil did, allowing himself to be led by Bob effortlessly.  

It was awkward initially, Phil’s uncertainty and Bob’s self confidence battling out until there was no shame, their bodies following the choreography as if they were on stage. 

There wasn’t enough space, the room seemingly shrinking until they were practically forced to be in contact with each other. The movement of their chests working in perfect tandem until they were closer than necessary, Bob’s grip on his waist growing tighter, anchoring Phil in the steady sway. 

Phil hoped the exertion of the dance was enough excuse for the quickening pace of his breathing, his heart pounding in his chest at their proximity. He played his role well, allowing himself to be moved to the music of Bob’s soft counting to keep time, the whispered words barely audible over the rush of his blood and the beat of his pulse. 

He let Bob complete the steps twice, the mistakes fading along with any sanity Phil felt he had. He felt his jealousy over the dancer who would be in his place as strongly as if it was a physical ailment. 

“Better?” Bob asked finally, his tone dry but the biting comment was dampened by his breathlessness. 

“Much.” Phil conceded, feigning a sense of composure as Bob’s hands continued to be a presence on the soft fabric of his shirt bunched at the waist from the movement.  

He felt Bob go to pull away and spoke before he could stop himself. 

“Hold on. You don’t get to lead all the time.” He said with a soft smile, tilting his head boyishly to help him get his own way. “Let me try something.” 

“Phil.” Bob replied, whether in warning or pleading Phil couldn’t determine. 

Phil repositioned himself, taking Bob into the hold he’d only moments ago had him in himself. 

It was tentative, and he stumbled more than he’d ever done with any other dancer in his arms, but they settled into the rhythm. 

The room was smaller now, the movements miniscule and more intimate than Phil had expected them to be. 

Maybe it was different when Bob led, when he had an excuse, but his feelings felt raw as he held him. Even the imaginary music had stopped in his head, replaced with an intoxicating quiet and an urge to never let go. 

Yet Bob stayed, trapped in his arms with no complaints, or at least no vocalized complaints. 

Phil wondered if he was hallucinating the warmth radiating from Bob through the fabric of his shirt, his fingertips dancing across the plains of his lower back in comforting motions. 

“Do you hold all your dancers this way?” Bob asked, looking up to him with curiosity in his eyes and a slight blush on his cheek. 

Phil wanted to make a joke, remove the levity of the situation, but the fire in his stomach and the disarming nature of Bob’s gaze left him with little choice. 

“No.” 

He exhaled the word as if it could no longer be kept in his chest. 

Bob didn’t respond, his stare holding. The light touch of his hands on Phil’s body was response enough. 

Phil would have held him all night, and he suspected Bob would have let him, but the quiet was broken with the noise of the room next door, the slamming of the door as piercing as broken glass. 

The following night Phil watched on from the side of the stage, the jealousy in his chest only second to the feeling he had knowing he had felt what it was like to be in Bob’s arms. 

And when Bob looked across the floor, Phil feared his thoughts were written on his face. 

Phil’s suitcase was abandoned by the door of the newest hotel they checked into, the name escaping him as he resisted the urge to crawl under the covers and sleep for an entire day straight. 

“Don’t forget we’ve got dinner with the owner tonight.” Bob reminded him as if he’d heard his thoughts. “You were the one to arrange it after all.” 

“Alright.” He replied simply, sliding onto the bed and closing his eyes. 

“He owns a very lucrative chain of them.” Bob continued, a clear warning in his words. “All over the country.” 

Phil simply hummed in acknowledgment, eyes still firmly shut. 

“I hear he’s even investing outside of America.” 

Phil sighed, running a hand over his face to wake himself up as he threw himself from the bed. He didn’t need Bob to tell him about the benefit of lining up some more exotic locations, he just prayed it would turn into a vacation for them and not just for their band. 

“Alright. I’ll get ready.” 

“Good.” Bob replied smugly, rifling through his case now he’d secured a victory. Phil joined in the search, looking for something to give him a reason to stay awake and sit through another dinner where they had to market themselves despite their continued success in bigger venues across the country. 

“Wear the blue suit, will you?” 

“Why the blue?” 

“It’s a lucky color for us.” Phil replied, ignoring the look he received in response. 

“Now who could ever need luck when they’ve got someone as charming as you by their side?” Bob said with a smile as he fled to the bathroom, one Phil mirrored as he let the comment wash over him. 

They were both fully dressed by the time he left it, their matching suits selling the double act and allowing Phil to admire the ocean of Bob’s eyes against the sea of blue, and if Bob’s stare lingered in return then who was to know. 

“Let me…” Bob trailed off, crossing the room with intent and gesturing to Phil’s tie. Phil moved closer in response, his own gaze never leaving Bob, each sight of him so blindingly bright that it could have knocked him off his feet. 

Feeling Bob’s hands still on the cloth, his hands moved to meet them instinctively, the warmth of his own meeting Bob’s and bringing a flush to his cheeks. They stayed like that, Bob’s hands enveloped in Phil’s for longer than necessary and not long enough for Phil’s liking. 

Bob broke the tension, always focusing on the act. 

“We should get to dinner.” He said, unable to look Phil in the eye, leaving before Phil could reply. 

They put on a good show at dinner, and in the silence of the room after, an even better one. 

Another winter week had rolled by, the ice never melting no matter how many train stops they moved through, although Phil only counted two. 

He’d felt tense for weeks, the endless motion of time taking him further from the memories he wished to forget and closer to the equally daunting knowledge whatever business move they made next needed to be a good one. 

They were on the cusp of greatness, the ascent to stardom never stopping and only leaving them with more work and more requests. And while he was thrilled about how it had unfolded so far, the nearing prospect of the future left him feeling nauseous. 

He remembered falling into the nearest of the single beds, the frame creaking under his weight and then he was gone to the world. 

Or he had been until the gunfire had started and the planes had roared overhead. 

Some nights he returned to the situations he wished he could have changed, the blood and the bodies doing little to ease his guilt. 

Some nights he returned to the moment the wall had fallen down, the body under the rubble being Bob’s. 

Some nights it was too hard to see him, his eyes blurry with tears and his breath trapped in his lungs, others he saw it perfectly. He’d see the blood smeared on his cheek, the only sign of something other than a perfectly peaceful sleep. He hadn’t saved him, or Bob had saved him. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to know. 

He was gasping for air before he could stop himself, the wetness on his cheeks being less of a shock than the warm hands roaming his body and bringing him back to life. 

“You’re okay.” Bob said, still cradling Phil’s face in shaky hands. 

Bob was fine. He was in front of him with tender eyes and soft hands.

“I’m not.” Phil replied, making no effort to move away. 

Phil wasn’t convinced he was talking about the nightmare.

Bob opened his mouth to respond, but Phil was quicker, his hands moving from the collar of Bob’s pajamas up to his face, pulling him in until their lips were connected. 

It was tentative and quick. 

Phil pulled away to judge Bob’s reaction, the darkness obscuring everything but the wistful expression on his face. 

He didn’t move as Bob shifted into the bed beside him, their arms and legs tangled until they were a part of the same physical form, a shared being just like their shared lives. 

He fell asleep to the steady rhythm of Bob’s chest, the rise and fall a comforting metronome. He clasped their hands together, holding onto them as if they could anchor him in the room. 

When he woke up alone, he feared it was nothing more than a new nightmare to haunt him. 

It was more difficult to avoid the topic of the kiss than the war, but they were both more dedicated to ignoring it. Uneasy silences replaced what would have been casual conversations; a fine price to pay for the stubbornness embedded in them both. 

Bob’s eventual explosion occurred in the dark of a cold hotel room, the city whirring outside in a way that simultaneously felt foreign and comforting to Phil. 

There was only a double room left, the hotel overbooked at the prospect of the show being brought to their freshly polished stage, and both Bob and Phil were unwilling to force the company to make adjustments based purely on how successful the tour had been. 

So they lay there in the ink of the night, desperately trying to maintain what little professionalism they had left, until they couldn’t and Phil’s arm brushed against Bob’s and the inevitable occurred. 

“What are you doing?” Bob asked quickly. Phil almost wished he’d done it weeks earlier. 

“Trying to sleep.” Phil replied, making no effort to make the statement true, or to end the contact. 

“You can do that and keep your hands to yourself.” 

Phil still made no effort to move. 

“Didn’t you hear me? I said-”

“I know what you said” Phil sighed, scrubbing at his face as the lamplight suddenly covered him like the morning sun. He almost regretted starting this battle during the few precious hours between rehearsals and performing he got to sleep. “I just don’t know why you said it like that.” 

“Like what?” Resisting the urge to sigh once more, Phil continued. 

“Like… Like you would be so disgusted by having my hand on your arm.” He sat up, planting his feet on the floor and keeping his back to Bob. 

“Maybe I would be.” 

Phil scoffed.  

“Oh sure.” 

“And what do you mean by that?” Bob asked, voice harsh but quiet. 

“I just meant that I’m sure our proximity is such a difficulty for you, despite all the numerous rooms, drinks, beds, women, we’ve shared since we’ve been together.” 

“How can you say it like that? Together?” 

It was Phil’s turn to get angry, the viciousness he rarely felt hitting him. If Bob wanted a war he could have one. 

“I always forget that I’m just another employee of your show, that I should be grateful to be a part of your show.” 

“Phil.” Bob pleaded as Phil realized the true catalyst of the argument, all the rage leaving the taller man in impossibly quick time. 

“Bob.” He returned, standing up and approaching the other man, watching the fire in his eyes burn and then fade until only denial remained. 

“Just, just tell me you want a pretty dame, with blonde hair.” Phil could see his composure wane, the desperation in his voice growing. “A brunette hanging on one arm and a red-head on the other. Tell me you want a skinny young thing with stars in her eyes.” 

“Is that what you want?” Phil asked, looking at him, making no further attempt to close the already slim gap between them. His frustration spilling over as he whispered sharply. “You want me to lie to you?” 

Phil watched as the rise and fall of Bob’s chest grew urgent, his mouth agape as if he knew what to say but couldn’t bring himself to say it. He figured he’d guessed correctly when Bob’s voice came through with a distant longing, a weakness that made his eyes snap back to the fire burning in the cool blue pair waiting for an answer. 

“Tell me you want a woman.” 

He’d expected this many months ago, when their hands grew closer and the attraction was irrefutable. Its delayed appearance only made him more certain they were on dangerous terrain, an inevitable bond forged through war and maintained through love. 

It made him dizzy to even think about love, but why would he deny it in the sanctuary of a quiet room. 

“I-” Phil started, his hand rising until he gripped Bob’s arm, his fingers roaming the skin exposed by the rolled up sleeves of the nightshirt he’d ironed as an unasked favor earlier in the day. His touch grew in intensity, the distance shrinking until they were almost chest to chest, the breathlessness of the moment working to his advantage as he tilted his head. 

It was inevitable, his course of action, Bob knew just as well as he did what would happen. 

“I want a woman.” 

Phil swallowed heavily as the words hung in the air, Bob’s eyes slipping closed as his hands continued their journey, over the clothed skin of his arms, until they were resting at the undone collar. 

“I want a woman.” He tried again, receiving no visible response from the man stood in front of him. 

He pulled at the collar, forcing Bob to take in the sight before him, until he kissed him suddenly. A real kiss, not a platonic press of closed lips, instead it was an outpouring of every adoring look and every lazy morning pressed next to each other pretending to still be asleep. 

It was soft at first, a gentle exploration transitioning into the consequences of years of holding back, an intoxicating flood of longing and lust. Phil’s tongue seizing the opportunity to get closer, his hands still wandering across the skin he could reach, every touch a dream. Bob leaned into the gesture, his hands trapped between them, holding him close. 

Bob began to pull at the buttons of Phil’s shirt uselessly before his hands hung limply, his lips still. Phil let go. 

"Tell me.” 

They exchanged a fiery look, both too stubborn to back down and too proud to acknowledge each other's demands when caught in the flurry of excitement. 

“I want…” Phil dragged the words out, mumbling them against Bob’s neck with little consideration for how well the shorter man could hear him. “You .” 

“You can never tell anyone this.” Bob replied, accepting them with more grace than Phil expected. “This could-” 

“-They’re just for you.” Phil interrupted, making no effort to elaborate on how much he was dedicating to him. “They’re just for you.” 

Eased by them nonetheless, Bob nodded in response, kissing him eagerly.

Sharing a bed came with less space after Phil’s declaration, so did sitting on a chair, and traveling on a train, and pretty much everything else they did together. 

It hadn’t been the great change Phil could tell Bob was afraid of, instead it was small moments they’d always shared but with more meaning as if just an accidental finger brush was a sign of love. 

And if Bob had been afraid of change, Phil had been afraid of the love he’d been denying since the first moment he’d seen him. 

Yet there it was still there, just as it always had been. 

A secret hidden in their silences just as in their private moments, and as in their arguments, and as in every shared joke, look, and kiss. 

Bob’s nightmares came with the summer, the sticky heat making the restless nights worse, an unconscious reminder of the sweat that crowded his brow, the sheets as constricting as the khaki he’d been free from for longer than he’d been trapped in. 

“I love you.” Phil said, clinging onto him desperately. 

Bob stilled beneath him, and then relaxed, the words mumbled cautiously in return as if they weren’t going to be said again, for every day for the rest of their lives. 

They exchanged I-love-yous of varying intensities across the states; soft and sleepy as they crossed another states border in the dead of night, bright and effortless in the sporadic quiet on the side of the stage, breathless and desperate in the privacy of expensive hotel rooms. 

The now old newfound wealth gave them freedom, a ‘bachelor pad’ raising no questions when obscured with talk of a new show and a series of public dates with women far more famous than them. 

It had everything they needed and more; a double bed, a piano, a bedroom with enough closet space to accommodate the items they’d accrued over their time together. 

More than just a home, it was a place to miss while they were away, a bed to long for, and the stage for memories made just for them. 

“Did you ever think one war would get you all of this?” Phil asked once, on a train journey to another month's worth of shows. 

“I got more than just this from the war, believe me.” Bob replied, focussing on fighting his way down the speeding train and to the peace of their cabin. 

“Like what?” 

“You know, I always thought you had some sort of ulterior motive for putting on that show, I thought it at the time and I’m certain of it now.” 

Phil rolled his eyes as they escaped the few eyes on them. 

“You know , sometimes I’m awfully glad it was just a building I had to save you from, it could have been anything; a bomb, a bullet, a blow-up from General Carlton.” Phil said, voice overly innocent as he held his previously injured arm tenderly.

“Yeah?” Bob scoffed. “Like I believe you’d have stepped in and saved my life if I was in the line of fire from any high-ranking official.” 

“I surely would have.” Phil countered with indignation, chest puffed out in a show of bravery he knew Bob would get a kick out of. His stability hampered by the easy sway of the train, and his confidence emboldened by the locked door of their cabin. 

“Why?” 

Phil smiled at the inevitable question, the contrarian tendencies of the man he loved as comforting as a breeze by the sea. He prepared his answer, a thrum of excitement in his heart as he stared at the ocean blue eyes awaiting his response. 

“I’d have simply done it as a favor, for a friend in the army.” He said with an easy shrug. 

“And what friend might that have been?” 

He approached him, calculated steps until he was an indecent distance away. 

“You, of course.” 

“So we’re friends now?” 

Phil’s hands rested casually on Bob’s waist, fingers tugging at the clothes between them until there was no space between them, chests bumping as the motions continued. 

“Have we not always been?” 

“I’m not sure there are any words to describe what we are.” 

Bob smiled into the kiss he found himself pulled into, Phil’s laughter subsiding against the warmth of his body. 

“Business partners?” 

“Business partners.” Bob agreed, grasping at the collar of Phil’s sickly-sweet pink suit jacket as the train led them away.