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”You bloody idiot”, he murmured into Sassoon's neck. ”Why'd you have to go and get yourself shot?”
He squeezed him harder and Siegfried had never taken him to be that physically strong, but he could not help but feel that breathing was suddenly harder and he thought he would break something soon.
”I was so worried”, Owen whispered. ”You bloody idiot!”
Sassoon could not bring himself to try to pull away from him. Because even if it was starting to hurt, he felt safe there in his embrace. As if the rest of the world did not exist when he had Owen's arms wrapped around him and his voice in his ear, repeating the same phrase over and over.
”You blooody idiot. Why'd you have to go and get yourself shot?”
The letter arrived on a sunny day. There were no clouds on the sky and the letter was no different from any others. It was inside a small, white envelope that had his name and address written on it in a beautiful, ornate handwriting with black ink. The final letters were a bit lighter, the ink had started to run out. It was not a sinister or ominous letter in any way, and he never would have guessed what message it held.
He opened it at breakfast. Without once getting a bad feeling, he opened it with his letter opener, not even bothering to first swallow the bite he had in his mouth. He unfolded it with steady hands and before he read the first word he looked out the window and found that the plum tree was starting to slouch a bit. He thought that he would have to get that fixed, but that it was a nice day either way.
There was something different about him. He was not awkward, did not stutter, did not fumble. He placed one leg over the other and his hands in his lap. He looked urbane, confident, proud, but not aware of it. As if he had never been any other way. As if there had never been a time when he had been unable to speak to Sassoon without blushing.
Siegfried had always thought of him more as a boy than a man. An awkward, clumsy, inexperienced boy. But there was something about him right then, something had changed. He was not a boy. His movements were not aggressive but still certain, and his voice was loud and clear as he went on and on about something Siegfried could not hear as he was too preoccupied over the shocking transformation. When had that happened?
No, Wilfred was not a boy anymore. He was a man. A confident, urbane and proud man. And there was something so fetching, so magnetic, so taking, about that man, that had Sassoon so transfixed and enchanted that he did not even know what he was about to do before he had dragged himself up into a sitting position and leaned forwards towards him. Then it was too late, there was nothing he could do but kiss him.
He read it. He was bored with it at first, it contained nothing exciting or shocking. It was only an ordinary letter, one of many, and he had several others to open that same day. He had his thoughts elsewhere and chewed absent-mindedly on a biscuit as he read, and tried to figure out a solution for the slouching plum tree.
It was only a sentence, only mentioned in passing, as if it was nothing. He read it, and continued reading. He read an entire paragraph before he froze, went right back and read it again. And again, and again, and again. He could not for all that he was worth figure out what those words meant. They did not seem real, they did not appear to hold any meaning. They were only pointless, meaningless words and he had no clue as to what they meant.
When he did he did not know how to feel. Only angry, that was all he could bring himself to feel. He was angry that it was only a sentence, only mentioned in passing. As if it was nothing, when he was certain that it was in fact everything.
His kiss was not urbane, confident or proud. It was sloppy, awkward, uncertain, questioning, tentative and fumbling. When he kissed Owen was not a man. He was a boy. The very same boy he had been when he had first walked into Sassoon's room, with red cheeks and books in his hands. When he had been stuttering, fumbling and almost shaking.
But Siegfried did not mind. If anything it made it even better. He had missed him more than he had admitted to himself, not this man, but that boy he had met at Craiglockheart. The innocent and naive boy that he had written autograph after autograph for.
He could not get close enough too him, could not get enough of his taste. Could not help but to press himself harder against him, kiss him harder, harder and harder, as if he wanted to disappear into his mouth.
He folded the letter, carefully and slowly. He thought he ought to save it, that that was a thing he might be supposed to do. He was uncertain what good it would do, but did not know what else he could do. But that was a problem for later, he did not have to do anything yet. Only put it down on the table, next to his plate, and take another bite of the biscuit.
It held no taste anymore. It felt strange and alien in his mouth, chewing it was difficult and swallowing it was even harder, on the brink of physically impossible. He looked out the window again. The plum tree was slouching. Only a bit, but enough for him to notice it. He would have to get it fixed, or he would never be able to think about anything else while looking at it.
He had thought it would be a relief, to know. It was not. He wanted to go back to not knowing, but he could not. Not ever. He would always know it now.
Not even the throbbing pain in his head would make him stop, but it would make him wince. And Owen pulled away and pressed his forehead against his instead. It felt empty and strange without his mouth on his, and Siegfried tried to reach up to kiss him again, to feel that good again, to never have to make it stop. He could not. He was too weak.
”Slow down”, Wilfred said with a chuckle. ”You did just get shot in the head.”
He was not that boy anymore, he was the man again. With a confident little smirk on his face that suited him way better than Sassoon would have ever guessed it could.
He nodded as he was too tired to do anything more. He was too tired to even hold his head up any longer, and had to lean back towards the wall again. Owen smiled at him, and he knew that it was exactly what he had wanted all along, that he had been in love with him since the very first day they had met. Why had he not seen it until then?
To show him that he knew it now, he put up his arm, supported it on his elbow and held out his hand. Owen grabbed it, and held it firmly. Like that Siegfried felt safe and secure again, and he closed his eyes.
”Later”, he whispered.
And like that he lay, like that Owen sat. He squeezed his hand, as if to show him that he was still there, or to convince himself that it was actually real.
”Later”, he promised.
He knew he was supposed to have seen it coming, at least have a clue. It was not like Owen to not write, yet Sassoon had not heard from him for months. He had searched for him since the war had ended, searched for him, his awkward, trembling kiss and the later he had promised him. He had not found any of it.
He had thought he had changed his mind and that he was scared of saying it. But Sassoon was not planning to force him into anything he did not want to do. He had not changed his mind, but if Owen had then that was the way it would be. If there was no later and Owen just wanted to be friends, then that would wreck him, but he would accept it. He would accept any way to keep him in his life.
He did not know what to feel. He thought he was supposed to cry, but no tears came. He was not sad, was not even angry any more. He felt empty, he felt hollow. As if it was not real and everything was a dream. As if he would be walking in the door any minute now, that it would be later and he could forget about the letter.
Sassoon listened. He could not hear the door open. The plum tree was slouching, as if it knew.
The letter had come a few weeks after that. He had looked at it for what had felt like hours. He had led it to his chest, pressed it there and hoped that the words would have changed when he read it next.
”I'm being sent back to France”, it had said. ”I don't know when I'll be back.”
Then lots of other words, utter gibberish without meaning.
”I hope to see you when I get back”, it had said. ”Later.”
It was always later, it was never now. They were always waiting for something, always had been. For what? Now Sassoon knew what he was waiting for. He was waiting for the war to be over, for Owen to come back, for everything to be alright, he was waiting for later.
He stopped seeing the plum tree. He was only staring now, without seeing a thing. He was waiting for the tears, he was waiting for the feelings. Always waiting. But there was nothing left to wait for.
He tried to come up with a solution to the slouching plum tree, but there appeared to be none. He forced himself to another bite of the biscuit. It tasted again and he could chew it. He wondered if he should save the letter as he had done with the last one, wondered what good it could possibly do.
He thought about the two different Owens. The one with blushed cheeks and stutter at Craiglockheart, and the one with the urbane smirk and one leg over the other by his bedside. He thought that they were actually the same person, and he thought that he might have loved both of those sides just as much, if he had only been given the chance.
He wondered how long he would have to wait for later, even when he knew it would never come. He thought that it had happened only a week before the Armistice, that if it had just been a week more then the door would open and it would be later. But it had not.
Suddenly he wanted to hear something because it was too quiet, and the only thing he could think of doing was talk.
”You bloody idiot”, he said. ”Why'd you have to and get yourself shot?”