Work Text:
Spring of 1923
The first time Edwin saw Marco since the wedding was in the darkness of Grenfield's hedge maze.
Back in the deep Victorian age, before the war, Edwin's father had prided himself on his topiaries, a whole garden full of bushes shaped like dragons, dogs and elephants. They had terrified Edwin as a child.
Since the war, and since Edwin had succeeded him in the baronetcy, the garden had fallen to wilderness. The once-orderly creations had grown into wild, monstrous shapes, new branches growing out of them like new limbs, a wild thicket that hid much, most of all its beasts.
A few weeks ago, Edwin had noticed a brush of wild strawberries growing under what had once been a mermaid — now overgrown into a conical shape that looked more like a droopy volcano — and this morning he'd had a mind to check if any of the fruit was ripe. However, with the bustle and chaos of a new shipment of injured soldiers arriving in the convalescent home, he hadn't found time until now, and night was fast approaching. The shapes of the topiaries were dark and indistinct against the night sky, but he could tell the shape standing next to this bush was a man, and not a plant.
Edwin would have recognised him anywhere, even as a dark shadow against a slightly lighter night sky, and even then Edwin could tell Marco was changed. He stood hunched, leaning against a bit of scaffolding that had once held up a rose pergola, two crutches sticking out of his side like legs of a spider. Three legs because it seemed he was missing one. He was thinner, much thinner, than the golden youth he'd been in Edwin's memory. Edwin knew from his own experience how long illness could diminish the body, as with that one glorious Summer term where Edwin had finally been well enough to run and climb and play rugby with the other boys. He'd finally filled out a bit and lost his pallor, but then during the holidays he fell so ill he'd missed the entire Michaelmas term, and when he'd returned to school, he'd been even scrawnier than before.
He was glad to be doing better now than back then, when he'd been a weak and sickly child, exhausted by most normal activities. Most days he felt quite normal, now that he could refuse the foods that gave him horrible indigestion, rest when he pleased, and forbid smoking in his presence. Still, he knew that normalcy was tenuous, and no matter how good he felt, he knew how fragile any healthy body was.
The sound of a lighter being flicked cut through the silence of the night and Edwin's thoughts, but no light followed, only a soft swear. If Edwin had harbored any doubts of this being Marco, the sound of that voice would have done away with them. It was muffled and slurred, but unmistakably the voice of his friend.
"Marco," Edwin said softly, unsure if he was calling out to him or just letting the name he'd held so close to his heart for two decades slip out of his mouth.
Marco went still.
"Sweetheart? I'll be damned."
Edwin bit his lip and stepped up to Marco, digging through his mackintosh coat to find his own lighter. Edwin couldn't smoke, but he'd carried a lighter anyway. You never know whose cigarette you might want to light, Marco had once told him.
The flame flicked on. Edwin wanted to finally see Marco's face, but Marco turned away from the light, as if it had startled him.
Edwin switched the lighter back off and as he did, a hand came up to his, gloved and warm, wrapping itself around Edwin's hand and staying there, for just a moment, before slipping the lighter out of his grasp.
The light came back, and Edwin could see Marco again, but this time his back was turned. Marco stood bent over his cigarette, the light framing him like a halo. He looked the same, dark hair cropped short and slicked back, the dark stubble on his chin that no amount of shaving could disappear.
The light switched off. A cloud of blue smoke rose to the sky.
"Edwin," Marco said softly, "I didn't know you were here, otherwise I would have — Edwin, where are you going? Wait!"
"I have to go," Edwin called over his shoulder, and fled the garden.
*
Winter of 1917
"Which one of you is Sweet?" Doctor Billings barked into the kitchen where the conchies were taking tea. Billings was new, a large and angry man who generally did not look favorable on the COs in his command. Edwin tentatively raised his hand.
Billings jerked his head. "New patient in number seven. Get moving."
"Right," Edwin said, gathering up a pile of fresh linens, "What's the injury?"
Doctor Billings rolled his eyes. As a lowly conchie, it wasn't Edwin's business what injuries the patients had, he was here to clear bedpans and hand out medicine as directed.
"Just go, Sweet. Man's probably not going to make it through the night anyway."
Edwin nodded. Coughing from the acrid smell of antiseptic and smoke, he hurried to the bed in the back, his heart beating. Even among all the death and destruction he'd seen, having to watch over people dying never got easier. He hoped it would be quick and painless, but it almost never was.
A moaning man lay on cot seven, covered head to toe in bandages. His right leg had evidently been amputated, and his face was bandaged so heavily he must have suffered extensive facial injuries as well. Though his eyes were covered, red spots were forming on the linen. The man was writing in agony, reaching out blindly.
A horrifying, gray feeling came over Edwin at seeing the movements of the man's arm, the lines of his shoulders, the strong-fingered hand. He snatched the chart at the foot of the bed.
"Lt. Marcus Piper," it read. Edwin couldn't breathe. It couldn't be, not here, not now, not like this.
He hurried to the bed side and put his hand on the man's bandaged chest. It was rapidly falling and rising, and heat was radiating from it.
"Marco — " He realised Marco might not recognise the childhood nickname in his delirium, "Lieutenant Piper, can you hear me? The nurse will be over soon with something for the pain."
"Sweet — " Marco croaked, only a sliver of chapped and bloody lip visible between the bandages. "Sweetheart — "
That name was like a stab to the chest. It was just a mocking childhood nickname, bestowed upon him by the older Etonian boys as a play on his family name, and the fact that he was always sick and never game for play. Marco had been the only one who called him that without mockery, but it was impossible that he was calling him that name now. He couldn't see, and it had been years, and they had been boys when they'd last spoken. He was surely talking about a sweetheart of his, a girl he wanted to marry.
"Sweetheart," Marco said again, reaching out blindly, the red spots on the bandages over his eyes growing larger. Edwin took his hand instinctively. Despite the injuries, Marco's grip was strong, and firm, and he pulled Edwin down, so close Edwin's ear was nearly at his lips.
"Marry me," Marco said weakly, right against his ear.
"Lieutenant Piper, I'm not — "
"Marry me," Marco said again, insistently, and squeezed Edwin's hand so hard it hurt.
"Yes." It slipped out of Edwin's mouth without him deciding to, and the moment he spoke the words, Marco sighed a deep sigh and fell unconscious.
The next day, Edwin fell ill with his usual chest cough, and was transferred back to England. He tried not to think of Marco again, or the pledge he'd made, and studiously avoided looking up Marco's name in the list of the fallen, holding on to that glimmer of hope that he'd lived, somehow.
*
Spring of 1923
The next few days, Edwin did not see Marco again. It wasn't that remarkable, Grenfield was large and Edwin mostly left the running of the convalescent home to people who weren't sickly noble scions. And maybe, yes, Edwin had been hiding, staying in the library with his nose deep in a book so he wouldn't have to consider events.
Then, around noon on the third day since their meeting in the garden, Edwin heard the characteristic thunk-thunk of someone on crutches approaching the library door. Many of the men at Grenfield used crutches, but somehow Edwin was certain it was Marco. The door finally opened, shouldered open with a few swear words thrown in, and Edwin's heart was beating in anticipation of seeing Marco's face again, hoping that this time he would.
Marco appeared between the bookshelves, hopping on his one remaining leg and crutches. He'd always been powerful as well as graceful, and Edwin was glad the injury had not robbed him of that beauty.
He was wearing a mask over the right half of his face, covering his forehead, nose and eyes, and half of his mouth. It was a beautiful, delicate thing, painted in the exact shade of Marco's dusky brown skin, the right eye sculpted as a perfect copy of the left one, down to the heavy eyelids and the long, curled lashes. At a distance, you could mistake the honey-dark brown eye for a real one, but the face was oddly still, something Marco's face had never been. The masked side of his mouth was a thin, perfectly neutral line, and the left, fleshy one was pulled in a tight frown, the kind Marco always wore when he had to do something uncomfortable.
"Sw — Sweet. I've come to apologise. I was not wearing my mask yesterday, and it clearly disturbed you. I'll take more care in the future. I — "
"Marco..." Edwin said, the book slipping out of his hand. He stood, confused, then slapped his own forehead.
"Marco, I must apologise, I... I was overwhelmed at seeing you and — Smoke makes my lungs worse."
It felt almost overwhelmingly painful to think Marco had thought he'd been rejected for three whole days, and it was all Edwin's fault.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
Marco's eyes widened, a dark purple blush appeared on his cheeks. "I didn't realise — Oh. That's why we're not allowed to smoke indoors."
Edwin couldn't take this anymore. He waved his hands. "Would you care to accompany me to the garden? So we can catch up properly, old friend."
*
They sat on a small stone bench near the patch of strawberries Edwin had wanted to look at yesterday. Edwin bent down and pulled one of the small, round strawberries off the vine and offered it to Marco. He took it, and pushed it between his lips, carefully chewing on only one side.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" Edwin asked cautiously, seeing how heavily Marco had sat down on the bench.
Marco shrugged one shoulder. "The usual amount, I suppose. I spent more or less all my time since '18 in hospitals being cut open and sewed back up. First doctors did a hack job, but the others fixed me up better." He tapped his mask. "Got a cutting edge procedure up here, they took a slab of skin from my chest and sewed it to my cheek. I couldn't eat anything but soup before. Still not a pretty sight, though."
Edwin wanted to see, but he was afraid he was going to hurt Marco if he reacted badly. But it was Marco; There was nothing about him that Edwin didn't want to share.
"I thought you were dead," Edwin said.
"I thought you were too," Marco replied, "When I heard Grenfield had been made into a convalescent home, I assumed..."
He'd assumed Edwin had died of his childhood ailments and Grenfield had become property of the Crown in absence of any heirs.
"Well, I'm not," Edwin said, "And neither are you."
Marco looked over, a lopsided smile on his lips. "It was a close-run thing, as you can see. Did you go?"
Edwin shook his head. "CO, towards the end. Got sent right back when I had my first lung infection."
Marco looked down. He was silent for a long time, and Edwin did not know why.
"Do you remember Lent term of '12? When we put frogs in Lyndon's pillowcase?" Marco asked after a while.
Edwin looked up, and found Marco smiling warmly at him, his half-mouth curved upwards, and his eyes crinkling with unfamiliar crow's feet.
It had entirely been Marco's idea, after Lyndon had pushed Edwin in the pond behind their dorms. He'd included Edwin in the scheme so he could taste some of the sweet revenge, he'd said, and afterwards they'd hidden in a cupboard for a whole night to escape Lyndon and his cronies, giddy and giggling. It was then when they'd kissed for the first time, just short pecks interrupted by embarrassed laughter that bubbled up in their chest without them yet knowing why.
"Yes," Edwin said softly. He was looking at Marco now, those dark eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made his breath stop.
"I want to kiss you, but I can't do it properly with this stupid mask on, so I'll take it off."
Edwin's mind was spinning from the first part of the sentence that he hardly had time to process the second, and then the mask was off.
Marco's cheek was hollow, sunken in where presumably, the cheekbone had been shattered. His eye was gone, the eyelid drooping down.
"Kiss me, then," Edwin said, and Marco did.
It was different from those childhood kisses they'd shared. Filled with a longing they'd been too young to feel back then, but there was sweetness in it, the sweetness of being reunited, of loving for a long time, and of wild strawberries. When Marco paused, Edwin pressed a kiss against the soft, smooth skin of his scarred cheek.
Marco laughed. "I don't have much feeling there, so you better kiss me again on the lips." And Edwin did.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Marco whispered against Edwin's lips, "At the field hospital, you were really there. I thought I was dying, and that God had sent me the one person I wanted to see, but I thought it couldn't possibly have been you."
Edwin's breath hitched. "I thought — I thought you were calling out to a girl."
Marco leaned back, a gently mocking look in his eyes, his hands still on Edwin's chin.
"Sweetheart, how could I have meant anyone else? You said yes to me."
"I did."
"Then I say yes to you too."