Chapter Text
Charles is watching his soldier boy smoke on the deck. White clouds tumble from his full, rose-tinted lips and get picked up and broken by the brisk wind, sometimes being thrown in his squinting eyes, but he doesn't look much bothered by it. It plays with his hair; the breeze pulls and tosses the platinum locks like handfuls of hay. He rests against the railing more like an old friend rather than the lifeline it was days ago. He doesn't need it to hold him anymore, and he stands fast against the wind and the waves with grace and ease.
By now, the man has gotten his sea legs and is fairly comfortable aboard the vessel, yet Charles feels him out of place. Maybe it's his lily-pale skin that hasn't known the touch of sunlight. Maybe it's the way he moves, easy but restrained, careful not to take more space than necessary. Maybe it's the mild manners and genteel accent that make him stand out from the dozens of working-class men aboard the ship. Or is it the gaze, always wide and alert? The pouty mouth and strong jaw that God (rightfully) decided belonged together on the same face? Charles observes him, unabashedly stares at him, cataloguing every minute detail. Folks have called it bad manners, but to Charles, it's research. He's always been curious like that, eager to know something he likes inside out. He's quite sure that Graham looks at him for similar reasons.
Speak of the devil: those big, bright eyes turn towards him; it's the kind of earnest, open-hearted look that could make anyone do anything. The sailor cannot refuse their bewitching call, so he strides towards Graham.
The man is nearly done with his cigarette, and Charles gazes at the slender fingers pinching the smouldering remains. They have been on his mind ever since the men's first meeting, how the digits wove together with his, how desperately they pulled at his hair in the throes of passion, then tenderly carded through it in the afterglow. For days, he's been orbiting around Graham, hungry for what little the other could give him in his kindness— a glance, a smile, a word.
Now that Charles is here, next to him, the sailor's typically busy mind is now vacant. Much of what he wants to say and do to and with the lovely man of his obsessions is far from appropriate to display in public. Even the most innocuous of thoughts shrivel and die in his presence. Then, a saving grace: a hand reaches out and offers him a cigarette of his own.
Graham pipes up: “Thought you might want one.”
Charles takes it gratefully, brushing their fingers together in that moment, and slots it between his lips. “Got a light?”
Graham produces a lighter from his trouser pocket and hands it to Charles, who flicks it to life and puts the shuddering flame to the tip of his smoke. Graham cups his palms around it to shield it from the wind as it takes hold of the tobacco.
Charles inhales deeply and breathes out with a satisfied sigh, leaning against the railing: “Thank you.”
He motions to give the lighter back to its owner, but his hand is pushed back. He raises his eyes and locks them with Graham's own; the ever-so-earnest gaze now holds something devious within. “Keep it for now, you can give it back later.”
Charles nods and pockets the object; the unspoken part of the statement is loud and clear to him.
What a scandalous dance they're performing, the cigarettes and lighter being little more than props in their act. Charles does wonder how the other man has learned to speak in symbols so proficiently— another thread in the veil of intrigue that surrounds Graham. His past dims his shine like a cloud dims the sun. Charles recalls the moment when the topic of Graham's father came up in their conversation that night, how the other wilted and winced, as if the thought alone tasted sour.
The sailor would like nothing more than to take his worries away, but he suspects he holds no power there. He can do nothing but lend an ear and a shoulder to lean on. He tips towards Graham so their upper arms touch, receiving a brief sideways glance in return. They spend a scant few minutes in companionable silence.
“How long until port?” Graham asks.
“About seven days.”
The soldier makes a sound that is both a hum of acknowledgement and a weary sigh. Charles eyes him, seeing furrowed brows and a vacant stare. His lips purse into a stern line. “Right.”
Graham pushes off the railing and tosses his cigarette butt out to the sea. “I must go now. Meet me back here after supper?” His voice is solid but brittle.
“Uh. Sure, I'll see you then.” Charles takes one last glance at the man. Graham's visage is so composed it might as well be crafted by hand; with a curt nod, he turns away and walks off. Something has rather upset him, and Charles might have an idea of what it may be. Disappointment and anticipation churn icy-hot in his stomach in wait for the evening.
Having picked at his mediocre meal with even less enthusiasm than usual, the sailor climbs up to the main deck to wait for Graham at the spot that is now theirs. The other isn't here yet, so there's nothing to do but watch the burning sky as the day's light slowly dies. As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, it gives its last rays to the one Charles really came to see.
He wears them beautifully, the colours of dusk. Graham slides up to his side and rests his back against the railing. He fishes a cigarette case out of his trousers, and Charles does the same with the borrowed lighter, flicking it a few times while Graham puts the smoke against his lips. Charles offers the flame to him; Graham angles towards it and gazes at the man while the tobacco catches fire. He straightens out, and Charles snaps the lighter shut, handing it back to Graham, who takes it at last, stowing it in the breast pocket of his uniform.
The soldier shuffles closer and leans sideways into Charles. Charles's heart does a small somersault and doesn't stick the landing. He checks their surroundings. Nobody is looking. The sailor unwraps his fingers from the railing and lightly hooks them around Graham's waist, making small stroking motions up and down his side. His stomach settles with every touch. Charles is nudged slightly, and the bluish twilight sky in his field of vision is overwhelmed by a glowing orange ember; he takes the offering and puts it to his mouth. They stay silent like this, passing the smoke back and forth until it burns down to nothing and joins its kind in the water.
His want burns white hot still. Charles peers at the pale column of Graham's neck and wishes to sink his teeth into it, to give the man some token of his affections, for he has little else to share. They have scarcely a week before Graham leaves Charles's life to risk his own, and even less of that time can they spend together. His weary heart is heavy and selfish when he tugs Graham's body with him to the cargo hold, conspicuousness be damned; whatever is watching over them decides to be merciful and lets them pass without incident.
Without the veil of intoxication, Charles finds himself at a loss for courage and decisiveness. So many things he'd like to do to his friend, but he's got no fire for it tonight.
He seeks his warmth first, inside a tender embrace away from any prying eyes. Charles has Graham pressed to the most poorly lit, out-of-the-way wall, face buried in his neck, breathing in his scent, arms slung around his waist, doing his utmost to touch and feel and sink himself into his friend as if they could fuse if he did it well enough. Graham softly locks his own around Charles and rests a cheek on his shoulder. The palms on his back feel like shields, and for a while, he can pretend the world doesn't exist outside them. They sway lightly, something between a dance and the soothing rocking of a cradle. Charles puts his lips to Graham's visible cheek, smearing a kiss from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his cheekbone.
“I'll see you again, when it's over,” he murmurs.
Graham lets out an amused huff, but his tone is wistful. “You'd better. …Have you got something to write with?”
Charles perks up: “I do, in my trunk.” He pecks Graham's temple. “Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back.” He dashes off to retrieve his notepad and pencil, hope unfolding its petals and boring its roots into him.
Once back, he hands Graham the notebook and watches him write something in a neat, refined hand (barely possible without an armrest, but he's trying his best). He gives it to Charles.
Carpenter Manor, Goldbridge Rd, Oakmont, MT (look for the large white house with a gazebo)
“‘Large white house with a gazebo’, huh?” Charles muses. Graham turns his gaze downwards. “We don't have house numbers in Oakmont. Visitors have a hard time getting around, not that we have many of those… If you'd like to visit, that is.” The last sentence rings out with giddy expectation and a touch of worry.
“Of course I would.” Graham's face lights up, his lips form a bashful smile that Charles wants to kiss so badly that he actually does, just pressing their closed lips together. They part, and Charles jots down his own address, tears out the page and tucks it in Graham's breast pocket, hand lingering there, over his heart. Over their silly lighter, the shape of which presses into his hand, warmed by Graham's body. “Not sure when I'll be home again, but I'd like you to have it anyway.”
Graham puts his own hand over Charles's. “Thank you.”
Charles leans his whole weight into Graham, forehead braced on the other's temple. They stay wrapped up in the silence and each other, darkness and shared air and body heat a protective shroud over them. It's delightful, until Graham's quiet rasp cuts a slit in it to let reality in: “It's late,” and Charles presses impossibly closer to be where the cold grasp can't reach him. He collects himself for a moment and lets the space come between them.
“I'll see you another time, then,” Charles mumbles and seals his promise with a kiss on Graham's cheek.
When they're both in their respective beds, he lets the moment play like a broken record in his head until sleep takes over.