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Bloody Hell it’s dark.
George keeps his head low into his coat as he hurries down the brick street. It’s shrouded in darkness with a gleam layered over every uncovered surface. Within a few shops, a faint yellow candle flame dances over his path. The rest of the windows are cold and empty, yawning and black.
It’s too quiet for the Brit, and he snuggles even lower into his woolen layers. The air is still, rolling with a freezing mist and a few early snowflakes. Nobody lurks in the streets or makes any noise. No casual walkers or stray cats or jostling cars. The ones parked on the side of the street are quiet and empty.
The absence of noise creates a very wide open void where every sound echoes far into the night. The hairs on his neck stand up and his eyes are narrowed but alert as his shoes amplify against the solid concrete path.
Just as long as he doesn’t run into anyone, he’ll be fine.
George merges with shadows the farther down the strip of concrete he goes. There’s eyes watching him, he feels, burning into his body and into his soul. They can smell his fear, and he starts to shake.
He crosses the street, eyes snapping both ways just in case someone materializes out of thin air. His mind makes the image of a tall man in uniform with a rifle marching out of midnight mist. He has no distinctive features; only those of a terrifying apparition, and he walks with authority towards George.
It’s sudden, but animated, probably from the lack of surfeit foods and lavish drinks. He’s also tired, and constraints weigh down on him until he can get some proper shut-eye, which he has not obtained in a while.
The Brit loses his mind. He freezes in the middle of the street, hand to his chest, eyes wide, mouth open in an “o” shape. He watches it slowly approach him, and then the switch goes off in his brain.
He runs.
There is no shouting of protest, no gunshots or virtually any noise at all. Just his shoes echoing off of the pavement and the puff of his breath. He whips around corners and trips over debris until he feels safe enough to catch the air. He hugs the coat tight around his body and swallows deeply.
George pauses to listen and make sure the man never follows him. Was he going to be reported to the law? He didn’t know what happened to people who disobeyed the curfew rule. Would they murder him?! He can’t get the image of the long rifle out of his mind. His heart never stops beating rapidly as he slides down against the wall of a closed down shop. He tries to pull breath past his lips as he focuses on cracks spreading throughout the sidewalk.
He sits still for a while, melting into the concrete and relaxing his brain. The shadows in the mist become clearer all of a sudden, and the night returns to its frigid stance. He breathes normally now and stands to continue walking down to the Square.
The Square is a small plaza surrounded by shops and a tavern. There are streetlights casting a warm glow across styled brickwork and some metal benches and chairs, accompanied by wire dining tables. In the summer, the trees have leaves and the planter boxes bloom with flowers. Today though, they are empty and filled with frozen mulch. George draws closer to the space, surprised that the oil lamps are still on. His pulse quickens again as he steps into the lights, and gradually, soft voices and laughter prance out from the pub. They are deep voices, all men, but they have youthful chuckles and rowdy words. An excited and affable atmosphere spills from the tavern, and through the windows he can see the crowd. Faces with wide smiles and open mouths, twinkling eyes and dancing limbs. They are all dressed in green and brown with rounded helmets; some are set on the tables beside mugs of beer.
George has had a sudden urge to join them; an exhilarated pair of wings unfold in his chest, lifting him up, and his stomach dances with butterflies. He’s giddy while studying the faces of the handsome young men, and for a second, he gets lost in the cravings lingering deep in the crevices of his body.
He wishes to be in one of those booths with a fresh cup of foaming liquid and a strong arm wrapped around his shoulder. A taller man, one with an indistinguishably merged face, smiles down at him, with one of those grins you’d see on an American propaganda poster. Squared jawline, dimples, wavy hair. He changes slightly every time George tries to focus on him, but one thing he knows for sure is the cozy feeling settling between them, almost as if the man is saying “you're safe with me;” shown through small gestures of intimacy and soft looks. One of the other boys would do a funny reenactment of a battlefield story and they would laugh, and cheer, and bang their mugs on the table. George would giggle, drawing the attention of the soldier, his soldier, and he’d blush as that million dollar smile beamed down on him, softness brewing in his eyes.
Fuck, he’s been standing there for too long. The cold burns his face and a chill begins creeping up his shoulders and arms. His coat has fallen loose and he pulls it taught again, breathing a small, sad sigh as he departs from the happy segment of his imagination.
He aches deep on the inside, his eyes grow heavy with the possibility of tears and he has to exaggerate his blinking to prevent them from falling.
“It’s nothing, really,” he whispers to himself. “You can’t have that, you bloody idiot. Don’t lie to yourself.”
He’s swaying as he walks now, letting his mind plunder him with harsh words. George has blocked away all noise, and has no anchor grounding him to his surroundings, so he doesn’t see the man that approaches him from the shadows of the towering buildings.
Until a soft hand bumps into his shoulder; a gentle, half-thought grip that loosens and falls away.
George screams.
“Whoah!”
The figure backs away, his hands pushed out in front of his chest.
“I didn’t mean ta’ startle ya.”
The Brit is met with another uniformed man of the night. At first he sees the figure in the mist, absent of the rifle and this time with a slimmer build, then his eyes focus in on the shadows and he meets a blazing emerald gaze. The man’s eyes twinkle like light refracting through a gemstone, and George catches himself staring. The cogs in his brain start turning and linking together.
This was the soldier he saw yesterday. The one who looks exactly like the sun, a reincarnation of Apollo himself; the one who shot him the flirty wink and a crooked grin. God, he looks so good in dim orange light. It reveals every little constellation dotting his face, and the deep shadows give him this haunted look that sharpens his jawline and cheekbones.
George can’t get a single word out, and the blond drops his guard and cockily grins.
“Cat gotcha’ tongue?” He asks.
The British brunette lets out a shaky breath, his heart is going a million miles an hour. He thinks it might explode, so his hand grips the fabric of his coat in a place over his chest, to try and calm it down.
“Haven’t you ever learned to not sneak up on people?!” He forces out between breaths.
The soldier chuckles, long and endearing, and that smile never leaves his face.
“You ain’t supposed ta’ be out during curfew,” he says in a sweet tone.
George freezes up, eyes going wide again to stare helplessly at the man looming in front of him.
He wants to speak, but a cat has indeed clawed his tongue out. He thinks things can’t possibly get any worse, that all of these men have to be targeting him because he’s crossing their paths a lot, but the night seems to drag him into every situation involving trouble, ever.
The Brit couldn’t see him, but there was a tapping noise echoing into the nighttime silence, polished boots clicking upon brick. A well poised man, it seemed, was making his way towards them, and George felt himself silently breakdown.
“Dream?” A gruff voice asks, surprise showing in his authoritative tone.
“Heya Sam,” the blond, Dream, responds with a smooth voice. He turns to shield George with his body, a smile plastered on his face.
“What are you doing out of the pub?”
It’s a question that cannonballs right through the beginning of their wall of lies.
The soldier pauses, the smile frozen on his lips.
“I’m just walking this fine, young lady home.”
The Brit stiffens with surprise, his eyebrows scrunching together in sudden panic. All of his fears mix together in a big pot in his stomach, making him queasy.
He’s known his face has been interpreted as feminine before, in certain lighting and if his hair is cut a certain way, but there was no way he could pass this off right now. He wasn’t dazzled in a dress with bouncing curls and waving eyelashes. He didn’t have the soft, heart shaped face or dangly earrings. It was just his eyes and his lips against this quick plotted lie and the uniformed men about to get him in serious trouble.
Then, a light arm snakes around his waist and something soft lands in his hair. George is pulled into Dream’s side, and his sharp eyes peer over the collar of his coat and straight at the important military official.
Dream must have said something while he was in his silent frenzy of fear, because a light pat on his waist startled him back to the present.
“She was alone officer, at night an’ on the streets! I didn’t want ta’ ‘eave her.”
“And why was she out late this evening?” Sam inquired, an eyebrow raised on his bleak face.
“Well.” Dream was fumbling around now, feeling as if his throat was closed off; he was swallowing every few seconds- George saw his prominent Adam's apple bob up and down-and he refused to make eye contact with Sam. He was flustered too, his cheeks swelled red making his freckles pop a darker color. He shoots the Brit a look, telling him with only his eyes that he has to lie, and quickly.
“I, uh-,” the blond stumbles.
Sam sighs and shakes his head in false dismay, but a small smile creeps up on his lips.
“Dream,” he says, his voice turning smooth and gentle with a little hint of poking fun. “You don’t have to hide the fact that you fancy this woman.” He looks George up and down with a questioning brow, obviously not having the same taste as the blond, but respecting it to a certain extent.
The soldier pulls the Brit closer to his body, and George hesitantly leans in to the touch. His heart soars, breaking through all of the worry and anxiety, and he relishes in this moment of alien comfort. He buries his face into the camouflaged arm of Dream’s uniform and slides a small hand up to his chest. He feels Dream react under the intimate touch, and wonders if he’s stepped too far in with the half-assed theatrics.
But just for a moment, he can pretend, and right now he is a pretty young woman with an Apollo like figure from his dreams, and they are a couple. At least, this sergeant obviously thinks they are a thing, or there is some sort of relationship brewing between them, so George takes this entire moment into his hands and indulges in what could be. He beams under the collar shielding his lips, and his eyes grow heavy as if he might cry, but this time rain tears of joy. He nuzzles next to Dream and hopes the blond interprets it as phenomenal acting, and not that the man next to him is a ravished homosexual deprived of a chance at ever loving another man.
Dream is gentle with his movements, almost as if they have been in a relationship for a long time, and not strangers who stared at each other from across the London street. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the dipped waist in George’s coat, soothing the woolen fabric in a sleek manner and smiling an embarrassed and bashful grin.
“Thank ya, sir,” is all he can muster out. The Brit gives him what he hopes is the innocent look of a soft woman, and hugs the blond closer with raised shoulders and a giddy smile.
“Just-, don’t get into trouble Dream.” Sam flashes a look at the middle of the Brit’s body, almost as if he were checking for something, then nods it off and clasps his arms around his back. “No reason for you to stay here now; I presume you all will be in America?”
“Very much, sir.”
“Good. I hope your family will be comfortable there.”
“Oh we definitely will.”
The blond pats a space just above George’s backside, and there is obviously a shared agreement between the soldier and sergeant that George doesn’t seem to grasp.
“And don’t forget your hat, boy.”
George watches the man walk away with stricken interest.
“Naw, you look too good in my hat,” Dream sings, tilting the Brit’s face to meet his. He has a sloppy look on his face, almost as if he had somehow gotten drunk during the conversation.
George goes red and smiles, not sure where this plight will take him. He realizes the soft object weighing down his hair is a little camouflaged hat and his brisk fingers materialize to trace over the rim with curiosity. He never breaks eye contact in the hopes that someone will lean in, but all the blond does is watch him back, with keen eyes noticing the Brit’s attention with the hat.
George’s eyes ache with love as Dream lets go of his waist.
“How ‘bout I escort ya’ home, hmmm?” The blond says, breaking away from their trance.
“Whot? We haven’t even properly introduced ourselves?!” George struggles to re-collect himself, following after the blond and pulling the coat closed around his chest.
“Well, lit’le lady, why don’ ya tell me a bi’ about yours self ‘en?”
He’s got a dangerous, captivating grin that the Brit finds himself jumping right into; those twinkling eyes watching him with pure delight as he does so.