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Warmth. Warmth and darkness and a perfect feeling of safety, as if someone very dear were holding him. Oh - he had been dreaming of Theo. Clive burrowed sleepily into his pillow, the soft sheets deliciously sensual against his bare legs. After six months in Bengal it had been glorious to slip naked and freshly bathed between clean cotton sheets. Perhaps that had given rise to the dream. He shifted again, vaguely aware of the darkness, more aware of the lovely lassitude in his limbs, the thrilling drag of cotton against his cock; the peace in his heart that the dream had given him. He rarely dreamt of Theo, and when he did it was usually a muddle, but this - this had been different. Sweeter, and very real.
He rolled lazily onto his stomach, willing the dream to stay; pressed belly and thighs and hardening cock into the firm warmth of the mattress; felt the lovely heavy weight of the bedclothes over his backside, his spine. He had woken before the dream had ended, wished he could bury himself back in it. Was aware, as he slipped his arms under his pillow, pressed a little more sensuously against the mattress, of the arousal humming through his body, the image of Theo still strong in his mind. Even if he could not drift back into sleep, he could recall the images, the sense of Theo’s closeness, the vividly real feel of him.
~
Somewhere familiar but unknown, in the way that dreams often were. A corridor, rooms, a hospital but not the one on the Stolpchensee. Quiet and dim, night-time, and he in pyjamas, barefoot, padding slowly down the hall. A noise, muffled sounds of something, someone, that he instinctively knew was Theo. A door, open slightly, Theo’s room; dim but bright enough to see Theo a rumpled figure in the bed, asleep but restless, bedclothes disarrayed, caught in bad dreams. Clive moving swiftly to the bed, clambering onto it without thought, seeing Theo, pyjama top half undone and a sheen of sweat on his chest. Kneeling beside him on the bed, looping an arm round his chest, and oh - he was hot, heart racing, his hair disarrayed, as if he had been pulling at it in his sleep. The sight stirring Clive strangely, making him want to be the cause of it. That and the scar - his mark - vivid on his shining forehead. Clive lifting him gently, propping him up, taking his weight.
“Come on, old man, it’s just a dream, you’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Theo stilling, calm, opening his eyes slowly.
“Clive - ” and no surprise in his voice, just an acknowledgement that this was how it should be.
“Bad dream, old man.”
“Yes. I’m alright now.” Speaking a language Clive instinctively understood. Oh, the sound of his voice, the familiar cadence. Clive smoothing the disarrayed hair from Theo’s forehead with one hand while the other was already half burrowing under Theo’s pyjama jacket, warm and firm across his chest.
“You’re soaked, old man. You should get these off, you know.” Saying it in all innocence, but Theo tilting his head back to look at him with mischief in his eyes.
“Yes, yes, you are right as always. So wise, Clive!”
Clive shoving at him half heartedly, oddly pleased at the teasing, at Theo being so much himself. A wicked gleam in his eye.
~
A shift, then, and he was sitting astride Theo, and Theo laying happily idle as Clive undid his buttons. The beautiful leanness of him, the smooth muscles of his arms as Clive pulled the jacket down them, the strength in his shoulders, the firmness of his belly. Clive smoothing hands down Theo’s sides now, across his belly, glorying in the feel of it, in the solidity and warmth of him. Theo settling, folding his arms behind his head and stretching in lazy ease, eyes fixed on Clive, knowing well what he was doing, the effect on Clive. The shifting muscles, the scent of him, the dark look in his eye.
“These too, yes?” Clive asked, hands already busy untying the cord on Theo’s trousers “One must do a thing properly, after all.” A look at Theo, and they were grinning at each other, easy and fond. Clive kneeling up, pushing down sheets already tangled, and Theo - with admirable ease - flexing his stomach muscles, lifting himself up for Clive to draw the trousers down and off. Kicking the sheets away easily and oh! - the sight of Theo! Naked and proud, the lines of him, his lovely cock, his strong thighs! Clive shifting them, coaxing Theo to bend his knees so that Clive could kneel between his thighs, feel the flexing strength of them, the glorious rasp of hair under his palms.
“Clive?” and he had been absorbed there, in the lovely swoop of muscle, of the smooth skin of Theo's belly.
“Theo?”
Theo looking at him in amusement, but with a fierce desire behind it.
“Are you intending to remain clothed?”
He had not even noticed, so lovely was the feel of Theo naked beneath his palms. How much more glorious it was though, to be skin to skin!
“Would you like me naked?” feigning indifference.
Theo looking at him, smile growing broader, and Clive knowing with glee what the reply would be.
“Very much!” Laughing with Theo, and undressing almost instantly, easily, clothes gone. And then the slide of Theo’s thigh against his own naked side, and then Theo surging up, kneeling up against him, thighs bracketing his, arms and belly and cock hard up against him. And then kissing him, soft and wet and familiar, a hand in his hair, and yes, he could now, he could clasp Theo’s head and feel the hair run through his fingers! He could take him apart if he wanted. Oh Theo’s mouth on his, lovely, lovely.
~
Another shift, and they were lying together, facing each other, the bed suddenly big enough to roll around in; Theo with messy hair, and a thigh between Clive’s, moving instinctively, eyes fixed on Clive. Clive wanting more, wanting to touch Theo everywhere, wanting to bury himself in Theo’s smell and warmth and skin. Leaning across to kiss him, familiar and yet new every time. Clive’s hand on Theo’s shoulder, gently urging him onto his back. Theo rolling, willingly, not breaking the kiss, and Clive tangled up with him, leaning over him, settling again. Bringing his hand down, sweeping across Theo’s chest, down his side, his belly, until - oh! - yes, he could touch Theo anywhere, and Theo gasping, breaking the kiss as Clive’s hand closed around his cock. Oh, the weight and feel of it in his palm. Finally! This was glory, this was Theo panting under him, moving with him, seeking his own pleasure, taking everything Clive offered him. The sight of him, flushed and happy, head tilted back, eyes half closed, fixed on Clive. He was beautiful. He was always handsome, but here - naked and sweaty and dishevelled and animal, thinking of nothing but pleasure and the feel of Clive’s hand - here he was beautiful.
Clive moving against Theo’s thigh, a delicious friction against his cock, but wanting this, wanting the same, Theo’s hand on him, for the first time. He would, after. Let Theo have his pleasure first. Oh, it would not be long! Looking at Theo’s face, the abandon there. Clive, wanting to look his fill, but wanting to kiss him too. Bending his head to Theo’s neck, warm and damp, sharp with sweat and that familiar scent of Theo; kissing his neck, the scrape of his stubble, his jaw; breathing hot into his ear, speeding his hand, firming his grip. Theo clutching his arm now, fingers tight, urging him on, faster, closer, turning his head to meet Clive’s mouth, kissing him raggedly between breaths, breathing hot into his mouth. And then - oh! - his head thrown back, body tense, thrusting hard and irregular through Clive’s grip, and coming, hot and wet over his own belly and Clive’s fingers, gasping out a stream of broken sounds.
Burying his face in Theo’s neck again, the thrumming pulse fierce against his lips, Theo’s breathing harsh in his ear, feeling Theo’s heart gradually gentle, his body slacken. Resting his hand, sticky and warm, on Theo’s belly, feeling Theo’s grip on his arm loosen and then his whole body relax into a satisfied ease. Lifting his face to Theo’s, seeing him sated and happy, could not resist kissing him. Theo returning the kiss, soft and lovely, all urgency gone now, nothing but sweetness and peace. A feeling that he could wait, if kisses like this were the price to pay. Theo’s arms, warm around him, and Theo’s body soft underneath him, and these sweet, drowsy kisses; this was worth the world.
~
That was all he could recall of the dream. But instead of feeling the loss of it he felt only warmth, and joy, and the sleepy thrill of Theo's presence. He buried his face deeper into his pillow, moving almost unconsciously; with his eyes closed he could still conjure up the sight of Theo’s face, could still - with his stomach pressed into the warm mattress - feel the softness of Theo’s body beneath him. He was moving more rhythmically against the sheets, still able to feel the firmness of Theo’s thigh against his cock. If he stayed like this, he could finish what the dream had begun so beautifully. Kissing Theo, yes, the drowsy loveliness of it.
~
There, the lovely feel of Theo’s mouth, the soft wet heat of it. Kissing so long that he had become unaware of everything except Theo’s mouth, the brush of moustache, the scent and warmth of Theo’s skin. Dimly realising that he was moving his cock against Theo’s thigh; small, instinctive movements that sent a delightful low heat into his belly. Theo’s hand smoothing down his back now, over the swell of his backside, oh, lovely! The feel of Theo’s hand, capable, possessive, even. Shifting up a little, breaking the kiss, edging towards a more deliberate rhythm. Theo, more alert now, lying back and looking at him, eyes shining.
“Come, Clive, it is not fair for you to do all the work. I think you take English understatement too far!”
“Oh - ” and he was aware of Theo laughing at him now, but how could he care? “ - oh, well, I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged, my dear.”
“Obliged? Yes, Clive, that is of course what I feel toward you. Obliged.” And there was that look of Theo’s again, the one only Clive saw, fondness and amusement and a shining love. And then Theo rolling them both, until Clive was on his back, head thudding against the pillow, laughing delightedly with Theo.
~
He rolled over in bed, kicking the sheets free, eyes closed still, the vision of Theo laughing above him dancing in his mind’s eye. If he could hold onto it, could pretend - he smoothed a hand down his chest, down his belly, yes this was Theo’s hand, sure and firm, knowing exactly the right touch, the places that made Clive shiver with want.
~
And there - Theo leaning over him, hair falling onto his forehead, a flush across his chest, and the muscles flexing in his arm - oh! - closing his hand firm and sure around Clive’s cock. Oh, that; perfect, perfect. Theo’s face, oh, what a delight, to feel this and to look at Theo.
“Kiss me” he said, wanting everything, wanting it all at once and never to stop. Theo did, as if there were nothing else of value in the world. Oh, he wanted to wrap himself up in it, in the warmth and strength of Theo, in the delicious slide of his hand, of the heat and the sharp coil of pleasure inside himself. He thought of that first time, in the dark of the hospital, when they had been desperate and clumsy and nothing but sensations and hot skin and blind kisses. The urgency! The new and unfamiliar feel of Theo, of Theo’s body hard up against him. And then the morning, the glory of seeing him, of having Theo over him, flushed and desperate again. The wonder of seeing himself touching Theo, mapping out in the light places he had only touched in the dark. The strength and fierceness of him, the feel of his hands - oh! - Clive was close now, as all the Theos overlapped in his mind, all the moments of touch and sweat and urgency and then - oh - oh - he was gasping, body arching, and he was coming, fierce and hot over his own hand and belly.
~
He lay, heart calming and breathing evening out, lax and boneless, letting the aftershocks twitch through his muscles. There was no need to move, and he had little inclination. He would wallow a while longer. He stretched idly, feeling still the sweet drowsy warmth of the dream in his limbs and heart, the lovely sense of Theo about him still; not his fierce passion, glorious though that was, but his solid, warm presence, his steady heart, his embrace. He thought of that moment, years ago now but still held fiercely in his heart, when Theo had embraced him for the first time, on the veranda at the hospital. He would give anything to be so held again.
He rolled to the side, wistfulness encroaching into his peace, and thought he must clean himself up. The maids had seen worse, undoubtedly, but there was no need to advertise the fact. There was - he reached over and turned the lamp up enough to see by and - ah yes, he had emptied his pockets onto the nightstand before his bath. There was a handkerchief there, that would do. He mopped himself up. Oh! And he smiled ruefully to himself. That would teach him to be sentimental. All those years ago, and he had given in - on that awful day - to the foolish part of his heart, and kept one of Theo’s handkerchiefs. Worn thin now, and he had been so tired after the long slog back from Bengal that he had not noticed which one it was. Well, it was apt, after all. He had used Theo’s handkerchief that time in Berlin, just to annoy him. Theo would find it funny, no doubt.
No need to think of that, not now. Tomorrow would be time enough. He would write to him, now that he was back in England and sure of the post again. He turned down the lamp. For now, he would let his heavy limbs pull him back into sleep, and back into that lovely peace and contentment that was beating within his steady heart.
* * * * * *
“Morning Mr Candy, did you sleep well?”
“Splendidly, thank you, Preedy” Clive said, taking the handful of post from him without looking at it and continuing to stride through the lobby, whistling. He hoped there were kippers. Kedgeree was all well and good, but you couldn’t beat a decent kipper. He was ravenous. Oh and he had slept well! He smiled a small secret smile to himself as he entered the dining room, thinking without shame of the loveliness of his dream. He felt a hundred times better than he had the night before. A good soak, a decent night’s sleep, a good - he flushed a little. Yes, that, too. He’d woken at dawn - that was travelling for you. And lain awake, drowsy, indolent, with the lovely sense of warmth and peace still around him, feeling at ease for the first time in days; content and comfortable in his own skin. More than that; feeling a renewed connection with Theo. A lovely sense of him being near. A certainty of - of being loved.
Oh, here was another thing he’d missed - a decent cup of tea. The Indians knew their tea alright, and he’d got used to drinking it black, but nothing beat a proper cup of English tea. He settled back, sipping it contentedly, feeling an ease and rightness in his limbs, as if he’d had a good steam, or lain in the sun for hours. An echo of the lovely indolence he’d felt on waking. Oh, that dream! He flushed again, ran a finger round his collar, trying to loosen it. Damn this uniform! He almost wished he were back in bed, naked, decadent, thinking of Theo all dishevelled and beautiful. He grinned to himself, glad that it was early and the dining room was almost empty. Felt like a schoolboy daydreaming in lessons. Better daydreams now, though. He took another sip of tea, lit a cigarette. Theo. The dark gleam of mischief in his eyes; his sweat-flushed chest; the lovely warm weight of his cock in Clive’s hand. Oh, he wanted to roll himself up in the feeling, hug it close all day.
He took another drag of his cigarette and turned his attention to his post as he waited for breakfast. A card from Hoppy, the scrawl instantly recognisable, unchanged since school. A couple of invitations, one of them out of date. And a letter from - oh! His stomach lurched. A letter from Theo! What coincidence was this? Although - he peered at the smudged postmark - it had been sent a couple of weeks previously. But to have that dream, and then this! And - why a letter, and not his usual postcard? Clive used his butter knife to slit it open, hand trembling a little. He wondered if Theo had got his last postcard yet. He’d sent it ages ago but the post out there was abysmal. There was some kind of postcard, and a sheet of notepaper in the envelope. He drew them out. Please let it not be bad news. The postcard was blank. What was this? He turned it over.
Christ. A photograph of Theo. Clive closed his eyes for a moment, face hot, heart thumping. Opened his eyes again. Oh, glorious! A studio portrait. Clive could not take his eyes from Theo’s. It seemed as if there was a gleam in them, despite the serious expression on his face. As if he were looking straight at Clive, seeing his reaction. Clive took an unsteady drag on his cigarette, soaking up the details. Theo in his uniform - his dress tunic! His greatcoat draped over the back of the chair he was sitting in, one leg crossed almost casually over the other at the knee. The shine on his boots. His arm, relaxed, hand loose. His cap tilted slightly - oh! Clive realised, almost disappointed, covering his scar. His mark.
“Kippers, sir” came the voice of the boy, jolting him out of his thoughts. He instinctively turned the card face down, trying to gather himself.
“Thanks” he said, voice unsteady. Took a sip of tea to cover his blushing. Waited until the boy had disappeared before turning his attention to the letter. Theo’s familiar hand, messier than usual. Had he written in a rush? The stamp was stuck on crookedly. He shook himself, aware that he was staring at the envelope and had almost forgotten the actual letter in his hand.
Clive, mein lieber Freund,
Oh, how that made his heart sing. Mein lieber Freund. Clive still knew little German, after all these years, but he kept these phrases of Theo’s close, knew them by heart.
You want to know if my moustache has grown.
Oh, so he had got Clive’s last card. Clive smiled, knowing how silly it had been. How much fun it was, finding odd postcards for Theo.
You see, it is being well.
Yes, it was the same proud Prussian moustache it had been back in Berlin. Clive looked again at the photograph. Theo in fact seemed barely changed. He looked the same man, had not aged. His handsome face. Well, it was only six years, after all. Six years! Sometimes it felt like a year, sometimes ten.
One of the men in my regiment has been wanting a portrait made for his fiancée, and some half dozen of us were going along with him.
Clive imagined the whole regiment marching into the photographer’s studio, all shining buttons and braid, like toy soldiers. Ridiculous.
It is my Galauniform. Mein Freund. Sorry. Is more fine than your English uniform.
Well! The cheek! Of course he meant the old one. He couldn’t know they’d changed. He glanced again at the portrait, trying to picture the colours. It was hard to tell, in a photograph, with everything shades of brown. Even his dress uniform would look as muddy as his new one, in a photograph.
Especially the boots.
Clive flushed at that, thrown back for a moment into the past, into that drunken scuffle; Theo hot and close, Theo taking his boots off, teasing that Clive wanted to steal them.
Here the boy is für the post, I must finish. Clive - you know.
Yes, Clive thought, he did know. They need not say it.
Für immer - Theo.
“Is there something wrong with the kippers, Mr Candy? Can I bring you something else?”
“What?” Clive started, slapping the photograph and letter face down onto the table. “Oh, no, no. Sorry. Post, you know. Catching up. Lost track.” His face was burning; he felt like a schoolgirl, reading a love letter. Oh! That didn’t help!
“Bring everything” he said, wildly, “I’m ravenous. Thanks.” And he dug into his overlooked kippers enthusiastically as if to demonstrate. Trying desperately to contain his thoughts, his feelings. Oh to have this, when he was already - receptive - from the dream. He’d almost let out a sob, reading that für immer. Thank god he was here, and not at Aunt Margaret’s. He would never have escaped her scrutiny. He focused on eating, deliberately not looking at the letter, the photograph. Forced the food down, even though his stomach was all butterflies.
The boy came back, laden with sausage, eggs and bacon, a welcome sight. God, he’d missed English breakfasts! The boy melted silently away with his empty plate, and Clive tucked in with gusto. He would savour his breakfast, and not look again at the photograph. Not just yet. He could wait. For a few minutes he ate happily, realising how hungry he was. But he could not stop thinking of the letter. Of Theo’s familiar, dear handwriting, the peculiar turn of phrase he sometimes used. What a treat, in itself, to have a letter. To have more words. There was nothing in it to warrant the secrecy of a letter. Nothing - he blushed, nothing illicit. No obvious declarations. And he didn’t need them, could always read between the lines. Could see those innocent phrases - mein lieber Freund, für immer, for what they really were. And the photograph was innocent enough too. Soldiers sent them all the time, to - he inhaled sharply, had to take a swig of tea to recover - to their sweethearts, he had been about to think. He took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow. Lord! Yes, perhaps Theo had been right, to send it in a letter.
He tucked his handkerchief away again, and settled back, pleasantly full, sipping the last of his tea. After a moment’s grace the boy returned for his empty plate. Clive asked for his coffee to be brought through to the lounge; hauled himself to his feet, took up his post and ambled through, picking up The Times on the way. As good as a ‘do not disturb’ sign, the paper. He surveyed the room for a moment, and decided on a comfortable armchair out of the way. He would not be noticed here, even if anyone else came through. The boy brought his coffee, and Clive settled down, lighting a cigarette. He was aware that he was preparing himself, almost. He took a mouthful of coffee, sorted through his letters, putting the unimportant ones in his pocket. Took a steadying drag on his cigarette and unfolded Theo’s letter again.
Clive, mein lieber Freund. The way he flourished the F, that was so very Theo. His handwriting was like his moustache, his buttons - a little fancy, a little showy. Clive traced the lines with a fingertip that trembled a little. The ink was smudged, as if he had written in a hurry. Or had he been a little tipsy? That postcard Theo had sent once, at New Year. That had looked the same. Clive had always wondered if he’d written it when he was drunk. He found himself sometimes, after a heavy night, wanting to pour out his feelings into a letter. He never did. Felt foolish the next morning. Had Theo done the same? And still posted it? Braver, always.
And how like Theo to tease and boast at the same time. Is more fine than your English uniform. And then to sign off as he had. That für immer. Somehow it was more thrilling in German. Their secret, almost. Another day and Clive might have been almost embarrassed at such thoughts, at his mooning over a letter like a lovesick girl. But the dream still lingered, the sense of Theo’s care, his warmth, the fierce strength of him. The fakirs would say this was a sign, this letter, after such a dream. They believed in such things. Clive didn’t. But it was a lovely accident.
He looked one last time at the smudged flourish of Theo’s name, and then put the letter carefully back in its envelope. Even the sight of the five pfennig stamp was enough to set his heart skittering. He smiled at himself, acting like a spoony schoolboy. He didn’t care. He took up the postcard and turned it over. Christ. How could he care, when he had this? He glanced up, checking that he was unobserved, took another drag of his fag. He was drawn again to Theo’s eyes, to that gaze. It was almost challenging, if you knew him well. If you had seen him at moments of intimacy. Clive flushed, thinking of Theo in his bed; both the dream Theo, and the real one, back in Berlin. He’d seen this look before. As if he were about to do something bold, should he care to. A thrill of arousal ran through Clive, thinking of Theo like that. But never so neat, so smart as this. Always, this look, when he was rumpled, and flushed, and breathing hard. Christ. Clive felt his cock stir, crossed his legs, glanced up. No-one about.
He looked again, dragging his eyes from Theo’s to take in the details; the graceful turn of his wrist, idle on the arm of the chair, as if he should be holding a cigarette. The almost defiant tilt of his cap, making him look less of a solider and more of a man, at ease with himself. That he was wearing a cap at all, instead of his fancy Prussian helmet, was odd. Was it to cover the scar, or because he knew how handsome he looked? The tilt of it, the way it set off the line of his jaw. Glorious. The elegant stretch of his thigh, the dark fabric pulled taut across his knee where it crossed the other. Clive had a vivid flash of memory, of that fabric tight across Theo’s legs as they wrestled, the strain of muscle and the shape of his cock. God. He ran a hand through his hair, shifted in his seat, felt the flush rising on his neck. The way Theo was sitting he could see nothing; shadows, only. But he remembered, god how he remembered. Remembered the feel of those strong thighs against his, the press of Theo’s cock against his own. He reached out blindly and took a swig of his coffee, suddenly uncaring of his state. Who could see him? Who would care? There were blind eyes everywhere, here. The things that you pretended not to see, or hear, while bathing. He traced a finger down the length of Theo’s leg, along the gleam of his boots. He would never admit it to Theo’s face, not again, but the boots were splendid. The angle of his foot, as if he’d just stopped swinging it.
They were tiny details, barely noticeable. Someone who didn’t know him would doubtless see a soldier; handsome, yes, and a little proud, but serious, and still, in the way that these portraits always were. But to Clive, every little touch added up to a Theo who was at ease, graceful, about to smile, to do something devilish. The glint of braid, the light catching his buttons, oh yes he looked smart, almost too smart, with his beautiful neck covered and those lovely shoulders decorated almost garishly. Oh, if only he were in his plainer tunic. Churlish, really, to quibble at such a thing when this was more than he had ever dreamed of. But Clive still wished it. He knew its exact texture, the smell of the wool mixed with Theo’s sweat and pomade. The warm familiar weight of Theo’s arm across his shoulders, the scratch of the fabric. Still, even with this fancier uniform, Clive could see the slight slouch of his spine, the lips about to quirk in amusement. Could feel, like a physical memory, the weight of Theo on him, the hot press of his body, the rasp of those strong thighs. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes for a moment, lost in the dream again. He wished for a moment he was in his civvies; his suit trousers were a damn sight looser than his uniform ones. He snorted a laugh at himself. It was his own damn fault! Poring over the photograph. He opened his eyes again, cast a glance around the room. Still empty. He uncrossed his legs, surreptitiously arranged the fabric of his trousers until he was more comfortable; shuddered as the back of his hand brushed his cock. Dear god. He was not going to disgrace himself, even in the relative privacy of the lounge. He must get himself under control enough to get back to his room without giving himself away, blind eyes or no. And then - he smiled, taking one last lingering look at the photograph - well!
He took out his wallet and slipped the photograph carefully inside, tucked away neatly where it would not get scuffed. It would be safe there. He put his wallet away and took out his cigarette case, lit himself another fag, brushed a speck of tobacco from his chest. Finer uniform, eh? He would show Theo. He felt a momentary pang of loss for his old red tunic. The new ones did not compare. But there was still his dress uniform. Theo was in his, after all. And he’d practically asked for a return photograph, with that comment. Clive’s heart swelled at the thought, of Theo with his photograph, perhaps tucked safely in his wallet too. Would Theo moon as he had? He could not imagine it. But then, Theo was the one, always, to say more. To say, mein lieber Freund. He’d been the one to swear first, to say Mein Herz. Clive blinked unexpected tears back, tilting his head and contemplating the ceiling for a moment. Would Theo find a private nook, in his club, or his barracks, or one of his kellars, and look at Clive’s photograph, and think such thoughts as Clive had? Yes, Clive thought, he would. The brief joy they’d shared, the desperation, the fierceness, that had been Theo’s as much as Clive’s. Christ, this would not help him control himself!
He took another drag of his cigarette, drank the last mouthful of now-tepid coffee, and thought about where to get his portrait done. Preedy would know. They could fix anything here. And if he strolled in wearing his dress uniform, buttons polished and his cape over his shoulder, no photographer - seeing his VC - would even think to question his motives. That was decided, then. He smiled to himself, almost gleeful. He stubbed out his cigarette and got carefully to his feet, straightening his trousers, adjusting his tunic. He would do. He stretched, feeling the ache in his shoulder, thinking idly that a steam and a bathe would be a fine idea, maybe a rub down as well. One decent night’s sleep - however good - couldn’t entirely make up for cramped, rattling train bunks. And it was - as ever, in London - damned cold, summer or no. He would wait a little though, he thought, making his way through to the lobby. It had been a long journey, and another lie down would be only - sensible. He thought again of the smooth soft glide of the sheets, the firm press of the mattress, the lovely warm weight of the bedclothes. The sense of Theo surrounding him, his warmth, his easy care. He started up the stairs to his room, touched his pocket lightly, felt the wallet safe in there. Yes, he thought, grinning to himself; who knew what dreams would come now?