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The bullfinch warbled his mournful call one dawn in spring. Mr Ozias Midwinter did not wake to it; to his great regret he had already been awake for hours before. A bird of the same species flew by his window, the flash of stunning red and grey on its back. He had once again been awake long before the sun mounted the sky. He looked at the bird as it stood on his window sill. A companion, he mused, for the early hours. But although they were both awake, him and the bullfinch, one of them would soon find a mate from his melancholy, low song. The young man taking heed of the bird's plump shape, the beauty of its colour, would remain silent, and – he thought as his usual dread overtook him – without a mate.
Midwinter knew from his interview with the accomplished Mr William Yarrell of London, who had written extensively on such matters, that to witness the bird at such a close distance was a rare treat. The bullfinch was secretive and reclusive, preferring to hide in blackthorn bushes rather than to be seen.
Mr Yarrell had also told him that the bullfinch mated for life. Once a mate was found, the nesting would begin and with it new life, continuing every spring.
The beauty of the song bird, the rarity of its call, all this filled his morning with melancholy about the day ahead of him. His kind friend Mr Allan Armadale had placed him in one of the finest bedrooms of Thorpe Ambrose and yet Midwinter could not repay this magnanimous gesture with the happy sigh of a night well slept. He dressed to join his friend for breakfast nonetheless.
Allan quickly noticed his weariness with the astute observation he applied to his friend and not many other matters in life.
"Midwinter, you look positively terrible," he remarked with his typical candour. "You barely slept, I presume? There must be an aid which I can provide – oh, what a bad host you must think of me. Perhaps the bed should be softer, lined with better feathers – or perhaps you get cold at night! I ought to put inquiries to – write to Mr Pedgift, yes, that might do it."
Midwinter shook his head and offered a smile with the warmth wholly felt. "No, it is nothing but my own restlessness haunting me. You have provided everything I could want."
"It won't do." Allan looked unusually distressed, bringing his hands together. "This must be your home as much as it is mine. I owe you that much."
He briefly looked hesitant, his eyes darting away from meeting Midwinter’s steady, dark gaze. Allan breathed out a sigh. “This should be your home, too.”
"I'll be set right by a brisk walk and attending to my work," Midwinter said, his face resolute. "Do not worry."
Yet worry had already invaded the mind of the squire and by that evening, Allan presented his friend with an assortment of remedies. It appeared that the young Mr Armadale had spent all day consulting the people of Thorpe Ambrose– the village, not the house– on the dilemma of Midwinter's ailing sleep. Amidst the solutions were a drink made of herbs and leaves, forest-green and with the distinctive scent of moss and lovage. Midwinter drank it out of politeness, although he feared his constitution would not be improved by it.
Another cure was a long cucumber, which Allan instructed him to place in his bed. "It will soothe and aid a restless mind. Or a fevered child. One of the two, if I recall the woman's wisdom as she told it to me."
Ozias Midwinter took the long cucumber warily. He wished that Allan would not fret over him. He had long ago conceded that rest would escape him.
"Capital!" Allan put a hand through his curled hair, looking at his friend with increased excitement. "Hopefully these will see you sleeping like a log."
The following morning Midwinter awoke. The day had not yet broken and he saw only darkness behind the window. The cucumber lay beside him, warm and useless, and the tangy, mossy flavour of the herbal drink still sat on his tongue. He stayed in bed, turning until his limbs began to ache. As the hour wore on, light came through the window and the low song of the bullfinch rang out from the orchards nearby.
He was morose and could scarcely hide it from Allan. Midwinter talked about the day ahead, the writing he endeavoured to do and the walk he might take across the estate. He attempted a bright tone to disguise his malaise.
"I will find a remedy, my dear fellow." Allan placed a hand, warm and close, on the shoulder of his friend. "I hope you will not begrudge me that I haven't yet done so."
Midwinter shook his head. Emotion misted his eyes but he blinked it away. "I would never."
How had he ever been so lucky as to find a friend as caring as Allan Armadale! He felt a tremble in his heart.
The following evening over supper the young Armadale explained at great length and with his usual distracted fashion that the crux of the problem may be the way in which Midwinter slept and perhaps someone ought to observe his manner during the night. Allan volunteered himself for this feat and though Midwinter protested at first, he could not do so with enough strength. His heart was comforted by the care shown by his friend, though he abhorred being an inconvenience. The thought of Allan close by did provide him with ease; he had always wanted Allan to be nearer, yet his voice often failed him when he wanted to make the request.
As it happened, Allan entered his room and settled in a chair to observe the sleep of his friend. After hours had worn on, and Midwinter had failed to fall into slumber, he noticed Allan himself asleep in the seat. It was not a worthy spot to sleep in and Midwinter felt terrible guilt over the predicament he had inadvertently placed his friend in. He could not in good conscience disturb the sleep of his dear friend so instead it was him who watched over Allan’s sleep.
Allan, for his worth, looked as well as ever, even if Midwinter thought his neck might be aching in the morning. His light hair became flat against the back of the chair and his clothes rumpled but his face looked perfectly calm. Midwinter rested his eyes on his dutiful friend, and some powerful emotion gripped him, same as it had ever since Allan had first granted him friendship.
Hours passed him by and he drifted into dreams that shook him awake. Each time he only had to glance at Allan to feel the guilt return.
The bullfinch sang its song in the morning and Allan seemed as bright-eyed and ebullient as ever. Midwinter felt more melancholy than the nights before.
"I beg of you, do not suffer on my account." He looked at Allan gravely.
Allan looked not perturbed in the least. "You should not waste your worry on me, my friend. What I find more important is that once again you didn’t sleep at all! Poor fellow! What must I do to provide a solution? I've considered the advice of the locals and of Mr Pedgift the younger. What more succour can I offer?"
Midwinter was about to suggest they leave his problem be. After all, it was a burden familiar enough that he had learned to live with it. Allan was too dear to him to be weighed by it.
But then Allan's face brightened once more. "I've come upon something. Perhaps the other person watching over your slumber must be close by. By your side, so when the need for soothing arrives, you won't be on your own with it."
Midwinter thought this was a terrible inconvenience towards his friend but his protests went unnoticed. Allan's hands pressed on his shoulders and Midwinter looked at him, beset by a quickening of his heart. He witnessed his own worry for Allan reflected back in the uncharacteristic frown of his friend. He protested no further; the attachment he felt so deeply revoked all else.
After supper Allan came to his room, night clothes with him. Midwinter looked on with frayed nerves as Allan climbed into bed with him. The bed had width to it; the two of them didn't have to sleep near one another.
"I must say I find myself quite content in your bed, Midwinter." Allan yawned, stretching both arms above his head. "I shall hope it brings you calm."
Midwinter did not feel calm in the least, but as his friend drifted off he could not help but watch him, resting and asleep. The sight eased him and he studied Allan's face, the lashes as they fell on his cheeks, the pale mole near one corner of his eye, the angelic curl of his hair. A feeling swelled in him, a familiar flutter in his stomach, like the flapping of little wings.
When he awoke, he felt a hand brush hair against the shell of his ear. The room was filled with soft light. He heard the song of the bullfinch, but it was faded and distant by now.
"Good morning," Allan told him gently. The rasp of a night well-slept was evident in his voice.
Midwinter felt a heat on his face upon Allan’s sudden nearness; the touch of his hand was unexpected, albeit welcome. He had at last slept through the night, without noting any strange sounds of the night, without making the twilight his companion. He was at peace, and seeing Allan's overjoyed face the first thing as he rose added to his contentment.
"So at last you have rested. I couldn't be happier about it – even if I should also feel a smidgen of pride, having helped. I did help, did I not? Of course, the credit should be half yours, my friend – you did a fine job of it, as you do with all your work. The most curious thing, that the finest solution was the one that was also the most simple!" Allan went on in this manner while dressing and during breakfast.
Considering Midwinter's ailment cured, the following night the young squire did not repeat the experiment. To his regret, this met him a very tired Midwinter the following morning, who was eager to hide his condition.
"You must not think anything of it," he told Allan with a gloomy tone. "I've endured such nights before and I shall do so from now on with a brave face."
"Nonsense." Allan shook his head. "I shall aid you again, my friend."
Midwinter regarded him with both fondness and hesitation. "I could not ask such a favour from you."
But Allan insisted and thus they shared a bed once again that evening. This time, during his repose, Allan had inched closer to Midwinter. The bullfinch song did not awaken either. Midwinter felt a flutter of steady breath against the back of his neck, a long arm circling his waist. He was warm and the hand touching him was delicate, fingers stroking a path up his torso to his chest. He fell asleep again.
Thus a habit was formed. Midwinter slept for the first time in his life the sleep of the just, unencumbered by worries. Allan began each night on the other end of the bed, but was at Midwinter's side by the morning, his arm around the other and their fingers entangled against Midwinter's chest. As the week wore on, Allan drifted to sleep in the same manner; close to his friend, huddled together in the middle of the bed. Midwinter had never known such warmth and comfort, and such love.
One such peaceful morning Allan's voice murmured words against the skin of Midwinter’s neck, his voice heavy with sleep and unintelligible.
"Pray repeat your words," Midwinter asked in whisper, though he did not want to yet rouse.
"Such closeness makes me long for things, Midwinter, oh – Ozias!"
Midwinter fell silent at the use of his given name, its surprising intimacy. He searched for words of his own. "What do you long for?"
Allan's hands pulled to turn him around until they faced one another. Allan's fingers traced tenderly the tawny skin of Midwinter's cheeks, his jawline and the pulse at his temple. Midwinter's breath caught, his eyes widened.
"You look so beautiful when rested. I only wish we had known this before– in my ignorance I allowed you to suffer for too long. No, don't protest, it is true. Allow me–" Allan was silent for a moment as he took Midwinter's hand. "Allow me to help you from hereon until eternity."
Midwinter felt heat on his face, and nodded. Allan smiled and brought the hand his own held to his lips. "You are everything to me, Ozias."
Midwinter gasped, such was his affected state. "And you to me."
Allan touched his face again, escaping over his dark hair, appreciating as he did. Midwinter allowed himself to do the same, fingers finding the flushed skin of Allan's neck and the chin coarsened with light stubble. Allan's lips fell open and Midwinter's eyes rested on his mouth, studying the shape and the pink hue. His writer's mind raced to compose phrases to capture Allan's beauty but none felt sufficient. His heart quickened its pace.
He held within him the same longing and to witness it in Allan Armadale, his dearest friend, the dearest to him in the world, was a marvel unlike any other.
"I love you," Allan said in a tender confession.
"I love only you," Midwinter answered.
Upon hearing his words, Allan moved with no hesitation. His lips met Midwinter's mouth, ajar in longing. The kiss was soft and the embrace they found themselves in tightly held. They remained in it, enraptured by one another, in love, in ardour.
At last, fate found them together as they ought to be, the two men called Allan Armadale; the two whose fates intertwined until they were one and the same.
The bullfinch ceased its song; finding its mate, building the nest for many bright springs to come.