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England has been full of firsts. Lukewarm, frothy beer. Tea as an elixir. John pushing his legs up around his ears in the back of a Jeep and tounging him open until he squirms and gasps like a girl. Black pudding. Driving on the left. Bringing a firm hand down on John’s ass and feeling the answering groan like a blow of its own. The way English girls look at him with fearful, curious desire—and a few of the fellas too. Yeah, doll, whispered into his ear on a cold, cloudless night. Dark creeping in by late afternoon. John’s hand on the small of his back in the mess; a sure, fleeting touch that directly translates to later.
The wall is cold against his back, and John’s breath is warm against his softening dick. From inside, he can hear the RAF guys, loosened up with shitty beer, burst into song. Gale shudders, and John laughs. “Better having to listen to them than have them join us out here.”
Gale looks down then, at the sight of John Egan on his knees. Something sharp and possessive flares up in him, and it must be written all over his face judging by the way John’s mouth curls up at the corners. “We should—” Gale begins. Since he met John, he has become familiar with the distinct difference between should and whatever ends up happening anyway.
“Yeah,” John says. “Or we could—”
“Where, exactly?”
“Plenty of fields. As far as the eye can see.”
“John—”
There’s a noise then, clearer than any singing. John scrambles back and up, leaning against the opposite wall. He makes a spinning motion with his finger, and Gale, fly still unbuttoned, turns his back. He’s just pretending to finish pissing when DeMarco and a few of the other boys come spilling out of the door.
They barely notice them both, but Gale’s cheeks are hot, and John laughs a little too loudly. They’ve had plenty of practice by now, but it isn’t getting any easier.
-
“Did Buck do this?” Gale asks, his head pillowed on John’s belly. They’re basking, waiting for the next wave of arousal to catch them. At first, Gale was taken aback at just how quickly he could go again when it was with John; a shocked delight at the responsiveness of his own body. Now he’s ready for it—because it will come. That is a certainty. He shifts, and presses a kiss to the hair below his navel, then the thicker, coarser hair below that. Breathes in the hot musk of him.
John stirs. He’s so lazy between rounds, lying there like a lizard bathing in a sunbeam. “Hmm,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. He spreads his legs, totally unbothered by his nudity, and Gale arranges himself between them. “Maybe. Once or twice. Why? You feeling jealous all of a sudden?”
“No,” Gale says—which is a lie. John runs his fingers through Gale’s hair, and Gale leans into the touch. “Just curious.”.
“Oh, just curious huh?” John says. “Just professional curiosity over how well—”
“It’s fine,” Gale says, a little lemony sharpness to it. “You don’t have to tell me actually.”
They’re still for a moment, not breaking eye contact. Then John sighs, all the mischief leaving him on a long exhale. “He did. I was so nervous that someone would catch us that I shot off in his mouth barely a minute into it.”
It’s Gale’s turn to grin. “You know, some would say that’s not a nervous reaction.”
“Yeah, well, call it a moment of self-discovery,” John says. “We fooled around some more after that, a few times. Never quite hit the heights of that afternoon again though.”
The confession is comforting. Ever since John laid eyes on him and laid claim to him with that nickname a moment later, it had felt like he was sharing him with someone long ago, someone far away. Buck, that Buck, wouldn’t have had this. Wouldn’t have spent so much time with John that to some people they couldn’t be spoken of as something separate. Buckyandbuck. He murmurs it into the soft skin of John’s inner thigh, until the hum flows through them both. He can feel his dick filling again, a hot, urgent ache. John lets his head fall back and groans. “Yeah,” he says—and Gale isn’t even touching his dick, just hitching his leg up and waiting. “Yeah, Buck. Just you and me.”
-
They almost fight, when Gale comes back from his first mission. He’s cold with John during the ride back; he knows he is. He lets his focus drift off to some faraway place, and ignores any attempt to leaven the mood. John gives up after a while, and Gale is grateful for it. It’s best that he be left to stew, to simply turn away from John’s hand on his shoulder when they part ways. Better than the alternative.
There is a divide within him; two currents flowing in different directions. On one side, the qualities that bore the brunt of the back of his father's hand. On the other, all the qualities that would please his old man greatly. A capacity for violence, for anger. These are the parts of himself that he keeps buried. John, though, who didn’t tell him that Hell lies above them rather than below, has threatened to set his rage loose; like a beast rattling beneath the floorboards.
“I’m going for a walk,” he says, later. Dark is setting in. He doesn’t know who’s listening. The rain soon sets in but he pays it no mind. Well, he does. English rain is like nothing he has ever experienced. A haze of dampness that permeates right down to the bone; as droning and unrelenting as radio static. Rather, Gale just hasn’t let it deter him.
He walks until he thinks that he might be going around in circles, and then sits on a low stone wall. For a moment, he sees the appeal of smoking—only for something to make him look a lot less dumb sitting out here in the rain. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the shriek of a fox.
He’s not sure how long he sits there for, in the end. Long enough that his eyes become so accustomed to the dark that the glare of a pair of headlights makes him wince.
“There you are.”
Gale turns away. “Leave it,” he says. “I was coming back soon anyway.”
“Well,” John says. “Let me give you a ride.”
“It’s fine.”
“Gale.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
John stares at him, and then sighs. Then he’s getting out of the car, mindless to it blocking this tiny road. He sits next to Gale. Silence. The rain, endless. Then he speaks. “Gave you my deuce, didn’t I?”
“That’s not—You know that wasn’t enough. I deserved to know, and you didn’t tell me.”
“Would you be saying this to anyone else?” John says, and Gale hates that. Hates how beneath the bluster and bravado, he sees straight to your core.
He doesn’t say that he feels like a young, green boy, that for so much of his time with John he’s been trying to catch up. To learn how to be a lover, a liar. For these things to become as easy as breathing to him, and so closely tied together he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to separate them. Now, this. He’s trying to get his feet under him again, while John stands sure and steady.
“I was frightened,” he says instead.
“So was I,” John says. He knocks his knee against Gale’s. “For you. The whole time.”
It’s strange to live your days in a state of anticipatory grief; to wave at Death while he’s still a little way down the street. Do you tempt him closer, if you let him know you’re ready for him?
“I’m sorry,” he says, his anger ebbing. Flowing out of him and cooling in the rainfall.
John kisses him then. For a moment, that’s all there is. When he stops, he stays close, their foreheads touching. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
-
“Nah. I ain’t buying it.”
“I’m tellin’ you. Never been turned down for a dance. Ever.”
Curt, keen-eyed, fox-clever Curt, wags a finger at John. “Some girls just don’t like dancing. Or ain’t cut out for it. What you gonna do if you’re out with a broad with two left feet?”
John sways a little. “You just gotta know the right moves, Biddick.” He cracks his knuckles. “I’d be delighted to demonstrate, actually.”
They’re having to shout a little to be heard over the sound of the band. John’s already been up there, crooning like a tom cat on the prowl. Gale had done his very best not to catch his eye. It’s not—it’s not dangerous, in front of their friends. They’re both smart enough to not get caught out, even when John is three sheets to the wind. Still.
John, however, always likes to push things a little further. He holds a hand out, and everyone’s head swivels in its direction. Right at Gale. He feels his cheeks colour. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“Come on,” John says. “Is my best friend really going to break my winning streak?” He grins—lascivious to Gale, shit-eating to everyone else. “Besides. Curt just described you. Two left feet. Consider it a lesson.”
“He’s as pretty as a dame,” someone, maybe Douglass, jokes. There’s a smattering of sniggers, a firm slap on Gale’s back.
He takes John's hand to whoops and cheers. John makes a fuss of setting his shoulders right—no slouching, Buck—and then his big hands are on Gale’s waist. “Just like this, Curt,” John says. “You just gotta make her feel nice.” His eyes meet Gale’s then, and the look on his face is unbearable. “Nice and safe.”
Gale really does have two left feet, but John leads them in a circle, keeping time with the slow tune the band are playing. Like this, they’re close enough to speak without anyone else hearing them. It feels more dangerous than any of their dalliances in alleyways and corridors. Gale shivers. “Needed to prove your point that badly, did you?” he asks.
John shrugs. “Saw my chance and took it.”
Somewhere to their right, Gale can hear Curt yelling, laughing—but the sound is formless now. Gale lets himself relax; forgets that this is a joke. The song is drawing to a close, and he shuts his eyes. For a long, gentle moment, this is all there is. Him and John, dancing to a sweet song.
“See,” John says when he opens them again. “You forgot about your feet. You just let yourself feel it.”
“That’s it?” Gale says. He feels a little dazed.
“That’s all it ever is,” John says. He lets go of Gale’s hand then, makes a show of grabbing his shoulders and shaking them. “What can I say, gentlemen,” he says to everyone else. “I’ve got the magic touch.”
Later, they watch from the bar. Their earlier antics set everyone else off, slow dancing under John’s tutelage giving way to something resembling a polka. The mood is lively, the hour late. John takes a long, long drag from a cigarette.
“That was risky, you know.”
“Hmm.” An exhale, a momentary smoke screen. “Worth it. It’s nice to dance with you.”
“Even with the two left feet?”
John laughs, light and easy. “Even with those. Besides, I just think you need the right partner.”
-
Gale has never, ever fucked anyone like John. Even with all the time in the world, Gale doesn't think he could come close to touching the sides of his desire; the vast, infinite well of it. He has never found John unwilling. Here in England, from hangar to hayloft, in whatever hidden spot they can find, he wants him.
Now, John kisses him like he’s trying to eat him, to draw as much of Gale inside him as he can. Gale’s hand is slick with Vaseline, and he gropes at John’s ass to wipe some of it away. Then, softer, to where Gale is moving in and out of him; to the juncture of their pleasure. John groans, and his thighs shake as he lifts up a little. A moment, a shaky breath or two. Then he’s sinking back down, panting.
John always runs hot, but right now, with Gale in him and under him, he’s like a furnace. He’s flushed all over, his hair curling wildly—and he’s smiling, laughing, wiping his forehead with one hand, jerking himself off unhurriedly with the other. “You gonna lie there and stare all night?” he says to Gale. “Let me do all the work?”
They don't have all night. They have an hour, if that, before someone comes looking for them.
Gale swats John’s hand away, and watches as his dick slaps against his belly. “Alright,” he says. “Since you asked so nicely.”
The first time they'd done this, Gale had lain there, prone, for fear that anything he did would shatter the moment. Or that he'd come as quickly as a virgin. Sex had always been a little like that for him, until he met John, who was so naked in his enjoyment of the whole thing.
“Shit,” John says. He leans back, one hand gripping Gale's shoulder hard to steady himself. “God, you're something when you're like this, you know. Never thought I'd get it out of you.”
“You're very persuasive.” He’s giving it to John now, really and truly, and John lets out a whimper every time Gale drives up into him. He bites his lip. Gale feels like he might go mad.
“Don’t close your eyes,” John says. He’s trembling. “Look at me. Look at me. Tell me what you want.”
Gale gasps. “You know—”
“Because I want this,” John says. “Morning, noon, and fuckin’ night.”
There’s precious time for actual conversation after that, although John isn’t quiet. He never is. Once he starts to beg, Gale bites down on the meat of his pec, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. John groans, cradling the back of Gale’s head to hold him there. Pressed so close, Gale can feel John’s cock twitch and jerk between their bodies. He gets his mouth around John’s nipple and bites down again.
“Christ,” John says—and it’s more of a sob. “Warn a girl before you start playing with her tits.”
Gale comes without warning at that, the hot, heady agony of it tearing through him like a wildfire. For a moment he can’t do anything other than pant against John’s chest. Then he’s fumbling for his dick, his hand shaking. John gets there first, and they bring him off together. When John's orgasm comes, it’s a long, drawn out thing that makes Gale’s toes curl, such is the way John tightens and shakes around him.
They didn’t use a rubber. Haven’t on this side of the Atlantic. Always makes cleaning up tougher, but there’s something about that side of things that Gale likes. The first time he’d wiped his own cum from John’s thighs, it’d turned him on so much they were going again in minutes.
“God, you’re good,” John says. He tilts Gale’s chin up and kisses him.
There’s precious little afterglow to be had, but Gale basks in it anyway.
-
He sees some of his father in John when he leasts expects it. He’s not looking for it—he suspects that would be something of a complex—but it’s probably the reason John has never quite seemed like a stranger. He shares a recklessness with Gale’s old man. He hoards vices like he can trade them in for something. Gambling, drinking. Fucking.
There’s little kindness in courting death. There’s little kindness in falling in love with a man like your father. Gale can say though, hand-on-heart, Sunday church clothes honest, that John doesn’t have a mean streak that threatens to cleave him in two. This is the difference. John won a bike for him. Three months ago, after a training exercise that went south, John wrapped his broken ribs with the tenderness you’d reserve for a newborn.
One afternoon, they bike around Norfolk, meandering down twisty-turny country roads and through villages with strange names. Gale doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to the English weather, but today, the skies are clear, the breeze crisp rather than chilling. Ahead of him, John lifts a hand and rakes his fingers through the leaves of a tree turned stooped and gnarled with age. Ahead of them, the flat plain of the countryside stretches on and on, green as far as the eye can see. It’s easy to forget why they’re here for a moment; easy to entertain the idea of taking a boat down the Broads and do nothing other than watch the dragonflies dart through the reeds.
They eat dinner—a couple of pies John charmed out of a pretty girl working behind the bar of a pub a few miles back—sitting cross-legged in a field. John nudges Gale’s leg with his foot, mouth full of food. “This is nice, huh? It’s been nice.” He grins. There are crumbs at the edge of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Gale says. He’d like to remember John like this. He’s not a man given to indulgences, but this is a gift he’ll grant himself gladly. The wind through the grass, the rosebud-pink sky, their bikes propped up against a tree. John smiling at him, pleased with himself and a little drunk on it. “It’s real, real nice.”
-
Curt is dead. They make it to Africa, Gale missing the runway, and Curt is dead. John doesn’t want to believe it, and Gale doesn’t have it in him to argue. There’s little point in it. Right now, the truth is behind them, northwards, way back behind whatever imaginary line separates continents. It’ll come though. It’ll find them.
This is the furthest from home Gale has ever been. He lies back on the warm earth and lets the heat rise up into him. Beside him, John sleeps. No one cares that he’s curled close to Gale, his head resting on his shoulder. After what they just survived, he notices that all the men are seeking small measures of comfort from each other.
In his head, he plots a course from Manitowoc to Casper. Lifts a finger and traces a line across the sky. He jostles John as he does. “Whatcha’ doing?” John asks, voice slow with sleep.
“Hoping,” Gale says.
If John dies, what will he be left with? The memory of him in the cockpit during training, limned in golden cloudbreak light, his smile as sure and monumental as the curve of the earth. That was when Gale knew that he loved him. He didn’t say it—still hasn’t—but that was the moment the course of his life was irrevocably changed.
He wonders what it will be for John. How he’ll remember Gale. He looks at him then, and it must be right there on his face.
“Don’t,” John says—the John in the here and now, the John lying with him on the sun-baked earth. “Don’t go there.” Then, softer. “Don’t go.”
There are no promises in war. Only a fool willing to make a losing bet. Still, there’s a first time for everything.
“Alright,” Gale says. “I’m not going anywhere.”