{fic} the mirror crack'd from side to side . part seven {davenport&roger} r. 1923
.part seven {davenport&roger} r. 1923
winter
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii.
Eddison Manor
December, 1923
christmas day
The church was cold. Roger could see his own breath rising in white clouds as he sung each carol half-heartedly, blushing slightly each time the congregation sang of Mary's womb. Did she mind, years later, that people would sing of her feminine charm, he wondered? Letting his eyes drift from the vicar, Roger gazed at the trefoil windows, bright decorations and holly wreaths decorating the arched frames. Candles burned in sconces, lighting the otherwise darkened church, and at the back, beside the font, a slightly forlorn looking tree spread it's branches dutifully.
Glancing across the stone and wood of the sanctuary, he suddenly caught sight of Davenport two seats along, singing each word with authority. Strange, thought Roger, that church brought every class together under one roof, all equals for that short time between collection and sermon. Davenport had decided to come with the family at last minute. Lady Eddison had invited him on account of his solitude at the manor. Most of the staff had left for Christmas but Davenport, not wanting to go home, had asked to stay at the manor for the holiday season. Roger had been secretly thrilled when his mother had agreed on the request quite readily.
"He's a lovely boy, it shan't hurt," she'd said to Roger over tea one afternoon.
"He seems like any other servant," Roger lied, sipping his tea.
"No, I don't think so. He appears genuinely pleased to do anything for you."
Roger had repeated this conversation to Davenport later in the night. He had been only too happy to prove how pleased he was to doing anything for Roger.
Swallowing at the mental image created from his thoughts, Roger sat as the carol finished.
"Beautiful, beautiful," the vicar mused as the organ dipped into silence and the last shuffle of bodies against wood had died down. Roger regarded the vicar with an odd sort of expression. The reverend, Golightly, was always a nice sort of fellow, oddly invested in the family's business but not so that it concerned anyone but Roger. He'd always seemed too young for the priesthood; Roger had always assumed age brought spiritual wisdom, just as it did knowledge; the man seemed to have little of both.
Listening to the sermon with the required amount of interest, Roger found that time passed quickly. As they stood to sing the last carol, he looked again out of the large windows. Watery yellow light fell through the panes, illuminating the congregation in a sort of ethereal glow. He smiled peacefully, a warmth growing in his chest that could only be conjured on a festive morn, one reminiscent of Christmases as a small boy.
The crowd mingled a little after the service. Roger kept looking at Davenport; his hands were firmly shoved in his pockets as he scuffed his heel awkwardly on the stone floor, eyes shifting from face to face as though taking everyone in. Nodding his head towards the door, Roger gave him his allowance to leave with a slight grin which was returned momentarily.
Upon leaving the small, stone building Roger noticed that the clouds had gathered ominously, thick and grey above the little church. Soft snow flakes had already begun to fall, wetting Roger's rosy cheeks as he gazed upwards. As he looked down, he could see some of the parishioners running for cover under trees and umbrellas. His own mother and father were in the car, waving for him to get in.
"I'll see you later!" he called, placing his hands in his pockets and beginning the walk home. Seconds later, Davenport was by his side with an umbrella.
"I say, how are you so brilliant?"
"Brilliant?" laughed Davenport, clenching and unclenching his free hand to bring some warmth into it. His nose was tinged pink at the end, lips such a pale blue in contrast.
"You always come prepared! You look frozen," Roger added suddenly, unwrapping his scarf to give the younger man.
"Normally I'd say no." Wedging the umbrella between his legs, Davenport quickly tied the scarf around his neck before righting the brolly once again. "But on this occasion chivalry can go kiss my--"
"Gentlemen! Lovely to see you at church together." Golightly was smiling at them both, barely shivering the arctic temperatures. "I do hope you've found something to take away with you."
Davenport, often awkward in the presence of those he presumed better than himself, mumbled his appreciation whilst Roger enthusiastically praised the comparison of Oscar Wilde with Judas.
"Truly amazing," he finished, eyes sparkling. "I don't know how one does it."
Smiling benignly, Golightly allowed them to take their leave.
"I don't know how you do it," said Davenport once they were out of earshot.
"What?"
"Charmer," Davenport replied simply, allowing himself to walk a little closer to Roger. Their hands brushed and Roger felt a wave like electricity go through him; he grinned wolfishly.
"Haven't seen you around the past few nights--" he began, chuckling as Davenport went to place a well-aimed blow via an elbow to his side.
"Some of us have lives which don't involve having someone to do everything for you, Sir," Davenport retorted. "And were you taking anything in about Wilde being the worst kind of sinner?"
"I bet he had a lot of fun whilst doing the sinning though, eh?"
"I'm sure he did, sir."
They laughed, the sound oddly echoed under their umbrella.
"I'll be in Golightly's good books for weeks now, bringing a lost soul into a house of worship."
"I'm not that lost. Misguided but never lost."
Roger took Davenport's hand as soon as they walked into nearby field. The grass around the edges was crisp under their shoes as they trod their footprints into the haw-frost. Through his leather glove, Roger could feel Davenport tracing the stitching with his thumb. He smiled to himself, dimly aware of days when he didn't have someone by his side, watching, protecting.
"It's strange how the world seems entirely more delightful when everything gets hidden, isn't it?" asked Roger as Davenport swapped the umbrella into his other, less frozen hand.
"Strange," agreed Davenport, smirking.
They went on like that, for the walk that separated everything they were from everything they had to be, back at the house. They laughed and teased like lovers, lost in the blanket of the increasingly falling snow, so at ease, so unaffected by their positions. Davenport tripped twice in the snowy grass, falling both times on the umbrella so that by the end of their journey they had nothing left for shelter save ruined spindles and tattered fabric.
Their sides ached by the time they reached the manor, their lungs hurting from the laughter and coldness alike. Roger took Davenport by the hand before he had chance to run up the steps into the house.
"Roger, anyone could see--"
"And if they did they'd see nothing but a master requesting of his servant that he should join him later in the comfort of his--"
"Yes. Yes, alright. Whatever you say."
Rolling his eyes, Davenport allowed Roger to pull him closer. Davenport's hands were cold in Roger's own as he took off his gloves to lace their fingers together. They both laughed as they leant together, foreheads all but touching as they spoke quietly to each other.
"I do like days like this."
Davenport waved his hand. "With the nothingness you mean."
"Yes. The nothingness. It always brings a lot of somethingness, don't you find?"
Laughing again, Davenport brushed his nose against Roger's. "And now I must leave you," he said softly. "Your mother may love me but I'm obliged to eat alone, I'm afraid."
"She wouldn't mind--" Roger began, nosing his lover's icy cheek, but Davenport cut him off.
"I would. It's not the done thing, is it?" Taking Roger's hand, he kissed it chastely, a small grin curving his lips. "I'll pop by later this evening."
"I'll be ready and waiting, ol' chap."
"Bet you will." Jogging up the front steps, Davenport winked and disappeared from sight.
"Happy Christmas to you too," sighed Roger, smiling stupidly before walking into the warmth of the house.
---
later
"Let me in, let me in!"
Crawling under the bed sheets, Davenport nudged Roger to the other side of the bed and lay shivering as beside him the pillows trembled with Roger's obvious laughter.
"Stop that. It's not funny. My shirt got snagged on a nail, didn't it? I didn't mean to come up like this. Oi, stop it," he muttered with another elbow nudge to Roger's ribs.
"I'm sorry, dearest James, but the situation rather warrants--"
"It don't warrant anything, Curbishley." Feeling around in the darkness, Davenport could just make out the large panel of fabric that had torn in the region of his thigh and buttocks area. "Bugger that, I'll have to sew it tomorrow."
He could feel Roger grinning beside him.
"It's your fault." Davenport glanced at the figure beside him, nothing but a shadow in the dim light. "You should get better maintenance of your halls."
"I wonder who's responsible for--"
"Not me, thanks."
A hand crept over Davenport's thigh suddenly, warm and coaxing. Despite everything, he felt himself relax under the feel of Roger's touch.
"Maintain me in the morning," Roger growled playfully.
"Ding dong, merrily on high," Davenport mocked, his jest turning into a gasp as Roger curved his fingers over his cock.
"You know, I really tend to forget how wonderful--"
Davenport rolled on top of Roger and silenced him with a kiss.
"Happy Christmas," he said breathily once he'd pulled back, allowing for Roger to catch his breath. Roger curled his fingers into Davenport's hair and kissed him again, not letting him go until their lungs were aching.
Better than nothingness, he thought, and smiled.
---
new year's eve
Roger was standing in the study when he caught sight of the postman through the panes of glass. Hands clasped around a cup of coffee, he was startled when he watched the man's bicycle slip on a patch of black ice and go skidding into the ornamental figure of a fairly disturbing gargoyle.
"Hullo there! Are you alright?" he called jogging out of the front door, mug abandoned on the front step as he went to help the postman stand.
The postman brushed himself off before going to Roger and handing him a stack of letters.
"Weather's worsening," he mumbled, sniffing for effect. "Reckon we'll be snowed in by dinner."
"Yes, well I shouldn't wonder what with the cold." Roger smiled at the postman who merely nodded. "I say, you are alright though, aren't you?"
"Never better, lad."
Without another worth the postman returned to his bicycle and rode away with a short tinkle of his bell. Hmphing in confusion, Roger took the letters and his coffee back indoors, and headed for the study once again. It was only once he'd thrown the letter on the bureau that a name stood out on the top envelope.
"I have a letter for you," Roger said once he'd finally hunted Davenport down. He was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and looking rather relieved to have some distraction from his work. Cook was somewhere busy searching for herbs, he explained. Roger hurriedly handed him the letter, not wanting to be caught mooching around. The day after Christmas, she'd come in to find Roger and Davenport very nearly kissing beside the oven. Ever since, Roger had been decidedly careful about which corners he had pushed Davenport into.
"Resilient sort of fellows, these postman," he finished after telling Davenport the story of the bike and rider alike. There was no reponse. In Davenport's hand the opened letter was trembling slightly. "Is there anything the matter?"
Davenport seemed distracted. He shook his head, but the way he avoided Roger's gaze seemed strange.
"Nothing," he murmured, crumpling the envelope into his pocket. "Resilient. Postman. Yeah, they, really--" Turning around, Davenport resumed the skinning of his potatoes. "I'll see you later. Cook'll want these finished and I ain't got all day."
"James?"
"Master Curbishley, what you doin' down here again? Are you sure you don't want to become a cook?"
"No, Hart. Quite sure, thank you," replied Roger, still watching the back of Davenport as Mrs Hart came bustling in from the store cupboard. "Just causing trouble as usual."
"With greatest respects, Sir, could you cause it somewhere else? I'm havin' a right awful day of it and you distracting my staff is exactly what I don't need."
Laughing at the woman's frankness, Roger refrained from leaning on the kitchen table any longer. He paused behind Davenport, wanting to say something, but an evil eye from Hart made him rethink the decision. Wordlessly, he left the warm kitchen for the slightly colder hallway and walked slowly away, his heart heavy.
---
It wasn't until evening that Roger saw Davenport again.
"Roger?"
Roger looked up from his book, pleased when he saw Davenport standing next to him in his coat and day-clothes. He was also holding Roger's own coat. "Got the evening off?"
"Tomorrow too," replied Davenport with a small smile.
"Well that's jolly good news, surely!" Beaming up at him, Roger shut his book with a hollow clap.
"I need to speak to you."
Frowning instantly, Roger said; "What's the matter?"
"Not here. Upstairs."
Thrusting Roger's coat into his hands, Davenport left him to get up out of his chair and follow. He was taken to the abandoned room where they'd so often been before, led on again as Davenport slid open the shuttered window and climbed out onto the level rooftop.
Roger shrugged into his woollen overcoat before emerging into the frigid temperatures. The snow had been falling for hours now, the distant shapes of the forest nothing but grey and white shadows.
"I--"
Something was terribly wrong. Roger could tell by the way Davenport was holding himself that something bad had happened. His hands were clenched shut, chin pointed down so as not to look Roger in the eye.
"James?" Roger asked tentatively, curling his fingers around Davenport's cheek to tilt his face upwards. His skin was so cold to the touch. Around them the world was slowly turning white, the fields in the distance already lost to the swirl of snow. Wet flakes had begun to find their way around the small overhang covering the roof and were making their hair and eyelashes lace-like. Taking Roger's hand with one of his own, Davenport forced a letter into it and closed it tightly with both hands.
As Davenport walked over to the edge of the roof, Roger unfurled the crumpled letter. It was dated a month previous, and the address was written in Davenport's slanted handwriting. There was also a large, red stamp across the cream surface. Roger felt his stomach drop. DECEASED, the accusing ink read beside Davenport's parents' names.
"But, they can't--" Roger, realising how absurd the words sounded, became silent instantly.
"I wrote to a friend in the town over. I heard word this morning. Fever's what done it. It was over in a matter of days. No-one had contacted me 'cause they couldn't remember where I was stationed." Davenport delivered each sentence like a sum remembered at school, reciting the words instead of speaking them. "That and post isn't so grand this time of year."
"James--" Roger folded the letter and offered it to Davenport who pocketed it without looking. "I'll take you there myself. Right now if you want. We'll go and see, and maybe--"
"It's what I've wanted for so long--" Davenport's voice broke as a tear ran from his eye, over his smooth cheek, landing with a delicate splash on the collar of his coat.
Crossing their small sanctuary, Roger rested his chin on Davenport's head as he embraced him tightly. About them the snow fell more heavily: the world was silent, as was the case when nothing but ice littered the landscape, so quiet that all Roger could hear was the ragged breathing of Davenport as he pulled away and sat on the edge of the rooftop.
Roger joined him, keeping a small distance between their bodies. He didn't know what to do. So often had Davenport comforted him when his world had become troubled. Yet that was the problem, Roger decided. Davenport was always so strong. To see him as he was only caused pain. Deciding on heart over head, Roger reached for Davenport's hand and squeezed it, letting him know that he wasn't alone.
"Tomorrow," muttered Davenport after an age of silence. The two men were shivering by now, their coats both blanketed in white. Roger was the first to stand, wincing at the numbness in his leg. He didn't let go of Davenport's wrist until they reached the window, both crawling inside with more difficultly than usual due to their frostbitten toes and fingers. "We'll see the house tomorrow," he finished, taking off his wet coat and hanging it over the back of a chair once he'd managed the journey indoors. He removed his shirt also, revealed skin damp and red with the cold. Roger reached for a blanket off the old, rickety bed in the abandoned room, before rubbing Davenport with it to get some warmth back in his body.
"Come to my room," he whispered gently, picking up Davenport's abandoned clothes and taking them with him as he followed Davenport out of the room and along the hallway.
Davenport didn't protest when Roger shuffled him into his bedroom, didn't worry about the possibility of being found there come morning. Slowly Roger led him to his bed, shrugging out of his own coat and shirt, curling under the cotton sheets with Davenport by his side. They lay there, caught up in the soundlessness of an empty house and a whitened landscape, barely touching as they weighed each other up.
"I'm so alone, Roger," Davenport whispered a long time after, surprising Roger who had thought him asleep.
"But you've got me," Roger replied, his heart beating painfully in his chest.
Davenport didn't say anything. His head slumped against Roger's shoulder as he tried in vain to block out the white-noise and static that the rushing of blood seemed to create in his head. Visions of his parents faces, blurred through an age of not seeing them, flickered blankly before his eyes. He tried to remember the last words not said in anger to the couple, felt himself begin to weep when he realised that he couldn't remember any. Roger's shushes did nothing to console the heartache inside as he curled into himself and allowed the sobs to come.
Outside the window, nothing could be seen. Only an endless white landscape continued beyond everything within the small, dark bedroom.
Davenport knew the feeling of emptiness well.
Letting himself get lost in the feel of Roger's arms, he silently cried himself to sleep.
winter
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii.
Eddison Manor
December, 1923
christmas day
The church was cold. Roger could see his own breath rising in white clouds as he sung each carol half-heartedly, blushing slightly each time the congregation sang of Mary's womb. Did she mind, years later, that people would sing of her feminine charm, he wondered? Letting his eyes drift from the vicar, Roger gazed at the trefoil windows, bright decorations and holly wreaths decorating the arched frames. Candles burned in sconces, lighting the otherwise darkened church, and at the back, beside the font, a slightly forlorn looking tree spread it's branches dutifully.
Glancing across the stone and wood of the sanctuary, he suddenly caught sight of Davenport two seats along, singing each word with authority. Strange, thought Roger, that church brought every class together under one roof, all equals for that short time between collection and sermon. Davenport had decided to come with the family at last minute. Lady Eddison had invited him on account of his solitude at the manor. Most of the staff had left for Christmas but Davenport, not wanting to go home, had asked to stay at the manor for the holiday season. Roger had been secretly thrilled when his mother had agreed on the request quite readily.
"He's a lovely boy, it shan't hurt," she'd said to Roger over tea one afternoon.
"He seems like any other servant," Roger lied, sipping his tea.
"No, I don't think so. He appears genuinely pleased to do anything for you."
Roger had repeated this conversation to Davenport later in the night. He had been only too happy to prove how pleased he was to doing anything for Roger.
Swallowing at the mental image created from his thoughts, Roger sat as the carol finished.
"Beautiful, beautiful," the vicar mused as the organ dipped into silence and the last shuffle of bodies against wood had died down. Roger regarded the vicar with an odd sort of expression. The reverend, Golightly, was always a nice sort of fellow, oddly invested in the family's business but not so that it concerned anyone but Roger. He'd always seemed too young for the priesthood; Roger had always assumed age brought spiritual wisdom, just as it did knowledge; the man seemed to have little of both.
Listening to the sermon with the required amount of interest, Roger found that time passed quickly. As they stood to sing the last carol, he looked again out of the large windows. Watery yellow light fell through the panes, illuminating the congregation in a sort of ethereal glow. He smiled peacefully, a warmth growing in his chest that could only be conjured on a festive morn, one reminiscent of Christmases as a small boy.
The crowd mingled a little after the service. Roger kept looking at Davenport; his hands were firmly shoved in his pockets as he scuffed his heel awkwardly on the stone floor, eyes shifting from face to face as though taking everyone in. Nodding his head towards the door, Roger gave him his allowance to leave with a slight grin which was returned momentarily.
Upon leaving the small, stone building Roger noticed that the clouds had gathered ominously, thick and grey above the little church. Soft snow flakes had already begun to fall, wetting Roger's rosy cheeks as he gazed upwards. As he looked down, he could see some of the parishioners running for cover under trees and umbrellas. His own mother and father were in the car, waving for him to get in.
"I'll see you later!" he called, placing his hands in his pockets and beginning the walk home. Seconds later, Davenport was by his side with an umbrella.
"I say, how are you so brilliant?"
"Brilliant?" laughed Davenport, clenching and unclenching his free hand to bring some warmth into it. His nose was tinged pink at the end, lips such a pale blue in contrast.
"You always come prepared! You look frozen," Roger added suddenly, unwrapping his scarf to give the younger man.
"Normally I'd say no." Wedging the umbrella between his legs, Davenport quickly tied the scarf around his neck before righting the brolly once again. "But on this occasion chivalry can go kiss my--"
"Gentlemen! Lovely to see you at church together." Golightly was smiling at them both, barely shivering the arctic temperatures. "I do hope you've found something to take away with you."
Davenport, often awkward in the presence of those he presumed better than himself, mumbled his appreciation whilst Roger enthusiastically praised the comparison of Oscar Wilde with Judas.
"Truly amazing," he finished, eyes sparkling. "I don't know how one does it."
Smiling benignly, Golightly allowed them to take their leave.
"I don't know how you do it," said Davenport once they were out of earshot.
"What?"
"Charmer," Davenport replied simply, allowing himself to walk a little closer to Roger. Their hands brushed and Roger felt a wave like electricity go through him; he grinned wolfishly.
"Haven't seen you around the past few nights--" he began, chuckling as Davenport went to place a well-aimed blow via an elbow to his side.
"Some of us have lives which don't involve having someone to do everything for you, Sir," Davenport retorted. "And were you taking anything in about Wilde being the worst kind of sinner?"
"I bet he had a lot of fun whilst doing the sinning though, eh?"
"I'm sure he did, sir."
They laughed, the sound oddly echoed under their umbrella.
"I'll be in Golightly's good books for weeks now, bringing a lost soul into a house of worship."
"I'm not that lost. Misguided but never lost."
Roger took Davenport's hand as soon as they walked into nearby field. The grass around the edges was crisp under their shoes as they trod their footprints into the haw-frost. Through his leather glove, Roger could feel Davenport tracing the stitching with his thumb. He smiled to himself, dimly aware of days when he didn't have someone by his side, watching, protecting.
"It's strange how the world seems entirely more delightful when everything gets hidden, isn't it?" asked Roger as Davenport swapped the umbrella into his other, less frozen hand.
"Strange," agreed Davenport, smirking.
They went on like that, for the walk that separated everything they were from everything they had to be, back at the house. They laughed and teased like lovers, lost in the blanket of the increasingly falling snow, so at ease, so unaffected by their positions. Davenport tripped twice in the snowy grass, falling both times on the umbrella so that by the end of their journey they had nothing left for shelter save ruined spindles and tattered fabric.
Their sides ached by the time they reached the manor, their lungs hurting from the laughter and coldness alike. Roger took Davenport by the hand before he had chance to run up the steps into the house.
"Roger, anyone could see--"
"And if they did they'd see nothing but a master requesting of his servant that he should join him later in the comfort of his--"
"Yes. Yes, alright. Whatever you say."
Rolling his eyes, Davenport allowed Roger to pull him closer. Davenport's hands were cold in Roger's own as he took off his gloves to lace their fingers together. They both laughed as they leant together, foreheads all but touching as they spoke quietly to each other.
"I do like days like this."
Davenport waved his hand. "With the nothingness you mean."
"Yes. The nothingness. It always brings a lot of somethingness, don't you find?"
Laughing again, Davenport brushed his nose against Roger's. "And now I must leave you," he said softly. "Your mother may love me but I'm obliged to eat alone, I'm afraid."
"She wouldn't mind--" Roger began, nosing his lover's icy cheek, but Davenport cut him off.
"I would. It's not the done thing, is it?" Taking Roger's hand, he kissed it chastely, a small grin curving his lips. "I'll pop by later this evening."
"I'll be ready and waiting, ol' chap."
"Bet you will." Jogging up the front steps, Davenport winked and disappeared from sight.
"Happy Christmas to you too," sighed Roger, smiling stupidly before walking into the warmth of the house.
---
later
"Let me in, let me in!"
Crawling under the bed sheets, Davenport nudged Roger to the other side of the bed and lay shivering as beside him the pillows trembled with Roger's obvious laughter.
"Stop that. It's not funny. My shirt got snagged on a nail, didn't it? I didn't mean to come up like this. Oi, stop it," he muttered with another elbow nudge to Roger's ribs.
"I'm sorry, dearest James, but the situation rather warrants--"
"It don't warrant anything, Curbishley." Feeling around in the darkness, Davenport could just make out the large panel of fabric that had torn in the region of his thigh and buttocks area. "Bugger that, I'll have to sew it tomorrow."
He could feel Roger grinning beside him.
"It's your fault." Davenport glanced at the figure beside him, nothing but a shadow in the dim light. "You should get better maintenance of your halls."
"I wonder who's responsible for--"
"Not me, thanks."
A hand crept over Davenport's thigh suddenly, warm and coaxing. Despite everything, he felt himself relax under the feel of Roger's touch.
"Maintain me in the morning," Roger growled playfully.
"Ding dong, merrily on high," Davenport mocked, his jest turning into a gasp as Roger curved his fingers over his cock.
"You know, I really tend to forget how wonderful--"
Davenport rolled on top of Roger and silenced him with a kiss.
"Happy Christmas," he said breathily once he'd pulled back, allowing for Roger to catch his breath. Roger curled his fingers into Davenport's hair and kissed him again, not letting him go until their lungs were aching.
Better than nothingness, he thought, and smiled.
---
new year's eve
Roger was standing in the study when he caught sight of the postman through the panes of glass. Hands clasped around a cup of coffee, he was startled when he watched the man's bicycle slip on a patch of black ice and go skidding into the ornamental figure of a fairly disturbing gargoyle.
"Hullo there! Are you alright?" he called jogging out of the front door, mug abandoned on the front step as he went to help the postman stand.
The postman brushed himself off before going to Roger and handing him a stack of letters.
"Weather's worsening," he mumbled, sniffing for effect. "Reckon we'll be snowed in by dinner."
"Yes, well I shouldn't wonder what with the cold." Roger smiled at the postman who merely nodded. "I say, you are alright though, aren't you?"
"Never better, lad."
Without another worth the postman returned to his bicycle and rode away with a short tinkle of his bell. Hmphing in confusion, Roger took the letters and his coffee back indoors, and headed for the study once again. It was only once he'd thrown the letter on the bureau that a name stood out on the top envelope.
"I have a letter for you," Roger said once he'd finally hunted Davenport down. He was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and looking rather relieved to have some distraction from his work. Cook was somewhere busy searching for herbs, he explained. Roger hurriedly handed him the letter, not wanting to be caught mooching around. The day after Christmas, she'd come in to find Roger and Davenport very nearly kissing beside the oven. Ever since, Roger had been decidedly careful about which corners he had pushed Davenport into.
"Resilient sort of fellows, these postman," he finished after telling Davenport the story of the bike and rider alike. There was no reponse. In Davenport's hand the opened letter was trembling slightly. "Is there anything the matter?"
Davenport seemed distracted. He shook his head, but the way he avoided Roger's gaze seemed strange.
"Nothing," he murmured, crumpling the envelope into his pocket. "Resilient. Postman. Yeah, they, really--" Turning around, Davenport resumed the skinning of his potatoes. "I'll see you later. Cook'll want these finished and I ain't got all day."
"James?"
"Master Curbishley, what you doin' down here again? Are you sure you don't want to become a cook?"
"No, Hart. Quite sure, thank you," replied Roger, still watching the back of Davenport as Mrs Hart came bustling in from the store cupboard. "Just causing trouble as usual."
"With greatest respects, Sir, could you cause it somewhere else? I'm havin' a right awful day of it and you distracting my staff is exactly what I don't need."
Laughing at the woman's frankness, Roger refrained from leaning on the kitchen table any longer. He paused behind Davenport, wanting to say something, but an evil eye from Hart made him rethink the decision. Wordlessly, he left the warm kitchen for the slightly colder hallway and walked slowly away, his heart heavy.
---
It wasn't until evening that Roger saw Davenport again.
"Roger?"
Roger looked up from his book, pleased when he saw Davenport standing next to him in his coat and day-clothes. He was also holding Roger's own coat. "Got the evening off?"
"Tomorrow too," replied Davenport with a small smile.
"Well that's jolly good news, surely!" Beaming up at him, Roger shut his book with a hollow clap.
"I need to speak to you."
Frowning instantly, Roger said; "What's the matter?"
"Not here. Upstairs."
Thrusting Roger's coat into his hands, Davenport left him to get up out of his chair and follow. He was taken to the abandoned room where they'd so often been before, led on again as Davenport slid open the shuttered window and climbed out onto the level rooftop.
Roger shrugged into his woollen overcoat before emerging into the frigid temperatures. The snow had been falling for hours now, the distant shapes of the forest nothing but grey and white shadows.
"I--"
Something was terribly wrong. Roger could tell by the way Davenport was holding himself that something bad had happened. His hands were clenched shut, chin pointed down so as not to look Roger in the eye.
"James?" Roger asked tentatively, curling his fingers around Davenport's cheek to tilt his face upwards. His skin was so cold to the touch. Around them the world was slowly turning white, the fields in the distance already lost to the swirl of snow. Wet flakes had begun to find their way around the small overhang covering the roof and were making their hair and eyelashes lace-like. Taking Roger's hand with one of his own, Davenport forced a letter into it and closed it tightly with both hands.
As Davenport walked over to the edge of the roof, Roger unfurled the crumpled letter. It was dated a month previous, and the address was written in Davenport's slanted handwriting. There was also a large, red stamp across the cream surface. Roger felt his stomach drop. DECEASED, the accusing ink read beside Davenport's parents' names.
"But, they can't--" Roger, realising how absurd the words sounded, became silent instantly.
"I wrote to a friend in the town over. I heard word this morning. Fever's what done it. It was over in a matter of days. No-one had contacted me 'cause they couldn't remember where I was stationed." Davenport delivered each sentence like a sum remembered at school, reciting the words instead of speaking them. "That and post isn't so grand this time of year."
"James--" Roger folded the letter and offered it to Davenport who pocketed it without looking. "I'll take you there myself. Right now if you want. We'll go and see, and maybe--"
"It's what I've wanted for so long--" Davenport's voice broke as a tear ran from his eye, over his smooth cheek, landing with a delicate splash on the collar of his coat.
Crossing their small sanctuary, Roger rested his chin on Davenport's head as he embraced him tightly. About them the snow fell more heavily: the world was silent, as was the case when nothing but ice littered the landscape, so quiet that all Roger could hear was the ragged breathing of Davenport as he pulled away and sat on the edge of the rooftop.
Roger joined him, keeping a small distance between their bodies. He didn't know what to do. So often had Davenport comforted him when his world had become troubled. Yet that was the problem, Roger decided. Davenport was always so strong. To see him as he was only caused pain. Deciding on heart over head, Roger reached for Davenport's hand and squeezed it, letting him know that he wasn't alone.
"Tomorrow," muttered Davenport after an age of silence. The two men were shivering by now, their coats both blanketed in white. Roger was the first to stand, wincing at the numbness in his leg. He didn't let go of Davenport's wrist until they reached the window, both crawling inside with more difficultly than usual due to their frostbitten toes and fingers. "We'll see the house tomorrow," he finished, taking off his wet coat and hanging it over the back of a chair once he'd managed the journey indoors. He removed his shirt also, revealed skin damp and red with the cold. Roger reached for a blanket off the old, rickety bed in the abandoned room, before rubbing Davenport with it to get some warmth back in his body.
"Come to my room," he whispered gently, picking up Davenport's abandoned clothes and taking them with him as he followed Davenport out of the room and along the hallway.
Davenport didn't protest when Roger shuffled him into his bedroom, didn't worry about the possibility of being found there come morning. Slowly Roger led him to his bed, shrugging out of his own coat and shirt, curling under the cotton sheets with Davenport by his side. They lay there, caught up in the soundlessness of an empty house and a whitened landscape, barely touching as they weighed each other up.
"I'm so alone, Roger," Davenport whispered a long time after, surprising Roger who had thought him asleep.
"But you've got me," Roger replied, his heart beating painfully in his chest.
Davenport didn't say anything. His head slumped against Roger's shoulder as he tried in vain to block out the white-noise and static that the rushing of blood seemed to create in his head. Visions of his parents faces, blurred through an age of not seeing them, flickered blankly before his eyes. He tried to remember the last words not said in anger to the couple, felt himself begin to weep when he realised that he couldn't remember any. Roger's shushes did nothing to console the heartache inside as he curled into himself and allowed the sobs to come.
Outside the window, nothing could be seen. Only an endless white landscape continued beyond everything within the small, dark bedroom.
Davenport knew the feeling of emptiness well.
Letting himself get lost in the feel of Roger's arms, he silently cried himself to sleep.