Wind at Dawn (Noble Things)- January 1918
He watches Chris mindlessly until the water grows cool, still disbelieving that this man he has spent so much time and energy and pain on has somehow defied the fates and come back to him. It hurts, burns, the tears in his throat and the thudding of his heart as he watches the fingers of flame-light dance across the crisp slide of a cheekbone, the decadent depression at the base of his throat.
Chris has long since fallen asleep, his head lolling on his skinny neck as he sleeps the sleep of the newly-secure. Zach takes the kettle, shutting the door silently behind him as he goes. He makes it out the back door before he caves, falling to his knees and retching into the snow helplessly, the remnants of the soup he had for dinner leaving tracks of color against the unbroken white. There’s a buzzing in his ears, but he covers the mess with more snow and fills the kettle again before returning inside. He pauses at the sink to rinse his mouth with alcohol and water, rubbing his handkerchief across their fronts until he can no longer taste round two of his dinner. There’s soap by the sink; lye, which will sting, but will kill the lice Chris no doubt has, and a towel. He grabs both, detouring briefly into the makeshift closet to grab a set of clean clothes before he slides back into the room.
Chris is still asleep, snoring lightly, so he hangs the kettle back over the fire, dropping the towel and soap and clothes, and goes to wake Marc.
The look on his face must be enough, because once Marc manages to get his eyes to focus, he doesn’t ask any questions, just shrugs on his coat and goes to take over the last few hours of night watch, for which Zach will be eternally grateful.
He returns in time to catch the kettle just before it whistles, moving it off the heat and beginning to pour some of the contents into the tub. The influx of heat wakes Chris, and he looks around wildly until his eyes land on Zach, at which point he sighs deeply and smiles. It breaks Zach’s heart more than a little, but he just smiles in return, taking the bar of soap and beginning to lather Chris’ mat of hair.
It takes an hour of scrubbing, of rubbing lather into hair and catching the lice as they run, of stroking a cloth carefully around the inflamed shoulder wound, between painfully blistered toes. He’s as careful as he can be, but he knows some of it hurts, and he clenches his fist in the cloth when Chris gasps.
It’s a benediction, of sorts, a blessing of care and warmth on every piece of skin. Every line of bone, every curve of joint is a revelation under his hands, his wrinkled fingers stroking soap into every indentation and protuberance of Chris’ body as he works the layers of dirt and pain away.
Near the end, when the water is cooling and thick with grime, he sees Père Louis’ razor lying on his desk near a comb and mirror. He brings it back, a questioning look in his eyes as he kneels by the tub and takes Chris’ chin in his hand. An infinitesimal nod, and he scrapes the razor across a cheek, shedding reddish-brown fur to reveal bone-white skin, removing years in the process. He flashes back suddenly to when he first met Chris, a beautiful laughing man with a bullet wound, smiling in the sunlight.
That sunkissed soldier bears almost no resemblance to the exhausted pile of man in front of him, and Zach’s heart hurts at what a change the short time has wrought. He turns Chris’ head, dragging the razor across his chin, following the blade with a thumb to make sure the skin is smooth. He finishes around Chris’ mouth, the final swipe of the blade laying bare the corner of his upper lip, which catches on Zach’s fingertip as he brings Chris’ chin back down. He freezes for a second, but Chris says no word, so he rinses the blade and dries it before returning it to its place on the desk.
He helps Chris out of the bath, drying him carefully with the rough cotton towels, pulling the clean loose pants up his legs and tying the drawstring at his waist. He guides him to lay by the fire, where Chris closes his eyes immediately, leaving Zach to gaze at him undisturbed while he sees to Chris’ wounds.
Toes are bandaged one by one, wrapping them in ointment and cloth, then the smallest finger on his right hand. Zach rubs lanolin laced with camphor into his hands and arms, massaging the muscles to encourage the return of circulation. The wound on his shoulder is better than he first thought; it’s shallow, but jagged, and has clearly been aggravated, but it could be much worse. It should be fine, as long as it stays clean, so Zach bandages it carefully, and straps Chris’ arm to his side.
It’s nearly dawn by the time that Zach has emptied the tub and thrown Chris’ clothes on the trash heap, and he feels as though he’s been up for days. He’s found an extra blanket, and he kneels down to settle it around Chris’ sleeping form, tucking it carefully around his feet. The blankets from the couch are next; the last thing Chris needs is to lose body heat once again, and the fire is starting to burn down.
He is staring at Chris’ face, trying desperately to convince himself to crawl off to bed, to leave his friend to a peaceful rest, when Chris opens his eyes and without a word, opens his arms.
Zach catches his breath, not wanting to hope, but Chris just waits, and so Zach crawls in, sliding under the pile of blankets and molding himself to Chris’ body, turning him so that his head rests on Zach’s shoulder, wrapping his arms as tightly as he dares around Chris’ shoulders. He can feel the vibrations as Chris starts to chuckle, and smiles when he presses his face deep into the curve of Zach’s neck. His arms tighten involuntarily, and Chris brings his good hand up to cup the side of Zach’s face, stroking a thumb down his eyebrow before he presses his mouth to Zach’s, his lips warm and rough in the dark.
Zach inhales sharply, his head spinning as though he’s drunk, but then his resistance is blown away and he’s kissing Chris back, mouth moving in a silent entreaty, a wondering praise against the other man’s lips and teeth and tongue as they press themselves as closely together as the laws of physics will allow.
It’s not long before Chris’ motions grow slow and limp, and Zach pulls away gently with a final press of lips to the corner of his mouth and pulls Chris’ head back down. He holds him tightly in the ebbing warmth of the room, listening to the deep even breathing of this miracle beside him, and lets himself breathe for the first time in months.
10 jan 1918
i still can’t believe it. i look at him every day, and i can’t believe it.
he has been returned to me.
we’ve got him a cot in the sacristy with the rest of us. père louis hasn’t said a word about sending him back, or anywhere else. think everyone’s pretty taken with him and his unexpected return. on Epiphany, no less. père louis just laughed and laughed.
he’s healing well. still too skinny, but that’s a slow thing to change. his eyes are as blue as i remembered, but they’re sadder now. haven’t asked.
beauty is in the moment, and these moments are beautiful indeed.
15 jan 1918
been busy. cases of what seem like flu have come through again. keeps us all running. seems worse than before; maybe just the winter? coldest winter in a hundred years, or so the old grandmeres say.
he helps out on the ward; wants to learn to be a medic, like me, like us. seems reasonable. i’m training him, the others help.
He’s tense, Chris thinks.
It’s been a gradual change; the first few days after Chris’ return passed in a haze, surrounded by joyful staff, the smells of food, and the tending to his wounds. Zach was there, always there, with him, seeing to his every need.
Chris only had to look up, and he was there, his dark eyes watching Chris’ every move.
But then… after the first day, Chris noticed that Zach was careful not to hold his hand. Then, in a week, Zach would no longer help him with his clothing.
Now…
Now he is friendly, always friendly, but he does not touch, does not linger. They have not been alone in days.
Chris misses it, misses him. He doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know what to think. Did he do something wrong?
Then one day he overhears two doctors as they bend over a man two beds down.
“Thank God there aren’t any more of those damned queers around. Mooning over each other like limp-wristed girls.”
The other doctor murmurs something noncommittal, finishing the brace he’s wrapping onto the man’s arm.
“No loss when they died. Couldn’t believe the wailing that went on here. Upright Christian boys dying left and right, and people here were carrying on over a couple of…” Chris just catches the lewd hand gesture he makes beside the bed.
The other doctor straightens, packing his kit, and moves off down the row. The louder man follows, gesticulating energetically in his fit of indignation.
Chris feels sick, a roiling in his gut, and he swings his legs over the edge of the bed to walk away. A hand passes him his cane, and he looks up into Zach’s worried gaze. Something shows on his face, because Zach looks around to see what’s troubling him.
Zach’s eyes land on the pair of doctors, and a swift series of expressions fly across his face; embarrassment, anger, distrust, and shame show freely before he shutters his gaze and moves his hand away from Chris’.
Chris’ stomach turns again, and he takes the cane gingerly, feeling the cold air where Zach’s hand should be.
He thinks, now, that he’s beginning to understand.
23 jan, 1918
there have been no more… incidents… since C returned. i did not mean to offend him, but… when i woke the next day and knew what i had done, when he was in such a weakened state, no less, i… despaired.
can it truly be thus? that a moment of such temporal joy and pleasure can be a damnable sin? is this why we were created? to be tempted and tried by a vindictive God?
am i to be denied the only love i desire in the name of faith?
he knows. i fear it is true.
he touches me still, like he always did, but no more. i bless him and curse him for this- i want so much, so much more. i want him, and cannot act. i will not condemn us both.
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