Fic: Starlight
Title: Starlight
Author: cosmonautsister
Rating: PG-13 I guess, for general themes.
Characters/Pairing: Nelson Gardner; Byron Lewis. That's not a pairing, folks (not this time, anyway).
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Actually this isn't even my computer.
Author's Note: Apparently things like this did actually happen in the military, during WW2 and everything. I found this interesting. That's about it, really.
Byron had always had suspicions about life in the military; even as a medic, there was a lot of things he had anticipated. This wasn't one of them.
"You want me to what?"
"Sing, Lewis." His commanding officer told him for about the third time.
"You're telling me to sing?" Byron said, frowning. "I hardly think that would be necessary in the effort to -"
The commanding officer looked annoyed. "I merely suggested that you provide some light entertainment for the troops. Thought you might enjoy that, being cultured and all."
Byron scowled. "I still don't understand how it's relevant to what we're doing here."
"Lewis, you understand your presence in this medical team is a privilege?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you are aware that in the event of you disobeying any orders or suggestions from your commanding officer - me - then your privilege may be revoked?"
"... Yes, sir." Byron replied.
"Sing, Lewis," the commanding officer sneered, and walked away laughing.
--
Things went from bad to worse the night after, when, in a large tent behind the makeshift stage curtain, Byron learned the true nature of what he had (reluctantly) agreed to do. He was standing around nervously when a Marine with messy blonde hair walked briskly over to Byron and, without a word, deposited a bundle of what looked suspiciously like silk and lace into his arms.
"W-what is this?"
"That's your costume," the Marine mumbled, seeming quite embarrassed and still refusing to look at Byron.
"My - what?" Byron spluttered.
Suddenly, another Marine stepped into the tent, carrying a similar bundle to the one Byron received.
"James," the blonde Marine started to say. Byron still hadn't seen the guy's face.
The second Marine, tall and brown-haired, passed the bundle to his comrade before saying in a gentle Texan drawl, "good luck, Nell," and then exiting the tent.
"Will you please tell me what on earth is going on?" Byron demanded. The blonde Marine looked up at him, brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. Byron's heart skipped a beat.
"Nelly?!" he gasped.
"Hi Byron," Nelson said quietly, looking incredibly embarrassed again.
"What -" Byron started to shout.
"Ssh!" Nelson hushed him quickly, eyes wide.
"Nelson, what the fuck are you doing here?" Byron hissed.
"I work here," Nelson replied in a hushed, indignant tone.
"And what the fuck is this?!" Byron continued.
"Haven't you ever seen a dress in your life, Byron?" Nelson snapped.
"No - yes - but what..." Byron stuttered a little, rifling through the bundle of clothes, before pulling out a garment with a look of complete incredulity on his face. "W... what is this?"
"It's a goddamn brassiere, Byron," Nelson said in annoyance.
"But -"
"It's yours. Put it on," Nelson said, a healthy blush rising on his face.
"I - ah..." Byron sighed. There really was no way of avoiding this. "Why do I have to do this..."
"I do too," Nelson reminded him, whilst laying out his 'costume' on the nearest table.
Byron moved to do the same, making a mental checklist of the items as he went. One dress, cream-coloured with lace. One brassiere, white silk, hideously oversized. One pair of panties, matching although probably hideously undersized, knowing his luck. One...
"Nelson, what the fuck is this?" Byron growled, holding the offending item between his thumb and index finger as though it might be poisonous.
"That's a garter belt," Nelson said distractedly, then added, "I don't suppose you'd know."
Byron scowled at him. "You're one to talk."
"There's no need to be rude, Byron," Nelson said, pulling his shirt over his head.
Byron sighed. "I guess not," and with that he began to undress.
The panties went on first; Nelly and Byron agreed to each turn the other way whilst the other switched their military-issue white underpants with the (admittedly more comfortable) silk ones. Then a pair of stockings each (Byron was amazed and alarmed at how nicely they fit his muscled legs), and then the garter belt to keep them up (it wasn't too confusing, Byron decided). And then...
"Uh, Nelly?"
"Hmm?" Nelson mumbled, deep in concentration as he adjusted his brassiere to the correct placement on his chest and rather expertly clasped it together at the back.
"Could you, uh... I mean, I can't seem to get the clasp to, uh... clasp," Byron mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to do up his brassiere.
"Oh. Sure," Nelson said, and he stepped behind Byron's back before Byron had a chance to see him blushing.
"It takes a bit of practise, I guess," Nelson shrugged, taking a quick look in the mirror leaning against one of the tent-poles.
Byron sneaked a glance in the mirror and did a double-take.
Nelson laughed dryly. "You see something new every day, right?"
"I'll say," Byron muttered, moving to stand beside Nelson in front of the mirror. "Say, are you sure we didn't get these mixed up? I mean, I'm sure the white would've looked better with your hair and your complexion..."
Nelson nodded thoughtfully, brushing imaginary dust from the front of his red polka-dot panties. "Well, that's what I was thinking, but James insisted," he explained, now trying to rid his matching brassiere of dust with both hands, before cupping his "breasts" and squeezing them lightly in a subconscious sort of way that was incredibly odd, and oddly incredible.
Byron laughed for the first time in days.
"Anyway," Nelson continued, smirking, "it isn't as though anybody's going to see them."
"I wish they were," Byron said, feeling oddly reckless. "We look utterly divine."
Nelson giggled. "Gorgeous, darling," he said in an almost convincingly feminine voice.
"If the other Minutemen could see us now," Byron said in a low, quiet voice.
"Oh, don't say that!" Nelson gasped, horrified.
"Five minutes!" someone called from outside, making them both jump.
"We'd best hurry up and get dressed, then," Nelson said.
--
Byron clutched the microphone with trembling hands, trying to lift himself mentally out of the situation. I'm not onstage in front of a bunch of rowdy Marines, wearing a dress and blushing like an idiot - I'm back at home, joking around with Bill. He'd been dreaming of Bill for weeks - dreaming, not wondering where he is; wondering hurt too much.
Nelson's voice came through suddenly on the PA, gentle and breathy but strong, filling the tent to its corners: "We'll meet again, don't know how, don't know when..."
Byron's heart ached. Nelson's voice was surprisingly convincing and quite moving, especially singing that song.
Byron swallowed nervously and joined in: "But I know we'll meet again, one sunny day..."
Nelson smiled endearingly at the crowd, eyelashes fluttering, and everybody who stood before them began to sing with them.
Byron looked over at Nelson, at his smile and the eyes that betrayed it, and wondered who Nelson was really thinking about.
--
Later on, he found Nelly in the dressing-tent, crying noisily over a photograph in a cracked frame, and had to ask.
"Nelly?" Byron said softly, poking his head through the doorway.
Nelson jumped and flipped the photograph over. "Yes?"
Byron stepped inside the tent, and walked hesitantly over to where Nelson sat, at a small table near the corner. "Nelly, what's the matter?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Nelson said, before another quiet sob escapes his throat.
"You're crying," Byron said, concerned, sitting down on a rickety-looking chair opposite Nelson.
"I know that," Nelson snapped, staring at Byron with eyes that would be threatening if they weren't swimming with tears.
Byron stared back.
Suddenly Nelson felt very foolish indeed, and he looked down at the back of the frame on the table sullenly. "... I miss somebody, okay?"
Byron barely hesitated before asking, "What's his name?"
Nelson sighed, too lonely to act surprised at being found out so soon. "Rolf."
Byron frowned slightly. "Forgive me for asking, but is he at war too? On which side?"
Nelson let out a whispery, sad little laugh. "He's not at war," he told him, and that was all.
It already felt so surreal to Byron, sitting at a worn table with someone he'd never expected to even see here, let alone talk to. Then there was the unavoidable fact that they were both grown men, at a time of war, no less, sitting around in shorts and a white t-shirt (Byron) and red polka-dot lingerie (Nelly, and despite the inappropriate situation, Byron had to admit he did look truly stunning). So when Byron decided to open up and talk, it was entirely in the knowledge that this situation was so improbable that it would stand alone, on a shelf of memories, away from the chain of causes and events that made up the rest of his life.
"Do you have somebody you'd rather be with now, too, Byron?" Nelson asked as though he already knew the answer.
Byron nodded.
"And does this somebody have a name?"
"Bill Brady," Byron answered, without the slightest note of anxiety. "But you know him as..."
"Dollar Bill," Nelson said, surprised enough to comfort Byron.
"That's the guy," Byron said softly, and managed the tiniest smile. "He was drafted in, you know. I tried to convince him to object, like I did, but he wouldn't hear a word of it." His smile faded. "I don't even know where he is now. There are young All-American boys being murdered by the dozen over on the Western Front. The islands aren't any better."
Nelson's eyes grew solemn. "Byron..."
"Hey, Nelly, I'm sorry. We should probably stop talking about this now. I wasn't really thinking..." What with you being a Marine and everything, you never know when it could be you, too, out on the Western front getting your brains blown out in front of people you probably knew in elementary school.
Nelson shook his head. "It isn't that. Byron, I... I want to tell you..."
Byron listened to him intently.
"... I'm sorry that this is happening. All of this. It isn't fair." Nelly said. "You boys never did anything to deserve this."
Byron felt oddly touched. Perhaps Nelson was a better person than he'd previously judged him to be.
Suddenly, Nelson sniffled again, wiping a fat, silvery tear from his cheek.
"Byron, I -" he started to say, then his words died in his throat. With teardrops collecting in his long eyelashes, he picked up the photograph with trembling hands. Broken glass cascaded onto the table, sending sparkles of reflected light twinkling up into the dusty, gas-lit air. Nelly turned over the photograph and set it on the table; took one look at it and started bawling again.
Byron looked, and his breath caught in his throat. It was the group portrait. Minutemen, 1940; a bunch of smiling men and women in masks and tights, and there, in the corner next to Sally...
There's a lot of things Byron could have said and done; so many questions and accusations and practised gestures. Instead, though, he laid a comforting hand on Nelly's shoulder and said, "Well, there's something I never would have guessed."
Nelson's lips shaped into a tiny, weak smile, and Byron allowed himself to be pulled into a tight, slightly shaky hug. Nelson cried on his shoulder, pressing his mouth to Byron's shirt to stifle his sobs, and Byron didn't have the heart to do anything but hug him back. When they moved apart, Byron ignored the salt-water and mucus that has collected on his sleeve and reached over to fix Nelson's brassiere, slipping the fallen strap back over his toned shoulder.
"What is wrong with us, Byron," he mumbled, but he was smiling.
"Most things, but our hearts are in the right place," Byron assured him gently. "Your Marine buddy was right; the red really does suit you more."
Nelson sniffled, looking down at himself critically. "I do like the polka-dots," he said.
"So, uh... does Hooded Justice - Rolf... does he know?"
Nelson didn't need to ask what Byron means. He supposed it was sort of evident in the way he knew how everything should be worn, the way he didn't even blink when he saw himself in a mirror, all dolled up like this. "I've shown him," Nelson says quietly. "He was... strange, about it. Not angry, just... strange. It was like he couldn't bring himself to touch me, but he couldn't stop looking."
"What did you do?" Byron asked, quite forgetting himself for a moment.
"Really, Byron, is that something you'd feel comfortable asking a lady?" Nelson said quietly, with a smirk.
Byron blushed. "I really need a drink," he said, suddenly overwhelmed.
Nelson nodded woefully. "I usually don't, but would you mind if I joined you?"
"That would be swell," Byron smiled. "And Nelly?"
"Yes?"
"Wear the dress."
--
Two hours and several drinks later, they were huddled under the low roof of Nelson's tent, sharing a slightly lumpy roll-out mattress and a bottle of something sweet and indistinguishable that was starting to make Nelson's vision blur. He didn't mind; it was doing the most delicious things with the edges of shapes and the thin triangle of starlight that seeped in through the tent's door.
"If you want to know -" Nelson began, his words slurring slightly. He was sitting cross-legged at the end of the mattress, beside Byron who lay flat on his back, staring up at the plain ceiling with wide and wondrous eyes.
"I do want to know, y'know?"
"- I wasn't responding all to well to that sort of attention, so eventually I, uh... took matters into my own hands." Nelson blushed, but continued, "my own matters, and my own hands. It certainly gave him something to think about."
"Well golly," Byron mumbled nervously with a short laugh, clearly intrigued. "... Perhaps this is something I should look into, when I get home."
"You should," Nelson whispered conspiratorially, "in something really risqué. Your Bill seems far too innocent for someone in his position. Blue would suit you." He winked, and then hiccupped loudly.
"What do you think would suit him?"
Nelson, god bless him, doesn't even blink. "Yellow," he says immediately, then, "God. If only I could convince Rolf to wear something like this. He's rather too shy, unfortunately..."
Byron couldn't help it. He started laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh - oh nothing," Byron giggled, turning over to lie on his side, facing Nelson. "Just, I never knew you were so freaky."
"Freaky?" Nelson frowned. "What kind of a term is that?"
"Oh, get with the times, Nelly."
"Get with the... hey, are you saying I'm not with the times? Why, I'm... I'm the bee's pyjamas, you know? I'm swell."
Byron covered his face with his hands and groaned.
"What?"
"Oh, Nelly, you can't be serious..."
"I... I'm serious!" Nelson insisted.
"You're such a square," Byron mumbled, voice muffled by his hands.
"Is... is that a good thing?"
Byron laughed. "You're a good guy, Nelly."
"Oh. Well, thanks, Byron, I -"
"Can I sleep here? Can't be bothered going back to my own tent," Byron yawned.
Nelson sighed. "Okay, fine. But you've got to share the blanket, I've only got one."
Byron shrugged. "Sounds fair, I guess," he said, yawning again, and pulling the blanket up over his head.
"You're going to sleep already? But -"
"G'night, Nelly," Byron called sleepily.
After a short moment of deliberation, Nelson joined him.
---
Thanks for reading. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and cough up a lung. Stupid flu.
Edited to fix grammar and paragraphing. Thanks, eugenetapdance
Author: cosmonautsister
Rating: PG-13 I guess, for general themes.
Characters/Pairing: Nelson Gardner; Byron Lewis. That's not a pairing, folks (not this time, anyway).
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Actually this isn't even my computer.
Author's Note: Apparently things like this did actually happen in the military, during WW2 and everything. I found this interesting. That's about it, really.
Byron had always had suspicions about life in the military; even as a medic, there was a lot of things he had anticipated. This wasn't one of them.
"You want me to what?"
"Sing, Lewis." His commanding officer told him for about the third time.
"You're telling me to sing?" Byron said, frowning. "I hardly think that would be necessary in the effort to -"
The commanding officer looked annoyed. "I merely suggested that you provide some light entertainment for the troops. Thought you might enjoy that, being cultured and all."
Byron scowled. "I still don't understand how it's relevant to what we're doing here."
"Lewis, you understand your presence in this medical team is a privilege?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you are aware that in the event of you disobeying any orders or suggestions from your commanding officer - me - then your privilege may be revoked?"
"... Yes, sir." Byron replied.
"Sing, Lewis," the commanding officer sneered, and walked away laughing.
--
Things went from bad to worse the night after, when, in a large tent behind the makeshift stage curtain, Byron learned the true nature of what he had (reluctantly) agreed to do. He was standing around nervously when a Marine with messy blonde hair walked briskly over to Byron and, without a word, deposited a bundle of what looked suspiciously like silk and lace into his arms.
"W-what is this?"
"That's your costume," the Marine mumbled, seeming quite embarrassed and still refusing to look at Byron.
"My - what?" Byron spluttered.
Suddenly, another Marine stepped into the tent, carrying a similar bundle to the one Byron received.
"James," the blonde Marine started to say. Byron still hadn't seen the guy's face.
The second Marine, tall and brown-haired, passed the bundle to his comrade before saying in a gentle Texan drawl, "good luck, Nell," and then exiting the tent.
"Will you please tell me what on earth is going on?" Byron demanded. The blonde Marine looked up at him, brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. Byron's heart skipped a beat.
"Nelly?!" he gasped.
"Hi Byron," Nelson said quietly, looking incredibly embarrassed again.
"What -" Byron started to shout.
"Ssh!" Nelson hushed him quickly, eyes wide.
"Nelson, what the fuck are you doing here?" Byron hissed.
"I work here," Nelson replied in a hushed, indignant tone.
"And what the fuck is this?!" Byron continued.
"Haven't you ever seen a dress in your life, Byron?" Nelson snapped.
"No - yes - but what..." Byron stuttered a little, rifling through the bundle of clothes, before pulling out a garment with a look of complete incredulity on his face. "W... what is this?"
"It's a goddamn brassiere, Byron," Nelson said in annoyance.
"But -"
"It's yours. Put it on," Nelson said, a healthy blush rising on his face.
"I - ah..." Byron sighed. There really was no way of avoiding this. "Why do I have to do this..."
"I do too," Nelson reminded him, whilst laying out his 'costume' on the nearest table.
Byron moved to do the same, making a mental checklist of the items as he went. One dress, cream-coloured with lace. One brassiere, white silk, hideously oversized. One pair of panties, matching although probably hideously undersized, knowing his luck. One...
"Nelson, what the fuck is this?" Byron growled, holding the offending item between his thumb and index finger as though it might be poisonous.
"That's a garter belt," Nelson said distractedly, then added, "I don't suppose you'd know."
Byron scowled at him. "You're one to talk."
"There's no need to be rude, Byron," Nelson said, pulling his shirt over his head.
Byron sighed. "I guess not," and with that he began to undress.
The panties went on first; Nelly and Byron agreed to each turn the other way whilst the other switched their military-issue white underpants with the (admittedly more comfortable) silk ones. Then a pair of stockings each (Byron was amazed and alarmed at how nicely they fit his muscled legs), and then the garter belt to keep them up (it wasn't too confusing, Byron decided). And then...
"Uh, Nelly?"
"Hmm?" Nelson mumbled, deep in concentration as he adjusted his brassiere to the correct placement on his chest and rather expertly clasped it together at the back.
"Could you, uh... I mean, I can't seem to get the clasp to, uh... clasp," Byron mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to do up his brassiere.
"Oh. Sure," Nelson said, and he stepped behind Byron's back before Byron had a chance to see him blushing.
"It takes a bit of practise, I guess," Nelson shrugged, taking a quick look in the mirror leaning against one of the tent-poles.
Byron sneaked a glance in the mirror and did a double-take.
Nelson laughed dryly. "You see something new every day, right?"
"I'll say," Byron muttered, moving to stand beside Nelson in front of the mirror. "Say, are you sure we didn't get these mixed up? I mean, I'm sure the white would've looked better with your hair and your complexion..."
Nelson nodded thoughtfully, brushing imaginary dust from the front of his red polka-dot panties. "Well, that's what I was thinking, but James insisted," he explained, now trying to rid his matching brassiere of dust with both hands, before cupping his "breasts" and squeezing them lightly in a subconscious sort of way that was incredibly odd, and oddly incredible.
Byron laughed for the first time in days.
"Anyway," Nelson continued, smirking, "it isn't as though anybody's going to see them."
"I wish they were," Byron said, feeling oddly reckless. "We look utterly divine."
Nelson giggled. "Gorgeous, darling," he said in an almost convincingly feminine voice.
"If the other Minutemen could see us now," Byron said in a low, quiet voice.
"Oh, don't say that!" Nelson gasped, horrified.
"Five minutes!" someone called from outside, making them both jump.
"We'd best hurry up and get dressed, then," Nelson said.
--
Byron clutched the microphone with trembling hands, trying to lift himself mentally out of the situation. I'm not onstage in front of a bunch of rowdy Marines, wearing a dress and blushing like an idiot - I'm back at home, joking around with Bill. He'd been dreaming of Bill for weeks - dreaming, not wondering where he is; wondering hurt too much.
Nelson's voice came through suddenly on the PA, gentle and breathy but strong, filling the tent to its corners: "We'll meet again, don't know how, don't know when..."
Byron's heart ached. Nelson's voice was surprisingly convincing and quite moving, especially singing that song.
Byron swallowed nervously and joined in: "But I know we'll meet again, one sunny day..."
Nelson smiled endearingly at the crowd, eyelashes fluttering, and everybody who stood before them began to sing with them.
Byron looked over at Nelson, at his smile and the eyes that betrayed it, and wondered who Nelson was really thinking about.
--
Later on, he found Nelly in the dressing-tent, crying noisily over a photograph in a cracked frame, and had to ask.
"Nelly?" Byron said softly, poking his head through the doorway.
Nelson jumped and flipped the photograph over. "Yes?"
Byron stepped inside the tent, and walked hesitantly over to where Nelson sat, at a small table near the corner. "Nelly, what's the matter?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Nelson said, before another quiet sob escapes his throat.
"You're crying," Byron said, concerned, sitting down on a rickety-looking chair opposite Nelson.
"I know that," Nelson snapped, staring at Byron with eyes that would be threatening if they weren't swimming with tears.
Byron stared back.
Suddenly Nelson felt very foolish indeed, and he looked down at the back of the frame on the table sullenly. "... I miss somebody, okay?"
Byron barely hesitated before asking, "What's his name?"
Nelson sighed, too lonely to act surprised at being found out so soon. "Rolf."
Byron frowned slightly. "Forgive me for asking, but is he at war too? On which side?"
Nelson let out a whispery, sad little laugh. "He's not at war," he told him, and that was all.
It already felt so surreal to Byron, sitting at a worn table with someone he'd never expected to even see here, let alone talk to. Then there was the unavoidable fact that they were both grown men, at a time of war, no less, sitting around in shorts and a white t-shirt (Byron) and red polka-dot lingerie (Nelly, and despite the inappropriate situation, Byron had to admit he did look truly stunning). So when Byron decided to open up and talk, it was entirely in the knowledge that this situation was so improbable that it would stand alone, on a shelf of memories, away from the chain of causes and events that made up the rest of his life.
"Do you have somebody you'd rather be with now, too, Byron?" Nelson asked as though he already knew the answer.
Byron nodded.
"And does this somebody have a name?"
"Bill Brady," Byron answered, without the slightest note of anxiety. "But you know him as..."
"Dollar Bill," Nelson said, surprised enough to comfort Byron.
"That's the guy," Byron said softly, and managed the tiniest smile. "He was drafted in, you know. I tried to convince him to object, like I did, but he wouldn't hear a word of it." His smile faded. "I don't even know where he is now. There are young All-American boys being murdered by the dozen over on the Western Front. The islands aren't any better."
Nelson's eyes grew solemn. "Byron..."
"Hey, Nelly, I'm sorry. We should probably stop talking about this now. I wasn't really thinking..." What with you being a Marine and everything, you never know when it could be you, too, out on the Western front getting your brains blown out in front of people you probably knew in elementary school.
Nelson shook his head. "It isn't that. Byron, I... I want to tell you..."
Byron listened to him intently.
"... I'm sorry that this is happening. All of this. It isn't fair." Nelly said. "You boys never did anything to deserve this."
Byron felt oddly touched. Perhaps Nelson was a better person than he'd previously judged him to be.
Suddenly, Nelson sniffled again, wiping a fat, silvery tear from his cheek.
"Byron, I -" he started to say, then his words died in his throat. With teardrops collecting in his long eyelashes, he picked up the photograph with trembling hands. Broken glass cascaded onto the table, sending sparkles of reflected light twinkling up into the dusty, gas-lit air. Nelly turned over the photograph and set it on the table; took one look at it and started bawling again.
Byron looked, and his breath caught in his throat. It was the group portrait. Minutemen, 1940; a bunch of smiling men and women in masks and tights, and there, in the corner next to Sally...
There's a lot of things Byron could have said and done; so many questions and accusations and practised gestures. Instead, though, he laid a comforting hand on Nelly's shoulder and said, "Well, there's something I never would have guessed."
Nelson's lips shaped into a tiny, weak smile, and Byron allowed himself to be pulled into a tight, slightly shaky hug. Nelson cried on his shoulder, pressing his mouth to Byron's shirt to stifle his sobs, and Byron didn't have the heart to do anything but hug him back. When they moved apart, Byron ignored the salt-water and mucus that has collected on his sleeve and reached over to fix Nelson's brassiere, slipping the fallen strap back over his toned shoulder.
"What is wrong with us, Byron," he mumbled, but he was smiling.
"Most things, but our hearts are in the right place," Byron assured him gently. "Your Marine buddy was right; the red really does suit you more."
Nelson sniffled, looking down at himself critically. "I do like the polka-dots," he said.
"So, uh... does Hooded Justice - Rolf... does he know?"
Nelson didn't need to ask what Byron means. He supposed it was sort of evident in the way he knew how everything should be worn, the way he didn't even blink when he saw himself in a mirror, all dolled up like this. "I've shown him," Nelson says quietly. "He was... strange, about it. Not angry, just... strange. It was like he couldn't bring himself to touch me, but he couldn't stop looking."
"What did you do?" Byron asked, quite forgetting himself for a moment.
"Really, Byron, is that something you'd feel comfortable asking a lady?" Nelson said quietly, with a smirk.
Byron blushed. "I really need a drink," he said, suddenly overwhelmed.
Nelson nodded woefully. "I usually don't, but would you mind if I joined you?"
"That would be swell," Byron smiled. "And Nelly?"
"Yes?"
"Wear the dress."
--
Two hours and several drinks later, they were huddled under the low roof of Nelson's tent, sharing a slightly lumpy roll-out mattress and a bottle of something sweet and indistinguishable that was starting to make Nelson's vision blur. He didn't mind; it was doing the most delicious things with the edges of shapes and the thin triangle of starlight that seeped in through the tent's door.
"If you want to know -" Nelson began, his words slurring slightly. He was sitting cross-legged at the end of the mattress, beside Byron who lay flat on his back, staring up at the plain ceiling with wide and wondrous eyes.
"I do want to know, y'know?"
"- I wasn't responding all to well to that sort of attention, so eventually I, uh... took matters into my own hands." Nelson blushed, but continued, "my own matters, and my own hands. It certainly gave him something to think about."
"Well golly," Byron mumbled nervously with a short laugh, clearly intrigued. "... Perhaps this is something I should look into, when I get home."
"You should," Nelson whispered conspiratorially, "in something really risqué. Your Bill seems far too innocent for someone in his position. Blue would suit you." He winked, and then hiccupped loudly.
"What do you think would suit him?"
Nelson, god bless him, doesn't even blink. "Yellow," he says immediately, then, "God. If only I could convince Rolf to wear something like this. He's rather too shy, unfortunately..."
Byron couldn't help it. He started laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh - oh nothing," Byron giggled, turning over to lie on his side, facing Nelson. "Just, I never knew you were so freaky."
"Freaky?" Nelson frowned. "What kind of a term is that?"
"Oh, get with the times, Nelly."
"Get with the... hey, are you saying I'm not with the times? Why, I'm... I'm the bee's pyjamas, you know? I'm swell."
Byron covered his face with his hands and groaned.
"What?"
"Oh, Nelly, you can't be serious..."
"I... I'm serious!" Nelson insisted.
"You're such a square," Byron mumbled, voice muffled by his hands.
"Is... is that a good thing?"
Byron laughed. "You're a good guy, Nelly."
"Oh. Well, thanks, Byron, I -"
"Can I sleep here? Can't be bothered going back to my own tent," Byron yawned.
Nelson sighed. "Okay, fine. But you've got to share the blanket, I've only got one."
Byron shrugged. "Sounds fair, I guess," he said, yawning again, and pulling the blanket up over his head.
"You're going to sleep already? But -"
"G'night, Nelly," Byron called sleepily.
After a short moment of deliberation, Nelson joined him.
---
Thanks for reading. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and cough up a lung. Stupid flu.
Edited to fix grammar and paragraphing. Thanks, eugenetapdance