Ciaran stared into the sludgy expanse of No-Man’s Land, the distant artillery flashes as the only source of light. A year at the front and those flashes still produced a terrified wonder in Ciaran. The fact there were people he had never met, only a couple hundred yards across the French countryside, intent on killing him, was sobering. Hell, they were probably from a village just like the one he was from, except for the fact they spoke German and kept a picture of the Kaiser on their mantel.
A shell landed too close for his liking. He was supposed to duck down and cover his neck to try to protect himself from the falling shrapnel glittering like rain in the moonlight. His instinct told him to make sure that Sam was all right. His instinct won.
Sam glared through his binoculars, unfazed by the shell that had almost killed them. Tufts of black hair jutted from beneath his Brody helmet and wool cap comforter. Ciaran stared at the pale skin on the back of Sam’s neck, fascinated and uncomfortable.
“Do you see anything?” Ciaran asked softly.
Sam lowered the binoculars and squinted into the darkness. He dropped his head and offered them to Ciaran.
Ciaran swallowed and took them. As the binoculars passed between them, their fingertips brushed against each other. Ciaran stretched his fingers, desperate to touch them for a second longer. As soon as Ciaran realised his mistake, he pulled his hand back and scrunched his eyes shut. He was grateful to the dark for hiding his ashamed blush.
Sam remained silent. Ciaran licked his lips, attempting to suck away some of the awkwardness, and popped his head over the ridge of the large shell hole that they’d turned into a forward observation post.
When he put the binoculars to his eyes, the only sight new to him was the soft lamplights hidden behind the German trenches, which offered no information worthy of reporting. They would have to stay longer. While Ciaran scanned the landscape, Sam slid down the shell hole to enter the small dugout, which they’d made for resting. Ciaran sensed the movement and stared after him with a pained expression. The hiss of a struck match soon sounded, and, from the dugout, Ciaran could see the faint glow of a cigarette which he watched with envious despair. He didn’t what he was more jealous of, Sam for enjoying a cigarette or the cigarette for enjoying the touch of his lips. Panicked, he looked away and smothered the sinful thoughts, hoping the rising jealousy would die if he simply averted his gaze.
And yet, the jealousy remained, and soon mixed with regret. He should have kept quiet, just as he always had. Just as he’d learnt.
Ciaran scrunched his eyes and rested them on his arm to push back the tears. He’d been so sure. They’d drunk lots of wine in the Amiens café, but wine couldn’t change a man’s heart. Whenever Ciaran had gotten drunk, he’d never felt the urge to be with a woman, no matter how much he’d have liked to. But no other explanation for it remained. It must have been the wine’s influence on Sam.
Ciaran recalled that night with a bittersweet fondness. The way the light played on Sam’s face. Softened his edges and accentuated his beauty. The way he smiled at Ciaran when they were alone - like it was a smile meant just for him. The electricity Ciaran felt when Sam reached for his face, and when Ciaran fell into that calloused palm. It had happened so fast, like a frantic force pulling their mouths together.
Sam lifted Ciaran’s chin and they kissed. All his life, Ciaran had been told the way he felt was unnatural. But that kiss - feeling Sam’s lips against his own, and feeling how Sam pushed into it - had been the only natural act he had ever done. With that same frantic force, Sam pushed him back against the fence. When Sam broke the kiss to turn Ciaran around, a soft whimper escaped his mouth. Sam’s lips explored his skin’s soft vastness, and his hands wandered downward, pulling Ciaran’s trousers down for easier access. At that moment, life had meaning again. Ciaran no longer felt trapped in a world that held no love for him, forced to fight and die for a land that would sooner lock him away than give him a medal.
The wine wore off and the sun rose. Sam realised what he had done. He closed off like a turtle in its shell. Ciaran had expected a similar response. The entire history of his attempts at love attested to how normal a reaction it was. Despite this, seeing Sam shun him hurt. Beyond Ciaran’s attraction, Sam was one of his only friends. Now, that friendship was lost because Ciaran hadn’t been able to control himself. He was so fucking stupid.
Ciaran frowned and wiped his nose on his sleeve. It was too wet, he was freezing and he was getting himself worked up. It would do him no good to start blubbering. It’s not like any of it mattered anyway. How long would they have had? A couple of weeks, maybe a month before the war claimed its pound of flesh.
To distract himself he peered through the binoculars once more and saw nothing but black mud, black sky, and black rats scurrying between them. The enemy lines were still as a statue. He almost wanted the Germans to attack, at least then he wouldn’t have to think about Sam giving him the cold shoulder. Instead, the lull that had gripped the front since they’d returned from R&R carried on.
When the day came that they were paired for observation duty, Ciaran was hopeful. He thought that with just the two of them alone they could speak about what had happened. It seemed Sam had other ideas. The agony of trying to drag an answer out of him soon wore thin, and Ciaran gave up. Surrendering to the truth that their brief friendship was over.
With the end of their shift nearing, Ciaran developed a second wind. He slipped the binoculars under his tunic to protect them from the mud, grabbed his rifle, and slid down the side of the shell hole to join Sam in the dugout.
Sam neared the end of the cigarette. When he saw Ciaran, he frowned and turned away from the dugout entrance. Ciaran crawled inside and mumbled, “I was getting cold, so I thought I’d come down.”
Sam grunted in reply. Ciaran huddled opposite him. The dugout was so small that their legs crossed. The only defence Ciaran had from the cold was his uniform and the arms he wrapped around himself.
“It’s a bit snug, isn’t it?” Ciaran said with an unenthusiastic laugh, attempting to inject some humour into an otherwise awkward situation.
Sam got up. “One of us had better stay up there.”
Without thinking, Ciaran grabbed Sam by the wrist. Sam’s head snapped around like a cobra about to strike. Ciaran yanked his hand back, he had never been so bold as to demand a man’s attention so forcefully. His imagination conjured the disgusted face Sam was undoubtedly shooting at him with ease. Another moment to be grateful for the dark. He didn’t have to see that face in grim reality. With a soft, feeble voice, Ciaran said, “Please. I think we should talk.”
Sam took a long-frustrated breath. “What’s to talk about?”
Ciaran sighed and rubbed his palms in his eyes. God, he was exhausted. Perhaps it would be best if Ciaran simply let the matter go. If Sam was so determined to act as if nothing had happened, then maybe that would be best. Sam wasn’t the first friend he’d lost this way. It would spare Ciaran the beating he was expecting for even suggesting that they might be spirits alike in lust.
It dawned on Ciaran that if Sam wanted to, he could murder him without difficulty. Say he’d got lost in No-Man’s Land, and no one would be any the wiser. Besides, it wasn’t like the rest of the men liked him enough to care what happened to him. He’d just be another English body in the French mud. Sam was stronger than Ciaran and, despite all that had happened, Ciaran still doubted he could ever physically hurt Sam, even in self-defence. Ciaran swallowed, his anxiety rising as he realised that he'd trapped himself with him in the dugout and Sam in the entrance. His fist closed around the mud of the dugout floor. The cold wetness grounded him.
No matter how much sense it made to let Sam go, Ciaran lacked the strength. A part of him still hoped Sam would change his mind. That simply by talking, they could become friends again. It was this hope that spurred Ciaran on.
“I want to talk about what happened in Amiens,” Ciaran said, his tone notably firmer, still pregnant with pleading.
The air grew colder. Ciaran pictured the glare Sam was sending his way and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. A brief pause in the shelling emphasised the silence between them, punctured only by the sound of rushing wind and scurrying rats. Several breathless seconds passed until Sam spoke. “What happened in Amiens was a mistake. We were drunk. That’s it.”
Ciaran had known this would be the tone of Sam’s response. It would have been foolish to expect different after the silence Ciaran had endured. What he hadn’t expected was how much it hurt to hear it. It was a punch in the chest, a scathing blow to his core. All Ciaran could say in reply was a gasped, “Is it?”
“Of course, it is. What else could there be?” Sam snapped, his words coming out as a loud whisper - far too loud for No-Man’s Land - and Ciaran had it in his mind to tell him off for this but was too frightened.
“I thought—”
“You thought what?” Sam interrupted. “That I was someone like you? That I could ever be like you? That I’d ever want someone like you? Don’t be ridiculous.” He continued, the final words emerging like a choked plea, an attempt to convince himself as much as Ciaran.
Ciaran saw Sam’s silhouetted fist clench, and he drew back to avoid it. “Sam, I—”
“No,” Sam’s voice faltered, returning to a whisper in the realisation of where they were. “Stop it. What happened in Amiens was a mistake. It doesn’t mean anything. It would be better for both of us if we forgot it ever happened.”
“But Sam, I don’t—”
“Don’t call me that. Not after what you did to me.”
Ciaran paused at this. His spine prickled at the accusatory tone. “What do you mean?”
Sam stepped back and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. In the limited light, Ciaran got a glimpse of the conflict on his face. “You took advantage of me. Somehow, you made me do what happened.”'
Ciaran’s vision blurred with anger. He could endure a lot, but he wouldn’t abide such accusations. In jumbled, graceless moves, he climbed from the dugout. Ciaran pushed Sam back until they stood in the middle of the shell hole.
“Excuse me? Don’t forget, you kissed me, not the other way around, so don’t start blaming me. I get that you regret what happened, and that hurts me, it really does, but don’t you dare accuse me of taking advantage of you,” Ciaran spat, jabbing his finger into Sam’s chest to punctuate the point.
Sam’s stern expression faltered. As he spoke, he sounded less and less sure of himself. “You poisoned my brain. You got me drunk because you knew you couldn’t have me otherwise. You probably only became friends with me because you wanted to fuck me.”
That last sentence hurt more than anything else Sam had said. The fact that Sam would disregard their friendship and turn it into something dirty broke Ciaran’s heart. It took all his effort not to let that be heard in his voice.
“I became friends with you because I liked you,” Ciaran spat back, “Because I thought you were decent and kind. That for once in my life, I might have found someone who wouldn’t immediately turn their back on me when they found out who I was.”
Sam remained silent, but Ciaran was too worked up now to let that be the end of it. “Do you have any idea how hard it is? Going through life without even a friend or anyone who cares about you. I’ve had friends before. Each and every one of them abandoned me. Because when they found out who I was - and they always found out, somehow - it’s funny, they all reached the same conclusion you did. That I was in love with them and trying to convert them. If it was possible to convert, don’t you think I would have done that by now? Why would I choose this life, Sam? It’s so fucking lonely. Why would anyone ever want it?”
All sense of self-preservation escaped Ciaran at this point, replaced with a primal lust for understanding. Artillery be damned, everyone was destined to die, and Ciaran refused to do so without reeling against his chains. As Ciaran stood there at the bottom of a shell hole, he felt a great weight lift off him, like God had reached down and plucked it from his back. Surrounded by nothing but mud and death and devastation, he could stand up straight for the first time in a long time. Though he tried to keep his voice low, he got carried away. So great was the rush of emotion gripping him as he unloaded every trauma and trial that had been flung at him, that he lost control of himself.
Just as Ciaran’s tirade grew loud enough to be heard by the enemy, there was a hiss and a pop and everything was awash with white light like the heavens opening up. Ciaran looked up, dumbfounded, expecting angelic trumpets and Biblical terror and stared impotently instead at the flare as it began its slow descent to the ground. In the distance, the shelling’s heavy thuds grew louder.
Ciaran’s desire for life returned. Righteous death seemed less appealing in the light. Neither he nor Sam moved. The shell hole was too deep for them to be seen from the German lines, but moving shadows would attract attention, and the enemy may well throw a few shells their way for good measure.
Ciaran lowered his gaze. His lips parted in surprise when he saw Sam’s face. Two damp lines trickled from his eyes to his chin where water had washed away the mud he’d been using for camouflage. The whites of Sam’s brown eyes were bloodshot, and his body trembled like a cold, wet dog. Ciaran took a cautious step forward, half expecting to be pushed back. Sam’s breath hitched and his face took on a panicked expression, but no rebuke came.
The artillery grew louder as the shells hit closer.
Ciaran raised a hand to calm Sam down. He was fairly sure he knew what was happening right now. Ciaran had gone through the same realisation when he was younger. A wave of pity washed over him - he wouldn’t want to wish that experience on anyone. The pity began to mix with guilt for shouting at Sam. He knew he’d been provoked, but still, Ciaran felt bad for being part of the cause of Sam’s crying.
“It’s all right,” Ciaran said as he took another step forward and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders.
Sam looked up at Ciaran with heartbreak and pain in his eyes. His trembling seemed to grow under Ciaran’s gentle touch. The flare had almost completed its journey to the ground, and the light began to fade. Sam fell into Ciaran’s arms and wrapped his own around Ciaran’s torso. Ciaran’s hand slid up Sam’s neck and fingered under his cap comforter so he could stroke Sam’s hair. “It’s all right,” Ciaran whispered into his ear. Sam’s trembling became convulsions as he allowed himself to cry. Ciaran held him tighter.
The artillery was so close that debris was falling into the shell hole. The dirt hitting their helmets sounded like rain.
As darkness fell, they dropped to their knees at the bottom of that mangy hole. At that moment, the only sense either man could feel was a deep and genuine love for each other, as Sam allowed himself to confront the truth of who he was, and Ciaran let his guard down to be there for Sam as he did. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they didn’t hear the whistle of the shell plummeting toward them.