“What did you mean, no trace of me?” asked Stanley. “I must have left a track of mud a mile wide when I came in that first time.”
“It was funny, strange, you know?” said Devon. “You were gone,and I’d already put away the bedding, so there was no trace of you having slept on the couch. I thought I was going crazy because everywhere I looked, if I could imagine that you’d used a mug or a washcloth, it was just as easy to explain it away that I’d used those things. And the pictures I took, they were just black blobs, except for the last one, which was a bright white blob.”
“None of them were of me?” asked Stanley.
“No, none,” said Devon. “They were just pictures of blurs. The only thing—theonlything—that could prove you’d been here, and it wasn’t very much, was the scrape in the plaster from the bayonet on your rifle.”
Stanley stirred beneath the blanket, as though he wanted to get up and do something about it, like leave traces of himself all throughout the cottage. There was nothing he could have done differently, nothing anybody could have done, so Devon soothed him with long pets to his arm, tucking in the covers. He traced his fingers along the side of Stanley’s face, a long, slow gesture meant to be calming, but which opened Stanley’s eyes, though he looked exhausted.
“I have a second chance to get it right, this time,” said Stanley. “I have a chance to be brave. With you.”
It sounded as though Stanley meant being brave about the war, rather than about coming into the future and facing the unknown. Except he gripped Devon’s hand in his and pulled it up to tuck beneath his chin.
“I mean about—” Then Stanley stopped, as if the words and the thoughts behind it were too much. “Having a second chance.”
“Yes,” said Devon. He wanted to say all the things he’d been feeling, but he tempered it because the last thing Stanley needed was for Devon to unload all of that when Stanley had just been through a harrowing ordeal that the last time had killed his friends.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Devon said. “I’m glad you’re here with me because now I have a second chance, too.” He carefully spread his hand so his fingers were over Stanley’s, and his palm rested over the hollow in Stanley’s shoulder. “You should get some rest, and then we’ll go from there, okay?”
For some reason, this question made Stanley smile, but he obediently closed his eyes, and Devon waited with him while he fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Stanley woke up on the couch where he’d fallen asleep. He realized that he could hear the sound of rain pattering against the thick windows as if fighting to come into the warm room with them. The fireplace was filled with low flickers of light, and at the kitchen table stood Devon. He had his arms crossed on his chest and he was looking down at the canteen with a scowl, as if attempting to decipher it.
When he saw that Stanley was awake, he uncrossed his arms and, smiling, came over to the couch.
“Did I wake you?” asked Devon. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I don’t want to leave again,” said Stanley with a croak as he sat up, pushing back the sheet and blanket.
“I don’t want you to either,” said Devon.
As he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, Stanley struggled with the wave of dizziness that threatened to put him out flat on the couch, and clutched at the sheet.
He wanted Devon near him. He wanted Devon’s warm steadiness. He wanted the weight of him on the couch so they could be together that way, even if just for a little while, in case the forces that had brought him out of the war suddenly decided to take him back to it.None of this was real anyway, so it would be okay if he wanted what he wanted.
“Devon,” Stanley said, a little desperate and a little vulnerable. He spread his fingers across the edge of the blanket and tapped it. The gesture turned into apat-pat-paaaatmotion, which he hoped Devon would understand because he couldn’t for the life of him articulate what he felt just then.
Devon’s eyebrows flew up, black curves in his forehead, though instead of being shocked and drawing back, he seemed pleased. He sat down next to Stanley with enough haste that it threatened to knock Stanley over.
“I just wanted,” said Stanley, attempting to start to say what he felt needed saying. Except he didn’t know how to stop it rising up within his breast, didn’t know how to say it out loud. He wanted a nameless, formless thing, a sense of expectation and need filling him.
But he didn’t have to. Devon curled his arms around Stanley, warm through his thin cotton t-shirt, and pulled Stanley to him. Against Devon’s broad chest, his eyes half closed, Stanley titled his head back with a wordless sigh. He felt a hand cupping his chin, Devon’s strong hand, warm and gentle, and opened his eyes.
There was a question on Devon’s face, a look of asking, and if Stanley said no, then Devon would move away. He didn’t want Devon to move away, didn’t want to be separated from Devon ever again, so he nodded. And then Devon kissed him.
It was not the forceful pushy motion that Stanley had experienced at the Bon Voyage dance. The army had organized the dance before they’d shipped out, where, to the rousing tunes ofPack Up Your Troubles,Stanley had his first kiss. The girl had been one of the blowsy types. She had been energetic and friendly, though her kisses had tasted of wax. Stanley had told nobody that he’d not enjoyed it, but instead had smiled at the jokes and the shoulder punches and nodded that yes, it had been the best fun.
All of that memory was nothing compared to the warmth of Devon’s plush mouth, the tender moisture, the sense of Devon’s breath on his skin. The feel of Devon’s heartbeat speeding up in hischest, so close to Stanley’s heart. And the way Devon held him as he kissed him, a bulwark against the fear of the unknown thing that was yanking him back and forth through time. Nothing could get at him, nothing couldtakehim if Devon were near, of that he was sure.
He leaned into the embrace, sliding his arms around Devon’s waist. He felt quite bold, shaking all over, for never before had he held another man with such an intent as he had, to get even closer, to somehow touch Devon’s skin.
“Can I, Stanley, can I?” asked Devon, his voice rough, and Stanley realized that Devon was shaking too.
Not understanding what Devon wanted, but willing to give him everything, Stanley nodded, opening his eyes all the way so that he could watch what Devon was doing. Not because he was worried or needed to keep track, but so that he could memorize this moment and store it in his heart forever.
Devon took both of his hands and reached down to slide them up under Stanley’s t-shirt. The motion, the sudden contact, took away Stanley’s breath, but he was glad to lose it if he had this, Devon’s hands on his belly as they curved upwards, tracing the line of his ribs, circling around his waist. Every movement tickled him a bit, but it was good, so good, to have Devon’s hands there.
