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Hamilton had made fun of him. “You look lost without your bearded companion, Tallmadge. You sure you know what you’re doing?” All with that signature smirk.
Yes, he did know what he was doing. He was moving south with Washington toward the fight and Caleb was staying north to receive information from their ‘Culpers’ in New York. Not that he could tell Hamilton, though. As far as he or anyone else knew, Lieutenant Brewster had been reassigned to a different company for his health. Ben’s health was a completely different story.
He couldn’t sleep without Caleb being just across the tent. At every courier coming down into camp at breakneck speed, Ben felt something in his gut clench. His mother had lectured him as a child: “Wait until you have children of your own, you’ll understand what you put me through.” Ben didn’t need to wait that long. His sole confidante and companion was holed up just north of Philadelphia somewhere, hopefully keeping out of harm’s way. Hopefully.
Meanwhile Ben was stuck worrying and brushing up on his French by conversing with the troops fresh of the boats from Paris. He led his dragoons into skirmishes and through training drills. He went drinking with Washington’s aides and after meetings in Washington’s tent.
Caleb was an invaluable asset, but it still killed Ben not to be able to talk to him, or to see him, or - when some small part of his brain would allow him to think such ways - to touch him.
He was debating over troop maneuverings with Lafayette in Washington’s headquarters one morning when he heard the skittering halt of hooves on the packed earth outside and one of Washington’s guards poked his head in to ask for Major Tallmadge. The young rider, likely not a day over fourteen, was soaked to the bone. Ben glanced up to a pristine sky. “Where’ve you ridden from?”
The boy was still panting from his ride. “Maryland, sir.”
Impatiently sticking his hand out for the letter clutched against the boy’s reins, his head began to race with thoughts of his network being detected, or worse. He dropped a coin in the boy’s hand for his troubles and waved him off, stalking back into the tent.
Lafayette, somewhat used to Ben’s moping, carried on moving metal pawns around the map spread out before him and gave Ben space to read. Space to read that Caleb had taken dangerously ill. Hundreds of miles away, he was on the brink of death without a friend.
Without.
Ben.
The brittle, dampened paper floated to his boots from his shaking grasp. He was shaking. Trembling. His hands coming up to grip at his hair. Someone was speaking to him. Someone was pointing and urging him.
“Tallmadge, go talk to Washington. Tallmadge. Go.” He looked into Tilghman’s usually collected face and saw nothing but anxious worry.
***
The General was talking to a physician, ironically enough, by the time Ben finally found him. When he saw Ben, he quietly dismissed the doctor to return to his business.
“Your Excellency, sir, I’ve received word from our contacts up north that the ring is in a compromising position and they need my assistance.” He gnawed at the inside of his cheek.
Washington looked at him with the air of a father catching his son lying, but respecting his decision all the same. “Go. Name someone to lead the dragoons and go.”
Ben nearly cried at the forgiving command, feeling Washington’s approval heavier than his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Sir, I -”
“I’d do the same for Martha, Benjamin.”
As he rushed to his tent to pack, he found himself doing something he hadn’t done in years: he was praying. Praying to a God he wasn’t sure existed about a friend he wasn’t sure was alive.
***
Ben had forgotten the sensation of twilight air in his lungs. He’d forgotten what night could taste and smell and feel like above the oppressive summer heat of Virginia. He’d missed the feeling of Caleb being nearby.
He found a surgeon, who seemed barely awake or well enough to be tending the sick and wounded, and got directions to Caleb’s tent, hidden among the unfamiliar rows. The first orderly he saw he physically grabbed, wrenching him in front of Ben. “Major Tallmadge. I’m here directly from General Washington to see Lieutenant Brewster. No one gets in that tent until morning and without my permission. Not the physician, not your commanding officer, no one. Washington’s orders.” Younger, even, than Ben’s courier of just a few days ago, the orderly quaked in his boots, gave a tense nod, and promptly skirted around Ben.
With a steadying breath, Ben gently opened the flap to Caleb’s tent, squinting into the darkness.
“Benny? I thought I heard a familiar barking out there,” Caleb’s raspy whisper called out. He began to laugh until it devolved into a coughing fit, nearly knocking him out of bed. Ben rushed to kneel at his side on a cot entirely unfit for an ailing man.
He immediately put a hand to Caleb’s forehead, feeling his temperature and gently combing back sweat-slick curls with his fingers.
Caleb’s voice was strained when he spoke again. “You didn’t have to ride all the way up here, Ben, I’m doing just fine.”
“I wasn’t going to let you…” Ben couldn’t bring himself to speak of death, “suffer by yourself. I came as soon as I heard.” He reached up to touch Caleb’s cheek, the skin beneath his beard pallid and hot. When Caleb leaned into Ben’s hand, his chapped lips rubbed against Ben’s thumb. “I would cross an ocean for you.”
“Oh, sure thing, land boy. Which one of us spent three years at sea and managed to stay out of the Delaware?” Caleb began to cough again, nearly choking on what Ben prayed was anything but blood. He stopped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It looks painful, Caleb.”
Caleb smirked, having the audacity to be his usual annoying self even though he was bedridden. “Well it’s not so bad now. I mean the face touching is a little much, but my new doctor’s alright.” Ben self-consciously pulled his hands away from Caleb’s face, but Caleb reached out a lightning fast hand to grab one of his wrists. Marveling at how thin and pale his fingers had gotten, Ben cradled Caleb’s hand. Ben looked up. Caleb was entirely more somber than he had been a minute ago and looked almost childlike and nervous. “I’ll be alright, won’t I?”
Some small, irreplaceable part of Ben’s heart shattered. “Of course.” He pressed his forehead to Caleb’s to hide the tears springing from his eyes. His fingers absentmindedly carded through Caleb’s beard. As Caleb’s breathing calmed, he chanced a press of his lips to Caleb’s head, just like their mothers used to do when they were young.
“Did you just kiss my head?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
***
Ben didn’t sleep much that night. Not at all, really.
He sat on Caleb’s campaign trunk and listened to the rattling in his breath. He fixed the covers when Caleb shifted and kicked them off. He rubbed Caleb’s back when he woke up or his breathing quickened.
By the morning, he was still feverish, shivering in his bed despite the sun’s growing warmth. Ben found his horse and brought back his bedroll, setting it at the foot of Caleb’s bed. He opened the trunk to find Caleb’s leather jacket somewhat folded at the top, and the rest of his usual attire underneath. This time when Caleb stirred, Ben fully woke him. “Caleb, I’ve got to stand you up.” Caleb groaned in response: a noise that would have elicited, in any other circumstance, a bodily reaction entirely different from the sympathy Ben felt. “I know but it’s only for a minute, I promise.”
Caleb gripped Ben’s hands like vices as Ben did his best to gradually get him upright. Almost immediately, Caleb collapsed on Ben’s chest, exhausted by the movement. Ben cradled Caleb’s head against his chest, whispering against his ear, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He somehow managed to wrestle Caleb into his overcoat. Sitting Caleb down on the edge of the cot, he rolled on Caleb’s stockings, wincing when Caleb shifted uncomfortably at the additional clothing on his already warm skin. After coaxing him back under the sheets, he spread his bedroll over Caleb and shrugged off his jacket to do the same with it.
Ben stepped outside, blinking into the adolescent sunlight and rolling up his sleeves. The physician from the night before scurried over to him.
“Finally, Major.” He scratched up and down his forearm, absentmindedly trying to rub off some splatters of long-dried blood. “How’d you leave him?”
Glancing into the narrow gap between the flaps of the tent, Ben responded, “I think his fever’s close to breaking. I’d hoped it would have gone away over night, but he woke up with it.”
The doctor contemplated. “He’s conscious?”
“Well, he was a moment ago.” It seemed like the physician didn’t trust him. “Why?”
“Brewster wasn’t expected to make it through the night.” Ben felt the blood physically rush out of his face and the panic creep up into his heart. The physician brushed past him into the tent. Before Ben could bring himself to turn around, he was back. “I don’t know what you did, Major, but it looks like he might make it.”
“I didn’t do anything, Doctor.”
“Hope can be a powerful thing.”
***
Ben was reading when Caleb blinked awake from his fever.
“Ben?” He looked up to see Caleb breaking into the largest grin Ben had seen from him in months. “Tallboy?”
He nearly fell across the tent to get to Caleb and unceremoniously fell to sit on the side of the cot. Immediately, he reached up to feel Caleb’s forehead, finding it much cooler than he had that morning.
“You’re really here.” Caleb’s voice sounded too small and too young. “I thought I dreamed you.”
“Of course I’m here, idiot.” Ben rested his forehead on Caleb’s.
Caleb pushed him away, fear and hurt in his eyes. “I don’t want you getting sick.”
“Don’t worry about me, Caleb.” He ran his fingers through Caleb’s hair. “All that matters is that you’re okay and that you’re alive.” Caleb grabbed for his elbow, tears beginning to spill over.
“Ben, I - I can’t lose you.”
Ben wiped away at Caleb’s tears. “You won’t.” He felt Caleb’s gaze sweeping over his face as he tried to stop his crying. Ben couldn’t look in his eyes. Not when he knew he’d start crying, too. “I don’t lose you, and you don’t lose me. That’s how it works.”
He didn’t know how long he sat there, running his thumb over the thin, delicate skin beneath Caleb’s eye, but he didn’t stop until well after Caleb had stopped crying.
Ever so soft, and unassuming, and selfless, Caleb gently interrupted. “Ben?”
Ben hummed in response, finally trusting his eyes to focus on Caleb’s without spilling.
“Do you mind getting food? It’s just, I haven’t eaten in three days, and -”
“Of course, Caleb.” He stood, barely pushing down the temptation to trail his fingertips along Caleb’s jaw. “Anything for you.” Casting one more look over his shoulder to make sure Caleb was still there, Ben ducked out of the tent and into the early afternoon.
He came back to Caleb peacefully asleep in his cot.
“Caleb,” he murmured, a hand tenderly lowering onto Caleb’s shoulder. “You have to eat.” With a slight shake, Caleb woke up. He squinted up at Ben and lifted a hand to reverently touch his chest, as if he still didn’t believe Ben was there with him. Ben’s breath caught in his lungs. His free hand grasped Caleb’s against the rough wool of his uniform as he lowered himself to sit at the edge of the cot. “Is your head ok? Do you need to sit up more?”
“That would be nice, Tallboy.” A short coughing fit. “But you ain’t gotta fawn over me like this.”
Ben laughed as he settled the bowl of broth in his lap and removed his jacket, folding it up to place under Caleb’s head. “I do know I’m not your mother.” Caleb’s silence was complicated. It held a certain magnitude, yet it made Caleb and his unspoken thoughts seem so small and folded in. “Jesus, I wasn’t thinking Caleb, I’m sorry.”
“Benny.” Caleb grasped Ben’s wrist, his nail making a soft scratching noise against Ben’s skin. “It’s alright.” For all that he’d been through, Caleb’s eyes were understanding and his smile was genuine. “I hope you’re not fixing to feed me because I draw the line there.” Ben rolled his eyes, but passed the bowl to Caleb and grabbed his book - a dry tome on economic theory - to pass the time without giving up his proximity to his best friend.
About the time Caleb was scraping the bowl, which hadn’t taken long, given army rations and his previous lack of food, Ben heard a voice from outside the tent calling his name. “Come in?”
The courier held a single letter, written in Washington’s own hand. Ben took it with an outstretched hand and a thankful nod.
Caleb set his empty bowl on the ground. “What’s it say?”
“Washington wants me back at camp soon. Lafayette’s got a contact who says there may be a major British movement to regroup before the summer’s out. He wants me to come see if he’s reliable and if we should trust him, no offense to Laf, of course.” Ben scratched at the back of his neck.
“So when are you leaving?”
Ben scoffed a laugh. “Not until you’re well enough to travel.”
“But you don’t need me to do this, do you?
“I can’t do this without you.”
“Do what?”
“This! All of this… this war, this life. Caleb, our ring isn’t going to do anything of immense value at present. The army doesn’t have it’s headquarters in New York anymore, and the South is becoming the heart of the action. And I need you with me. I need to know you’ll be there because no one else knows me like you do and I don’t love anyone like I love you.” There. It was out there now. Out before Ben could even properly think those three words and what they meant.
He stared into the faint patterns of the canvas tent, well above Caleb’s head.
“Ben, why won’t you look at me?”
He swallowed. After a second too long, he answered, “Because then I’ll have to explain.”
“Why don’t you?”
Caleb’s eyes, damn them, were so deep and comforting and reminded Ben of a memory. Of long summer nights spent gazing at stars through spindly, dry apple tree branches, the cyclical song of waves just barely tickling their ears. Of hot slices of apple pie enjoyed with snow in their hair and stockinged feet pointed at the fire place. Of napping on hard church pews, claps of thunder rippling overhead. Of dry grass and leaves snapping underfoot, graceless breezes cutting beneath their woolen clothes, and the sweet scent of pumpkins just past ripe. Of the salty Long Island tides pushing and pulling them apart and towards each other, like a stroke of fate.
Ben leaned closer to Caleb’s face, steadying himself with a hand in the curls of his beard. He bent to bring his mouth near Caleb’s. Waiting long enough for Caleb to pull back, he pushed forward to kiss him. Caleb’s lips shrunk away far too soon, leaving Ben heartbroken.
“I’m - I’m sorry, Caleb. This isn’t - its not fair to you.” Ben turned so he didn’t have to face Caleb anymore, finally recognizing the letter he had unconsciously crumpled, the ink running with sweat. He dropped it to the dusty ground.
“Who says it isn’t?”
When Ben turned in confusion, Caleb wrapped a hand around his neck and brought him forward to meet his lips again. Ben let himself relish in their closeness and the seemingly eager consent for only a few seconds. He pulled back, resting his forehead on Caleb’s.
As he spoke, he nuzzled their noses together in an unstoppable display of affection. “You don’t need to humor me, you know. I can handle rejection.”
“I know you can, Tallboy, but you won’t need to.”
Ben felt the muscles in his face, so long taut and stoic, burst into a smile so big it physically hurt. He giggled into another kiss. And another. And another. Until they were kissing so passionately and feverishly and happily that it turned sloppy before it turned good. Ben couldn’t keep his hands from cradling Caleb’s jawline, sliding up into his hair, and slipping down to his chest before doing it all over again. Just holding him close.
***
Caleb was well enough to make it to the mouth of his tent to see Ben off.
Ben adjusted his saddle, easily distracted by the sight of a rumpled, drowsy Caleb across his horse. Patting his steed on the neck, he walked up to Caleb, pausing too close for the public eye, but too far for what they had quickly grown used to. He let out a sigh full of both contentment and resignation, and gazed at Caleb in the only way he knew - tenderly, and adoringly.
Caleb smiled a small, sad smile, even as Ben put a friendly hand on his neck. Ben leaned their foreheads together. “I wish I could give you more.”
When Caleb pulled back, his eyes were paranoid and sweeping. He cleared his throat. “I think you left your book in my tent, Major.” Just loud enough to be overheard.
“You know, I think you’re right.” Ben slipped inside, grabbing Caleb by the front of the shirt and hauling them together. They kissed hard and deep, Ben’s hand tight on Caleb’s jaw keeping them together. Caleb cradled his hips like he was worshiping Ben’s sides. “I don’t want to leave you,” Ben murmured against Caleb’s top lip.
Caleb leaned back, a hand coming up to brush a lock of Ben’s hair off of his forehead. “It’ll be a week, at most, before I see you again.”
“At most?”
“At most.”
They left the tent, Ben’s book carefully in hand, and Ben climbed his horse. With a salute, he was gone.