Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Anything else?” Will slots his hand over Blake’s, and it dawns on him how small it is. How fragile, the boy who lies in his arms, soaked with blood as bright as cherry wine. 

“One last thing,” Tom says, and if Will was looking he’d have probably caught the twinkle in his eye. Regardless, he isn’t, too busy staring into the distance and stubbornly holding his composure.

Will licks dry lips. “Anything,” he says fiercely.

“When I’m gone,” Tom begins, interrupted by a harsh exhale. Will’s facade wavers. Because reality hurts like a knife to the gut, the inevitable too tragic to even think about. 

Tom flips his palm and clutches his wrist with slick fingers, grounding him. Will finally looks at him. “When I’m gone,” Tom repeats, eyes soft, “don’t trade off my medal, hm?”

Will barks a startled laugh. Tom could always draw out the best in him.

Tom tightens his grip. “At least not for a bottle of wine,” he continues. “I reckon I’m worth at least two of the good stuff.” 

A sob escapes, before Will intertwines their bloody hands. Tom glances at the union, his face achingly sad and faintly wistful. “Watch it for me, won’t you?”

Will never breaks his gaze. “I’ll take care of it,” he promises, and Tom knows he doesn’t mean just the tin.

Two hours before that

“I have a sister, you know.” They’re trudging through a copse of trees, Will still maintaining a grudging silence. Dust from the mine clogs his throat.

He grunts. Tom takes it as encouragement.

“She’s off at university right now. Safe. She’s an author, likes to tell stories.”

“Wonder where she got that from,” Will says. Tom grins at him.

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Will sighs. “Fine.” The smile shines brighter, so he can’t even regret it.

“A couple years ago, she fell for this bloke,” Tom says in a hushed voice, like he’s imparting some great wisdom. “A tall, handsome bloke who liked poetry. Always said he was the best thing that ever happened to her.” Something flickers in his expression. “Anyways, one morning, he’s just gone, and she’s in tears. And when we asked her what was wrong, all she would say is that she had told him a secret. A terrible, terrible secret, and he had laughed.”

Will stops in his tracks, brow furrowing. “What?-” he begins to ask.

The roar of two planes cuts through the air.

Tom is going quiet. His face has adopted a gray pallor, and his grasp is weakening. Will desperately struggles to anchor him to the living.

“You never finished.”

Tom blearily opens his eyes. “Huh?”

“You never finished telling me about your sister.”

Tom chuckles. “Never could resist a good story, could you.”

“And you could never resist telling one.” The corner of Tom’s lips raise in amusement. He gently disentangles their hands, bringing his palm up to cup Will’s cheek. Will shudders at the touch, sure to leave a bloody mark on his soul.

He clasps Tom’s wrist, raw and open. “What was her secret?” Go on. Keep talking. Keep breathing.

Tom is struggling now, to form words. “She...she told him.” He pauses, as if gathering his strength. His hand starts to drop, but Will just holds on tighter, wants to keep it there for eternity.

“She told him…?” Will urges gently. Tom wipes away a phantom tear, his thumb smearing blood on Will’s skin. 

“I love you,” he says feebly. His eyes are vulnerable, bright with regret.

“She said I love you, Will.”

Will holds Tom until he stills, until even the body grows cold, clutching with bruising force. When two soldiers find him sitting there, staring at nothing, they have to pry his stiff fingers off one by one. As they drag him away, he can’t even muster the energy to beg.

He goes limp between them, hanging from his arms. “Let me go,” he says hoarsely. “He’s my friend.”

They refuse. No use in dwelling.

And only then does Will allow himself to shatter. His face crumples, tears cleaning tracks through the mud and gore.

He weeps.

“He was a good man,” Will says to Joseph Blake, and knows the words are inadequate, the comfort too sparing. But there is no balm for grief. He should know.

“Always telling funny stories.” His last tale was far from humorous, but Will avoids thinking too hard about that one. “He saved my life.” And there is no truth greater than that.

“Well, I’m glad you were with him.” I killed him, it was my fault. “Thank you, Will.”

The universe is cruel, and irony hurts like salt in the wound.

He leaves those trenches with a hole in his chest that throbs in time with his heart, and an address.

Tell her I wasn’t scared.

Chapter Text

Will ends up telling Tom’s mother the news in person. The impersonal touch of a letter would make it even more devastating. Better to hear it from someone who had loved him, too.

That’s how he ends up in a small, rural town in the English countryside during his leave. He has no one to go home to, anyway. His sister has her own life to live.

A woman, stout and weathered, greets him at the door. He shakes a calloused hand ( Tom’s hands had been so soft ), and she ushers him in.

When her heart breaks as visibly as Joseph’s had, Will banishes the thought of tearful blue eyes, so like Tom’s in those last moments.

She makes him tea (Blakes are always gracious), and he still presses a letter into her hands, because some things Will cannot bear to say aloud, some words blood on a page. But she deserves to know. So he leaves her clutching the tear-stained parchment, and goes as directed to the orchard. 

He stands there, among the sprawling cherry trees, petals showering down upon him, and time seems to lose its meaning. Tom would’ve loved to be here, to show him around. Recite a hundred useless little facts about the plants, and Will would give anything to listen.

“Will!” Will startles, doing an about-face. Mrs. Blake waves from the gate, before coming closer. “I wanted to ask you to stay for dinner,” she says smoothly, features warm. “I could use some company.” You look lonely, too, goes unsaid, but he understands anyway.

“I’d love to,” he tells her, and she turns to go, perhaps sensing that he needs to be alone. 

“Which university does your daughter go to?” he blurts out, randomly. Anything to make Tom more real.

But Mrs. Blake only tilts her head, bemusement on her face. 

Will can’t stop himself. “Tom’s sister?” And why does she look so concerned?

“Will, dear,” she says slowly, “Tom doesn’t have a sister.”

What? 

The world spins. “But-” he stammers, “he told me about his sister, who’s at university to become an author-” He’s not gone mad in his grief, has he?

Mrs. Blake is crying, now, and Will feels a bit wild, but mostly confused. “Oh Tom,” she murmurs, “my poor boy.” She inhales and, closing her eyes, steels herself.

“Tom was set to go to university, before this all started,” she tells him, face creasing. “Loved spinning stories with his voice just as much as on paper. He wanted to be an author.” Never got the chance.

No.

But-

No.

The memory comes back to him in pieces, each one a stake through the heart. Each one another blow.

Fell for this bloke, a tall, handsome bloke who liked poetry.

When Tom got too antsy in the trenches, Will would whisper verses to keep him occupied. Soothe them both until everything seemed a little bit more okay again.

-best thing that ever happened to her-

And a secret…

She said I love you, Will.

I love you, Will.

I love you, Will.

It’s like a death knell. 

They could’ve had it all. Instead, Will is left standing there, mouth tasting of blood and regret. They had been such idiots. 

By the time Will comes back to himself, Mrs. Blake is gone, and the kitchen light is on, the clanging of pots and pans carrying faintly from the window.

Oh, Tom. I never would’ve run from you. I could never.

A falling cherry blossom brushes his cheek, where Tom had, so long ago. It’s soft, and Will lifts shaking fingers to touch the spot. 

“I love you too,” he whispers.