![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smackenzie"Do you live here alone?" Bradford asks. The house is dark and silent, and half the furniture is covered with dust sheets.
"Myself and a housekeeper. She comes in every day to sweep and press my shirts and keep an eye on me, really. I think she reports back to Tavia. She makes me breakfast every morning because no one thinks I can take care of myself." He rolls his eyes, amused at his family. Bradford grins at him. Pryce is many things, but as the youngest and most coddled of the Pryce children - by his sisters as well as his parents – self-sufficient he is not, and Bradford is surprised he only has a staff of one.
"Come into the study," Pryce says, heading towards the back of the house. Bradford follows.
The study is small and cozy and lined with books, except for a large desk against the wall that is covered with what looks like blueprints and small model planes.
"Top secret," Pryce says, winking.
The fire is dying in the fireplace and Pryce demonstrates exactly how self-sufficient he isn't by being unable to coax it into anything approaching warmth. Bradford is considering offering his services – he can't quite build a fire from scratch but he does know how to keep one going – when Pryce offers him the poker and asks him to deal with it.
While Bradford is encouraging the fire, Pryce pours them both a glass of brandy, and they sit in the two armchairs in front of the fireplace once there's actually a fire to enjoy.
"This is quite nice," Bradford comments. "I've gotten used to being warm and dry. I don’t know how I will handle it once I go back to the front."
"Do you mind if we talk about it?" Pryce asks. "Not the war per se, but would you like to hear about my planes? I find it very exciting, some of the advances we're making, but I'll try not to bore you."
"I don't remember you being so interested in aviation."
"Oh, it's fairly recent. I was just starting to become interested in airships when the war broke out. Biplanes are much more intriging, though. They're more versatile, I think."
Bradford does remember that Pryce can go on when the conversation turns to something that fascinates him, so he sips his brandy and listens and occasionally interjects or asks a question or offers an opinion, but mostly he lets Pryce talk. It's a bit like listening to Cuthbertson, who can bulldoze right over anyone else in a discussion when he has something to say – although he doesn't do it all that often – and it's oddly comforting.
Somehow the conversation turns to airplanes and observation balloons at the front, and from there they end up talking about the trenches and what it's like to live and fight in them, and then Bradford is telling Pryce about men being injured and killed by shells falling in the trenches, and how he had to dig Davies out from under mud and sandbags and broken wooden revetting.
It is not a conversational tack he was expecting, and not something he particularly wants to think about. He doesn't mind listening to Pryce talking about aerial warfare or the advances that military engineers have made in aeronautics in general, but he wasn't expecting to talk so much about his own experiences. He can feel his heart racing with remembered anxiety, he can almost feel Davies' dead weight across his shoulders and the cold, wet solidity of trench mud on his boots and his tunic, and when he puts his brandy glass down on the little table between the armchairs, his hand is shaking.
"Are you ok?" Pryce asks.
"No, I don't think I am," Bradford admits quietly, more to himself than to Pryce. "I should go home." He starts to stand. He's embarrassed at his reaction, at the way he's behaved tonight – first the scene at the club, now rattled as if he'd just seen a shell falling in the little backyard – and he doesn't want to inflict on his friend any more of his inability to cope.
He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep tonight, but at least he can have a late-onset panic attack in the privacy of his own room. Because what he has quite suddenly realized that he needs is to see his men with his own eyes, to touch their shoulders and inspect their rifles and make sure they're fed and remind them to air out their feet whenever possible.
He needs to be back in the trenches. He's a little worried that means he's losing his mind.
And what he needs most of all, which he realizes in the ten seconds it takes for Pryce to stand as well and to touch his arm in concern, is to know that Davies is still alive and still in one piece.
He needs to touch him. He needs to know.
"Harry," Pryce is saying, "you really don't look well. Are you sure you can make it home?"
No, Bradford thinks. I'm not sure of anything.
But that's a lie.
"Stay here tonight," Pryce says. He's standing very close now, both hands on Bradford's shoulders. "I don't think my pajamas will fit you but I should be able to find something. You can rest up here, and in the morning Mrs Donaldson will make you a good hot breakfast and you can take a taxi home."
"My mother will wonder where I went. She'll worry. So will Amelia. It might be too late to call them. What time is it? I really should leave."
"No, you shouldn't." Pryce leans forward suddenly and kisses him.
Bradford is not expecting this, at least not right now. He and Pryce have been intimate before, so the fact Pryce wants to be so again isn't in itself a huge shock. Bradford just wasn't expecting it tonight.
"Just this once," Pryce murmurs after they pull apart. "You look like you need it."
You're not who I need, Bradford thinks, but Pryce is close enough, and more importantly, he is here. This is something Bradford can actually have, and is close enough to something he thinks he wants, and he is going to take it.
"Come upstairs," Pryce says, stepping away and leading Bradford out of the study towards the hallway, up the stairs, and down another hall to his bedroom. Pryce flips the light on, grabs Bradford's face, and kisses him again.
Now that they're here, Bradford doesn't have the patience for foreplay. He pulls at Pryce's uniform as Pryce agreeably pulls at his, and soon they're both sitting on the bed, naked.
"Top or bottom?" Pryce asks considerately. They both discovered they liked men, rather than women, when they were in school, but it wasn't until they had both gone off to university that they started caring whether or not the sex was actually good. (And not just with each other.) They would play around between terms at university, or when one or the other was home on break, having fun and trying things out. But they never fell into specific roles, in bed or otherwise. They were only ever serious about their friendship, not whether or not they were suited as long-term lovers.
"Top," Bradford tells him, pushing him back onto the bed. Pryce grins. Bradford needs it too badly to take it lightly.
"There's cream in the nightstand." Pryce points from his position on his back. Bradford reaches into the drawer of the nightstand and pulls out a little jar. Pryce sits up just enough to reach for him, to take his stiffening cock in hand and stroke. Bradford bites his lip. "No one's home but us. You can make noise if you wish."
"Shut up." Bradford bends down to kiss Pryce's mouth, to bite at his lips and suck on his tongue. Pryce's hand is strong on his cock.
Bradford sits up, pulls Pryce's hand away, slathers cream on his own cock, and spreads Pryce's thighs. Pryce is still grinning up at him, but the grin slips as Bradford thrusts inside his ass.
And oh, it feels good. It's been too long. He can't do this at the front. He couldn't risk it even on leave, if he'd gotten leave before he was shot. The only man he could possibly trust with his preferences is Cuthbertson, and Cuthbertson already knows. Cuthbertson will keep his secret.
Pryce is tight and eager and he grabs Bradford's ass and squeezes as Bradford's hips pump in and out. Bradford doesn't remember either of them being particularly loud in bed, but now Pryce moans and talks in an effort to be encouraging, and Bradford just wants to tell him to shut up. His voice is wrong. His body is wrong. His hair is wrong. He is… he is wrong.
But he is willing, and Bradford does love him after a fashion. They've been friends since they were twelve, they do care for each other, and Pryce no doubt sees this as some kind of gift, some comfort he can offer to soothe what he probably thinks of as Bradford's jangled nerves. And Bradford is not ungrateful. He will take it and not complain.
Well, if he were to be technical, Pryce will take it. And Pryce is absolutely not complaining.
"This is… is… ah, Christ, Harry...," he pants. His chest heaves with his building orgasm. Bradford can see it, and it makes him thrust harder, deeper. He wants to shake the bed with the force of his fucking.
He can feel an ache in his side where he is probably aggravating his gunshot wound, but he doesn't care. It just adds to his pleasure, oddly enough. It reminds him where he was, what he survived, where he will go back to.
Pryce reaches for his own cock, pulling almost in time with Bradford's thrusts. Bradford wants to wait, wants to let Pryce come first as a courtesy, but he can't. He's too close, too needy, too caught by his own transferred desire to hold back. He comes with a groan, buried deep in Pryce's ass, emptying himself of everything, even coherent thought.
Pryce is not far behind, dribbling spunk over his hand and onto his chest. Bradford flops forward onto him, and he isn't sure but he thinks he can hear Pryce giggle. His face is in Pryce's neck. He breathes in sweat and skin and the faintest scent of good clean soap as he tries to catch his breath.
"You most definitely needed that," Pryce says, still a little breathless. He tangles both hands in Bradford's hair to mess it up, then pulls gently until Bradford raises his head. "Are you better?"
"A bit." Bradford manages to return Pryce's grin. "Thank you."
"I should perhaps thank you as well." Pryce lifts his head and licks his way into Bradford's mouth. But Bradford doesn't feel like kissing any more. He wants to sleep. He thinks maybe he can, now.
But he kisses back anyway, because it's polite and because Pryce is not a bad kisser.
Eventually he pulls out and rolls onto his back next to Pryce. He pushes sweat-damp curling hair out of his face. He feels at peace, at least for now.
"Do you normally sleep nude?" Pryce asks. "I might be able to find something for you to sleep in. Gwennie sent down some clothes for herself and Albert when they thought they were moving back, and he's closer to your height than I am."
"I should really go home," Bradford says. He feels like a heel saying that, but he can't sleep in Pryce's house when he has his own just a taxi ride away. It might be a long taxi ride – Hampstead is not around the corner from Knightsbridge – but it is not the end of the earth. He might take the bus for part of the way. He likes taking the bus. And he has spent enough time bereft of proper pajamas that now he has the chance to sleep in his own, he wants to do so.
"I wish you'd stop saying that. You're going to offend my delicate sensibilities."
"You sound just like Bertie Cuthbertson." Bradford smiles to himself. He misses Cuthbertson. He hopes Cuthbertson misses him.
"Well, any time you feel too wound up, come see me."
"I'd like to invite you to dinner at the house, in fact. My parents always liked you, and I think they're glad I have someone to socialize with in London. Thursday, say? At seven."
"Thursday is fine. I will be there. And then I will go home. As you keep saying." He grins.
"I'm sorry, Leslie. I really did have an enjoyable evening, and it would have been enjoyable even if you hadn't brought me upstairs. But I want to sleep in my own bed. I feel out of sorts in London, for reasons I'm not sure I can explain. I feel out of sorts everywhere, but slightly less so in my own house." He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands up. He's glad the light is on in the room, because it should make separating his own uniform from Pryce's easier. In piles on the floor, in the dark, all khaki looks the same.
He gets dressed, and Pryce puts on pajamas and his dressing-gown, and they go downstairs, where Pryce fetches Bradford's coat and hat and walks him to the door.
"Get home safe," Pryce says. "Do you want me to come with you? It just occurred to me."
"Thank you, but no. I think I can get myself back to the house by myself. Besides, you'd have to come home alone. I'll be fine."
"It was good to see you. I wish it had been a less distressing evening."
"I do too. Good night, Leslie. And thank you again." He plants a quick kiss on Pryce's lips and goes outside.
It takes slightly longer than he was expecting to get home, but his mother is not waiting up and neither is his sister, and he's relieved.
He finds two envelopes addressed to him on the table in the front hall. One is from Harris –
A quick note that I'm in hospital with trench fever. C Company is temporarily in the capable hands of Captain Clarke, formerly of A Company. He's a good man.
Harris
And the other is from Cuthbertson –
Harry,
Victoria should have paid you a call by now. I hope you were nice to her, and I hope you don't mind that I didn't tell her earlier that you were in London. She has no doubt told you this already, but you are always welcome in our house, and if you have enough leave and wish to go to Durham, Mum will host you in the city and Dad will host you out in the country. He will take you hunting and his dogs will climb all over you. Be warned.
Life at the front is the same as it ever was, muddy and cold and rocked with artillery. I am holding down the fort, as they say, although no one will play cards with me but Purcell and my cigarettes tend to be soggy. My second in command, Clarke, has been given command of your company until you return and your second recovers from trench fever. The men seem to like him. I think you would too.
Don't hurry back. Enjoy London.
Bertie
Bradford takes both letters upstairs. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, and climbs into bed. Pryce is a good friend, he thinks. Between him and Cuthbertson he feels lucky to know the men he does.
words: 2507
total words: 45,264
note: look, smut! i don't know what exactly passed for lube in london in 1916. also i have no idea how long it would have taken to cab from knightsbridge (centralish london) to hampstead (suburb). bradford is happy to take the bus but the tube is a bit beyond him, on account of he doesn't want to risk an attack of claustrophobia.
"Myself and a housekeeper. She comes in every day to sweep and press my shirts and keep an eye on me, really. I think she reports back to Tavia. She makes me breakfast every morning because no one thinks I can take care of myself." He rolls his eyes, amused at his family. Bradford grins at him. Pryce is many things, but as the youngest and most coddled of the Pryce children - by his sisters as well as his parents – self-sufficient he is not, and Bradford is surprised he only has a staff of one.
"Come into the study," Pryce says, heading towards the back of the house. Bradford follows.
The study is small and cozy and lined with books, except for a large desk against the wall that is covered with what looks like blueprints and small model planes.
"Top secret," Pryce says, winking.
The fire is dying in the fireplace and Pryce demonstrates exactly how self-sufficient he isn't by being unable to coax it into anything approaching warmth. Bradford is considering offering his services – he can't quite build a fire from scratch but he does know how to keep one going – when Pryce offers him the poker and asks him to deal with it.
While Bradford is encouraging the fire, Pryce pours them both a glass of brandy, and they sit in the two armchairs in front of the fireplace once there's actually a fire to enjoy.
"This is quite nice," Bradford comments. "I've gotten used to being warm and dry. I don’t know how I will handle it once I go back to the front."
"Do you mind if we talk about it?" Pryce asks. "Not the war per se, but would you like to hear about my planes? I find it very exciting, some of the advances we're making, but I'll try not to bore you."
"I don't remember you being so interested in aviation."
"Oh, it's fairly recent. I was just starting to become interested in airships when the war broke out. Biplanes are much more intriging, though. They're more versatile, I think."
Bradford does remember that Pryce can go on when the conversation turns to something that fascinates him, so he sips his brandy and listens and occasionally interjects or asks a question or offers an opinion, but mostly he lets Pryce talk. It's a bit like listening to Cuthbertson, who can bulldoze right over anyone else in a discussion when he has something to say – although he doesn't do it all that often – and it's oddly comforting.
Somehow the conversation turns to airplanes and observation balloons at the front, and from there they end up talking about the trenches and what it's like to live and fight in them, and then Bradford is telling Pryce about men being injured and killed by shells falling in the trenches, and how he had to dig Davies out from under mud and sandbags and broken wooden revetting.
It is not a conversational tack he was expecting, and not something he particularly wants to think about. He doesn't mind listening to Pryce talking about aerial warfare or the advances that military engineers have made in aeronautics in general, but he wasn't expecting to talk so much about his own experiences. He can feel his heart racing with remembered anxiety, he can almost feel Davies' dead weight across his shoulders and the cold, wet solidity of trench mud on his boots and his tunic, and when he puts his brandy glass down on the little table between the armchairs, his hand is shaking.
"Are you ok?" Pryce asks.
"No, I don't think I am," Bradford admits quietly, more to himself than to Pryce. "I should go home." He starts to stand. He's embarrassed at his reaction, at the way he's behaved tonight – first the scene at the club, now rattled as if he'd just seen a shell falling in the little backyard – and he doesn't want to inflict on his friend any more of his inability to cope.
He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep tonight, but at least he can have a late-onset panic attack in the privacy of his own room. Because what he has quite suddenly realized that he needs is to see his men with his own eyes, to touch their shoulders and inspect their rifles and make sure they're fed and remind them to air out their feet whenever possible.
He needs to be back in the trenches. He's a little worried that means he's losing his mind.
And what he needs most of all, which he realizes in the ten seconds it takes for Pryce to stand as well and to touch his arm in concern, is to know that Davies is still alive and still in one piece.
He needs to touch him. He needs to know.
"Harry," Pryce is saying, "you really don't look well. Are you sure you can make it home?"
No, Bradford thinks. I'm not sure of anything.
But that's a lie.
"Stay here tonight," Pryce says. He's standing very close now, both hands on Bradford's shoulders. "I don't think my pajamas will fit you but I should be able to find something. You can rest up here, and in the morning Mrs Donaldson will make you a good hot breakfast and you can take a taxi home."
"My mother will wonder where I went. She'll worry. So will Amelia. It might be too late to call them. What time is it? I really should leave."
"No, you shouldn't." Pryce leans forward suddenly and kisses him.
Bradford is not expecting this, at least not right now. He and Pryce have been intimate before, so the fact Pryce wants to be so again isn't in itself a huge shock. Bradford just wasn't expecting it tonight.
"Just this once," Pryce murmurs after they pull apart. "You look like you need it."
You're not who I need, Bradford thinks, but Pryce is close enough, and more importantly, he is here. This is something Bradford can actually have, and is close enough to something he thinks he wants, and he is going to take it.
"Come upstairs," Pryce says, stepping away and leading Bradford out of the study towards the hallway, up the stairs, and down another hall to his bedroom. Pryce flips the light on, grabs Bradford's face, and kisses him again.
Now that they're here, Bradford doesn't have the patience for foreplay. He pulls at Pryce's uniform as Pryce agreeably pulls at his, and soon they're both sitting on the bed, naked.
"Top or bottom?" Pryce asks considerately. They both discovered they liked men, rather than women, when they were in school, but it wasn't until they had both gone off to university that they started caring whether or not the sex was actually good. (And not just with each other.) They would play around between terms at university, or when one or the other was home on break, having fun and trying things out. But they never fell into specific roles, in bed or otherwise. They were only ever serious about their friendship, not whether or not they were suited as long-term lovers.
"Top," Bradford tells him, pushing him back onto the bed. Pryce grins. Bradford needs it too badly to take it lightly.
"There's cream in the nightstand." Pryce points from his position on his back. Bradford reaches into the drawer of the nightstand and pulls out a little jar. Pryce sits up just enough to reach for him, to take his stiffening cock in hand and stroke. Bradford bites his lip. "No one's home but us. You can make noise if you wish."
"Shut up." Bradford bends down to kiss Pryce's mouth, to bite at his lips and suck on his tongue. Pryce's hand is strong on his cock.
Bradford sits up, pulls Pryce's hand away, slathers cream on his own cock, and spreads Pryce's thighs. Pryce is still grinning up at him, but the grin slips as Bradford thrusts inside his ass.
And oh, it feels good. It's been too long. He can't do this at the front. He couldn't risk it even on leave, if he'd gotten leave before he was shot. The only man he could possibly trust with his preferences is Cuthbertson, and Cuthbertson already knows. Cuthbertson will keep his secret.
Pryce is tight and eager and he grabs Bradford's ass and squeezes as Bradford's hips pump in and out. Bradford doesn't remember either of them being particularly loud in bed, but now Pryce moans and talks in an effort to be encouraging, and Bradford just wants to tell him to shut up. His voice is wrong. His body is wrong. His hair is wrong. He is… he is wrong.
But he is willing, and Bradford does love him after a fashion. They've been friends since they were twelve, they do care for each other, and Pryce no doubt sees this as some kind of gift, some comfort he can offer to soothe what he probably thinks of as Bradford's jangled nerves. And Bradford is not ungrateful. He will take it and not complain.
Well, if he were to be technical, Pryce will take it. And Pryce is absolutely not complaining.
"This is… is… ah, Christ, Harry...," he pants. His chest heaves with his building orgasm. Bradford can see it, and it makes him thrust harder, deeper. He wants to shake the bed with the force of his fucking.
He can feel an ache in his side where he is probably aggravating his gunshot wound, but he doesn't care. It just adds to his pleasure, oddly enough. It reminds him where he was, what he survived, where he will go back to.
Pryce reaches for his own cock, pulling almost in time with Bradford's thrusts. Bradford wants to wait, wants to let Pryce come first as a courtesy, but he can't. He's too close, too needy, too caught by his own transferred desire to hold back. He comes with a groan, buried deep in Pryce's ass, emptying himself of everything, even coherent thought.
Pryce is not far behind, dribbling spunk over his hand and onto his chest. Bradford flops forward onto him, and he isn't sure but he thinks he can hear Pryce giggle. His face is in Pryce's neck. He breathes in sweat and skin and the faintest scent of good clean soap as he tries to catch his breath.
"You most definitely needed that," Pryce says, still a little breathless. He tangles both hands in Bradford's hair to mess it up, then pulls gently until Bradford raises his head. "Are you better?"
"A bit." Bradford manages to return Pryce's grin. "Thank you."
"I should perhaps thank you as well." Pryce lifts his head and licks his way into Bradford's mouth. But Bradford doesn't feel like kissing any more. He wants to sleep. He thinks maybe he can, now.
But he kisses back anyway, because it's polite and because Pryce is not a bad kisser.
Eventually he pulls out and rolls onto his back next to Pryce. He pushes sweat-damp curling hair out of his face. He feels at peace, at least for now.
"Do you normally sleep nude?" Pryce asks. "I might be able to find something for you to sleep in. Gwennie sent down some clothes for herself and Albert when they thought they were moving back, and he's closer to your height than I am."
"I should really go home," Bradford says. He feels like a heel saying that, but he can't sleep in Pryce's house when he has his own just a taxi ride away. It might be a long taxi ride – Hampstead is not around the corner from Knightsbridge – but it is not the end of the earth. He might take the bus for part of the way. He likes taking the bus. And he has spent enough time bereft of proper pajamas that now he has the chance to sleep in his own, he wants to do so.
"I wish you'd stop saying that. You're going to offend my delicate sensibilities."
"You sound just like Bertie Cuthbertson." Bradford smiles to himself. He misses Cuthbertson. He hopes Cuthbertson misses him.
"Well, any time you feel too wound up, come see me."
"I'd like to invite you to dinner at the house, in fact. My parents always liked you, and I think they're glad I have someone to socialize with in London. Thursday, say? At seven."
"Thursday is fine. I will be there. And then I will go home. As you keep saying." He grins.
"I'm sorry, Leslie. I really did have an enjoyable evening, and it would have been enjoyable even if you hadn't brought me upstairs. But I want to sleep in my own bed. I feel out of sorts in London, for reasons I'm not sure I can explain. I feel out of sorts everywhere, but slightly less so in my own house." He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands up. He's glad the light is on in the room, because it should make separating his own uniform from Pryce's easier. In piles on the floor, in the dark, all khaki looks the same.
He gets dressed, and Pryce puts on pajamas and his dressing-gown, and they go downstairs, where Pryce fetches Bradford's coat and hat and walks him to the door.
"Get home safe," Pryce says. "Do you want me to come with you? It just occurred to me."
"Thank you, but no. I think I can get myself back to the house by myself. Besides, you'd have to come home alone. I'll be fine."
"It was good to see you. I wish it had been a less distressing evening."
"I do too. Good night, Leslie. And thank you again." He plants a quick kiss on Pryce's lips and goes outside.
It takes slightly longer than he was expecting to get home, but his mother is not waiting up and neither is his sister, and he's relieved.
He finds two envelopes addressed to him on the table in the front hall. One is from Harris –
A quick note that I'm in hospital with trench fever. C Company is temporarily in the capable hands of Captain Clarke, formerly of A Company. He's a good man.
Harris
And the other is from Cuthbertson –
Harry,
Victoria should have paid you a call by now. I hope you were nice to her, and I hope you don't mind that I didn't tell her earlier that you were in London. She has no doubt told you this already, but you are always welcome in our house, and if you have enough leave and wish to go to Durham, Mum will host you in the city and Dad will host you out in the country. He will take you hunting and his dogs will climb all over you. Be warned.
Life at the front is the same as it ever was, muddy and cold and rocked with artillery. I am holding down the fort, as they say, although no one will play cards with me but Purcell and my cigarettes tend to be soggy. My second in command, Clarke, has been given command of your company until you return and your second recovers from trench fever. The men seem to like him. I think you would too.
Don't hurry back. Enjoy London.
Bertie
Bradford takes both letters upstairs. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, and climbs into bed. Pryce is a good friend, he thinks. Between him and Cuthbertson he feels lucky to know the men he does.
words: 2507
total words: 45,264
note: look, smut! i don't know what exactly passed for lube in london in 1916. also i have no idea how long it would have taken to cab from knightsbridge (centralish london) to hampstead (suburb). bradford is happy to take the bus but the tube is a bit beyond him, on account of he doesn't want to risk an attack of claustrophobia.
