Dulce Et Decorum Est (Naughty or Nice) (7 page)

O
NCE
Matthew had scraped off the accumulated grime and was once more fit to be seen in company, he and George indulged in the rather more sedate pleasures of a game of bridge with Matthew’s mother and sister.

“We shall have some people coming round for drinks later on,” Evelyn announced as she dealt. “Just friends from the village, and one or two of them will be bringing guests, I should think. Quite an informal affair.”

George’s stomach clenched briefly at the news, but he forced it to relax. It would be all right. Hadn’t the rest of the stay gone off without incident? “Oh. Right-oh.”

Matthew grinned. “Don’t worry. They’ll have come to see Mother and Father, not us, and will most likely ignore us altogether. Bother. I thoroughly messed up that round of bidding, didn’t I? Sorry, Aggie!”

“Next time I’m playing with George,” his sister declared firmly, and the conversation remained with the cards for some time.

Later, when George and Matthew were idling in the drawing room, talking of this and that, the reverend came in, having been engaged upon some parish business. “Matthew, could I have a word with you?” he asked.

“Of course, Father.” Matthew sprang up from his chair, clapping George on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back, George.”

They retreated only as far as the next room, and through the open door George could watch them as they talked. It amused him to see that they used the exact same mannerisms—he wondered if they were aware of the fact. He became less comfortable, however, as he realized each of them was periodically glancing over at him, their expressions hard to decipher. Could the reverend be warning his son against George?

Trying to convince himself that he must have developed something of a persecution complex, George was relieved when the little conference broke apart and Matthew returned to him. “Nothing serious, I hope?” was all the enquiry he dared make.

Matthew smiled. “No! No, not at all. Now, would you like to go for a stroll before tea?”

W
HEN
Evelyn Connaught said she had “some people” coming round for drinks, it appeared she meant “the entire village, and half of the next.” George was tempted to turn tail and run for his room at the sight of the chattering throng that filled the drawing room and spilled into the hall. He almost jumped as he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. “Chin up, George,” Matthew murmured into his ear, causing a tingle to run down George’s spine. “We only need to show our faces, and then we can make a run for it. As long as we’ve been seen at some point, they’ll never notice we’re gone for the rest of it.”

“Sometimes I think you can read my mind,” George replied in a grateful whisper.

“Oh, I’m being entirely selfish, believe me. Half of these people are total strangers to me, and the rest I see only once a year, and all they can think of to say when they see me is ‘How’s the arm?’ as if it might somehow have started to grow back in the last twelve months.”

George was certain this was not, in fact, the case, but he said nothing, grateful for his friend’s thoughtfulness. Squaring their shoulders, they walked together into the fray.

It turned out to be a social gathering much like any other: everybody talked, and nobody said anything of consequence. George just was beginning to think he’d nod off if anyone else remarked how unusual the weather was that year when a party of latecomers drew attention by their entrance.

A lead weight seemed to drop into George’s stomach as he caught sight of a profile that was unmistakably familiar, with its combination of crooked nose—broken during a particularly vicious game of rugby—and bright red, almost orange hair. It belonged to a contemporary of his from Eton, Harold Pevensie, and he was standing not six feet away. George felt as though a band of ice were fixed about his chest. “I’m sorry, Matthew—I don’t feel well,” he blurted, cursing.

Matthew was instantly concerned, laying a hand upon his arm. “George? Whatever is the matter? Why don’t you sit down for a moment, let me get you a drink—”

“I just need to go to my room,” George said, the band tightening as he cursed his friend’s solicitous nature that wouldn’t just let him turn and flee for safety. He tried to shrug off Matthew’s hand without appearing rude. “Please—”

It was too late. Pevensie had turned, and the light of recognition was in his eyes. “Good Lord—it’s Roger Cottingham, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you in years—”

“You’re mistaken,” George broke in roughly. The band of ice had shattered, and sharp splinters were forcing their way into his flesh. “My name is George Johnson, and I’m
quite
sure we’ve never met.”

Pevensie’s eyes widened in polite disbelief. “Really? Well, good Lord. You know you’re the spitting image of old Cottingham
—
”

“If you’ll excuse me,” George said, his tone sharp enough to draw a few unwelcome glances, and unable to bear it anymore, he strode out of the room and up to his bedroom where he slumped on the bed, his head in his hands. He should have known this would happen, should have stayed hidden in London like the coward he was. Now everyone would know, and he’d have to leave his lodgings again, leave Matthew….

“George?” The voice was soft, hesitant. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” George lied, hating the betraying quaver in his voice.

“You don’t look all right. Or sound it, come to that.” Without waiting for an invitation, Matthew came in and shut the door. He sat on the bed and put his arm about George’s shoulders. It was almost too much to bear. George ached to lean into that embrace, to accept its comfort—but Matthew would never offer it if he only knew the truth. “Can’t you tell me about it?” When George said nothing, Matthew persevered. “
Are
you Roger what’s-his-name?”

It was too much. Roughly flinging off his friend’s arm, George threw himself off the bed and stood staring out of the window. The gardens should have looked bleak, at this time of year, but a careful planting of evergreens ensured a pleasant view even in midwinter. George supposed he should look his fill; he wouldn’t be staying here again. “And what if I am?” he said finally.

“Well, then, I’d rather like to know why you don’t want to be,” Matthew said, reasonably enough.

“Because Roger Cottingham was a coward!” George spat out. “While you were fighting in Belgium for King and country, I was cowering in England with all the other Conchies.”

There was a silence.

Matthew’s tone, when he spoke, was unwontedly somber. “A good friend of mine was a conscientious objector. I’ve always thought it must take a lot of courage to stand up for one’s beliefs in the face of so much opposition.”

“Beliefs! Cowardice, more like. It was in my case, at any rate.” George stared resolutely out of the window, unable to bear seeing his friend’s expression turn from compassion to derision. “I lied at the tribunal. Said it was against my religious beliefs to go and fight. Really, I was just too much of a coward.” Leaning on the windowsill, the view outside blurring, he carried on, driven by a strange compulsion to get it all, finally, off his chest. “I’ve never been able to stand guns, you see. Not since my first grouse shoot. There was an accident—one of the beaters got into the line of fire. I didn’t know he was there…. He took a bullet in the stomach and died right in front of me—they said nobody could tell who killed him, but he was right in front of me. They were just being kind—I know it must have been my shot that killed him. His screams… I still have nightmares, sometimes, about his screams.”

George flinched as a hand touched his shoulder and struggled to comprehend as it squeezed gently and stroked in a soothing manner. “How old were you?” Matthew asked softly.

“Eleven.” He’d been so proud, to be entrusted with a gun at last. As if he were a grown man, at least in his father’s eyes.

Matthew’s voice shook slightly. “George… I saw a lot of dreadful things, in the trenches, but you know what the worst of it was? Watching men—friends—go to pieces from the horror of it all. And God, man, you were only a child! It’s no wonder it left you with a lasting dread of firearms.”

“It was over ten years ago! Only a coward still runs from the things he feared as a child!”

“Only a fool isn’t scared of death and blood and horror!” Matthew’s tone was so sharp that George whirled in shock, throwing off the arm around his shoulder. “Do you really suppose that the men who survived the trenches will ever forget what they saw? Do you suppose
I
will?” He sighed, his gentle, cheerful nature unable to sustain the fury for long. “There were men like you on the battlefield, George. Men who’d seen too much and couldn’t bear any more. One of them… one of them was a particular friend of mine. He’d just had enough, and when the order came through to advance, he had a sort of fit and said he wouldn’t do it. They shot him for cowardice—marched him out in front of a firing squad and shot him. You know what? It didn’t do a damned thing to win the war for us, and neither would sending you out to die have done.” Hesitantly, Matthew reached out his good arm to lay it once more around George’s shoulder. “He wasn’t a coward, George, and neither are you.”

To his shame, George found that he was weeping. “My family—my family thought otherwise. My mother said that I was a disgrace to the family name and that my father would have disowned me if he’d still been alive. My sister’s friends—they all sent me white feathers.”

Matthew squeezed his shoulders tightly. “They’re women, George. They don’t have to fight, thank God. You can’t expect them to understand what it’s like.”

George gave a brittle laugh. “The men at the jail were just as bad—and worse.”

He felt Matthew’s head come to rest on his shoulder. “There were a lot of beastly things done in the war. I’m just sorry you had to suffer any of it.” Matthew’s breath was warm on George’s neck, but for some reason, it made George shiver.

“You shouldn’t be the one to comfort me,” he whispered. “You lost so much in the war—your arm, your friend—I should be comforting you.”

“Maybe we should comfort each other,” Matthew whispered back. George froze as the weight of Matthew’s head lifted from his shoulder and soft lips pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his neck. Matthew’s arm slipped from George’s shoulder to wrap around his waist. “Is that all right, George? I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long. It is what you want too, isn’t it?”

George couldn’t speak. It didn’t make sense, that Matthew would still want him—not now that he knew everything. It didn’t make sense, and it couldn’t be true, but Matthew’s arm was still around him, and Matthew’s breath was still warm on his skin, and there was affection in his tone, and hope, not scorn and revulsion. With a sobbing breath, George turned into Matthew’s embrace, flinging his arms around his friend.

They clung to one another for a long while, and then George felt Matthew draw back. Matthew’s hand left his waist, but only, it seemed, so that it could stroke his hair, his face. George nuzzled into it, planting kisses into the palm. He felt, more than heard, as Matthew’s breath hitched. “I thought… and then I kept thinking I must be mistaken,” Matthew whispered in a tone of wonder. “You kept on drawing away from me.”

I
thought you wouldn’t want me if you knew the truth
, George thought, but the words caught in his throat, so instead he pressed more kisses to Matthew’s hand, his neck, then, daringly, to his lips. Matthew tasted of sweet sherry and cinnamon, and George felt like he would burst with the maelstrom of emotions that coursed through him as their bodies pressed together, arousal clearly evident on both sides. To be known—fully known—and not rejected was something for which he’d never dared hope.

“I need—oh, God, George, I need you.” Matthew’s voice was hoarse, his breath tickling George’s ear as his words came between kisses.

“Have you—I’ve never….” George struggled to form a sentence, his mind fogged with happiness.

“It’s all right. I have. But we won’t do anything you don’t want to—”

“Anything. Anything you want.”

“Let me touch you.” Matthew ran his hand jerkily down George’s side, squeezing tightly when he reached George’s hips. Dimly, George understood what he was asking and allowed his hold on his friend to slacken, making space between them.

When Matthew’s hand reached his groin, George gasped aloud. He felt like he was on fire, and Matthew’s touch on his most sensitive part only served to fan the flames. “Yes…,” he hissed.

“Let me—” Matthew had already started to work on George’s trouser buttons, and his nimble fingers had them open in short order.

George recollected himself enough to tear off his jacket and wrench his braces off his shoulders, allowing his trousers to fall to the floor.

“Oh, yes,” Matthew breathed, his hand slipping into George’s underwear and closing around his heated erection. George bit back a moan. “Now you take my things off,” Matthew panted, moving his hand slowly up and down.

Wondering how on earth he was supposed to have any coordination while Matthew was stroking him so deliciously, George fumbled at the fastenings of his friend’s clothes, succeeding in undoing them more by luck than judgment. Having finally bared Matthew’s chest, George bent to press frantic kisses to it, but the angle was awkward, so he finally settled for pressing their torsos together and nuzzling into Matthew’s neck. His hands carried on working at Matthew’s trousers and were shaking by the time they finally gained access.

It didn’t seem to bother Matthew. He let out a hoarse groan as George finally grabbed hold of his cock, and his own hand sped up on George’s erection. “Lord, George….”

George couldn’t wait any longer. With a cry, fortunately muffled by Matthew’s neck, he spilled himself over his friend’s hand, his whole body juddering with the ecstasy of it. Barely leaving time for his vision to clear, George dropped to his knees. He might not have had any experience of it, but he’d heard the other boys talking at school, and he had a fair idea what to do. Still reeling from his climax, George plunged his mouth over Matthew’s cock.