All Schofield wants when he’s with Blake is to forget about everything. For a few cherished moments, he could stop being Lance Corporal Schofield, an infantryman fighting the deadliest war in the history of mankind, and just be himself. Will, or ‘Sco’ as Blake had affectionately nicknamed him.
After all he’s been through in no man’s land—rotting bodies, hails of machine gun rounds, artillery strikes exploding his comrades to bits—he should be allowed to forget. Be allowed to escape. Just for a little while. Anything to take his mind off the numerous horrific outcomes (bulletsgrenadeshellsgasdisease) that could befall him, or Blake, or any one of his fellow soldiers. He wouldn’t wish those deaths even on the enemy.
War stripped away agency. An enlisted man was no longer his own person. He was merely a pawn, a tool, cannon fodder. Very few men coped well in this predicament. Most who did were high ranking officers or career military men. The rest of them found a vice. Some men drowned themselves in alcohol or gambling, others in women.
He and Blake took solace in each other.
Besides, Blake is different and isn’t just some cheap, quick fuck. Their exact relationship is confusing and hard to pin down, but he is a real friend. Someone who knew him and could empathize with him and was there for him when no one else was. Using the most cliche of metaphors, Blake was an oasis in the scorching desert, an anchor in the stormy seas. Genuinely, he was all Schofield had to cling onto in this hell.
Everyone before him had died or been sent home, broken in mind and body. Even so, Blake is markedly unique. He’s unlike all the others before in the one rather crucial aspect that they are intimate.
Deep down, he knows it’s wrong to do what they were doing. Unnatural. Sinful. A betrayal to his family. There was no denying that on his part. To be lovers in a time and place like this is foolhardy on another level. The inconvenience, the danger, everything about their affair, he questions whether it was worth it. But when Blake flashes him his trademark cheeky grin, or his blue eyes twinkle with such tenderness it made his heart hurt, or he whispers, ‘Sco…’ all low and needy into his ear, he knows—despite the potential consequences—he won’t stop. He can’t stop. Or how else could he go on?
All Schofield needs when he’s with Blake is to be taken away from his own burdens. Nothing to worry about except how to make Blake moan and whine with pleasure under him. Nothing to think about except the way the warmth of his body keeps him whole. Nothing to care about but the two of them together, tangled in each other.
It confounded him how untouched Blake is from the worst of it. Speaking with him is like going back to an earlier era of himself. Before he joined the war effort, even before he got married, when he was just a boy with all the dreams in the world and nothing standing in his way.
Blake hasn’t yet been jaded by the war, and even after what he saw, held onto an impossible idealism. He truly believed that the war will end up meaning something, and that the future would become a much better place than it is now. That one day, they’d be able to share that future.
Schofield is usually the mature one of the pair during assignments, reining Blake in from being hasty and rushing into things—but when they’re alone, it is Blake who holds him. Blake who tells him it’ll be okay. Blake who reassures them they’ll make it. Together.
Yet Schofield won’t let himself believe that. He sees how low the probability already is and knows that the longer it goes on, the more it keeps lowering. It pains him, but getting his hopes up is a dangerous thing.
But, he doesn’t dwell on that when he’s alone with Blake.
Because all Schofield desires when he’s with Blake is to touch him. To kiss his lips until they’re swollen and rosy red. To stroke along the length of him until he’s flushed and quivering beneath him. To wrap his lips around Blake until he fists Schofield’s hair and cries out for him. It’s a welcome distraction that leaves his mind blissfully empty.
One day, Blake offers to go down on him for the first time. Ordinarily they’re rutting against one another almost fully clothed, or using their hands on each other (they go quick cause they don’t have much time). Only every so often does he have the chance to suck Blake off—on those rare occasions when they have more than ten minutes isolated from the others.
His younger partner is a bit inelegant and inexperienced with his attempt in their reversed positions, but Schofield welcomes it nonetheless. There’s a perfect rawness to him. An enthusiasm so bright it nearly blinds him, just like it briefly does when he comes. It’s Blake not pulling off like Schofield always does that leaves him awed. Blake ignores all signals—a tap on the head, a verbal warning—and actually swallows.
After he’s done, Schofield sinks onto his knees besides Blake, who pants, avoiding his gaze, and sheepishly mutters, “Sorry, I—“
He never finishes because Schofield has both hands on his cheeks and is kissing him. There are still traces of himself in Blake’s mouth that he can taste—and he doesn’t mind it. Curiously, Blake is still hard. He also hadn’t simultaneously jerked himself off the way Schofield does.
Schofield presses the heel of his palm to Blake’s crotch. He lets out a high keen into his mouth at the contact. They break apart to breathe and he tucks his head into the crook of Blake’s neck, pressing light kisses along the curving path. His hand finally, teasingly reaches into Blake’s trousers to take him in hand.
Under his practiced movements, it doesn’t take too long for Blake to come. Careful to not leave any marks, Schofield bites into the flesh of his shoulder just as Blake finishes.
Maybe it slipped out by accident, but when Blake moans, Schofield swears he hears a breathy, distorted “Will…” His name, his given name.
That was the first time.
It takes a few more seconds for Blake to come down from his high and for it to register what he said. He draws out of Schofield’s embrace, thinking he’s done something wrong. He’s about to apologize for crossing that invisible line, but Schofield cuts him short again.
“It’s okay, Tom.”
All Schofield wants when he’s with Tom Blake is Tom Blake himself.