Chapter 1 #3
All the air left Edwin’s lungs and he found himself nodding. “Okay, maybe if I—” He stood up and turned towards Maxwell, his length inches from his face. Maxwell grinned and shifted so his legs sandwiched Edwin’s thighs. He grabbed his hips and wasted no time taking him into his mouth.
Edwin buried his hands in his dark hair and made a mental note at how Maxwell groaned when he pulled on it. Edwin got lost in the overwhelming heat, his legs trembling, and let go of all the tension he’d been holding onto like a lifeline.
Soon, Edwin couldn’t bear to be the center of attention any longer.
He needed to touch him, too. He pulled Maxwell off and pressed him into the bed with a hungry kiss, hands scrambling to pleasure each other.
No amount of closeness was enough, but God knew they tried.
Greedy hands grabbed and limbs wrapped around each other, their bodies tangled in a knot they couldn’t undo…
I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep next to him, it was no matter that the cot is barely big enough for Maxwell, let alone the both of us, but we both knew it would not be prudent. I left him with a drawn-out kiss and the promise of my return another night.
* * * *
25 August 1918
It hasn’t even been a month but I suspect what I told myself was just a fling is turning into a true love affair. My whole being—body, heart, and soul—is drawn to him. I am starving for him.
Every waking minute is spent counting down until I might have the chance to share a moment with him.
I’ve been making up excuses to take over his care, even the cleaning and dressing.
The nurses are too busy to notice, they’re all too happy to accept my motivations are purely altruistic.
I devour every morsel he offers me. Every subtle touch and tidbit about his life.
He’s a poet. He’s from Milwaukee. He moved to New York a few years before getting drafted. He loves beef stew. He’s Irish.
I seek him out each night, half of which fail for one reason or another. If I don’t have him for more than a few nights in a row my focus suffers. Does he know he is creating a monster? What will I be without my creator when he goes back to the front?
* * * *
12 September 1918
The letter arrived sooner than expected.
I recognized the stationary immediately, the distinct printing something every soldier here fears.
I watched from a distance while Maxwell read it, attending to another patient across the hall, and saw his face settle into one of solemn resignation.
It was a busy day, so I only had the opportunity to speak to Maxwell after dinner. He seemed to be waiting for me…
“When?” Edwin asked somberly after he sat next to Maxwell. He didn’t need to elaborate.
“Three days.”
Edwin sucked in a breath through his teeth. He lowered his head and stared down at his clasped hands. “That’s…soon.”
“I know, but you’ve been putting off my return long enough.”
He snapped his head up to look at Maxwell, lips parted in surprise. “How—?”
Maxwell laughed and shot him a sly smile. “I’m not an idiot, I’ve watched soldiers not even half as healed as I am get sent back. I just put the pieces together.”
Edwin flushed and glanced away. “Well, you needed more time. And I did, too.”
“Thank you,” Maxwell whispered, his voice soft like velvet. He let his hand brush against Edwin’s as he shifted around. If anyone happened to see it would look like an accident.
“How are you feeling?” Edwin asked.
“About going back?”
Edwin nodded.
Maxwell let out a heavy sigh and shrugged.
“I knew it was coming so I can’t act surprised, but it would be an understatement to say I’m not looking forward to it.
Every day in the trenches is a gamble on my life, and living still means someone else will die.
Dying out there is only marginally worse than living through it. ”
Edwin pursed his lips and squeezed his hands together. “You’ll make it. You’ll make it and we’ll go home when all this is over.”
Maxwell cocked his head. “How could you know that?”
“Because I’ll climb into the trenches myself to save you again.” He stared at Maxwell with a fiery determination rarely seen in the eyes of the stoic doctor.
“Why?” Maxwell asked, his voice suddenly very small.
“I think we both know why.”
It took everything not to launch into an embrace right there, the wire drawing them together almost taut enough to snap.
“I do,” Maxwell said after a long minute, pressing the side of his thigh against Edwin’s.
Edwin swallowed down the nervousness bubbling in his chest and asked what he’s been wanting to for weeks now. “What happens after you leave? With us.”
“What do you want to happen?” Maxwell retorted.
He hesitated but settled on honesty. There was no way to know how much time they had, and he wasn’t about to waste it. “I want to stay in touch with you. I want to write letters while we’re at war, and I hope to see you again after it’s all over.”
Maxwell smiled wide. “I want the same thing.” Edwin could not be more relieved…
He has not even left yet and I miss him already. Maybe this is the softness my father warned me about. But who would not want the soft strength of love? It will carry me through.