Chapter Text
On a fine spring Sunday late afternoon, Ethan decided to attend services at Kings instead of his college. Not that there was anything wrong with Trinity, but Kings was always a treat. Ethan put on a grey suit and his college striped tie. He put his long hair into a plait, tucking it into his shirt. He kept getting in trouble for not having it cut, but he managed to keep it hidden well enough.
He added a hat and tucked a pocket square into his suit pocket before heading out. He glanced at his wristwatch; he had headed out in good time. It was still cool, but there was promising warmth. Ethan, a handsome man with kind eyes, caused many women to look twice at him with raised eyebrows, quite annoying their chaperones. He would of course smile back at them with his little shy smile. He didn't speak much, embarrassed by his weak Rs and colonial inflection. He was a studious man, never missed lectures and often enjoyed other academic pursuits: he could be found reading poetry in the Great Court or attending debates on the future of war.
The cathedral at Kings rose over the other buildings of the College; built over a hundred years, the chapel was beautiful and imposing in its late-mediævel architecture. Ethan stood and took in its soaring, vaulted roofs with intricate carvings, and the beautiful stained glass that had survived so much, and would see so much more.
Students who were not part of the college were put in aisles to one side. Ethan settled in, still looking around. He picked up a hymnal and looked over the service, reading over the text of the songs.
Ethan didn't much like the sermons and readings during services, boring exultations to be upstanding and moral and the eschewing of sin. He did not think he was a sinner, nor did he think he was particularly upstanding. He was polite and kind, and always ready to help, but that was a pretty low bar.
He came for the music. Hymns in chapels, particularly ones as imposing and awe-inspiring as Kings, were especially moving. The men singing in the Choir always had such lovely voices. Trinity's choir was nice as well, but Kings of course had the best.
There was one person in the choir who caught Ethan's eye: a shorter man with perfectly coiffed hair, wearing the military uniform of a captain and his right arm in a sling made of fabric that matched the uniform. His uniform was decorated with medals. He was too far away for Ethan to see if he had the same look in his eyes, the one that Ethan still struggled with: the far away look of people who had seen too much death, and too much misery. The Great War had made heroes of them all, but at what cost? Ethan, who refused to speak about his service, did not feel like a hero. He wondered how this captain felt, putting on this uniform for Sunday services.
The organ began and the captain opened his mouth, and Ethan's mind blanked with how beautiful his voice was. My soul, my soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour .
The voice of this captain brought tears to Ethan's eyes; he was surprised to feel his cheeks wet. Who was this man, who was this man in an army uniform, whose voice barely trembled as he sang? Ethan had to know. He would wait to meet him after the service, it was the only way. He had to thank this captain for making him feel emotions he had not felt in years.
The captain seemed quite popular with a group of friends around him, congratulating him on his return to the chorus after his bout with laryngitis. Ethan thought to himself that he was very lucky indeed to have decided to come on that day.
"Oh, excuse our rudeness," the captain said when he spied Ethan standing to one side, looking at the scene with respectful silence. "I'm sorry…do we know each other?"
Ethan shook his head, clearing his throat before holding out his left hand politely (to compensate for the captain's bound right arm). "Torchio. Ethan Torchio, Trinity College."
"Captain David, but my Christian name is Damiano." He took Ethan's hand; Damiano's hand was smooth and dry. Ethan noticed his bitten down nails, however.
"What brings you to Kings?" asked one of Damiano's friends, a gangly boy with dishevelled dark blonde hair and a lazy way of dressing that looked desultory rather than unkempt.
Ethan shrugged. "Change of scenery, I suppose," he replied.
"Rude, Thomas, We're all part of the university, and Trinity certainly has a much higher reputation than we do here." Damiano smiled at Ethan. "What do you sit at Trinity?"
"Philosophy," Ethan replied, still gazing at Damiano. Up close, Damiano's hair was fashionably slicked back, but a rakish curl was sneaking out of its gel casket to rest against his forehead.
"Ah, a thinker," Damiano said. "I'm sitting literature and Thomas, music theory. Do you play any instruments, Ethan?"
Ethan nodded. "All of them, at various levels. Can't sing, however."
"Oh Thomas, now you have another prodigy to get into all sorts of musical mischief with."
Thomas nodded, eyeing Ethan.
Damiano smiled at Ethan. "Well, Ethan, would you like company back to Trinity?"
Ethan smiled back. "I would be honoured," he said. "Thomas, you're welcome to join us."
Thomas shook his head. "Thank you, though."
As Ethan and Damiano walked back to Trinity and to Ethan's rooms, they did not say much at first. Ethan was not one to start a conversation, and it did not seem Damiano was either.
Then Ethan remembered what he wanted to say, anyway. "The way you sang today," he started, and then paused. He could feel his face flush. "Your voice was so beautiful, I felt tears in my eyes. I haven't cried in so long."
He felt embarrassed for having said that out loud.
"Neither have I," Damiano said. "Not since I was injured." He moved his slinged arm a bit.
"I assume you were on the front."
"I was," Damiano said softly. "As was Thomas, but he only wears his uniform when he wants sympathy and attention from women."
Ethan snorted.
"And what about you, did you serve?"
Ethan took a deep breath. He had, of course, but he could never talk about his service, nor would he if he could. He swallowed. "No," he lied. "I was spared because of a handicap." It was the easiest thing to say, although it garnered piteous looks from people when he said it. He was still spat on by people who didn't believe him, or given a white feather to carry as a sign of his cowardice.
"You're lying," Damiano said, and Ethan started, blinking. "I can see it, you have seen the same torture and mess that I did."
Ethan looked around. There were too many people out enjoying the fine day. "I think you're the first person to accuse me of lying about not going to war." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, staring down at the ground as they walked. They stayed silent as they walked this time, occasionally commenting on the beautiful weather or talking about something they had learned in lecture, but did not return to the discussion of war.
As they neared his halls of residence, he turned to Damiano. "Thank you for accompanying me," he said, and looked around. "Maybe one day I may tell you the truth."
"I would like to hear it," Damiano said. They shook hands, and Ethan went inside.
As he sat in his little attic room, staring at his little slice of blue sky, he wondered how Damiano had read through him when nobody else could or had.
And then he thought about the errant curl on Damiano's forehead, and the dark chocolate eyes that had gazed at him as he talked about a lecture on Hegel he had found interesting. How beautiful Damiano was, Ethan thought to himself, getting up to wash his hands. He felt like he needed a coffee to still his nerves.
He had always been secretive about his entire life and it was rare that someone had taken the time to listen to him talk. He tended to prevaricate and expand on anything he was speaking about, which could make him a tiresome conversational partner. He thought back to his conversation with Damiano. Had he let something slip that Damiano could read? He didn't think so. But then again, how could he tell?
The next morning, as Ethan left for his lectures, the porter greeted him. "Master Torchio, a letter from Captain David."
Ethan thanked and tipped the porter, taking the letter and opening it.
Would love to hear more of your musings on Hegel. Tomorrow evening at the Front Court, and might you join me for supper as well? - DD
Ethan could feel his face flushing as he read Damiano's note. Joining him for supper? He took a deep breath, and then scribbled a response on a spare piece of paper, folding it. He cursed softly; he did not have his seal with him.
"The college's seal will have to do," he said to the porter.
"Quite all right, Master Torchio," the porter replied. "Consider it done."
Ethan found it difficult to concentrate on his lecture and even his meals tasted quite dull. He also forgot everything he knew about Hegel, a sorry state of affairs for a philosophy student. He wondered if he had read anything literary to discuss with a literature student, but he enjoyed penny dreadfuls and had fallen in love with Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot. The most literary thing he had read was a small pamphlet of Romantic poets, a gift from an old lover. What could they even talk about?
That evening came another crisis: what on Earth would he wear? Once more he despaired. He was nowhere as desultory as Thomas and of course had no uniform to wear as his service would only be known to the War Records room of Westminster. He took a deep breath. He had been invited to supper, which meant he had to dress appropriately. But he couldn't wear his dining wear to the informal meeting at the Court. He supposed he could carry the suit jacket and wear everything else.
He was overthinking. Of course Damiano and he would separate and dress for dinner and meet again. He took another deep breath and laid out his clothes.
++
"Is your hair as long as I think it is?"
Ethan and Damiano walked along the River Cam, Ethan with his dinner jacket slung over one shoulder. He nodded.
"Yes. I keep getting letters that it's against school policy to keep hair this long, so I have to get creative." He had tucked the plait in his hat, and when he couldn't wear a hat always let the plait down the back of his shirt and always wore a scarf in all seasons.
"I'd like to see it."
Ethan smiled. "I don't show it in public," he said softly.
"Then we should go somewhere private."
Ethan flushed. "Well, I have a private room," he said. "Would you like some coffee?"
"That sounds very good," Damiano replied, and they made their way back to Ethan's quarters.
Ethan made Damiano a cup of coffee, and pulled his plait out of his shirt. As Damiano watched, he slowly undid his hair, not meeting Damiano's gaze. Damiano took a deep breath as all of Ethan's hair fell over his shoulders. Ethan ran his fingers to get rid of any snags, and the waterfall of nearly black hair shimmered in the dull electric light of Ethan's bedsit.
"Your hair is fantastic! It is such a shame you must hide it."
Ethan shrugged. "My family lived in the Raj and the Sikhs believe that one shouldn't cut one's hair as it comes from God, which is a very poor explanation for their deep religious beliefs. But I was taken with that point of faith."
Damiano moved the chair he was sitting in closer to Ethan's, and reached out. "May I?"
Ethan inclined his head toward Damiano. Damiano slid his fingers carefully through Ethan's hair. He inhaled sharply.
"It feels like silk," Damiano whispered and Ethan blushed. Damiano continued stroking Ethan's hair.
"You were correct, you know," Ethan said, eyes closed as Damiano kept running his fingers through Ethan's hair; it made Ethan's scalp tingle.
"What was I correct about?"
Ethan took a deep breath, pulling away from Damiano's finger and near immediately regretting the decision. "I did serve."
Damiano leaned back in his chair, picking his coffee back up. "And what was the nature of your service?"
Ethan frowned. "It is a new programme of an age-old tactic of war. The new name is 'clandestine services' but you will have heard of the French term reconnaissance ."
Damiano did not make much of a reaction, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case. Ethan pulled matches from the tin on the table, going over to help Damiano light his cigarette.
"I hate this bloody useless arm," Damiano grumbled as he smoked. "But thank you."
Ethan lit his own cigarette and watched Damiano smoke.
"So you were a spy?"
"I was and still am."
Damiano looked towards Ethan, both eyebrows raised. "And you trust me with that information?"
"Oh very much so," Ethan replied, almost a bit too smugly.
Damiano cut his eyes towards Ethan. "Do you know something I don't?"
"You, Thomas and a few of your friends are cognoscenti , aren't you?"
Damiano took a deep breath, sitting up straighter.
"Don't worry--so am I."
Damiano's shoulders slumped, relaxing back into his chair. "How do I know you won't say anything?"
"I don't believe in blackmail, even though it's quite effective. But you can trust me because there must have been some reason you invited me to supper…"
Damiano looked at Ethan. "When you speak, I admit that oftentimes I am caught up in imagining how your lips might feel against mine, and then I admit that I have no earthly idea what you've just said."
Ethan stared at Damiano and took a deep breath. That this beautiful man, sculpted by Michelangelo himself, would say that to him? Ethan knew he was handsome, new he caught the eye of both men and women, but that this particular man found him attractive left him breathless.
Ethan folded his hands into his lap, still looking at Damiano. "Sometimes I wonder if you can call a man beautiful, and then, here you are before me, looking as you do, and I can scarcely believe it."
Damiano laughed, a flush passing over his cheeks. "Thank you." They stared at each other, unsure how to continue.
"Would you…would you touch my hair again?" Ethan got up and sat down in front of Damiano. Damiano uncrossed his leg carefully and opened his legs so Ethan could settle back. Damiano ran his fingers through Ethan's hair, and Ethan closed his eyes again. Damiano stroked his hair and scratched his scalp, making Ethan gasp at intervals. Ethan had not had so much physical touch from another person in a long while. Touch starvation was something Ethan would have scoffed at normally, but Damiano's fingers in his hair felt like they belonged there.
Damiano leaned over and Ethan opened his eyes. They looked at each other, Ethan gazing up and Damiano upside down. Ethan took a deep breath, and Damiano closed the space between them, pressing his lips to Ethan's. Ethan had never been kissed upside down, but the thrill of Damiano's hand on the side of his face and Damiano's warm mouth against his made him forget everything, even practically his name.
And then Damiano pulled away, looking down at him, still flushed. "I apologise…I should have asked."
"You can kiss me whenever you'd like," Ethan replied. "In private."
"I don't think our sort will be able to be public any time soon," Damiano said, a bit bitterly.
Ethan stood up and stretched, his back popping in a satisfying manner. Damiano got up and nearly stumbled when Ethan, taller and stronger than him, pulled him close in another, deeper kiss. Damiano's mouth opened to Ethan almost immediately. They stood there, Ethan's fingers in Damiano's gloriously thick, wavy hair and Damiano's free hand on Ethan's back. They pulled away after a few breathless moments, going back to staring at each other.
"I think I should…I should return to my own rooms," Damiano said quietly.
Ethan nodded, sighing softly in slight disappointment. "Hopefully we'll see each other soon."
"You can count on it," Damiano said, and Ethan let him leave reluctantly.
++
It was not long until the first letter arrived. It was an invitation to the Kings officers' union with an official seal. The letter ended with see you soon, my strange joy, my tender night . Ethan read those lines over and over, and then carefully clipped those last words from the letter and pressed them into his journal.
The officers' union was a large room with Oriental design and comfortable looking chairs. The porter looked at Ethan's invitation, then back at Ethan, before vanishing behind a heavy, dark red curtain. Ethan waited, looking at the tapestries of birds and dragons, of women in traditional Japanese dress, at artefacts, hopefully legally obtained but somehow, Ethan didn't think so.
The porter returned and gave Ethan's invitation back to him. "This way, Master Torchio," the porter said, opening the curtain to let Ethan through. Ethan followed him, messing with the ends of the white silk scarf he had draped over his shoulders. The porter was not a chatty fellow, which Ethan appreciated. The porter opened a heavy leather door and nodded to Ethan. Ethan slipped inside and the door closed quietly behind him.
The walls of this particular room were ebony wood, carved with plain squares. There was no artwork and the lights imitated the yellow-orange of candles and firelight. There were three low, overstuffed brown leather chairs, and Damiano and Thomas were occupying two of them. They wore casual, loose trousers, Thomas in beige and Damiano in grey. Thomas had on a dark brown shirt, open at the collar and wearing a chain of beads around his neck. Damiano had a grey oversized suit jacket over a lighter grey shirt, also open at the collar. Thomas sat slumped in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his right hand, eyes fixed on Ethan. Damiano had his legs pulled up into his chair, cigarettes in his opposite hand…and out of his sling. He gestured with his cigarette for Ethan to sit down, and Ethan did so quickly, pulling his plait out of his shirt.
"You are out of your sling," Ethan declared, rather abruptly, as he pulled out his own cigarette case and lit up. He imitated Thomas's and Damiano's relaxed postures, and Thomas smirked at him.
"My physio has given this old war wound the all clear for physical activity. It's been hell, especially as I haven't been able to write anything."
Ethan cleared his throat. "So who's been writing to me?"
Damiano gestured to Thomas. "Ever loyal, even in delicate matters."
Ethan could feel his face flush, and Thomas crowed with laughter.
"Don't worry, Torchio. Damiano and I are long over. Our torrid affair happened at Eton, and Damiano is much too dramatic for me. Still, I'm happy to have been his Cyrano."
Ethan shrugged a shoulder. "Cyrano hid because he thought he was unsightly. You have no such issues, Thomas."
Thomas mock-saluted Ethan, then continued smoking. They fell into easy conversation, Ethan watching Damiano smoking and drinking some honey coloured liquor, often distracted by the way Damiano's hair fell in his eyes or Damiano's teeth worrying his bottom lip.
The conversation turned to the War, as it always did, and Ethan asked more questions than he answered. Thomas's cavalier, jester-like attitude tempered as he talked about his regiment, the friends from home whom he had lost, the men he met on the field only to watch them fade after a battle. They talked of the dreaded battle fatigue; they all agreed music had saved them, especially Damiano.
Thomas pulled a battered pocket watch out of his pocket and looked at the time. He finished up his drink and cigarette. "If you'd excuse me, I'm meeting a friend in a bit."
Damiano grinned. "Is it that absolute Sheba from Girton? Victoria, right?"
Thomas smiled, mussing his hair. "She's quite all right," he said amiably, but he had a pink flush across his cheeks. Damiano whistled lewdly at Thomas, who gave him a rude gesture as he left, the door clicking satisfyingly behind him.
Damiano took no time in joining Ethan on his chair, cupping Ethan's face with both hands and pressing his lips to Ethan's. Ethan answered with a quiet moan, his hands going to Damiano's back and pulling him closer. Damiano's weight and warmth against him was intoxicating. He could feel Damiano's fingers stroking down his jaw, his neck, across his clavicles. They pulled apart, nothing but their breathing disturbing the silence of the room.
Damiano slowly undid the buttons on Ethan's shirt, and Ethan watched those dark brown eyes filled with lust (lust FOR HIM), just letting Damiano half undress him before Ethan took the same opportunity with Damiano's shirt, sliding it down off Damiano's arms.
And there was all the skin Ethan had not dared to dream over. "You are--" Ethan's voice faltered. What word could he use to describe the man before him?
Damiano's hand went back to Ethan's face, and he gazed at him. He leaned close, his breath soft on Ethan's skin. "But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in face…"
Ethan knew Damiano was reciting, no doubt from some poet he had learnt about in some lecture, but he didn't interrupt, could not interrupt.
"It is in his limbs and joints, also it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists…"
Damiano carefully got out of Ethan's laps and got on his knees in front of Ethan's legs. Ethan spread them without thinking, and suddenly Damiano's fingers were at this belt buckle. Ethan thought to protest, at least politely, but the dark lust in Damiano's eyes made the protest die on his lips. Damiano pushed open his trousers and nudged Ethan's hips up. Ethan followed, tilting his hips and letting Damiano pull down both his trousers and underpants.
And then Damiano's warm hand was on Ethan's cock, stroking slowly. Ethan took a deep breath. His thighs were trembling.
"It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him…"
As Damiano spoke, his hand stroked, firm and quick, on Ethan's cock, and Ethan moaned softly. Damiano gazed up at Ethan and leaned in. Ethan stared, mouth agape, as Damiano licked a line from the base of Ethan's cock to the head. He reached out, running his fingers through Damiano's hair before tugging at it gently, pulling Damiano closer. Damiano, it seemed, needed no further instruction, taking Ethan's cock in his mouth. Ethan arched up into Damiano's mouth and Damiano gently pushed down Ethan's hips so he could go at his own pace. Ethan trembled more, slumping into the armchair and watching Damiano through half closed eyes.
It was difficult not to fuck Damiano's mouth, not to take over and push into his throat, but he sank further into the chair and groaned, his fingers tight in Damiano's hair.
His orgasm took him by surprise, and he gasped. Damiano let Ethan's come fill his mouth, pulling back and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Ethan stayed slumped in his chair, gazing blankly at Damiano.
When Ethan's thoughts gathered back into his brain, he smiled down at Damiano. "You're not so bad at that," he teased and Damiano laughed, helping Ethan redress and getting up. He walked over and pressed a button near the door. He whispered an order for two whisky-sodas from the porter who appeared. Ethan pulled his legs into his chair.
"I must reciprocate, it's only fair," he said, and Damiano laughed.
"I'd much rather you fuck me," Damiano replied, and Ethan could feel his whole face go red. "Oh, so the language I use is too coarse?"
Ethan laughed. "I just wasn't expecting it." He smiled "But I would love to fuck you."
A soft knock on the door interrupted their banter. Drinks in hand, Damiano sat in Ethan's lap. They clinked their glasses together, and drank in companionable silence, sometimes pausing to kiss. Ethan had never felt so at ease, with Damiano's fingers stroking the nape of his neck and the comfortable, thick silence of the room wrapping around the two of them.