I wrote another lil drabble ab Scho and Blake being lil softies 😌💕
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“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
- Simone Weil
It was a rare day where the sun shone high and bright in the cloudless sky, drying the wet earth around them and their boots, too. A first, from what he could remember.
The weather seemed to energize Blake in particular. He flitted between the men, talking everyone’s ear off with a humourous tale or two until someone else caught his eye and he was off.
Will thought it funny—in an exasperating kind of way—but he couldn’t fault him for trying to take advantage of such a perfect day. It was quite nice, after all and it was rare to see so many men in such high spirits.
So why couldn’t he enjoy it then?
He’d tried resting against his favourite tree, soaking in the warmth. He’d tried chatting with the lads beside him, but found he couldn’t be arsed to put the effort in for more than casual small talk. Heck, he’d even tried his hand at composing a poem, but he couldn’t keep his focus long enough to finish a stanza.
The only thing that seemed to pique his focus for extended length was Blake.
Watching his body language as he interacted with the rest of the unit was like watching a ballet performance; easy elegance, grace, and familiarity that only came with a skill well developed over many-a-year. It was utterly fascinating. Except for the fact it left a twinge deep in his chest he thought only the thought of home could create.
So, like home, he pushed the thought of Blake away and pulled out an old book he’d borrowed from some Private he’d already forgotten the name of and forced himself to read.
He’d somehow managed to get three pages in—after being forced to re-read several passages—when Blake plopped down close to him in his usual spot.
“Whatchya got there, Scho?”
“A book, you know, that thing people read from?”
“Ha ha.” Blake rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He bit back a smile and turned the cover toward him. “The Wind Among the Reeds.”
Blake’s nose wrinkled. “Sounds borin’.”
“S’all right.” He opened it back up and settled into a more comfortable position, finding himself more at ease than he had been all day.
He’d blown through several poems by the time Lance Corporal Ellis strolled over, a long branch with a knife sharpened end resting against his shoulder.
“‘Ey Blake, me an’ the lads are headin’ to the stream to catch some of the fish Tristan reckons he saw the other day. Still fancy joinin’?”
Will held the book up, making sure to block most of Blake from view, as he pretended to still be engrossed in the pages.
“Naw, I think I’m gonna enjoy the sun a bit. Thanks though, mate.”
“You sure? We ain’t sharin’ what we catch. We’ll deserve a treat after all the hassle.”
Blake laughed. “A right hassle, I’m sure. It takes a lot of work to get nothin’ more than sand and the occasional piece of algae gathered up.”
Will bit his lip to keep a snicker at bay. Blake wasn’t wrong. Anything edible that had been there was long gone thanks to the infantry’s over-fishing.
“You cheeky—you’ll be eatin’ your words when we’re feastin’ on fresh fish and all you got is a load of stale mystery grub.”
Blake hmm’d. “It’s better than the nothin’ you lot will ‘catch’.”
“Oi, you twat,” said Ellis, playfully kicking at him. Blake twisted away, almost falling over, his laugh filling the air like a bird’s song. “Don’t know how a decent bloke like Schofield puts up with ya.”
At his name, Will looked up in time to catch Blake beaming. His eyes were crinkled around the edges, a lock of hair across his forehead.
Ellis shook his head, a good-natured smile on his lips before he went off to join his fishing buddies.
Will’s gaze shot back to his book just as Blake turned to him.
It was quiet for a moment, the gentle breeze swaying the branches and grass the only sound. Then, he heard Blake shift, gear bumping against gear.
He kept his eyes glued on the words, trying to absorb some sort of meaning when he felt something brush by his leg.
Blake had crawled over to him with a shy smile, an odd occurrence in it’s own right. He shimmied next to him, leaving but a mere inch between them.
“Read to me?”
Blake’s soft face was open, his eyes wide in an unabashed display of an innocence rarely found in a place like this. A sudden, almost violent urge to protect it—keep it safe and in its rightful place—overcame him so fiercely he felt breathless.
The realization that he’d do anything to keep Blake from losing such an integral part of what made him him was terrifying. He’d already lost so much of himself he was always surprised when he’d catch his reflection, only to see himself as he’d always been—just more worn and beaten down. So what made him believe he could spare Blake from such a fate if he couldn’t even do it for himself? No mere man could put a stopper on something destined to erode.
He didn’t know, but damned if he wouldn’t give it his all. Blake deserved that much.
“If I must.”
He opened the book again and put his arm around Blake’s shoulders, tugging him close. Blake, not one to say no to a good cuddle, plastered himself to Will’s side, resting his head on his shoulder as Will softly recited the words before him.
Soooo I wrote an arranged marriage/royalty AU snippet for 1917 😬
“I just feel so alone right now and I don’t know if you care or not.”
- Unknown
Tom hated this place. He’d been in Shryshin almost two cold and long months now and yet was still no closer to knowing William any better than he had the moment they’d met.
Par for the course, he supposed.
Sighing, he pulled his great ceremonial overcoat tighter around himself as he continued on his path toward the palace gardens. The weather here was colder this time of year than he was used to in his own land. The only real clothing he had to combat it was the stupid thing he was wearing now—annoyingly more formal than functional despite its thickness. All his other clothes were made of fine, thin (sometimes even translucent) materials meant to entice his new spouse. His father, whether out of one last act of malice or naivety that Tom’s new home would provide adequate clothing, had only allowed such garments to be brought along in his two trunks of personal belongings. Bastard.
The wind picked up again, forcing a shiver from him. Light-pink cherry blossom petals swirled in the wind and landed in a nearby large, wonky u-shaped pond. It was there he laid eyes upon the prince—husband not a word he felt comfortable using yet, no matter how true—who was leaning against a great willow tree on the other side of the water, a gilded book open in his large hand.
Before he realized what he was doing, he’d left the path and headed over to him, his sandalled feet tickled by the long, dewey grass.
William startled and looked up at him just as he was a mere few strides away. “Thomalyn? Is something the matter?”
He forced a smile and bowed as was proper with royalty you weren’t well acquainted with. “No. Just thought I’d pop out for a stroll when I saw you. Hope I’m not intruding.”
William looked at him, his brow raised, eyes searching like he was assessing the validity of his statement. He scowled. Screw him for wanting to get to know his supposed spouse, eh?
“Never mind, it was rude of me, I’ll leave you to—“
“No!” Tom blinked, taken aback by the sudden outburst. William looked away, his cheekbones a dusty rose colour now. “Er, no, it’s okay. Please, there’s enough room on the blanket, you can sit with me. If you’d like, that is.”
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Tom immediately sat, deciding that across from him was the best course of action, not too far, not too close, just as William seemed to like his social interactions.
As William went back to reading his book, Tom inspected its emerald cloth cover. The words adorning it where gold and in the Shryshinian language, that much he could tell, the characters an interesting assortment of unconnected swirls and sloped lines, as opposed to the jagged but interlaced ones of his own tongue. Still, despite his ability to recognize Shryshinian and his sufficient handle in speaking it—just having a rather ‘interesting’ accent, he’d been told—he couldn’t read it very well yet, much to his own father’s great shame when he’d bartered him off like chattel. Stupid git.
“Whatchya reading?”
Without looking up, he told him: a book of poetry by the greatest in their land.
Boring.
“A normal habit of yours?” he said, gesturing to, well, William’s whole thing he had going on.
“It… used to be.” He looked pained to say it, like the very words—or having to say them to Tom, specifically—was an unappealing act.
“Oh. Uh, why not?”
“Don’t really have the time.”
“Yeah. Makes sense, I guess. Kingdom to help lead and all that.”
William shrugged, his gaze already locked back on his dusty old book.
He rolled his eyes. Ahhh, true love.
They sat in the shade of the willow tree like this, William reading and Tom surveying everything in sight while trying hard to either not shiver too much or spout his mouth off, for what felt like an eternity before he could no longer fight the need to do something, anything, but sit in the painfully stagnant quiet with someone who didn’t even want him there.
He stood, startling the prince once again. “Sorry, your Highness,” he said with another bow. “I best be off. I don’t want to be of anymore disturbance.” With that, he turned around and left, heading back toward his own chambers. At least it’d be warm there and—though he wouldn’t dare crack them open just yet—books he could actually read.
“Thomalyn—wait.”
He ignored him, picking up his pace and cutting across the lawn, his chin held high. William grumbled something under his breath as he was left behind. Served him right, now he knew how it felt.
Unfortunately, William was (annoyingly) taller and spry on his feet, so he soon caught up, his large hand shooting out and gripping his wrist. Before Tom had time to yell at him for being such a brute, he was on the ground, his tread-less sandals and sudden awkward position causing him to slip against the wet grass.
“Ow.”
William filled his vision, his eyes large and frantic as his hands flitted around Tom, trying to figure out how badly he’d been injured.
“G’off, I’m fine. I’m fine,” he grumbled, slapping away his hands and picking himself up. His arse hurt something fierce, and his pride, but he wouldn’t admit it. Not to William who already thought him a baby.
“Are you sure-?”
“Yes.” He brushed a bit of grass off his overcoat, barely containing a cringe as a sudden deep pain shot through the wrist of the hand he’d caught himself on.
“I’m really sorry, Thoma—“
“I know. It was an accident. It’s fine. Really.”
William bit his lip, his fists clenching as he seemed to wrestle with something inside himself.
Tired of waiting around for the prince to get his act together, he continued on back to his primary goal: getting away from William and getting warm.
“It’s hard for me.”
Tom stopped.
“I find conversing… difficult. I never know what people want me to say and when I do say something I feel I just make things worse.”
He turned to William. His eyes were wide, sincere in a way he hadn’t seen from the man before. It was almost enough for Tom to take pity on him, but one little glimpse of the heart within—no matter how juicy—was not enough to erase two months of cold, detached impassivity. Neither of them wanted to be in this situation, which was exactly why they should’ve been trying to make the best of it, not pretending the other wasn’t more than a mere ghost.
“Not a very good trait for a would-be king.”
A moment, then a small smile graces his lips. “You’re not what I expected.”
about: Schofield convinces himself the reason he keeps coming back to the local coffee shop is because of the coffee. What Schofield doesn’t let himself admit is that maybe there’s also a really cute barista who won’t ever leave his mind.
wordcount: 853
warnings: fluff, puns, idiots to (sort of) lovers
a/n: i made this so long ago and came back to it and realized i actually really like it?? i wanted to share it with you <3
- -
Schofield thinks he’s lost his mind. He tells himself the reason he keeps coming to this coffee shop is definitely because of the window seat, the one next to the greenery and the sunlight streaming through the window, and because of the coffee, too.
He doesn’t have to mention the barista, either. Blake is … Blake is something.
When he reaches the front of the line, he’s met with the polite smile of another barista until Blake looks up from the coffee he’s making, and freezes. From his peripherals, Schofield watches amusedly as Blake carelessly shoves his drink into the hands of an irritated Leslie and wheels to the front of the register, smirking casually at Schofield.
“Back again, Scho?”
Schofield tries to stifle his smile, but only really succeeds in hiding his eyes and shrugging. “I told you it’s Schofield,” he says absent-mindedly.
“And you didn’t answer my question,” Blake teases. He’s done something nice to his hair, and he leans forward over the counter, eyes sparkling.
Has he always had eyes like that? And oh --
Schofield shrugs again, motioning to the backpack slung around his shoulder. “You know,” he says, “studying.” He takes in Blake’s raised eyebrow, and adds emphatically, “again.”
Blake groans, tilting his head back in laughter. “Ugh, you’re such a nerd.”
Schofield makes an estranged noise. “Am not.”
“Uh huh. You know, there’s this one story about this college kid who wouldn’t take a break --”
“Not in the mood,” Schofield sighs. “Just --”
Blake laughs. “Not in the mood for what? To get exposed?” He lowers his voice as if he’s about to tell Schofield something confidential and secret, and Schofield nearly falls for it, until Blake’s voice wavers on the last word in haughty mockery. “Nerd.”
“Oh my god,” Schofield says. “I just wanted --”
“Your depresso espresso? Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“Looks like you’ve got my order down,” Schofield says with a raised eyebrow, his mouth quirking in attempt to stop the tug at the corner of his lips. “It’s a bit of a predicament, but it looks like you’re the nerd here.”
Blake grins. “You know it.”
It’s something Schofield doesn’t expect. And it’s another one down for Blake. It’s Schofield who blushes, looking down at his hands to shift in his stance.
“It’s also part of my job,” Blake quips, apparently not noticing Schofield’s flush. He shakes his head as Schofield attempts to hand over money, pushing his hands away with extravagant shoves. “On the house,” he says proudly, and very matter-of-factly. “We can’t have our resident nerd falling asleep. Grind never stops, eh?”
Schofield smiles, bashfully. “Something like that.” He starts to move on, walking towards the table in the corner, then pauses, turning. “And just so you know, I’m choosing to ignore your coffee puns.”
Blake grins even wider, if possible. “I guess I shouldn’t mention the déja brew?”
Schofield shakes his head at Blake, then pauses in front of his table. He frowns at the ‘reserved’ sign sitting on the table, then sighs, walking further toward another table.
Yet Blake catches him before he can set his things down. “Oi, Scho? You blind?”
“It’s reserved,” Schofield says, blandly. “Thanks for that.”
Blake scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re so -- it’s reserved for you.”
Schofield feels warmth rush through him, and he’s hesitant to meet Blake’s eyes again because he knows he’s flushing. “You reserved it? For me?”
“Course I did. It’s your table, you know.”
“My … table?”
Blake rolls his eyes, but it’s with love, Schofield thinks. It’s just like Blake, too. Schofield thinks that if he could write, he’d dedicate thousands of poems on how Blake feels like light, light everywhere.
Schofield feels like the fucking night beside him, because Blake absorbs and glows and shines so brightly that Schofield doesn’t even feel the need to breathe, sometimes. All for Blake. Everything for Blake.
What.
“Yes, your table,” Blake says, startling Schofield back to present. “I’d rather see you sitting there ‘stead of some snobbish old wanker going on about ‘back in my day’ or some shit.”
“If that was supposed to be a compliment,” is what Schofield says, “you could do a lot better. Well, then. Glad to know you’d take me over an eighty-year old grandpa.”
“Scho,” Blake says with dramatics, “you wound me.”
“I’ve been stabbed,” Scho says dryly, in his worst impression of Blake.
Blake glowers, then throws aside the rag he’s holding and marches right up to Scho. “Fine then. You’re the best customer we’ve got, Will.” He smiles this time, eyes bright and earnest, and he almost gets a half-smile from Schofield. Almost.
Until Blake’s eyes glimmer and he leans forward suggestively, raising an eyebrow. “Plus, I’d take you any time, if you know what I mean.”
Schofield groans.
Blake laughs, “kidding,” clapping Schofield on the back and then rushing back up to the counter where Leslie smirks at him, rolling his eyes.
“I’ve got twenty on you, Tom. Better not fuck it up.”
No había caído en el agujero de la perdición por el Blakefield debido a que estuve hasta el cuello con trabajos de la universidad, y ahora sigo igual pero simplemente prefiero procrastinar y buscar contenido de ellos, por el bien de mi salud mental y por mi gran necesidad de verlos felices porque they deserved better, so much better.
Así que, aquí me tienen, encantada con el ship. Aunque me conflictua un poco debido al tema y que me marcó de manera personal, y cuando eso me sucede con una película, no me agrada diseccionarla con material de ficción... sin embargo, un fic apareció en mi camino, un fix it fic y BAM! ¿Blake si recibió ayuda y no murió pero Schofield no lo sabe con certeza porque tuvo que dejarle y cumplir la misión? ¿Schofield se encuentra enamorado de él y sufre al pensar que lo ha perdido? ¿Ninguno de los dos actúa como adolescentes que no conocen/controlan sus sentimientos porque NO están en un día a día normal, si no en una guerra y, a pesar del escenario, se aferran a su amistad que poco a poco comienza a transformarse en algo más que la más genuina admiración por el otro? Yes please, thank you so much.
Al final si caí y los hermosos fanarts no me ayudan a salir, so i must accept it.
Also, George Mackay es tan perfecto??????? Y Dean Charles Chapman tan bonito????
During a war, two lovers try to make the most things until the end. Length, 3K.
Contains: Smut, Angst and lots of it, Fluffy Moments and Banter, and of course, character death.
Notes:
A commission from a dear who introduced me to 1917 and I am a fan! You can also commission me! Just shoot me an inquiry to [email protected]
READ ON AO3
“I’m going to make a mess of you.” Blake laughs, perhaps sounding melodic to Schofield’s ears. The lad, a blue-eyed dark-haired bloke with his back to him, threw his shirt to him, landing on Schofield’s face.
“I love to see you accomplish such a feat.” Blake purrs in reply, gently stroking his jaw. His skin was smooth, youthful and bright. His bedroom eye, adorned with thick, dark lashes stared at him with arousal. Teasing Schofield became quite a game for Blake—he loved getting riled since it paid off so well.
“I’ll make you eat those words.” With a tease, he kisses him, knocking him against the tree behind. The air was a bit cool, fog danced in the air as the two lovers clicked teeth. With his thumb rubbing his lips after they pulled apart, he smiles at the light-eyed youth.
Schofield swallows, feeling Blake’s hard length pressed against his--grinding with an ill-intent, wanting to drive him mad. He grabbed Blake’s dark locks, yanking them back as he lapped at Blake’s exposed neck. Sucking, kissing, marking the boy as his for his own insurance.
After seeing red, flesh splotches appear, Schofield grins--this time kissing him ruefully, unbuckling Blake’s pants to the sight of white briefs. His pale legs had a slight blush to them. Schofield’s slender yet tough finger up those pale thighs to his bulging package.
“On your need, soldier.” Blake rolls his eyes at the corny display but turns around, dropping his knees.
“For talking so much, you seem so hard for me. Haven’t had a wank in a while, have you?” Schofield says, his head in the crook of Blake’s shoulder, His hand drifted to his front, giving it a slow, determined stroke. His finger brushes against Blake’s plush lips, as if to ask for entrance--his spit drips out, his teeth nipping as the digits. After he’s satisfied with the slickness of the lubrication being enough, he sinks a finger in, past his sphincter.
“...because you do the best.” Schofield grins at the words, deciding to simply implore him.
“You who?” he added another finger, rubbing against his soft walls. Blake doesn’t say anything, not yet at least. It’s only when Schofield rubs the tip of his slick head does he answer honestly.
It was pretty cute.
“Y-You do it best, Daddy.”
“How do you want Daddy to fuck you?” Schofield’s on the third finger, Blake’s practically a sobbing mess under him. His knees buckled, he knew if Schofield continued with this deliberate action that he’d climax far too early.
“On my knees, Daddy--fuck me on my knees.” “ And as he so nicely asked, Schofield did so, sinking his nails into his hips. Feeling that he was completely buried in his flesh, rolling his hips from the base back to the entrance.
Blake lets a rough groan, clawing at the ground below him. Schofield picks up his pace, knowing his lover shouldn’t be satisfied with that alone. Slamming himself against his reddening behind, his hand holding his back so he could be fully immersed.
And then, there’s a voice.
“Who goes there?” A voice—a deeper, older masculine voice said—the two boys froze.
“We’re going to get caught—” Blake puts his hand on top of Schofield’s saying, “Oh, quiet you! Just stay quiet.” The feeling of being watched did excite a bit as he ground against the thick, sweeping cock inside of him—he listened to Schofield’s gasping breath with satisfaction before pulling away from him with a pop.
“Who’s there!” The two of them looked at the direction of the voice, waiting for it and the footsteps that followed to pass by them. After that, they fumbled with their clothes before breaking out in sprints—laughing to their heart’s content as they made it to the open field full of flowers and lush green grass. It was early morning, possibly past midnight and they collapsed against a tree.
The sound of birds chirping surrounded the two men who held each other--the rumble of thunder followed, but every so briefly leaving as it arrived. The landscape around them was tranquil despite the turbulence of the times---to the two young men, they were the only ones there; content in their own little world.
Schofield woke up first, groggily, sniffling a chuckle at the younger man cuddled up against him. He looked like an angel with his eyes closed, the exact opposite of his usual cheeky self. His hands ruddle his soft hair, the air of intimacy as thick as the fog around them.
“Blake.” A voice says--Sergeant Sanders--his voice, powerful, unamused as he watches the Tom stays still, unbothered by the authority figure.
“Blake!” Blake as he’s known to his superiors--jolts awake, his uniform damp with dew, his big, blue eyes alert.
“Sorry, Sarge.” Was his sleepy reply, Schofield bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing.
“Pick a man, bring your kit.”
“Yes, Sarge.” Blake peels himself from Schofield, standing erect as if coming back to life. Despite being quite aware of the things happening around him, stays quiet with his eyes shut. With the Sergeant out of sight, Blake bends down and gives his man a quick peck of the forehead, grasping his slightly prickly face. His touch is gentle, a soft, generous caress--after a beat Schofield’s eyes flutter open, locking onto Blake’s rose-colored gaze--yet Schofield knew this nativity was a ruse, the young man knew what he was doing to him and reveled in it.
“I see you’re very alive and well.” He momentarily grasping his crotch, winking at him.
“You brazen, brazen little lad,” Schofield says in a voice, only low enough for Blake hear--who in turn gives him a grin that makes his heart skip a beat. Schofield, in turn, gives his behind a generous squeeze--this one was, however, different from Blake’s--this action was establishing that he wasn’t going to take it lying down. A bit taller than his he turns, his breath hot in his ears, nipping at the lobes.
“Your arse is mine, although I thought I proved it last night”
“No, really say it again, Schofield.”
The shit smile of a mouthy angel.
The two lovers begrudgingly followed Sanders with the latter ordering them not to “dawdle.”
“No, Sarge.”
They, amongst others, spent their days intimate with the grime and muck, and currently entrapped in slumber.
“Did they feed us?” Blake inquires. Schofield frowns and hands him something, envelopes, full of mail from his family and friends.
“No, just mail.”
Despite the slight disappointment, Blake opens the envelope elated, reading the contents while they strolled, his smile filling with warmth.
“Myrtle’s having puppies.” Schofield grins at his own elation--
“You get anything?”
“No.”--even if he didn’t get anything from his own family, he was more than glad to be with him.
By then during their chat, the fire was lit, meaning salvation to Blake’s hunger was on the way.
“I’m bloody starving, aren’t you? I thought we might get some decent grub out here - only reason I decided against the priesthood.” Schofield lets out a breathy laugh while his boy glances around as if he wanted to devour everything in sight.
“I know something I’d like to devour right now.” When blake turns to him in confusion, he manages to steal a peck on his cheek. He dug into his pockets, looking for food his stashed goodies.
“What you got there?”
“Ham and bread.”
“Where did you find that?”
“I have my uses.”
They sneak off, for better or for worse, passing into the trenches. The bread is stale, Blake makes a face as he bites into it.
“Tastes like an old shoe.”
“Cheer up. This time next week it’ll be chicken dinner."
The trench drops deeper and deeper, Blake takes Schofield’s arm, as they continue their chat.
“Not me. Leave got cancelled.”
“They say, why?”
“No idea.”
They are completely underground, the sky cannot be seen--they were detached from the world above them. They stood in each other’s company, with the Sergeant’s back to them, holding hands.
“It’s easier not to go back at all,” Schofield says, perhaps a bit rash. The pair pass soldiers doing various duties--moving crates and various cooking and medical supplies.
“Something’s up,” Blake says, pausing for a minute.
“...did you hear anything?”
“Has to be the push, right?”
He continues. Again, soldiers move past them, pushing, and again Black watches.
“Ten bob says we’re going up.”
“I’m not taking that bet.”
“Why? ‘Cos you know I’m right?”
“No, ‘cos I know that you bet with your bum and not your bob.” Schofield chuckles, rubbing his shoulder after Blake gives him a playful punch.
“I can’t wait for all of this to be over.” Blake looks at him, holding his hands tightly. Their blue eyes seemed to have danced with at each-other glancing around sharing a quick peck--heart beating madly, cheeks flushed.
“All of us coming out here alive would be a feat.”
“If we do--”
“--When we do survive--we when we do, we should go on holiday, somewhere far,” Blake says with a hum--Schofield looks at him, almost dazed, lovingly bringing his hand to his lips gazing them ever so slightly.
“In your own time, gentlemen...”
They follow Sanders, kicking up speed.
“Is there news, Sarge?” Blake asks.
“News of what?”
“The big push. It was supposed to happen weeks ago. They told us we’d be home by Christmas.” Schofield’s hand tightens around Blakes as he speaks.
“Yes, well, sorry to disrupt your crowded schedule, Blake, but the Brass Hats didn’t fancy it in the snow.” The sergeant replies, sarcastically.
“More’s the pity, Sarge, I could have done with some turkey.”
“Well, I’ll make sure to relay your displeasure to command.” Running through wires, set there for communication, the conversation resumes.
“So what’s on the cards then, Sergeant?” Schofield this time inquires-- turns around and with that their entwined hands drop.
“The Hun are up to something.”
“Any idea what?”
“No - but it’s bound to ruin our weekend.”
They approach a dugout.
“Now listen, Erinmore is inside, so tidy yourselves up.” The two young men are wide-eyed, anxious.
“You never know - might be mentioned in dispatches for this one, if you don’t bugger it up.”
The look he gives is worrisome as he seems to have gone deeper into the dugout.
The young men tidy themselves as much as they can--Blake leans into Schofield, looking quite nervous.
“Must be something big if the General’s here.”
Schofield wants to reassure him--to tell him that things couldn’t have gotten too sire. However, he seemed to believe less and less in his own thoughts as they approached the dimly-lit area with their guns raised. A feeling of unease and uncertainty was thick in the air with their nerves so high.
After seeing their superiors sitting at a table, whispering didn’t put them more at ease.
“Lance Corporals Blake and Schofield, Sir.”
General Erinmore shifts his attention to the two young soldiers, his gaze lingering. There’s the sight of pure authority in his demeanor, even as he questions them.
“Which one of you is Blake?”
“Sir,” Blake replies.
“You have a brother, a Lieutenant in the 2nd Devons?” His eyes glimmered.
“Yes, sir. Joseph Blake. Is he--”
“Alive, as far as I know. And with your help, I’d like to keep it that way.”
Blake’s eyes held a bit of suspicion. After a few minutes of speaking, a conversation which included Blake’s map-reading abilities. The talk came at a standstill when Erinmore dropped a bombshell.
“Germans have gone. Don’t get your hopes up. It appears to be a strategic withdrawal. They seem to have created a new line, nine miles back here, by the looks of it.” His eyes seemed to bore into theirs as his grave voice spoke with careful authority.
“Your orders are to get to the 2nd at Croisilles Wood, one mile southeast of the town of Ecoust. Deliver this to Colonel Mackenzie. It is a direct order to call off tomorrow morning’s attack.”
Schofield and Blake understood the severity of the situation.
Erinmore hands Blake an envelope, one of importance.
“Deliver this to Colonel Mackenzie. It is a direct order to call off tomorrow morning’s attack. If you don’t, it will be a massacre. We would lose two battalions. Sixteen hundred men, your brother among them.”
Schofield reels in being absolutely gobsmacked while Blake was quiet and with the absolute understanding lingering on his expression. He was much better with things like these--that’s why Schofield loved him. He was strong in a lot of ways that Schofield wasn’t.
“Map, torches, grenades, and a couple of little treats. Leave immediately, take this trench west, up on Sauchiehall Street, then northwest on Paradise Alley at the front. Continue along the front line until you find the Yorks. Give this note to Major Stevenson. He’s holding the line at the shortest span of No Man’s Land. You’ll cross there.”
Schofield’s eyes bulged saying and a voice clearly unnerved, “It will be daylight, Sir. They’ll see us.”
“No need to be concerned. You should meet no resistance.”
With a further charm of “good luck”, the young soldiers armed themselves once again, this time exposed by the daylight they encounter.
“Blake - let’s talk about this for a minute.”
“Why?” He was already racing, going at an impressive pace.
“Just need to think about it for comment--shouldn’t we wait till dark.”
“There’s nothing to think about. It’s my big brother. Erinmore said to leave immediately. You heard him. He said the Boche have gone.”
“Is that why he gave us grenades?” Schofield jogged up to him, grabbing his hand--almost with a pleading,
“All I’m saying is that we should wait.”
Blake frowns.
“Yes, you would say that, because it’s not your brother, is it?”
“Look, the last time I was told the Germans were gone, it didn’t end well.”
The young, blue-eyed man pushes past him, and he further pleads with him.
“You don’t know, Blake, you weren’t there. I’m worried about you.” He seems to stop, looking at him with watery eyes.
“Are you speaking as my comrade or as my man?” Schofield doesn’t say anything, just blindly following the younger man, They rush against traffic, even being reprimanded by a passing sergeant.
“Alright, say the Boche have gone. Nine miles will take us, what, six hours? Eight at the very most. So we’ve got time to wait until the sunsets. Otherwise, we’ll be wide open, Blake.”
“It’s enemy territory, we’ve got no idea what we’re walking into--”
“Think about this, you bloke! Blake, if we’re not clever about this, no one will get to your brother.”
“I will.” With that, the conversation ends, as well as Schofield trying to persuade him.
“I just want you to stay safe,” Schofield whispered to say as he followed his trudging figure, approaching uncertainty.
“I love you, Schofield,”
“Don’t...don’t you tell me that like those are your last words. You have to try to keep moving, yeah?”
“Let’s just sit... let me sit.”
“...you can start on without me. I’ll catch up.”
“We can’t. We have to find the 2nd. Remember? Your brother. We have to go now...”
After some time, what they’re met with hinders to the two lovers direly.
Blake’s stare turns glassy as he looks up at Schofield.
“You can’t stay here. We have to move, alright? We have to move. Come on. Come on. That’s it. Come on, come on old man, you can make it.”
Fear, dread. Disbelief.
“Your brother. We have to find your brother, remember? You can make it.”
Blake’s breath is slow. Schofield feels tears stinging his eyes. His breath shallow as well.
“You’ll recognize him. Looks like me...a bit older.”
Schofield holds his head up, almost helplessly as he looks around. They both watched as embers floated in the air.
“What are they? Are we being shelled?”
“No....they’re embers, the barn is on fire.”
Blake’s eyes widened and squinted soon after he winced.
“I’ve been hit...haven’t I. What was it?”
They’re both aware that they were ambushed.
Blake protected him, taking a knife for him. Flabbergasted, the young man feels around, finally finding Schofield’s had trying to stop his wound from bleeding too much. Schofield uses his free hand to wipe away the blood on his lips. His breath comes in quiet gasps.
“Am I dying?”
“Yes, I think you are...but we can pretend like you’re just sleeping."
Blake quietly laughs, making Schofield smile through tears.
“I wish that that was true.”
“Why did you take the knife for me anyways? Now I’m going to be alone again.” His voice breaks up with tears, hoping that he could once try to save his life.
However, it was all but a fleeting dream for the two men.
There’s a muffled rustling--Schofield is handed a wallet from Blake, asking him for something from it. inside the contents held letters, probably from his family and more importantly, a picture of Blake, smiling with an older woman and a man around their age. He takes the photo, putting it in his hand silently
“Will you write to my mum for me?” Schofield gives her a smile and a nod, now cradling his face. He slowly let go of the hold he had on his wound, and instead of taking his hand.
“Tell her I wasn’t scared.” With every breath, he slips away faster and faster.
“Anything else you want me to say?”
“I love them...I wish that... I wish...” Schofield breaks out in a sob, holding his cooling body close to him.
“Talk to me. Tell me you love me, tell me you know the way.”
“...I love you....more than I’ve ever loved a person. And uh, the way...I know it.”
Blake waits, giving him a small smile as he listens to him continue.
“I’m going to head southeast until I hit Ecoust. I’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood.”
“It’ll be dark by then,” Blake replies, his voice almost a whisper. Schofield looks down at him, his eyelashes hiding his grieve-stricken baby blue eyes.
“That won’t bother me... I’ll find the 2nd, I’ll give them the message, and then I’ll find your brother. Just like you...”
So am I sat here on the laptop at quarter to ten at night, 1667 words into a Blake/Schofield piece rather than getting ready for bed when I have to be at work by 8am in the morning???
You bet my (incredibly) tired ass I am.
Not that this is ever likely to see the light of day but somehow I couldn’t leave those boys where they were without trying to do something. It’s the same energy that caught me with Tommy and Gibson in Dunkirk (not that I’ve ever finished any of those fics either *heavy sigh*). A beautiful, haunting story that this film is, fanfic writers are able to take that story and give an alternative version. Canon will always exist but fanfiction gives us alternatives. Thank goodness!
There are some excellent fics already up on ao3 for this fandom and pairing (bless you all).
