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Description
“Please don’t tell anyone!”

Francis half turned at the plea. Arthur Kirkland, his old time friend and enemy, and now his lover, had propped himself up on his elbows on the bed they had shared for the night. His eyes were wide, desperate. The events of last night came rushing back to Francis, the weight of the memories and the severity of their crime hitting him like a freight train.

War had descended on Europe like a ravenous dog. Francis, fleeing the encroaching German army’s advances into French territory, had come to London, a city familiar to him in his younger schooling years. He had run into Arthur Kirkland of all people, a man he had long since fallen out of contact with, and their reunion had been free of the petty rivalry of their youth.

Francis could remember being invited out for drinks, the two of them winding up in a pub filled to the brim with newly enlisted men who were drinking and singing merrily. They caught up, that much he knew. Somewhere along the line, though, it was more than just stories they were exchanging and they quickly vacated the pub, wobbling drunkenly back to Arthur’s flat.

One thing had led to another and Francis had woken up with an old friend, an old enemy, tucked up against his side in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The silence that hung between the two was suffocating and there was a distinct look of mounting fear in those green eyes Francis had reacquainted himself with in the past twelve hours. Eventually, though, he smiled softly, stooping to scoop up his discarded shirt off the floor.

“Cher, if I tell anyone then I myself am at risk of persecution.” He said soothingly. “Your secret – our secret – is safe between the two of us.”

Description
“Please don’t tell anyone!”

Francis half turned at the plea. Arthur Kirkland, his old time friend and enemy, and now his lover, had propped himself up on his elbows on the bed they had shared for the night. His eyes were wide, desperate. The events of last night came rushing back to Francis, the weight of the memories and the severity of their crime hitting him like a freight train.

War had descended on Europe like a ravenous dog. Francis, fleeing the encroaching German army’s advances into French territory, had come to London, a city familiar to him in his younger schooling years. He had run into Arthur Kirkland of all people, a man he had long since fallen out of contact with, and their reunion had been free of the petty rivalry of their youth.

Francis could remember being invited out for drinks, the two of them winding up in a pub filled to the brim with newly enlisted men who were drinking and singing merrily. They caught up, that much he knew. Somewhere along the line, though, it was more than just stories they were exchanging and they quickly vacated the pub, wobbling drunkenly back to Arthur’s flat.

One thing had led to another and Francis had woken up with an old friend, an old enemy, tucked up against his side in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The silence that hung between the two was suffocating and there was a distinct look of mounting fear in those green eyes Francis had reacquainted himself with in the past twelve hours. Eventually, though, he smiled softly, stooping to scoop up his discarded shirt off the floor.

“Cher, if I tell anyone then I myself am at risk of persecution.” He said soothingly. “Your secret – our secret – is safe between the two of us.”