The Weight of Tender Things

Darcy Sinclair has always been the soft place the Shelbys fall when the world gets too cruel—sewing buttons, wiping blood, kissing foreheads and never asking for anything in return. But love like his doesn’t stay quiet forever. Not when it’s John Shelby he’s loved since he was ten years old.
From muddy childhood summers to war-torn trenches, from stitched wounds to unspoken glances across smoke-filled rooms, their story is one of devotion, danger, and decades of almosts.
John’s had wives, children, and his fair share of vices—but he’s never had what Darcy offers: a love brave enough to survive history, heartbreak, and the law itself.
Now, after everything, John might finally be ready to love him back.
Even if it’s taken half a lifetime to say the words.

This is the last brother I had to do and like the others it’s separate from the others.

Chapter 1: I’d Bury Myself Between Your Thighs

Chapter Text

Birmingham, 1907

John - age 13, Darcy - age 10

It had been raining the day they met.

Darcy Sinclair stood at the edge of the muddy schoolyard, shoes too clean for Small Heath and hands clenched around the handles of a patched satchel that clearly wasn’t his. His eyes—green and wide—flitted nervously over the clusters of boys roughhousing in the mud. He didn’t look like he belonged here. His accent was wrong, his manners too soft. Irish lilt curled around every “please” and “thank you” and he had a way of blinking fast like he was always holding back something.

John Shelby noticed him only because he wasn’t trying to be noticed. All the new kids tried to act tough or loud, but not this one.

“Why you just standin’ there like you’re waitin’ on Jesus?” John called, stepping away from his mates.

Darcy flinched. He looked down. “I… I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.”

John snorted. “Bit late for that in Birmingham.”

He walked up to him, sizing him up. “You Irish?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. You sound like me aunt Mary before she got too drunk to talk straight.”

Darcy didn’t laugh, but something eased a little in his shoulders.

John shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m John. My brothers’ll call me a fool for talkin’ to you, but they can piss off.”

“…Darcy,” the boy murmured. “Darcy Sinclair.”

John smirked. “Bit of a girl’s name, innit?”

Darcy flushed pink, shame hitting like a slap. But before he could reply, John added, “Don’t matter. You can be a right bastard with a name like that if you try hard enough.”

And just like that, Darcy smiled. Small, barely-there—but it was a start.

From that day on, Darcy followed John around like a shadow. He never fought, but he stitched up bloody knuckles behind alleyways with nimble, careful fingers. He never swore, but he listened to John curse at the world and never once judged him for it. And when the nights were cold and John’s mum forgot he existed again, it was Darcy who would sneak him an extra blanket, or a boiled sweet nicked from the grocer.

They were boys then. Just boys. But something had begun—something quiet and patient and binding.

Something like love, though neither of them had the words for it yet.

⸻

Birmingham, 1908

John - age 14, Darcy - age 11

The house in the Cut smelled like old tobacco and damp wood. Polly’d aired it out best she could, but the grief still clung like soot in the corners. John hadn’t spoken much since the funeral. Just kept his jaw tight and his fists tighter.

Darcy sat on the bottom step of the narrow staircase, fingers worrying the hem of his too-long sleeves. His jumper was borrowed—one of Ada’s old ones, re-knitted by Polly—and his legs swung a little as he waited.

Polly came down the hall, setting a chipped cup of tea beside him. “He’s in the back room. Still hasn’t touched the stew.”

Darcy nodded.

“Give it a go, love. He listens to you, more than the rest of us.” Polly smoothed down his hair with a warm palm. “You’ve got a kind voice.”

Darcy picked up the tea with both hands and tiptoed down the corridor. The door was half open. He knocked softly before nudging it wider with his foot.

John sat on the bed with his back to the door, hunched over like something had caved in on top of him. The window was cracked just enough to let in the sound of coal carts rattling by, but he didn’t look up.

“I brought you tea,” Darcy said quietly, stepping in.

John didn’t answer.

Darcy stood there for a moment before he crossed the room and sat beside him. Their knees touched. It wasn’t much—but it was something. John’s hands were clenched in his lap, red-raw from punching the wall the day his da left.

“I miss her too,” Darcy said.

“She didn’t even say goodbye.” John’s voice was a rasp. “Just left us. Like we weren’t enough.”

“You were more than enough,” Darcy said softly. “She just… got tired. Sometimes people don’t know how to ask for help.”

“She shouldn’t’ve done it. Not with us here.”

Darcy nodded, green eyes full of something too old for his face. “I know. But she loved you. I saw it. When she brushed your hair back. When she kissed your head even when you pretended you hated it.”

John stared down at his hands.

After a long stretch of silence, he muttered, “I hate cryin’.”

“You’re allowed.”

“I’m not,” John snapped—but it came out more like a plea than a protest.

Darcy, gentle as ever, leaned in and rested his head on John’s shoulder. “Then I’ll cry for you.”

And he did. Quiet tears, silent and slow, soaking into the wool of John’s shirt. And John let him. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak. Just sat there with the weight of it all on his shoulders… and Darcy pressed soft against his side, the only warmth in a world gone cold.

⸻

Birmingham, Summer 1909

Darcy - age 12, John - age 15

The air was thick with heat and coal dust. A haze of smoke curled lazily over Small Heath, curling from chimneys and cigarettes alike. Somewhere nearby, someone was banging metal to metal, the clang echoing like church bells through the back alleys.

Darcy wiped sweat from his brow with a fraying handkerchief, his sleeves rolled up, freckles stark on pale skin. He carried a satchel full of bandages and boiled sweets, a bit of lavender stuffed in the corner to keep the smell pleasant. Polly had taught him that trick.

“Hold still, Arthur,” he huffed as he dabbed iodine on a split eyebrow. “You’re the one who headbutted the bloke, this is your fault.”

Arthur winced. “He said I looked like a sheep.”

“You do, sometimes,” Darcy muttered. “Now hush.”

John leaned against the wall, shirt open, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His face was sun-bronzed, his hair a mess, and there was a smear of dried blood on his knuckles he hadn’t bothered to clean.

“Look at you,” he teased. “Little nursemaid.”

Darcy shot him a glare, but his lips twitched. “Someone’s got to keep you idiots from dying.”

John smirked and tilted his head. “We’d be lost without you, wouldn’t we, sweetheart?”

Darcy’s cheeks burned at the nickname. John always said things like that—offhand, careless, and unaware of the way it lodged in Darcy’s chest like a bullet.

“I’ll stitch your mouth shut next,” Darcy warned, packing away his things.

But John just laughed and blew a lazy puff of smoke into the hot air.

⸻

Later that day, they stripped down to their undershirts and jumped into the Cut, water murky and warm with summer. John dove first, surfacing with a wild grin and a shake of his hair, spraying water like a dog.

Darcy followed, more graceful than he looked, all elbows and soft limbs and the occasional yelp when something brushed his leg.

They swam until dusk. John splashed him relentlessly. Darcy shrieked and cursed in Irish. They laughed so hard their sides hurt. And for a moment, everything felt like it used to—before grief, before fists, before girls.

They lay on the bank afterward, skin drying in the setting sun, dragonflies zipping overhead.

“You hear about Martha?” John asked suddenly.

Darcy turned his head. “That girl with the dark hair? From Balsall Heath?”

John smirked, tossing a pebble in the water. “She let me kiss her yesterday.”

Darcy blinked. Something in his chest twisted, sharp and breathless. “Oh.”

“She’s got tits now. Big ones. Like pillows.”

Darcy laughed too quickly, too loud. “You’re disgusting.”

“Jealous?” John nudged him with his foot.

“No.”

But he was. Not of Martha’s kisses—but of John giving them to someone who wasn’t him.

Darcy looked back up at the sky, eyes stinging. He told himself it was just the sun.

⸻

Spring, 1910

Darcy - age 13, John - age 16

The curtains stayed drawn in the Sinclair home for eight days straight.

Darcy’s mother told the neighbors it was spring fever. Said he was too weak to stand, poor thing, just needs broth and bed rest. But that wasn’t the truth. Darcy wasn’t coughing. He didn’t burn with fever or bleed from anywhere you could see. The sickness wasn’t in his body.

It was in his soul.

He curled in on himself beneath the quilts, barely touching the food his mother brought. His hands trembled when she tried to feed him. He vomited water more than once. Every time she left the room, he cried into the pillow like he was dying.

And maybe he was. Or maybe something inside him had died, and this was what mourning looked like.

It had started—so stupidly, so simply—with a dare.

John Shelby, shirtless and half-drunk on stolen gin, had been goaded by Arthur and Tommy into running down Watery Lane bare-arsed. “No bollocks, Johnny boy, go on!” they’d laughed, roaring with laughter, holding their guts. And John—never one to back down—had taken off his boots, his trousers, his pants, and gone charging down the street whooping and hollering, his pale backside flashing in the gaslight.

Darcy had been there. Hidden in the corner, behind a crate, his satchel clutched in his arms. He’d meant to give Arthur a clean bandage for his knuckles. But he saw John first.

He hadn’t meant to look. God, he hadn’t meant to feel anything.

But there it was—that sharp jolt low in his belly, his breath caught in his throat, his legs frozen in place. He’d stared too long. Felt too much.

And when John turned around at the end of the lane, grinning like a devil, everything inside Darcy unraveled.

⸻

He’d stopped going to school the next day.

Refused to eat. Couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw John’s smile. The careless, bright laughter. The lean lines of his body. That tangle of gold-brown hair and smoke-kissed eyes. It wasn’t just that John was handsome—it was the way Darcy felt around him. Safe. Warm. Like he belonged to someone.

It was a sickness.

A sin .

He’d heard it in church, in the street, from his da’s drunken mouth. Men like that were monsters. Criminals. Worthless. Worth killing.

He looked at himself in the mirror on the third night—skin pale, eyes rimmed red, hair tangled and greasy—and he hated what he saw. Not just his body, soft and wrong in his own eyes. But the truth behind his eyes.

He was wrong. And if anyone knew—if John ever knew—

They’d bury him before summer came.

⸻

The knock on the door wasn’t sharp. It was three soft taps and a muffled, “Oi, it’s me,” like John knew not to draw attention.

Darcy was sitting on the floor beside his bed, back to the wall, knees hugged to his chest. His mother had gone to fetch more broth, even though Darcy hadn’t kept any down in two days.

The door creaked open before he could answer.

“Didn’t think you were dead,” John said casually, stepping inside. “But then Polly started muttering and said maybe I oughta come knock and see for myself.”

Darcy didn’t answer right away. He looked pale, thinner, cheeks sunken and red-rimmed eyes staring at the floor.

John blinked. “You look like shite.”

“Thanks,” Darcy rasped, voice hoarse from disuse.

John flopped down at the end of the bed, stretching out like he owned the place. “You ain’t missing much. School’s still hell, Tommy’s been in a mood, Arthur knocked out a copper’s tooth, and Finn tried to eat a button. Polly lost her mind.”

Darcy managed a thin smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You scared your mum half to death,” John said, more serious now. “I mean—you’ve always been soft, but not sick like this. Not vanish-for-a-week sick.”

Darcy swallowed. “Just… tired.”

“You look like someone’s been haunting you.” John grinned a little. “You see a ghost or somethin’? One of the lads says your house is cursed. I told him it’s just full of books and sadness.”

Darcy smiled faintly. “Still full of both.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then John leaned back on his elbows. “Martha’s up the duff.”

Darcy’s stomach turned instantly.

“I know. Fuckin’ hell, right?” John laughed. “Wasn’t expectin’ it. But… it ain’t bad. I mean… I don’t hate the idea.”

Darcy didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

John kept talking, unaware, like he was spinning a dream. “We’re gonna get married, I think. Polly says she’ll help talk to Martha’s family. It’s not a bad match. Martha’s alright. Bit mouthy. But I don’t mind.”

Darcy’s chest felt like it was caving in. He stared at the threadbare rug like it might swallow him whole. His hands clenched in his lap, nails biting into skin. He tried to breathe quietly through his nose, but it shook, betrayed him.

John glanced over. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Darcy whispered.

“You don’t look fine. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I said I’m fine.”

John sat up. “Hey, what’s wrong with you lately?”

Darcy stood, abruptly. “You should go.”

“What? What the hell’s that mean?”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve been sleeping for a week , Darcy.”

Darcy turned his back to him, hiding his face. “Please just go, John.”

John’s voice came quieter this time. “Did I do somethin’?”

Darcy’s throat closed around a sob. He shook his head.

John stood, now concerned. “Darce—”

“Please,” Darcy whispered. “Please, Johnny. Just—go.”

There was a long pause. A hurt silence. Then the soft creak of boots retreating across the floorboards.

John stopped at the door.

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” he said, quietly. “But maybe I was wrong.”

And then he left.

The door shut.

And Darcy slid to the floor, pulled his knees to his chest, and cried until his ribs ached.

⸻

Sinclair House, Late Evening

The rain came soft that night, just a whisper against the windows—barely enough to wet the street but loud enough to make the house feel smaller, quieter. His mother was in the kitchen, hands deep in a bowl of dough, sleeves pushed up and face flushed from the stove.

Darcy stood in the doorway like a ghost, thin and pale in his nightshirt, eyes swollen from crying.

She glanced up. “Darcy, love—are you hungry now?”

He shook his head.

She frowned. “Still can’t keep anything down?”

“No. It’s not that.”

She wiped her hands on a dishcloth and stepped around the counter, kneeling a little to level with him.

“What is it, sweet?”

Darcy hesitated. Then his face twisted, lips trembling as he tried to force the words out. “Mum, I… I think I’m going to hell.”

She blinked, stunned for only a moment before gathering him into her arms without a word. He collapsed against her, fists clinging to her apron, tears soaking the cotton.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t ask to be like this, I swear I didn’t—”

“Darcy,” she whispered, her voice warm against his ear. “What’s this all about, my darling?”

“I think I like blokes,” he sobbed. “I know I do. And I’m scared, Mum. I’m so scared. What if Da finds out? What if the others find out? What if John—”

He broke off, shivering like a leaf.

His mother held him tighter.

“Shh… shh now. You listen to me.”

She eased him down into a kitchen chair, still cradling his hands in hers. She looked at him like she was seeing the sun for the first time, not something ugly or broken. Just her boy.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Darcy Sinclair. Nothing. You hear me?”

“But the church says—”

“The church don’t live in this house. I do.”

He hiccuped softly, and she pressed a kiss to his temple.

“You’ve always been different. Always been special. You were sewing little dolls when the other boys were off throwin’ rocks. You baked me your first biscuits at six years old. You stitched your own bloody handkerchiefs.”

“I just wanted to be like you,” Darcy whispered.

She smiled, tears in her eyes now too. “You are like me. And better. You’re clever and kind and gentle in a world that tries to beat that out of boys.”

“But Da—”

“Your Da ain’t here. And I’ll never let him touch you again, you understand me?”

Darcy nodded shakily, still crying.

She reached over and gently wiped his tears with her sleeve. “Liking blokes don’t change who you are. It don’t change how much I love you. It don’t change the way you fuss over your brothers, or how you hum when you bake. It don’t make you less of a man—it just makes you you . And I thank God every day that I got to be your mum.”

Darcy broke then, fell into her arms like a child again, clutching to her as if he might drown in his own fear. And she rocked him gently, whispering Irish lullabies into his hair, as if he were still small enough to fit in her lap.

The storm outside grew heavier.

But inside the kitchen, there was warmth, and safety, and love.

⸻

Summer, 1911

Darcy - 14, John - 17

The Garrison’s back room smelled like sweat, smoke, and beer spilled over wood. The Shelby brothers lounged around the little table near the hearth, shirts unbuttoned, voices low and lazy with drink. Darcy had been invited along, as he often was now—half nursemaid, half brother, all theirs.

He sat in the corner nursing a mug of tea he didn’t drink, feet tucked under his chair, trying to disappear into the smoke curling through the air. He still looked young compared to them, softer in the face, ginger curls falling into his eyes, but he held his own. Tended cuts after fights. Gave Arthur peppermint water for his stomach. Darned Tommy’s coat without being asked.

Family, whether he was blood or not.

“Greta wants me to come see her mother,” Tommy muttered, tapping ash into a dish. “Thinks it means I’m serious.”

“You are serious,” Arthur grunted. “You get that sappy look in your eye when you talk about her.”

“I do not.”

“You do ,” John snorted, kicking Tommy under the table. “Next thing we know, you’ll be knitting booties.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Better than knockin’ someone up on accident twice .”

John raised his glass with a grin. “What can I say? Martha likes me.”

“You’re a randy little bastard, that’s why,” Arthur muttered, taking a swig.

“Least I’m gettin’ some.”

Darcy choked slightly on his tea.

John turned to him, smirking. “What about you, then? You’ve had your eye on any birds?”

Darcy blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re at that age. Whole school probably fawning over you with that pretty face.”

Darcy’s ears burned. He looked down into his glass.

Arthur chuckled. “Bet it’s some little blonde thing who likes poetry.”

Tommy leaned back. “Could be. You’re quiet, but you’re not blind.”

Darcy felt the weight of all their eyes on him. His pulse thundered in his ears.

He remembered what his mum had said, months ago, when he finally told her everything:

“If the Shelbys truly consider you one of them… they’ll still be your mates. And if they don’t—they never were.”

Darcy swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“I don’t like birds,” he said softly. “Not like that.”

Silence.

Arthur blinked. “You mean… brunettes?”

Tommy raised a brow.

Darcy took a breath. “I like blokes.”

The silence stretched again.

Arthur furrowed his brow like he was trying to do long division. “Wait—like men men?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just took another drag of his cigarette.

John paused for half a second, then said, deadpan, “Well that explains why you never complimented Martha’s tits.”

Darcy stared at him, wide-eyed.

John smirked. “You’ve seen ’em. They’re massive. Rude of you, really.”

Arthur let out a confused laugh. “Wait, wait, hold on— Darcy’s a poof? ”

Tommy shot Arthur a look. “Don’t call him that.”

Arthur held up his hands. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, I just—hell, alright— Darcy ?”

Darcy nodded slowly, shoulders tight, bracing himself.

Tommy leaned back, regarding him with unreadable eyes. “Doesn’t change a thing. Not to me.”

Darcy blinked. “Really?”

“You patch us up, keep us out of trouble, and you’ve never once been anything but good to this family,” Tommy said. “I don’t care if you fancy blokes or badgers.”

John grinned. “He does have that look like he’d court a badger.”

Darcy flushed. “John—”

“I’m just sayin’. Explains why you always brush my hair off my face when I’m bleedin’. Thought it was medical. Turns out it’s flirtin’.”

Tommy smacked the back of John’s head. “Stop being a prick.”

John snorted but held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. In all seriousness—doesn’t bother me. Honest.”

Darcy looked at all three of them, wide-eyed, heart pounding.

Arthur scratched his head. “So… you’re not gonna try anything funny, right?”

Darcy laughed nervously. “No, Arthur.”

“Right. Good. Then I don’t give a fuck.”

Tommy raised his glass. “To Darcy.”

John raised his too. “To Darcy the Badger Fancier.”

Darcy groaned but clinked glasses anyway, his heart finally starting to ease.

They weren’t going to kill him. They weren’t even mad.

He was still theirs.

⸻

Birmingham, 1913

Darcy - 16, John - 19

The rain had started just after dusk—thin, cold, and endless. It made the air taste like smoke and wet brick, soaking into the bones of the Cut until every alley glistened black.

John Shelby hadn’t meant to stop by. He’d just been passing through after checking on one of Tommy’s side dealings. Martha was home with the little ones, up to her ears in nappies and spit-up, and John had needed a breath of air that didn’t smell like milk or piss.

Darcy’s house was quiet. Light in the window, faint and flickering. Door half-latched.

John knocked once.

No answer.

He pushed the door open. “Darce? You home?”

Still nothing.

The house wasn’t dark—just dim. And too quiet.

Then he heard it.

A muffled sound. Not quite sobbing—but not far off.

He followed the sound to Darcy’s small bedroom, tucked off the kitchen like an afterthought. The door was ajar.

Darcy was curled on the bed, knees to chest, face buried in a pillow. Shoulders shaking. His hair was mussed, his waistcoat discarded on the floor. He hadn’t even taken his boots off.

“Darce?” John said gently.

Darcy jolted, head snapping up. His eyes were red, his face blotchy, tears streaking down his pale cheeks. The look of sheer horror on his face— that he’d been caught crying —was like a punch to John’s gut.

John stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“What happened?”

Darcy turned away, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. “Nothing. Go home.”

John sat on the edge of the bed anyway. “Not leavin’. Talk to me.”

Darcy trembled. His voice cracked when he finally said, “He lied to me.”

John frowned. “Who?”

Darcy’s mouth opened like he might say it. But instead, he closed it and looked down at his hands.

John waited. Gave him time.

“…Jimmy,” Darcy whispered. “His name was Jimmy.”

John’s eyes flickered. “The one from the market?”

Darcy nodded.

John didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“He told me he loved me,” Darcy said, voice thick. “Said he’d never felt like that for anyone. Said he wanted to be with me.”

He took a shaky breath.

“But it wasn’t true. He was… he was with some girl from London the whole time. Got her a ring, even. Said I was just…” He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just fun.”

John’s stomach twisted. “That bastard.”

Darcy let out a broken laugh, bitter and too old for his face. “I’m not even angry. Not really. I just… I let him. I let him have me. Thought maybe for once— maybe —I wasn’t a joke.”

John swallowed hard. “You loved him.”

Darcy nodded slowly, like it hurt to admit.

“I didn’t think it’d hurt this much,” he whispered. “But it does. God, it does.”

John’s jaw clenched. “You deserve better than that. Someone who’s not gonna fuck around and lie.”

“There isn’t better, John,” Darcy said, finally meeting his eyes. “You don’t get it. Blokes like me… we don’t get happy endings. We’re secrets , or worse. You either pay for it or pretend it’s something it’s not. Or you get used and laughed at. Or killed.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. He hated that it was true .

Darcy looked down again. “He took my virginity. Told me I was beautiful. I was stupid enough to believe him.”

John’s chest ached. He reached out and gently placed a hand on Darcy’s back. “You’re not stupid.”

Darcy shuddered.

“You’re not,” John said again, voice low. “You wanted to be loved. That’s not stupid.”

Darcy let out a choked sob and buried his face in John’s shoulder, like something inside him had finally cracked. John didn’t hesitate. He pulled him close, held him tight, let him cry into his shirt until the tears ran out.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Darcy whispered.

“You’re not,” John murmured. “You never will be. Not so long as I’ve got breath in my lungs, yeah?”

Darcy clung to him harder.

And for a long time, they sat there like that. The rain tapping softly against the windows. The ache of heartbreak hanging between them. And John holding him like he knew , maybe not everything, but enough.

Enough to stay.

⸻

Birmingham, August 1914

Darcy - 17, John - 21

The newsboys had been shouting about the oncoming threat for weeks. War was in the air—in the pubs, in the factories, in the church whispers and the rumble of trains. Men were already lining up at recruitment stations. Uniforms were becoming more common than suits.

The world was shifting.

And the Shelby brothers were restless.

Tommy sat at the Garrison’s back table, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers, unreadable as ever. He hadn’t smiled in weeks—not since Greta passed. Consumption had eaten her slow and cruel. The day she died, something in Tommy went with her. What was left now was sharp, glassy, and still.

Arthur was pacing. Fists clenched. Like he was waiting for something to hit him first so he could hit back harder.

John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking between them. He was the only one with color in his face. Still a boy in some ways, but a man now too—with a wife, with four loud, grubby children, with war in his blood before it even started.

And Darcy… Darcy sat quietly near the edge of the room, hands in his lap, uniform cap beside him on the bench. He looked smaller than the others, still soft in the face, curls tucked under the cap he didn’t yet have the right to wear. But his eyes were steady.

“I signed the papers,” Tommy said finally, breaking the silence. “They’ll send me out with the Warwickshires.”

John nodded. “I’m going too.”

“So am I,” Arthur added gruffly. “Can’t let you two take all the glory.”

Darcy looked down.

John turned toward him. “You too?”

Darcy nodded. “I’ve been training. Gurney carrier for now. Maybe more later.”

Arthur made a face. “Don’t see the point of sendin’ soft lads like you. You’ll get eaten alive.”

Darcy met his eyes calmly. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

John let out a slow breath and walked over, crouching in front of Darcy. “You don’t have to come with us.”

“Yes I do.”

“Darce—”

“If I don’t go, I’ll never sleep again. Not knowing you lot are out there without me.”

John looked at him for a long time. His gaze wasn’t teasing this time, not sharp or smug. Just… seeing .

“You’re braver than you look, you know,” he murmured.

Darcy smiled weakly. “I have to be.”

Tommy stood, snubbing out his cigarette. “We leave Monday.”

The room went quiet again.

War wasn’t a question anymore. It was a fact.

As the others left one by one, Darcy lingered in the room with John, the low lamps casting warm gold across their faces. Outside, the city roared with trains and shouting boys and mothers clutching their sons too tight.

“I’m scared,” Darcy admitted softly.

John didn’t lie.

“Me too.”

He stood and reached for Darcy’s cap, brushing invisible dust off it before placing it gently in Darcy’s lap.

“But I’m glad you’ll be there.”

Darcy looked up at him. “Even if I’m not a soldier?”

“You’re more than that,” John said. “You’re ours .”

And in that moment, just before the world cracked open and swallowed them all, Darcy believed him.

⸻

France, 1915

Somewhere near Ypres. Rain. Mud. Hell.

The air reeked of rot and cordite, soaked through with wet wool and fear. Somewhere in the distance, the boom of artillery cracked the sky like God’s own thunder. The trenches were half-flooded, rats swimming like they owned the place.

Darcy knelt in the mud with trembling hands and blood on his face.

His apron was soaked through. His fingers numb. He hadn’t slept in nearly 36 hours. And the screaming—Christ, the screaming—never stopped. It echoed even when no one was screaming anymore.

He hadn’t meant to become the medic. The proper one—a tall man from Leeds—had taken a shell to the chest three days ago. There was nothing left of him but boots.

Now it was just Darcy.

Darcy Sinclair. Seventeen years old. Ginger curls under a battered helmet. A cross-stitched pouch of lavender in his coat pocket. And too many dead boys in his arms.

⸻

The call came down the line just after noon.

“Explosion in Tunnel Three! Sappers down!”

Darcy was already running before the sentence finished, medical satchel slamming against his hip as his boots splashed through knee-high muck. Mud sucked at his feet. Shellfire cracked overhead.

He dropped into the sapper trench, sliding down the slick boards into chaos.

“Where is he!?” he shouted.

“Here! Over here!”

Two soldiers were hauling someone up from the collapsed shaft—dirt and smoke pouring out behind them.

And then he saw.

It was John .

Darcy’s stomach dropped.

John was pale, barely conscious, one arm twisted under him, blood pouring from his thigh where a jagged piece of shrapnel had torn through. His uniform was soaked red. His helmet was gone.

“Johnny—” Darcy dropped to his knees beside him. “Johnny, talk to me—”

“‘Lo, sweetheart,” John slurred, trying to grin. “You look like shite.”

Darcy let out a strangled breath—half sob, half laugh—as he tore open the satchel. “Don’t you fucking dare die on me, John Shelby. I swear to God—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He winced. “Though my leg’s had a disagreement with… with physics…”

Darcy’s hands flew—gauze, morphine, shears. He pressed hard on the wound, eliciting a howl from John.

“I know , I’m sorry, I have to—Jesus, John, why didn’t you call for me sooner—”

“Didn’t wanna ruin your beauty sleep.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—” Darcy’s voice cracked. “You’re losing too much blood.”

“I’m fine,” John murmured. “Just… tired.”

“ No , no, no, stay awake.” Darcy slapped his cheek lightly. “Stay with me.”

“I trust you,” John whispered. “Always have.”

And then his eyes rolled back.

Darcy froze. His fingers hovered mid-air, heart thundering.

“No,” he breathed. “Don’t you fucking do this.”

He tore off his own scarf and cinched it around John’s leg as a second tourniquet. “You don’t get to die. Not you. Not like this. I won’t let you.”

Arthur appeared then, panting and covered in soot. “Darcy—?”

“He’s alive,” Darcy snapped. “But barely. Help me lift him.”

They hoisted him up, Darcy holding John’s broken body like it was everything he had left in the world. Mud sucked at their boots. Shellfire roared again overhead.

And Darcy didn’t stop muttering under his breath the whole way back.

“Hold on. Just hold on.”

⸻

Later, in the dugout, Darcy sat at John’s side, wiping sweat from his brow, fingers still shaking.

John was alive. Weak. Unconscious. But alive.

And Darcy—bloody, exhausted, stained with grime—sat there watching him breathe like it was the only thing keeping him alive too.

⸻

The Dugout, Late Evening

Somewhere near Ypres, 1915

The lamp flickered above the cot, casting long, soft shadows over the makeshift infirmary. The air was heavy with damp linen, dried blood, and the sharp scent of antiseptic. Outside, the distant rumble of shellfire had dulled to a low grumble—like the sky had finally gotten tired of killing.

John lay still.

Pale. Wrapped in bandages. His leg elevated, his chest rising and falling so faintly Darcy had to keep checking just to be sure it wasn’t his own breath echoing in the silence.

Darcy sat on a stool beside him, hunched over, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His eyes were bloodshot, the dried remnants of tears clinging to his lashes. He hadn’t left John’s side in hours. Not to eat. Not to sleep.

Just waited.

Watched.

Prayed.

His voice was hoarse when it finally broke the silence.

“Don’t you die.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry.

It was pleading .

“You hear me, John Shelby? You don’t get to die. Not here. Not like this. Not in this bloody pit.”

He wiped his cheek, but the tears kept coming, soft and steady.

“I know you think you’re invincible. Like the rules don’t apply to you.” He gave a short, breathless laugh. “Always acting like you’re too fast to be caught. Too tough to break.”

His voice cracked.

“But you’re not. You’re not , John. You bleed just like the rest of us and it scares me . It scares me so much, I feel like I’m going mad.”

He reached out, trembling fingers brushing the back of John’s hand where it rested limp against the sheet.

“You remember when we were kids? I used to follow you everywhere like a damn shadow. You never once told me to piss off.” He smiled faintly through the tears. “Even when I dressed weird. Even when the others whispered things. You always looked at me like I was just… me .”

He looked down, ashamed.

“I’ve been trying so hard to stop… feeling the way I feel about you. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s dangerous. I know you’ll never feel the same. But I love you, John. God help me, I do. And if you die, I’ll never get to tell you that when it matters. I’ll never get to say it with my head held high.”

He bent forward, forehead resting gently against John’s shoulder.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t . Not you. You’re all I’ve ever had that made this world feel a little bit safe.”

He sobbed, quietly, into the crook of John’s arm.

“So please… stay. Just… stay.”

And somewhere, in the faintest flicker of light, John’s fingers twitched.

⸻

The Dugout, Just Before Dawn

Somewhere near Ypres, 1915

Darcy had finally drifted into a shallow doze, head resting against John’s good arm, eyes still puffy from crying. The silence was heavy but peaceful—like the war had momentarily stepped away to catch its breath.

John stirred.

A quiet groan. The slightest shift of fingers.

Darcy sat bolt upright, heart jumping into his throat.

“John?” he breathed, eyes wide.

John blinked, squinting at the low lantern light. His face twisted slightly, confused. Groggy.

“Jesus,” he rasped, voice dry as ash. “Did I die and end up in a nursery?”

Darcy let out a choked laugh, pressing his hands to his face in sheer relief. “You absolute bastard.”

John’s eyes rolled slightly toward him, one brow twitching up. “You cryin’, Darce? For me ? You go soft while I was asleep?”

“I ought to slap you,” Darcy muttered, already reaching for the water flask. “Here, sip slow.”

John obeyed, eyes still fixed on him, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You were talkin’ to me, y’know.”

Darcy froze.

“I heard bits. Said I bleed like everyone else. S’not very flattering.”

Darcy flushed crimson. “You were unconscious. You don’t remember—”

“Oh, I remember enough to hold it over your head for the rest of your life.”

Before Darcy could panic more, the door to the dugout creaked open and heavy boots stomped down the steps.

Arthur appeared first, ducking his head under the low beam. “Oi, look who’s still in one piece!”

Tommy followed, slower, quieter, eyes sharp but tired. “You gave us a bloody scare, John.”

“Not my fault the tunnel blew up under my arse,” John muttered.

Arthur grinned and tossed a battered tin to Darcy. “Scrounged this off a supply truck. Might still be edible. You’ve not eaten in two days.”

Darcy caught it and blinked. “For me?”

“You’re no use to him dead,” Arthur said simply, jerking his chin toward John. “Now eat.”

Tommy was already crouching beside John, checking the bandages with deft hands.

“You did good work,” he murmured to Darcy without looking up. “He’s lucky.”

Darcy sat back, clutching the tin in his hands like it was gold. “He’s the lucky one?”

Tommy glanced at him then—really looked —and nodded once.

Darcy opened the tin with shaking fingers. Some kind of beef hash. It smelled like salt and tin and grease. He dug in anyway.

John watched him, head tilted.

“Looks like Arthur’s finally figured out how to flirt.”

Arthur scowled. “Fuck off.”

Tommy sighed. “He’s not dead, clearly.”

Darcy smiled behind a spoonful of mush.

And just for a little while—in the blood and mud and madness—there was warmth.

There was family .

And John was breathing.

⸻

France, July 1916

The Battle of the Somme

It had been three days since the first whistle blew.

Three days of blood. Three days of screaming. Three days of dragging boys with missing limbs across the mud only for them to die in Darcy’s arms before he could stop the bleeding.

He hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t eaten.

He hadn’t cried.

Not yet.

But something in him was cracking, slow and deep—like the ground just before a sinkhole swallows it whole.

⸻

The smoke had thinned for the first time in hours.

The shelling had slowed. The moans were fewer now—not because the pain was gone, but because the ones in pain were dead.

Darcy sat on the floor of the dugout, hunched over, hands shaking in his lap. His fingers were caked with dried blood—not his—and little bits of skin still clung under his nails. The satchel beside him was empty. He’d used everything .

John sat against the wall nearby, a fresh bandage around his arm, pale but alive. Tommy leaned beside him, face expressionless, but his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Arthur was staring into the dirt like it owed him an answer for every dead brother they’d left behind.

None of them spoke for a long time.

Then Tommy finally asked, voice low, “How many?”

Darcy didn’t look up.

“I lost count after twenty-seven.”

His voice was paper-thin. Barely a breath.

“I tried. I really tried.”

John looked at him, eyes softening. “We know.”

“I held one boy’s guts in with my hands,” Darcy whispered. “He was seventeen. Said he missed his mum. He was crying, and I—”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled harder.

“I told him he’d be alright. I lied. I knew he wouldn’t be. But I said it anyway.”

Arthur moved first. Slow, stiff from a cracked rib and God knew what else. He crouched beside Darcy and pulled him into a one-armed hug, gruff and silent.

Tommy followed, kneeling behind and resting a hand on the back of Darcy’s neck.

And John—John slid down beside him and wrapped his arms around Darcy’s middle, pulling him in tight like they were still kids hiding from a thunderstorm under the stairs.

Darcy didn’t speak.

Didn’t sob.

Didn’t move.

He just shook .

Stared at his own hands like they weren’t his.

Like they’d become something monstrous.

And then, very softly, he said, “I can’t get the blood off. No matter how hard I scrub. I think it’s in me now.”

Tommy pressed his forehead to Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re not dirty.”

Arthur’s voice cracked. “You’re the best of us.”

John’s arms tightened. “You’re still you , Darcy.”

And in that fragile, flickering moment, four boys who had seen too much of death clung to one another like they were the only living things left in the world.

Darcy didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But the shaking didn’t stop.

⸻

France, 1917

A sapper tunnel collapse — somewhere near Vimy Ridge

The ground had been unstable for days. Creaking, shifting, groaning like a wounded animal just beneath their boots. They all felt it. Knew it. But orders were orders, and sappers didn’t get to question command.

Darcy had gone down with Arthur.

They were meant to retrieve gear left behind during the last dig. Only a short haul, fifteen minutes, maybe less. But five minutes in, the earth shook .

The ceiling snapped like kindling.

And then everything went black.

⸻

John heard it before he saw it—felt the rumble beneath his feet, turned just in time to see dust belch from the tunnel mouth like a dying breath.

“ Arthur! ” John shouted.

Tommy was already sprinting past him, shovel in hand.

“ Darcy! ”

They both dropped to their knees, tearing at the dirt and broken beams with their hands, shovels, anything.

Inside, it was dead quiet.

⸻

Below.

Darcy coughed hard, dust thick in his lungs. His ears were ringing, and the taste of copper sat heavy on his tongue. Darkness pressed in on all sides, thick and choking.

“Arthur?” he rasped, voice hoarse.

There was a groan beside him. A rustle.

“M’alright,” Arthur muttered, voice sluggish. “Just… pinned, I think. Can’t feel my bloody leg.”

Darcy groped blindly in the dark until he felt Arthur’s arm—solid and warm. He gripped it like a lifeline.

“I’ve got you,” Darcy whispered.

His hands were trembling.

The dust… it clung to his skin like ash. And he swore— swore —he could see blood again. On his palms. Under his nails.

“Darcy?” Arthur grunted. “You alright?”

“I can’t—I can’t see,” Darcy whispered. “And there’s blood again. On me.”

Arthur shifted slightly, wincing. “You’re not bleedin’, mate.”

“I am . It’s everywhere. It never stops, Arthur. I keep scrubbing—I keep trying—but it’s in my skin. It’s in me .”

Arthur exhaled sharply, some combination of pain and realization. “It’s not real, Darce. It’s not there.”

“But it feels real,” Darcy choked. “Like I’m still down in the Somme, like they’re still dying in my arms. I smell it, I feel it—every fucking day.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say. So he just reached blindly and found Darcy’s hand, gripping it tight.

“You’re not alone.”

⸻

Above.

“Tunnel’s collapsed halfway through,” Tommy barked to the engineers. “We need timber bracing and stretchers ready.”

“They could be buried!” one of the privates shouted.

John turned on him, eyes wild. “They’re not dead.”

Tommy met his brother’s eyes, the edge of panic curling under his voice. “We get to them. No matter what.”

They didn’t stop digging.

⸻

Below.

Darcy was shaking.

Not from the cold. Not from pain.

From memory.

He could hear screaming that wasn’t there. Boys calling for mothers. Blood in his mouth. Hands slippery with gore that hadn’t touched him in months.

He pressed his palms against the dirt wall. Scraped them back and forth like he could scrub something away even now.

“I need it off,” he whispered. “I need it gone.”

Arthur pulled his arm again. “Darce. Stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I can’t stop. It won’t come off.”

And then—from above—faintly:

“ DARCE! ”

Darcy froze.

That voice.

“ JOHN?! ” he screamed, throat raw.

“ We’re almost there! ” came the muffled reply.

Arthur let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Thank fuck.”

Darcy broke.

He curled in on himself, shoulders shaking, tears finally coming in heaving, silent waves.

He didn’t even notice the light breaking through the dust an hour later.

Didn’t notice the shovel handle poking through.

Didn’t notice until John was there—muddy, bruised, panting—and pulling him into his arms.

“ Jesus Christ, Darce, ” John muttered, holding him tight. “You’re okay. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

And Darcy—blood-stained only in his mind, broken down to bone—sobbed into John’s chest like a boy lost in the dark.

⸻

Later that Night

Medical Tent, Vimy Sector, 1917

The tent smelled of iodine, old bandages, and damp canvas. It was quiet—eerily so—save for the occasional distant shell burst and the soft snore of a wounded soldier two cots down. A lantern swung gently above, casting a golden sway across the fabric walls like flickering candlelight in a church.

Darcy sat on a stool by the washbasin, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in cold water gone cloudy with grit and blood. His knuckles were scraped raw. The water was pink now. His palms wouldn’t stop shaking.

He stared at them like they weren’t his.

Like they never had been.

John entered the tent quietly, ducking under the flap. Fresh bandages on his arm, bruised and dirt-streaked, but otherwise alright.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched Darcy from across the space. The boy looked carved out of marble—hollowed, frozen, waiting to shatter.

John crossed to him slowly and crouched beside him.

“You’re still scrubbin’,” he said gently.

Darcy didn’t answer.

John reached over and grabbed Darcy’s hand.

Darcy still stared into the basin, unmoving.

“I can’t get it off,” Darcy whispered. “It’s still there. I feel it. I see it. Every time I close my eyes—”

His voice cracked.

“They never stop dying, John. They die and die and die, and I can’t save them, and it’s always my hands.”

John took one of those hands in his own. Wet. Cold. Wrinkled from too much time in water. Still trembling.

He started to clean it gently with a cloth, quiet, methodical. Just like Darcy used to do for him.

“No blood here,” John said softly. “Just your hand. Just you.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “It doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”

“Then we’ll make it feel like yours again.”

He wiped gently, fingers steady, cloth warm. When one hand was done, he moved to the other. Darcy didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.

Tears welled up in Darcy’s eyes again. “I’m supposed to help people. I’m supposed to fix things.”

“You’ve saved hundreds , Darcy. You’ve held this whole unit together.”

Darcy shook his head. “Not enough.”

“It’ll never be enough,” John said. “But you kept me alive. You kept Arthur breathing. You pulled us out of a fucking grave. Don’t tell me that’s not worth something.”

Darcy bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut.

John set the cloth down, still holding both hands in his.

“You’re not dirty. You’re not broken. You’re just… tired . And you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

Darcy let out a breath that sounded like it had been waiting months to escape. Then he leaned forward, forehead pressing to John’s.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he whispered.

John’s voice was steady.

“You’re Darcy. And you’re mine . That’s who you are.”

Darcy gasped softly—whether from the words or the feeling behind them, even he didn’t know.

But for the first time in months, maybe longer…

He felt seen .

And in John’s arms, with clean hands and a quiet tent, he finally let himself rest.

⸻

Birmingham, 1919

Garrison Lane, late evening

The fire had burned low in the hearth. The pub was empty save for the few chairs still overturned from earlier—Arthur had gotten into it with someone, fists flying before Polly hauled him out by the collar. Tommy had disappeared into the night again, chasing something only he seemed to see. Maybe ghosts. Maybe power.

And John?

John was slumped in a booth in the back, one hand hanging loosely over the table’s edge, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey abandoned beside him. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on something long gone. Maybe Martha’s grave. Maybe a wedding that never got to grow old.

Darcy sat across from him, watching. Hands wrapped around a cup of tea gone cold. The collar of his coat pulled up tight. He hadn’t said much in the past hour. He didn’t need to. He just stayed .

John finally moved. Rubbed at his face, eyes hollow.

“She’d be twenty-six,” he muttered. “She was always cold in winter. Used to tuck her feet under me when we slept. Said I was warm like a bloody furnace.”

Darcy’s voice was soft. “She loved you.”

John laughed—a sharp, broken thing tears down his cheeks. “Then why the fuck did she leave?”

“She didn’t leave,” Darcy said gently wiping his cheek. “Her body did. Her heart didn’t.”

John went quiet.

“I ain’t been right since,” he admitted.

“No,” Darcy said. “You haven’t.”

John looked up at him. “And you’re still here.”

“Course I am.”

“Why?”

Darcy’s voice cracked a little. “Because if I don’t hold you together, who else will?”

John blinked. That hit harder than he expected.

“You’re always holdin’ us together,” he said. “Me. Tommy. Arthur. You patch us up like we’re something worth savin’.”

Darcy looked down at his tea. “You are.”

John reached across the table. His fingers brushed Darcy’s wrist. Not a grab. Not a pull. Just a touch. A reminder.

“You ever think about savin’ yourself , Darce?”

Darcy blinked.

“All the things we done. All the things you saw . You carry it in your eyes. You don’t sleep. You flinch at slamming doors. You scrub your hands when you think no one’s lookin’.”

“I’m fine,” Darcy said too fast.

“No you’re not.”

Darcy looked at him then—really looked. And the tears were close. But he held them back. He always did.

“You’ve got kids, John. You’ve got a family.”

“I’ve got you ,” John said. “And sometimes, that’s all I can fuckin’ hold on to.”

Darcy looked away. His jaw clenched. His voice was small.

“I don’t know how much more of me I’ve got to give.”

John stood then. Moved around the table and slid into the booth beside him. Not touching. Not yet.

But close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“You don’t have to give anymore,” he said quietly. “Just let me have what’s already here.”

Darcy looked up, startled. “What?”

“You heard me.”

A silence settled between them. Heavy. Trembling.

Darcy’s lips parted, then closed again.

And then John reached out and took his hand.

“I lost Martha,” he whispered. “But I don’t wanna lose you too.”

Darcy’s hand gripped his back.

And in the quiet hush of the empty Garrison, something unspoken passed between them—an ache too long buried. A beginning neither of them had dared hope for before the war, or during it.

But now?

Maybe.

Maybe now there could be something more.

⸻

Birmingham, 1919

Watery Lane – Shelby Home, Late Night

The rain hadn’t let up since evening. Cold and punishing, it soaked the cobbled streets and turned the soot-lined gutters into rivers.

Inside the house, the mood was light. Arthur was half-drunk, cards spread across the table. John leaned back in his chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips, laughing at some story Arthur had half-slurred through. Ada had just tucked little Finn into bed upstairs, smoothing his curls and humming softly before slipping down the creaky stairs.

Polly poured herself a bit of gin. “If I hear one more word about who cheated at snap—”

A bang on the door.

All heads turned.

No one moved for a moment.

Then Tommy’s voice came through—muffled, but sharp, urgent.

“Open the fuckin’ door.”

John moved first, unlatching it.

And then he froze .

Tommy was standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, eyes blazing.

And in his arms—limp, bleeding—was Darcy .

His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut. Blood smeared his cheek and mouth. His lip was split. His curls were matted to his head with rain and blood. And he was still wearing it— the dress —though it was torn, muddied, clinging to him like a final humiliation.

Tommy’s voice was ice. “Move.”

John stumbled back, mouth open, breath caught.

Polly gasped and was at Tommy’s side in seconds, reaching for Darcy with shaking hands. “Jesus Christ— what happened? ”

“His father,” Tommy snapped. “Bastard nearly killed him.”

Ada covered her mouth. Arthur stood up so fast his chair tipped over.

Tommy laid Darcy down gently on the sofa. The moment his weight left Tommy’s arms, he groaned softly—still alive, but barely.

Polly knelt beside him, fingers already checking pulse, breath, bruises. “That bastard… I told her. I told her to get out of that house—”

“She tried,” Tommy said. “His mum’s gone.”

Ada let out a choked sound, hand still covering her mouth.

Arthur looked like he’d been punched. “ Dead? ”

“Shot,” Tommy said coldly. “Tried to protect him.”

The room went still.

Darcy stirred faintly, eyes fluttering half-open. “Mum…?”

Polly leaned over him. “Shh, love. You’re safe now. You’re home.”

John was still frozen, staring at Darcy. At the blood. The bruises. The dress.

Darcy blinked at him through a swollen eye. “John—”

His voice cracked.

“I didn’t want you to see—”

“Shut up,” John said hoarsely, crossing to him and kneeling beside Polly.

He took Darcy’s hand, bloodied and cold, into both of his.

“I’m lookin’. I’m right here . And you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Darcy’s lips trembled. His breath caught.

“I wanted to be beautiful,” he whispered.

John brushed a bit of wet hair from Darcy’s face.

“You are .”

Arthur made a strangled sound and stormed into the kitchen—likely to break something, or drink until his own ghosts fell silent.

Polly looked at Tommy. “Where’s the father?”

“Gone,” Tommy said. “Coward legged it. I’ll find him.”

“No,” Polly said. “ We’ll find him.”

Ada had sunk into a chair, tears in her eyes. “What do we tell Finn?”

Tommy looked over at the stairs. His voice softened.

“That Uncle Darcy was hurt. But he’s safe now.”

And for the first time that night, Darcy stopped shaking.

Because he believed it.

⸻

Shelby House, Two Nights Later

Darcy still on the couch, healing

The fire was down to embers.

Everyone else had gone to bed hours ago.

But John sat beside the couch, one hand loosely curled around Darcy’s, thumb brushing slow, steady circles over his knuckles. A half-empty glass sat untouched on the table, forgotten. His eyes stayed on Darcy’s face—bruised, mending, still too pale.

Darcy stirred, a soft sound escaping him. His head turned toward the warmth.

“John…” he murmured.

“I’m here,” John said softly, shifting closer.

Darcy’s eyes fluttered open, just a sliver of green visible. “You don’t… have to…”

“I do ,” John said. “And I want to.”

Darcy’s brow creased, but he sank back into sleep with a soft sigh.

John exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and kissed the back of his hand.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

⸻

Three Days Later

Afternoon, living room – everyone gathered

Darcy sat upright now, propped with cushions, his face still healing but clearer. His curls were brushed. Someone—probably Ada—had helped him re-press his dress, a deep navy one with faint embroidery along the sleeves. His lipstick was smudged from nerves.

He hadn’t looked anyone in the eye yet.

Polly, Tommy, Arthur, Ada, John, and even Finn were all in the room, sitting or leaning or hovering nearby like a protective ring. Finn curled quietly beside Ada, holding her hand.

It was Polly who finally broke the silence. “You don’t owe us anything, love.”

“I want to tell you,” Darcy said, voice small. “Because I know… I know none of you understood. Why I dress like I do. Why I paint my face.”

John was seated closest, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes didn’t leave Darcy once.

Darcy took a breath. “It started… after the war. But maybe it was always there. I just didn’t have the words before. After the trenches, after all the blood, I’d look in the mirror and I’d see him . The man who held dying boys and told them they’d live even when I knew they wouldn’t.”

He looked down at his lap, twisting his fingers together.

“I hated him. I hated what he’d seen. What he’d done . And no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands, I still saw blood on his face.”

His voice cracked.

“But when I put on the dress… when I pinned up my hair and painted my face, I didn’t see him anymore. I saw someone… softer. Someone untouched by death. I saw someone who could be loved. Not just used or pitied. Someone beautiful. Like a bird.”

A long pause. Everyone was silent.

Darcy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I thought… maybe if I looked like that—like her —someone might love me properly . Not use me in the dark and deny me in the day. Not treat me like a secret or a game. Just… love me. Like I was worth staying for.”

Arthur looked like he’d been hit in the gut. His eyes were red.

Polly’s hand was over her mouth.

Ada wiped her cheeks quietly.

Finn tilted his head. “I think you’re pretty.”

Darcy gave a tiny, breathless laugh.

Tommy stood slowly and crossed to him. He placed a steady hand on Darcy’s shoulder.

“There’s nothin’ shameful about wantin’ to be loved,” he said. “And there’s nothin’ shameful about how you choose to survive.”

Arthur finally broke, dragging a chair forward and gripping Darcy’s other shoulder. “If I ever see that bastard of a father again— I’ll kill him. ”

“You’ll have to get in line,” Polly muttered darkly.

John leaned in close. His voice was quiet, just for Darcy. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself for me. You never did.”

Darcy’s lip trembled.

“But I’m not just myself anymore,” he whispered. “I don’t know who I am. Not really.”

“You’re ours ,” Polly said gently. “That’s all that matters now.”

And slowly, one by one, they leaned in—touching his shoulders, brushing his curls, holding his hands.

A family made not by blood, but by bond. By survival.

And for the first time in a long, long while… Darcy let himself believe that maybe he was beautiful.

Even broken.

Even like this.

⸻

Birmingham Outskirts – Lee Camp, 1919

The Lee camp smelled of woodsmoke and whiskey. Rough laughter rolled out between canvas tents, dogs barked at every gust of wind, and fires crackled in half-barrels. Children darted between skirts and boots like birds in a hedge.

John dismounted with a grunt, brushing dust off his coat. “Why the hell are we even here, Tom?”

Tommy lit a cigarette and started walking without answering.

John scowled, falling in step beside him. “You said it was business. This doesn’t look like business.”

Tommy finally said, casually, “It is business.”

“…So what, we finally end the blood feud with the Lees? You make nice with Zilpha and pretend we haven’t all been tryin’ to strangle each other since we were in nappies?”

“No more fighting,” Tommy said. “No more funerals.”

John narrowed his eyes. “And what’s that got to do with me ?”

Tommy stopped walking and looked him dead in the face.

“You’re gettin’ married.”

John stared at him.

“To who? ”

“She’s a Lee,” Tommy said. “Wild needs settling down.”

“Im not marrying a bloody mushroom picker ” John scoffed.

Tommy took a drag and exhaled. “You will because if you don’t it’ll be a battle worse than the Somme.”

John’s face contorted. “I haven’t even met her!”

“You’ll meet her at the wedding.”

“ What the fuck, Tom— ”

Tommy turned, eyes cold steel. “You’ve got four kids. You need a wife. I need peace. The Lees want blood or kin. I’m giving them kin.”

John gaped at him. “You’re selling me off ?”

Tommy arched a brow. “You’ll thank me in a year.”

“Christ,” John muttered. “She better be younger than fifty.”

Tommy patted him on the back. “She is.”

⸻

A few hours later – the wedding grounds

The Lee camp had shifted. Where there’d been chaos, now there was a kind of order. Blankets were hung like banners. A makeshift aisle laid with mismatched rugs. A string quartet of barely-tuned fiddles. Lee women placed wildflowers in cracked jars.

John stood stiffly under the makeshift altar. His coat was pressed, hair combed, boots cleaned for once. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth hurt.

He hadn’t had a drink. He’d wanted one.

And then—

He heard Polly’s voice.

And turned.

They were walking toward him.

Ada, calm and pretty in navy blue.

Polly, resplendent as ever, despite the Romani crowd eyeing her like a ghost of old battles.

And between them—

Darcy.

His heels clicked softly against the packed dirt. His dress was soft lavender, fluttering around the knees, vintage lace across the chest. His hair was done in soft curls pinned up delicately. Red lipstick. Blush. A string of pearls. Eyes lined just so.

He looked like a dream.

A dream John had buried under war and whiskey and a name that wasn’t hers.

And John forgot to breathe.

Darcy didn’t look at him at first—his eyes stayed on Polly, on the crowd, on anything but the man standing at the altar about to be married to someone else.

But when he did glance at John…

Just the smallest tilt of his chin.

Just the barest twitch of his painted lips.

John’s chest ached.

And then—

The Lee women stepped forward.

The bride approached, face hidden under a white veil, the dress simple and heavy. She moved with confidence, not grace. No music. Just murmurs. Curious looks.

Esme Shelby. He didn’t even know her voice yet.

John turned his eyes away from Darcy and looked at the figure walking toward him, veil hiding everything but the fact that she wasn’t the person he wanted.

And all he could think, standing there with his heart clenched in his chest, was:

She’s not Darcy.

⸻

Lee Camp – Hours After the Wedding

The celebration had reached full tilt.

Fiddles screeched out rowdy tunes, tambourines clattered, boots stomped against dirt, and the scent of roast meat mixed with sweet cider and smoke from the massive bonfire roaring in the center of camp. Lee boys shouted dares across the flames, their women danced with scarves wrapped around their arms, and toddlers ran wild between legs, howling with joy.

Tommy stood near the fire, coat undone, cigarette between his fingers. Arthur beside him, red-faced and half-drunk, grinning at some poor bastard trying to juggle burning sticks.

John was leaning back on a stump, bottle in hand, cheeks pink from drink and smoke. He wasn’t sulking anymore. He’d danced with Esme—twice, even. She’d stepped on his foot once and called him a gormless fuck, which oddly made him like her more.

“She’s got a tongue like a blade, that one,” Arthur said, laughing.

John smirked. “Bit of a spitfire, yeah. But not bad lookin’. I could’ve done worse.”

Tommy arched a brow. “You did. Twice.”

“Oi, fuck off.”

They all laughed.

John took another swig and leaned back, eyes drifting across the camp.

Then he saw him.

Darcy.

Sitting on a worn wool blanket beside the outer fence, far from the firelight. A massive shire horse—white with black patches—had folded its legs to lie beside him, resting its giant head gently in his lap like a loyal hound. Darcy was stroking her long face, whispering softly, face turned just enough to glow in the moonlight.

His lavender dress caught the light like water.

His painted lips curled in a quiet smile.

And his legs—bare from the knee down—were crossed just so, skirt hitched high enough to show soft, thick thighs.

John blinked.

And then, half-drunkenly, blurted:

“Christ. I’d bury my fuckin’ face in those thighs if Darcy were a woman.”

Arthur choked on his drink.

Tommy didn’t even blink. “You sayin’ you wouldn’t now?”

John snorted. “Wouldn’t dare. Esme’d stab me with a hairpin.”

Arthur was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the stump. “Did you see the way all those Lee lads looked at ‘er? Thought she was some posh dolly from London.”

“Can’t blame them,” John muttered. “All dolled up like that. Lookin’ like sin on Sunday.”

Tommy gave him a sideways look.

John ignored it.

But behind the jokes, the drink, the smoke—John’s eyes lingered.

Because it didn’t matter how pretty Esme was, or how wild her kiss tasted.

Darcy—sitting in moonlight, whispering to a horse, dress pooling around him like a dream— Darcy was the one John couldn’t stop looking at.

⸻

Later That Night – Lee Camp

The fiddles picked up pace again, and a ripple of excitement buzzed through the crowd. One of the older Lee men stepped into the circle with a harmonica, tapping his boot, calling for a reel.

The tune started fast and familiar.

“Her eyes they shone like the diamonds, you’d think she was queen of the land…”

“The Black Velvet Band !” someone shouted, and the camp howled in approval.

A few women jumped up to dance, skirts flying, arms linked. A couple men stumbled in drunkenly, spinning partners around.

And then, like a breath of wind across the fire—

Darcy stood up.

Heads turned.

The lavender dress fluttered around his legs, the lace sleeves catching in the flickering light. His curls were still pinned delicately, cheeks kissed with rouge, lashes long and fluttering. He moved toward the fire like a ghost made flesh.

And then he danced .

Not wild, not rowdy—but graceful . Light on his feet, hips swaying subtly, skirts swishing as he spun. Arms aloft just enough to follow the rhythm, to let the music lift him.

Men stared .

John stared.

Polly smiled faintly over her cup. Ada beamed.

And Tommy?

Tommy didn’t miss the way every Lee lad suddenly stood a little taller, sharper-eyed.

⸻

When the song ended and the dancers began to stumble back into their seats, Darcy gave a soft curtsy and drifted once more toward the edge of camp. The mare was right where he’d left her, tail flicking lazily, still sprawled beside the fence.

Darcy settled down again, smoothing his skirt beneath him, running his fingers through the horse’s thick mane.

“I hope they gave you something sweet today,” he murmured to her. “You deserve sugar cubes and space.”

The mare huffed softly and nosed his lap.

Then—

Bootsteps.

A shadow.

Darcy glanced up as a tall, ginger-bearded Lee lad approached. Broad-shouldered, maybe mid-twenties, red waistcoat over a white shirt rolled to the elbows. He looked down at the scene—Darcy, delicate and doll-like, and the massive shire horse practically purring in his lap.

“She don’t let no one near her like that,” he said, nodding to the mare. “Mare’s a right git , bites half the bloody camp. But you’ve got her smitten.”

Darcy smiled softly, not looking up. “I talk soft. Maybe she likes that.”

“She’s never liked me ,” he grinned. “You Lee folk?”

Darcy shook his head. “Guest of the groom.”

“Well, he’s a lucky bastard, but I reckon he’s blind if he didn’t look your way first.”

That made Darcy’s lips twitch—tight, polite, guarded.

“I saw you dancing,” the lad added. “Never seen someone float like that. Like you were meant for the firelight.”

“That’s kind of you,” Darcy said gently, “but I’m not lookin’ for any more compliments tonight.”

He didn’t say it unkindly. Just matter-of-fact. Final.

The lad blinked. Clearly used to his smiles going further. “Didn’t mean any harm. Thought maybe I’d walk you back to your tent later.”

Darcy finally met his eyes then, calm and clear. “I don’t sleep in tents with men I don’t know.”

That did it.

The lad scratched his beard, chuckled awkwardly, and tipped his hat. “Fair enough. She is a git, though,” he added, nodding to the horse again.

Darcy looked down as the mare shifted to press her nose to his chest. “Not to me.”

The Lee boy wandered off.

And Darcy stayed right where he was.

By the horse. By the quiet. Where no one mistook what he was—or tried to touch what they didn’t deserve.

⸻

Lee Camp – Later Still

The fire burned low now, down to deep orange embers and flickering shadows. Laughter still echoed here and there—raucous, drunken—but the night had softened. The edges weren’t so sharp.

Darcy still sat by the shire mare, her great head warm in his lap, his fingers moving slowly through her mane. He looked calm. He always looked calm.

But John had known Darcy Sinclair long enough to know when calm was a mask.

He’d watched the whole exchange from near the fire. Saw the Lee lad’s stance. The grin. The lean-in.

He didn’t like it.

So he walked over.

Boots crunching over packed dirt. Coat still half-unbuttoned. Hair mussed, tie undone.

Darcy looked up as John approached, expression unreadable.

John stopped a foot or two away. Didn’t sit. Just stood there, watching.

“That fella,” John said. “The one with the beard. What’d he want?”

Darcy blinked, tone gentle. “He thought I was pretty.”

John’s brow twitched. “He say somethin’ to make you uncomfortable?”

Darcy tilted his head slightly. “No. Not really. Just a compliment and a clumsy attempt at charm.”

John’s jaw clenched.

“If he did though—if he touched you or said somethin’ outta line—I’ll punch his fuckin’ teeth in.”

Darcy raised a brow. “You planning to go around askin’ every man who looks at me if they deserve hospital?”

John didn’t blink. “If I have to.”

There was a pause.

The mare exhaled, long and soft, like even she felt the tension bloom between them.

Darcy looked down again, brushing his fingers gently along her brow.

“I handled it,” he said softly. “I always do.”

John finally crouched beside him, just far enough not to crowd. Close enough to smell lavender, smoke, and a hint of Darcy’s perfume under it all.

“You shouldn’t have to,” John murmured. “Not alone.”

Darcy looked at him, his painted lips pressing into the faintest smile.

“And who’s gonna stand with me, Johnny?”

John’s throat worked.

“I will.”

The answer came quiet. Steady. Honest.

Darcy stared at him a moment longer. Something old and aching flickered in his eyes.

“…Thank you.”

John shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Still think you’re too pretty for this place.”

Darcy laughed softly, cheeks pinkening. “I think I was made for somewhere else entirely.”

“Yeah,” John murmured. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

And for a moment, under the stars, beside a shire horse and a dying fire, neither of them said anything more.

But both of them felt it.

Whatever this was between them—

It wasn’t going away.

⸻

Lee Camp – Near Midnight

The fire was a low glow behind them now, and the noise of the camp had softened to murmurs and the occasional clatter of mugs. The shire mare snored gently, head still nestled in Darcy’s lap.

John was sitting cross-legged now, boots half-untied, coat off, sleeves rolled. He leaned back on one hand, the other gesturing animatedly mid-story.

“And then —then Arthur leans over the balcony, right? Bollocks out, pissin’ like a horse, directly onto the officer’s hat.”

Darcy let out a sudden, delighted laugh—high and bright, hand flying to his mouth. “No he didn’t! ”

“He did! And when the officer looked up, Arthur just saluted and said, ‘Rainin’, sir.’”

Darcy burst into another fit of laughter, cheeks pink and warm, mascara smudged just faintly beneath his eyes. “Oh God , I missed this.”

John looked at him then—really looked. That laugh. That joy. The way it pulled him back to days before the war, before duty, before everything broke.

“You laugh like you did back when we were kids,” John said quietly. “Sounds like home.”

Darcy’s breath hitched faintly. His smile turned softer, eyes gleaming.

But neither of them noticed the figure approaching.

Esme had been watching from across the fire—arms crossed, lips thin, a near-empty bottle of cider dangling from one hand. She’d seen John lean close. Saw him laughing, grinning like a boy in love.

And the girl in the lavender dress?

Sitting there like a bloody painting. With a horse in her lap, no less?

Esme saw red.

She stormed over with a sway in her hips and fire in her eyes.

“Oi,” she said, sharp as a slap. “Husband.”

John looked up, startled. “Esme—?”

She planted herself between them, eyes flicking over Darcy with thinly veiled disdain. “You’re not done dancin’, are you? I was waitin’ on you to come be a husband.”

John blinked, confused. “We were just—”

She didn’t wait. She reached down, grabbed John’s arm, and hauled him to his feet with surprising strength. “Come on, lovebird. Leave the mare with her mistress.”

Darcy’s smile faltered.

Esme didn’t spare him a second glance.

John stumbled slightly, looking back over his shoulder as she pulled him toward the camp. “Darce—!”

“I’m alright,” Darcy called gently, already reaching to soothe the mare again. “Go on, Johnny.”

But his eyes didn’t sparkle now.

Not like before.

And Esme, still thinking she’d chased off some pretty little flirt, smiled to herself as she dragged her new husband away.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t see .

But John did.

And when he looked back at Darcy once more, his chest ached with something that had nothing to do with marriage.

⸻

The Garrison – A Week Later, Just Past Midnight

The snug, dimly lit, smoke curling lazily in the lamps above

Arthur was mid-rant about some lad who owed money and had the balls to hide in his mum’s pantry. Tommy nursed a glass of whiskey with the slow precision of a man who was already three drinks deep but refused to show it. And John—John was slouched in the corner of the booth, coat shrugged off, collar loose, hair a little messier than usual. He had the flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes of a man several drinks past reasonable and well into the warm, bitter buzz of disappointment.

“All she does is argue,” John muttered, swirling his glass. “‘Don’t do this, don’t do that,’ ‘Why d’you put your boots there?’ ‘Why’d you let Finn eat three eggs and a lump of coal?’ Jesus Christ , it’s like bein’ married to a headmistress.”

Arthur snorted. “But she’s got a nice arse.”

John nodded. “Aye, I’ll give her that. And she’s sweet on me when we’re not screamin’.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not surprised. You knew what this was.”

“I didn’t expect to miss the quiet,” John muttered. “Didn’t expect to miss—”

The bell above the front door chimed.

Boots. The soft click of heels.

The snug door creaked open.

And there he was.

Darcy stepped in wearing a navy-blue tea dress cinched at the waist, sheer sleeves and delicate little embroidered roses stitched along the collar. His curls were pinned up in an elegant roll, a pearl comb glinting under the gaslight. Painted lips. Cat-lined eyes. Stockings. The whole picture.

John straightened immediately—visibly more awake than he’d been all evening.

Arthur grinned. “Evenin’, Darce. You got prettier since last Tuesday?”

Darcy smiled, crossing the room like he floated. “You say that every Tuesday, Arthur.”

“‘Cause it keeps bein’ true.”

Tommy gave a nod in greeting.

Darcy leaned in, pressed a kiss to Tommy’s cheek, then Arthur’s, then finally John’s—who tried not to freeze up like a schoolboy. Darcy smelled like lavender, cigarettes, and something vaguely citrusy.

“Evenin’, Johnny,” Darcy purred, fingers brushing his shoulder before he moved to pour himself a cup of tea from the pot Polly always left for him.

John’s voice was a little rougher when he spoke. “Surprised that mare of yours ever left your thighs, the way she was curled up on ‘em.”

Darcy paused mid-pour.

Tommy side-eyed John. Arthur chuckled.

John raised his glass in a lazy toast. “It’s a wonder you don’t have to rent ‘em out, with thighs like that.”

Darcy turned, teacup in hand, the very picture of practiced poise.

“Well,” he said sweetly, “if I ever do, I’ll be sure to put your name at the top of the waiting list.”

Arthur howled.

Tommy smirked, barely.

John? John blushed just enough to glance down and grin into his glass.

Darcy slid into the empty seat beside him, crossing his legs delicately. “What were we talkin’ about?”

“Marriage,” Arthur offered.

“Oh,” Darcy said, stirring his tea. “Tragic.”

John snorted into his drink.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Because Darcy was back.

And for a moment, nothing else mattered.

⸻

The Garrison – Late Night in the Snug

Cards slapped down. Laughter echoing off wood. The soft clink of coins exchanged.

The poker game was well underway.

Tommy was winning—again. Calm as ever, cigarette dangling between his lips as he raised an eyebrow at every bluff. John was playing too bold, throwing in chips with a grin and half a hand. Arthur was sloshed , barely upright, slurring his insults and accusations as he tossed cards that weren’t even in the right suit.

Darcy sat in the corner of the booth, a fine porcelain teacup resting in one hand, the saucer balanced on his skirt. He was the picture of composure: painted lips curled faintly, eyes lined with a soft wing, auburn curls pinned in a perfect halo.

His tea had long since gone lukewarm, but he didn’t mind. He was watching them. His boys.

Arthur slammed his cards down. “ Three queens, ya bastards! ”

Tommy didn’t even flinch. “Royal flush.”

Arthur squinted at the cards. “That ain’t even real.”

John cackled. “It is when he’s dealin’.”

Arthur threw his hands in the air and sloshed half his whiskey down his front. “Fuck’s sake—m’head’s spinnin’.”

He slumped back—then sideways.

Right onto Darcy.

Darcy didn’t flinch.

Arthur half-sprawled across him, big and heavy and smelling like whiskey and tobacco and sweat. He mumbled something about his “pretty dress” and then tried to sit up.

Darcy, ever the mother hen, simply shushed him softly and adjusted the weight of Arthur’s head against his shoulder, one hand reaching up to gently card through his hair.

“You’re alright, puppy,” Darcy said quietly. “Just rest a moment.”

Arthur grumbled something incoherent and closed his eyes.

John glanced over, smirking at the sight.

“He’s like a bloody pup.”

Darcy smiled. “He always is, when he’s tired enough.”

Tommy flicked his eyes over, unreadable, but didn’t comment. Just took another sip from his glass.

Darcy looked at each of them in turn. Tommy, calculating and quiet. John, all mischief and fire behind his smirk. Arthur, snoring gently against his shoulder like a child who’d worn himself out.

He always did this.

He always had.

Tended to them. Cleaned the blood. Soothed the tempers. Mended the coats and egos alike.

And they let him. Because somewhere deep down, they knew—without him, the whole house fell down.

Darcy sipped his tea.

John watched him over the rim of his whiskey glass, eyes lingering on the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

But he was watching.

He always watched .

⸻

Birmingham Streets – Early Morning Hours

The Garrison to Watery Lane

Arthur was heavy as a corpse and just as cooperative.

“Stop… pullin’ on me,” he slurred as Darcy and John hoisted him up between them, arms slung over their shoulders. His boots dragged with every other step. “M’fine. Jus’ a little… sideways.”

“You’re sideways and soaked ,” Darcy said patiently, breath puffing in the cold air. “Smell like a distillery.”

John grunted, shifting Arthur’s weight. “We ought to drop him in a trough.”

Darcy chuckled, cheeks flushed pink from the effort. “If I thought it’d clean him up, I’d agree.”

Arthur muttered something about wanting fried eggs and flopped dramatically against Darcy’s shoulder.

Darcy didn’t falter. He adjusted Arthur’s coat, tucking it around him gently. Like always.

The three of them staggered and shuffled down the narrow streets of Small Heath, gaslights flickering in the distance, the sky still dark with the promise of dawn.

When they reached Watery Lane, the front door was mercifully unlocked—likely Polly’s doing.

Darcy and John half-carried Arthur inside, maneuvering him down onto the worn sofa.

Arthur groaned but didn’t wake fully. Darcy knelt to unlace his boots.

“You don’t have to—” John began.

“I know ,” Darcy said. “But if he wakes up with these on and half a hangover, he’ll murder whoever’s closest.”

John smirked, watching him work—delicate hands, quick fingers, pulling the boots off and tucking a throw over Arthur’s legs like he were a child.

John didn’t say it, but it was moments like this— these —that made his chest ache.

Darcy stood, smoothing his skirt. “You heading back to Esme?”

John shook his head. “She’s stayin’ with her brothers this week. Needed ‘space.’”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like marital bliss.”

John shrugged. “She’s got bite. I’ve got bite. We gnaw at each other more than talk.”

Darcy smiled softly. “You two’ll figure it out.”

John didn’t answer.

Instead, he opened the door for him. “Let me walk you.”

Darcy blinked, then nodded. “Alright.”

⸻

Back on the Street – A Quiet Walk

They didn’t talk much.

Their footsteps echoed softly along the cobbles. The fog of early morning clung low to the ground. Darcy’s heels clicked in rhythm. John’s hands were shoved into his pockets, coat collar turned up.

It was… comfortable.

Eventually, John glanced over. “You alright? Bein’ back in dresses again?”

Darcy smiled faintly. “It’s still hard sometimes. I still see the blood. But I need the softness. I need to see myself and not hate it.”

John nodded, quietly. “Well… for what it’s worth, I think you’re brave.”

Darcy looked at him, surprised. “You never said that before.”

John looked straight ahead. “Was scared to.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’d never let anyone hurt you again, Darce.”

Darcy’s voice came soft. “I know.”

They reached his building. A modest place tucked in a quiet corner of Small Heath. The window glowed faintly with the warmth of a lamp left on.

Darcy turned toward him on the step.

“You want to come in for tea?”

John hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And they stepped inside.

Together.

⸻

Darcy’s Flat – Kitchen, Early Morning

Warm lamplight, quiet porcelain, and a storm beneath the silence

Darcy’s flat was small but meticulous—shelves lined with old books, embroidery hoops hanging on the walls, soft lace curtains fluttering at the cracked-open window. It smelled like rosewater, tea, and a faint trace of lavender soap.

Darcy moved around the kitchenette, still in his navy dress, slippers soft against the tile as he filled the kettle. John sat at the small table, hands wrapped around a mug of something strong and herbal, watching him with a strange sort of fondness he hadn’t let himself feel in weeks.

Darcy finally sat across from him.

John cleared his throat.

“She wants to leave,” he muttered.

Darcy tilted his head.

“Esme,” John clarified. “Keeps sayin’ she can’t breathe here. Says Birmingham’s a coffin. Wants to go travel. Romani life, she calls it. Get a wagon, move with the weather. Be free.”

Darcy sipped his tea. “Would you go?”

John looked down into the mug. “Dunno. Sometimes I think I’d follow anyone who got me out of that fuckin’ house. Other times I think I’d lose my mind bein’ in a wagon with her.”

Darcy chuckled softly. “I can’t picture you livin’ like that. You’d miss your clean socks.”

“I’d miss you makin’ sure I had ‘em.”

They shared a look across the table.

The moment lingered.

Then John asked, a little too casually, “You seein’ anyone?”

Darcy blinked. “What, now ?”

“Just askin’. Never see anyone leavin’ your place but Polly or Ada.”

Darcy took another sip, eyes down. “No. I’m not.”

John leaned back, eyes narrowed slightly. “Why not?”

“You know why not.”

John’s voice went quieter. “Still dangerous.”

Darcy nodded. “More now than ever. Blokes like me end up disappeared. Or blackmailed. Or hanged.”

John looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

“And even if it wasn’t ,” Darcy added, “I’ve been too busy picking up after Shelby disasters to even think about dating.”

John chuckled. “We do keep you busy.”

“You’ve made a career of it.”

They shared a grin.

But it faded quickly.

Darcy’s smile faltered. He stared down into his tea. “Last one I loved was Jimmy. And you know how that ended.”

John nodded slowly. “London girl. Ring and all.”

Darcy’s voice was soft. “Said I was just fun. Practice. A phase.”

John’s hand twitched on the mug.

“I was sixteen,” Darcy said. “Thought he meant it when he said I was beautiful. When he held my face and said I was all he wanted.”

A pause.

“Then he left. Didn’t even write.”

John exhaled hard through his nose. “He was a fuckin’ coward .”

Darcy nodded. “I know. Doesn’t make it sting less.”

John looked at him for a long, quiet beat.

Then—

“You’re still beautiful.”

Darcy blinked.

“I mean it,” John said. “Not just when you’re dressed up. Or when you laugh. All of it. The way you take care of everyone. The way you sit quiet and let us fall apart and never ask for anything back.”

Darcy’s eyes shimmered slightly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest .”

They stared at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

⸻

Darcy’s Flat – Later

The lamps are low, the world is quiet, and some truths only live in the dark

The tea had gone cold. Conversation had faded. And somewhere between the laughter and the lingering silences, John had fallen asleep on Darcy’s couch.

Not sprawled, like he did at Watery Lane. This was different.

He lay on his side, arm tucked under his head, one leg hanging off the edge like he’d meant to sit for a moment and never got up again. His breath was slow, lips parted just slightly, hair tousled and damp with sleep.

Darcy stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching.

The cardigan he wore draped gently over his dress. His slippers made no sound as he crossed the room. He pulled the folded blanket from the chair and draped it carefully over John’s torso, smoothing it down with the care of someone doing something sacred.

John stirred faintly. “Mmm?”

“Shh,” Darcy whispered. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

He crouched beside him, fingers ghosting over John’s arm.

“Are you warm enough?”

A small, sleepy nod.

Darcy smiled. Soft. Bittersweet.

“You always fall asleep here,” he whispered. “Like you belong here.”

He didn’t expect a reply.

Didn’t need one.

Darcy leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to John’s temple—warm and lingering.

“I love you, John Shelby,” he murmured.

Just like always.

The way he’d said it in his heart every night since the trenches. The way he’d meant it even when John married someone else. The way he’d always say it, whether John ever returned it or not.

John didn’t wake.

But his fingers twitched slightly under the blanket.

Darcy watched him for another moment.

Then stood, turned out the light, and let the quiet hold them both.

⸻

Shelby House – Summer 1921

Mid-morning, calm skies over John’s house, money behind the curtains but grief still tucked in the corners

The house was too quiet for how big it had become.

Polished floors. A new upright piano no one played. A governess humming to herself in the nursery upstairs. John had barely said a word to her all week.

He sat in the drawing room with a glass of something too good for how early it was, sleeves rolled up, staring blankly out the window. The children were elsewhere—being fed, cleaned, read to. His four from Martha. The three from Esme had gone with her when she left.

And he didn’t cry.

He didn’t yell.

He just sat there.

Waiting for something to change.

Then—

The knock at the door.

Not the sharp kind from the boys. Not the irritated knock of a housekeeper.

A soft, rhythmic one.

He didn’t move at first. But then footsteps. The front door creaked open. A pause.

And then:

“John?”

He blinked.

Sat up.

Turned.

Darcy stood in the doorway with a woven basket on his hip. His hair was pinned up, pale curls shining in the sunlight. A soft mint-green dress hugged his waist, and a white cardigan sat lightly on his shoulders. He looked like springtime—delicate, precise, intentional .

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Darcy said softly. “I just… thought maybe you could use these.”

He set the basket down on the table.

Inside: warm, powdered paczki, the custard still slightly soft. And beside them, a stack of freshly darned socks—tiny ones. Worn at the heels. Now perfect again.

John stared at it.

Then stared at him .

Darcy smiled, just a little. “I wasn’t sure if they still liked custard.”

“They do,” John said, voice rough.

A beat passed.

He gestured to the couch. “Sit.”

Darcy sat, smoothing his skirt beneath him.

“She really gone?” he asked gently.

John nodded. “Took her three and left. No fight. No tears. Just packed up and… went .”

Darcy tilted his head. “How do you feel?”

John exhaled through his nose. “I don’t.”

Darcy watched him.

“You loved Martha.”

“I did.”

“And Esme?”

John shook his head. “Not like that. I never lied to her. But I didn’t love her. I tried. I thought maybe havin’ the kids, the house, the meals would fix it.”

Darcy’s voice was quiet. “And the prostitutes?”

John didn’t flinch. “They didn’t ask for nothin’ back. Didn’t need anything from me.”

Darcy looked down at his hands in his lap.

John followed his gaze.

“And you?” John asked softly.

Darcy blinked.

“You never ask for anything either.”

“No,” Darcy said. “I don’t.”

“You just keep showin’ up. With patched socks and sugar.”

Darcy shrugged. “Someone has to.”

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“If I’d loved Esme like I love—”

He stopped.

Darcy looked up.

“Like you love who?” he asked.

John looked at him.

And didn’t answer.

But he didn’t need to.

Darcy knew.

He always had.

⸻

Shelby House – Drawing Room, Summer 1921

Darcy sat still on the edge of the couch, the mint green of his dress pale against the dark upholstery. His hands were folded neatly in his lap. He didn’t tremble. Not anymore.

John was staring at him like he had something to say but couldn’t find the handle on it.

Then—finally—he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and said quietly:

“If I’d loved Esme… like I loved Martha—or like I love you —she’d have never left.”

Darcy’s lips parted.

But John wasn’t done.

“I kept tellin’ myself it was easier to be with someone I didn’t feel too much for. That it’d keep things simple. Safe. But I was lyin’ to her. And to me.”

He looked up. Met Darcy’s eyes.

“But I’ve never lied to you. Not once. Not when I teased you. Not when I held your hand. Not when I watched you walk away from me a hundred fuckin’ times and said nothin’.”

Darcy swallowed. His voice was steady, but quiet.

“I waited for you.”

“I know,” John said.

Darcy stood slowly, stepping close to where John sat. “And I don’t care.”

John blinked. “What?”

Darcy’s voice trembled—not from fear, but from finally letting it all out. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. I don’t care if people talk. I don’t care if it’s illegal . I’m not scared of the law. I’m not scared of what happens next.”

He stepped even closer.

“I’m scared of never touching you the way I want to. Of never hearing you say it again.”

John stood.

They were chest to chest now. The only sound in the room was the distant ticking of the mantle clock.

Darcy looked up at him.

“I’m not Jimmy,” John said. “I’m not gonna run.”

“I know,” Darcy whispered.

“I’m a Shelby.”

Darcy smiled—eyes glassy, lips curved.

“I know,” he said again.

And then John reached out, curled a hand around the back of Darcy’s neck, and kissed him like he’d been waiting his entire life to do it.

There was nothing careful about it.

Nothing shy.

Just years of love pressed between them—finally, finally spoken .

⸻

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