Page 51 of The Last Kiss

“Of course I do.” His voice broke on the last word. He set his plate down and braced his hands on the edge of the sink, regaining control. “But if wishes were horses, Ash…”

Silence. Then, “Maybe we could go away together. Somewhere nobody knows us.”

Harry closed his eyes. “And do what?”

Another silence. “In France it’s not a crime for men to — ”

“France?” He turned around, incredulous. “I ain’t going back to France, Ash.”

“No.” He turned his head away. “It’s just…”

Anger draining, or at least finding the right direction, Harry went back to the table and sat down. “I know,” he said quietly. “God knows, I do, Ash, but we have to be realistic.” Reaching out, he took Ash’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “We’ve the whole night ahead of us, eh? Tomorrow can take care of itself.”

With a reluctant nod, Ash turned back to look at him. “This is too perfect to only be for one night.”

Somehow, Harry’s heart was singing and breaking at the same time, a sweet sad pain that stole his breath. Lifting Ash’s fingers to his lips he kissed his knuckles, then turned his hand over and kissed his palm, his wrist. “But it’s more than we dreamed of not so long ago. Don’t think about what’s to come, Ash. Just think about what’s right now.”

And, right now, Ash was abruptly in his arms again, his hard body beneath the soft wool of his pullover delicious under Harry’s hands, the urgent ferocity of his mouth against Harry’s enough to drive all other thoughts from his mind. They made their way back to the bedroom and came together hungrily, touching and tasting, tenderly exploring each other until ecstasy overtook them again. Then they slept naked beneath the sheets and blankets, crowded into each other’s arms and boneless with joyful fatigue.

Harry woke later to pitch dark night and an anguished shout.

Disorientated, he lurched upright, heart hammering, waiting for the sounds of bombardment. But all was silent save his own ragged breathing — and Ash, thrashing around beside him, muttering unintelligible dream-words. Then, with a gasp, he sat up, one hand stretching out, staring unseeing into the dark. Or maybe seeing something else. “Grab it,” Ash shouted, startlingly loud.

Shit. Harry touched his shoulder. It was clammy with sweat. “Ash,” he said, softly. “Ash — ”

“Just fucking grab the rifle.”

Harry rubbed his back. “It’s alright.”

“I can’t reach!”

“You’re dreaming.” Christ, it was awful.

“I can’t — ” Ash sucked in a breath that seemed to catch in his chest and become a sob, and then he crumpled forward over his knees. “OhGod.”

Pushing aside his own painful memories, Harry curled himself around Ash’s back, offering what comfort he could. There were no words to be said that would make it right. A nightmare it might be, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. Ash cried for a few minutes, deep shaking silent sobs, and then he shifted himself enough to put his arms around Harry and bury his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck. His breath was hot, his skin damp with cooling sweat. “It was Jimmy.”

“I know.” Harry kissed his hair.

“I can’t forget.”

“No. We shouldn’t, neither.”

Ash nodded, sagging into Harry’s arms. Tired. Well, it was the middle of the bloody night. “Come on, let’s lie down.”

The sheets where Ash had been sleeping were a little sweat-damp, so Harry pulled him onto his side of the bed, his back to Harry’s chest and wrapped his arms tight about him, as if he could shield him from his nightmares with his body.

They lay like that for a while, Harry drifting guiltily toward sleep — he doubted Ash would close his eyes any time soon, poor bugger.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ash said after a while, murmuring the words into the darkness.

Harry kissed his shoulder, tightened his arms. “Me too.”

He didn’t promise to always be there. Whatever Ash might think, Harry knew it was impossible.

And there was no point in wishing for impossible things.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

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