It's never completely quiet in the ward; someone is always sick, or dreaming, or crying. It's never completely dark either, although there's enough of the darkness, enough shadows cast by the dim lights at the nurses' station to cover them. Prior is following closely, following the grey silhouette of the man in front of him--a man that he doesn't realize looks almost exactly like himself--thin, so thin the ribs and cheekbones are discernible in sharp relief against pale skin, and fair-haired. Prior tries to remember the man's name--God, what is his name? Thompson. Thompson was the surname but what was the man's given name? And shouldn't he know, shouldn't he be able to remember the name of the man he was going to let touch him like this?

Thompson stops--there's a small recess in the wall, narrow, barely wide enough for two bodies, but it's adequate. Thompson whispers 'Sir?', then puts awkward hands on him, turning him, pressing him back into the wall and the obscuring darkness. Thompson's breathing has quickened and he flashes Prior a sudden grin, a grin that's scared and reckless and almost sweet, would be sweet, except for the chapped lips and the teeth going bad. Then he moves close and tilts his head, and Prior panics suddenly, puts a hand over Thompson's mouth and whispers, 'no, no kissing' .

Thompson looks disappointed but doesn't argue, and goes to his knees. Prior can't breathe, but then he often can't, though this isn't the slow strangulation of asthma, always carrying with it the panic that the next breath won't come. This is different, this slow wet heated struggle for air. Used to be he couldn't talk either, muteness that came and went, and then came and stayed, and then went again, but that wasn't like this either, this inability to put feeling to thought, thought to word, word to breath enough to say it.

'Nothing wrong with you, sir,' says Thompson, grinning again, unbuttoning the front of Prior's pants, 'leastwise, nothing physically wrong, I'd wager.'

'Two l's in 'physically', Mr. Prior.

Maybe it's the sleeping pill making him feel this way, so light-headed and dizzy, so very, very desperate. The hair under his palms feels soft, soft fair hair sliding through his fingers, and he'd known that men did this with other men, heard about the ones who got caught in the alleyways and behind the tents and in the dark furrows of the trenches, but God, how could he have known about this, how could he have ever imagined it was like this, and how could he have not known this about himself?

There is the sound of a door opening down the corridor and they both go still for a moment. Prior's hands clench and Thompson hisses, and Prior pulls them away, lets them fall uselessly to his sides. Looks down and sees Thompson's blue eyes, bird's egg eyes, above wet, swollen lips--

'He had very blue eyes, you know. Towers. We used to call him the Hun.'

Thompson's climbing to his feet, gentling Prior like a startled horse. 'S'okay,' he whispers, Thompson's whispering in his ear, 's'okay, sir, s'okay, just night matron finishing her rounds. She'll be going upstairs to have her tea,' and he's telling Prior it's all right, there's nothing to worry about, and his hands are back on Prior, sliding his hands back inside Prior's pants, and the light down the corridor fades as the door closes again, and he can't stop it, he can't stop himself, he moans.

I find myself wanting to impress you

Prior lets his hands move again, sliding up under jumper and shirt and vest, over a thin back and sharp shoulder blades.

I just think you might consider the possibility that this patient might want you to be you.

And Prior suddenly wants to feel more, feel nakedness and heat, coarse hair against his breast. Thompson's hand is working him and he's so hard. He didn't expect it to be like this and for a moment fear flares again, and there's anger and regret and despair.

'--but if I went to my doctor in despair it might help to know he at least understood the meaning of the word.'

And this isn't what he meant, or maybe this was exactly what he meant. Broad, hard hands, working hands, calluses on the palms that he can feel on his prick, and he feels himself shudder again and again. Prior can smell Thompson, can smell the lye they used to wash down the corridors, and the bacon sandwich he had for dinner. Sour sweat. Close up he can see the dirt in the creases of Thompson's neck, knew there would be dirt under the ragged nails dragging up and down his thigh.

'Is that all?' he had asked. Demanded to know. 'It was nothing,' he had cried and he bit the words off and spit them out at River's feet, and then he felt the tears--

'All right, sir?' Thompson is asking him, hot breath against his ear, and he can feel the knee pushing between his and nudging his thighs apart--

--I know what you want, she'd said, but she'd pulled away

And he wants to put his hand down there but it embarrasses him, and then Thompson shifts and Prior can feel him, feel his hard prick, and it feels familiar and different, and Prior does put his hand on him, slides his hand down the hollowed chest and encounters soft belly and coarse hair, and heat and hardness. Thompson draws in a sharp breath--

--neither fish nor fowl, his father said--

--and Prior closes his eyes.

--and Rivers offered his handkerchief, and Prior hit him, Prior hit him with his fists, hit him again and again, and Rivers had taken it, Rivers had held him--

And it flows out of him, tears and sweat and jism, a river of relief and pain, rivers of anguish, rivers, Rivers--

'Rivers!' and he tries to stop the name, can't stop it, even though he bites his sleeve until it tears, and he swears to himself no more words, no more words, no more words.'