The Madman and the Goldfinch
Part 1: Blue Eyes and Starry Night
18+ MDNI
Summary: You are a man of the stage, a performer with a golden voice, but a tussle or two led you to a damp cell. Across from you is a rugged lad with a mouthful of poems and mesmerising eyes glistening with interest in you.
Themes and Warnings: Somewhat follows the canon plot of the show's first season so spoilers ahead, Fluff with some suggestive tones, slow burn, mentions of a major character death, mentions of guns and violence, beta read? Nope, I blacked out and wrote what my heart wanted lol,
Notes from the Moon: This was supposed to be a one-shot fic with smut at the end, but I kept adding details ‘till it became a three-part fic. I’m currently writing part two; however, I will write part three next year, so I can follow the plot of the next season. Heavens! It wasn’t even supposed to follow the plot of the show! This is what I get for getting too invested in my writing and wanting to add more personality to make the romance, plot, and smut more impactful lol. But I digress, I enjoyed writing this a lot and I hope all of you, my dear readers, will enjoy this! And also, I'm posting this on Jack's birthday! So Happy Birthday to Jack O'Connell!
Word Count: 11435
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Went that damned leaky faucet. The singular tune kept this prison cell alive, but Paddy paid no mind to it. Stuck in his own maddened world with a piece of literature in one hand. He’s read the same paragraph once or twice now; the hardened bed and damp floor defined the very discomfort he felt, and it was the cause of his inability to memorise and resonate with the author’s passages in his palms.
Light barely peeked through the tiny window, the rust on the bars absorbed the passing sun. The walls and the floor are coloured with a disgusting grey. A place made to siphon the life and hope out of alleged sinners.
Hand scratched his beard and a finger combed through his hair, a feeble attempt to remain composed.
Paddy’s icy gaze moved left to right on the same sentence in a continuous loop.
“…Christ.” He grumbled at his lack of concentration.
Reluctantly, he set aside his book, jaw clenched and eyes wandered about the corners of the room for anything that could bring him more entertainment, but time stretched on, and he found nothing.
Just him and the company of his thoughts.
But he could only grumble. He lay back into the stone-like bed, forearms on his forehead, preparing to be whisked away by his philosophies and poems as his lullabies.
Eyes grew tired, he felt, whittled to a close, and welcomed the embrace of a falsified rest. He finally drifted off–
“Hands off the suit! I paid with me soul for it!” A voice boomed into the still walls of the prison, a firecracker of life intruded on the sad silence.
Paddy jolted awake; his suddenly awakened eyes latched onto the source of the noise, a single heavy breath rumbled with annoyance from him. He heard the jangle of keys and the clatter of the cell across from him.
Grumbled again, he sat up and watched the scene with interest and boredom. But mostly just boredom.
You stood behind bars in a silken suit, expensively bejewelled yet wrinkled and decorated with bloodlets. Bottom lip bled and knuckles were bloody red from a fight. The tight grip you had on the metal bars caused more redness to seep out of your scarred hands as you rattled and shook the gates with all your might, emphasized by your anger and adrenaline.
“Get back ‘ere, ya’ cunts! Don’t you run away from me! Cowards, the lot of ye!” You barked out, absolutely pissed, and gave the barrier a few shakes before you kick it.
You sulked onto the floor, rage fizzled out little by little.
All the while, Paddy sat across with eyebrows slightly arched, sporting a unique sense of interest like he was watching a play on the telly for the first time.
Noticing the gaze on you, your head snapped to the audience of your outburst.
“’The fuck you lookin’ at, huh?” Your venom targeted Paddy, cutting through the coldness of the place. It hung in the air a moment, lingering before the silence fully consumed it.
“…You’re loud.” Paddy commented; his tone drew out into a deadpan. He leaned forward, both forearms on his knees, gaze trained on you with scrutinising hidden curiosity.
He gave you a once-over, taking in the slight shimmer your suit emitted as if something divine gifted him a cruel present of false sunlight. Soon, he realised your outfit is akin to those of the performers in high-end clubs.
“Fancy suit, you wearin’. You’s a musician?” Cocked his head to the side, intrigue piqued.
You stared at him, lips slightly parted, utterly speechless at the unexpected casualness, and eyebrows creased in disbelief at the lack of reaction to your ire. Returning the scrutiny, his poorly slicked-back hair and scruffy beard were the introduction, along with his dirtied military getup saluted you, but what caught your attention was his blue eyes, piercing through the darkness with intensity, leaving you quite mesmerised.
The observation wasn’t quick; you were left there gawking, eyes dawdling for too long. Paddy noticed it, a full smile of amusement spreading on his face.
“Guessin’ you’re a mute now?” He jested, walking towards the bars of his cell, forearms now resting on and through. “Or somethin’ caught yer interest? I’d assume the latter ‘coz it’s not polite to stare.” The direct inquiry hung in the air; he awaited your response.
And with that, the trance was broken, and you were slightly taken aback by the pinpoint of his words.
A sheepish smile formed, feeling the weight of your own embarrassment.
“Yes, sir. Right, you are. Apologies for staring and for my temper, ‘twas rather rude of me.” You answered with grace, tipping your head apologetically.
“It’s just… You have lovely eyes. Ones they’d write songs about.” Your confession sounded small yet genuine.
Ah, Flirtation. In this shite. The thought played in Paddy’s head,physically expressed through a chuckle.
“Careful with those words, lad. ‘Don’t want anyone catchin’ the wrong idea.” He jokingly tutted. A finger raised to emphasise the supposed reprimand.
“I’m just being honest, that’s all.” Lazily raised both of your hands in mock-surrender. Realising the other interpretation of your observation, a flustered feeling crept up from your neck to your cheeks.
Once again, Paddy noticed, but this time, he left it be.
“D’ye play the piano?” He, instead, asked, choosing to enjoy the company rather than play with it.
“…I can, but I sing mostly.” You answered truthfully with a tinge of hesitation, finding the situation quite awkward, yet—weirdly enough—endearing.
“Aye, a singer!” Paddy exclaimed lightly. “I can’t imagine what a singer would get into fights for.” Paddy pointed out, gesturing to your bloodied knuckles.
“’Was teaching a few lads a lesson. One would say it was a singing lesson ‘coz of the way their howls were reaching octaves.” You rubbed your knuckles while recalling, hissing slightly when you touched the fresh scars.
Paddy cackled; the sound echoed throughout the desolate place, “’Bet they’ve learned their lesson, then. Will I find them singing in churches and parades now?”
This time, you laughed, shoulders loosening. Ease entered the threshold. “Maybe so, maybe so.”
His and your words created a sweet cove just for the two of you, overlapping the grubby reality of the dark slammer. For a breath, the world seemed less shitty.
Then the sounds of boot-heeled steps and pitchy clinks of keys demolished the haven. Three men in uniform, but only one of them was more proper.
“I figured you’d be here, Paddy.” The polished man said, the cell gate mewed open when he walked in.
“Stirling.” Paddy greeted coldly. He took a few steps back, creating space for this… Stirling.
You noticed the softness around his eyes was gone. His expression housed what was left of a sneer instead, none of the flirt and smile he wore during your exchange. The tone of the interrogation appeared urgent, and maybe political.
Watching them from the other side, you let your mind wander off to a far more interesting plane, a means to block out their conversation out of respect for their privacy. You pondered when you would leave this place and return to the same elitist crowd of pompous bastards feigning interest in your singing. Mind landed on your setlist, songs you’ve grown tired of yet still love after lengthy rehearsals during storms and winters.
Conditioned by your own strict regimen, you began to sing. The song sounded almost like a lullaby, but only for ghosts of those tired and hopeless. The notes breathed out of you; no longer second nature, but first nature, like a newborn crying at their first peek of light. The imagery projected onto the cracked ceiling of your cell—a dreamy look of a song-drunk singer.
“Picture me upon your knee…
With tea for two, and two for tea,
Me for you, and you for me
The tempo watered down, letting the lyrics speak for themselves rather than sailing along with the usual upbeat of the song’s rhythm—a refusal to conform. In this exact moment, where you were lost in your own musical fantasy, the hush of your voice took the shape of a lovesick storyteller in the ears of those who chose to look upon you.
And Paddy was one of them. He saw you, he heard you… as he was being ushered out of the prison. The discussion with Stirling has long finished, and the conclusion reached resulted in Paddy leaving his confinement. Your voice echoed, feathery yet commanding attention. He stole a glance behind him, while the remaining verses whispered in his head.
The hallway stretched, and step by step, your singing turned to nothing but air. The distance grew between the two of you, and Paddy realised he knew nothing about you, except the quiet force of grace embedded in your voice.
But a feeling gnawed within him.
A feeling that this wasn’t the last time he’ll see you…
In an open tent with recruits and similarly clad men bustled out and about. Heat and wind combined to a near skin-prickling sensation.
Here you were, in uniform before him. You’ve cleaned up well; gone were the dried blood and fancy suit, but remnants of the scuffle that led you into the prison still haunt your face.
In a sea of official documents in tattered folders scattered in front of him, he held yours. Eyes flickering between your name and face, matching up the two to remember.
Standing in practised discipline and arm raised in a salute, your face bore a stone-cold expression concealing the surprise upon seeing the same blue-eyed man.
You noted: He was still with that scruffy beard, his hair slicked back except for a few stray strands. He was wearing military attire as well, but with a symbol you were not familiar with.
“Major Mayne.” You greeted him with respect, a soft grin tugged at your lips.
Those two words—his title and his name—left your mouth, sounded like a lyric to Paddy, a melodious excerpt.
He expected to see you at pubs when he would return for a rest or two, visiting your territory and listening to soothing tunes. So, seeing you here left him quite dumbfounded, like seeing a thriving lily pad in the driest desert.
Words lost for a moment, then quickly recovered. “At ease.” He said, it sounded almost slow from him, still stuck in the bewilderment.
And you did as he commanded.
You and Paddy were stuck in your own world; ignored were the onlookers in the silent yet resonant exchange of gazes. The audience in the matter was the Stirling fellow, who has now noticed the muted dialogues reciprocated between you and Paddy. Squinting with curiosity, but immediately dropped it to focus more on the professional matter at hand.
“I see you’ve met each other.” The words flew out of Stirling’s mouth with little to no restraint. Curiosity won against professionalism, he thought.
“Aye, we ‘ave.” Paddy answered almost in a whisper, eyes still stuck on you. Bewilderment was a quiet conductor in his eyes as he took a slow look at you and the uniform you were wearing. It felt odd, he thought, like oil and water being forced to mix, yet the combination works for some reason.
“Oh? In pubs, I reckon.” Stirling prodded, hands a-busying on the cluster of recruitment papers.
“Prison, actually.” You cut in. Head slightly tilted to a side, but you projected a look of utter interest at Paddy.
Paddy noticed, he’s no idiot; what boggled his mind was: Why were you interested?
“Huh?” A mused sound from Stirling. “How does a singer, such as yourself, wind up in Paddy’s usual haunt?”
“Ah, ye’ know, Singing Lessons.” Paddy chimed in. A recalled statement of a distant moment caused a chuckle from you.
Paddy’s rougher rendition joined in after, but his was more on the breathy side. The surprise of your presence in the desert took a slight grip of him.
And the higher Colonel arched an eyebrow at that; clueless and purposely lacking context, he clocked. He shrugged it off and continued with his assessment of potential recruits.
“You two have a lot of catching up to do, it seems… so be it.” Hand waved, a dismissal to you and Paddy.
You gave a forehead tap of a salute to him, but gave a wink to the blue-eyed one before retreating to the mess hall with a performer’s stride that you can’t help but do.
Thoughts of holiness and unholiness came rushing into Paddy’s mind, watching you saunter off into the rag-tag platoon. Even in the baggy clothes of the SAS, you still carried yourself with such grace that only a seasoned performer can. You were a spotlight bedazzled in a sea of loose cannons and dynamites.
“He seems to have caught your attention.” Stirling’s voice cut through the cacophonous thoughts. Paddy eyed him out of the corner of his eye.
And Stirling returned it with a presenting gesture to your retreating figure, who was now merging with the crowd.
“Well? What’re you waiting for? This is prolly the only time you’ll get a decent conversation with the lad before we’re off flying and bombing enemy lines.” He continued, waving Paddy off again. But he was met with a cold stare, one where you could hear gears shifting and smoke fuming out of Paddy’s ears when someone’s got his goat.
“…You’re dismissed, if that’s what you’re waiting for.” Egged on, Stirling instigated.
Paddy obliged, grumbling while at it. Nosey Stirling, once again, is interfering with people’s business, the snide comment crossed.
He began searching for you in the mess hall. Loud drunken cheers, accompanied by bottles breaking and drinks spilling, filled his senses. In the clutter of skewed and toppled tables, his comrades waved at him, asking him to join them. Some paid no attention at all, lost in their intoxicated tirade, filling their reprieve with nonsensical arguments about whatever the desert sun touches.
Amongst the chaos, it was easy for him to spot you. In a corner, a calm figure, you were. From afar, he watched the serene expression you wore, it was like a calmly painted pastel portrait in the face gallery of others’ harshly brush-stroked murals.
Dear God, you stood out effortlessly in Paddy’s eyes.
He failed to notice, however, that you were playing the piano. A cold feeling stirred within, a latch so tightly fastened on his heart, akin to grief, an overbearing, numbing loss. Everyone knew in the SAS not to touch that piano, no matter how many dust bunnies piled up between its bridges and plates.
But the way your finger fluttered between ivories, dealt with such care, soothes the brewing blizzard. The thought dawned in his head: you, a patron of music, understood the gentleness and demands of the instrument; you were no barbarian, reckless slamming as an effort to create music was beneath you.
You knew better, you were better.
The rustles and bustles of drunk conversation were a dim light in comparison to the stage lights of your natural showmanship. The slurred noise of the others was tuned out into a buzz; instead, the singing of your true and earned mastery of the craft stood out at the forefront, commanding attention from the sober and the drunk alike.
“April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom
Holiday tables under the trees.
April in Paris, this is a feeling
No one can ever reprise,”
Whisked away by the notes, his legs carried him to you and now, he stood near you. Towering and watching you with conflicted yet gentle eyes.
“I never knew the charm of spring
Never met it face to face,
I never knew my heart could sing
Never missed a warm embrace,”
Peeking a side glance, you acknowledged his presence, while your fingers continued to play and a soft chorus of a song hummed from you in dissonant duet with your boisterous surroundings.
What have you done to my heart?”
Without losing rhythm, you welcomed him into your nook.
“Starin’, are we? It’s an honour to catch the interest of the oh-so-infamous Paddy Mayne.” You teased through the music.
“Aye, I’m interested.” Paddy confirmed, little-to-no fear of having to confess.
“But you’s interested as well. So, enlighten me, why’re ye starin’ across me cell then and here?” Taking the vacant seat next to your right, leaned in slightly when he whispered the last word.
“You caught me. I was interested then and ‘interested now.” You whispered back to him, while your gaze remained focused on the keys before you, plucking away.
Paddy leaned back a bit, head slightly cocked to the side. Azure eyes pierced into your nerves, causing the hairs on your nape to stand.
He was listening and waiting for you to continue.
“Your eyes.” A shaky confession, you sounded. “They’re like… the night sky, the stars starin’ back at me. I’m a firm believer in the stars and in how they bring people together. So, it can’t be a coincidence, yeah? You. Me. Here.” Lost in your musical sheet, you didn’t notice how you sounded. And once you do, embarrassment crept into you, like invasive ivy vines in a spring garden.
You cringed at your own cliché, face scrunching up.
Paddy responded with a short hum. Now, looking at your playing hands.
“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,”
The literature spoke through him, a memory heavily etched on his tongue.
“The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,”
He recited, diction clear and voice intimate. He became a performer, but unlike you, whose crowds were pub regulars and rich bastards, his audience, right now, was you and only you.
“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”
He ended his performance by placing his fingers on the ivory keys. Caressing them, almost, as if itching to play himself.
You lost your concentration two or three lines ago, done with the ballad and now, you were watching him, in silent awe. A performer to another performer, in deep admiration; lost in the piece he gave you, drifting into the mad blue sea of him.
Given the respite, your hand rested near his; unknowingly, a touch away.
“…Do you play the piano, Paddy?” Damned were the titles and honorifics; you stammered out his name and the question, still stuck in the same sea he took you.
“…’Was learning to. I had a friend who helped me.” After a pause, he answered, vulnerable. Fingers pressing into the keys absentmindedly. “But I’m no maestro.”
This time, you hummed in response, understanding wrapped around it.
War, so disgusting, an unforgiving thief, leaving anyone with nothing but empty and crippling pain to live with.
His playing showed potential, you thought. Then, an idea kicked in.
“Maybe… I can teach you.” You mused out. “Can you show me what you know?”
A timid request to a higher-ranked officer, unheard of. But, like what you said, damn these titles. Right now, all you cared about was turning the poems of a madman into songs of absolute splendour.
Paddy played the first few notes, shaky and uncertain, the practice appeared distant on his fingers. The memory almost faded, but he hung on to it with his dear life, the fear of losing a memory of a loved one.
Note by note, little by little, his confidence built.
Then, you played along. Adding your personal flourish to his budding momentum. Now and then, he’d make mistakes, but you were quick to correct them. Your lessons were direct yet light, a touch of humour to remind him to let loose and have fun with music.
“Not quite right, it’s this key.” You pointed out.
Paddy’s bite was gone; the dog had gone a-rest in the cradle of whimsical peace you’ve created. Not even a grumble.
He corrected himself, rhythm faltering before regaining traction.
“Excellent job!” Your chirped. A smirk grew on Paddy’s face, a bit of teeth showing. Earnestly satisfied with himself and with the present company.
Both of you were lost in your own corner of the world, conversation building, laughter shared in between fumbled notes.
“Pa always told me, Jazz won’t help me hold a gun better, that it’s a waste of time.” Then, you snickered, finding a new sudden irony. “He’ll have a fit when he sees me teaching a higher-ranking officer.” Giggling at the thought, you were.
“Ye plannin’ on introducing me to yer folks already? Personally, I’d take them to dinner first before that.” Paddy said nonchalantly, still focused on playing, but mischief glinted in the corner of his eye.
You coughed, words choking and stuttering about. Resisting the urge to shove him, you instead shook your head, trying to regain focus on the task at hand.
Silence fell like a thin sheet upon the two of you.
Then, Paddy called your name, first name, not last name. Breaking the fragile quiet.
He seemed to have shared the same idea: Damn the honorifics and titles.
“Yes, Paddy?” You echoed back.
“Yer folks don’t approve of your playin’? A bit odd, they are. You’re mighty good at it.” He questioned.
The question, however, proved to be a heavy topic for you. Paddy noticed the way you tensed up, your fingers gained rigidity, posture straightened, and throat bobbed as you swallowed.
To you, you made a minute mishap in your chord progression. You pressed the key a tad early, but Paddy was none the wiser.
You stopped playing, the mistake being the cause of it.
Turning to Paddy, who has done the same. You’ve given him your full attention.
“My family… they’re the traditional kind.” You explained. “‘Wanted me to be like Pa, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I’d rather make the world beautiful rather than ruin it… errr, at least, what’s left of it.” Adding the reality at hand, you two were in no secluded church to practice hymns or a cottage with a soft breeze flowing through the curtains while you sang jazz and he played the piano for you.
The driest part of the desert,
With guns and bombs, highlighted by men in uniform adorned with badges and stripes.
War and death, that was the truth right now.
“But here I am.” Sighed out, finger trailing the vague scratch mark on a key. Unfocused, you were, stuck in the ideal scenery of your wonderland.
Paddy looked at you, quiet and reserved, then at the piano keys.
He then played the same song you’ve been teaching him with one hand, but with more finesse and gentleness.
“…We need more lads like you.” He took your hand with the other, rubbed a thumb on your knuckles before placing your fingers on the keys. Nodded at you to accompany him in his Beethoven piece.
“Most men want to tear the world apart, for honour and glory, to win, for all that patriotic shite they spew.” He continued. “Men like me will watch the world burn and feel nothin’ about it.” You heeded his words, droning in on the awaiting lesson.
“…The world’ll be a better place without men like me, ‘rather leave it up to those who understand the beauty of it.” Small and vulnerable, he sounded to you. A man lost his love for life and the intricacies that came with it.
“Aye, I agree.” You said as you stopped playing again. His demeanour changed, freezing at your lack of resistance; for instead, you agreed with him.
“But who’s to say you’re like ‘em, Paddy?” Placed both of your hands on his. Cradled them, touching the calluses and scars like careful runes made by hard work and time’s cruelty.
Peering deep into his blue eyes, you gave him a gentle reminder.
“Men born of destruction wouldn’t be able to play Beethoven. You are no war dog, you are more than that.” You placed one hand on his chest, above his heart.
“You are a poet and if, right now, you can’t find the words to rhyme… or notes to sing,” You leaned closer, the gap between the two of you beginning to close.
“Then, I’ll sing for you. I’ll sing ‘till you can finally understand the beauty you’re capable of.” Sincere, you were, smiling at him.
A smile softer than any pillow, any cloud in the sky, any cotton in fine sheets, Paddy thought.
Then, he blinked at you, your message sunk in through the heavy walls he’d built up.
The wall cracked, ground shifty and loose, lines drawn on the sand erased by the torrent of your actions.
A line is overstepped and disregarded.
Slowly, he returned your smile, teeth flashing. A light chuckle escaped from him.
“…Aye.” Breathed out to your affirmation. He placed a hand over yours, the one that was still planted on his chest.
Time sped by, a passing jeep, a fleeting jet.
In the gaggle of drunks, the crowd consumed the scene.
But all lost to the orchestra of you and Paddy. Neither of you cared.
Sharing a laugh, drowning in music, was the plan. A bundle of jokes and small conversations carried by the two of you.
Yes, just the two of you.
Beneath the bake of the sun, the heat cooking the sand, a wave of blur radiates from it.
Forgotten were the uniform protocols, soldiers stripped to near bare, sporting tank tops and shorts.
Makeshift umbrellas were scattered about as a means to shield from the rays.
Your uniform top wrapped tight around your shoulders and underneath it was your tank top, trickling with sweat.
Fanning your beret on your sand-speckled face, a heavy breath exhaled through your nose.
“…Bloody heat boilin’ me alive.” You groaned, swiping your hand across your forehead, skin a combination of dry and wet with sweat.
Stirling and the others had left to do raids, whilst you volunteered to help Paddy train the recruits. Though he’d taken the initiative and told you to let him handle it, leaving you scowling. Right now, he has them building a scaffold.
His methods were of madness, they claimed. Unorthodox to match the overall theme of the platoon.
The sound of a rifle rang through the vast beige plain, the recruits flinched and cursed in a foreign tongue to you, halting their hammering and lifting of wood.
But you didn’t flinch, boredom was your main note instead.
“There’s no mercy out ‘ere! Don’t be slackin’ off, lads!” Paddy shouted from afar. On top of a rock, his rifle smoking from the newly fired shot.
He’s been going at it for a while now, terrorising the newcomers. You can’t seem to decide whether this is for actual training or just Paddy taking a piss at them. Either way, the method proved to be working.
After a while, the scaffold was finally built and Paddy had them jumping off it to prepare for future operations. And now, he’s walking towards you, rifle’s strapped at rest on his shoulder, wiping his dirtied face with his dirtier uniform top in hand, wearing nothing but his shorts, chest bare and glistening with sweat.
Your eyes wandered, watching his scarred muscles, subtle veins roping up from his hands to his biceps. The way his arm flexed when he adjusted the leather sling left your mouth drier than before.
Knowing Paddy, if he caught you staring again, he’d tease you to no end. You masked your meandering eyes by rolling them, just as Paddy stopped in front of you.
But Paddy caught you right as you averted them. A smirk rested on his lips, while he flung and placed his combat top on his shoulder.
“Enjoyin’ me wee show, are ye?” He cooed, tone teasing.
“I volunteered to help you train them, you know? Not sit here and… watch you do all the work.” You desperately tried to change the topic, sentence spliced once you’d realised you’d set yourself up.
“Ye sure? ‘Coz I saw you’s gawkin’-“
“Bloody Hell, Paddy!” You gave him a playful shove, while he cackled at your reaction.
Slowly, your infuriation towards the madman vanished.
You now laughed along with him, sharing his twisted humour.
“Is that all you’re training them for? Jumpin’ off ‘till one of them lands on their head?” You asked.
“Nah.” He leaned down to a whisper, mischief a-brewing. “I also plan on teachin’ them some hand-to-hand, ‘to get more sand under their foreskins.” His cackle was still prominent.
The barbarity of the idea sent you into a whirl, but you quickly recovered. You leaned on the crumbling entrance arch that gave way into the inner part of the camp, arms crossed in your signature judgmental way that Paddy has grown to be really familiar with.
“You want them to wrestle each other? What’s that goin’ to accomplish?” You sounded back his own plan, puzzles not fitting, none of equal shapes sensible for you.
Paddy stepped forward, his breath mingled with yours in a hot desert waltz. The mischief drawn in his eyes was more prominent to you now.
No longer was it mischief, all that was left was just pure madness.
“I want ye to teach ‘em.” Paddy bit. “I’ve read yer reports, why ye got sent ‘ere. Proper lunatic to take on more than three men, you were.”
The thought thrilled him, a plan of his coming into play.
“You’s a real musician with whatever gun is given to ye, but now, I want t’ see if ye can conduct this riot of an orchestra well as ye’d play the piano.” He laid out his scheme before you. “I’ve been finding the right moment for that, and now—”
The gap closed in even more.
“—The opportunity is given to me in a golden chariot flying down with pristine wings.”
Your heart was hammering away, audible in the dry winds. The plan refused to sink in due to the maddened presence of the Irishman in front of you.
Short breaths were what you let out, a stark contrast to his low and heavy ones. He was so close, you could hear the subtle rasps tied at the end of his breathing.
“…You’re a twisted man, Paddy.” Your bite was as tiny as a squeak. Hand drifted up, fingers traced from the top of his pants, scarred abs, then finally rested on his chest, right above his heart. A heavy beat, a bass so potent, its mere vibration enveloped your entire hand.
You could’ve sworn you heard Paddy’s breath hitch.
“But I’ll lend a hand. ‘Wasn’t planning on just sittin’ ‘ere anyway.” Then, you shoved him off, a playful upturn tugged at your lips.
“Have ‘em prepare, I’ll meet them here at seventeen hundred!” You ordered while stripping your uniform top off your shoulders, then wrapping it around your waist.
Paddy watched you stride deeper into the camp, your shoulders rolling and knuckles cracking. He was astounded by your audacious disregard for the hierarchy within the unit.
But he doesn’t give a single damn.
He couldn’t wait to see what you’re planning.
His bubble burst, words flew around and he was catching them sentence by sentence.
Then turned back to the recruits,
“Right! That’s enough! Sort yourselves out, take a breather, for ye lot have more to do!” He bellowed out, his grit masking his blooming excitement.
The recruits did as commanded.
Soon, the recruits piled into the middle of camp, all formed in a crescent line.
A couple of shoves and grunts of discomfort as the line grew. Filled to the edges, but none could move because the very centre of the place is occupied by something and someone.
They peered over shoulders, those from the back were squinting, not to see better, but to make sense of what was there. Murmurs were thrown around, some had made a conclusion while others gave up and waited for further orders from their higher-ranking officers.
Once all were packed in, Paddy pushed to the front of the crowd to see what plan you had concocted.
And what was laid before him was a makeshift ring, one he was familiar with, a tattered tarp as the placemat, while brittle wood and cacti with ruined fabrics and tied garters circled it in a crude barrier. You stood in the middle, hands behind your back, forehead and shoulders shining with sweat, the evidence of your efforts in creating this rickety boxing ring. Scanning the crowd ‘till you locked in on Paddy.
Immediately, a smirk formed on your face. A hand moved down from your back, then pointed to your side as if to tell Paddy to stand next to you.
Paddy joined you in the circle, situating himself next to you.
“So you going to tell me ‘bout this plan of yours?” He whispered, blue peeking at the corner of his eye, radiating with curiosity and heat.
“You’ll know soon enough.” You responded, tone sounding sultry in Paddy’s ears, almost tempting him.
Eyes flickered to your face, then to the crowd of confused faces.
Posture fixed and shoulders rising, then you yelled.
“I’m guessing everyone’s all warmed up, yes? Done with jumping off ramps like bumbling lunatics!” You held back a chuckle, the scenery mentioned was ridiculous for you.
“Now! We’ll end our day with the basics!” Glanced to the side, a keen eye on your partner on the stage. “A proper tussle’ll be fun for all of you! You all have been itchin’ for a fight, and now’s the opportunity for it!”
Paddy raised an eyebrow, catching your gaze along the way.
“I, myself, have been itchin’ for one as well! So, for today, I want you all to group yourselves into three! You’ll fight each other, then the winning group will have the pleasure of scufflin’ with me!” You watched their reactions, a mix of surprise and interest broiling in the company pot.
“Don’t worry, Paddy.” You teased the gruff man next to you, playful with a touch of enjoyment to the dominant hand you were given.
“You don’t have to get your hands dirty for this one, you’ll have the pleasure of just watchin’” Crossing him from behind, your hand caressed his shoulder to the other, then leaned in at the end to emphasise your point.
Paddy, with a raised eyebrow, watched you move out of the ring, the surrounding sounds drowned out as his gaze stayed stuck on your retreating figure.
He had a feeling there wouldn’t be any pleasure in this.
And the innocent smile you wore proved his suspicion.
You and Paddy sat on a nearby bench while the recruits all played rough and tumbled in the ring. It was a mixed batch of reactions from the two of you, some matches had you two sitting at the edge, well, mostly you, cheered them on, while Paddy kept an eye on you, trying to decipher the underlying intent in your plan. And other matches bored you, so you focused on pestering Paddy to prevent him from finding out your scheme.
You could tell each time Paddy attempted to retreat into his mind, and when he tried to, you’d come in asking him some philosophical question about the whats and whys of the fate of the SAS.
Paddy understood what you were doing, he’d give some half-assed answer, just enough to satisfy your supposed curiosity and give himself ample time and space to create a counterattack to your plan, but you’d find ways to rope him into whatever stupid topic you could think of.
The conversations would often end with Paddy’s head thrown back in a full-belly laugh and you laughing along with him.
You thought this was too easy for you. You got Paddy Mayne, of all people, wrapped around your finger.
You’d no idea what beast you were tempting. If you thought you possessed the very manuscript aiding your traversal through Paddy’s mad land, then you were sorely mistaken.
Such manual does not exist in giving the holy answers to Paddy-made insanity.
Right now, all you had is a one-sided veil of illusion.
Paddy was letting the idea simmer in your head that you were in control of this situation. At this point, he was playing with his food.
Eventually, the fighting brackets were done and all that was left was you against the winning group.
“Finally! ‘Took you lot long enough.” Feigned boredom and mockery laced in your comment.
You jumped up and stretched, making sure every inch of your body was well presented to Paddy. At the corner of your eye, you watched his gaze flicker down and up, his lips slightly parted.
You headed into the ring, a smirk playing on your lips.
The three winning recruits tensed up and exchanged glances as you circled them.
Finally, you placed yourself directly facing Paddy, giving him a clear view of you, and between you two were the recruits, who were awaiting your next move.
Paddy’s interested in what you had in store for these poor lads. Leaning forward, elbows on his lap, but eyes still on you.
Now, I got your attention, the thought crossed. You threw him a wink, then you moved.
Cobra-coiled lunge at one of the trembling newbies, you quickly dispatched him, like it was a flicker of light. No one saw what just happened, all they heard was the heavy thump and one of them was already lying flat on his back, groaning and gasping, wind knocked out of him.
All the pent-up tension you’ve been carrying, you unleashed on the remaining two victims.
It wasn’t much of a fight, it was more of a massacre.
A combination of lethality and grace, you showcased. A dance so swift and violent, it was a work of art in the eyes of brutes and artists alike. Each time they’d attack, you’d have the perfect counter for it. Any attempt to grapple you to the ground, you’d use their own weight and force against them.
You didn’t throw a single punch, you let them tire themselves out.
They will be the instrument for their own downfall, a sound strategy you followed.
And Paddy was enjoying every bit of it, leaning back into the rickety handmade chair, cackling each time you outplayed the recruits.
Though the amusement didn’t last long.
Now and then, you’d find ways to show off your physique, especially during grapples. Arms bulging and sweat trickling down from your chest down to your abdomen. Once, you feigned being pinned, “helplessly” wiggling under one of the recruits.
Paddy gulped elusively, eyes stunned-locked on the scene. You caught his Adam’s apple bobbing and his eyes slightly squinting before composing himself.
Once you got your desired reaction from him, you quickly slipped out and countered the pin. You sat on top of the recruit, hand brushing past your forehead, fingers combing through your hair as you pushed it off your face. You made sure to catch his gaze while at it.
It wasn’t long ‘till all of them lay defeated on the floor, heaving at a breath that had outrun them.
And you stood over them, hands on your hips with a smile of earned cockiness.
“Not exactly a proper workout, that was. You, lads, need to work on your footwork! Fumblin’ about, swinging your fists like swatting flies! Embarrassing, I’d say!” You mocked them playfully.
Reaching down, you helped one of the recruits stand up, patting him on the back. “Quit your whinging. All I did was upset your balance, you won’t bruise from that.”
Paddy, eventually, joined you in the ring. You gave him a satisfied smile.
Muttering, he brushed past you. “Aye, that’s how you want to play?” It whittled through like the wind, the comment airy and barely audible. You have unlatched a lock of unknown threat, something in his voice sent shivers down your spine
“He’s right! Your performance was a disgrace!” He barked out to the company while he side-eyed you, “A proper demonstration by me ought to help ye lot learn! So, I suggest ye all watch and take notes!”
And just like that, your smile vanished.
You felt yourself tense up, locking eyes with your superior.
A grandmaster move, a check by Paddy.
He fully faced you, all in his bare-chest glory. Chest rising and falling, leaning on one foot and knuckles wrapped in cloth. Buzzing with anticipation, watching you and your performance gave him ample time to prepare a flowchart of ways to dominate you in the sparring.
Your throat dried out for a bit, masking it by giving him a nod and a thin smile. Close to trembling, you were. And you tried not to.
Like a bloodhound, Paddy sensed it.
“Ye ready?” A tease, he sounded.
“Yes, sir.” Tension in your cords, the reply was meek.
The air between you two carried a sickly sultry tone, a fuse had been lit and both of you were close to exploding.
But none of you moved, you both simply stared at each other. A silent dare for the other to make the first move. Sand collecting between breaths, the attentive gaze of recruits switching between observing you and Paddy. A hyperflux of senses came into play; each breath, muscle twitch, and hair flowing in the desert air was brought to life.
You braced into a defensive stance, anticipating his potential moves. Paddy watched you, a smirk on his lips, thoughts already driven by excitement.
He threw a punch at you and you caught it. You tried to use the momentum of his attack against him, body pivoting to throw him onto the floor.
But he didn’t budge, both of his feet planted on the floor.
Before you could think of another counterattack, Paddy lifted you off the ground, a good foot off, and pinned you beneath him. Muscle memory kicking in, you immediately locked your legs around his waist before your lower back hit the tarp-floor, planning on using his own weight to throw him off you.
But Paddy foresaw that, body weight crushing you down and hands finding a grip around your wrists, pinning both next to your head.
Legs still around his waist, you made desperate attempts to break his hold. A few twists and turns, a couple of grunts and sharp exhales, you realised it was all too late.
His hips locked you into place and his hands cuffed you down, face hovering above yours, a toothy grin to symbolise his victory was present on his face.
“Not bad, lad. Not bad.” He chuckled, almost breathless because it took him a lot of effort to secure you in that spot. Then, he leaned in, his hot breath on your neck causing you to shiver.
“But ye severely miscalculated.” He purred deep into your ear, his lips brushing your cheek, “Ye’ve fought blokes in dirty street fights, but we both knew… I’ve fought dirtier and worse folks - we both knew this was the outcome.” The comment prickled your skin, hairs around standing and body shivering.
Chest pressed against each other, only separated by the thin cotton of your tank top. You felt his heartbeat and he felt yours, both hammering drums in unison.
His hips sank deeper in and your legs started to buzz into numbness at the increasing weight. Heat was growing between, you couldn’t tell if it was from the scorching sun or from the unsung ballads between the two of you.
“Maybe I ought to give ye some private lessons. D’ye reckon ye can handle that, lad?” He pulled back, scanning your face.
Nose close to touching, breaths in duet.
You peered up at him, shallow breathing, mind already wandered off into the beyond when you caught the blue-starred eyes he had.
“…yes.” Your response was more air than words, the cockiness you had sapped out effortlessly by the rugged Irishman holding you.
The moment seemed to stretch on, just stuck in your own corner of the world again, like when you two played the piano and sang songs.
But reality came knocking, Paddy was the one who opened the door.
He sat up, hand tapping on your almost-numb legs to unlatch themselves. And once they did, he stood up and extended a hand to you.
You soon followed suit, head shaking as you snapped back to reality. The sun hit you, the light refocused till you could finally see the aid.
He hauled you up after you accepted his hand. You brushed off any sand and dust stuck in the crevices of your uniform. He looked at you, concerned, eyes asking if everything was okay. You gave him a curt nod before turning your attention to the audience, a smile of professional cadence plastered on.
Adrenaline was whisked away by the soon-evening.
In the vast literature that Paddy had come across, none was enough to describe that moment. Not a single verse can be articulated. In a fleeting light, he was at a loss for words. When he finally had something to say, you spoke up.
“As you all can see! It didn’t take a lot to take me down.” You addressed. “Nerves and hesitation are your weaknesses ‘ere! And when you throw a punch, you do not throw your body along with it! Keep your feet planted or you’ll end up on the floor!”
The script Paddy had prepared was gone. All he could do, as of the moment, was look at you in silent surprise.
“You lot are in dire need of relearnin’ the basics of hand-to-hand!” You continued. “Will there be a chance for it in the field? Maybe not, given the SAS’s recent rise into infamy, the enemy’ll likely shoot us on sight! Nonetheless, it’s still a handy skill to have if they choose to play with their food!
Once you had ended your scrutiny, you gave Paddy a look as if handing the reins to him. He acknowledged it by giving you a short nod.
“Startin’ tomorrow, we’ll have a wee run-through of the basics! A session in the mornin’, then in the evenin’!” He stepped forward as he set the reminder.
You took this opportunity to step out of the ring, heading out to your tent and Paddy took note of that.
The chemistry between ignited; you both felt a pull once you’d set foot outside the ring.
Paddy was of split mind while he gave his final order for today; sentences almost cut short, mind still hung up on the playful tussle you both had. But he persevered, his overboiling kettle of unanswered emotions contained in a calm façade.
A part of you wanted to stay, a need to be with Paddy and just let the unfathomable wells of your emotions run their course.
But that’ll be a show for a different time, you humorously thought.
After the party had been dismissed, the setting sun entered the camp and the energy within matched it.
Stirling returned from their operation. Brimming with his signature head-above-the-clouds confidence, he intended to share the results with Paddy, mostly to boast.
Carrying a bottle of wine, he reached Paddy’s tent. He found the mad lad lying down with an arm tucked behind his head and a book in hand.
“A successful raid today! Cheers to us!” Stirling burst into the tent, the privacy flaps rustling behind.
Paddy responded with a grunt, not to acknowledge Stirling’s news but more out of annoyance at the unwanted presence.
Stirling realised that Paddy wasn’t immersed in his typical literary consumption, but rather the book rested on his chest and his gaze fixated on the tent’s ceiling, a flurry of thoughts clouding his mind.
But Stirling immediately clocked the reason for the disturbance within Paddy.
“Blimey. You’re absolutely smitten with that lad.” He chuckled, uncorking the bottle.
That broke Paddy’s distant stare, and it turned into a glare upon landing on Stirling’s smug expression.
“You’re bloody nosey, ain’t ye?” Paddy growled, sitting up and placing the book aside. Glare still piercing and volatile. “How ‘bout ye go back to consortin’ with that French spy before I throw your arse out of me tent?” The bite was venomous.
Stirling stared at him, bored and impatient.
“…Fine.” He placed the bottle of wine on Paddy’s table, raising both hands in surrender, so as not to agitate the amateur boxing champion further.
“You know, sooner or later, you’d have to talk to the lad about it… About what’s going on between you two. It’s quite obvious, I’ve noticed it- the entire camp is well aware of it.” Stirling pointed out, as if the potential chemistry between you and Paddy is a fact.
Paddy’s expression didn’t change; the wick of his irritation was still lit and shorter, it went.
He hated to admit it, but Stirling was right. There has been a push and pull between you and Paddy, a lot of unsaid thoughts thrown into the air and lines on the sand all blurred. You two have been trekking a path of no direction and destination, just letting things be and being comfortable with the way things are.
Just revelling in each other’s company.
Maybe nothing needs to be said,
But what if the path we’re on suddenly disappears,
What if, by some wicked intervention, I lose the chance to talk to you?
What if… War and death take you away from me?
Paddy felt ill at the thought, a barbed wire twisting around his heart, bleeding and choking it out. A pang of hurriedness coursed through him.
And then, he remembered the agreement between you two—the private training.
It’s a good excuse, if any. Paddy thought, lingering on the wine.
He took a deep breath, then grabbed the bottle.
Before Stirling could protest, Paddy left the tent and headed for yours.
The desert air hit his face, still dry but colder due to the resting sun. The sky a mellow orange and yellow, darkness close to looming over the entirety of the place.
Recruits and fellow officers wandered about, lost in their own business; most had hit the bottle, stuck in a ramble with other drunks or swayed around to a tune playing in their intoxicated heads, a hearty cheer could be heard with every other sip. Some were going around camp, lighting the lanterns and lights in coordination with the growing dimness of the night.
Paddy watched all of it with disinterest. Right now, the goal in mind is to find you. He figured you’d be in your tent, but as he scanned his surroundings with a bored sweep one more time, his vision snagged on you, shoulder-leaning on the archway, facing the sandy plains outside.
He took two swigs of the wine, one for luck and another for courage, then he approached you.
The loose crunch of the sand alerted you to his presence, taking a peek over your shoulder. Your arms hugged around yourself and a smile donned on, but a worn-out look was shown in your eyes.
And Paddy took note of it.
“Ye feelin’ tired?” Paddy asked, nudging the bottle toward you to mask his growing worry.
You raised a hand and shook your head, politely declining the offer.
“Maybe,” You answered, tone plain and distant. “Or maybe I’m dyin’ of boredom. I didn’t have much to do today.”
“Ah, right,” Paddy muttered, almost bashfully. “I apologise for takin’ the helm in training the recruits. I shouldn’t have ignored your assistance.”
“It’s fine,” You stated, softly smiling, then turning to fully face him, your back against the ruined bricks. “But I want you to remember, Paddy.”
You reached a hand out, placing it on his shoulder, gently squeezing, then a singular pat.
“You’re not alone in this, okay? You don’t have to shoulder the burden all by yourself. We’re a team, remember? Let me help you.” The smile grew, the corners of your eyes creasing, twinkling with support.
Heart softening, Paddy felt. Your belief in him always melted the walls he built up.
The patience you had for him was extraordinary. Whenever Paddy was on his way to create a canyon-size explosion, you seemed to know the right lyrics to prevent it or if by chance, a situation escalated because of the wrath of a volatile Irishman and you weren’t present, you found ways to calm him down from a grand bursting sun to a spark.
You noted: Never underestimate the reach of Paddy’s anger, whether it’s as small as a firefly or as large as a nuclear bomb. He’s resourceful and he’ll make do with whatever he has.
And everything about this was confounding for Paddy.
“Why are ye so kind to me?” Paddy said out loud, not quite meaning to, but he owned up to it upon realising the words that left his mouth.
The question made you tilt your head to the side, a flash of surprise first on your face, then it settled into a calm expression.
“…Do I need to have a reason?” You shrugged, as if the answer was plain and obvious. “The world’s already a horrid place, being kind is the least I can do.”
“And yet, here I am. In the middle of a desert, flyin’ over to enemy bases with bombs and guns.” You were exasperated by the irony.
“You oughta think I’d bring over tea and cake instead, after all that ‘Being kind to strangers’ shite I just said.” You laughed lightly.
Paddy watched you, the curiosity he had about your kindness satiated.
“Ah, heavens, lad. You’re meltin’ my heart out.” A slight upturn in the corner of Paddy’s lips and a hand on his chest, above his heart, feigned being struck yet genuine awe at your statement.
“Oh, sod off, Paddy.” Rolling your eyes playfully, you let out a scoff-like laugh.
A comfortable silence blanketed the two of you. Back rested on the wall, you turned to face the peeking moon in the far distance, gone were the orange and yellow of the sun, replaced with the haunting light of the crescent, while Paddy stood opposite you, feet tapping on the soft ground, eyes shifted from observing the same scenery to watching your lantern-lit face.
“Paddy, I know we’re supposed to be training, but…” You sighed out, breath shaky. “…Can we just stay here and talk?” Focus removed from the scene in front, you instead looked at Paddy, awaiting his response.
And Paddy locked eyes with you and gave you a short nod.
“Sure, lad, sure.” Paddy felt at ease, not a smidge of urgency was felt in addressing the lingering invisible rose petals around the two of you.
It’ll be a conversation for next time then.
Days went by in fragile rest; everyone wound up into nigh tension for upcoming missions, statistics proved to be the template of success and mortality, but given the chaotic factor, the results of each operation are unpredictable. But no one batted an eye; soldiers grew accustomed to the unknown, finding a piece of paradise in their own way.
Each time you all left the nest to conquer the enemy backlines, your number waned, but it was outweighed by the glaring success—a life lost, but a wall blown through at the defences of the opposing military. A silent unanimous agreement that the sacrifice was worth it, celebrated by drowning the sorrow in booze ‘till the blocky pillows and stiff beds felt like satin and cotton.
Kept on singing, for each bullet fired, each ally wounded, each life taken, you melodically powered through – a riot orchestra, worded by Paddy, harmonised with the ruins of the world. At the end, your arms were aching, trigger finger numbed from firing, and throat dried from hours of outsinging the choir of explosions.
No one minded, in fact, they welcomed your battle-formed melodies. It brought a candle of hope in the windiest and most pouring of storms. Everyone commended you for your unwavering effort in protecting the tiny flame from being snuffed out.
You became the sole steady heartbeat in the horrors of mankind.
Everyone religiously listened to you.
You kept your promise to him.
To sing ‘till he can finally understand the beauty he’s capable of.
In some moments when his well of poetry dries, you were there to refill it to the brim with your odes.
Each note was a colour, a brush, for the mural he was making. The literature and poetry were the lines, the drawing itself, albeit monochrome, then came along you, your harmonies and verses were the paint to breathe life into the picture. And together, you both hold the paintbrush, letting this duet of creative wonder be its own guide.
And now, every time a poem crossed his mind, it recited itself with your voice and songs as soundtracks to accompany it. Once, literature was just a rickety wooden shield for him, but with you, it became a warm and calm cabin in verdant plains surrounded by chirping canaries and goldfinches.
An imagery Paddy carried fondly. His eyes, you called starry, gazed up into the night sky, although, on this particular evening, the stars were few, some were hiding behind sparse clouds, some were so faint you’d have to squint to see them, all that was left for him was the full moon, all as if its beckoning him to join him up there, to complete the starry portrait that you so adored.
Now, his thoughts landed on you. The way you’d stay up late and found your own little solace on the ruined walls of the camp, eyes beholding the sky, a silent bliss for when you’ve sung the day away. Oh, how he wished to photograph your serene expression and cherish it.
“…Uhh, Paddy?” Seekings’ voice cut through his gallery of thoughts.
Paddy’s vision refocused; the dry wind brushing through his hair and dust-covered face became apparent. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, throwing a side glance at Seekings before looking back at the starlit desert roads.
“…Didn’t hear ye.” Paddy grunted out, the bellowing noise of the sand dug into the wheels and the fighting engine of the jeep almost swallowed his voice.
Seekings grumbled, the annoyance of having to repeat himself taking over.
“I asked ye, will there be trainin’ once we get back to camp?” He leaned in so Paddy could hear him more clearly.
“No,” Paddy quickly responded, “No training fer tonight. Rest, if they want. I reckon they’ve earned it.” Eyes still on the road.
Seekings nodded, acknowledging, before leaving Paddy be, so he could go back to his contemplative driving.
After a while, the craggy walls of the camp peeked through the horizon. It stood in its broken glory, adorned by the flag of the chaotic rogues that inhabit it.
As the vehicle came to a stop at the foot of the camp, Paddy saw your silhouette on your usual spot atop the battlements.
During this raid, you joined Stirling’s party and Paddy reckoned you and the company got back earlier.
He entered camp, planning on joining you in your serene corner. Tossed aside his rifle, paid no attention to the raucous tailing behind.
He climbed up the reinforced stairs and slowly, you came into view. Your arms wrapped around yourself, scarf snug around your neck, and he assumed you’d be looking up at the night sky, but this time you had your eyes closed, humming softly to yourself, as if a coo to calm hidden nerves.
He stood next to you; however, instead of watching the sky, he inspected you, eyebrows slightly furrowed, trying to decipher what got you in such a pensive state.
“…Not a lot of stars tonight. Rather unfortunate, given how few the clouds are. We would’ve seen lots of ‘em.” Paddy’s voice entered the silence, a welcome one rather than an intrusive one.
You had already made note of Paddy’s approach, a skill you have developed over time in these ruins with close-to-none privacy.
You agreed to his comment with a quiet yes, then continued your humming.
“…Everythin’ alright?” Paddy’s tone was rough, but edged with gentle concern you’ve grown fond of.
You came to from your melodic escape and peeked through the sides of your lashes. You saw a picturesque scene: Paddy’s rugged face illuminated by moonlight, eyebrows slightly knitted upwards, the physicality of his concern for you. His lips were ajar, a tiny window to the teeth that sat behind, often seen in a wild grin in his moments of utter madness. And then, his eyes, azure and pale, the stars in the night pale in comparison to the fierceness that lived within the ones staring at you. You didn’t think that the stars hand-woven by Mother Nature herself would lose to a poetic Irishman. Others could argue against it, but you didn’t care, their opinion held no weight. To you, there was a clear winner.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” You replied, soft and vulnerable. “I’ve just been thinkin’, that’s all.”
“About what?” Paddy moved close.
You took a beat, mind racing to properly articulate your scattered thoughts.
“Just… life after all this.” You were hesitant and restrained. “I thought I’d go back to pubs in London singin’ songs or maybe I’ll move to the countryside, live the rest of my life there performin’ songs of my own ‘stead of other’s.” Your tone shifted into something whimsical, smiling softly at the idea of finding your own version of peace after the war was said and done.
“What about you?” Getting your head out of the clouds, you turned to Paddy, curious to see what a poet would be up to outside of the battlefield. “Surely, you’ve entertained the thought?”
Silence and contemplation entered Paddy’s mind, head turning to face the bare desert and watching tiny sheets of sand waltzing across from one point to another.
Now and then, he’d come across the idea of what he’d do after, but none became the definitive answer.
“Aye, I’ve thought about it.” He grunted, sounding distracted. “Figured I’d be fishin’ back home, or read through me collection of books at a cottage in a forest–“
In the sea of answers he’d come up with, whether they’re pragmatic or idealistic, the commonality between all of them was…
“–I dare not finish the thought, ‘coz every instance I’m given the opportunity to…” He stepped closer to you, his mystifying features magnified. “…I keep imagining them with ye a part of it.”
The sentence echoed again and again.
Heartbeat thrummed in your ears, limbs started to feel numb; a tingle through your fingers then to nothing.
Scanning his face for any of that signature mischief, but you saw nothing, but sincerity, honesty, and…
Affection for whom? For me?
Paddy watched your face lose its serenity, all that was left, and changed into, was conflict. Your eyebrows slowly furrowed, confused and unclear. The starry glimmer in your eyes was gone, lips slightly thinned as you reeled up for questions.
“…What?” You blinked, dumbfounded.
He reached for your hands; your fingers were cold to the touch, he noticed. His calloused thumb rubbed across your knuckles, a means to keep you grounded in the conversation because he thought he’d lose you to the crowding confusion growing within you.
“Days… Months… I’ve thought about it, every waking mornin’ and sleepless nights I lie, I keep imaginin’ my life with you.” He muttered, the statement lay soft on a bed of roses.
Affection ran a-blaze, pale blue eyes peered deeply into yours. A desire to step even closer gnawed at him, but restraint pulled him back to his spot, afraid of scaring you with his boldness.
“I’d go fishin’, but I want you next to me so I can show you every fish I’ve caught. The cottage would be cold and empty if you weren’t there humming your tunes 'coz you’re the one that brings comfort and warmth to me.” His confession sounded strained, the weight of his feelings for you becoming unbearable.
“Lyin’ in the open fields with ye, watchin’ the stars because ye smile the brightest when you’re beneath them. I even thought about introducin’ you to me Ma and Da.” He chuckled, finding himself ridiculous.
Silence trickled in; for you, it gave you space to process what was said to you, but for Paddy, it was poison, every second the quiet grew, the tighter fear gripped his heart, slowly convincing him that he had ruined his relationship with you.
Icarus, Paddy thought, I’ve flown too close to the sun and I am falling.
Sirens blared in his head. RETREAT! RETREAT! They bellowed at him. The ship he’s been sailing and tending for the past few months was sinking and he along with it; with eyes closed, he accepted his folly.
He turned to leave you be, to let you have your peace, but stopped when he felt your hand tightening around his. Gaze flickered down to it then to your face. Gone was the confusion, instead the serenity returned, but fuller and livelier. Starry-eyed, you were no more, instead your softened gaze holds the very cosmos. Lips near quivered, golden heart struck deep, overflowing with once lyricless songs, now filled with endless paragraphs dedicated to the man before you.
“…Paddy.” Breathless, you stepped a tad closer to him. His confession renders you songless, the only remaining tune is the church bells ringing his name.
“Aye?” He responded, following suit. His hand fully enveloped yours as he sealed the gap.
Inch by inch, the air between you two disappeared, noses brushed, his beard tickled your chin, breath moulded into one, then finally his lips connected with yours.
Passionate, it felt. Eyes closed as the sensation created an imagery in both of your minds: Guns fired in celebration into the sky while a choir belted hymns of love to commemorate the connection. Petals of pastel rained from the heavens, cradling the scene. Joyous and love, you both felt.
The kiss deepened as your arms wrapped around his neck, while his hands rested on your hips, his thumbs drew circles on them.
His tongue breached your mouth, the warmth teetering on heat. The invitation was met with soft moans from you. Paddy grinned at your reaction, a melody he’ll soon grow accustomed to, for he planned on making you sing them repeatedly for him. He groaned back in recognition of your melodic devotion.
Passion was growing, the flames reached high limits. His resting hands turned to hardened grips and your fingers found home in Paddy’s hair.
Deeper, both of you went, ‘till nearing the point of no return.
But the air became thin; light-headed, you felt. You reluctantly pulled back, deep gasps came from you. Paddy’s lips chased yours for a moment, wishing to continue the passionate exchange.
In the mix of heavy breathing, you finally spoke up.
“I’ve been wishing for that… praying to the stars.” You whimpered, just on his lips, “’Been workin’ up the courage to make a damn move, but I keep… I keep pulling away, thinking I’m being extremely foolish.”
“Extremely foolish, it is.” He repeated, hands now cradling your face, soft and gentle as if he had found his most cherished treasure in all of life itself. “Then, we’ll be extremely foolish together.”
He pulled you back in, lips resealed into each other, pieced together in absolute perfection, to once again sweep you off to the madness-curated wonder.
The night sky itself was the witness to artistic hearts becoming one. The moon wept light upon the scene. The stars, once hidden, came nestled among the dark azure seats as the audience, their sparkle an applause to both of you.
But neither of you paid any mind to them, lost in each other’s embrace. The once-burdening hidden affection was finally brought to the forefront and expressed fully – Letting your hearts soar with love.
