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Rosie stood at the window, one shoulder against the frame, peering out through the warped glass. The window rattles faintly every time the anti-aircraft guns in the distance fire off. His coat’s draped over a chair nearby, damp at the collar. He’s silent for a while, just watching the empty street below, lit only by the occasional flash of gunfire. Rain droplets ran down the glass, street lights mingling within the droplets. Outside, the flak was hammering, endless and unbearable to most. The boys at base would be watching it too, by now, thinking of how similar it all looked to fireworks. Rosie wondered if they’d ever see fireworks the same after this—after all of it.
"Remind me why we didn’t stay at the pub?" The pilot glanced over his shoulder toward Crosby, the corner of his mouth twitching into a tired smirk. "Not that I don’t love sharing the space with the navigator who once got us lost over Belgium." In a beat, he turned back toward the window, but he wasn’t watching the street anymore. The cars passed along, although for the most part, it was ungodly silent. Nobody wanted to be outside when flak fired in the sky, creating an early Fourth of July. When silence met his words, Rosie looked at the reflection in the window, the body sitting in the leather armchair.
"You alright over there, Harry?"
Harry was sitting on the armchair provided by the flat, which was a luxury, although the ones at the base weren't quite bad, either. He had a glass of wine between his fingers, bouncing it on his kneecap, which was crossed over his thigh. He’s been staring at nothing in particular, the bottom of the windowsill, and the dancing shadow on Rosie's outline on the floor. They oughta have lit candles, he’s realized. That would come off wrong, set up the ambiance for something more than what they are, but it would provide light. He was still wearing his uniform, cap forgotten on the table beside his armchair. Finally, what Rosie spoke with that smooth yet raspy voice bounced into Crosby's ears, whose head lifted with his eyes wide at the rims. His face slowly melted into a soothing smile, however.
"Because they don't want their best pilot nosediving into tonight's flak," he teased, chuckling. Rosie came into his life when he had himself put together at the seams, his voice a little deeper and more confident than it had been months ago, but he was still an overthinker at heart. He set his glass down in favor of standing up and searching for matches in the cupboards. "Not that I mind sharing a space with the best pilot in the Bloody 100th."
Rosie turned his head slightly at that mimicked remark, lips parting like he might say something coy—but then he didn’t. Instead, a breath of laughter escaped his nose, short and low. He watched Crosby fumble around the cupboards with an ease he didn’t always show in the sky, the kind of ease Rosie noticed lately in quiet, domestic moments like this. They rarely had moments like these. Rosie hardly asked for any leaves, and that included any pass leaves. Crosby wouldn’t ask for them either, but that meant both had them forced upon them in fear that the two of the best would burn out like stars up in the sky. In times like those, they’d spend time together. They would do that at base, as well, but it was different in the London streets. They didn’t talk about missions on the street, or about the men they’d lost the day before. They’d talk about jazz, and how inconsiderate it was of the base to not even have one record player—how shocked Rosie was finding out Crosby had one.
He leaned his hip against the windowsill, arms crossing over his chest.
“Reckon it’s good I’m not British, then, landing destruction at the dead of night.”
Crosby only hummed at the notion, hands now blindly shuffling papers within the drawers of the desk that was pressed against the wall of their flat, searching for some matches.
The rain tapped softly against the roof, engulfing the silence. In no time, the rain came in deluge, pounding against the rooftop, the walls, and the street—drowning out all the popping of the flak far away. Somewhere far off, a siren howled, rising and falling like a ghost. Rosie didn’t flinch. He just kept watching Harry with that unreadable half-smile, his voice warming when he spoke.
“Have you ever thought about not going back? Just stay in London. Say we lost our orders. Change our names—open a café, sweet tunes echoing the walls.” Of course, Rosenthal would rather fall out of a burning B-17 than ever think fantasies like those, to ever leave the rhythm that he’s set for himself. But he was only a man, and a man had distractions. To Robert, it was more so watching those distractions flee before him, like waiting for the train to stop riding across the tracks so you may keep going forward. But what man hasn’t thought of where that train rode, to what destination? Who was on that train, and what have they seen? Perhaps if Crosby were on that train, he’d consider running after it uselessly.
Rosie shifted from the thoughts, striding to the bed and pulling the shared blanket from the mattress, and tossing it over the arm of the couch without comment, thinking of taking the armchair as his bedding tonight. Seemed like they wouldn’t be leaving the flat anytime soon. Crosby, on the other hand, hadn’t let the nonsense of Rosie slip by him. Rosenthal never spoke like that, a man with dreams aside from the yoke of a bomber. Crosby couldn’t decipher if it was a girsly thing or something bitterly sweet.
"You'd never do something like that, Rosie. You had a chance to go home, and you stayed," Crosby found the matches and slid them against the striking surface, creating a flame. He held it over the candlewick, shaking the match to put it out shortly afterwards. They had lamps, but who knew if power would be cut by the noise above them. He did this for a few candles before setting the box down, his fingers working to take his uniform jacket off to only be in the undershirt, eyes leading up to the window as flak rang. Sighing, Crosby rubbed the back of his neck and turned to look at Robert shuffle about, his large eyes outlined by the candlelight, making them bigger than they already were. Robert didn’t always speak back—that was the thing about him. He listened, and he listened well. He’d speak his part and wait until he was sure there was nothing else. That was an honorable trait about Rosie, but the man was sculpted out of honor and bravery. Everyone wanted to be like Robert Rosenthal.
"You're only saying that because you're not at base. We'll be there soon, after all of this ends. Maybe by tonight," Crosby smiled, optimistic as usual.
Rosie glanced over at the light that bloomed across the room as each candle flickered to life. It painted Crosby in amber—his silhouette sharper now, his shoulders a little more real, a little more human. Rosie let his gaze trail down from Harry’s face to his hands, then back up again with something unreadable softening the edges of his expression.
“You’re probably right,” he murmured, voice dipping into something gentler. “Just one night, that’s all this is. One quiet little pocket before we go back to…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He never liked naming it—base, the war, the empty chairs. Rosie preferred not to talk about it. The other boys did it for him; they acknowledged the reality. As for Rosie, he hopped back into the seat of the B-17 and got them back home to tell more stories. He dropped down into the armchair Harry had vacated, leaning back, his long legs sprawling with that kind of tired carelessness only men who fly too much ever learn.
“But I did stay,” he added after a moment, eyes flicking up to meet Crosby’s, who stared with in the usual wide, yet curious, way. “Had my ticket home in my hand—a sweet dream to Florida. So you must ask yourself, Croz…” He reached up and tapped two fingers lightly against his temple, then over his heart. “Was I thinking with this, or with this?”
A beat of silence, then he cracked a crooked smile. He hasn’t had this conversation since the flak house, and truly, bringing it up now seemed childish. “Or maybe I just like the wine here better.”
The comment about wine took the beat off of the heaviness, making Crosby laugh lightly and shake his head, curls unfurling and swaying against his forehead.
"I don't know, Rosie, you tend to think with your head mostly. And…" Harry crossed the room, came up behind Rosie's chair that he had just been in, and leaned over a bit to press a hand against his chest where his heart would be—where it was. It is still beating, lively, and whole. "This, and the skies. That's all. I don't know any other way you think," Crosby pulled his hand away, folded his arms on the armchair's backrest. Rosie glanced up when Crosby’s hand landed over his heart, breath caught—not from surprise, not really. But something passed between them in that moment. He cranked his head back slightly to look up at Crosby, although he couldn’t see him from the angle. Looking forward again, a smile passed by him.
“I reckon you know me enough to have guessed something like that.”
“You think?” Crosby smiled down, lopsided and sheepishly crooked. He was met with a low hum as his answer, and Crosby was satisfied with that.
Thunder and lightning boomed at once, making Crosby look up and through the window, the light reflecting in his dark eyes. He's glad he's down on the ground and not up in the sky. The British were insane for what they did at night, but brave. Foolishly brave.
"Are you hitting the hay on this?" Crosby asked while looking down at Rosie's sprawling figure, tapping the armchair with a finger. Rosie leaned a little further back, knowing the navigator’s arms were acting as a second backrest for his head.
“I don’t know what scares me more,” he said slowly, voice half-muffled by the low pitch in which he carried. “Flying with you, or sleeping beside you.”
He let the words linger just long enough to sting, to let the other wonder their meaning, then tilted his head up with a crooked grin. “You hog the covers like it’s your job.” Lightning flashed again, harsh across the ceiling. Rosie blinked against it, then sighed through his nose. Crosby opened his mouth in the beginning of a protest, but Rosie beat him to it.
“I’ll take the chair,” he added, softer now. “You should get the bed. I’m used to sleeping sitting up,” Rosie smiled, his neat mustache curling around it most fittingly. Crosby always found it flattering, the way Rosie grinned, the way his features melted and overlapped together in perfection, the wrinkles from his grin, and how much he tries to make it shine. Crosby kept looking down at Rosie wordlessly, the only time he could, as he was shorter than the man. He was shorter than most men in Thorpe Abbots. Aside from the new replacements, of course, but those were just boys. The prospect of Rosie sleeping on the leather chair finally registered, his eyebrows lowered, and with a few blinks, he gained a little more tenderness in his eyes.
"You're Rosie Rosenthal. Do you ever get scared?" He smiled with his usual lopsided smile that would show his teeth a little bit, his eyes pitiful as they usually were when he'd try to cheer someone up. Rosie only scoffed fondly at the question about fear. Maybe because it was too complicated. Maybe because he didn’t want to lie. But his gaze didn’t leave Crosby’s, not even as the lightning lit him up in stark relief. There was something about being looked at like that—by someone like Harry—that stripped all the bravado right off him.
To everyone, Rosie was like a legend. Around 40 missions, he was proving to everyone that it could be done. Just being near the guy gave you hope. Harry thought there should be a statue after him. He wasn't sure how they became friends, only that one day they were sitting together after Rosie returned from the flak house, listening to pilot stories with their arms touching on the chairs. They haven’t been apart ever since, truly. Each mission, Crosby would be on the Control Tower with binoculars, asking if anyone had seen Rosie’s Fort. Being in the presence of the other became a home away from home, a warm fireplace in a stranger’s place, an escape from the raging snowstorm that’d pass now and then. Crosby didn’t want to be parted from the fireplace, not just yet.
Thoughtfully, Crosby glanced at the bedding, eyes of a kicked puppy. He looked back at Rosie, blinking against the second lightning, the third thunder, and the countless flak bombings.
"You sure? About the chair," he asked, looking down bashfully. "It'd be warm in the bed. You're too tall for that chair—c'mon Rosie," he moved around the chair, looped his fingers under Rosie's nimble ones to slowly pull him onto his feet, stepping backwards. Rosie didn’t resist; he couldn’t even protest. He let himself be pulled upward, unfolding from the chair with a lazy stretch and a groan that was half for show.
“You realize you just invited me into your bed,” he said, tone light, but there was a hitch of something real underneath it—half wonder, half warning, stepping into cold waters and watching it ripple. He looked down at their hands, still linked, then backed up so Harry had to stop from pulling him forward.
“…You really don’t mind?”
Crosby smiled up at Rosie, the usual toothy grin that stretched to the side more than the other, crinkling his eye. The act was an answer in itself, more so a question truly—Crosby asked if Rosie minded, in his own way. In response, Rosie’s fingers curled slightly in Harry’s, not pulling away this time, but grounding himself there.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright,” he spoke again, a little louder, a little braver this time.
The navigator beamed, guiding Rosie the rest of the way to the bed. Rosie only chuckled, pulling away one hand so he could begin to unbutton his uniform jacket and slip it off his one sleeve, which Crosby stopped and came behind the other to pull it off his other arm. It was difficult to name what they had, not that they didn’t know what it was, but it was a difficult strain to put on them. To be something more than they are in name was to be that wholeheartedly, and both knew they couldn’t afford it. Rosenthal was six feet deep in his tasks, his duties and missions. He had crews to lead, planes to fly. Crosby desired all the tenderness of the world, the slim escapes, and yet he knew duty too; he breathed it until it intoxicated him. They can’t have what comes with the name of what they have, but they steal it away in these moments. The moments of Rosie’s eyes watching Crosby move, setting the jacket onto the armchair’s backrest. Succulent moment of Crosby removing his layers, the undershirt and the wide pants of code, shedding them while he sat on the bed, all while under the watchful eye of somebody who found utter devotion in the other. Rosie’s head remained in the clouds before the flak house, untied and without reason for going back onto the ground. He was quite fine with it all, the strain of constant missions, he craved it—he craved doing something, being a part of something bigger than his body. But in all of that mess, he found an anchor. When wheels touched turmac, he had something to run to, somebody to tell his stories, sit down with a few drinks, and say all that he’s seen. For once, his stories weren’t told through the crews; he wasn’t painted as this indestructible figure behind a yoke. He was Rosenthal, a man giddy when sitting down in the Flying Fortress like it’s his first time, chipper that the newspaper mentioned a new show in New York. Crosby—he saw all of it. To know Rosie, that was one thing. To know all of his layers was something utterly beyond most men. The navigator was adored, and Rosie came to know why fairly quickly.
Silently, Rosie watched all of it, his hands moving to gently lift Crosby’s chin to look up at him. Those eyes that are always filled with childish wonder, large and dark—they’d always stare back at Rosie with awe, as if not believing what he was seeing was true, it was real. Rosie’s thumb gently caressed Crosby’s cheek, and the navigator turned his head to gently press his lips into his palm. The motion made Rosenthal smile, teeth complemented by the neat mustache.
“We should put a record on,” Rosie suggested as Crosby began to scoot deeper into the bed, unfolding the second layer of blankets from under the mattress.
“Tomorrow,” Crosby mumbled, making Robert pout with his long eyebrows meeting at a point. Crosby looked up at him and chuckled, “I promise.”
“Then you owe a dance,” Rosie climbed in, still in his military pants. Suppose he thought to have them, in case they needed to bolt for shelter if the Kruats got close. Crosby lay down beside him loosely, laying a hand on his bare chest while he stuffed his face into the crook of Rosie’s neck, inhaling deeply and releasing the breath that gave a slight tickle to the other man. He hummed, eyes already fluttering closed against his will.
A moment passed, and Crosby opened his eyes again, looking up through his brows. The breathing under his hand wasn't still enough, not as still as it would be if Rosie was actually sleeping, of he was truly letting himself find rest while others fight.
“You’re brooding, Rosie.”
“Difficult not to, I’ll say.” Rosie was looking at the window, his head turned away from Crosby. Harry sighed, running a thumb over his chest, attempting to soothe, to ground in any way.
“You’ll be back out there.”
“You don’t believe it’s unfair that we are here, and they’re out there?”
“Can’t it all come in turns?” Crosby challenged, making Rosie turn his head to look at the navigator, who was slightly pulled away from Rosie’s neck. “Isn’t that why there are so many of us?”
“I suppose you’d be right,” Rosie supplied, giving his grief rest. Harry only pulled the covers over them, closing his eyes again.
“Think of tomorrow when dawn comes, Rosie. Don’t be in a rush through time.”