He doesn't belong here, Thomas keeps repeating, over and over in his mind. He doesn't belong here, but yet he stays, chained to his destiny of horror and death. The mantra soon usurps his conscious, and each day feels like a dream from which he shall never awake.

And each night he curls in on himself, barren and alone in the filthy trenches, trembling hands barely able to grip his gun. As the deafening storm of bullets rain millimetres above his head, Thomas repeats it.

I don't belong here I don't belong here I don't belong here-

"I really don't belong here." A voice punctures the air, followed by a soft laugh.

Panic-stricken, Thomas clutches his rifle tight to his chest and looks to his right, not ready to die by the hands of a mind-reader. A fellow soldier settles in close beside him. He loosens his grip, relaxing.

"The name's Jimmy Kent, Private." Jimmy flashes him a smile, hands busily reloading his gun.

Jimmy is very young and handsome; Thomas can't help but notice, with bright eyes and an easy air about him.

He feels his chest swell from their proximity. Keeps his eyes straight ahead, and responds. "Thomas Barrow, would-be-medic."

Jimmy nods, still grinning despite the unrelenting onslaught of bullets overhead. "Shouldn't you be elsewhere? Out of the line of fire perhaps?"

Thomas tightens his jaw slightly. "Couldn't. Got drafted here cos we're fightin' for a daft lot."

Jimmy laughs heartily. "Amen to that!" He glances around, leans in closer so Thomas can hear. "Fancy a drink, Barrow?" He has to strain his voice.

Thomas' mouth waters, craving the taste that will deliver him to another, safer place. He nods.

Reaching into a pocket, the young man procures a metal flask, uncapping it and taking a deep swig. He exhales appreciatively and offers it to Thomas.

Thomas accepts the flask, still warm from Jimmy's hand. He hesitates, realising that the other male's lips were upon the neck of the bottle just a moment ago. He drinks deeply, colouring, and feels thankful for the night's ability to obscure.

"Tell me about yourself." Jimmy says.

Thomas shrugs, a pleasant warmth working its way through his veins. He takes another gulp and passes the flask back. "There isn't much to tell."

"Tell me anyway." And Jimmy is so beautiful and warm beside him, Thomas tells him.

"Maybe I'll go into service after the war," Jimmy muses. "At this Downton you speak so fondly of." He smiles at Thomas again.

Thomas' heart skips a beat and he finds himself nodding eagerly. "I'd like that very much." The alcohol starts to blur the line between friendship and intimacy, and he places his hand on the Private's knee, squeezes it.

The younger male stiffens visibly, cueing Thomas to retract his hand. "Sorry." He mumbles.

"No worries." Jimmy waves it off, and Thomas knows it's most likely the whiskey that has made him react so civilly.

They continue to talk into the night.