I don't own APH. Drabble.
Routine
It is another empty night; the sky is covered in clouds and there is barely any light to on, but none of it matters to Arthur as he stays outside his tent and gazes up, as if seeing the stars that lay nestled beyond the black curtain covering his sight. It is ironic, really. The way the sky is devoured by darkness reminds him of his own situation right about now. But, in contrast to the clouds, Arthur cannot see through the emotional fog surrounding him. And he hates himself for it.
As he sits outside and looks upwards, he hears a rustle of a bush near him. He slowly gets up, awake and alert, and moves closer to the noise. He sees the glint of shiny black hair tied in a ponytail and he sighs, relief coursing through his veins. Out of the bush steps out the man he dreams about every night, and Arthur hopes he will continue dreaming of him.
They both go into the tent, careful not to alert anybody else, and they huddle together yet again, seeking comfort in each other, hoping beyond hope that the next day wouldn't arrive, that they wouldn't once again be forced on the battlefield on opposing sides, that one won't die, while the other survives to live half a life. There are no tears. They have already dried up long ago. No words are spoken – just the soft hum of their breathing and the sound of nature just outside the tent.
And suddenly, almost on instinct, Arthur pulls the shorter man in for a kiss. And they kiss slowly, comfortingly. And their eyes, dulled by the day's wrongdoings, brighten up again with passion, lust, comfort. No love though. No, never love. Because they don't love each other. They are one another's stone, they hold each other up as the world around them collapses slowly into nothingness, but no love is there. Just comfort.
And they lay down, and Arthur combs his hand through the other man's long silky hair, and murmurs sweet words of nothingness as they have slow, passionate sex. No, not love. Never love. And the shorter man holds Arthur tightly as if afraid of letting go should he disappear along with the rest of the world. And Arthur holds him back, feeling the weight of worry leave him at once, and the much needed release claims him and his partner.
Then later, they lay on the ground, utterly exhausted, but unable to fall asleep because of that same fear, and they both stare at nothing, and they both say nothing. Neither of them knows how long they stay like that, but soon, the smaller man shifts, and gets up, taking his clothes along with him. And Arthur stares, not in shock, neither in fear, but with understanding which would nearly tear at the short Chinese man's heart every time he glances at him. So he doesn't. He gets dressed and goes out of the tent, ready for the trek back to his own camp, and leaves Arthur alone.
But Arthur isn't worried. He lays back down once he cannot see the silhouette of the brunette through the thin fabric of his tent anymore, and falls asleep, maybe for the last time. And the same man who has invaded his tent invades his dreams, but Arthur never really gets sick of it. He just hopes he would through the next day, and their sick routine would continue.
Because, after all, Arthur is in love with that man.
Yet he doesn't love the man at all.
