Alfred's face was beautiful, even in death.

His sharp nose and cheekbones drew the soft sunlight to them and his lips were as pink and soft-looking as they had been when Arthur had first seen him. His uniform sharply pressed and all curt lines and beige, medals lying over a heart that no longer beat. There was no blood, no gunfire and the smell of fear and war. There was only sunlight and peace.
He wanted to shake his shoulders, slap him, anything to stop him from being so serene and emotionless. Alfred was always in motion, laughing, loving, smiling.
Living.
The bullet wound on his forehead was nearly invisible.
Arthur could see every moment with him in his head. Every touch he'd lavished upon him burned on his body like a brand, testament to his devotion and love. Arthur had thought he could never love like he had loved Alfred.
"I will make you mine. I will teach you to love me. I have you, Arthur. Nothing will go wrong."
Six months. Six mesmerizing, stolen, precious months of Alfred F Jones. Six months of living with caresses and kisses in the rain and fiery lips on every inch of his skin. Six months of secrecy and elbows brushing at work, secret glances and practically devouring each other when they got to their little hideaway.
Then, everything went to hell.
Alfred developed a mouth. He protested against certain ideas, exposed scandals. Arthur begged him to stop, to keep his head down and mouth shut. But no. Brave, beautiful Alfred Jones had to speak up and get himself in trouble, the ridiculous, charming, lovable git.
And they would send him, Arthur Kirkland, their best man to take him down when he went rogue.
Find him and finish him.
Oh, dear God, why?
So, when they were in the front lines, in a tent and Alfred bandaging Arthur's wounds, he'd taken his gun out and aimed it at his darling's head, mouth trembling, because he was a good, loyal soldier who obeyed orders.
Alfred could have taken him out then and there, but he simply remained kneeling, hands on Arthur's knees.
"So this is where it ends, love. In the middle of a warzone and me at your feet." He rested his chin on the back of his hand.
Arthur pulled off the safety catch.
There was no fear or hate in his azure eyes, only sincerity and unconditional love.
"I want a twenty one gun salute. Bury me in my favorite uniform, you know, the one you pressed especially for that ceremony. I won't be needing it for that, I guess."
Arthur inhaled deeply and pressed the gun to the middle of Alfred's forehead, precisely between his eyebrows.
Alfred took out a little box from his pocket and placed it on the Briton's thigh.
"This is yours."
They stared at each other for a long moment and Alfred reached up and pulled Arthur's face down and kissed him long and hard.
"Goodbye and goodnight, Arthur."
He exhaled and fired. Alfred's body recoiled and his eyes widened, before he lay on the cool earth of the floor.
He wiped the blood off of his cheek and pressed it to his open mouth, wanting to taste Alfred and revel in his warmth one last time. He picked up the little box. Inside glimmered a simple gold ring with a solitaire diamond.
"I do. With my whole heart and soul, I do, Alfred. With this ring, I thee wed, and forever pledge my devotion."
Now, standing in front of his husband's coffin, whom he killed in the name of a higher ideal, who took the bullet with a smile and Arthur's name on his mouth, he could only press his hand to his mouth, ring digging into his bottom lip and whisper the words he should have said at an altar holding his blue-eyed fiancé's hand. "I do, Alfred."

And for all the years of his life, after all the gorgeous women and men, Arthur Kirkland, officer of the Empire would only dream of a commander named Alfred F Jones.

He never took the ring off.