Note: These characters belong to E. M. Forster's Maurice and not to me.
Every time he came back from town, Maurice was slightly gloomier than when he had left. It would usually pass after a few hours, but Alec knew that it was the newspaper he carried, full of battles and politics and endless numbers of English dead.
After they had discussed it the first time, the war never again came up. They had spoken of the implications of two healthy and fit young men illegally abstaining from the war. Though they remained in the countryside, the names Maurice Hall and Alec Scudder had vanished from the face of England in almost every way. They had talked of their reluctance to fight for a country that would throw them in jail for living their lives in a way that was natural to them and for finding what many could only wish for: happiness with another human being.
The discussion was pragmatic, as both men could see the hypocrisy of their involvement. But what neither mentioned was that they could not risk the other not making it back to their shared home and shared life. They had been so lucky in finding one another, that taking that risk was incomprehensible.
So as he was inclined to let Maurice be alone with his thoughts, Alec could take the moping for only so long. And when that threshold had been passed, he did what he always did. Gently bringing Maurice out of his reverie by brushing his fingers on the nape of Maurice's neck, Alec whispered in his lover's ear, his love and his need. And when Maurice smiled, and drew Alec close, kissing him as tenderly and passionately as he had that day in the boathouse at Penge, Alec knew, as Maurice knew, that they had made the right decision.