"Alfred F. Jones, if you walk out that door, I am never speaking to you again."
Ceasing his track, the silhouetted figure beside the entryway shoved his hands sloppily inside the pockets of his jacket. Glancing towards the staircase to his right – anything to distract himself from thinking – he sighed considerably, drooping his shoulders into an unattractive posture and tapping the hard rubber soles of his boots against the wooden slabs lining the floor. What more could he say?
There was nothing.
Turning to face Matthew, he slowly made his way to him. Gently grasping the sides of his lover's head with his fingertips, he pulled his head down so as to plant a soft kiss on the top of his forehead. Tears began to flood ungracefully into Matthew's eyes as he refused to look at him. "I'll return. I promise," Alfred murmered.
"You can't. You don't know that." Matthew hollowly responded, holding back sobs.
Embracing him into his sturdy arms, Alfred stared sadly into the ghostly white wall behind them. "Just promise me that you'll be here when I return, alright?"
"I love you," Matthew choked, pushing away from the hug and facing his back to Alfred. He crossed his arms, momentarily reaching up to wipe at his tear stained face with his sleeve. He heard Alfred mutter the same, picking up his suitcases and marching out the doorway, kicking it shut with his knee. Shoving his thumb in his mouth and biting down as a counterproductive stress reliever, Matthew glanced over through the living room shades and watched his partner disappear into a painfully dulled yellow taxi.
Last he saw were Alfred's boots, knee high and better suit for trekking through a river than anything else. They reminded him of those worn by soldiers in the superhero comics he always read.
Those soldiers always died.
…
The year was 1917. World War One was in full swing, and the United States of America was now an eager participant.
Alfred couldn't sleep, huddled against the cold, moist Earth of the trenches. It was a cloudless, ugly midnight, but there were no stars to view through the brown smoke which buried the holes like a coffin. Perhaps he would drift into unconsciousness if all was quiet, but war gave no such luxury, and the constant ring of nearby gunshots rang painfully inside his throbbing skull. The consistent snoring of men beside him didn't do much to assist his dilemma.
It had been three months since he last set eyes on home. Home meant America, his birthplace which he so passionately defended, and home meant Matthew.
These trenches, these hellish pits of agony and death, were anything but.
He regretted being here. Oh, he regretted it so, so much. This was nothing like he had imagined. There was no hero's moment, no marching in and giving the land back to its rightful owners and crushing the adversary. This was nothing like that his idealistic, dreamy mind had always conjured. And despite loving his country so – raised on good American patriotism and a proud supporter until the end – he wanted to go home more than anything else. It didn't help that his only rock, the only thing he could think of to take his mind off of living hell, hadn't sent him a letter since the very first week.
Maybe Matthew really had no intentions of speaking to him again. With this assumption, he squeezed shut his eyes, imagining that when he awoke, he'd have a nice cup of coffee waiting for him with the newspaper, and a warm kiss good morning. He wanted it more than anything else in the world.
…
"Matthew?"
"Hmm?" The other hummed, sipping at his coffee and stabbing his pancakes with his fork.
Sitting beside Matthew, Alfred revealed a stack of papers clad with capitalized lettering. Taking a deep breath, he quickly announced, "I'm signing up."
Matthew's cheeks turned immediately pale. Gazing up worriedly at Alfred, he shook his head and gasped, "No you're not."
"Yes I am," Alfred sighed. This already wasn't going well. "I've filled out the forms and stuff. I'm dropping them off in a couple of days."
Matthew continued to stare at him with a somewhat horrified expression forming. "My god, Alfred, no! Neither of us got drafted! Do you know how much of a miracle that is?" He was furious now, raising his shaky voice as best he could. "Dammit, Alfred, no!"
Alfred stood and tried to pull Matthew into a hug, but he was shoved away by the other, who slammed his hands against the table and cursed. "Matthew, come on. I want this. I want to protect my country! Seemingly every other able bodied man is going out there to fight, so why can't I?"
"Because you have no idea what you're up against! You think you know everything, but you don't! Please, Alfred, don't do this!"
Silence brought intense tension as Alfred huffed, crossing his arms flatly along his chest. "It would be nice if you would support me."
Matthew heaved a sigh, looping his arms around his lover. "I do support you. I support you in almost everything you do. But please, for me, for you, stay home with me."
"I can't do that," Alfred confessed, grasping at the papers, trying to ignore the crushed look developing on Matthew's face. He had to ignore it, for if he didn't, there was no way he could go through with this.
"Mr. Jones? Sir?" Matthew suddenly yelled. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Alfred opened his mouth to speak.
"Mr. Jones? Sir? Sir – wake up." Alfred opened his eyes to a young helmeted soldier shaking him violently, clasping a letter in his right hand. He gazed around, slightly disoriented, squinting at the dawn's orange light. "Mr. Jones, sir, you're going home."
"Huh?" Alfred groaned, instinctively reaching for his gun but relaxing with the realization of who was addressing him. "Oh. Wait, what?"
"You're going home, sir. Here's your letter." With that, the messenger ran off, carrying another parcel tucked under his arm.
Alfred didn't hesitate to tear it open. He didn't understand what was going on and wanted to find out. Why in the hell would he be going home? He had barely been in actual combat.
Unfolding the paper, he scanned the top paragraph, barely even registering what it was saying until his heart stopped.
"Oh my…"
Stamped in hard black ink were the horrific words, "We send our regards in every way possible for your loss."
Matthew Williams was dead.
…
Alfred sat and sipped his coffee, gazing into the newspaper before him. A section was dedicated to fallen soldiers – Matthew's obituary the first thing to notice, as he was from the town, and his face lay plastered largely across the page. His heart felt numb. He had no more crying left to do for today.
Matthew had signed up for the war the day after Alfred went overseas. He had no idea why. There was no one he had even spoken to about it. And it ultimately ended in his demise by none other than friendly fire.
The house was too quiet. Even with someone as soft and gently spoken as Matthew, nothing had ever felt so empty. His extreme lack of sleep only amplified the uncomfortable feeling as he rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. Whoever would have known that the best night of sleep he would have gotten this past week was in the battlefield?
If only he had stayed. Matthew's death was his fault.
"I thought you promised, Matthew," Alfred moaned, cupping his head in his hands. "That you'd be here when I returned." And despite there being no more tears to shed, he silently choked on his own sobs, more alone and resentful than ever.
He loved his country so. He believed it to be the greatest nation to have ever reigned. But there was one thing in the world he had loved more.
And he'd die to take his sins away.