Night had given way to early morning and Arthur was standing in the Hulets' doorframe watching as, one by one, the families of the village awoke and smoke began to pour from their chimneys. Alfred was lying on the ground, still asleep, and for the first time Arthur had woken up before anyone else in the house.

Winter was rapidly approaching now. He could feel it in the way the breeze was crisper; sharper. He looked down at his uniform and began to play with his cuffs, absentmindedly stretching them out. It seemed like only yesterday they were new, starched and stiff. They had already been dirtied and bloodied, and he hadn't even set foot on the battlefield yet.

The converging sounds of Alfred's steady breathing, the quiet whisper of the wind, and the sleepy calls of the birds from somewhere up above threw Arthur into a sort of trance as he looked out at the village. It was the soft sound of leather shoes against dirt that startled him from his reverie. He looked up to see Daniels making his way to the Hulets' front door.

"Kirkland, follow me," was all the man said as he beckoned to Arthur.

Arthur could see the man lying in the cot had once been handsome, with shocks of black hair and clear green eyes. If Arthur had only seen the right side, he never would've guessed.

The right side of the man's face had been badly disfigured in a bombing, leaving it various shades of painful looking red and with an eye so swollen no green was visible. He had lost patches of hair and the smell of the burnt follicles still permeated the man. Although the patient's body was wrapped up in sheets, Arthur knew it must have been just as badly mangled.

The fact that the man's cot had been shoved in such a tiny room probably didn't help the pervading smell of burnt skin and hair that lingered about. An old hotel in the middle of town had been converted into an ersatz hospital in the wake of the soldiers' arrival, but there hadn't been enough rooms. Arthur figured the man's lodging had probably once been a closet of some sort.

Arthur was left standing awkwardly above the man in the cramped room while he waited for Daniels— who was digging through a drawer looking for something— to tell him what to do.

"Ah, here it is! Kirkland, you're going to help me out by bandaging his face. I've got one last man to put a splint on, and then we're out of here." He tossed the roll of bandages to Arthur and then sped out the door. Arthur was happy to see him leave, as he still felt uncomfortable around the doctor.

"I'm sorry if this hurts, but I'll have to hold your chin." The patient remained silent as Arthur took hold of his face and began winding the bandages.

"You must be happy to be getting out of here. They'll be sending you home, I'm sure," Arthur said in what he knew was a vain attempt to comfort the burned man.

The man remained silent once again, although he slowly shook his head "No".

Arthur's brow furrowed. "Really? You aren't happy to go back?

"I'm not going back. They won't let me," the man replied hoarsely, the pain evident in his voice.

Arthur nearly dropped the strip of bandages, but managed to catch himself and finish the roll. "They aren't letting you go home?" He took a seat near the burned man, dumbfounded.

"No."

Daniels entered the room before Arthur could reply. He inspected the man's face and then turned to look at Arthur. "Good show, Kirkland, you're dismissed. Tell Jones not to bother with guard duty, you should both pack up."

"What about evacuation, sir?" Arthur asked. Nobody in the village had been evacuated since they soldiers had arrived, and the threat of an attack on the village only grew more and more likely as news of the death tolls rose.

Daniels shook his head and then ushered Arthur towards the door. "There's no time. We need to leave for the front by nightfall," he explained. With a callous shove, he shut the door in Arthur's face.

"We're just gonna leave everyone here, all these civilians! They're gonna get blown up out here!" Arthur wailed. The bottle of alcohol he had nicked from the medical supplies cabinet remained firmly in his hand throughout his outburst.

It was already early evening and most of the soldiers had finished packing. Noticing a distinct change in Arthur's mood, Alfred had suggested they steal off to the field and drink, stopping by the old hotel to steal some booze. Francis wasn't invited, as Arthur was still angry, and Matthew had declined their invitation because his leg had begun to feel sore. Arthur and Alfred agreed that his limp appeared to be getting worse.

"Those old people… what's gonna happen, Alfred? The old man is gonna die and that old lady will have nobody. Nobody in the bloody world. That is— that is if she and this whole town don't get blown up first!" In his drunkenness and anger, Arthur's accent seemed to be even stronger than normal.

"I know, I know," Alfred said in his best attempt at a soothing voice. He seemed unsure of what to do, but reached out to place a steady hand on Arthur's shoulder. He felt the Briton stop shaking and lean into his palm.

"I feel sick," Arthur said.

"Then why don't you give me the bottle?"

Arthur took three more long swigs. "…No."

Alfred shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you, Artie. We can't do anything. Unless you want to stay here and desert."

Arthur was silent, a lump forming in his throat. "We should," he said quietly.

"Wouldn't that be something? Us staying here. You'd kill me though. You'd get sick of me."

"No."

"Yes, you would."

What was it? Was it the view, the way the black of the sky was reaching for the green of the earth? Was it the warmth spreading underneath his skin borne by alcohol? Was it Alfred's face, his laugh, his hand? Or was it everything? Was it everything working together that had been put into motion so long ago on that train station landing?

Whatever it was, it made Arthur lean forward to kiss Alfred. And whatever it was, it had not had the same machinations on Alfred, because in the darkness he could feel the boy's palm slip from his back to his shoulder to push him away.

The two men stared at one another. Somewhere in all this, a bugle sounded.