The darkness was complete. It took over everything, the dark, enveloping the walls and bars with its' cold embrace. The dark left a trace of dampness as well, or perhaps it was the combination of human perspiration in an underground cell. That could be it, too.
The darkness was only an expression of the lack of light.
That was the only thing missing- light.
Even if he couldn't see them, Alfred could still hear the other men around him despite their silence. There was nothing much to be said, after all. Their slow breathing, the shift in the air as they moved, was an indication to him that he was not alone. And that was the most important thing.
The damp skin against his arm represented reassurance that his lover had not been among the fallen. The weight of a head on his shoulder told Alfred that even with enemies holding them against their will in some bunker, there was someone who cared for him and showed him kindness in the midst of repression. The brightness that flashed from the other's eyes whenever their gazes met symbolized hope.
"Arthur?" he whispered under his breath, voice cracked from lack of use.
Their jailers didn't encourage conversation among themselves. As if someone could plot an escape- even Alfred couldn't imagine how they'd make it out from the cell without a soldier marching them along.
How long have they been there? Days? Hours? It was hard to tell.
It had been enough to catch the other's attention, however, who shifted a bit and settled his head back on Alfred's shoulder. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need. All Alfred needed was to know that he was listening.
Arthur hadn't been the only one to hear, if Alfred was to judge according to the shifting he heard around him.
Men, his men, surrounded the two of them, each perched against a wall or a comrade's back, listening for the sound of footsteps that would signal change- a meal, perhaps, or maybe a message.
Even a threat would be a refreshing change. In a place where time held no meaning, where everything was on hold, any alteration came as a blessing.
That didn't mean that Alfred could afford for the others to hear what he had to say, though.
They were going to get out sometime, and once in daylight he would have to face the consequence of being overheard.
As lieutenant, he had to set example for his soldiers, and even if he were to be the one to knock down a wall and free them all, he would be dismissed if word let out that he was sleeping with one of his men.
Which was why, in the end, all he did was wrap an arm around Arthur and hold him closer, leaning his own head against the other's. No one could see that, at least. If he couldn't convey comfort through words, his touch would have to suffice.
Arthur understood (he always understood him. Agreeing with was another thing entirely) and shifted closer, splaying the fingers that rested on Alfred's leg.
There was guilt. Of course there was guilt- it was his fault that whoever had followed him ended up here. The rest were probably rotting in no man's land. Alfred had been the leader; he had been the one who led the soldiers.
They trusted him to lead them to victory. Their families trusted him to bring their sons, brothers and husbands home.
And he had failed.
He wouldn't, couldn't break down, not in front of everyone.
They wouldn't be able to see the tears on his face, but he was never good at swallowing the sobs. His throat would burn and contract whenever he tried, and after a few tries he would give up.
Arthur had been the one to tell him that he didn't have to even try to hold back in the first place. It hurt much less after that.
Alfred owed his men to stay strong.
After the initial shock and desperation, he would work on a plan to escape, perhaps negotiate with their jailers whenever they showed up.
But for now all he could spare was for Arthur, the only one he wanted to comfort was him. Putting a face and emotion to the person you failed was the hardest.
"It is alright," he heard a raspy voice whisper against his ear.
Alfred frowned, opening his mouth to object, to point out that they were not alone and most importantly of all, were captured and definitely not alright, but the voice cut him off before he could say any of it. "It is not your fault."
As if to back up his words the hand on his leg stirred to life, rubbing the thumb soothingly against the rough cloth of Alfred's uniform, followed by the whole palm brushing up and down his thigh silently.
They found a spot where the cloth had been torn, exposing bruised skin and pausing for a moment before gliding over it, applying a cool touch to the inflamed wound.
The hand pulled away the moment he breathed in sharply, but when Alfred took a gentle hold of the hand instead of pushing it away, Arthur relaxed.
He couldn't argue his case, prove the other that he was wrong- that he was the one to blame- but he could show that he appreciated him with every stroke of his thumb against the back of Arthur's hand, safe in his own palm.
He turned his head slightly and leaned down, at that moment disregarding the men around him even if they did possess the ability to see them and pressed his lips mutely against Arthur's cheek, feeling the skin tighten and knowing, even without seeing, that Arthur was smiling.
We'll get out of here, babe. I promise.