AN: This is based on the song Cambodia, by Pulsedriver (which was taken from some song made by some lady decades ago lol). I had listened to the song for the first time in months, and the lyrics really hit me hard. THIS IS NOT A SONGFIC. Just based on the beautiful story of an air force couple during the Vietnam War. I did however use two lines in the song for Arthur's descriptions. There is no detailed sexual content, only implied. Please no comments involving bashing of political views, I made the story unbiased, but remember that the war happened over 50 years ago XD. If you wish to hear the song, just enter this in the end of a YouTube video, URL: watch?v=N0dHKK1SL1Y Enjoy~

October of 1961

I watched out the windows onto the streets of Chicago, small cars and people passing by. I sighed as the sound of humming broke the vibrating city noises and a door slammed shut. I pressed my nose slightly against the glass as the first drops of the rain hit the transparent material, the reflection of a suited man appearing in my adjusted vision.

"Have you still thought about going through with this?" I muttered, my chest aching as my arms lay across it. I heard a hollow laugh followed by footsteps. The rain came down with slight more strength, drowning out the delicate steps he was trying to take. I could still feel the vibrations on the wooden floor. I always felt them, whether he woke before me to prepare breakfast, or had to sneak out for his job. Or even if it was simply because I was reading on the couch and he wished to join me, denying that he despised reading the encyclopedia set I had such interest and pride in. Cloth was sliding off his shoulders, colliding with the couch he must have been standing by. I kept my gaze firmly on the outside scene, hoping to God my emotions would not break through.

"Yes, Arthur, I am still going through with this."

Something in my throat ached and already my eyes were hurting. I huffed and feigned a smile, although my eyes were most likely red anyway. I turned around briskly and saw him staring worriedly at me.

"Well then, I shall go prepare dinner. You must be tired from work," I said, trying to add cheerful undertones even though that was the opposite of what I wanted. Alfred had always taught me to be happy, that good things emerge from bad situations, but when one is clinically diagnosed with depression, I often doubted my ability to even comprehend that.

As I walked into the kitchen and began preparing the meal, I thought back and tried to make sense of just how the hell I ended up like this. I had gone to school in Edinburgh, living with my older brother, met the first American I had ever seen in my life, and was now in the kitchen of a Chicago apartment. I bit my lip whilst removing the meat from the refrigerator, my throat feeling like something large and spiky was lodged in it.

"Arthur, please don't cook, I'll do that tonight... You just go... Just go and-" I slammed the pan I was going to use against the stove and turned to him. He was startled for a moment from the clanging sound, but I was desperately hoping my expression was what caused his eyes to be opened like that. His wide, trapped, blue eyes...

"And do what? Pack your belongings so you can leave to fucking Thailand tomorrow? God damn it, Alfred, why the hell do you have to be so fucking daft?" I shouted, surprised by my own outburst. I covered my mouth behind a hand to hide the fact that it was pulled into a scared frown, but it was no use. Surely my pained eyes and red face gave it away. They always gave it away. Alfred's mouth was open in mild shock, angering me that he lacked an adequate response. "You damn idiot..." I choked, leaning back slightly on the stove behind me.

He just stared at me, not responding, disgusting me that I had practically given my life to this man. I was more disgusted with myself for trusting some stupid, loudmouth idiot like him.

I stopped my memories that were trying to make sense of it all, fearful I would cross into more emotional and intimate thoughts. He was still gaping. "And shut your damn mouth before an insect flies in there," I mumbled, but with enough vemon to elicit a reaction. I turned around and returned to preparing the beef, before the idiot had to speak. He was always speaking, never thinking.

"This is difficult for me too..."

"Obviously not as much as it is to me, you prat. Otherwise you would not be doing it." I laughed sarcastically and stared at the grease leaking from the meat.

"I wanna do this to benefit us-"

"Stop being such a damn hero! God, I-" I placed the palm of my hand against my eyes and rubbed, choking slightly on my words. "I saw this coming for three damn years as you trained to fly those machines and it still hurts-"

"I will still lo-" I slammed my fist against the counter.

"Don't you dare say you will still love me. The first time those words left your accursed mouth, I ended up in fucking Chicago. And now you are just dumping me here so you can get your sick thrills off of clambering through the jungle, chasing- chasing whatever it is- ah, damn it all," I muttered, prodding the meat with a fork in one hand and rubbing my eyes with the other. I felt those steps. The ones he took when he was walking into the bedroom after staying out too late with his coworkers. The ones he made when chasing me across the apartment and shouting apologies. The same ones where he walked across the kitchen naked with a cigarette lit in his mouth and grinning at me as I watched from the bedroom.

I frowned and walked away, before he would place one of his large hands on my shoulder, and trotted into the the bedroom. There were the steps again. I scowled at them and darted to the closet, ripping out the leather suitcase in there and quickly tossing it onto the bed. When he walked in the room I pointed towards it.

"You might as well leave now, it makes no difference either way. I'll end up alone, my depression not improving, stuck in the middle of bloody fucking Illinois without a name to my status," I said firmly, my face now showing more anger than the embarassing sadness it had been earlier. I never liked bringing up, or even acknowleding, my depression, but I feared for my own safety what would happen if Alfred left. That was a fact I was not going to easily admit. Having sat myself firmly on the bed, he stepped up to right in front of me and knelt, catching my gaze as I looked at my lap.

"Why're you sad, Arthur? Good things emerge from the hard times right?" I frowned even deeper and glared. He had had a soft smile when he uttered those words, but now it was a panicked expression. "I mean, the president has been saying that we are doing excellently over there, and I will be in Thailand. On an air force base, nonetheless," he whispered, his voice becoming anxious. "And imagine when I have enough money to buy us a real home, and maybe even one in England, and you can get that garden you are always drawing-" I looked up and actually met his gaze.

"You really don't understand." He raised an eyebrow, signaling for me to explain. I wanted to just outright tell him that I was complacent with how we were, that a home, and plants, and the small little presents he always talked about buying me could not bring him back if something happened, but even he had to have had inferred that from the period we had been in one another's lives. He had to know that I was fine here. Instead of answering him, I leant forward and carefully kissed his half-open mouth, hoping to convey the answer to him. His mouth closed as he inhaled sharply through his nose. To my surprise, he buried his face in my stomach, his powerful arms wrapping around my waist. He was not crying, Alfred was too vain for that, but the shuddering gasps he was giving off was the closest thing I could get, so I simply began rubbing his head in response. He began pushing upwards, his arms and head moving from my abdominals to my pectorals. His hands travelled up my shoulderblades and then latched on at the base of my neck. With a sigh, my body fell backwards, pulling Alfred on top of me as I lay on the bed, taking in the vibrating breath with silent joy.

Instead of feeling or hearing the steps, I watched them. I watched his feet pace anxiously over the kitchen's floor, the tiny ashes of what was once tobacco falling by those feet. I then brought my gaze upward, already familiar with the bare forme until I came across the spectacled face. His glasses were glinting in the light of his cigarette, the thing bobbing up and down as he moved about. He had offered to clean up the kitchen, neither of us wanting to eat the now burnt beef, saying that he wanted me to just rest. So I lay down under the bed, the only protection being the sheets that travelled up to my shoulders and the pillow that partially covered my face. He probably thought I was sleeping, but at the same time, the reckless ways he handled the metal kitchen impliments told me otherwise. Or he was just being as daft as ever.

A grin flickered across my mouth before I decided to shut my eyes and just listen. I could hear the cars moving about outside, even though it was well past three in the morning. The sound of the gentle sucks and puffs, accompanied occasionally by a swear caused my chest to clench. My breathing stilled, as I was attempting to silence everything just to hear him. Running water and a hand slapping against a thigh. A 'Jesus' followed by a silent groan made the choking sensation return to me. Wincing through the pain my hips gave me, I turned over so that my back was facing the kitchen, the light from above the kitchen sink flowing right over my back and onto the floor I was now staring at. The water stopped and louder, clumsier footsteps neared me. The bed creaked and the fabric shifted, revealing my naked back to the brutally cold air. I shivered once before regretting doing so.

Now that he knew I was conscious, Alfred decided to quickly climb in and grab at my waist, pulling me backwards so that his muscled chest pressed against my shaking shoulderblades. His fingers splayed against my pectorals and his nose pressed in the curve of my neck. A strong inhale made the hairs on my neck bristle for a moment as I attempted to calm myself. He never grabbed at me like this before when we went to sleep. An arm around my waist, or a leg over my hip, but not like this at all. I then felt one of his legs make their way between mine, intertwining at the ankle with my right leg. His hold around my chest tightened, challenging me to attempt to breath.

My mouth changed from an anxious frown to now just an apathetic curvature. I was about to tell him he left his glasses on, one of the lenses burying into my scalp, but I let it pass.

After about half an hour, I finally neared sleep, when the gentle sound and feel of a kiss woke me. Another soon followed afterwards.

"What're y'doin', Alfred?" I muttered, my mind still in a rather groggy state.

"Kissin' you," he replied simply, his voice just as fatigued as mine. "Can I do that?" he muttered. I woke up slightly more, my mind completely forgetting of why I had been yelling at him earlier.

"Of course you may, love..." I mumbled, still not completely conscious. He hummed and then resumed, kissing the same area on my neck. Sleep was strong and prevalent, but it seemed that I now had the ability to fight it, the small, burning, moist signs of affection progressively waking me more and more.

"You'll remember this right?" he muttered against my shoulder. I tilted my head back and tried to glance at him.

"Remember what...?" His breath pooled over my neck and some managed to push through my hair as he sighed tiredly. He laughed.

"Three rounds is enough to remember for five years, right?" he asked, slightly more panicked with soft nervous chuckles coming out afterwards.

"Alfred, what do you mea-"

"You'll remember them because all I have ever tried to do was pleasure you, right, Arthur?" His voice was filled with anxiety and subtle sadness, however there was also hope. My eyes widened in mild shock, my body washing over with a cold, prickly feeling. I really was far too in love with this man.

I opened my eyes slowly and caught my breath as Alfred finished the kiss. His hair was unbrushed, his glasses slightly crooked, and even though his brows were turned upward in anxious worry, he grinned the same childish way he had since I first met him, causing my chest to tighten for a moment. He was fully dressed in his light blue uniform, a cap on his head and a suitcase in his hand. He looked far more mature than the college student I had known four years ago.

"Well then... the cab is waiting..." I muttered. I did not want to say that, but I was at a loss for words otherwise. We already knew just how much I did not want him to leave, and we were also aware about just how adamant he was about this.

"Yeah... It is..." So with a silent pat on his shoulder from me, he pushed the door open, and we descended to the ground floor. It was still raining from yesterday, the concrete carpets shimmering from the sleek coat of precipitation. Once we took the first steps outside, we immediately saw the green cab at the same time, his breath hitching for a second. It was rather reassuring knowing he was feeling like this as well, even though he always claimed he would be the strong one for me. Before we walked into the rain, we remained under the protection of the entrance and embraced one last time, his arms practically squeezing the breath out of me. I would have kissed him as well, but I had never been too fond of the idea of people seeing us, and especially since Alfred was in the military. So once he let go of me, he trotted down the stairs, feigning pride and mental preparedness and opened the door to the taxi. Before he climbed in, he nodded his head and grinned in what was I knew his attempt at a last minute comfort. Not so much for me but more or less for his own mental stability. It amused me for a moment that I could recognise and understand each of his little habits, but as I walked back up to our apartment, it only hurt me to know that that was just how close we were.

January of 1962

The first few months were fine on my own. Alfred mailed me his service checks and I used them to pay rent and buy food. And no matter how much I needed, there would always be some leftover to put away towards that house he had talked about. He would also send letters alongside the money, telling me of how he flew over the jungles and beaches of Vietnam, the fields of Cambodia, and even befriended some of the local Thai people. On Christmas we were actually allowed to communicate via phone with one another. We shared a few laughs when he told the story of how he had hit his head on the hatch of his plane. Enough so that apparently he had a scar on his forehead. There were no 'be safe for me's exchanged, there were no 'I wish you would come home sooner's, and there most definitely were no 'I love you's. I think it was a silent agreement before we had even said 'hello' that those things would only make the call more difficult. They were also just things we knew without having to say. It was funny how we had come since we first met, the memory still rather vivid in my mind.

I remembered when he had trotted across the school grounds, shouting at me for directions in May of 1957. How he was flustered and smiling and oh so very American, with the gleaming smile and brash voice. Even the way he shook my hand made me wonder if all Americans shook with that much strength. After giving him directions, he stupidly ran across to the other buildings, colliding messily with other students on the way. I had just stood there, staring at the red marks developing on my right hand.

Later that day when I was walking my bike off the school grounds, I had heard the shouting of my name. To my surprise, I saw the shining American from earlier running up to me, papers gripped firmly in his hands. The sun was setting behind him, causing me pain to actually look at him.

"How do you know my name?" I had asked, slightly confused. He finally made it beside me, a loud laugh breaking through the somewhat silent dusk.

"You are Alasdair's brother, aren't ya?" I frowned inwardly. I should have known that the reason the only American I had ever met was simply there to see my older brother. "I am supposed to meet up with him, apparently he is selling that old pub of ya'll's to my father, so he sent me, thinking I needed to see the world. Which is totally ridiculous since I have been to Canada and Mexico, and was not that impressed. But I suppose the U.K. is sligh-" I had to shut him up.

"Ah yes, follow me, I was just walking home..." He had giggled and pat my back with too much strength, causing me to push into the handlebars of my bicycle with a grunt. I was confused about my brother's decision to sell the pub, but I was more confused as to why I had caught myself flashing glances at the grinning man walking besides me.

I sighed as I sat on the couch, listening to the radio play music from three decades ago. There was a warm mug of tea in my hands and a blanket over my lap. Some days I feared I would go stir-crazy, but others I simply reminded myself just how comforting the isolation could be.

I admit that my chest ached on New Year's, when I was watching the firework show on our television, but I was proud at how I was handling the situation so far. I had had only one anxiety attack, and that was quickly helped when my neighbour, a kind little Japanese man, came over to wonder if I was fine. Apparently, the groaning I was making was enough to alert him, both embarassing me and making me thankful. As I thought about it more, the more I realised that I had less anxiety since I first met Alfred. When I lived in Edinburgh, the attacks would be a monthly occurence. Alasdair would often not know how to handle the situation properly, and panic. After a time we found out that if I sat on the couch, completely surrounded with all the pillows in the house, and wrapped with a blanket, it would calm me. We first learnt that method when I was fifteen and had used well up until I was twenty-two. Before that however, when I had still attended boarding school in Liverpool, the teachers thought I was just striving for attention and wished to find an easy way out of class, as many as three times a week. Often, I would be sent to my room with the assignments for the day and have to stay there, doing my work anyway. Since I had no one to comfort me, I simply stared at the ceiling, waiting for the dread to pass over.

But when Alfred was living with my brother and me, those first few months we knew each other, it was odd. I would still get my occasional bout of anxiety, but once when Alasdair was out in the town, I was left with clueless Alfred. At first, he thought I was crying due to a jeer he had shot me when I walked down the stairs, but when he (finally) figured out otherwise, he began freaking out as well. He listed every drink available, trying to find which would comfort me the most, only to have me groan in reply. He then shouted once in a frenzy when I had began to grind my teeth and then just dropped to the floor beside me and wrapped his arms around my huddled forme. He started rocking me back and forth, singing some absurd song about the Union and Confederacy, with his nose pressed against the side of my head. He had stopped when my moans turned into soft chuckles.

"W-what?" he had asked, loosening the hold around me.

"Your singing is atrocious, you know that?" I teased, turning to face him. He smiled embarassedly to me whilst I stood up and brushed my trousers off. It was then that the small realisation that that had been the quickest it had ever taken to pull me out of an attack struck me. And since then, it was always Alfred who comforted me.

But now I was alone, hoping to hear something of interest in the broadcast. Instead I hear President Kennedy's voice assuring the American populace that they were doing fantastically in the war, but I knew the truth. I knew from my letters that terrifying guerilla warfare and traitorous peoples were bludgeoning off any American missions so that we were actually on the losing end. Alfred had told me that he had already witnessed one of his ally's planes be shot out of the air and land in the jungle with all the fanfare a soldier deserved, except it was in the forme of fire and flying shrapnel. This did cause me to worry for him more, but at the same time, I reassured myself to have faith in him. Yes Alfred was daft and immature and cocky and had that damned hero-complex, but he was also caring and careful, knowing how drastically it would affect me if he was to pass. And I know he cared enough for my sake to not be the reckless idiot he could be.

I exhaled strongly through my nose, the cold air that came out travelling down my face and making me shiver. It was raining again. I had learnt that Chicago had some of the most depressing weather of any American city I had been in, but at the same time, the drizzly rain and warm, blanketing air were reassurances to when I lived in England and my parents were still alive back when I was under the age of six. And then came that damned memory, the one I would always react terribly too. The memory of my parents walking down the street and not far from home either, me watching from the front porch. I shouted in my mind to stop the thinking right then and there but I did not. I stupidly did not, and the film progressed in my mind. It was dark, my parents hoping to walk to a nearby local restuarant to enjoy time with one another. I was waving and shouting goodbyes, my older brothers all shouting for me to come in and shut the door. But I did not, and I watched as a screeching car, its headlights not on and men inside screaming out obscenities. I could see the car, its rusty metal body illuminated in what light the house provided, but as my parents crossed the street up ahead, they knew nothing of it beside the rumbling sound it make. The next thing I heard was the screeching of brakes and the sound one hears when when a tree is felled.

I groaned, the memory all too alive and laid down on the couch. My legs were tucked against my chest and I clutched at my scalp, the sharp, little breaths becoming prevalent. I thought about how we were sent to live with our insane second cousin in Gloucester, and the things I experienced whilst my brothers attended school. I was left being the object of actions that ashamed me as much as scarred me and I had told no one. Only Alfred knew about them. And he knew about them because apparently I had been shouting in my sleep one night, causing him to question.

And here I was, curled on the couch, my face already contorted the usual look of panic it would find in these moments, muttering for Alfred again and again.

April of 1963

After having bathed and eaten, I walked into the main room and dripped onto the floor to see the day's mail laying on the ground by the door. Excited now, I trotted over to it and picked it up. I filed through and found the one with the United States Air Force seal and quickly darted to a nearby chair. Ripping it open, I sat down and grinned, the typewriter print now visible to me. I skimmed over the introduction that involved the formalities and titles, the warning not to expose anything to the general public that could affect the war under penalty of law, and the address to me, knowing it was always 'To my dearest Arthur'.

Easter is fast approaching and I am hoping you will make some egg salad for me.

I know you hate the 'thrice-damned, too fatty' stuff, and not that British egg salad where

it is actually a salad with eggs on the side. The kind with enough mayonnaise that you

could swim in it. I can only imagine the scowl on your face right now, which is why I am

laughing as I write this. But in all honesty, I really do hope you enjoy Easter instead of just

sitting inside or going to the park to watch the children enjoy the easter egg hunt. I promise

you that once we have a house with a garden, I will hide eggs for you, and you can pretend

you are a child again and find them. I wish I could actually remove that sentence, it was not

kind of me to bring up your childhood, but hey, apparently I am the tactless idiot you accuse

me of being after all. I am beating around the bush though, as I actually have a rather

important message. I will be leaving on a campaign in Cambodia in a few weeks for the

remaining three and a half years of my service. Now this normally would not be much to write

about, except for the fact that I will have little to no contact with the outside world, and for a

much more embarassing reason. I am rather terrified actually of going into Cambodia. Just

flying over the land is frightening enough, but to be stationed there is something I do not look

forward to in the least. In fact my fingers are shaking slightly just writing this. Ah look at me,

I am turning into a damned nervous wreck, and here I thought I was going to be the strong

one for both of us. I am not worried about dying, I think I have lived long enough in the

kind of missions I have been given to assure me returning alive, but there are many terrifying

things that Viet Cong in Cambodia use. I do not suppose you would be willing to just try and

forget about me for a while? That way you would not worry? Oh I don't know, now I am

just spewing idiocy from my mouth. I promise I will write you once more, but I honestly

have nothing left to say. Just stay safe, and please do not worry yourself too much. God

knows you do that enough even without me in any of those thoughts.

I hummed and looked at the letter, not reading the words anymore. That stupid idiot, thinking I could forget him or even try to. It was his money I was living off of, his fault I was in the States, and that stupid smile in the photos I caught myself looking. For a moment I was shocked that I was not more thoughtful on the matter of him leaving to Cambodia, but it was exactly what he said that got to me. If he had survived as long as he did, I am sure he would return. Just in what condition, was the question. I shrugged off the thought and hauled myself up. I would just have to wait for the outcome.

November of 1963

I watched the television, my mind still in complete shock. Lyndon Johnson was solemnly swearing oaths, Mrs. Kennedy's face full of confusion and worry. I wondered how Alfred would react to this. I was not even American and my heart ached for the nation. What would Alfred think of this? The newcast flipped to an anchor reading off a list of possible suspects. What would Alfred say? Some of the names were of celebrities. He would probably curse and mumble under his breath. Others were of people local to areas and I had thusly never heard of. I could picture him pacing the kitchen with a cigarette and call up some of his family. His family really was too kind at times, just ditsy... Like Alfred.

I remembered that when I was first brought to the states, Alfred took me to their home in Memphis, and introduced me to everyone. To his cousins, aunts, uncles, and brother, I was a friend he had picked up when conducting the business 'mission' for his father. Later that week when almost everyone left, Alfred had walked into his parents' bedroom. We were leaving the next day, but Alfred had not been able to sleep. For the past two hours, he had complained that he could not leave this reunion without telling at least his parents. So at midnight, he found the pair to be still awake and tottered to their room as I sat umcomfortably in the bedroom we were sharing. It had two twin beds, mine pressed against the wall. I had backed into the corner, my legs pulled up to my chest in anxiety. I heard and felt Alfred's voice from farther down the hall, my mind swimming in worry. There had been laughter, presumably from his mother followed by a very crystalline 'Are you joshing us, Alfred?' More deeper talking followed by a worried voice sounded in the walls. I had been afraid to even step off my bed, much less walk out of the room, but when Alfred walked in, slamming the door behind him, I could only stare with wide eyes. He locked the door with a frown that could be visibly seen in the moonlight that poured into our room. With a sigh, he had walked over beside my bed and then crawled onto it, sitting beside me.

"How'd it go?" I whispered, my paranoia making me worry they were listening in on us. He shook his head with his eyes clenched shut.

"I am just glad we are leaving tomorrow," he muttered, pulling out a cigarette from the pack that was laying on the bedside table. He then grabbed the metal lighter that he had covered in stickers and lit the paper in his mouth. I nudged his shoulder in hopes of providing some comfort.

"That bad?"

"They think I am just pulling a prank on them," he mumbled as he sucked in. I hummed and nodded, watching the smoke rise in the stream of light in front of us.

"That's fine... Maybe when they visit you in Chicago and see me there they'll..." Alfred flicked the burnt tobacco off and hummed in agreement.

"Yeah..." He drew in a long suck and released it slowly before turning slightly. I looked down saw his head pressed into my chest. I reached over and took the cigarette out of his hand, and smothered it in a small crystal ash tray laying on the side table before wrapping my arms around his shoulders. He laughed a few times and then lifted his head. With a childish grin he leant forward, quickly kissed me, and then rolled off the bed. "Good night, Arthur," he whispered more happily whilst climbing in his own bed. My mouth had curved from where I was sitting, both of us excited for what was coming tomorrow.

October of 1966

I was darting around the apartment, cleaning up the rooms in an excited frenzy. Alfred would be returning any day now, and all I was waiting for was a single doorbell ring. I had filled the refrigerator with steaks and a cake and a pitcher of lemonade, with egg salad and sausages. I was grinning in excitement, fully ready for going out to town with him. For the past few days, I would wake up, bathe, dress in some of my nicest clothes, and clean the house. I mocked myself inwardly for the stupid little pattern, but I knew it was only for the best. The remaining profit from Alfred's checks left us with nine-thousand dollars, enough to buy a two-bedroom house. I knew the apartment was pristine, but I kept cleaning anyway.

Knowing my own abilities in regards to cooking, I had bought all of the food from local restuarants and sandwich shops, to avoid the chance that our first meal together in years would be offputting and embarassing. I had put away some of the money from the tutoring services I offered for us to go to the cinema together and then purchased a new television for him. After dusting off the main room's ceiling fan, I collapsed on the couch and laughed to myself in happiness.

"He is coming home soon," I muttered amusedly to myself. I rolled on my stomach and snorted at how when he walked in, he would mock me for keeping the place exactly the same, not changing anything at all. Then he would see the new television and shout in excitement, pondering whether he should embrace me or the electric box. Snickering, I buried my face into the cushion and tossed the feather duster to the floor.

He had always mocked me for cleaning, even when we barely knew each other in Edinburgh. He had followed me around, saying I was like a boring housewife with nothing better to do. We always made fun of one another in that year in Scotland. I sighed and smiled against the cloth. That year was the best year of my life. After conducting business with my brother, Alfred was invited to board with us in our home, Alasdair trying to make himself look good in front of the son of a wealthy American businessman. Alfred on the other hand, would always inquire just how the hell Alasdair and I were brothers, since I spoke as an Englishman and him of a Scotsman. One day, after Alfred consumed all of the biscuits in the kitchen of the pub, Alasdair and I switched accents just to confuse him. Alfred was so worried that day, he kept pinching himself thinking he was seeing and hearing delusions. Why I had ever thought the idiot was charming was beyond me, but at the same time it made perfect sense. He was constantly taking me places, driving about in the car his father kept in Britain. Once Alfred and I spent an entire week alongside the beaches of Cornwall. Apparently that was the county his father owned a home in, so when Alfred had first arrived in Britain, he had to be taken there and then drive to Scotland. I had asked why he tolerated that, only to be given the explanation that driving from Memphis to Atlanta was a much longer trip than that, and he frequented such ventures in the States. I had grown some odd respect for him.

That week in Cornwall was weird though. I think that is when we both silently realised we were attracted to one another, the small back pats, and brushing of hands now awkward and embarassing. And not just for me; Alfred would apologise far too much and I would shy away more often. One night, we sat down in the garden of the home and just talked, wondering why the hell we were acting differently. The conversation lasted well into the morning, with the conclusion that we both saw each other a special way. Only it was not said, we just both silently understood, and we knew the other understood as well. We just chose to pretend that the other did not know and went about as normal.

When we returned to Edinburgh though, Alfred finalised the buying out of the pub, promising that Alasdair and I were still employed in the business. It was a strange sentiment, and I found out through overhearing a phone call that apparently we were supposed to be fired, more skilled bartenders brought in. I had been shocked that Alfred fought for us to stay in the business, so when I confronted him about it, he dodged around the subject. Eventually it led to him admitting for caring about me quite a bit and more embarassing words being shared.

I blushed into the couch, thoroughly shamed at how girly I could be when it came just remembering a stupid little thing like that. And how girly I had behaved when we both confessed. I supposed I had matured in the past nine years just as much, although instead of laughing at stupid things like Alfred, I was easily flustered. Alfred had once said it was an 'adorable' trait of mine, and was quickly given a blow in the stomach. He had just taken it as evidence for the statement he had just made and began laughing.

Really, he knew me all too well.

With a sigh, I shut my eyes and began thinking back on all the little moments we shared until I had fallen into light sleep.

The sound of my door being knocked on jolted me awake. For a moment I actually pondered whom it was before I mocked myself for my stupidity and ran to the door. I ripped it open to reveal two American Air Force soldiers, neither of them recognisable.

"May I help you?" I asked, slightly worried.

"Yes, is this where Alfred Jones is staying? Are you his housekeeper?" the taller of the two asked. I cringed before laughing just to seem polite.

"Ah, no, I am a friend of his. I was tending to the apartment-"

"Oh, come on guys, leave him alone." We all looked down the hall to see the elevator open, a wheelchair coming out. "After all, I highly doubt I made a dangerous enough enemy that they would be in my home." I gasped slightly at the sight of a grinning Alfred, fully donned in his uniform. I smiled just as large as the one he gave me and was about to run up and embrace him, when one little thought nagged me. Why was he in a wheelchair? And then I looked away from the golden hair and flashing grin and down. "Ah, yeah, I see you noticed my little accident," he said, snickering lightly.

"Oh my God, Alfred..." I said, my mind in a complete state of pity. His left leg was missing its foot, something that would not have disabled him this way, but the fact his right leg was completely missing from the knee down made me just stand there in empathetic silence. He laughed once and continued talking even though I was at a loss for words.

"You can leave, guys, I will be fine now. Thank you for helping with my luggage," he said, saluting the other two men. The soldier holding Alfred's suitcase set it beside me and squeezed my shoulder before walking off. Alfred pushed his chair up to me, smiling the entire distance.

"So what are we gonna do to celebrate, Arthur?" I could not reply. I was too shocked. He had lost his ability to walk just to gain some extra money to buy me something he knew I wanted. I looked away from his legs, no longer wanting to, and moved my gaze to his right hand. It was wrapped around the handle of the wheel, the blue cuffs making his large, rugged hands seeming almost more delicate. They could not hide the fact he was missing his smallest finger, the ring finger's top knuckle gone as well. When I looked back to his face, he was frowning. He reached over and put the suitcase in his lap before pushing himself into the apartment. If I did not know any better, I would say he was doing it almost with disgust.

"I, ah... I have some of your favourite food to warm up... and-"

"Holy shit, is that a new television set?" he asked, stopping beside the couch and looking at the expensive item.

"Ahaha, yes, do you like it?" His mouth flickered from the frown he had into a soft grin. It was almost uncharacteristic of him to react so calmly. Sure, the initial reaction was shock, something characteristic of him, but usually Alfred would go into a fit of giggles and then marvel over the item. He did that one year when we scrapped together enough money to buy him a microwave oven, but instead he just stared at the television with a content grin.

"I love it..." I smiled, glad with the small reply. He was probably just tired, that is all.

"Eh, do you want something to eat?" He faced me, the same soft smile that bothered me so much still there.

"Prepare me everything you got," he replied with slightly more enthusiasm than before. I almost chided him on his improper English but decided against it, and instead walked into the kitchen to prepare the food waiting for him.

"So..." he started, coming into the kitchen. "What was with the look of horror back there?" I froze for a moment, not believing he accused me of that.

"Look of horror? What are you talking about, love?" I asked as I contemplated if I should be irritated or not.

"When you first saw my legs. You appeared as if you were looking at a monster." He laughed several times. "And I know I am not that bad looking." I pulled out the steaks and quickly put them on a pan on the stove.

"Alfred... That was not horror... I was just shocked. How else was I supposed to react?" He was silent for a few moments.

"Then why did you look as if you were disappointed in me?" he muttered. Once again, his words both irritated and startled me. As the meat began warming up, I darted back to the fridge and pulled out the lemonade.

"I wasn't disappointed in you. I just could not believe you gave up your le- ...That much just so we could get a home..."

"A home for you. One where you can live happily and not worry about past events. One with a room where you can have several students over to tutor, and I can easily continue with my architectural work. One with a rose garden that sprouts tulips... You know, that kinda stuff that you like so much."

"You could not possibly have done all of that just for me." I stared at him, the pitcher's condensation dripping onto the ground to break the silence. He looked at me as if I had just brutally insulted him.

"Is it too hard to believe that I want to do something nice for you?"

"No, it's just... That is so much and..." I laughed nervously several times. "You know what? I think it has to just do with how I was brought up. You know... no parents, boarding school, and whatnot." I set the pitcher on the nearby table and walked over to him. "Thank you, love," I whispered as I leant forward and kissed him gently. His mouth curved into a small smile, reassuring me that we were still this close, even after being away longer from one another than being together.

I collapsed forward, both of our breathing ragged and our chests sliding over one another in the small coating of sweat. He managed to laugh through the breaths and still wrap his arms around my waist. I stared at the small curly hairs that grew on his chest, my face laying on one of his pectorals, and fought the urge lay my hand on them.

"This day was fun and all, what with going to the theatre and all that, but really, that was my favourite part," he chuckled. I flicked one of his biceps.

"Of course it was, you perverse adolescent. God, I had forgotten just how much you act like a hormonal teenager at times." Alfred boomed with his laughs and then rolled slightly, so that he was almost laying on top of me. He was still chuckling even when he buried his face into my shoulder and held on tighter to my waist. "My God, you are going to cramp up if you keep laughing like that," I said, trying to free myself of his near crushing hold. He did not stop however. "Why are you so excited?" It was then that I felt something moist on my neck, and I noticed something that disturbed me slightly. His laughs had melted into crying, the mania that I would actually expect of him after intercourse now a depressing sob. I just sat there, holding him, unsure of what to do. Alfred was supposed to comfort me, and as ridiculous as it sounded, be my hero; not the other way around. And I worried, for something must have broken inside of his mind to bring him to this.

When we fell asleep, it was to a dirty kitchen and unlit cigarettes.

December of 1966

I pushed the wheel chair carefully up the front stairs of the home, the door already open and waiting for us. The sound of an occasional car and children across the street filled our ears even when the door was shut and we were completely in. We had be recommended this home from a friend of Alfred's so now we were just seeing it in person. It was empty, the squeaking sound the wheelchair made echoing throughout as our steps were amplified to almost scary sounds. In a silence that was not awkward, we I pushed him around to see the rest of the house. Thankfully, the home was only one story, not only making it cheaper, but that much less of a hassle for us. So from one room to the next, we quietly evaluated. It was not until we reached the kitchen in the back that Alfred grabbed the wheels and pulled himself away. He went up to the window that looked into the backyard, his face stern, but not cruel. He laughed through his nose.

"There's a gardenbed, Arthur..." he muttered. I walked up to him.

"Is that so..." He hummed in affirmation whilst I looked around to find it. Once I found it, I reached down and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Well then... What do you suggest we do?"

"I like this one, Arthur," he said, sounding like a child telling their mother what toy they wanted from a shop. I huffed and nodded.

"Well then... We will go to the bank and then contact our real estate agent."

"Awesome," he muttered, once again sounding like he was a child. It was good to know some bits of him were preserved. Especially since he had hardly batted a lash over the fact that Christmas was coming up soon.

February of 1967

I sat, a student in front of me, and Alfred on the other side of the room. I was trying to focus on the mathematic problems the child was reading out, but instead I was peeking through my eyelashes and reading glasses to see the back of a wheelchair. He was frustrated, that much I knew. Normally when Alfred had difficulty coming up with any creative designs, he went out jogging or to a local pool to swim. My heart ached and my mind clouded out the numbers that were being said out loud.

I wondered what he was thinking, whether he was internally bitter about the fact he could not do what usually helped him the most. I hummed and glanced at the high school boy once, just to reassure him that I was still there. Immediately afterwards I was back to my distraction. Maybe his mind was just wandering, or he did not want to work, but thought I would chide him if he left his work desk. I exhaled through my nose and returned to my teachings, waiting for the last few minutes of the lesson to pass.

Once it ended, I stood up and saw the kid off, Alfred just remaining in his defeated position. I came back in the room with my arms crossed around my chest.

"Having difficulty, love?" Alfred glanced at me, his expression empty, as if he was staring at the air above my shoulder. "How about a bath to refresh your mind and body." He smiled slightly and nodded his head.

Since Alfred had returned, I had added to my list of chores assisting Alfred in bathing. The first time he had attempted it alone and almost drowned from not being able to sit himself up. So I had helped him with every one from then on. I did not mind it that much, but I think that Alfred found it embarassing and something to be ashamed of. So as he sat in the porcelain basin, he tried to keep any eye contact away from me, finding distraction from the foam sitting on top. When my face neared his hand (I had been reaching to turn the faucet off) he poked a small bit of the airy substance on my cheek. He laughed only once. I stared at him and smiled, something I would not have done if this was six years ago. Normally Alfred would have burst into such loud laughter, the neighbours could hear it, me scowling and accusing him of immaturity. I was disappointed to say the least. When I stood up whilst rolling my sleeves back down, Alfred began blowing a hole in the foam. I was about to walk over to the toilet to sit and keep watch, when he grabbed one of my wrists.

Since he had returned, I had learnt that because of his disability to walk, his arms had become even stronger than before. So it was no surprise that when Alfred pulled down, I fell face first into the foamy water. I tried to pull my head back out of the water, but he had quickly grabbed my thigh and pulled my legs in as well. When I finally pulled back out, instead of gasping, I glared at him. He was grinning, but once again, it looked as if he was staring at the air in front of him instead of me. He poked my forehead, me still standing on all fours in the water.

"Silly Arthur... You don't wear clothes in a bath," he said childishly. I was about to just off and pull myself out when he stuttered. "Oh come on, Arthur, we haven't taken a bath together in forever." I sighed and sat up in the water, giving him a look that read 'Are you serious'. After a moment of him just mischeviously grinning, I sighed and pulled my heavy shirt off over my head. Muttering under my breath, I struggled to remove my trousers underneath the water as well, but eventually I managed the throw the troublesome tangle of fabric over the tub alongside my shirt. I sat there, just looking at him.

"Are you happy, you inane child?" Alfred nodded and grinned. I decided that it could not harm to humour him, so I pulled myself forward and turned around. If I had to sit in warm water and not bathe, I was going to at least rest to my fullest extent. Alfred snickered and wrapped his arms loosely around my waist as I just laid my head against his collarbone.

For a few minutes, I was comfortable like this, but then I noticed Alfred began slipping, unable to prop himself against the opposite wall of the tub. I quickly pushed with my feet and readjusted us. When the process began again, I pulled out of the hold and looked at him.

"Would it be better if I was the one against the tub?" It was then that Alfred completely flushed over. He had the same look a child would the mother asked them if they were able to tie their shoes yet. I questioned why, but I supposed it had to with the fact that even though Alfred had been acting increasingly strange, he still held onto that pride in his ability to act like he supported me. "Is something the matter?"

"Ah, I- ah, no, I can hold you."

"Alfred, you have to realise that you cannot do everything in this state." He cocked his head to the side.

"Haha, whadd'ya mean, Arthur?" I felt his hands clasp at the base of my spine, and he pulled me somewhat painfully into his chest.

"I mean, that I can take care of you as much as you can care for me. That's what two people in a relationship do."

"I know that... It's just, you have had much more happen to you than what happened to me."

"Alfred! You had your plane crash and then tripped a landmine! You travelled through the jungles of Cambodia and faced God knows what else, with only your co-pilot to accompany you! I have had time to heal from what happened but you are still in pain!" I recoiled slightly from my shouting and stared at him. His eyes were empty again. "Just what did happen to you in Cambodia?" He sighed, his chest shuddering against mine. I pulled myself upward and cupped his face. "L-look at me, Alfred..."

"Hmm?"

"W-what happened to you?"

He averted his gaze, looking at the tiled wall instead of me.

"Answer me! Answer me... please." I became slightly panicked and moved my face in front of his gaze. "You know of everything that bothers me. You know some things not even my brothers know. I trust you... and you trust me. So please, Alfred." My eyes began hurting, both from the desperate pleading look I was giving him and for the fact he was not responding. "Alfred!" I sobbed. I was ashamed in myself for crying this easily, but as I held him this close I searched his face. I had no idea what happened to him in Cambodia, but it was changing Alfred into a person that looked and talked like the man I loved, but was simply nothing more.

June of 1967

Screaming, that was the sound I woke up to at three in the morning. I opened my eyes and quickly moved to the other side of the bed. Alfred had curled himself into a ball, his hands clamped over his ears, the mangled fingers visible in the little light that poured through the windows.

"Alfred, calm down," I said loudly, attempting to pull his hands from his ears. "Alfred, I need you to breath... Alfred!" He stopped shouting, and turned around, his look in complete panic. "There, there... It's fine, love." His expression remained anxious for several more moments until contorting into complete rage.

"Would you stop that! Just stop it!" he shouted angrily at me. I backed up slightly. Maybe he was dreaming of something, and was sleep walking.

"Stop what?" I waited for some ridiculous answer, like birds were taking his food or he was being chased by the sister he did not have. He must have been yelling at a dream, I reassured myself.

"Comforting me like that!" he shouted, still infuriated. So he was fully awake. My bottom lip quivered, unsure of what to say. Never had he shouted at me like that before.

"What?"

"Jesus, you can be hard-headed at times, you know that, Arthur? Fuck..." I glared slightly at him.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You... are not supposed to comfort me. It is the other way around, damn it!"

"Alfred, that's ridiculous! You are hurting, and I am here for you! That's what lovers do! They help and console one another-"

"It's not supposed to be that way with us!" It was then I realised what was bothering him.

"You bastard, Alfred. How dare you be so prideful that you keep your own lover from being a good partner and... and just a good friend." We breathed for several moments, his more ragged and enraged than mine. "Because that's what you are... You are my lover and my best friend..." He breathed through his nostrils, his glare only slightly softening. It was still strong enough to send shivers down my spine. The glare became ineffective, however, when I noticed that he was staring emptily into the air. "Alfred..." I muttered, climbing back to him. I laid on his stomach and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Oh come, Alfred, don't do this to me..."

There was no response.

I kissed each of his cheeks, my eyes hurting from the tears that were now coming from them.

"Alfred, speak to me... Please." He remained stationary. "Please, love, just say something..." I pressed my cheek against his, and continued pleading for him to speak. We remained in that position until daybreak, me receiving no reply.

August of 1967

I was scared to greet him in the morning, which was nothing new. For the past few months he would haul himself into his chair, and go into the kitchen to eat. He would often be so bitter though that a simple 'good morning' could be taken as me trying to console him by wishing better things for him. At least three times a week I was too tired to get out of bed anyway, Alfred insisting we try many different things each and every night. When asked where he had even learnt of some of these things, he told me that he simply thought of them. I often worried what was going on in that mind that caused him to scream in his sleep, shout in his wake, and be perverse in between. I was scared.

This morning however, Alfred decided to bathe before eating, firmly telling me he desired no assistance. So I sat in the bed and waited, yet to hear the water turn on. I continued to wait.

After half an hour of no water, I warily stood up and walked into the bathroom, startled that it was unlocked. "Alfred, are you fi-" I breathed in once and then ran out of the room, darting for the nearest phone.

I sat in the hospital lobby, hunched over so that my hands could encase my nose and lower face. I was still in too much shock to believe it. I could not comprehend how sweet, loving, idiotic, daft, smiling Alfred could even consider attempting suicide. But it had happened, and I could not help but feel that I was the one to blame. I sucked in a long breath and closed my eyes.

The image was too much to handle, just knowing that there was a blade and Alfred's blood was enough to make me cringe. I saw white shoes appear in my vision.

"Sir?" I glanced up and saw a nurse.

"Yes?"

"You can come see him now," she said, already walking in the direction of his room. I quickly rose to my feet and followed her.

"Is he on any drugs?"

"No, since he was unconscious when brought in, we had no need to sedate him. And we did not give him any painkillers since that may affect the medication he is already prescribed." My eyes widened in shock.

"He is on medicine already?"

"Mmm, yes. Apparently he was prescribed imipramine, an antidepressant by a-" she glanced down at the clipboard she had, "-ah, some military doctor." This was entirely new to me, and I was hurt I had not been told earlier.

"Miss, I have never seen him take these pills and I see him on a daily basis." She shrugged and grabbed the handle to a room.

"Perhaps he has not taken them, it would explain as to why he did what he did." Before I could inquire further, she pulled the door open and left. I walked trepidly to the bed.

Alfred was sitting up, his hands laying softly in his lap. There were bandages all the way up and down his arms, looking as if he was wearing a long sleeved shirt more than anything. He was staring into his lap, a look of defeat on his face.

"Alfred?" He did not look up at me, a response I was used to. I came up to the bed and sat beside his legs, taking one of the hands off his lap. I placed it in mine instead, squeezing it in time with his breath. "Why didn't you tell me you were prescribed antidepressants?" I was given silence. I sighed and gripped onto the hand with both of mine. "Surely that would not have made you look weak... My doctor has given me the same things..." He weakly tried to tug his hand away, me just gripping on tighter.

"Why are you here?" he muttered, his breath painful to listen to.

"Because, Alfred..."

"Because why?"

"Because I love you," I muttered. It was one of the easiest things in the world for me to say, but I prepared myself for whatever verbal lashing he was about to send my way. "Because you helped me in my time of sorrow, you cared enough to have yourself mangled, and you are still here with me."

"How do you know all those things for sure?"

I was at a loss for words. I questioned if that was what it felt being heartbroken at that moment.

"Because you love me, and I love you..."

"How are you certain?" he muttered. It was then that I stared with the same eyes I had had all my life, at the body of someone I had known for a greater portion of it. All I saw was a stranger. All the love I knew had disappeared out in the haze. And I was frightened, only there was no longer anyone there to comfort me.