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Alexander comes home from the war with a medal and a missing leg.
The first week he does nothing but sleep, and you sit by his bedside the entire time, mopping his brow and arranging his pillows. He stirs occasionally, and you pour water down his throat, and feed him a little soup, and he holds your hand, squeezing until it hurts.
On the seventh day, he says, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
And you reply, “This is more important.”
“Ah,” Alexander says, and closes his eyes. “Absconding from your duties.”
“Shut up.” You say fondly, and watch him smile.
***
You understand that at some point, the family expect you to go home. You did not bring enough clothes to even last two weeks, and by the third, you are wearing Alexander’s old pre-war clothes, still smelling of his skin.
“Suit them better than I ever did,” Alexander says from the bed, as you adjust your sleeve cuffs.
“You still have a fever,” You say. “Your brain is addled.”
Alexander makes a rude gesture behind your back, and you roll your eyes, checking your reflection. He is right though, you do suit them. You have always looked good alongside Alexander.
***
The gardens are finally in bloom, and Alexander commandeers an old wheelchair for you to take him to them.
“There aren’t any flowers on the battlefield.” He says, drowning in roses. “I missed them.”
“I missed you.” You say, without thinking.
Alexander’s smile is the same as the day he left, and he takes your hand, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles. “Thinking of you kept me sane.” He says, and you flush. “I mean it.”
The sun beats down on both your backs as he tugs you close.
“My friend.” Alexander says, but it’s you that bridges the distance.