Welcome Home

After being deployed for six months, it's that time again. Alfred F. Jones is coming home from Afghanistan.

He had known that he was not going to be the only one there, but really, Arthur's short stature did not help him in the slightest at this point in time. It never occurred to him that he would not be the only one to be waiting for a loved one to return from Afghanistan, and so had left it as late as he possibly could to leave for the airport. The airport he knew so well nowadays, where he would always meet with his soldier, throw himself into those arms, which although had seen the harshness of nature, and the harshness of man, would never become cold. Forever, it seemed, he would be warm; radiating the childishness which seemed would be out of place in the images the media had thrown around.

He pushed down his green vest, holding bouquet of red roses—does he even like red roses?—by the stem, covered by the clear plastic, stopping the small thorns pricking his fingers as he gripped it tighter and tighter in anticipation. Time was never his ally at these moments, nor was it for the past six months. Each second ticking teasingly by, the expected time of arrival of the soldiers of the United States military rolling tenderly nearer. He took in his surroundings of other people in the same position as he; wives, husbands, fathers, mothers, lovers, children… The excited buzz of anticipation rang about the air, almost as if what had taken their loved ones away for the past six months was not happening. That the world spun on its axis around this corner of the United States of America, that out of this airport there was nothing but the cosmos; no other living being existed out of the arrivals lounge.

It was strange to think that in a short while, all eyes would be on the sliding doors, and out would walk the sea of sand coloured protection; the walking shield that had laid down its life in order to protect Southern America and its people. Slowly, one by one the group would disperse in a pattern of crying names, tears falling down their faces, and hugging them tightly, as if it would keep them together forever. All pretences of 'dignity' thrown away as they were reunited, Arthur wanted to mentally scoff; the world was scary, and full of dangers. Why should he be the one to take the happiness out of the single joy that they would cling on to for the rest of their lives? He himself however prided himself in being more gentlemanly, and would refuse to let himself fall to their level, and promised himself he would remain calm throughout their reunion; a simple hug, exchanging 'I missed you's, give the taller man the flowers and then leave for supper.

He was unsure whether this was to ensure he did not show up his soldier; after all, he was always so calm, and did not know whether or not he wanted this to continue to being surrounded by his military colleagues and strangers. After all, did anyone even know of their relationship? Would he be ridiculed for his sexual orientation? He had only been living in the states a short while, but even he knew that the nation could be homophobic, although they had tried their hardest to make the fifty states more liberal. All in all, he found the idea of waiting until they were in a private setting to share a tender homecoming to avoid any of these problems. 'Anyway,' he thought, 'I'm not going to get emotional. He was strong when he left, why should I be emotional when he arrives?'

It was six months ago that he had sat on the foot of their practically marital bed, watching Alfred mentally prepare himself for ridding his identity as Alfred F. Jones to be replaced by General Jones; the uniform made to ensure the wearer would camouflage with the sandy terrains of the deserts of Afghanistan. He looked himself up and down in the full length mirror, pushing out the creases; it was a sight that made Arthur smile, the two in silence, just watching him ready himself for the tour that was about to tear them away from each other. They had decided the (second? Third?) time he had been deployed that they would not talk through these moments as their conversations repeated themselves each time. Arthur either telling him that he was going to miss him, that he was proud, or that he better come home safely, and Alfred talking about those whom he had not seen since their last tour, and could not wait to see again, despite the circumstances.

The words came tumbling out when they got to the airport though, the departure gate was well known to the two of them by now, but it did not make it any the less daunting to embrace each other lightly as other soldiers bid farewell to their families and friends; trying to absorb the feeling of the arms of his lover around him, trying to memorise the scent he was hoping would linger in the house for the next six months. The material soaking in the blabbering, "I love you, I love you so much, please come home safe, please write, oh my God, I'm so bloody proud of you Alfred." And although Arthur was one to boast precise and impeccable pronunciation and grammar, at that moment, the rules of the English language seemed not to apply to either of their speech.

Alfred smiled, his heart constricting momentarily in dread at the thought of leaving such the once strong man alone; although, Jones realised with a smile, Kirkland was only ever weak and vulnerable when it came to this moment. Saying goodbye to each other, both not speaking of the unthinkable that may happen. "I'll write whenever I get the time. And I'll be fine! The hero always lives and gets the girl, remember!" He felt Arthur's muscles weaken slightly before tensing up; and at that moment, he knew he had said something wrong; of course, another rule about their goodbyes was to ever bring up the fact there was always the chance that Alfred would never return—even if it was only implied through the word 'lived'. He pushed their foreheads together, before indulging himself in a deep kiss with the shorter man, "I love you too, Artie!" He pushed their lips together again, hands cupping the sides of his face, looking directly into the green hills.

They were lost in this position for longer than Arthur would care to admit, just taking in the feeling of Alfred's breath caressing his face, the callous hands still on his skin, stroking gently, and drinking in the feel of the flesh. All they had muttered in the time was 'I love you'; quiet phrases, as if it were to break the foundations of society. The movement around them was none existent, and for a moment in time, Alfred considered putting Arthur over his shoulder and taking him home; forget his duty as a soldier and focus on his role as a lover. However, as he was tapped on the shoulder, and greeted with a sheepish smile, noticing that everyone had left, he felt his stomach drop—much like it always did when it was time to leave once and for all. He turned to Arthur once, more kissing his forehead above those ridiculous eyebrows. His hand being captured, with fingertips brushing slightly as they regrettably let go of one another. A mutual thought of "I love you" going through their thoughts in each other's voices as Alfred walked through the sliding doors.

Arthur Kirkland would always deny the tears that fell at that moment as he stared for the next few minutes, silently hoping that Alfred would forget about his patriotism to ensure they could have what one would call a 'normal' family life.

He always spent a few days around the house—although, he definitely was not moping about—before pulling himself out of his almost rut-like state, and forced himself to go drinking with his French frienemy (or drinking buddy, if one was to be more specific and accurate), where he would sit at the bar, leaning against the wood with a glass of whiskey at hand, barely sitting on the stool. Francis would be listening unwillingly, and although they had never gotten along (for reasons that he could no longer even remember), his heart did tug slightly as he listened, and watched drunken tears fall from such a pair of eyes which screamed 'I-am-defiant-I-will-not-show-what-I-feel'. Without looking up, he practically spilled to the wood his feelings:

"I jus'… I feel like he loves this damn country more than me!" He laughed slightly, not even questioning if Francis could understand what he was saying through his slurred, inebriated language, "I swear, if it was a person, I bet he- he'd leave me for it without even questionin'! I don' even know why I try anymore with 'im… Ev'rytime he leaves, I ge' so bloody scared, I'm obsessed with the news, checkin' my phone ev'ry five minutes in case somethin's happened. I wake up early so I can check the post as soon as it's delivered in case he's decided to write me." His voice hitched, and he took a large gulp of his drink, "I don' wanna do this anymore! I'm so pissed—well, annoyed!—with him leavin'!" He put his arm on the flat surface and rested his face in the crook of his elbow, "I'm so soddin' proud of 'im though. I can' say it enough. I… hate 'im for leavin' me alone in the big ol' house, in a country I moved to for him. An' what if he gets killed out there! I can'… I lit- lich- seriously don' think I could live without him! I love 'im, okay! Shit. I'm in too deep—" He turned on his barstool and jumped off, "I'm goin' 'ome. I'll be at tha' big ol' house… Alone if Alfred comes home…"

It was halfway through his tour that Arthur had turned the news on in the morning, sat down with a cup of tea and allowed himself to be submersed in the sea of happenings around the world. Watching carefully at the lines of text passing under the news reader, and beside him; although he began to question his reasons for doing so, Alfred was always okay during duty; why should this time be any different? The only thing being able to take his mind off of his thoughts was the solemn voice of the news anchor proclaiming "—has been caught in a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. The identities of soldiers injured and killed in this are yet to be confirmed, and the families are yet to be notified."

Arthur's mind stopped. His mind and body paused in their functions, dropping his cup as he flung himself toward the television screen, wanting to reach through to throttle the man into telling him everything he knew. He would later deny it, but he allowed few tears to roll down his face at the thought of losing Alfred—or having lost Alfred, he thought to himself in despair. He grabbed the phone he kept on the table next to the sofa, and frantically typed in Alfred's name, pressing the call button and holding it close. He did not know what exactly else he expected when the shrill voice, slightly static from the phone, proclaimed, "Yo, you've reached Alfred! Leave a message, and the hero will get back to you! Out!" He waited a moment after the beep, and hung up, leaving his partner a silent message. He began punching other buttons of the phone; waiting for the owner of the number to answer.

"Hello?"

"Matthew, have you heard? Have they called you, do you know anything, is Alfred okay?"

"Heard what? He's fine, I mean, I'd be the first to know if something bad was to happen to them…"

And his morning would go on like this, calling every person he and Alfred knew to be and gaining the same response, until he was almost forced by himself to go out drinking his sorrows and crying to Francis over a pint at the local pub (or bar, if he was forced into speaking in Americanisms).

It was four months ago however, he received a letter. Stamped by the United States military, Arthur was hesitant to open it; not knowing what the contents contained. With the news report still ringing in his ears, and logic not acknowledging the way in which his colleagues would show at his doorstep to tell how his partner had died doing what he loved and done best. Sitting on their favourite loveseat—where they would be cuddling soon, oh so very soon—he curled into the corner. Looking to the picture of the two of them when they had first met in order to find the courage he needed to open the envelope. Closing his eyes, he tore it open, and pulled it out ever so slightly.

Never had he been so happy to see the barely legible scratching proclaiming 'Artie' at the top of the page.

'I guess it's about time I sat down and you a letter, huh? I really can't be affording to put this off any longer, you know you being angry is a hell of a lot scarier than anything I've experienced out here! And I guess you've heard about some soldiers who were killed by the roadside bomb. So I think it's only fair for you to know that I'm… fine. A little shaken. One of my good friends had gone with them, and hasn't returned yet. I'm sure he's fine, right, Artie? God, I wish you were here with me—well, not. I more wish I was back with you, but this is something I gotta do, y'know? Like you've got to teach, I've got to fight for our freedom! Feels so right, but I hate how long it keeps me from you!

'So, I've been busy. We were caught in cross-fire for around six hours a little while ago, and I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was say "eff this", board the next plan to the good old US of A and curl in bed with you. But I'm sure it'll be worth it to tell our kids one day; when I'm away, you're going to have to keep reminding them that "daddy's a hero", cause, ha! I'm the hero, right? Alright, I just read that back and realised I may have just opened a door to a discussion we hadn't had yet. You want kids, right, Arthur? I'm sure one of our lady friends would loan us their womb, and then you'd have a little bit of me to stay with you whenever I have to leave, right?

'I know you're sitting there now with a stupid smile on your face, and if I were there saying all this, you'd probably reply with something like 'what the bloody hell no bloody way are you bloody crazy!', and then when I sneak into the room later that night, you'd probably be doing something sweet like making clothes for a baby that you obviously don't want. Just saying! But seriously, think about it. Oh, but you're probably an annoying person who thinks we should get married before we go become a family right? In that case, I think we should get married when I get home, okay?

I miss you, and seriously can't wait to 'hold' you again (pft yeah right hold). I love you, Artie! Until then, I'm gonna kiss right underneath my name, so if you kiss it too, it would be like we're actually together! Ha, damn. I think I'm going insane without you. It's scary here, but thinking of coming back home to you… It just makes everything worth it, right? Not many people can say they do what you do. I know you say you're proud of me, but… You're the brave one. I don't think I could do what you do… Waiting for you to come home. That would kill me! Argh! But I've digressed and got to go now, so… Hugs and kisses?

General Alfred F. Jones

Arthur looked at the page underneath where his soldier had claimed to have kissed, running his thumb along where he imagined the other had pressed his lips, making the outline. So he was safe, the thought made him smile, knowing that he had been stupid to be so worried about what could have been. He wanted to hit the idiot for making him confused as to whether he had just been proposed to or not, and the idea of having a child of their own making his heart flutter; at the same time he wanted to kiss the page, and whisper to it all the sweet things he had come to think of, imagining that it was the American's own lips absorbing the words. But a slight part of him could only feel guilty at the fact that he was taking happiness in what would be someone else's bad news…

Arthur Kirkland was pulled from his thoughts has he noticed the first person in uniform to emerge from the sliding doors, and the first person love one to let out an ecstatic cry of joy and running toward them. They stopped, dropped their belongings and engaged in the ritual of homecoming. Arthur shook his head of any excitement that he felt, not wanting to make a scene out of himself as he saw Alfred for the first time in half a year. However, that did not stop the muscles in his fingers to tense and tighten around the flowers, unknowingly pushing the majority of his weight onto his toes as his heart skipped a beat at each person in uniform that walked out.

More and more people dispersed; very few were left, and he looked around with a bitten bottom lip for his partner and soldier; maybe he had read the letter wrong, he dreaded, after all, he had not heard from him since, and so maybe—just maybe—it was him the news anchor had talked about as if he was worth no more than the ground of which they walked. He watched the sliding doors, moving gradually closer as time went on, and he began to shake with anticipation. No longer knowing what to do with himself, swearing he could begin to feel a cold sweat forming about his brows as panic swelled within the pit of his stomach. Each person who would walk out looked just like the one he was waiting for; each time he readied himself to greet, but each time he was disappointed to find that it was one of Alfred's colleagues.

Then it was his turn.

The usual childish expression stern with the experiences of war; the bags under his eyes showing that this had been a particularly rough tour; but that did not stop Arthur from letting an undignified "Alfred!" pass his lips, as he ran toward the taller man; pushing past everyone who was in the position he had been in a moment ago. Jumping up and wrapping his legs and arms around the taut body, pressing his face against the crook of his neck, repeating his name as if he would disappear if he would not. Alfred smiled and chuckled, dropping his bag on the floor behind him, and wrapping his arms around the smaller waist, listening to the shaking claims: "I missed you so much, I love you, please never go again!"

Alfred dropped him onto the floor, taking in the sight that he had been starved off for one hundred and eighty-two days. Holding the sides of his face, and pushing his chapped lips against the smooth ones of Arthur. Taking in that smooth feeling that he so sorely missed, that he had been yearning to feel for the time that felt like eternity. He smiled sympathetically through the kiss at the salty liquid that attempted to pull them apart, and although it ultimately failed in its mission, instead, Alfred Jones found himself wiping them away. Blindly feeling about for them; the two laughed at the majority of the failed attempts.

The two pulled away, just slightly, to ensure that this time, they did get to look at one another. They did take in the curves and the dips in each of their flawed skin; trying to reshape the images that they had engraved into their memories for when they knew they would be in this situation. For Arthur, the denial of the want to go through with the promises of a family and marriage dissolving with the sight of those damned blue eyes, and every fibre of his being was screaming yes, yes, hell yes to spending the rest of his life with this stupid American! He no longer cared who was at the airport, who was watching the homosexual soldier, who was doing anything in the world, and held the flowers between the small gap between their torsos.

Alfred laughed even harder, and with each time his lips pulled back in such a way, a little part of his identity as General Alfred F. Jones was stripped away. The barriers that he had put up about himself to stop feeling for the propaganda he had fought for was taken down, and instead, his senses were slowly being taken over by the man in front of him; his starved senses taking in his sight, sound, feel, smell and taste. He would be lying if he said that every time he closed his eyes even for a brief second, there was nothing but darkness; fireworks went off behind them as he celebrated mentally the feat he had accomplished, and took the flowers from the small, yet masculine, hands he had imagined for the past four thousand three hundred and eighty-two hours.

He turned slightly, picking up the bag he had dropped, and put it over his shoulders, intertwining his fingers through the spaces between Arthur's were he fit perfectly, he led them out of the airport. Catching up on events since they had been separated, catching up on comfortable silences were they just savoured the feeling of one another's company. Pretending for a moment, they were like every other couple walking toward a car, discussing supper plans, talking about the future of their relationship and accepting—questionable—marriage proposals. Arthur smiled to himself, never relaxing his facial muscles for a moment through the drive home, holding Alfred's hand, and forcing it to control the gear stick. Just the radio playing soft music cutting through the nothingness.

Even if just for a short while, they were together. Why would either ever ask for more?