The Price of Love

Chapter 13

Alex's PoV

We don't talk to each other for the next few hours, until John falls asleep. I can't say I'm sorry. If he's not going to listen to me and respect me, then he can just not have any interaction with me. But to be fair, we both fucked up a little. Well, him a lot. But I could have told him not now, maybe later instead of immediately snapping at him. Compromised with him. But he's the one who was pushing my buttons when I was, am, pretty tightly wound. He should know better. He'll learn to know better if he wants a relationship with me. Like I have to learn to not lash out when I'm stressed. Kinda hard though when I'm pretty much always stressed, I just bury it. I pause in my writing to drain the rest of my water from my canteen. Time to fill it up. I carefully wipe the ink off my quill and bottle the ink. I blow softly on the paper, drying the ink off, then carefully roll it up. Exhaling quietly, I put them all in a neat pile up against my bags and grab my jacket and hat, putting them on. I like them. They make me feel slightly more in control of my hectic life, and the idea that I'm actually in charge of something is comforting. I walk through the camp, noting that it's after midnight. I walk down to the river, easily jogging the mile. I uncork my canteen and duck the short neck under the water, filling in in a matter of seconds. I cork it and hang in back over my head, water dripping onto me. I quickly splash my face, the cold water refreshing me. I tug my boots and socks off, wary of catching any infections, and wade a little into the water. Just enough so my lower legs can get cleaned. I withdraw them after a few minutes and scoot away from the water so I can dry off. I need to write a letter to Dad to let him know we're safely in Albany. Update him on our current situation and ease his worries. I pull my socks and boots back on once my legs are dry and slowly walk back to camp. I compose my letter in my head as I walk, rubbing my chin in thought. He needs enough information to be relatively satisfied, but if the letter is intercepted, not enough so the British know what we know. I walk around camp, muttering to myself when I return. I finally compose the complete letter and walk back to my tent.

John's PoV

I wake up and roll over. The tent is empty. Alex is gone. I feel a mix of anger, sadness, and guilt welling up inside me. I should have listened, I shouldn't have pushed his buttons when he's stressed like this. He's funny. The more stressed he is, the less stressed he seems. But I can read him like a book. He's pushed his stress so far down that he probably doesn't even realize he's stressed, and he took it out on me. Fairly, to be honest. Is it wrong to want him? We've only been together for a few days, is it fair to want that from him, to expect him to want it so soon as well? Yes to the first one, no to the second. It's wrong of you to want him at all. To love him, to want to kiss him, to want to be by his side constantly. I'm a religious man. A man of God. I can't want another man. But I love Alex. And I DO want him. I sigh, silently cursing myself. I hear soft, almost silent footsteps approaching the tent. Alex. He walks in a moment later. I smile at him, but he coolly ignores me. Instead, he takes out his writing materials and begins writing, muttering quietly under his breath. My smile slides right off my face. "Alex..." I whisper. He ignores me, even repositions himself so his back is towards me, his gorgeous red locks falling into his face. I hesitate.

"What John?" He snaps. "What do you want?" He twists his head around, his violet eyes glaring at me.

"I'm sorry." I choke out, fear and my sheer stubbornness trying to prevent me. "I know you're stressed-"

"I'm not." He growls.

"-And I'm sorry I wasn't listening to you. I won't do it again. Can you forgive me?" He grunts, but turns himself so his back isn't to me. I take that as a yes. "What are you writing?" I ask tentatively.

"A letter to Dad." He says, only the slightest trace of anger in his voice now. "He needs to know we're alright."

"You're such a good son." I coo, fawning over him. "Can I give you a hug?" He nods, and I move closer to him and wrap my arms around his torso, hugging him gently. To my surprise, he leans into me with a small sigh. I chuckle softly and press my face into his hair, breathing in his scent. Sweat and dirt and paper and ink and New York. Downtrodden but ready and willing to fight. I don't really know how to describe it. Kinda musky, musty, and salty, with a trace of coffee. I love it. It's so different from what I'm more used to.

"I'm sorry John." He whispers. "I shouldn't have snapped at you." A tear rolls down his cheek.

"Oh, don't cry dear boy." I say, wiping the tear away. "It's okay. You're just stressed. It's not your fault." I pull him closer to me, holding him tight. He sniffles and wipes his eyes.

"I'm fine." He insists. "I'm not stressed. I just have a few things I need to manage at the moment."

"Alex." I start. But I give up with a sigh. He's just as stubborn as me, he's going to keep saying he's fine. "Alright." I breathe. "You're fine." I kiss his cheek and push him away a few inches. "Go back to writing. I'm going back to sleep for a few few hours." I lay down a foot or so away from him. I tuck my arm under my head as a pillow and watch him as he writes. He bends over the parchment, which is sitting against one of his packs. His quill runs furiously across the paper for a few minutes before he rolls it up and sets it aside. He grabs the paper he was working on earlier and unrolls that. "I love you Alex."

"I love you too." He moves closer to me until he leans slightly on my side. I smile and close my eyes, wrapping my arm around him slightly. I feel his slender hand slip into mine and I rub my thumb over the skin on the back of his hand. I feel a few strands of hair tickle my face and his lips press against my cheek. "Goodnight, mi amour." He whispers, the scratching of his quill starting up again. The gentle sound soon lulls me into a comfortable sleep.