Bee

So when it was time to get her a dress, they both knew that the bridal shops were not an option. But he still took her, watched her face with each one that she put on. Each one they couldn't afford. And then they got to a certain dress.

She stepped out and John's jaw dropped, she looked stunning. He watched her face split into a beautiful smile when she saw herself. Something that looked like the sun after a tornado, or the smoke clearing after a firefight. It made his stomach do something funny.

"This is made by a local designer." The sales lady says as she tugs at the silk and fixes the veil they've put on her head. "£1,200.00 is what we're asking. Which is really a steal for a piece like this." He watched her face fall and he knew he had to get the money.

"I'll get the dress." He promises her when they get back into the car. She looks over with a soft, almost broken look.

"No, it's okay." She insists with a smile, but it doesnt quite reach her eyes like when she had on the dress. "I can get one from the thrift." God, she was so sweet, too sweet sometimes for her own good.

John works his ass into the dirt, taking risky missions and working long hours. Most days he didnt even see her unless it was when he was crawling into bed and she's already asleep. Every long night, every bruise, scrape and scar put him closer to that fucking dress and that smile.

---

"Is is a puppy?" She asked when he handed her the flat white box.

"If it's been ran over."

"Fair point." She murmurs as she lifts the lid and stares at the dress neatly tucked away in it. He can see it, the shock, the almost guilt realizing why he's been away so much. Her throat bobs as tears swell in her lash line and he immediately wraps his arms around her smushing the dress between them.

"Why are you crying, lovie?" He murmurs into the crown of her hair as he rubs at her back feeling the shudders in her shoulders. It takes her a minute to answer.

"You took all those extra hours for me. Got shot at for me. I feel like I don't deserve it." She blubbers into his chest. He tuts softly against her hair.

"Getting shot at is my job." He whispers low and soft "And you have never looked more beautiful than you did in that dress, how could I not get it for you?

"But John-" She insists

I'm in my bed

And you're not here

And there's no one to blame

but the drink in my wandering hands - Falling. Harry Styles

John sobbed low, his forehead stained by the dirt pressed against the top of Nikolay's cold head. The man didn't know how to react, the pain in his chest — in his throat, the tears burned like pepper in his tired eyes. He grunted rocking the Russian in his arms like a mother cradles her own child, he had already lost so many men, so many brothers, so many — sons.

But losing Nikolay was different, losing his husband without one last opportunity to say he loves him was as painful as pulling out his own nails with pliers.

— Пожалуйста — John whispered in Russian between two sobs, he looked at the sky red from the end of the day — from the end of the war — Just one more time.

Nick didn't move or breathe, didn't laugh, didn't cry and much less called for John. John rocked him again, cradling the robust man, cradling his own heart.

John grunted without letting go of Nick, he felt his consciousness drifting away, felt his own skin tingle, his teeth become rough. He felt the years of war digging into him internally. He screamed, loud hoarse, mad.