Can he even say his name out loud? Can he put voice to a name he hasn’t said since the man died on the battlefield? He leans into the arm, leans into Allison’s side as his eyes fall down to the dog tags. A wistful smile pulls across his lips, one that speaks to months of tangled limbs, stolen kisses, drinks in noisy bars, a dozen and one iloveyous crammed into hugs and handholds and looks across noisy battlefields.

“His name was Dave. He was beautiful and he was perfect.”

He closes his eyes against the burn, and for a moment he can all but see the man’s winning smile, the bashful way he’d turn his head when Klaus winked or blew a cheeky kiss in his direction. He can almost feel broad hands around his waist, or the pull of a hand in his own in a smoky bar. Tears slip slowly down his cheeks.

“And I loved him. Still love him, I guess. Hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours and I’m already talking about him in the past tense. Guess I’m an asshole, after all.” He laughs mirthlessly.