Memories of a place long destroyed haunted him; not all ghosts were bad. Maybe the war had, in some ways, been the crucible that allowed him to have such affection for Billy, untarnished by notions of propriety or ugly ideas of purity. It had burned away the remnants, left something that could properly be reforged.

Though he worried, often, that he had lost something in the burning. Something unable to be recovered from the ashes; a thing he could not name, but grasped for in dreams.

He turned his head, brushing a kiss to Billy's fingers as they passed his mouth. Goodnight pushed away from the rail, his hand trailing down Billy's arm until he could catch his fingers, tugging him toward the balcony door. Their room was small but cozy, considering they were in godforsaken nowhere.