Arthur comes to with a groan, light flashing behind his eyelids before he even blinks and he groans, again, shifting. His body aches, limbs like lead, and when he finally opens his eyes, Arthur wishes he were dead.
"What time is it?" He asks briskly despite the way his voice feels raw in his throat.
Matthew stares at him, kneeling in the hard-packed dirt next to Arthur's cot, a sort of haunted look in his eyes.
Arthur stares at him, eyebrow arched. "Is there a reason you are her--"
"You died." Matthew interrupted him, leaning forward, something in his voice cracking.
Arthur snorts. "Yes, well, it happens." When Matthew does not break gaze, he adds, "I have died dozens of times before. I do come back."
And in a moment, Matthew is in his cot, curled against his side and clinging, face buried in his throat.
"You died." His voice cracks again and Arthur feels wetness seeping into his uniform.
He stills, arms heavy at his sides, blond hair obstructing his view. Arthur blinks. But when Matthew does not pull away. And, rather, begins to sob, Arthur awkwardly pats his back. His heartbeat quickens, though, when Matthew shifts, cold nose against the hollow of his throat.
"Matthew." Arthur says, firmly, starting to push the younger one away. "You are being a child."
Matthew does not budge. It is a testament to his stubbornness and childishness that he, instead, crawls into Arthur's lap and is mindful of the still sore, new skin over his liver.
Arthur is mildly embarrassed by the warm weight of his charge and flustered by the not-quite hushed sobs.
"People die during war, Matthew. I had thought you knew, but it seems I was mistaken."
Matthew makes a low, disgusted noise and finally pulls back and, heavens, he is a messy crier. Matthew glares and even though the effect is ruined by his dripping nose, Arthur frowns.
"You went down ahead of me." Matthew says, quietly, contained in an odd way. "One minute you were up, the next you just crumpled."
Arthur looks down and Matthew presses forward again.
"The last thing I said--"
"I didn't mean it." Matthew whispers, something in his voice catching.
"I am an old bastard." Arthur concedes, grudgingly. "I have hated greater men for less."
"I don't hate you." Matthew speaks into his shoulder, too big to actually be sharing a cot with Arthur.
Arthur catches himself, stops thinking about how the soldiers might be talking, stops wondering how Matthew made it past the sentries. And something blossoms warmly in his chest against his hopes.
