Letters passed seamlessly between the three of them. Drinks were shared, conversations were had. Areti shared small smiles with Petros and roaring laughter with Ambrus. Weeks passed, filled mostly with Areti’s travels between Kallus and Pethra and the limited conversations with the two people he was slowly growing closer to. 

Occasionally, the couple shared the content of their messages, nothing more than filling each other in on what was going on. More often, one of them would ask about the other, hoping for some insight that the letters couldn’t provide. Did Petros like Ambrus’s hair? Was Ambrus still as friendly with strangers as he was before the war? Areti answered every question to the best of his ability, learning more and more about what the pair had been like before their conscription. 

In return, they learned about him. Petros knew some from their distant friendship over the months prior to Areti’s discovery of Ambrus. Their conversations were easy as a result, but he and Ambrus were still learning about each other. Whenever they had a chance, they would sit together on a piece of canvas on the grass or in the confines of the quiet tent and talk about whatever came to mind. 

Areti spoke of his family, of his love for drawing and how he’d longed to make it into a career before the war, how he had been involved since the start. Ambrus told him about his childhood growing up as the son of a servant for Petros’s family. Ambrus had dragged them on adventures, climbing trees and breaking his ankle and learning to grow vegetables while he recovered. Petros had judged him for it apparently, still so serious even as a child. 

It was strange to believe he was making friends in the midst of a war. His duties, of course, came before anything. Without him, the war could be in shambles. All because he failed to deliver a message in time. That didn’t mean he couldn’t find something good for himself, surely. 

That was the thought that ran through his mind when he wandered into the battle camp at Kallus. He was used to the sight of it after multiple months travelling back and forth, but nothing ever really prepared himself for the wave of sadness that came with it. 

After so long, it was easy to remember the way to Ambrus’s tent after he stopped by to talk to the generals. Replies for Pethra and a handful of other camps now weighed heavily in his bag and he knew it would be a long time before he would be able to return to Petros. Both of them were so patient with him, but it never stopped him from feeling guilty. 

With a sigh, he shoved open the now familiar tent and froze. On one of many pallets lay Ambrus, eyes open and staring at the ceiling with a fogginess that made Areti’s heart sink into his stomach. No one else sat in the tent, leaving the two of them alone. It was eerie, the silence, and it only made Areti’s heart ache more. 

“Ambrus!”

It wasn’t until he had reached the other man’s side that he realised he had been the one to call out his name, even with the emptiness of the tent. His voice sounded foreign to his ears, high pitched in a way it hadn’t been since before he’d trained it to be deeper. 

He dropped to his knees, watching the fog fade briefly from Ambrus’s dark eyes. He gasped, but it was hard to tell if he actually recognised anything. Areti could have been anyone at that moment, but he knew what he was looking at. Ambrus had been medicated into submission, something Areti had seen a hundred times before. When a warrior had been injured. 

With shaking hands, he pulled back the blanket that covered Ambrus up to the shoulders. He was shirtless and at any other opportunity Areti would have taken a moment to appreciate the toned chest, but all he could focus on with the bandages that wrapped around his waist.
“Ambrus, what happened?” he whispered. 

“Petros…” Ambrus muttered and reached up a shaking hand towards him. 

Something awful swarmed in Areti’s stomach and he shifted away from that seeking hand. It wasn’t for him. “No, I’m sorry. I’m Areti,” he said. 

Still that hand moved to cup his face, warm and soft against his jaw. “Areti,” he said, a soft smile on his face. He was barely lucid, but if touching him was a comfort, then who was Areti to pull away? “Don’t worry, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Areti exclaimed and gestured to the pale bandages. “You’re injured! What happened?”

Ambrus hummed in response, his cloudy gaze moving back to the ceiling of the tent but his hand staying where it was. “Was waiting to ambush some scouts,” he said, words slurred from the medication. “Got nicked in the fight. It didn’t hit anything serious, it just hurts. Well, not anymore.”

The medication would be numbing it, but also numbing everything else. Ambrus’s hand fell to his side once more and he shivered. Areti pulled the blanket back over him, hands stiff and trembling with every movement. How close had Ambrus come to dying? How dire was his wound, truly?

He pushed the thoughts away, choosing to focus on something far kinder. “I have your letter from Petros,” he said and patted the bag at his side. “I could read it to you, if you’d like.”

“No!” Ambrus sat up in a rush and cringed, pressed a hand to his side. Areti pushed him back down, lips parted in shock. “Don’t. They’re private. I can read it tomorrow, if you’ll stay long enough for me to do so.”

“Of course, whatever you need.” It was hard to ignore the disappointment and anxiety that swelled within Areti, like an angry wave on a usually calm beach. 

“Just… Next time you see Petros, don’t tell them what happened to me.”

For a beat, for the length of time it took his heart to start pounding, there was silence. Then his words spewed from his lips, confused. “Why?” he asked and grabbed Ambrus’s hand again. “Ambrus, they deserve to know.”

“It will just make them worry. They don’t need that,” he replied, but didn’t meet Areti’s gaze.

“No, they deserve to know. How many injuries have you hidden from them, Ambrus?” Areti asked, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. Who was he to have any say in the way Ambrus handled his relationship? And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. 

Ambrus huffed. “I’ll think about it,” he said, muttering into the quiet air of the tent. He turned then, finally catching Areti’s gaze once more, and grabbed his hand. “Stay with me, in the meantime, will you?”

With a hand so warm and eyes so earnest, there was no way Areti could ever deny him. “Whatever you need.”

***

It was Petros he held more than two weeks later, diverting his gaze from the parchment that detailed Ambrus’s injury and the beginning of his recovery. It was then that Areti realised what Ambrus had meant when he’d said he didn’t want Petros to worry. 

His friend shook, their whole body trembling. The moment it had started, Areti was next to them, pulling them into his arms in a way he never had before, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Petros pressed into him, eyes darting over the words and struggling to hold the pages still. 

“Tell me he’s alright, Areti. Please,” they murmured. 

“I stayed a day longer than I needed to so I could make sure,” he replied, running a hand up and down Petros’s back. “There were no signs of infection. He was up and about when I left, already sparring with some of the other warriors. I believe he’s completely fine.”

That caused Petros to sigh, a heavy, relieved sound as they dropped bodily against Areti’s shoulder. “Thank you for staying with him,” they whispered. 

“I would have stayed longer if I could. I wouldn’t have taken so long to get back to you either,” he said, but Petros wasn’t really listening. 

“I’m so worried that he’ll… That there will be a battle that he doesn’t come from and I won’t be there. I’ll never even know, until you read his name out in the middle of the grand hall,” they said, gaze unfocused and hands still shaking. 

Areti shook his head and held tighter. “I’d tell you in private,” he said, but it didn’t sound as comforting as he wanted it to be.

Petros didn’t seem to mind, burying their head against his shoulder. “Stay with me, please,” they whispered. 

And Areti did.