I don't own the characters, but it doesn't matter, because Mark Twain has been dead for a hundred years.
Warnings: Slash, Implied Sexual Content, Character Death.
It was a bloody war, they said. It was expected, they said.
"We all lost friends," Sid tells him. Sid, who was always the perfect little altar boy. Sid, who'd become older, wiser, hardened, by war. Sid, who didn't even seem like half a brother anymore. "We all have to cope, Tom."
He remembers those stolen nights. All of them, blurry, like dreaming. No one can know how close they really were. Friends don't do that kind of thing; don't touch each other like that. Even best friends aren't that intimate.
"It's not the same," Tom answers.
It never was.