Al POV 

Ex had gotten worse. Knowing him, he worked himself to sickness. His purple hair flopped around his face as he buried it into my chest, snuggling up to me like a sleek black cat, just without the claws and attitude (although he normally had the latter).

I ran my hands through his hair, earning a deep, purr like grumble that I felt in my bones. This guy is literally a cat, I swear to god.

"Has Fwhip been working you to death again?" I asked, holding the ball my boyfriend had curled up into tighter in my arms. He only grumbled in response, gripping my shirt tighter. I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I'll take that as a yes."

How this madman I am lucky enough to call my boyfriend manages to balance his job at the coffee shop, a high up position in the revolution, and a volunteer at the library I will never know, but he's clearly ill and I am not letting him go back to the library or coffee shop until I know for sure that he's no longer ill.  

I fiddled with his lilac locks for a bit as we sat in silence, eventually punctuated by a small wheeze or cough from Ex. Surely Fwhip hadn't let him work when he was this bad... but maybe he wasn't this bad earlier today. Dunno. He's really good at masking when he's sick, and it's not always something like a cold that's made him sick. More often than not, it's stress. Holiday seasons just do that to this little cat curled in my lap.

Pecking him on the top of the head with a small kiss, I turned my attention to the dead screen of the TV. The room was filled with the hum of electricity, yet the TV wasn't on. It was always humming in the compound. Anti-detection devices, security keys, heating. A consistent hum filled the air, but it enveloped you like a hug. A warm embrace of technology, like a home within the war. An anarchist's disorder. An arsonist's fire. A rebel's rebellion, really. Comfort found even when we're sticking our middle fingers up at the government all day every day.

Being a rebel in this day and age is... hard. Government enforcers patrolling every street, ready to kill for any misdemeanour they see. But, in reality, there's no other choice. I'm stuck being the leader but I'd rather fight for what's right than be forced into silent submission. 

"Would you rather-" I started, pausing my playing with Ex's hair, which caused him to look up at me with tired yet beautiful blue eyes. "-me read a book or put on a movie?"

Ex genuinely had to think about this. The choice, if it were me, would be quite simple. A nice movie to cuddle up under the duvet we had laying around the compound and watch, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in one hand, the other wrapped around Ex.

But he loves to watch me suffer, so naturally when the words "Read a book," came out his mouth, his lips were curled up in a smirk. His eyes twinkled with a beautiful mischief, and, at that moment, I was reminded why I love this man.

"Which book?" I asked, carefully detaching myself from his vice like grip, so different to his general weakness, and meandering over to the bookshelf. Majority of them were military history books, a testament to my own obsession with the subject, however the odd fantasy, historical fiction, and sci-fi patterned the shelves.

Ex hummed, sitting up with a slight grunt behind me. "A Testament to Our Love?"

I sighed. Same book as every other time. Suppose it couldn't even be classed as a book, or a story. It was a poem in a pretty hefty anthology I happened to own. The author was unknown, but the words would resonate within the hearts of every single person who read it.

The book itself was old and dusty, the cover a faded green leather. The ink with the name had long since faded, but the embossed lettering, punched hundreds of years ago, still spelled out the name. The pages creased and crinkled, dyed a dull sepia by time, but the ink had set in the paper like it was chipped into stone a millennia ago. The poems inside were like a thousand tears spread onto paper. They tugged at your heartstrings like they were harps, the song reaching more ears and spawning more tears. A million readers, crying out in unison, a beautifully tragic melody.

I carried the anthology back to Ex, setting it down on the pile of blankets as I climbed back onto the soft, velvety sofa. He curled back up into my shoulder as I sat, resting his head on it. The anthology lay in my lap, comforting and homely to the touch, the rippled leather skin cracked but comforting as I ran my fingers over it. I flipped it open, letting the soft scent of the pages fill the room, mingling with the scent of smoke from Ex's candles in the air.

"Which one was it again?" I asked. I knew exactly the poem he wanted, but I just feel all happy inside when I hear him say 'love'.

He smiled into my shoulder. "Testament to Our Love." He mumbled as I flipped through the withered old pages. All of the pages were thin, like tissue, but the page with that particular poem on it was almost falling out of the book. The author was anonymous, but the meaning wasn't. I smiled, glancing down at Ex, before I began to read.

" Our love isn't one you'd seen on a screen
or read in a book,
or hear in sleep.

Our love transcends where humans know,
for no storm is so mean
as to rip it from us.

It's impossible to say how true our love is,
for how can you say something so arcane
and still have it be in the alphabet we know?

Love is those tender moments
in the darkest of nights
when I am in your arms.

Love is the sweet smell of cinnamon,
sprinkled over whipped cream
in the dark recesses of a winter morning.

Love is infinite, but flip it to the side and add a two.
For it is the king of all ancient.
And it is what I feel about you."

I finished with a gentle kiss on Ex's forehead, hugging him tightly. "I love you, you moro-"

The sound of the meeting room door stopped me in my tracks.