He wouldn't have known to call their times together idyllic.
Side by side crossing the cold rivers, their collars turned up against the bite of the wind, him just looking at Jack's face, hearing his voice, finally real. Then skin to skin in the tent or, even better, he'd come to admit, out in the firelight, or the noon sun.
He just knew the way the light painted Jack's skin with gold and shadows, was beautiful.
Jack knew to call it that. Knew what it was, every minute, every second they had together.
And then every week they lost. Weeks and months that added up to years lost. A life lost.