for every passing thought of how enticing tarkov is in its lawlessness, there's a particular (and often fleeting) concept of how unfathomably boring it could be. action was contained to the movement of rats and contractors brimming with false bravado picked from the pockets of the deceased - geared up heavily with the intent to become lethal errand boys for thankless traders who had endless tasks. the ecosystem depended on them, it kept the door spinning to some extent; god forbid the egotistical die before they wander too close to flag reminiscent to jolly roger.
here was one of those moments :
stronghold is silent, its skeleton creaks and groans in the late afternoon wind as gunfire and scav chatter draws silent. the night is reserved for the emboldened, they'll travel under the hum of stolen night vision, unaware of sharp-shot adversaries until it's perhaps too late. knight uses the resounding quiet to pack stashed backpack with food and supplies from the seemingly endlessly full crates. marcus chooses to pack mags, a tedious clicking sound as he leans into the cool lines of neptune's spear - mag clicks into place, he makes note to clean her when they're back in hideout ... following mags stuffed into rig with ease.
one could argue these moments were necessary, men could not survive under the heavy breath of war if it was consistent. balance was key to the preservation of sanity, the perpetuation of humanity to some extent; even for men who probably appeared more monsters than anything else.
but why rustle at the bottom of the food chain when you could be comfortably on top ?
there are other necessities, of course: food, water, sleep, human connection, structure. the human body was both resilient and fragile all the same - slung rifle lays across long discard cot, hands feeling across pouches and pockets for well-loved book of matches as pipe clicks between teeth. consider it another necessity: much preferred if the idea was between cigarettes and tobacco. harder to get, unless you knew who to question, but more needed than luxury all the same. nose crunches with sniffle, smoke billowing through nostrils as he takes a wayward inhale. it lingers in the already musty space, dispersed only with the additional body.
" if you're lookin' for knight, he's stashin' shit to move. " a languid kind of motion, he plucks pipe from mouth following a heavy-mouthed drag, stare anything but preoccupied with his typically masked companion. but his space becomes anything but his own in the moment, and eyes are drug upward from their resting place along curve of smoking pipe, brows pinched under the frame of sunglasses.
human contact, a necessity. a piece of survival. catering to a specific kind of hunger.
who the fuck is he to argue ?
the other lingers closer still; they don't talk about it, never preemptively and never after. there's nothing to talk about. you don't go shedding armor and displaying underbelly to motherfuckers who will gut you ... seeking food in the untrustworthy was more death wish than anything else. marcus adjusts pipe from dominant hand to his left, opening body language like written permission for the other to close the gap.
and when they do, he offers nothing short of causal confidence; hand once occupied with pipe raises to help slip gator away from the curve of face - that same hand wraps idle along the side of the other's neck, gloved fingertips keeping just enough hold as he reels the other in. the kiss is practiced, comfortable despite the underlying tread around the subject. he's all tobacco and sweat, spurring on opened mouth kisses with the idle knead of fingertips. there's a sort of laugh between the motions.
" trying to get a little something for the road, eye ? " tone drips in mischief; he finally sets pipe down.
@hogst00th. stolen. accepting.
