CrisMakesStuff

Ian was no longer aware of how long he’d been waiting. He could guess that it was no small length of time, of course, if from nothing more than the sheen of grime that had settled over his skin, or the unsightly shine of grease in his hair, both the clearest marks of self-neglect that had, as of late, become familiar aspects of his character. It was a strange contrast, then, that the palms of his hands remained bright and clear of such grime, though this was only due to his own tireless efforts to keep another clean.

There was not much of Cele that he could see among the mess of wires and machinery that crowded them on their cot, almost giving them the appearance of being part-machine themselves. Several times now he’d had to resist the twitch of his muscles, bit back the urge to tear the grim metal away from their body like it was crushing them; it was all that was keeping them alive as of now, and that fact stirred in him something so horrid that he wondered if he was finally, and against everything he knew about himself, feeling the cold visit of mortal death. But that would too great a kindness for destiny to visit upon him; instead it appears to be that his fate would be as a drab, lone sentinel by the bedside of the one he loved to the point of silent agony, doomed to care with no expectation that their eyes might ever open, that the words he’d practiced a thousand times in his mind would ever be allowed to fall from his lips. 

He had journeyed into the darkest pit and showed no fear, called it home, and known its denizens as his own kind. He had seen every avenue of suffering, new vistas of pain and pleasure and the keenest intermingling of such that no mortal mind could ever truly and fully imagine the experience remotely. But this moment, and all the moments before, and all the moments after; these he knew to be Hell, in their most terrible and frightening purpose. 

His malaise was broken by the soft whoosh of the door behind; Ian did not need to look behind him to know who it was. He came with a frustrating punctuality, as if this was to be something to be itemised, allotted and executed with a mechanical precision. “I wasn’t aware you were still here.” Mark’s voice was cool and level, in a way Ian could not imagine being reasonable in the moment. “You can go now. I can watch them for a while.”

He wouldn’t dare dignify that prompt with an answer, instead choosing to ignore him as he kept his vigil. The seat, one kept next to him for the odd visitor, creaked as he sat. “You’ve been here an awful long time. You should…” He trailed off for a moment, as if weighing how to finish his sentence. “You shouldn’t forget about your other responsibilities.”

Ian’s throat was dry, and his voice was tight and scratchy as he spoke for the first time in days. “They are light things, easily delegated to others.” He knew in his mind the folly of that claim; some things were too important to leave to anyone else, and it was indeed his responsibility to manage these things. But all thoughts of duty seemed now to only cloud his mind from that which was truly important. “They are beneath my notice.”

He could almost feel the grimace forming on Mark’s face, and had to bite down his own rotten impulse to sneer at him. “Listen, Ian… I’ve been talking with the doctors, and they think that Cele’s condition-”

“Are they certain?” This was a train of thought he’d grown beyond annoyed with, an awkward babble of “likely scenarios” and other half-baked guesswork disguised as sincere medical opinions. Ian knew the vast ocean of difference between what was certain and what was not, he knew it better than most, and the doctor’s words lay plain to him their own lack of certainty. Cele had a god in them. Nothing could be certain. 

Mark hesitated for only a moment. “No, but-”

“Then don’t waste your breath telling me something I don’t want to hear.” The chair scraped along the floor, and Mark was on his feet, breathing through his nose hard, whatever fraught tension that dangled between them finally snapping. 

“Y’know what? No, I’m not doing this. I’m not sitting here and coddling you because you’re too scared to face reality!” When Ian finally turned his head, staring at the man through the matted locks that dangled over his eyes, he saw a look of stifled anger, and it lit the match under his own. “Or because you don’t wanna consider the possibility that they might not even-!”

Ian didn’t quite move; that suggested a linear method of motion that simply wasn’t applied in the circumstances. Instead, it was more as though he was simply in the chair in one moment, and then he was in front of Mark, glaring down with cherry-hot embers blazing in his irises and lips drawn back into a snarl as he glared down at the other man. He only had perhaps four or five inches of height over Mark, but he seemed to tower in the moment, forcing Mark to take a step back to avoid craning his neck. “Pick your next words very carefully, Markus.”

Mark’s eyes widened in shock, but soon resumed their unhappy squint. “You’re not the only one that cares about them, Ian. But I’m not blind enough that I can’t see that this…” He pointed to Cele’s bedside without averting his eyes, the whites of them glistening with his own pain. “This isn’t something people without curses come back from. He had a hole in his chest, for fuck’s sake!”

“And before that, he had a god in there! How can you be sure what’s going to happen, Markus?!” Ian was apace now, almost stomping on his heavy foot around the edge of the cot. “Of all the things I dislike about you, this is the worst. Your ability to speak so finally of things you know nothing about, and the arrogance that underlies it.”

“Fuck you. The doctors are almost certain-!”

“Certainty doesn’t exist!” Ian wheeled around, the embers in his eyes now glowing a blistering, throbbing red, as though he were attempting to burn holes through Mark simply by looking at him. “Certainty is a fiction we made up so we could pretend that we were anything more than powerless in the face of Creation! We call ourselves certain because it allows us to act as if we stand any higher in the cosmic order than the worms writhing in the soil!” His anger seemed to take the wind out of his lungs, making him almost heave in anger. “This is a world of gods and monsters, Markus. There is no certainty in the end.”

Whatever purpose Ian had ascribed to his words, whatever message he wished to convey, it was clear that Mark was not receptive to it, rolling his eyes derisively and dragging a hand over his face in some display of exhaustion at what he’d just been told. “So we should just, what? Live in doubt? Drive ourselves crazy wondering what might happen?”

“Oh, for- no, Mark! I…” Ian sighed, a low and heavy noise that issued from sleep-heavy lungs. He rubbed his eyes, perhaps for the first time in longer than he cared to admit. “I’m not saying… that. All I’m saying is…” He stopped the slight stoop of his figure, drawing himself up to his full height despite the clear look of discomfort it splayed across his tired features. “I have faith. I have to have faith that things will improve. I have seen horrors the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on any other person. All chances of light and goodness in my life have been smothered by darkness and misery for longer than I can remember. Perhaps you see letting go of Cele as a kindness, and maybe it is, but it’s a selfish sort of kindness. I would cling on to the faint spark of hope even if it means ignoring what’s right in front of me, because I have seen miracles before, and I believe they can happen again. I can’t let go of them; I could only give up if they did, and even then, I don’t know what I’d do if they did. I have to hope. That's all I have left.”

Not a sound passed from either man for a time that seemed both a fraction of a moment and years upon years. They simply looked to one another, silently exchanging looks of something one might mistake as understanding. But that could not be; they were too different, the arcs of their lives bending too far in opposite directions, for them to ever truly understand one another as ordinary eyes might imagine. But in the rare points where they met, where they shared the same headspace, they could come to something like a quiet sympathy for one another, seeing and sharing their pain, and their love for the same person. It wasn’t the deepest connection, but it would be enough for them, at least for now.

Mark blinked first. “Fine. Just don’t set yourself up for more pain.” His face settled, the red flush of frustration leaving his skin and the worn-in creases of a scowl worn many times lessened, ending in something not completely neutral, but not so strong as to give off any particular signal of what he was going to do or say next. His eyes flitted to the door, then looked in the opposite direction as if he had remembered something in the new sobriety of his calm, instead plodding quietly over to Cele’s bedside and leaning down to place a brief, familial kiss to her exposed left temple, making no noise and keeping their brief contact feather-light, as if he was afraid of waking her accidentally. He shared one last look with Ian, one that he either couldn’t make sense of or didn't wish to, before turning on his heel and walking out without a goodbye, the door softly sliding shut behind him with the same mechanical whoosh as before, though it sounded less enthusiastic than before. 

Ian slumped, all the strength vanishing with the man’s departure as though his strength was so great that he’d been holding the man by eye contact alone. Whatever strong, narrow focus was in his eyes deflated like a burst balloon, going pallid and soft again as it was before he stopped being alone with Cele’s body. He trudged back to his seat, more falling into it than sitting on it, and resumed that unblinking kicked-puppy stare at their immobile body. He remained this way for a few short moments, though they seemed almost agonisingly long in his eyes, before raising a pale, trembling hand up, reaching out to brush back a few stray white hairs that had fallen down and over Cele’s eyes, the only portion of their face that could be made out amongst the mess of instruments and tubes and wires that crowded their figure, and as such it commanded his attention with such strength as he had never known before. The hand lingered, before withdrawing shakily as if the break in contact was almost painful for him. 

Ian opened his mouth to speak, but could only manage a dry wheeze. He forced himself to swallow before trying again. “I’m sorry for arguing with him in front of you. I… he’s a dick, but I know how much he means to you.” Something in the short and vain effort to pretend a smile crossed his face, before being dropped in place of a quiet embarrassment at having tried at all. “You were always better at dealing with him than me. If you were still awake, you’d probably…” His voice died, or perhaps he murdered it before it could finish voicing such a terrible reminder. “Nevermind… god, look at me. What would you say if you could see me now?” His words now came out in a raspy, hoarse whisper, the derision scratching up the sides of his parched throat that they almost drew blood on their way out.

“What am I saying? You’d worry. You always did.” He reclined in his seat, letting his head flop back limply, leaving him to stare at the ceiling blankly. “You thought I never noticed, thought you were too subtle to be caught… but I knew. Made my heart stumble a little when you did. Took me forever to figure out why, and even longer to accept it.” Ian groaned at the memory, clapping a hand over his face. “And they said I was the smart one.”

The hand soon came away, and he stared up at his palm. “All these years, and… I never said a thing, even when I was sure of how I felt.” The skin around his eyes creased deeper,  face twisting in a bitter cocktail of shame and self-loathing. “And now I might never get to tell you. You’d think I’d know better by now, but… under all these sharp edges, I’m still the same bleeding heart I always was.” A low, broken noise, perhaps meant to be a laugh, rattled from him, gored on the spikes of his own despair. “And… I’m still afraid. I thought I’d left that behind years ago, but just the thought of you never waking, it… I shake just thinking about it. So if you feel even a fraction the same of what I feel for you, and I’m at least somewhat convinced you do… please wake up. For the love of god, please wake up. Because I can’t do this without you.”

He waited then, staring with bright, wet eyes in the small, foolish hope that his plea would inspire some miracle, some impossible burst of life in them. But nothing happened; Cele remained still, and apart from the soft rise and fall of their chest, they remained in appearance as gray and quiet as death. But this didn’t break Ian; he didn’t cry, for he had shed all the tears he could carry. Instead, a smile, this one soft and easy, settled itself onto the curve of his mouth, and it stayed without the fear of seeming unnatural. It was perfectly, the most natural thing he’d done for longer than he could remember. “That’s okay. Take all the time you need.” He reached out again, his hand now still and sure, and clasped theirs firmly, clinging to the small warmth it still held. “I can wait forever, because…”

He paused, perhaps recognising the weight of his sentiment, knowing that there was no way back, that once spoken could never be unspoken. But as these things dawned on him, he was not afraid; instead, the fear vanished like a breath, held too long, finally released.

Beep. 

Beep.

“No deep tissue damage. Scarring is mostly superficial.”

Beep. 

Beep. 

“All internal organs have healed completely. Blood pressure is within the acceptable range. You’re in remarkably good condition, barring the sudden hair growth which we had to correct.”

Beep.

Beep.

“And that should be all we need. How are you feeling?”

Feeling, as Cele had recently learned, was a mostly relative thing. Physically, they were far from being at their best; even after healing from the hole that Thragg had punched through them, even after pulling through one of the longest comas that any of the Viltrumite doctors had seen, they still had to contend with the aftermath. Their chest was crisscrossed with a litany of fresh scarring, the largest among them being the whitish-pink star shape that exploded out from their sternum. The skin was thin and sensitive to the touch, the low and steady thrumming of their heart almost worryingly palpable. But it was more than just the physical sensation. No, it was something deeper, a subtle pitting in their gut whenever their hand came to touch at the mottled flesh, the vague feeling of everything breaking apart and circling the great cosmic plughole, crushed and warped and spaghettified as it fell back into the hole that had been waiting for it all along, since before when the atoms knew how to unite in all their many combinations to form any of the subject matter. This feeling, this knowledge in the back of their mind was familiar to them, and it chilled them to the bone every time it passed into consideration. 

And yet, they had survived, pulled through when all odds indicated the opposite. It couldn’t be simple biology that had snatched them back from the jaws of oblivion; they had seen stronger Viltrumites die from far less serious injuries than their own. Perhaps, then, it was something deeper than simple muscle and bone, something not of typical material things that doctors wouldn’t have the slightest understanding of. Perhaps, then, there was a point to the pain, to the terrible feeling of being locked inside of themselves while remaining aware of scant pieces of feeling and sensation. Perhaps, then, there was something to be learned from all this. 

Or perhaps Entropy just had a sense of humor. 

Discharging, by comparison, was mercifully uncomplicated; Cele’s costume was in too much of a ruined state to be worn on the way out, and the best the infirmary could provide in its place was a spare warrior’s uniform clearly intended for someone at least two sizes larger than them, leaving Cele with the slow and arduous task of pulling, pinching and tucking the fabric at the loosest points, until the ensemble was at a point where it was at least somewhat presentable. The boots, too, were far too large to walk about in safely, leaving them to float precariously out of their room, feet angled so as to point their toes upwards and keep them from slipping out.

Cele never liked hospitals. They never had. It was never anything physically about them that brought that old hollowing chill down the length of their spine, not the clean white walls and polished floors, not the unerring sense of sameness in every door and room they passed, not the pungent odor of disinfectants and sedatives and every other kind of chemical the doctors used. No, it was instead Cele’s many dark associations with places like this that made them not want to linger longer than was absolutely necessary; they saw the pallid white on the walls and heard the distant voices of their past, felt the phantom sting of long-ago needles whenever they saw a cot, turned a corner and remembered when they were small and frail and weak and at the mercy of the men in white with the scary masks. The distaste was not bound by something so simple as what they saw, but instead what they likened the sights to. It was an old pain, scarred into the recesses of their mind like the star over their heart, and just as unlikely to be repaired. 

It was better, then, for them to keep their eyes on the floor as they made their way out of that bleach-white labyrinth, aided mostly by the scarlet red arrow on the floor which a signpost had informed them was the route to the reception area. There was something funny in the bright, almost acidic hue of it cutting a thin road through a sea of dim gray tiles, a harsh tear amongst the cold sterility where something vibrant and absurd might peek through like a lurker at the small crack of a door left ajar. The arrow thickened as they followed along, the red expanse a good enough sign of progress for them to follow without moving their eye to look at anything else. Cele knew they had reached the end when the dense red band stopped short suddenly, cut off by the stale grey expanse of the waiting room floor, awash in the cold white light of the overhead lamps. 

And there he was. Perhaps the red line wasn’t a way out, but instead a way to find him. Cloak was the first thing Cele saw, the same kind of red their eyes had been glued to for the past five minutes. Maybe longer than that, maybe even far longer. It was his red in their mind, always had been; it was the colour of spilled blood, something raw and bleeding and pulsing with light. Not death, but life unrelenting, the primal fire that could never be extinguished, no matter how great and terrible the wounds from which it poured. This was the soft, wet interior of Ian Cantation, forever worn on his back for the world to see. Most were disgusted by it, perhaps by the vulgarity of it, perhaps by the honesty of it, but not Cele. Never Cele. At worst, all they could be said to be guilty of was partnering with him in that long dance of bitten back words and crushed feelings, stretching what might have taken ordinary people a few moments into the better part of a decade. But standing here, watching as his face turned to meet theirs, it didn’t seem at all pointless. Instead, Cele realised that for people as breathtakingly unordinary as them, it was perfect. Because they were here, and they were here together, and that simple truth more than made up for everything that came before it.

“Are you… alright?” His words came out in a croak, the remnants of what Cele had been told was Ian severely neglecting his own personal wellbeing to tend to them during almost all of their time trapped in their own body. They should have felt worried, and on some level they knew it would come around in conversation later, but the worry was far displaced by the fact that he had stayed with them the entire time. 

“Yeah.” Cele replied with a croak of their own, pushing the words out of a throat sore from lack of use. Again, feeling was relative, but if they had to speak in relative terms, they could certainly be worse off. Still, they could be better as well, which right now meant being much, much closer to him than they were right this instant, and yet they remained, hovering in place as if kept in place by some invisible box crafted from sheer awkwardness. It shouldn’t be this hard, their head told them, you already kissed him once. How much harder could it be to do it again? And yet they didn’t move. Instead, they simply floated in place, as their mind spiralled into wondering how ridiculous he must think they were being right that moment. 

Ian took a step closer, the skin of his eyes creasing into a lightly concerned squint. “Are you sure? You’re… awfully quiet.” His face passed directly under a light hanging from the low ceiling, allowing Cele to fully see that, despite some lingering trace of sleep deprivation in the bags under his eyes, he’d made an effort to clean himself up. Gone was the greasy, tangled hair he’d possessed when they last saw (and kissed) him, and in its place the much more familiar glossy curls he’d sported for almost all the time they’d known him. His beard was no longer the matted mass of curls that had scraped against their jaw the first time they’d kissed him, but instead his usual pointed style that framed the pinkish skin of his mouth and his soft red lips. Even apart from the obvious repair to his looks, there seemed to be this new added air, some sense of being uplifted that shrouded him, or perhaps a suggestion of some giant weight being absent from his shoulders. In short, he looked good, in a way they couldn’t remember him ever looking before.

Oh, it hit them. He doesn’t think I’m ridiculous. And how obvious it was, because this was Ian of all people, the man who, despite all of his other flaws, had never truly dismissed them as just being ridiculous. The thought brought to mind something he’d told them years ago, when they’d first broached the topic of magic: “What most would call an absurdity, I see as a mystery merely waiting to be solved.” Back then, Cele had simply chalked up the phrase as another one of his many semi-whimsical ramblings, but looking back from now, perhaps it was actually the first window they had into understanding how he saw the world around himself; to him, it was a mystery, a chance to learn something, to clear away the fog of ignorance that so many others would turn and flee from. How could they not love him for that alone?

Sometimes Cele moved so fast they could even surprise themselves; one such time being now as they practically slammed their body into Ian’s, and they would’ve noticed the audible noise of something snapping sooner if they weren’t so preoccupied with making sure they were just high off the ground enough to easily mash their lips against his. They couldn’t help the shiver that ran through them, one-half a reaction to how warm his skin was against theirs and one half a jolt of pure satisfaction at finally being back here again, after all the unspoken words and bitten-back impulses and the quiet terror that they’d messed it all up in a fit of post-coma desperation, even despite his every sign of matching enthusiasm. No, it wasn’t until they pulled back that they realised, probably from the amount of force with which they crushed their lips to his, that his jaw was hanging loose, resting at the awkward angle only achievable from being cracked at one of the mandibles.

Just their luck that they could kiss a man so hard it would break his jaw. 

An injury like this wasn’t at all fatal to Ian. In fact, it wouldn’t even be particularly difficult for him to fix, though that didn’t stop the horrified gasp that Cele drew in as they scrambled back a pace, hands up as if afraid to touch him again that they would break something else. “Oh my-! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-!”

The complaint that bubbled on their tongue never made it out, for Ian moved just as quickly as they had the moment before, sweeping them into his deceptively strong arms and returning the act with equal fervour. All Cele managed to produce was a small squeak of surprise, and they could almost swear he was smiling as he drank it up. Naturally, it was only a moment or maybe half of one before they melted into the embrace, arms bracing against the sides of his back. There was always something about kissing like this, all scraping lips and teeth clacking, that excited them. The messiness of it, maybe, or the reckless abandon with which they both threw themselves at one another, not caring for the potential split lips or bitten tongues, or in their case something a little more atypical. There was a rhythm to it, irregular and hot and bursting with some tantric energy Ian could no doubt give an hour-long lecture about, one that neither of them knew until they kissed, and then it was as if they knew it by heart. Every bump, every awkward twist and bump of skin and flesh seemed a part of the bizarre choreography they worked through together; perfect not for a lack of mistakes, but for the fact that there wasn’t such a thing now. Everything was as it should’ve been all along, and yet it was also as it was always going to be. 

Unfortunately, even people of their unique levels of tolerance had to submit to the demands of simple biology, and the screams of their lungs eventually forced them apart, panting hard into the quiet air. Ian held them close, staring through blown pupils and with his face flushed a hot pink colour. His loose jaw now looked as if it was hanging agape in awe, before it briefly shuddered and popped back into its proper place with an almost inaudible clikk. “Good to know I wasn’t the only one waiting.” His voice was heavy, edged with the low groan of a man resisting the urge to come completely undone. “You’re colder than I thought you’d be.”

“Ian, I-!” Cele almost wanted to yell what they felt, to finally let that ache in their chest fall away, but he pressed a finger to their lips, and they couldn’t help how they shivered at the glint in his eyes.

“Not yet. I want to earn it first.” There was a cruelty about Ian, a vicious streak they’d noticed ever since the first time they’d fought alongside him. He seemed to revel in the violence, in the harm it wreaked upon himself and others, particularly himself. Whether it was a matter of nature or nurture, they didn’t ask, content to just know that it was a part of him. But they wanted to know now, whether the torture he lavished on them was ingrained into him from birth, or if the cruelty in his kisses was something he learned on the way to becoming a man.  

His hand found the back of their neck, searing hot and pulling them impossibly deeper into the bruising kiss. There was a noise around them like a death rattle, and a prickle of sudden heat washed over their skin, and when Cele looked around, it became obvious that Ian had pulled them softly, quietly through some dark fold of space and into the quiet, sun-coated halls of his house in San Diego. 

Now alone with them, Ian wasted no time in getting to work, his free hand feeling its way down to the small of Cele’s back and curling the fingers hard, which would have torn the spare uniform had it been made of any Earthly material. He huffed, maybe in annoyance or maybe just out of sheer arousal, before messily detaching his mouth from theirs and all but dragging the orifice in a messy line of peppered kisses, first along their cheek, then to the sharp curve of their jawline, before finally reattaching itself to the supple flesh of their neck, all but sinking his teeth into the skin there, though just shy of cracking a tooth. It was worlds away from being painful, but more than enough to make their next breath catch in their throat, before stuttering out in a low whine. 

Ian came away with a soft gasp, eyes gleaming and a length of spittle trailing down from the corner of his swollen lips as his eyes bore into theirs. “I’m an idiot.” He sighed down at them, the soft pout on his face obscured yet deepened by the calm shadows that seemed to pervade him. Before Cele could ask what he meant by that and the downward crease in his eyes, he was on them again, licking and sucking at the point over their jugular vein in what might seem to be a futile attempt at tearing their throat out. He came away again, hovering over the area now as he whispered. “How could I shy away from you for so long?”

He turned a little to face them better, and Cele finally had the chance to voice some of their own thoughts. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here now.” In some unknowing act of interpersonal symmetry, Cele maneuvered a hand to tangle in the shiny orange locks that cascaded down to them, curling and pulling hard enough to force a groan from his mouth into theirs. “And I’m not letting go.”

“Neither am I.” A noise like something hard splitting open, and Cele felt the fingers at their back grow long and sharp, easily tearing through the hard fabric, pulling it free in ragged strips and exposing the skin to a cool and gentle California summer breeze. They didn’t moan, at least not nearly as loudly and wantonly as Ian had hoped judging from the small keen that passed between them. No, they were much too hardened for that level of exposure, at least for now; still much too tense and rigid to let such traitorous noise, involuntary and raw as skinless muscle, slip out from the high walls they’d erected. But judging from the sharp glint in his eyes, those walls might be put to the test very soon. 

Ian’s claws were not yet finished with their work, however, continuing to drag and scrape until Cele’s shirt was little more than scraps in his hand, easily thrown aside as he grabbed them by the hips and hoisted their body against his, holding their exposed torso flush to the upper half of his body. His mouth came hot and fast, tongue darting out to feverishly lick and prod their already hardening nipples. If he desired more noise, Cele was no easy customer, only affording him the odd shaky breath and low rattling murmur. 

This time, Cele had enough of a view to watch the scenery around them warp into a seemingly endless stretch, familiar objects and artifacts yawning out as they travelled. It put the thought in their head that rather than tucking and folding the avenues of spacetime and shortening the path from a thousand steps into one, perhaps he was simply moving through them at such speed as to make the journey seem like one smooth step, all the while insulating himself and others from having the burden of an unbearable weight of friction and air resistance touch them at all. Whatever the mechanism, the result was a quick, almost silent (save for that same death rattle, this time seeming more like a pleased moan tickling the small bones of their ears) step from the lobby to his private chambers. His four-poster had clearly sat untouched for some time now, the wine-dark silk sheets bearing the slightest film of dust as a testament to Ian’s recent absences. That same film was now thrown up as Ian tipped himself back, surrendering to gravity’s hold and allowing the both of their bodies to crash into the velvety softness with a muffled whump. Cloak had disappeared at some point, leaving them both to their own private entanglement as it flew off to do whatever it was sentient fabric demons did in their spare time. 

Perhaps feeling the imbalance of the circumstances, Cele sought to rectify it by grasping as firm a hold of the inky fabric of Ian’s tunic as could be managed under his ministrations and wrenching it off, their own flustered noises drowned out briefly by the loud tearing that resulted. After pausing briefly to see what his new partner was doing, Ian finally broke his efforts by pressing a final open-mouthed peck to the bud before raising himself over them, stopping a moment to look down through pupils blow wide with arousal before pulling the remnants of the tunic off his body, exposing every inch of pale imperfection for their eyes to devour. 

And devour they did, drinking deep with their trembling eyes and mapping him out with their feverish hands, pawing and grasping at territory they had only spied in a few scant moments up until now. But this was not enough for Cele, and they soon wound up grabbing Ian in what must’ve seemed like some strange bear hug before flipping him to lie where they had just been, red in the face at being handled with such ease. 

Cele’s hands continued to have their fill of him, stroking and palming their way along the soft squishy swell of his pecs, brushing through the shock of orange hair that traced down from there, feeling the nervous flex of his abs through the thin layer of body fat as their fingers ghosted over there, before settling at the waistband of his tights. They teased it with their nails, weighing up whether they should simply rip through it and do what the stuttered gasps he’d been making so clearly begged for. But when they saw the look in his eyes, manic and watery like a man on the edge, they found their answer flowing clearly. “No. Not yet.”

The dip of his belly trembled, and with a look like a kicked puppy he swallowed his words and whined at their denial. “Why…?” He croaked, trailing off as he watched Cele slowly lift up from their place on his lap. They only paused to reach down and tear their last item of clothing into awkward ribbons, leaving them fully bare in his presence before setting back down further up his torso, as if showcasing what they had to offer him while staying out of the reach of his mouth. 

“You haven’t earned it yet.” Maybe they had a cruelty too, either there the whole time and only now bubbling to the surface, or impressed upon them by the time they spent around him. “So show me. Show me you deserve it.”

Hazy though his brain was, Ian still kept the sense to understand what they meant. Slower, more cautiously, his arms raised from his sides and found their new places grasping at the meat of Cele’s hips, softly urging them to sit higher, then higher, until they were at least close enough to feel the scorching waft of his breath against their labia. He looked surprisingly small like that, with most of his face covered by their own reddened flesh, with only a shy quarter visible past the swell of their thighs and their own straining erection.

The first prod of his tongue came slowly, almost timidly, yet the feeling of the rough, bumpy surface bumping their clit was like an electric shock, tearing free a low gasp. He groaned back, emboldened by the response and licked the bud more firmly, taking his time to drag it up and down with the beginnings of a grin on his lips. Again he pressed, then again, each time more firmer, more fervent, before the tip of the wet muscle moved lower, slithering deeper into them and beginning to feel around in motions that elicited more keens and moans from Cele’s already swollen lips. He seemed intent on mapping out every square inch of their insides, digging deep and taking note of all the spaces where their nerves clustered, testing and teasing while watching the shades of ecstasy that ran over their beet red face. On Cele’s end, all his motions and intent were lost in the constant, overwhelming spikes of neurochemical ecstasy that crashed over them like waves in a maelstrom, receding and surging in almost rhythmic screams that echoed through their synapses. Thinking was difficult, and making any noise other than the strangled gasps and whisper-like moans that currently escaped them was borderline impossible. Whatever experience Ian had in the bedroom was leagues ahead of their own, that was no secret, but the intensity with which he was illustrating it was almost maddening. Did he have something to prove to them, in his own way of telling them that all his past flings had been some mere practice for this time right now, or was he simply revelling in the chance to use his talents on them? Whatever the answer, it became just another thing about him they could try to solve when they weren’t crumbling under his assault.

Panting from a lack of oxygen, Ian’s gaze travelled closer to himself, eyeing the straining length that had so far rested on his sweat-sheened forehead. His hand gripped the dense muscles in his hand, feebly trying to pull Cele slightly further down and give him the angle he needed, but his partner was far too preoccupied with their own pleasure to even notice the effort, their taut thighs trembling yet not budging. Failing that, he tried instead to raise his head and wrap his lips around the side of their plump shaft, but couldn’t get his head to turn enough to make the action possible. He let his head flop back with a huff, chewing his lip for a moment as though the solution could be found inside the spongy pink muscle. 

Then there was a flash, a sharp inhale, and the lines around his eyes curved into the quiet glee of a man who just had a thought he liked very much.

At first, it just seemed as though Ian was rolling his neck, relieving himself of the stiffness he was bound to get from being trapped in one place for so long. Then came the quick, quiet pops of his neck joints, not just the clicking of bones against each other, but also the straining and snapping of ligaments, the shifting of thickly-bound muscles and the almost alien noise his skin made as it was stretched to the point of translucence, exposing the warped inner network of fibres and nerves that twisted and lengthened underneath. Slowly, almost limply, Ian craned his elongated neck, lifting on systems that shouldn’t be able to support the weight of his skull and yet did anyway, his mouth lolling open as he finally, finally, managed to take their straining little cock into his mouth. He groaned at the warm squishy texture bumping against the spongy surface of his tongue, drinking in the thin layer of sweat and musk that coated the pulsing and searing hot flesh and shuddering at the strangled cry that caught in Cele’s throat.

While not as big as his own, Cele’s penis was still large enough that Ian could only take a little over half of the total length on his first pass, gagging slightly at the sensation of his throat being filled. He drew back for a moment, dragging in a hasty breath before diving back down, pushing and dragging his lips up and down the short length, taking in more and more with every pass until, with only a few stifled grunts of effort, his nose brushed against the shock of sheer white fuzz that covered Cele’s crotch, the ticklish feeling almost making him sneeze for a second before he pressed himself further more firmly, sucking hard and creating an almost vacuum-like seal around the base. In the same moment, one of Ian’s hands finally loosened its grip on Cele’s thigh and travelled lower, quietly slipping a thumb inside of them and moving in torturously slow circles. 

“You- I- I-!” It was as if some link, some vital connection between Cele’s brain and voice had been cut, and whatever they wanted to cry or shout remained trapped in their head, leaving their mouth to make little more than silent gasps and trapped mewls. Their watery eyes remained fixed on Ian’s reddened face, watching in equal parts ecstasy and astonishment, both at the sheer ease with which he swallowed them down to the base over and over again as well as the odd angle at which his head set, each pass up and down making a noticeable ker-klack. “Please-!”

They had meant for the plea to hopefully slow his assault on their crotch, but he seemed to take it the exact opposite way, first taking them fully into his elongated throat before allowing his tongue to slither out from between their shaft and his bottom lip, licking and prodding again at their clitoral hood. This effort of this, this overwhelming act, was enough to finally, finally, rip a high-pitched scream of pleasure from their body, pulling the knot in their gut taut to the point of snapping; Cele’s entire body was seized in a fit of spasming and screaming, pushing their cock as deep into Ian’s mouth as possible as they shot their release down his throat, at the same time gushing over his neck. 

How long it took them to stop convulsing, Cele couldn’t tell; one moment or a hundred, it all dissolved into the hot tide that washed over them, blinding them to all else until the wash of sensation cleared, leaving them to mewl and shiver at the sweat cooling on their skin, and the shy clicks and pops of Ian’s neck gradually collapsing into how it supposed to look. He coughed–or maybe he swallowed–before speaking. “Well… that was certainly worth the wait.”

Cele laughed. It felt good to laugh after so long. “Yeah, I…” Their throat dried as they weighed their next words. “I… I love y-”

Again, they were interrupted, this time by one of Ian’s hands shooting up to awkwardly cover their mouth. “I appreciate the fervour, dear, but not just yet.”

This time, it came out as more of a grumble than a whine, excitement mingling with frustration, though it soon became a squeak of surprise when Ian moved again in that impossible way of his, body sinking beneath the sheets of the bed and only allowing his hands to remain to keep his grip on their thighs, before rising up again and sending Cele sprawling on their back with a soft heave. He settled himself on his knees, moving his hands to their inner thighs to better keep their legs open.

Cele could almost feel the burning intensity with which his eyes roved across their sex, like invisible fingers ghosting and thumbing over, tasting them from a distance. Then, with the same abruptness which he’d been moving with since they’d reunited, Ian’s hands left their bare flesh, instead flying to his own waistband and finally allowing his straining to flop out of his tights.

A memory flashed, one they kept hidden like some great shameful secret, coloured in west coast sunlight-gold and tinged with something like an erotic, blushing sepia impression. It was seven years old, or perhaps eight? It wasn’t anything particularly scandalous, just an accidental walking in on a freshly showered Ian during one of the many short stays Cele had had in this house over the years, an awkward stare followed by a swift retreat. It hadn’t lasted more than maybe a moment or two, but the experience alone; not just glimpsing Ian in the nude, but witnessing him revealed for the first time, stripped of all his mystique and pretense, touched on something deeper than even their lizard brain, something more than primal instinct, something fundamental. It coloured every interaction they had with him since, the warm contours of that memory overlaid on the present example each time they talked.

Seeing him bare himself now, Cele was struck by the feeling that this moment would serve a similar purpose in future. 

He leaned over, shadowing their body with the width of his broad shoulders. A hand came to push down at the sheets, the mattress dipping next to Cele’s head as the almost trunk-like bulk of his arm propped him up. Again, his eyes beared down on them like searchlights, now framed by the canopy of cascading orange curls that circled his face. His other hand stayed low, taking himself in hand and pressing against the slim opening of their vagina that forced Cele to take a deep breath. He paused, asking, “Just… let me know if it’s too much”. He talked with the low, level intonation of someone who was teaching rather than having sex. If so, they were at least a little grateful for the option. For them, the events of the day were already several bases past what they had any real experience with, and this seemed like some breaking of the seventh seal, some point of no return. And yet, if it had to be anyone, they could think of no-one better.

He gulped–they watched the soft bob of his Adam’s apple–before lining up and pushing in and, oh, what a first experience it was. Cele had explored there before, whether it be using a toy or just their own fingers, but nothing could compare to the soft warm flesh that slowly sank deeper and deeper into them; it was twitchy and alive and if they focused hard enough, they could almost feel the low and steady of his heartbeat in how it pulsed against their inner walls. Ian was above average if they had to guess, and probably not the most well-endowed man on the planet, but Cele’s insides still felt as though they were being pushed up to make room for the intrusion. And yet at the same time, the sting of his entering was light at most, and Ian slowly pushed and pushed, losing more of himself in the silky and welcoming heat as he went, until finally the two sets of hips came together with a quiet squelch of fluids. He shivered, eyes rolling back for a moment as he struggled to keep his composure. The sight inspired some flash of sick, greedy joy in Cele, knowing that it was their body that could make him flinch like that, even if only for the smallest of moments, when he had shrugged off even the most horrific injuries. 

Ian pulled himself back, torturously slow in a way that spoke more to an unwillingness to leave than any calculation, until only the tip of his cock remained buried inside them before suddenly slamming himself back in. Cele cried out from the shock, vision swimming with stars as their voice dropped to a mewl of pleasure. When he repeated the action, more fluid this time, it came out in a low keen, their hands flying to grasp tightly at his shoulders. Then he moved again, and then again, setting a steady pace that produced the soft clapping of flesh. They stared, both sets of eyes locked onto one another with an almost laser-focus as their bodies writhed and collided in the punishing pace Ian had set. 

His free hand, no longer needing to ease his entry, now moved to sink again into the dense muscles of Cele’s thigh, hitching and hooking the shin over his shoulder to help deepen his thrusts, the head of his cock now brushing lightly against their cervix as he continued his constant and relentless motions. This act helped to pull further, more depraved noises from deep within the pit of their mind, the little squealing monster within finding itself more satisfied than ever before. They were flushed a sensitive pink, their body temperature already having skyrocketed since they began their sordid entanglement, and now was at the point where they might be thought to be on the verge of combusting from the inside out; their nerves were similarly alight, scorching with sensation and desperate to make themselves busy, which is how they came to grab at the tight cords of muscle along his lower back and curl fiercely, flooding the room with a light coppery scent as the nails broke skin. Ian growled, but kept their hands from retreating in shame and slammed his lips to theirs, that same coppery taste spilling from the fresh split in his lower lip. He broke from it all too soon, keeping their faces mere inches apart and letting his hand fold to keep his new position. 

Ian couldn’t last long; that much was clear from the almost scarlet tint to his face, from the increasingly haggard breaths he was dragging in and the tremble in his blown-out eyes. Like them, he’d been too overwhelmed by the anticipation of this, too enraptured by their body to give his usual drawn-out performance. His thrusts were starting to slip from their rhythm, sapped by his desperation to maintain whatever of his clearly flagging composure he still possessed. His lips were parted, letting him push shuddering breaths through his teeth as a small line of bloody saliva drooled out. Cele could empathise, feeling that familiar aching knot in their lower belly beginning to tighten for the second time today. 

Slowly, slower than anything else happening between them, one of Cele’s hands came away from the mess they’d made of his back, blood and flakes of skin clumping under their fingernails, and cupped Ian’s cheek, gently yet firmly turning his scattered manic gaze onto them. The fact that he was still able to keep thrusting despite his apparent delirium was impressive, and Cele rewarded his efforts with a feather-light kiss to his cheek, smiling to themselves at the short, sharp hitch of breath in his throat. 

They enjoyed this back and forth, this constant claiming and surrendering of “control”, if it could be called that. There was something refreshing about it, something free of the strict order they had known for their entire life, something equal, that let them have just as much of a stake in it as anyone else. His love didn’t just make them feel desired, but important also, like they were a priority for him as well as a partner. How could they not want this, when it made them feel seen?

“I love you.” This time, the words were calm, steady despite the barrage of pleasure they were under. They didn’t come from the errant screams of synapses overridden by base animal pleasure, but a single clear thought that cut through the sensory fog which had clouded their mind just a moment ago. “I love you!” Louder this time, unafraid to speak their mind. Now was the right time, not just when he found it the most sexually gratifying, though the look on his face suggested that was still the case. 

Perhaps Ian had wanted them to say it when they felt like it, or perhaps not; either way, the declaration seemed enough to finally tip him over the edge, a strangled desperate cry leaving him as his hips stuttered a moment, that last shred of self-restraint burning up in his ecstasy, before slamming all the way in and smothering them with another scorching, sloppy kiss. Despite their brief clarity, Cele’s body soon followed, shuddering and spasming under his weight as the warm of him emptying himself into them bloomed in their gut, coupled with their own fluids gushing out like a faucet at full strength, staining both him and the sheets under them both. The sensation, the pleasure, the sheer sense of feeling overcame everything else, every notion of the self and identity washing away with the tide of pure, unadulterated release. They were not Ian, nor Cele, instead some amalgamation of the two, some great melding that shuddered in its mayfly existence, blinking into being and then out of it just as quickly.

Eventually, the tide receded, leaving them both tangled in their cocktail of sweat and blood and other fluids. It was sticky, awkward and starting to stink, but it was a glorious mess. Their mess, the fruits of years of passions finally unleashed. 

With tired hands a soft huff of effort, Ian rolled the two of them over, hissing softly as he put weight on the no doubt numerous wounds across his back. Cele settled their head over his upper chest, listening to the falling rhythm of his heart and the slight wheeze in his lungs from the effort of the day. Then they looked at him again, silently watching the fuzzy outline of his jaw as he stared up at the ceiling. 

“Hey.” The words were raspy, tired out from all the moaning and screaming, but satisfied as well. They watched, mouth curving into a small smile as he lifted his head to look down at them, hair sticking up in places and face still covered in patches of flustered rosy skin as he cooled down. “I love you.” Their tiredness was evident, and it felt amazing to be tired like this.

He smiled, eyes creasing in what could only be love. A hand on their lower back, pulling them ever so slightly closer. “I love you too.” So soft, quiet enough that only they could hear it, and yet something had shifted, something greater than anything either of them could do on their own. Then he let his head fall back down, a low hum that meant he was much more than satisfied. It meant he was happy, and that, above all else, made Cele feel proud of themselves. 

Cele had no illusions as to the world outside Ian’s bedroom; there was so much to do, both big and small, least of all the cleanup they’d need to do very soon. But here, in this small little moment?

Suddenly Kyle was on his feet and running, raw in raw-seamed hot khaki; overhead, the white-hot Libyan day sat on his shoulders like a full sack, pushing down any ideas of planning or bravado or anything that wasn't the frantic pulsing to run and keep running or die.

Run and keep running or die.

All about him, the air dazzled and cracked with the flitting shafts of rifle fire, gold spots dancing in the terror-tunnel of his vision like fireflies in the night. A poorly placed step, a slipping rock, and he felt the air superheat as a bullet missed his stooped spine by scant centimetres, rocketing over into the rocky hills around. The rolling flames bounced their rays from the upside of his butterbars, forcing a squint and a blink of manic teary eyes as he kept charging ahead.

Run and keep running or die.

How could it have gone so wrong? How had they known they'd be there? Already, his hand was stained with the wound-sweat of a Private unsewn by leaping shrapnel, the last mark of a hand clinging in a last and most private moment, the one memorial to a life so quickly snatched away. How had they lost so many so quickly? Where was Captain Hagman? Was there still a Captain Hagman? Kyle had seen him last, standing cool as the ocean breeze with his Webley in one hand and a canteen in the other. With calls of "Tally ho!" and "Forwards, lads!" He went, brave or blind to the deadly lights, even still smiling even through the bright sweat of his brow.

Run and keep running or die.

His Thompson was slung low and loose, numb as a smashed arm in the circumstances; an American weapon in American hands, united far away from home, and both equally useless. In the opening volleys, he had forgotten all thought of discipline or being sure and gallant, emptying the drum in a spray he prayed would find a mark. He didn't stay to see an answer. It clicked and clacked now, in rhythm with his own high and hoarse panting. This was his baptism, his first step from man to something more, and he had fled in terror.

Run and keep running or die.

The Italians were on the pass behind them, raining down hell as they moved. Half of the Commandos never made it out from the storm, while the remainder, Kyle included, scattered about like ants under a magnifying glass. He could see them now, Tommies jerked by rounds finding their marks and keeling over into the blistering sand, some firing back over their shoulders while others dropped their arms in alarm and sprinted into the shimmering cover of the far-off horizon. The whole scene was something out of a nightmare, men turning to fizzling shapes in the smoke and obscurity that pranced about on sizzling sands, leaping in and out of sight amidst the withering hellish hail.

Run and keep running or die.

He rounded a corner amongst the jagged rocks, and thought for a single and foolish moment that he was safe, that he was out of harm's way. Then there came a shout from his left, and something slim slammed into his side, knocking Kyle off-balance and sending him tumbling down the side of a shell crater his relief had kept him from noticing. The reedy shouts in his ear and the khaki cap tumbling before his eyes told him one of the Italians had broken ranks to finish him personally, full and hot with a young fascist's fury. Now his mind pulsed with a new madness. No more running; now it was fight and kill or be killed.

Fight and kill or be killed.

His good hand went first to his holster, scrambling for the Webley he'd been supplied with before they left. Damn, empty, the strap wobbling loose as they continued their tumble. Kyle considered the quality of British gear as his back slammed into a particularly jagged-feeling rock. Then he considered the quality of British first-aid kits as his forehead met similar reception. From there, consideration of any kind became a great deal more challenging between the stars dancing in his vision and the feeling of wet sand sloshing about in his brainpan.

Fight and kill or be killed.

He just managed to close his hand around the handle of his Fairbairn-Sykes as the rolling ended in the small pit of the crater, shoulder slamming into gut and feet tangling into themselves and raking down pocketfuls of sand in the process. It took a few hard yanks to pull the damned thing free, its holsters squashed between his hip and the scorched earth, but soon Kyle had it out in front of him. The blade cut the afternoon sun that bled down along its edge, gleaming like obsidian in the dying light.

Fight and kill or be killed.

There were things you learned in training, things drilled into you again and again until your body could learn to carry them out without needing so much as a spark of conscious effort. Kyle had had more time than most to develop these instincts between boot camp, OCS and the special classes back in England; chief among these - chief in its value to the life of any soldier - was that if you were in a position where it was either you or the other guy, always pick the other guy. Even through the ringing in his brain, Staff Sergeant Murray's words still came back to him. "Better him than you, Private."

Fight and kill or be killed.

The first thrust was disturbingly easy, sliding down to the guard with little more than a soft thunk against the shape of the Italian's ribcage that his tunic did a poor job of hiding. From the hitch and gurgle in his breath, it was clear he'd pierced something vital inside. Better than glancing off the bone, but messy. Sure enough, no sooner had he pulled the red-slicked blade out than the guy began shuddering, bony fingers flying up to grasp around the new puncture in his skin. Mixed with the strangled cries came blubbering, both in sobs and the hacks of bloody phlegm that spilled out from lungs shrinking under pressure. The Italian thrashed to and fro, twitchy knuckles banging uselessly on Kyle's shoulder. He didn't feel it; just pulled back and stabbed again.

Fight and kill or be killed.

And then Kyle stabbed again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Again and again and again, all sinking into the soft screaming cloth and flesh of the Italian's belly, each repitition tearing free a new spray of red which gave hot khaki a gruesome new design. Sharp rips followed new holes in the uniform, soon plugged by open flaps of skin offering peeks at the entrails within. But this had to happen, of course. Kyle couldn't let the guy kill him could he? Could he?

Fight and kill or be killed.

It was only the silent roar of his knife arm, crying out for a pause in the violence, that Kyle allowed himself a moment to stop, flopping back against the wall of the crater. He was sweating more than he ever had in his life, tongue scraping against the roof of his mouth like a strip of sandpaper, and no breath he drew in had enough air in it. His hand was sticky, crusting with sand and viscera by his side, and the front of his uniform clung to him as the gore began to darken and dry. But at least he was still alive, wasn't he? Despite what had happened, he had still managed to fight and…

Oh. Oh no.

The Italian was mostly still now, save for the occasional gurgle or shudder in the arms cradling his scarlet belly. His eyes were blown wide, bloodshot hazel staring straight up into that light and cloudless sky. His mouth was stuck in a horrifying grimace, dribbling a pinkish-red foam down cheeks still sporting baby fat and glistening beads of sweat. How old was he? Twenty, nineteen? Even that? God, he still had the faint hairs of a first mustache on his face.

Kyle felt his stomach revolt at the sight, turning over and depositing the morning's meagre rations on the sharp bank of the crater in an acid mix of bile and guilt. What had he done? Not even just the act of taking a life away—bad enough that he was even capable of that—but cutting short everything else he might turn out to be; a friend, a husband, a father, a human being capable of so much more than just shooting and killing. But what else had he stopped? Who else would he have killed, what other atrocities would he abet, how many more horrors in the name of another man's madness would now never come to pass because Kyle had destroyed a life here, and left its remains in a forgotten hole in the Libyan desert?

Kyle considered if it would be a bigger comfort to at least know if he was evil. He concluded that it would.

Time without mark was fluid in the heat, and it wasn't clear exactly how long it took him to tear his eyes from the corpse—he had vomited a second time upon realising he had turned a person into an empty thing—and gather what was left of his equipment, leaving only a scarf to cover its eyes. Climbing out took most of the energy he had left, slipping on loose ground and trails of upchuck a couple of times, but he made it out into open ground soon enough.

He still held his Fairbairn-Sykes in a vice grip, the obscene instrument caked in bright ichor and sun-blasted grains as he stumbled about in the heat. It occurred to him that he could let go of the handle. He could leave this original sin in the wild with his victim, wash his arm and gear of evidence and return to Tobruk with the appearance of his innocence untarnished. But he kept holding the knife.

Kyle still had sense enough to remember the direction he and the others—"The other things now', he supposed—had come from. He oriented himself that way, and started walking.

Maybe he would die of exhaustion before he got to the British line. Maybe he'd prefer to.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe the war wasn't over yet. Maybe it was just starting.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Kyle hadn't had a shave in days. Or was it weeks?

No, days. 77, to be specific. He'd been attached to a group from the 1st Infantry ever since meeting up with the main US force at Normandy. More plainly, he'd been tacked onto a platoon under the watchful eyes of a sour-faced son of a bitch the men referred to as 'Ol' Brit', though only ever 'Sarge' to his face. He had rank here, but Ol' Brit didn't care. This was his platoon, and he acted accordingly, affording Kyle's suggestions on movements or tactics the same regard as the odd gust of wind that passed over the thick hedgerows.

That suited Kyle just fine; it wasn't as if he was close to any of them anyway. They had their jokes and hobbies and dead friends they liked to mourn over a campfire and a bottle of pilfered French wine, but none of it meant anything to Kyle's ears. Maybe all the time in France had made him go native; 'disgustingly un-American', as Colonel Wallis might have said once upon a time, when he cared to listen to the man. Maybe he was just cracking up from all the fighting, all his will to empathise spent as an empty magazine. Would knowing why even make a difference?

He had a system for times like this; name rank and service number. He'd picked it up from a greying Major down in Libya with eyes that couldn't seem to stop seeing. If it worked for him, why couldn't it do the same here?

"Washington, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."

The beach was dyed red when he'd reached it; the sea reeked of copper.

"Washingston, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."

It was red back in Toulouse, walls drenched from the spray of defenseless men and women.

"Washington, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."

Red were the sands near Tobruk, dried and blackened from months under the blistering desert sun.

"Washington, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."

His 1911 sat heavy under his left arm, weighed down by the death dealt from out the barrel. It was practically the only thing he'd kept in one piece apart from the shield. Sad as it was to say, it was the closest he'd had to a friend these past years. Tunisia, Libya, Corsica, and now France; they'd been everywhere together. He spoke five different languages; the only language it needed was .45 ACP. He had to get up close most of the time, using his shield or his stiletto or sometimes just his hands to get the job done; it could blow holes in a man from 50 yards away. He had scratches and marks from everything from bayonets to mortar shrapnel; it had scratches and mark of its own. If you looked at them from a particular moral angle, compared the profiles of their usage, they could even be mistaken for one another.

The only true difference was that it was a better killer than him. More efficient.

Its normal resting place was nothing more than worn leather, resting just to the left of the flesh and bone over his heart. The strap unbuttoned with the smallest pop, the iron shape dulled by years of action. He pulled it free, two and three-quarter pounds of American iron slipping quietly into his gloved palm, light and familiar in his grip like the hand of an old lover.

The muzzle was a half-inch wide, the small hole pressing on his tongue and flooding his mouth with the crisp tang of iron and brass. He knew the taste well, be it from cartridges between his teeth or licking at the fresh spillage from split gums. It used to sting, make him want to gag and spit. But now he welcomed the bite of it, the only clear feeling in a world swallowed by the mad haze of battle.

Further he pushed, further, until the sleek curves of the trigger guard bumped his nose, and the main bulk of it teased his uvula. He let it rest there for a minute, tensing his jaw around the intrusion; it felt right, sticking in so far. I should be horrified, he thought. I'm a slipped finger away from blowing my head off. He waited for it, for his heart to pick up to machine-gun pace, for his skin to freeze and prickle with terror, for the muscles of his arm to swell with the burning desire to keep living and yank this reaper from his mouth.

It didn't happen. Because what even was living here? Another mission, another sniper's nest, another mortar pit, again and again until there was nothing left. Another order from a man who thought of him as nothing more than a gutless pinko bastard. Another young fanatic or weary veteran he'd have to shoot or stab or strangle the life out of. Another brush with the end, or perhaps something more final.

Why wait? Why not just cut out the middle-man and do it himself?

He was so close. He could see that glorious release right in front of him. Peeking from behind its cover, teasing the curl of his index finger, a shy steel mistress he could feel but not see. She was good to him, she didn't need much; just 3 or 4 pounds of pressure, and she could sing him to sleep. A good sleep, a long sleep. Perchance to dream, as the Bard would say. He could do with a sleep. It'd been so long since the last good sleep he'd had.

So long. And all he had to do was pull-

"Uh, Cap'n?"

The angel slithered from his grasp, falling limply to his side. He could try again, but it just made him feel pathetic now. Once the moment passed, it was basically impossible to get it back up again.

"Yes, Corporal?" He remembered this GI at least; Minelli, twenty-two, from Paramus. He was nice enough, but just a touch too eager. Kyle doubted he'd make it to the end of the year.

As if remembering he was addressing, Minelli stood at attention, the heels of his rough-outs thumping together. "Tech Sergeant wanted to see you." The man paused, something Kyle didn't care to decipher passing through his hazel eyes. "I'm not, uh… interrupting anything?"

Kyle hadn't the strength for an answer; he put his angel to bed, stood himself up, and passed Minelli without a word of reply.