angst, fwb pricegaz, implied sexual content, unrequited (?) love
Gaz breathes in and out. His heart is not actually breaking. The muscle is intact. It's still pumping.
Walking back to his room from Price's in the quiet hours of the morning is equally humiliating every time. He walks confidently, as if he's exactly where he's supposed to be – lurking and tiptoeing around would only rouse suspicion, and he doesn't need that.
But the shame burning within him stays alight, so bright that he's afraid it's going to show to any onlooker. He knows he looks presentable, knows he doesn't look like he was fucked within an inch of his life again, but he wears the shame like a uniform.
Price was sleeping this time as he left, passed out while Gaz was showering, and there was no awkward non-goodbye at the door. Gaz never lingers, even if he burns to, wants to cling to the door handle and hear the words. Wait. Don't go yet.
They never come, those words he wants to hear. It's Price on his phone, grunting a barely audible 'good night'. He won't even look up, there is no longing in his eyes as Gaz goes, just a one-sidedly comfortable silence. Price is never uncomfortable with him.
His absolute authority over their relationship is something Gaz should probably be worried about. What he should do is report it. My superior officer and I are having a situationship and every time I leave it gets more difficult to stay away. That would go over well.
He doesn't know what kind of masochist it takes to stay in this kind of relationship. One day they're going to slip and their careers will go up in flames. One day Gaz is going to get hurt so thoroughly that he'll never recover. And still he keeps going back.
Because when Price touches him, it's like he comes alive. The adrenaline, the rush of excitement, the unwavering trust in Price, it's the same as it is on the field, except closer, less violent, equally vulnerable.
Price's hand on his throat, a light squeeze, just enough to remind him of his mortality in the hands of his Captain – and it's like an echo of their dynamic on the field, how he hangs to his Captain's every word, a matter of life and death.
Maybe there's something in the fact that Price keeps inviting him over. Despite the emotions coursing through him, feelings never reciprocated, he keeps finding himself behind Price's door, trying the handle, finding it unlocked.
A hand on his lower back, just the slightest touch, a gruff 'come see me later, Sergeant', eyes that stay cool but have a certain demanding look to them. Never too suggestive, but always hungry. Maybe that's what he clings to, even now.
Soap shifts in his sleep as Gaz sneaks into their room, but doesn't wake. Gaz is relieved – he doesn't need Soap's questions now, not the knowing, pitying look. Let him think what he wants, that Gaz is being used somehow – not that he's totally wrong.
He toes off his shoes, sits on the neatly made bed, and watches how Soap's chest rises and falls. He closes his eyes, and for a moment as he listens to Soap's even breaths he imagines himself in Price's room, in his bed, listening to Price's breathing.
How he would lie his head on Price's chest and hear his heartbeat, how it pumps just for him. How he would feel like a knife pressed through his ribs, reaching right to the arteries so gently Price wouldn't even notice the sting. His sweet, sharpened blade.
Gaz opens his eyes. Soap is still asleep. He's still in his room and Price is somewhere out there, passed out and uncaring. His own heart is still beating, and it doesn't break if he doesn't let it. One of these days he'll walk through that door one last time. In or out.
He crawls under the blankets and turns his back to Soap, facing the wall. He runs his fingers over the cool wall, its painted surface, like he would Price's skin, and then closes his eyes.
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