Will this be on the test?

“Arthur, that’s what I said,” he grinned, deliberately messing up the other’s name now. KC was patient for all of two seconds, gesturing for the other to continue when he ran a hand through his hair instead. 

He had to smile as Eli started, impressed the other was even going along with one of his hare-brained schemes. “So tough,” he intoned before Eli was even finished, giving a shake of his head and a drum roll on his own knees before standing up to loudly project. He was off key but who gave a damn, they were in the middle of the devil’s asshole. “Gina works the diner all day! Working for her man, she brings home her pay… For love.” He closed his fist over his chest, giving a soft, infatuated sigh.

‘Dark Side of the Moon’ ~ Another side of my muse.

The sand was cold under his bare feet but he felt incredibly hot as he moved through the desert, eyes set on nothing in particular. This had to be a dream - had to be because he couldn’t imagine the sort of punishment he’d face for going off base and into potential army territory alone. And dressed in attire he hadn’t worn in high school to beat. Faded jeans and some stretched black shirt that displayed a band he’d been into back then. Not exactly fatigue attire.

KC felt like he’d been walking for days and judging by the weariness set in his body he must have been. Which sucked when he really thought about it. A few nights without a restful sleep and even his dream self didn’t get some deserved rest.

It got harder to walk and he dully glanced down, furrowing his brow. The sand tugged under his pant legs at his ankles and shins with gritty hands, leaving raspy, itchy splotches in their wake. A shout of surprise and fear left him, the phantom sensation enough to move his ass into gear - a futile effort. He was being dragged down by gravelly palms, unable to grab onto anything for purchase. He’d surely suffocate.

The dreaming marine couldn’t tell the difference between the sand hands and his blanket or even the pair of softer hands that briefly rested against his shoulders. KC lashed out blindly, dully aware of the skittering of glasses against the ground but that couldn’t be right. Because sand didn’t cause things to skitter.

He waited until he finished explaining himself before he sat down beside him, laying his arms across his bent knees. “I know you’re not like that, KC. That’s why I’m not mad at you,” he reasoned with a shrug. The same man who forced him to sing Bon Jovi wasn’t the same one who attacked him just moments earlier. 

“You’ve been here a lot longer than I have, maybe even twice as long. So I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that I know what it’s like,” he started. Eli had barely stepped off their base camp, the missions he went on posing little to no danger thus far. 

The words sobered him, palms still pressed together in front of him though he was able to look at Eli’s face as he spoke. They even pulled a little laugh from his chest. “I didn’t mean leave now. I mean, we can’t just…” Leave. Well… they couldn’t leave forever But. Maybe for just a little while. Nothing was keeping them here other than a stern scolding which KC felt he was going to get anyway and after witnessing Eli’s face moments before in the tent a sergeant screaming in his face seemed like the least of his worries.

Besides, that was assuming they got caught.

The sand sunk under his boots as he climbed up the sand dune, small grains shifting downwards with each trudge forward. It seemed like no matter how quickly he moved his feet, he was always going to be a step or two behind KC. 

‘Dark Side of the Moon’ ~ Another side of my muse.

The sand was cold under his bare feet but he felt incredibly hot as he moved through the desert, eyes set on nothing in particular. This had to be a dream - had to be because he couldn’t imagine the sort of punishment he’d face for going off base and into potential army territory alone. And dressed in attire he hadn’t worn in high school to beat. Faded jeans and some stretched black shirt that displayed a band he’d been into back then. Not exactly fatigue attire.

KC felt like he’d been walking for days and judging by the weariness set in his body he must have been. Which sucked when he really thought about it. A few nights without a restful sleep and even his dream self didn’t get some deserved rest.

It got harder to walk and he dully glanced down, furrowing his brow. The sand tugged under his pant legs at his ankles and shins with gritty hands, leaving raspy, itchy splotches in their wake. A shout of surprise and fear left him, the phantom sensation enough to move his ass into gear - a futile effort. He was being dragged down by gravelly palms, unable to grab onto anything for purchase. He’d surely suffocate.

The dreaming marine couldn’t tell the difference between the sand hands and his blanket or even the pair of softer hands that briefly rested against his shoulders. KC lashed out blindly, dully aware of the skittering of glasses against the ground but that couldn’t be right. Because sand didn’t cause things to skitter.

He didn’t exactly know what he was going to say, but soon he was abandoning the bag of ice and walking out into the cold. The chill of the desert’s night air caused prickles to rise on his arms, and though the warmth of the tent was tempting, he continued forward. 

The words gradually evened his breaths out and the marine took in a greedy exhale as if to cleanse his lungs of his crying. KC’s pity party was brief, his attention shifting to the sand as he dropped his hands. In light of his dream it seemed like the culprit, not him. He wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t sick in the head. He wasn’t dangerous.

It didn’t matter how hard he hit the sand or tried to wring it between his fingers. Sand was sand; it simply slipped through his grasp everytime. The agitated marine gave up, squatting down on his heels with his palms pressed against one another this time, fingertips resting against his mouth as he worried a nail between his teeth.

Footsteps sounded behind him but he didn’t turn around, figuring he was about to get an earful for assaulting a fellow platoon member. Eli’s voice surprised him and, simultaneously, forced him to keep facing towards the open desert. He still didn’t want to face him directly. The words made the marine scoff, slightly angling his head back towards the other with a dip of his chin. “You really apologizing for me beating you up? What’s wrong with you?”

He waited until he finished explaining himself before he sat down beside him, laying his arms across his bent knees. “I know you’re not like that, KC. That’s why I’m not mad at you,” he reasoned with a shrug. The same man who forced him to sing Bon Jovi wasn’t the same one who attacked him just moments earlier. 

“You’ve been here a lot longer than I have, maybe even twice as long. So I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that I know what it’s like,” he started. Eli had barely stepped off their base camp, the missions he went on posing little to no danger thus far. 

‘Dark Side of the Moon’ ~ Another side of my muse.

The sand was cold under his bare feet but he felt incredibly hot as he moved through the desert, eyes set on nothing in particular. This had to be a dream - had to be because he couldn’t imagine the sort of punishment he’d face for going off base and into potential army territory alone. And dressed in attire he hadn’t worn in high school to beat. Faded jeans and some stretched black shirt that displayed a band he’d been into back then. Not exactly fatigue attire.

KC felt like he’d been walking for days and judging by the weariness set in his body he must have been. Which sucked when he really thought about it. A few nights without a restful sleep and even his dream self didn’t get some deserved rest.

It got harder to walk and he dully glanced down, furrowing his brow. The sand tugged under his pant legs at his ankles and shins with gritty hands, leaving raspy, itchy splotches in their wake. A shout of surprise and fear left him, the phantom sensation enough to move his ass into gear - a futile effort. He was being dragged down by gravelly palms, unable to grab onto anything for purchase. He’d surely suffocate.

The dreaming marine couldn’t tell the difference between the sand hands and his blanket or even the pair of softer hands that briefly rested against his shoulders. KC lashed out blindly, dully aware of the skittering of glasses against the ground but that couldn’t be right. Because sand didn’t cause things to skitter.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts before giving the other’s shoulders a shake or two, mumbling for him to wake up. He had barely whispered the words before KC was jolting upwards, looking at him wide-eyed. He laughed nervously, but that was quickly cut short as he felt the strong hands tighten around his neck and force him backwards onto the ground, glasses falling onto the tile. 

KC’s body was heavy on top of his, and though he pleaded for him to get off him, his words went unnoticed. The first punch caused blood to pool in the back of his throat, the crimson liquid slipping out of his nose. “KC! What the fuck?!” he shouted. The response he got from the other wasn’t one he expected, KC simply raising his fist and throwing it at his face again. 

He stood with his fists balled at his sides, chest heaving as his arms were restrained by another member of their platoon. Despite his eyes being open he wasn’t seeing very clearly, vaguely aware of someone helping Eli to his feet. Their tent materialized around him, Eli’s glasses laying on the ground by his foot and an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air as he realized he’d acted on his dream.

KC could just stand there and breathe, his shoulders rising and falling as he got the taste of copper and grit out of his mouth. The look Eli was giving him wrenched his heart. He didn’t want to linger under its weight for long. “Let… go ‘a me.” His accent was thick in the face of his mistake (his nightmare) and he roughly shoved his restraining party away. Unable to look Eli in the eyes, he retreated outside of the tent with an angry sweep of the flap.

He didn’t exactly know what he was going to say, but soon he was abandoning the bag of ice and walking out into the cold. The chill of the desert’s night air caused prickles to rise on his arms, and though the warmth of the tent was tempting, he continued forward. 

‘Dark Side of the Moon’ ~ Another side of my muse.

The sand was cold under his bare feet but he felt incredibly hot as he moved through the desert, eyes set on nothing in particular. This had to be a dream - had to be because he couldn’t imagine the sort of punishment he’d face for going off base and into potential army territory alone. And dressed in attire he hadn’t worn in high school to beat. Faded jeans and some stretched black shirt that displayed a band he’d been into back then. Not exactly fatigue attire.

KC felt like he’d been walking for days and judging by the weariness set in his body he must have been. Which sucked when he really thought about it. A few nights without a restful sleep and even his dream self didn’t get some deserved rest.

It got harder to walk and he dully glanced down, furrowing his brow. The sand tugged under his pant legs at his ankles and shins with gritty hands, leaving raspy, itchy splotches in their wake. A shout of surprise and fear left him, the phantom sensation enough to move his ass into gear - a futile effort. He was being dragged down by gravelly palms, unable to grab onto anything for purchase. He’d surely suffocate.

The dreaming marine couldn’t tell the difference between the sand hands and his blanket or even the pair of softer hands that briefly rested against his shoulders. KC lashed out blindly, dully aware of the skittering of glasses against the ground but that couldn’t be right. Because sand didn’t cause things to skitter.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts before giving the other’s shoulders a shake or two, mumbling for him to wake up. He had barely whispered the words before KC was jolting upwards, looking at him wide-eyed. He laughed nervously, but that was quickly cut short as he felt the strong hands tighten around his neck and force him backwards onto the ground, glasses falling onto the tile. 

KC’s body was heavy on top of his, and though he pleaded for him to get off him, his words went unnoticed. The first punch caused blood to pool in the back of his throat, the crimson liquid slipping out of his nose. “KC! What the fuck?!” he shouted. The response he got from the other wasn’t one he expected, KC simply raising his fist and throwing it at his face again. 

( eli-hayes )

Eli hadn’t quite realized what he had gotten himself into before it was too late. His hair had already been shaved down to a buzz, his cheeks were tinted pink from the harsh sun of the desert, and he seemed to lick his dry, chapped lips endlessly. He had been a bundle of nerves since the moment he arrived at base, so the other tossing the bottle of water at him unexpectedly had caught him off guard. His flinching reaction was bound to inspire jokes at his expense for the next few days, as that’s all the military men seemed to do, and so he assumed KC’s question was in jest.

He cleared his throat before speaking, still not used to the dry desert air. “You…you want me to sing with you?” he croaked, his eyebrows furrowing together as he looked at him against the bright sun. He glanced side to side, soaking in the smirks and eye rolls of the other soldiers. “I, uh, I don’t think so. I can’t sing.”

"Yeah, man." His hands went to his hips causing the blazing sun at his back to stream through and onto the rookie. "You and me. Right here, right now." A scoff followed when Eli admitted he couldn’t sing. "Well not with that attitude.” 

Engage ~ Generated Number

12. “Want to sing a duet with me?”

The new guy looked nervous and that was perfectly understandable. He knew his offer wasn’t one to get an immediate yes but a look of confusion was better than the harrowed, wide-eyed look the desert and the rest of the company was getting. It reminded KC too much of his first day heading down towards South Carolina, walking the edge of the highway and scared out of his mind.

Think I found a picture of you, Dasker. You’re pretty fucking cute with long hair.