Hold on To Everything

You’re mid-sentence when your phone buzzes. 

3 new messages: 

mission’s done

I’m coming home. 

about 30 minutes. 

literally felt the weight lift off your chest right then and there. You looked over at your friends, Chyler was basically asleep, and Lexyy was doom scrolling. The audacity of them being the ones who insisted on "locking in" to study was not lost on you. 

“Guys, the deadline is next week, and we haven’t even finished the intro—” 

you were cut off by the low rumble of the garage door opening. You immediately bolted toward the window. 

Chyler woke up in a panic, and Lexyy actually dropped her phone. 

“Uh, are you expecting someone?” Lexy asked, squinting at you. 

“Ooh, is it a boyfriend??” Chyler teased with a huge grin.

“Why is he early?” You muttered to yourself, you were nervous and excited at the same time. 

Outside, the Porsche engine cut out, and you watched through the glass as he stepped out, looking every bit the exhausted. You scrambled to the front door, positioning yourself. Chyler and Lexy were confused in the background; they shared a “what is happening” look before scrambling to the windows themselves.

“A Porsche?” they whispered in unison. 

The heavy thud of hhis boots on the porch felt like a countdown. Leon was about to reach for the handle when you swung the door open, nearly catching him off guard. You didn’t even say anything at first, you just scanned him… Looking for a limp, a hidden bandage or a scar. 

“Hey, sweetie–”

He barely got the words out before you tackled him into a hug. He let out a soft oomph. You pressed your ear to his chest, the steady sound of his heart.

“You’re…home…” you breathed into his tactical jacket, the smell of his expensive cologne made you calm instantly.

Behind you, your friends were frozen in plaze. Then looked at each other. Shrugging their shoulders.

“Yeah… I am.” he murmured, his large hand giving your back a pat before you finally let go.

Leon stepped fully into the foyer. He paused, his gaze shifting over your shoulder to where Chyler and Lexy were practically watching with a mix of aw and pure intimidation. He raised an eyebrow, looking back at you with a serious expression.

“You never told me you had your friends invited over?” he asked, though there was no real bite to it. Hi sighed, rolling his shoulder as he shrugged of his heavy jacket and hooked it onto the coat hanger.

“Oh yea- we were just-” you started, but you didnt even get the chance to finish. 

“Hello, Mister Kennedy!” Chyler chirped, 

Lexy, on the other hand, just stood there, her eyes darting between Leon’s holsters and his very expensive car parked outside. 

Leon gave them a tired but polite nod, 

“Mister Kennedy, huh? Makes me sound like I’m about to give you both a lecture,” he joked, his voice low. He then looked at the mess of the notebooks scattered across the living room. 

He then turned back to you, a soft glint in his eyes. “I’m going to get cleaned up and maybe take a nap after that” 

He shot you a tired, melty sort of smile. “Thanks, kid... just try not to burn the house down while I'm in the shower,” he teased, that smirk playing on his lips before he turned and headed up the stairs, disappearing into the upper hallway.

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you turned back to the living room "Sorry, guys. I seriously didn't think he'd come home early… otherwise I would've given you a heads-up-"

"Okay, but... he’s actually fine though?" Lexy whispered-shouted, her brain clearly short-circuiting as she clutched a pillow.

"Huweerwew!" Chyler let out a weird noise, fanning herself with a history textbook and giggling.

You just stared at them, blinking in pure, unadulterated horror. "What-THAT’S MY DAD-" you shouting-whispered, looking at them like they had both just confessed to a crime.

Chyler and Lexy didn't even look ashamed. They just exchanged a very slow, very synchronized look that said everything.

"We know," they said in deadpan unison.

You let out a soul-crushing groan, dragging your hands over your face. "Can you both just... please start on the next slide while I go cook something before I lose my mind?" You sighed, spinning on your heels and walk toward the kitchen before they could say anything else traumatizing about your own father.

As you started pulling ingredients out of the fridge, you could hear the muffled sounds of the shower running upstairs and the frantic, hushed giggling of your friends as they "worked" on the Cold War. 

The kitchen soon filled with the scent of seasoned chicken and sides, the kind of "welcome home" meal that usually makes Leon forget he spent the last seventy-two hours eating protein bars in a damp warehouse.

Meanwhile, you kept one ear turned toward your friends. It was a cycle, they’d actually focus for a solid twenty minutes, typing furiously and arguing over the Cuban Missile Crisis, only to completely derail for the next hour.

You heard snippets of intense gossip about who was dating who in the drama department, a ten-minute debate on the best local boba spot, and Chyler’s very loud opinion on the school’s new dress code. Every time you thought they were finally finishing the "Space Race" slide, someone would bring up a TikTok trend. 

Honestly, it was a miracle they’d even finished the introduction.

You were just plating the food when you heard the heavy,thud of footsteps coming back down the stairs, much slower this time. The shower had clearly worked its magic, but he still sounded exhausted.

In the living room, their giggles died down instantly. One second they were debating which filter to use on their selfie, and the the next moment they heard Leon’s heavy footsteps hitting the stairs,

"And that is why the fall of the Berlin Wall was such a pivotal moment in late 20th-century diplomacy," Lexy said, her voice suddenly became confident of someone who definitely didn't just spend forty minutes looking at "get ready with me" videos.

Chyler nodded aggressively, typing random gibberish into a Google Slide just to make the keyboard click. "Exactly! The geopolitical tensions were just... so tense. Truly a Cold War."

Leon rounded the corner, looking significantly more human after a hot shower. He’d traded the tactical gear for a pair of gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that had seen better days. He stopped at the edge of the living room, leaning against the doorframe with a look that said he knew exactly what they were doing.

"Riveting stuff, girls," he said, his voice still a bit raspy. He looked over at the kitchen where you were finishing up the plates. "Smells like you actually listened when I told you to learn how to sear chicken."

He started walking toward the kitchen, passing right behind the sofa. Chyler and Lexy both went rigid, staring straight ahead at the TV screen like their lives depended on it, though you could see their eyes tracking his reflection.

"Thanks, sweetie," he murmured, giving you that tired smile. 

"Mhm," you nodded. You set a glass of water down next to his plate before going back to the living room and continue working. 

You let out a massive sigh, dropping onto the carpet. "Okay, for real this time... let’s actually finish. I hope you guys at least put the maps on the third slide-"

You stopped mid-sentence. You looked up, and both Chyler and Lexy were staring intensely at a spot directly behind you. You slowly turned, following their gaze, and realized they were basically tracing every muscle on Leon’s back through his t-shirt while he stood at the counter eating.

You groaned, snapping your head back toward them and waving your hands to break their trance. "I swear to god, you guys are actually hopeless-"

"I’m literally trying to focus on the Truman Doctrine, but the view is... distracting," Lexy whispered, her eyes still glazed over.

"He’s literally just eating chicken!" you shouted-whispered, feeling your face heat up. "Can we please just look at the PowerPoint? Please?"

From the kitchen, you heard a low, amused huff. "If the 'view' is that bad, I can go eat in my office," Leon called out, not even turning around, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

Chyler actually squeaked and buried her face in her laptop. "No! No, sir! The view-I mean, the lighting! The lighting is great! Please stay!"

Your face was literally a shade of red. "STOP! Actually stop!" you begged, covering your eyes as if that would somehow make the situation less mortifying.

You stood up and clapped your hands together, "You know what? No. We’re done. Let’s just... continue this tomorrow at the library. Or a coffee shop. Or literally anywhere else."

"Will your dad be here tomorro—" Lexy started, her eyes hopeful as she began packing her bag with the slowest movements humanly possible.

"Out!" you pointed toward the door, not even letting her finish that sentence.

Chyler tripped over her own feet trying to give Leon a final wave. "Bye, Mister Kennedy!”

As soon as the front door clicked shut, you leaned your forehead against the wood and let out a long, pained groan. 

"What was that about?" he asked, his voice dropping into that low, "Did I do something?"

You walk closer. The floor underfoot whispers softly, worn stone protesting beneath your boots. He must hear you, but he doesn’t shift. His hands rest on the window ledge, fingers spread, knuckles pale where the skin stretches over bone.

“Did they?” you ponder absently. “Grow shy.”

A breath that almost wants to be a laugh huffs out of him. “No. They multiplied.”

Up close, he looks worse. Not in any way that will set the court whispering; they only see the careful surface. You see the exhaustion soldered into the set of his mouth, the fine cracks at the corners of his eyes, the way his breath sits high in his chest. His shoulders are doing that thing they do when he’s worn the prince too long—held a touch too square, like armour he forgot to take off. There’s ink on his thumb, and a faint tremor in the hand braced on stone.

“Baelor,” you say, soft but steady.

He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, lashes a dark fan against his cheek. When he opens them again and looks at you over his shoulder, one pale eye, one dark, are rimmed red with tiredness.

“You should be abed,” he tells you. “You have your own wolves to worry about, without fretting over tired dragons.”

“Unfortunately for you,” you reply steadily, “I’m very bad at leaving things I care about unattended.”

Something flickers in his gaze. His mouth almost curves. Almost. Then it falters, the attempt dying before it can become a smile. “I’m fine,” he says instead. “It’s just—” His jaw locks around the rest.

You hate that word in his mouth. Fine. As if he isn’t already halfway drowned. You step into his reach, into his heat. Up this close, you can smell the day on him: parchment and wax and the faint sting of wine, overlaid with leather and steel and the warm, familiar note that’s simply him.

“Turn around,” you murmur.

His brow creases. Habit makes him hesitate; you can see the reflexive refusal, the protest that he has work, that there are letters, that he shouldn’t—can’t—stop. Then some stubborn shard of your stubbornness catches in him. Slowly, as if wading through his own instincts, Baelor turns.

Now you see all of it: the fine fatigue around his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself together, like glass soldered at the seams. He’s still braced, as if waiting for the next blow—a message, an argument, a war.

You don’t offer words. You just open your arms. It’s not a grand gesture. Your hands simply lift, palms bare, a quiet invitation drawn in the small space between you. For a breath, he only gazes at you. Duty and pride and a lifetime’s habit of standing alone all fight in his eyes. The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms does not sag into anyone’s arms like a tired boy.

Then something in his face loosens. It’s small: the easing of a line between his brows, the way his mouth softens, the brief, almost frightened flash in those mismatched eyes.

He steps forward.

The first touch is careful. His hands come up to your upper arms, fingers light, as if you’re fragile and he’s not sure he remembers how to hold anything that won’t break under him. You close the distance the rest of the way, rising onto your toes, and wrap yourself around him—arms sliding around his ribs, hands linking at his back. You press your cheek to his chest.

He folds.

There’s no princely grace in the gesture. It’s like watching a tree finally admit to the wind. All that height, all that iron composure, just… gives.

His head tips forward until his brow rests against the crown of your hair. His arms come around you properly this time, sweeping low and sure, banding across your back. He drags you in with a small, helpless sound, something half-swallowed and raw. It rumbles in his chest beneath your ear.

You feel the exact moment he stops holding himself up and starts letting you do it with him. His weight settles, not crushing but real, the full truth of him—broad shoulders, tired spine, all those invisible crowns stacked along it—leaning into you. His fingers fist in the wool at your back, knuckles digging in as if he needs the anchor. One hand slides higher, palm spreading between your shoulder blades, warm and large and shaking just a little.

He breathes.

Not the shallow, measured breath he uses in council, all tight control and careful distance. A real breath. In, slow and ragged, drawing in the scent of your hair—winter air, smoke, the faint clean sting of your soap. Out, hot across the side of your neck where his mouth has ended up, the exhale shuddering like a thawing river.

You feel each one, every breath a long, dragging pull, as if he’s been living on half-measures and suddenly remembers what it is to fill his lungs. With every exhale, his shoulders drop a little, as if something heavy is being unhooked, link by link, from his bones.

“Gods,” he mutters, barely audible, the word a warm vibration against your skin. “I didn’t know I was that tired.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” you announce fondly into his collar. Your voice comes out softer than the words despite it. “Hold on properly, Baelor.”

He makes a noise that might be a laugh, ragged around the edges. Then he obeys.

His grip tightens. One arm wraps fully around your waist, hauling you flush against him until there’s no polite distance left at all. The other curls higher, forearm braced along your shoulders, his hand cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with careful, trembling reverence. He cradles you to him like something precious and irreplaceable—or like he is the one being cradled and hasn’t realised it yet.

You can feel his heart hammering under your cheek, too fast at first, like a caged bird. Slowly, inexorably, it steadies. Yours calms to match it, two rhythms folding into one.

“You smell like home,” he says suddenly, rough and bewildered.

“Like wet dog and pine pitch?” you suggest mirthfully.

“Like cold air,” he corrects, breath catching. “And stone that doesn’t move. Like… quiet.” His fingers flex at the back of your head, as if to make sure you’re real. “I forget what quiet feels like.”

“So remember,” you tell him. You shift, settling more comfortably into his chest. “Right now. Here. This is quiet.”

He huffs another small sound, somewhere between agreement and disbelief. His nose buries a little deeper in your hair, tracing a slow, soothing arc, like a man who has just discovered how to rest and is terrified someone will take it from him.

For a while, that’s all there is. The fire pops; the city mutters beyond the stone. His breath fans warm and steady against your neck. His hands stay on you like a promise he doesn’t know how to phrase—clinging without clutching, possessive without pressure. Every time you shift, even a fraction, his arms tighten instinctively, as if his body has decided on its own that letting go is no longer an option.

“Am I crushing you?” he asks at last, words muffled against your shoulder.

“Yes,” you lie. “Stay where you are anyway.”

He laughs then, properly, low and disbelieving and utterly undone. It shakes through both of you. You feel his mouth curve against your skin. His arms, impossibly, pull you closer.

“All right,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”

1: OCS

The first time Lewis Nixon III lays eyes on Richard Winters it's like staring into the fucking sun. He's on the parade ground at OCS, and a long, lean redhead in PT gear breezes past his platoon. It's kind of obscene, the guy's white shirt is clinging to his broad shoulders, he's soaked in sweat, and he has this formidable look of determination on his face. It takes everything Lewis has in him not to stare at his back as he powers through the run. He just got here, he sure as shit doesn't want a blue ticket home.

There's a voice in his head that sounds decidedly like his sister, Blanche. Don't do anything stupid, Lewis.

Sometime later, Lewis is in the mess eating what passes for food at Fort Benning, and he catches sight of the redhead again. This time he's in ODs, poring over a manual and drinking coffee. He's close enough to Lewis’ table that he's able to read the name on his chest. Winters. Ironic, really. He's busy taking notes, and Lewis is able to surreptitiously get a better look at him. He's handsome, maybe not movie-star handsome (not many people look like Cary Grant), but he's definitely one of the better looking guys at OCS. He has that same look in his eyes. He seems intense, and Lewis really wants to know his first name. 

Head-Blanche be damned. He's allowed to have friends. 

He picks up his tray and makes his way over, clearing his throat. Winters looks up from his books and Lewis’ breath hitches. His eyes are summer sky. Jesus Christ, I'm done for. 

Lewis is slick, though, and doesn't let his face betray him. He gestures to the empty seat opposite. “Mind if I sit here?”

Winters shrugs. “It's a free mess hall.” 

“Lewis.” Lewis reaches a hand across the table. Winters shakes it, his hand is large and warm and his fingertips are calloused and Lewis can see ink stains around his nailbeds from his note taking. I'm really in it now. 

“Richard. Only my mother calls me that, though. I'm Dick, usually.”

“Dick,” Lewis tests out the name. It has a nice weight to it. “What brings you to OCS?”

“Glutton for punishment.” Winters; no, Dick, says idly, fiddling with his pen. Oh he's funny, too. Good. “You?”

“Parents expect me to make something of myself.” 

That gets a chuckle from Dick, and Lewis tries hard to not puff up with pride. 

“Actually, I've been thinking about volunteering for the Airborne Division.” Dick's tone is businesslike, and he closes the manual in front of him.

“Bunch of lunatics, jumping out of perfectly good planes,” Lewis replies around a fork full of food. “Why?”

“Well I figure if the guy next to me is also jumping out of a perfectly good plane, then I probably want the same guy next to me on the line.”

Dick fixes him with a soft look and Lewis decides two things very quickly;

One, he wants Dick next to him on the line (and to also jump out of a perfectly good plane with him)

And two, he would very much like to kiss Dick Winters.

2: Upottery

“Should’ve been born earlier, Nix.” Dick says, as he surveys the airfield.

“What? And give up all this?” It's a quip, but a heartfelt one.

It’s in the look Dick gives him. Looking back at him, soft smile, tender and warm; as if he is the only thing in the world. Lewis feels his eyes go wide and he inhales sharply. As ever, he recovers himself as Dick settles down beside him, leaning against a stack of boxes. 

“We’ll go to Chicago, I’ll take you there.” Lewis says, cigarette dangling from his lips. He means it, earnestly. He'll take Dick anywhere he wants to go if it means they'll be together. 

He's already following him into Hell. 

He studies Dick's side profile as he gazes up at the sky; the planes of his face and lines of his body are all long and lean. Elegant in the grey-hued dusk. 

And Lewis wishes they were alone. Alone so he could reach out and pull Dick into a kiss that promises the world. 

3: Bastogne

It's freezing. Lewis huddles in the foxhole, making himself as small as possible to preserve heat. There's boots on the ground outside, and the tarp is lifted enough for Dick to slot in beside him. 

“Got a drink?” Lewis asks, roughly, though he knows the answer will be no. 

Dick fumbles for his canteen, stashed inside his coat to keep it from freezing, fingers numb with cold. “Here. It's just water.” 

“It'll do.” 

Dick is pressed against him shoulder to hip, and he's warm in a way that is so inviting that Lewis has to force himself to think of anything else. Dick shivers. His lips are pale and Lewis instinctively puts an arm around him, pulling him in closer. 

“Warmer this way,” he grunts.

Dick nods and places his head into the space below Lewis’ chin. He smells like wet wool and army issue soap, and underneath it all, Lewis can smell Dick; familiar, woody and warm. 

“You ever think about Chicago?” Lewis asks, voice soft.

Dick huffs a laugh, and Lewis can see it, frozen in the air in front of them. “We'll see.” 

It's as good as a promise. Lewis tightens his grip around Dick. He’s leaner than normal, all sharp edges under Lewis’ palms. Lewis is uncharacteristically quiet as he feels the press of Dick’s body against his own, he tries to focus elsewhere, on anything else. All he can think about is how Dick feels in his arms. 

“What're you thinkin’ about, Lew?” 

Lewis flinches a little at the nickname. 

“Chicago.” He is surprised by how easily he lies. 

Dick curls in closer. It's just for warmth, Lewis reminds himself. He swears Dick can hear his heart hammering out of his chest. 

“Tell me ‘bout Chicago.”

And Lewis wants to kiss him.

4: Rachamps

Their billet is small.

A simple nun’s cell with a cross above the single bed and a  wooden desk pushed into a corner. They’ve left the men to their devices, listening to the choir of angels singing for them in the chapel as they drift in and out of sleep. A kerosene lamp burns, casting a flickering golden light through the room and Lewis watches the light dance, the same exhaustion he feels in his bones is etched into the lines on Dick's face. He looks older, wan and drawn. The war catching up with him as with everyone else.

Yet he does not pause. He takes notes, asks for Lewis’ input on their next maneuver, asks for any intelligence. Dick traces the lines on his maps with his finger. Lewis wants him to sleep, but still he pores over his maps and manuals late into the evening; and Lewis wants to pry the pencil from his grip and get him to stop for a moment. To breathe. They could breathe here, if only for the night. 

“Dick…” Lewis says softly, as Dick marks yet another point on the map and makes yet another note. Dick doesn’t look at him. “Dick.” Lewis reaches over and puts a hand on his map, forcing him to look up. Dick’s blue eyes catch his in the yellow lamplight, and for a moment there’s a breath. 

There you are. 

There’s a spark that passes between them. It’s a crackle-pop of electricity. Lewis has felt it, seen it before. He sees it flicker into life behind those wide eyes, it’s there in the way Dick holds his gaze, it’s there beneath the grime and exhaustion and fear and coiled tension. Lewis wants to do something with it, but he can’t bring himself to, so he puts the feeling in his back pocket for later. There will be a later. They still have to go to Chicago. For now, he settles for a hand on Dick’s forearm and another pulling the maps away from him. 

“We should get some sleep.”

The bed is narrow, and they curl together under the thin blankets, Dick resting his head on Lewis’ chest. As Dick’s breathing fades into a soft, steady rhythm and he succumbs to sleep, Lewis can’t help but to wonder what it would be like to hold Dick like this always. Lewis inhales him, tries to memorise the feeling and chances a look at the dozing man in his arms. 

There you are.

He wishes he could kiss him.

5: Hagenau

“I'm not doing it.” Dick pushes his cup of coffee away and stands. He sounds tired and more than a little irritated. “Sink got what he wanted, isn't that enough?”

Battalion CP is uncharacteristically empty, just them burning the midnight oil. 

Lewis shrugs. “Evidently not.”

“We lost a man last night. Nix, I know this is war and it's expected but this feels like suicide.”

“What do you think we should do instead?”

Dick suggests a bogus report.

Once Lewis recovers himself enough to stop gaping at him, he decides that he really, really wants to kiss him. 

6 (+1): Berchtesgaden

Lewis watches Dick as he glides under the water. The lake is clear and calm, reflecting a brilliant blue sky. Surrounded by forest, there's no one else for miles, and, not for the first time, Lewis wonders what it would be like if he and Dick were like this always. Always alone, together. 

Dick surfaces and Lewis tosses him his towel, drops of water chasing each other over broad shoulders as he dries off. Lewis counts the freckles that adorn him like stars. Lewis wants nothing more than to run his fingers over them. He wonders what it would be like to press kisses down his back while they lay in bed on a quiet Saturday morning, sheets tangled at their waists. He wants nothing else. 

He’s got a photo of them as young men in training, kneeling side by side behind a row of tents, and he wonders where the time went.

“Look at these two kids.” He shows Dick the photo as he dries his hair, dogtags reflecting the sunlight. “What happened to them?” 

“So, New Jersey huh?” 

“Yeah, just think about it.”

“I am.” Dick smiles at him crookedly, and for a moment the war fades from his face and he is the man in the photograph. For a moment, Lewis sees the man he saw on the parade ground all those years ago. “You awake yet?”

He scoffs but there’s no heat in it. Dick knows him so well. “Awake? Time to go to bed.” The sunlight glints off the water, and Lewis stands, glancing at Dick with a soft expression. A split second, and Lewis realises he needs to truly cement his feelings or else risk losing Dick when they ship home. He might come to New Jersey but if Lewis doesn’t do something then he’ll never get those lazy Saturday mornings he so desperately craves.

So he dives, boots and all, off the jetty. The water is cold when it hits his skin and he’s shocked into wakefulness. He comes up for air next to Dick, and the redhead’s expression is unreadable. Without saying anything, Lewis grabs the towel Dick has hanging around his shoulders and tugs him into a kiss. At first, nothing happens, and Lewis is worried that he’s misjudged everything; but then there’s large hands on his waist and Dick is kissing him back. The world shrinks to this, to them. To the warmth of Dick’s mouth and the slight chap of his lips, and the taste of coffee. When they finally pull apart, Dick’s got handfuls of Lewis’ soaked uniform and he’s holding on for dear life. Holding on as if Lewis would vanish, slip away like smoke. 

“Lew?” Dick is quiet, using the nickname he only ever uses in private. 

“I’ve been in love with you for years.”