Eugene peers around and then sees him. David can practically see the hesitation on his face. It’s not in his nature to socialize; he eschews nights at the pub, doesn’t use nicknames, stands firmly on the outside. David sees a lot of himself in Eugene, except that Eugene seems content, sure of his isolation, while David is always hanging around the margins, seeking something he never finds.

Eugene crosses the road and joins him, leaning against the bricks. “Webster,” he says, southern accent a hint stronger than usual. His eyes are unfocused.

“Did you hear? We’re moving out again.”

Eugene sighs. “Good timing.”

“What?” David asks, cocking his head. That’s really not like Eugene, but neither is being drunk, and judging by the sway where he stands, he went past drunk a while ago.

“Just left my fiancee.”

David ignores the twinge in his stomach, the way his pulse jumps. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Eugene snorts. “Go sweep her off her feet, Webster. She’d deserve it. Nice, handsome, rich. Practically a prince.”

Handsome. David feels the flush on his cheeks, ducks his head down to try and hide the pleased smile on his face. “Surprised she’d let a sweet talker like you go.”

“It’s for the best,” Eugene says, soberly. “Still felt terrible. Ain’t used to hurting people.”

David wants to reach out to him, to pat his shoulder maybe, or squeeze his arm, but something stops him. He settles for nudging his foot. “I’m sure there’s someone meant for you. A great love.”

A breeze drifts past them and Eugene shivers. Again, David has to ignore the impulse to reach out. He curses himself for not wearing his jacket but what does he think he’s going to do? Drape it over Eugene’s shoulders? He’s being ridiculous.

Being this close to Eugene is nice though; let’s David notice the line between his brow from where he furrows it, how his hair looks like a splash of ink, that his eyes are blue, like David’s own, but more like the sea at night, stretching endlessly on.

And then Eugene throws up.

“Jesus!”

David is not the medic here and he really doesn’t know what to do, beyond pat Eugene’s shoulder and sidestep the vomit. He’s saved by the arrival of Lipton and Smokey, who steer Eugene in the direction of his billet. David feebly calls a feel better after him and then begins his own walk back, the other way, to the house on the hill.

He is beginning to think his fascination with Eugene is crossing some sort of line. It had felt natural once; his favorite Hemingway was A Farewell to Arms, of course he’d be enchanted by the company medic. But perhaps the fact that he’d been using words like enchanted should’ve tipped him off sooner. The delight he feels at the end of Eugene’s engagement confirms it.

He sighs. Somewhere in him he finds it romantic, in a dreadful sort of way. It would make a great story, he thinks. But great stories are often incompatible with real life.