#for indigo

"What's that song you're always humming anyway?"

not the kind of song you hear on the radio nowadays. when was the last time you listened to the radio anyway? one of those stations is bound to play some classical music.

classical? really? so much for the tough guy vet act.

oh fuck off. not like you'd get it.

he pauses. pulling out another cigarette and his lighter. just means i care. doesn't matter what it is. just means something to me. i think.

...

he thinks. he thinks it does. there's a years long haze in his memories and every time he reaches at the clouds they part for his hands. falling through his fingers. time immemorial. he adds it to his next letter to naomi. what was that song we used to always listen to?

she knows him better than he knows himself.

scheherazade. the old classical piece gustava had skated to at the olympics. something about getting attached to it, in spite of [did she ever want to skate? it's not like she can do anything else. she would be so lonely without the ice. and yet it represents everything she could never be].

gustava. scheherazade. he remembers trying to skate on the ice, holding her hands as she guides him onto the rink. he can't see her face when he thinks about it. why not?

he doesn't know how much time has passed since he started thinking about it. about them. about her. he doesn't know when he got here. when it got so dark. if it's even the same day. so nothing unusual for him, really.

"Can't sleep?"

"Speak for yourself."

cigarettes passed between lips. wishing the smoke would reveal some sort of clue to what it is he's forgetting. overthinking.

he forgets that too. he's good at that. forgetting. helps to have someone to keep you from thinking. keep your mouth and your body and your mind too busy to bother with anything other than the present.

he puts his cigarette out on his arm and watches his flesh burn. scars on scars on scars. can he even feel his arm anymore? he barely even flinches. snake scrunches his face at the sight. he still can't get used to it. the idea of willingly burning yourself over and over and over and hey, don't knock it 'til you try it, yeah?

yeah. he'll knock it, thanks. a howling of laughter. as if it's strange to be discomforted by pain. as if he's the weird one. you'll wake the whole base up with your laughter, you know.

a snarky little grin. scared of getting caught bumming lights off a superior officer?

worried for both of them if someone—

everyone knows. there's never any hiding anything from big boss.

kiss-ass.

you know i do.

--

it's rare to find him asleep anyway. more nights spent awake inside, light almost always on. outside, if he's smoking. he doesn't like to do that inside. one of his many quirks.

really, it's hard to find him to begin with, if he isn't by big boss's side. it's the only consistent place he's at. he has a tendency to wander, when he's got the time. luckily, he doesn't have too much of that usually.

by now, snake's noticed some spots he likes to visit more than others. the creek. a certain tree (charred from a storm. broken from near the bottom, but the dead stump is more than big enough for him to like to lean against). he'll only be on location if he knows it won't be too loud. too busy.

there are rumors about it. about how he'll come back with blood on his hands and a dead stare and by the time the next day rolls around, he's been shipped off again to who knows where to do god knows what.

but fox never seems too concerned about it. just looks over at him with a grin and blood in his teeth and asks if he wants to fight. so they will. and the days he's gone are fewer and farther between.

as if fighting (as if snake) is a reason to stay.

--

but sometimes, he does sleep. sometimes. pushed to the limit until he can't bother trying not to. dead to the world. weighed down like a stone. none of the usual thrashing about that the nightmare-ridden soldiers do.

fox just... sleeps. still as a corpse. snake asked him once if he even dreams.

"Yeah. Doesn't everyone?"

he knows snake does. knows because he'll be the one helping him awake, pulling him out of whatever war story his mind's made up for him. it's almost natural for him, the routine he goes through each time. like he's done it a thousand times before.

(he has. he remembers sleepless nights looking out at a dead world in a place far away from what he thinks he should call home. he remembers time and time again, easing naomi awake. holding her close. telling her where she is. telling her what time it is. what day it is. telling her she's safe. telling her what they'll be doing tomorrow. he remembers staying by her side until she went back to sleep. it was the only time he could bear to look at her face. the time her eyes were closed and he could see the little girl whose life he ruined without seeing her eyes bore into his soul while he did it.)

that's all he says, though. no answer about what he might be dreaming about, to leave him still in the waking world. so snake doesn't ask. and fox doesn't say. he wonders if he doesn't have nightmares. or maybe his nightmares are just so bad they're paralyzing like that.

but in the end, he'll never know. there's a lot he doesn't know about fox. there's a lot he figures fox doesn't know about him either. it's better that way, for both of them. the way it's supposed to be.