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I've thought about this one for a rather long time because what are most of their kisses if not impulsive? But I wanted something to really drive that impulsivity home – a decently daring, somewhat high stakes situation. Here it is – an excerpt from my WW2 AU, Herzenleid.
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Exhausted bodies sprawled wherever they had managed to collapse. Men sleep wrapped in damp blankets and greatcoats, boots still on, rifles within an arm's reach. Someone snores harshly near the far wall, oblivious to the hissed out curses and elbows digging into his sides. Somewhere else a man whimpers in his sleep. Any other day or place, Kat would think "poor bastard". Not here.
Above it all, rain comes down from the night sky, clinking gently upon the ceramic roof tiles. Clouds hang low, and the distant fires that this measly rain won't ever be able to put out color them purple and orange.
Paul sits wedged into the corner between Kat and a pile of dusty grain sacks, wrapped so tightly in overcoat he nearly disappeared beneath it. Every now and then a tremor runs through him so hard the fabric and straw rustle audibly.
He hasn't said anything since his return – nothing beyond a yes or a no to Kat's slightly brusque questions about potential injuries.
Once the checkup was over, he just plopped miserably in the same corner he's in now, and proceeded to stare at his own filthy hands. His pupils remained unnaturally wide in the dimness. Throughout it, Kat kept one arm tight around his shoulders in the kind of hold that's used on the wounded.
Now the little stable the company has claimed as their billet – after "adopting" the horses, of course – has fallen mostly quiet. Save for somebody talking in a low, unhealthily excited voice. Something about Polish cavalry charging tanks.
"...and then his horse got ripped in half, clean through! I'm telling you, blood and guts were everywhere!"
Another voice interrupts him.
"Bullshit. No army would do something this stupid."
"Psh, what army? Army is men. Those bastards barely qualify."
A clink of canteen changing hands reaches Kat's ears. Mundane sound of soldierly life continuing.
Oh, Kat hates them to a sickening degree. Hates with all the hatred of the boy that had insults hissed in his direction and sticks and pebbles thrown at him on his way home from school – only magnified tenfold.
To his right, Paul suddenly sucks in a shaky breath.
"Don't listen to this shit," Kat mutters.
He receives no response beyond another trembling gasp, one that sounds suspiciously like the noise of a person trying really hard not to cry. That makes him look down at last.
The kid seems to have folded in on himself. Between his grimy fingers, a piece of paper sits, as if stuck. At least that is what Kat's eyes can make out in the dark.
"What do you have there, Junge?" He asks quietly, pointing in the direction of the scrap, because Kat knows a potential distraction when he sees one. And besides, what else is there to ask about?
That's his first mistake.
Paul's face, blank mere seconds before, crumbles instantly. His jaw is still clenched hard as if physically trying to hold something back, but his lip trembles. A whimper rises in his throat. Goddamn it.
"Easy, boy," Kat mutters. "It's just talk, alright?"
Paul shakes his head, and then, shit – a full on sob escapes him. Abruptly strangled off halfway, thank God, but loud enough to fill Kat's stomach with ice and his throat with bile.
Paul slaps a hand over his own mouth instantly, horrified.
"Oh God..!"
"No, don't even–"
Another sob breaks through anyway, worse this time. His whole body tenses with the effort of suppressing it. He curls forward, panting raggedly through his fingers. Even in the darkness Kat can map out the exact shape of his desperation to stay quiet, and his terror at failing further with every second.
"I killed him..! God, he was probably my age, and I– Kat, I took his– I tried to help, but it wouldn't work, he kept bleeding and–"
"Junge, listen to me," Kat whispers harshly. "You've got to settle down. Come on, breathe. In and out..."
Paul does breathe, but only just enough to make another miserable little noise.
"I can't–"
"Yes you can. And must. Now, hush."
But another unruly sob tears out of him, and another. Against Kat's orders, he babbles on in despair.
"Jesus Christ, I didn't want to, I swear–! He just scared me, I tried to...! Kat, what am I to do..? Please... I can't – I can't live like this!"
"Shhhh!" Kat hisses. "Cut it out–"
"Katczinsky..." Gravelly voice startles him. A nudge of heavy iron-studded boot to his backside follows, and a rustle of straw as the man behind them rolls over onto his side. "Either you shut that fucking runt up, or I will."
The officer sounds half asleep, but Kat would rather not gamble on the actual gravity of this threat.
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
"Good. Now fuck off."
He waits a dozen of excruciatingly long seconds for the captain to stop shifting, then reaches for Paul.
"Come here."
The kid barely reacts as he's being grabbed by the back of his neck and pulled against Kat's chest. His forehead gets pressed up close by Kat's neck, and oh no – he is burning up beneath his damp clothes. God fucking damn it. Hopefully it's just the shell-shock, but if he gets any worse... No medical education required to know they're fucked.
"Quiet now," Kat murmurs into his hair, softer but not quite soft. "You heard him."
Paul gives a weak nod that Kat feels more than sees. His teeth rattle. The kid's nerves, taut for hours on end, are entirely frayed now and God have mercy, he's panting loud enough to wake the damned bastard himself back in Berlin. Not to mention every CO and NCO in the nearest vicinity. Kat's not vying for a Luger shoved in his – or worse, Paul's – face for interrupting an officer's beauty sleep, so he does the only thing he can think of.
He catches the boy's face in one hand, fingers digging into the soft flesh of the cheek, and presses his lips to Paul's. Hard enough to interrupt him mid-sob.
Second mistake.
Paul freezes, that bloody scrap of paper trembling like a leaf in his white, balled up fist. Kat plucks it from between his fingers – now he can feel it's a photograph, and he tucks it into the boy's breast pocket before leaning in again.
He has to, he tells himself, so that Paul can't start crying anew. Hiding his teeth carefully, he presses harder.
The reaction is immediate: Paul latches on to the front of his coat with both hands, overgrown nails sinking into the fabric with frightening desperation, and kisses back furiously.
No wet sounds – the kid is in no condition to be slipping him any tongue. Both their mouths are so dry and cracked Kat could swear he tastes blood from where the flesh gives.
He traps Paul's upper lip between his, and draws in a sucking breath straight from the boy's lungs.
The air between them tastes of the chemical tang left by pills, sour sweat and rainwater in Paul's jacket, acrid from the ever present gunpowder.
Another kiss and another, each one fierce enough to stun the noises out of him for a few precious seconds. Paul shakes violently under the onslaught, breathing hard through his nose, but at least he's not sobbing anymore.
"Kat..." he tries.
"Shh. No talking."
The youth obeys instantly, and that obedience strikes a strange chord deep inside Kat. Something protective in ways he'd never want to see daylight – ugly and greedy.
