The MWR center, rather than being a tent, appeared more like a hangar in shape and size. Different rooms like the computer lab and phone center offered recreational activities during soldiers’ downtime. 

Using the harsh white light from your flashlight, the beam swept across the mundane black-and-white photographs framed on the walls. Then, you turned your attention to the centermost room in the hangar: the lounge.

You had been here once but hadn’t stayed for long. The shouts, yells, and raucous laughter of soldiers watching sports and cartoon reruns made your ears ache. Setting aside the constant loud noise, there was an overwhelming amount of bodies and faces and eyes.

Not tonight. It was ten-thirty and most soldiers slept in their bunks in the open bay barracks, scrolled on their phones or laptops in bed, or found another way to pass time before they dozed off.

Pressed against the far wall, a flat-screen television rested on a dusty console table. Clusters of peeling faux leather couches and silver floor lamps and stained coffee tables orbited the flat-screen. 

Things seemed quite different at night illuminated only by a flashlight. You initially didn’t want to turn it on, but you doubted the military police had any interest in examining the fingerprints on the television or the white rings from cups and the absence of drink coasters. They must have more pressing concerns.

Gaz peeked out from around a corner, eyebrows raised. “Boo?”

“Real funny,” you said, lowering your flashlight.

“I was gonna sneak up on you, but I don’t know if you have a gun and I’d prefer to remain unshotten.”

“Did you just say unshotten? Is that even a—” You blinked and continued, “Gaz, are you drunk?”

“Define drunk,” he said, a touch too uncertain.

Upon inspection, Gaz’s inebriated state became more apparent. Glassy eyes, slightly disheveled clothes, a devious crooked curl to his mouth. Held in his arms like two babies were two bottles of mouthwash, one red and the other blue.

When he offered the blue one to you, you inspected his handiwork. “So that’s how you smuggled it in. I think you’ve revealed your secret, Mr. Magician.”

“Blast it,” he grinned. “You got me on that one.”

There was a smaller room. A sort of miscellaneous storage room with empty boxes, a table with a few computers and a radio, another table littered with magazines, and a crudely made wooden bench. Nothing special, but an improvement from the lounge. 

It was more close, more intimate, and homey. Albeit cluttered and dusty and you couldn’t place the stagnant, stale smell.

This was the one-four-one’s spot.

Gaz hadn’t said the words but you felt it in your bones nonetheless. By being there, you were invading the team’s safe haven. Their little gentlemen’s club. You knew the others would riot if they knew Gaz had brought you there, however, you couldn’t care less.

Sitting down on the bench, you extended your legs across the seats and unscrewed the bottle’s cap. You sniffed the bottle expecting a powerful punch of alcohol. Instead, you got a familiar faint distilled scent. Not too strong or rubbing-alcohol-y like other vodkas.

When you took a swig, you released a content hum. “Stoli.”

“Ding, ding,” he said.

He, however, was more of a Don Julio Blanco type of drinker. Fancy. He said as much when he took his place on the bench beside you, lifting your legs and resting them atop his thighs. Burning warmth radiated from him and bled into your legs. You should want to move them, but you didn’t.

Naturally, he was a warm person both externally and internally. Him when drunk was another thing entirely; he may as well have been a human space heater. You secretly basked in his warmth hoping it’d warm your soul, too.

In this dim lighting, courtesy of the flashlights aimed at the corner of the room, you couldn’t see much of anything. You were just slightly able to catch how Gaz tipped his head back when he took a generous swig of tequila, the bobbing of his throat, lips sick and glistening.

You nursed your vodka and relished the smooth, clean spirit. Unlike other vodkas, Stoli didn’t burn and fight its way down. There was a gentle heat at first, but after the first swig, it was smooth sailing. It was as delicious as you remembered.

If you weren’t mindful you could find yourself draped over a toilet until dawn. You didn’t have the tolerance you had as a teenager.

For a while, you both sat in a comfortable silence. 

It was you who broke the quiet. “Why is Soap such an asshole?”

“He’s worried,” Gaz sighed. “I think he doesn’t know what to expect from you. Truthfully, I don’t either.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know anything about you. You’re— well, mysterious. People are afraid of things they don’t understand. Even with all our conversations at lunch, you never talk about yourself.”

“There’s not much to talk about.”

“Please don’t lie. Not to me.”

Taking another swig of the vodka didn’t allow you much time to think his words over. You weren’t half as drunk as you needed to be to stomach this sort of talk.

“Ghost can be mysterious but I can’t?” you asked, inspecting the mouthwash bottle despite being unable to see in the near dark.

“He’s got a special pass. You don’t,” Gaz stated.

Then, he said, “You’re proper wank at deflection, by the way.”

You shrugged.

“Some stuff I just don’t want to discuss. I don’t like reliving the past.”

“Who does? But can’t you tell me something? Anything? I want to hear it all: your favorite color, food, whether you believe pineapple belongs on pizza. The little things matter all the same.”

He turned to face you, one hand holding his disguised tequila and the other smoothly adjusting your legs in his lap. He wore one of those soft beseeching expressions, the one which drew his furrowed brows high and softened his kind glassy eyes. 

If Gaz was anyone else, you wouldn’t be there. Sitting alone so close to another body in an enclosed room. Let alone innocently and platonically touching. It was inconceivable. Terrifying. Even more so when you knew you weren’t terrified at all.

His velvety brown eyes brimmed with a strange inexplicable fondness. It felt like safety, a thick weighted blanket that threatened to smother you. You weren’t certain what to make of it. Indulging his request couldn’t be too bad, could it?

“For starters, I’ve never had pineapple on pizza,” you said.

“Spare yourself the trouble and waste of money. It’s terrible,” he said.

“Noted.”

You couldn’t hold his stare for long. After swallowing another mouthful of the blue-colored vodka, you revealed, “I like fairy tales.”

“Oh?”

“If you laugh, I’ll kill you.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing? I am—” He paused, burping. “Very serious.”

You sighed, “As a child, I had an illustrated book of five fairy tales. I read it over and over so often the color on the corners of the pages started fading. Good times.”

“What’s your favorite? Mine is uh, Cinderella?”

“Are you telling or asking me yours?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

The chuckle Gaz left out was soft and breathless. His stare fell to the fabric of your uniform pants, how it’d bunched at your knees draped over his lap. He smoothed it out. 

“There’s this one called Sister Alyonushka and Brother Ivanushka. It’s my favorite,” you stated.

“I should read it sometime,” he said.

“Beware, it’s morbid.”

“How morbid?”

“I’d give it a two out of ten.”

He scoffed, “So, a ten for me.”

“Someone’s a scaredy-cat,” you teased.

“Hell yeah, I am! I own it. When I was a kid, I couldn’t watch horror films. I’d be sick to my stomach and have nightmares. I still can’t watch ‘em.”

“How adorable.”

“Now look who’s laughing. I thought we were having a real moment, you know? A heart-to-heart?” His slurred words were as serious as he could muster, but you knew he was all but serious.

Amused, you said, “I’m not laughing. I’m being condescending.”

“Yes, because that makes me feel so much better!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Liar. Your, uh, pants are gonna catch on fire.”

“What are you, five?”

“Five plus … nine— nineteen.”

“It’s five plus twenty-one, moron. Is the tequila good enough to make you forget your age?”

After a moment, Gaz’s drunken grin widened. “Yeah.”

You hid your chuckle as a cough.

Time didn’t exist. No sequence or sense followed your voiced thoughts and jumbled conversations. You both sprung from subject to subject, circled back to the original subject, then forgot what you’d wanted to say. He never failed to erupt into noisy laughter, to which you would promptly shush him and he’d try to laugh quietly.

Somewhere along the way, you came to discover you liked the sound of his laughter. Relentless and full-bellied. Almost pained in his delight. It never lasted long enough. You chased after it.

Gaz was far gone. He had sprawled out on the bench, head tilted back and dazed eyes aimlessly studying the ceiling of the metal hangar. You, however, weren’t anywhere near as gone. A blanket of looseness and warmth enveloped you and your unusually quiet mind spun off-kilter.

Throughout the eternity you shared, he had grown closer to you. You faced him, your legs resting in his lap, and his right arm draped across the backrest. He held the tequila with his right hand. The mouthwash bottle brushed your shoulder. He hadn’t dared to take a sip after placing his arm there.

When he lifted his head, you noticed his droopy eyelids. The more his eyelids fell and he struggled to stay awake, the more his smile stretched. “Thank you.”

“What for?” you asked.

“I have a list,” Gaz yawned. “Ah, I can’t remember all of it.”

“Well, what do you remember?”

His free hand had rubbed little circles into your knee. You didn’t mind it, rather, you quite enjoyed his unknowing touches.

Normally, you wouldn’t have done any of this. While you could blame your lowered inhibitions on the alcohol, you refused to deceive yourself. If any other person sat in Gaz’s seat, it would be entirely different.

This was all you. To trick yourself into believing you didn’t enjoy his tenderness meant for you, a tenderness that had came so naturally he didn’t even realize what he was doing— you wouldn’t only be a fool. You would be mean.

To yourself, most of all.

He took a deep breath before starting, “Thank you for listening and talking to me, coming here to get pissed with me even though you’re uh, clearly still functioning, and being comfortable enough to share little things with me, and talking to me and—”

“I get the gist of it,” you said. “And you’re welcome, Gaz. Isn’t that what friends are for?”

The word had slipped from your mouth too smoothly. That word, friends, seemed to be precisely what he had yearned to hear. He eagerly nodded.

“Will you remember this tomorrow morning?”

“I promise.”

Lifting his hand from your knee, he presented you his pinky finger. You locked yours with his.