“Right, g’night doc,” Sniper said, much too late. He couldn’t get his voice to raise high enough to ensure Medic heard it. There was a kind of melancholy that always followed the Sniper, like a cloud that he just couldn’t shake off. Even when he supposed he was content, the weight of illogical guilt perched itself on his shoulders. It was isolating. And Sniper had spent his entire life believing that was what he was destined for: isolation, loneliness. He remembered thinking of his parents, no, his father, nagging him and pushing him and never being satisfied with anything he did until the day he died.
The gunman recalled once thinking that his life would have been easier if his father was dead, the guilt of even having such a thought, something impulsive and ugly spurred by his own heartbreak, chasing him for the rest of his life. Now, his father was dead, and the weight remained. His father had given him his blessing, and the weight remained. Another father had abandoned him, and the weight remained. What was he supposed to do now?
“Da,” Heavy confirmed, knowing the game Medic was playing and deciding to play along. If he wanted to change the subject, that was fine with Heavy. Spy taught him some things about games like this. “Spy tells me he knows I cherish Russian literature. Spy cherishes all kinds of literature. Heavy told Spy he missed speaking his language, only ever speaks with Doktor.” He explained, and Medic stayed silent, relieved that the conversation was not on him.
“But Spy surprised me. Spy knows Russian, wants to know it better… for me. So we can talk about books together. Is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for Heavy.” The gentle giant confessed, and he and Medic’s eyes met. “Was not easy at first meeting. We did not fancy each other!” Heavy recalled with a thunderous laugh, and Medic smiled at his joy. “But when two people work at this, it becomes effortless. Strong. Better than things that fade.”
Sniper paused, taking a sip of his beer. Parting from the glass with a thoughtful lick of his own lips, he spoke again. “Seems like no small task, what you do. Always knew it wasn’t simple, but…” He had wanted to tell Medic that being alone with him for hours on end didn’t seem like a punishment at all. Wouldn’t even need to tie me down!, his subconscious gleefully admitted. Enduring medical tests wouldn’t be so bad if he could feel the doctor’s fingers against his skin like he had earlier on the battlefield.
Do not confess this, Michael. Long-since-healed skin still burned hot under his clothes where Medic had touched, as though seared by the sensation. It is not safe to confess this. The very temptation that brought him confidence was now dead-set on pushing the feelings further into his stomach. Where he reasoned they belonged; not out and about where Medic could see them.
“Always felt like I was greedy, even when I wasn’t even taking anything. Thought if I finally took something I wanted, I’d feel better. But I just felt worse,” he murmured with a frown. “Wise to know these kinds of feelings are best left alone.” Sniper concluded resolutely, straightening his shoulders and puffing his chest out as though he was convincing himself as much as Medic. These kinds of feelings? Present tense? It only invited more questions than Medic knew how to ask.
Feelings about him? His mind pressed, selfishly inserting the narrative it wanted to hear into Sniper’s each and every word. Medic never felt like he should smother any part of his emotions. And Sniper shouldn’t either, for that matter. Anything worth feeling was worth, well, feeling, wasn’t it?
Would he let himself be laid down by Ludwig, and really and truly be seen, not just by virtue of being naked in a bed together, but stripped absolutely bare, in every sense of the word? Unknowable, rugged, professional Michael, passionately entangled with knowable, posh, sadistic Ludwig? His heart hammered in even, precise beats: Yes, yes, yes, yes…
Eyes as vast and dark as the sea capturing his own and holding them in their gaze while eager, thorough hands caressed and squeezed and stroked him everywhere a person could be touched. Between the valleys of old wounds, where all of the things he never wanted to say or think about slept. Between his breasts, where his hard ribcage curled over the soft flesh of his innards that Medic knew so well, over his inner thighs, which would splay open and whisper I’m yours to touch, and to know.
“Doc, what happened?” Engineer asked a few moments after Sniper’s body had hit the ground with a useless thud. Medic could feel their eyes on him as everyone stood in silence. Oh, you know, a little of this and a little of that. He was kneeling before Sniper, staring at him and trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, what kind of answer he could give their teammates.
I think I ruined everything.
As pain ran tremors through them, longing swept over and soothed. Then came anger, and lust, and sweet yearning… repeating endlessly, like seasons. They couldn’t look away from each other. Like seasons, they’d found sanctuary in winter, intimacy in spring. Tenderness in the fall… were frigid nights so miserable that it was worth it to cast away the crisp evenings? The whole feeling. The entire cycle of seasons. Imagine wishing for apathy! It had felt shameful now. His eyes went to the large ventricles that melted against the damaged pieces of the fruit. Yes, even the rotten parts. A symphony of beeping bounced off of the metal walls, making their ears ring. The room smelled like iron and earth.
Sniper was alive.
Sniper’s smile grew, and Medic watched the wrinkles at his eyes also fold together and kiss. The smile had lit up his whole face.
Their love, convoluted and strained, invented such an expression. It filled the mercenary up with more joy than he knew what to do with; he’d wanted to shout about it, to guffaw and giggle and coo. I am so full of love! Instead, he let it push all the way from the toes of his boots to the top of his throat, to just beneath his tongue, and held it there, in the soft underside of his mouth. This is where that joy would live, like a secret, lying in wait until he could untether it and prove to Michel the limitless extent of his adoration.
Blessedly, it didn’t hurt to think it anymore. Now, he’d wanted to say it. When he’d looked the doctor in the eyes before requesting the charge, he’d wanted to kiss him. Wanted to show him that any kind of victory that mattered would have been one that only their mouths could show each other. That triumph would come from him finally confessing what he had known all along.
I love you.