Archive of Our Own

The further away they get from Jewett, Texas, the quieter Eugene becomes.

Merriell sits across from him and watches his reflection in the window, face pale and tired where they're leaning against his fist. A voice in the back of his head tries to tell him that he must be regretting asking Merriell to come to Mobile with him, cruel and taunting in the way it wiggles its way to the forefront of his mind; Merriell stomps on it the way one would stomp on a cigarette to extinguish it, grinding his heel to the ground. This, them, is the only thing he was completely sure about in his entire life. He won't let anything ruin it.

Sliding down in his seat, he taps his foot against Eugene's ankle to get his attention. He wishes they weren't still in their stuffy uniform so he could feel the buzz of Eugene's skin against his. The redhead doesn't look away from the rapidly passing views, choosing instead to hum to let Merriell know he's listening.

Merriell isn't too happy about it. He taps his ankle again, harder this time, smiling victoriously when that finally makes Eugene look at him. Glare is the more appropriate word, really. Merriell takes it in stride; if the Japs didn't get him, Eugene's simmering anger won't either. "Whatchu thinkin' 'bout?" he asks like a child asking how long they have until their destination, knowing full well his tone isn't helping.

The train chugs along on its rails, the sound the only thing between them for a few minute. Eugene passes his tongue across his upper teeth, fingers tapping on the table. "Why did you laugh at Lieutenant Mac?" comes out finally. "He was right. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?"

He sounds bitter, like he's been thinking about this for a long time and hasn't been able to find a reasonable answer, one that will set his soul at ease. As soon as the words are out of his mouth his gaze turns back to the window, eyes locked on the sun as it begins to sink closer to the horizon. Merriell swallows heavily, as unused to the role of comforter as he was back on Peleliu, on Pavuvu, on Okinawa. Each time he's left with the helplessness of not knowing how to help, but being desperate to try it all the same.

He wants to tell Eugene that he doesn't know. That he's scared too. That he didn't think he'd come back at all, not to mention that he'd find his soulmate in the middle of hell. That he's jealous of Eugene for having something to come back to in the first place, a home with loving parents and enough money to nurse his wounds for as long as he needs to before getting back out there. And that he's angry, too, at the war and the way it lives within him in his every breath.

He wants to tell him that he's not alone, and if Merriell has any say in it, he never will be.

"We go back," is what he settles on. "We rebuild."

That seems to strike a chord in Eugene. His eyes flick to Merriell for a split second before looking down at his hands on the table, where his fingers are now playing with a paper napkin, an uneasy set to his shoulders. "What if I can't?" he asks quietly.

Merriell frowns. "What do you mean?"

A sigh escapes Eugene. "It means that I'm tired," he explains, eyes trained on the small pile of confetti he's slowly producing. "It means that I don't even know what I'm comin' back to. I had this picture in my head of the day I come home, and it had my dog and my parents, and I was happy in it. Peaceful. Like I did what I had to do." A sad smile appears on his face, small, apologetic almost, rueful in the slight downturn of the corners of his lips. "Now I'm comin' back and Deacon died without me, and I just feel like I want to sleep for two years."

Merriell knows. He felt echoes of Eugene's pain when he got the letter, held him when he cried silently later that night in their wretched, muddy foxhole. He knows the bone-deep feeling of rot in his marrow, the thought that he'll never be able to take another step again, and then doing just that.

Standing up, he side-steps the table between them and sits next to Eugene, fitting an arm between the back of his seat and his back so his hand is on Eugene's waist, pulling him closer. He goes willingly, head landing on Merriell's shoulder.

He doesn't tell Eugene that it'll be okay. He doesn't know if it will. Looking out the window at the darkening sky, he presses a kiss to the top of his beloved copper hair and closes his eyes. If he concentrates just enough, he can feel their hearts beating together through their bond.

"I'm here," he mumbles into Eugene's hair as night falls around them.

The train stops in New Orleans a few hours later. Merriell watches the platform bustle with people, Eugene asleep on his shoulder, and feels a small twinge in his chest.

He meant it when he told Eugene that he has nothing left in New Orleans. But he can't help thinking that if his Mama was alive, she's love Eugene. He can see them having lunch together in her old apartment; she'd show Eugene old baby pictures of Merriell, and he'd tell her about his childhood fishing trips with his brother and Sid. He'd call her ma'am, and she'd insist that he called her Mathilde. She'd tell Eugene what a demon Merriell was as a child, and he'd smile at Merriell like he put the stars in the sky and say, softly, that he's not that bad.

Merriell doesn't regret it when they pull out of New Orleans and he's still on the train. He looks at Eugene's eyelashes kissing the top of his cheeks, at his fingers loosely laced with Merriell's, and smiles to himself.

He doesn't regret it, no. He's just sad for what could've been.

So when Eugene offers him his hand and smiles at him like he holds the world, Merriell takes it.

"You ready?" Eugene asks him as they move towards the exit, seabags on their shoulders. Mobile's tiny, dusty station awaits out the open train door. Merriell nods and smiles back.

"Ready."

And yeah, he is.