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Simmons smiled slowly, ripping a small sliver of paper from his notepad.
It was late in their makeshift base, or at least as late as it ever gets at the crash site. If anything, the sky burned even brighter around this time. According to Sarge, he had made a pact with the Blues to cease battle at around this time to sleep. There wasn’t much fighting to begin with, but Simmons’ complaint would be as good as a compliment. The redhead sighed softly in thought, letting his eyes drift over to the pile of blankets and empty MREs where Grif slept. The hawaiian somehow always seemed to manage to fall asleep within minutes of lights out, to Simmons’ chargin. He admired Grif’s profile shyly, the light from the hole in the ceiling leaving flattering shadows on the larger man’s face. Though rough and sharp outside, Grif looked soft and inviting as he slept sprawled across the floor of their shared room.
Reaching over the edge of his neat bed roll, Simmons grabbed the stub of a pencil that had been tucked under the mat. Though short and bitten from use, it still worked for his needs. With a final glance over at his teammate, Simmons curled over the scrap of paper protectively and began to write. You’ve eaten so much dark chocolate, your eyes have become the same shade. It’s bitter, but I like it more than anything else.
With a flushed face, Simmons tucks the ripped paper under the bed and curls his blanket around his shoulders. It never stopped being embarrassing, but at least it helped. Little did he know, however, that it would be the beginning of the end.
Grif woke up to a bony foot being prodded into his side, jostling him until he swatted it away lazily. With a pout, he looked up at Simmons, who also had a thunderous expression. The redhead crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot against the cold concrete floor.
Wake up, you lazy fuck. Sarge says he needs us both downstairs in five.
The maroon soldier grumbles, giving Grif one last grouchy look before walking over to where his armor sat. Grif groaned, turning over and burrowing his face into his lumpy pillow.
You and I both know that whatever Sarge says is total horse shit. I’m not dealing with him right after sleeping. And I’m not dealing with you kissing his ass, either.
The hawaiian mumbles, listening to the shifting and clanking of Simmons putting on his armor.
The only time I ever see you is right after sleeping, so shut the hell up.
Simmons complains, and Grif hears his last boot go on. With a sigh, the lanky man walks over to the door. I’ll let Sarge know you are being a prick. Meet us at the comm tower.
With that, Simmons leaves, the clang of his boots on metal following him until he leaves the base all together. Grif groans again, turning his head to look at his fellow soldier’s neat sleeping area.
With a grunt, he sits up, still looking over all of Simmons’ belongings as he rubs sleep from his eyes and stretches. As he moves to get up, something poking out from the edge of the bed roll catches his eye. Paper? Pushing himself up, Grif wanders over to inspect the small sliver of white.
Weird.
The soldier comments to himself, bending over and shifting the worn material to get a closer look. As he does this, more bits of paper reveal themselves, some worn from travel and others crisp and new. Grif can’t let this chance for blackmail slip from his grasp. He was set for life for dirt on Simmons, if any of these little notes had something interest written on them. Making sure that there isn’t anyone else puttering around the base, the raven haired male plunked down on the neatly folded blankets and picks up his first note.
Clearing his throat, Grif puts on his best Simmons impression to read the note aloud. If you loved me half as much as you love Little Debbie cakes, I probably wouldn’t have to be writing this.
He furrows his eyebrows, looking down at the ripped notebook paper to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Grif couldn’t help a short chuckle, but it wasn’t genuine. Did Simmons have a girl back home? Confused, he wiggled his hand under his ass and picked up another scrawled letter. He spoke the words aloud again, though this time his tone was his own. We have to get somewhere before Tucker manages to snag Wash. I have not waited 9 years to get beaten out by McStabby and McShooty.
This time Grif does laugh, a surprised giggle at Tucker and Washington’s nicknames. However, his curiosity only grows as he plucks out another handful of letters from under the sheets.
Though the first two were lighthearted, the next piles of paper sobered Grif. The handwriting seemed smaller and messier compared to the others, crumpled and dirty. As the hawaiian picked through them, his stomach clenched at the words.
I keep looking for you, but you aren’t there. Come back.
Teach me how to let go.
I’m still freezing, though you are only a few feet away from me.
Don’t scare me like that again.
I’d die without you.
Grif’s expression soured, looking at Simmons’ sloppy handwriting. He had some inkling at who these could be about, but that couldn’t be right. Could it? Shaking his head, Grif stood up, flipping the bed to get to the bits of paper deeper than what he could grab. He sat beside them, pulling every last piece around him like a little shield.
Then he started reading each and every one.
Some were sad, some were frustrated, some were even surprisingly explicit for someone like Simmons. Grif treasured each word, running his thumb over the indents of the letters, the wet stains, and the ripped edges. He kept his favorites in his lap, occasionally going back to read one and renewing the heavy blush on his dark features. Though the words were clumsy and not always well-written, they plucked at Grif’s small, dusty heartstrings.
I can’t usually make you laugh, but I always cherish it when I do.
You are such a dick. Sleep with me.
Ridiculous ass.
I’ve got enough love for those love handles. Christ, I need to get away from Tucker.
Jerk off one more time while I’m sleeping, and there won’t be any more Mr. Nice Simmons.
Grif leaned over, a bit sad to find that he had finished reading all but one. It was neat and square, unlike the rest of them, like Simmons had taken extra time to rip this one out. He unfolded it with gentle fingers, almost shaking with anticipation. He gaped at the words within, his face reddening quickly as he read over the script confirming his suspicions.
Dexter Grif, you are such a dick. I love you anyway.
A loud clang brought Grif’s attention to the door, where Simmons had dropped his helmet in surprise. The orange soldier gaped, scrambling to find an excuse. The only thing that he could remember was the loving curve of his name and the slanted and quick letters of love. They both were at an impasse, staring at each other with shocked and flustered expressions. Grif had never seen Simmons so red since he forgot his towel in the shower.
Grif!
Simmons squeaked, taking a few reluctant steps forward, he reached forward, but stopped before his gloved hand could make contact with his friend. What are you doing with those?
The marron soldier continued, looking down at the pile in Grif’s lap. Did you read them?
He asked, panic rising in his voice. Grif looked down, thumbing the edge of the note in his hand.
No, I’m just using them for decoration. Of course I read them.
He answered, though his voice wavered from his usual laid back tone for a moment. All this feelings bullshit was really getting to him.
What the fuck!
Simmons yelled, kneeling down to try and scoop up as many as he could. He seemed nervous now, refusing to even look at his friend.
Hey, stop that.
Grif complained, grabbing his pile and the bunches that Simmons had not collected and skittered away from the Irishman. He stood a few feet away from Simmons, his arms overflowing with loving words. These are about me, right? So they are totally mine. Don’t make me fight you.
He reasoned, placing the mountain of paper on his sheets.
Save me the mortification, asshole.
Simmons replied, though his voice was strung and defeated. Grif turned to his teammate, a contemplative expression on his face as he gazed on the flush of embarrassment and shame on Simmons’ face.
I dunno,
Grif said conversationally, waiting until Simmons looked up at him before continuing, I’d have to see if your sex face is anything like the face you are making right now.
He hummed, a sly grin making Simmons redden even more, if that was possible. Grif plopped down beside the defeated soldier, leaning forward into his space. I have to know if you really have enough love for my love handles.
The orange soldier chuckled, pressing a soft kiss on Simmons’ open lips. Simmons spluttered, pushing Grif back by the shoulders and looking him in the eye.
Are you fucking with me?
The writer asked, voice high and incredulous. Cause if you are, I swear to fuck.
Can’t you just let it happen?
Grif sighed, attempting to use his body weight to press another kiss to his teammate’s lips.
No, I can’t just ‘let it happen’, dickwad! What the fuck is going on?
The maroon soldier squeaked, though his eyes followed the soft curve of the larger man’s upper lip.
I’m not much of a feelings guy. Can’t we skip to the part where we touch tips and cuddle? Sounds much easier.
Grif replied, giving up on trying to push Simmons down and instead pulling him onto his lap. The redhead yelped, clinging to Grif’s shoulders as he was manhandled. If it helps, you’re right after Oreos on my list of importance. I’d say that would clear up any questions you might have.
The man grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He leans down, pressing his lips to the sharp jutt of Simmons’ chin and bites at it softly. Simmons tenses, a wheezy breath leaving his lips as he leaned into Grif.
You better not smoke in bed.
Simmons complained, burying his embarrassed face into Grif’s tee. The hawaiian smiled, pressing a kiss to Simmons’ hair line. ‘Kay.
There aren't many moments of time where Simmons and Grif are separate. But somehow, whenever the Irishman isn't looking, Grif manages to tuck in a little folded square of paper into his armor. The first time Simmons notices the little white slip, he's taking off his armor in the shower, with Grif snoring in the next room. Carefully, he unfolds it, not quite believing his own eyes.
I love you too, kissass.