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John wakes up on the Beach.
His eyes are closed, but he can feel the damp sand soak moisture into his clothes, leave little grains on his cheek. The sound of the waves, albeit inherently gentle, is cacophonous in his ears. He does not move, not right away, allowing himself to gather his bearings, to let it all sink in. His fingers press divots into the ground where he’d let them sink in, and wonders distantly, if he were to get up and go into the water, if he’d let the rest of himself sink, too.
This time, unlike the last he was here, John will not return. He knows this solely from the fact that the Beach no longer feels like some sort of hazy, half-remembered dream, but instead, feels like a state of being. A different plane of existence.
He does not stand, only sits upright and brings his knees to his chest like a child. The air is warm around him, despite the cool dampness beneath him, but does not bring him comfort. John feels undeserving. This Beach reminds him of one he’d visited in his youth before everything went to hell. Before the corps. Before the Stranding. Before him.
His chin digs hard into his knees, making his teeth clench uncomfortably. His fingers, now gripping either bicep, dig hard there, too, enough that if it were possible, he would likely give himself bruises. This, he feels he deserves. The pain. He didn’t try hard enough to save him, and the look on his face that remained even after the death caused by John’s own gun has done nothing but permeate his mind since the moment he saw it. The pain seems like a direct result of it, some kind of reprimand to himself.
Even now, though they are in the same place, John feels like he deserves it.
John digs the heel of his palm into his eyes and rubs, hard. Would he forgive John? Properly? Even though John hadn’t done enough?
He’s vaguely aware of the footsteps that pad against the sand, and even more aware of whom they belong to, but he does not lift his head. His head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds; that if he were to even think of lifting it, his neck would snap like a twig.
“I don’t blame you,” comes that voice, and with a hand to his shoulder, the weight is lifted.
Cliff is no longer in his kevlar camouflage, no gun slung over his shoulder, simply in his navy slacks and black shirt, sans his blazer. He looks weathered, but soft, as he should. His hand is warm where it touches John’s cheek and remains there as he stands.
“Captain,” John murmurs, the word a bare breath of a whisper on his lips. “Cliff.”
Cliff wipes away the tear that trails down John’s cheek and soon again thumbs the one that falls after that. “You did what you could, John,” Cliff says. The feel of his hands are the only thing keeping John from crumbling back down to his feet. “How could I blame you for that?”
“But, I--”
“You didn’t pull the trigger.” But he was ordered to. The trigger may not have been squeezed by him but the gun was in his hand when Cliff died. It was his gun that ended Cliff’s life. Similarly, it was the same gun that ended his own. “I forgive you.”
It’s all John needed to hear. “I loved you,” John tells him, fighting the lump in his throat. If not now then never again. “Did you know?"
“Of course I knew.”
Cliff pulls him into an embrace, his arms curling around John’s middle, making him feel warm, safe. His own fingers grip the fabric of Cliff’s shirt, crumpling it, but neither of them care. As they pull apart, Cliff presses a gentle kiss to John’s forehead; a promise. John, now smiling, albeit small, takes Cliff’s hand into his own. He leads them to the shore, letting the warm water lap softly at his feet. It’s utterly calm, sounding like nothing but a sweet melody to John’s ears. Even still, he hesitates.
“Come,” Clifford says, giving John’s hand a squeeze. “There’s so much we need to catch up on.”
John lets himself sink.