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David is thinking.
The past ten months have been an exercise in learning not to think, because not thinking makes it a hell of a lot easier to dissociate from what they see, or what they do, or everything about this whole goddamn war, but he's thinking, now, about earlier that day. When the convoy was stopped for a break, before Perconte almost fell backward off the truck, but after David apparently started yelling nonsense at the Krauts passing by -- he doesn't even remember, to be honest. People were hopping off to take a piss or bum cigarettes from whomever they could, and in the middle of it all, he briefly spied Liebgott hunched over a couple trucks ahead, thin shoulders and swan neck recognizable even from behind. He was curled in on himself like an animal trying to preserve heat, except everyone else's faces were shiny with sweat in the spring weather.
David thinks about that image now, as he stares up at the wire mesh of the bunk above his. The pose was familiar, he's seen it on some more than others, but not on Liebgott; never on Liebgott. He mentally straightens it out like he would a crumpled picture -- aligns the shoulders, tilts the chin back up until it's got that slightly imperial jut.
A chorus of soft thudding from the returning night patrol starts making its way through the house and up the winding flights of stairs. The floorboards in this building are soft wood, rotted through in some places from rain trickling in and spidering along the walls. Noise travels through every inch like a tuning fork. He listens as footsteps drop off one pair at a time into different rooms until the only one remaining gets closer and closer, right up to David's bed.
"I heard you lost your goddamn mind on the way in," says Liebgott, curling his hand around the sidebar of the top bunk and leaning into view. "Screaming at all the Krauts, ready to blow your own head off."
When David just stares back in silence, Liebgott lip-farts derisively. "Yeah, I should've known not to believe it, huh?"
"Fuck you," David says, dull and uncreative.
Most of the time, David takes the bait and he doesn't know why. Maybe partly because Lieb's fucking yap does get under his skin, harkens back to upperclassmen bullying at Taft; maybe partly to give people the satisfaction of thinking they're right about him. After all, it seems like that's one of the few things he can do to be useful around here.
And maybe partly something else, he thinks, looking past the smirk on Liebgott's mouth and at his slender neck instead. Most people had bulked up considerably after Toccoa, trapezius muscles growing steeper on both sides. Most, but not all. Delicate would be one of the furthest words to describe Liebgott in general, but it matches his angled jawline, the curve of his throat that bobs and shifts, catching all the emotions he doesn't show on his face.
David flicks his eyes back up. Liebgott seems to as well, a split second later, though David can't tell exactly what he'd been looking at.
"Do you ever get tired of acting like you're okay?" David says wonderingly.
Liebgott's still hanging onto the bedframe, white-knuckled now. He says, "What kind of fucking question is that," and it's more of a threat than anything.
"On the truck today. I saw you."
"Yeah? What'd you see, exactly?" Liebgott challenges. His expression has already shifted into something a few levels past furious. It's simple, then, to keep going in that direction instead of trying to pull him back.
"I saw you almost catatonic." David turns to face him more directly, deliberately casual. "I'm sorry, do you know what catatonic means? Did they have vocabulary lessons at whatever piece of shit school you dropped out of, you fucking -- "
And then Liebgott's hands are grabbing at his collar and dragging him up off the mattress. David tenses at the last second and manages not to get a concussion from hitting the floor. Liebgott's already trying to whale on him but David's scrapped before, knows to keep his forearms caged up around his face, to tighten up his abdomen against each blow. He knows how to do this; he knows how to take the bait.
He manages to kick off the weight but Liebgott springs back quickly and they tussle again, thumping hollow noises all throughout the house. Someone yells at them to take it outside, which turns out to be prescient because Liebgott rolls them over and then they're tumbling down the short flight of stairs, coming to an unceremonious stop on the narrow landing.
"Stop," David hisses, disoriented, having landed on top by luck. "Stop it, goddammit."
Under him, Liebgott is still a livewire. David wrenches both of his wrists down against the floor, keeps the writhing body in place with only gravity and the weight of his hips. It's easy enough, easier than he thought it would be when the image had crossed his mind in the past.
The glob of spit that catches right below his mouth is wholly unexpected. They've gone weeks without showers, had multiple teeth lost to rot, grown fungal infections in almost every bodily crevice, but David can't quite keep from reeling back a bit. Without thinking, he uses that as momentum to headbutt Liebgott, except he's never done it before and ends up hitting their foreheads together squarely. The world explodes into a single lightning bolt.
"Jesus, Web," Liebgott groans. His eyes are screwed shut in pain. Even through the haze of red and starburst, Webster feels a flare of grim satisfaction that he's the cause. That he was able to rattle the famously unflappable Joe fucking Liebgott.
He leans down, tries to wipe off the spit onto Liebgott's shoulder like a snuffling dog, and then belatedly realizes how quiet it is now. Another moment passes before he figures out that it's because Liebgott isn't struggling anymore -- but David's still heavy on top of him. Both of them are panting through their noses, seemingly anticipating something that neither can name. Whatever it is takes anchor in his belly and slowly spreads, a timelapse of a seed taking root.
Upstairs, there's a cough and a squeak of mattress springs. David shifts, just a little bit, experimentally, and watches Liebgott's lips press inward. A tiny noise escapes anyway, or maybe it's just the house settling. His eyes are still closed, face turned to the side. And his neck, his goddamn neck -- covered in grime like dried brown sugar, a thin muscle stretched taut and trembling down the length of it. Someone's heart is going about a million miles an hour but he's not sure whose.
"You fellas done? Or is there gonna be an encore performance I should know about?" Sergeant Randleman is leaning against the doorframe off the landing as if he's been there for hours.
David jerks back, though Liebgott keeps lying there without reacting. He plants his knee on the floor and hefts himself halfway up. "Done, sarge. Sorry," he adds.
"Then get some sleep," Randleman says around his cigar. "Won't do no good killing each other at this point." He looks at David, then looks at Liebgott on the floor, before disappearing back into his room.
Liebgott still hasn't moved or opened his eyes. One would think him dead or comatose, except for that his hands are curled compact into fists. Only a tiny bit of moonlight gets through to this part of the house, but it's enough to highlight the tightropes of his wrist tendons.
There's a buzzing under David's skin, like his body is too small to contain him. He feels heady with it as he stares down at Liebgott. The view reminds him of the few summers he spent upstate with an uncle on his father's side, who was a nature aficionado and had a room full of pinned insect blocks. David would examine them closely, never touching; he always wondered what the undersides looked like.
"Hey," he manages. He gently presses the toe of his boot down on Liebgott's hip. Somehow the fact that Liebgott lets him makes the buzzing worse. The roots in his stomach clench and thicken. What would come next if he stood there, waiting? If Liebgott finally sat up and wrapped his fingers tight around David's ankle, looking up at him silently --
Suddenly it's too much. The enormity of it crashes into him in a wave. He can't -- he can't just venture into the unknown, not like this. Not in a half-bombed out house on the other side of the world. Still, it feels impossible to turn away. He has to count to three but he finally wrenches into motion and climbs the stairs. It's quiet behind him. Maybe Liebgott knew as well, then.
He gets back into bed. He stares up at the wire mesh. He doesn't think.