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If it happened anywhere else, in any other way, he might have been a little more concerned. But as it was, sweat- and blood-soaked on a tiny island in the Pacific Ocean, the only thing more pervasive than the sand being the fucking crabs, it seemed somewhere between surreal and inevitable. A fact and a myth at the same time. Hoosier and Leckie.
He didn’t know if it was the same for Leckie. He didn’t ask, partly because it wasn’t in his nature and partly because he didn’t want to know. There wasn’t a good answer to the question, so he left their relationship to simmer in a state of flux that had since become comfortable in its familiarity. And either way, he wasn’t sure an answer would help at all. The war was surreal enough already. Any clarity might be a little too sharp for the new blurry normal he had built for himself. He left it to what it was: salty kisses pressed to dirty collarbones and too warm hands fucking everywhere, more an impression than an act, and come morning neither would be sure if it was real or a dream.
Sometimes the dreams bled into the day, and the waves of heat rising off the sand made it all the more hazy. Sometimes Leckie would smile crookedly at him and he would feel the corner of his lips pull up unbidden. Sometimes the unrelenting sun relented, just slightly, just for a moment, so that its rays hit Leckie’s curls just right and they were lit golden. Sometimes nothing in particular happened and he looked at Leckie and Leckie looked back.
Once, in broad daylight, they kissed, brief and sweet, momentarily alone. Leckie whispered, “That was dangerous,” into his neck and he whispered back, “It’s your fault.” They laughed even though it wasn’t funny and nothing would ever quite be funny again.
Sometimes the sex took the form of words said into night air to be swallowed up by the pounding of ocean waves, and somehow it was far more intimate. Once he said, “I’d like to get a dog if I get back to Indiana. Ma always said no, but I think if I come back alive she’ll reconsider,” and he meant it to be a joke. Instead of laughing, Leckie pressed an arm against his own and said, “Plenty of strays to rescue in Jersey,” and maybe it was one of Leckie’s metaphors. Once Leckie said, “I don’t know if I’m really living anymore,” and Hoosier pulled him back so he was laying in the sand looking at the stars and asked him to point out constellations, just one more time, so he could live in their story and not the war. Once they did nothing for an entire night but breathe, listened and watched their lungs expand and deflate, feel the steady thrum of each other’s heartbeat like it was a sentiment that warranted remembrance.
There were moments when he looked up at the moon, the same moon he saw back in Indiana, and wondered what the moon thought of him now, what he’d tell everyone back home. Wondered whether the stars were on his side or not. Wondered what would have happened had he passed Leckie in the street, on his way to work or to pick up bread for his ma. Wondered what would have happened had they never met, what would happen if somehow they manage to get back to the States relatively alive. What then?
It was a strange line of questioning, of course, because him and Leckie were simultaneously nothing and everything. How does one answer those questions when nothing was happening and they were inevitable? Where the fuck do you go from there? And Hoosier wasn’t much for monologuing or excessive introspection, he’d leave that to Leckie, so he tried to make his mind up to be content with memories and dreams and to, for now, at least, leave it at that.
Leckie placed a hand on his forehead. “Feeling okay, Bill?” he asked. “Thinking awfully hard, don’t want you to overwork your pretty little mind.”
Hoosier smiled, soft and wry in the way that Leckie liked. He grabbed Leckie’s hand, held it, lifted it up to his lips and smiled into the man’s knuckles. “Just fine, Bob,” he answered, lost in a dream. “Doin’ just fine.”