Archive of Our Own

Snafu wakes up with a bad feeling.

You might think that this is his normal state of being, that Bad Feeling that follows him around wherever he goes like a dark cloud. Many seem to think that just from looking at him; sickly-looking thing, big overly-bright eyes sunken deep in his face, skin stretching over ribs and wrists almost unnaturally. Others would see him smoking a cigarette during his free time and give him a wide berth the way you’d give a mangy dog you saw on the street.

He knows he has a bad reputation among the other Marines, but he can’t say that he’s bothered by it. Some of it is by choice; he learned early on in life that the weaker you look, the more others think they can walk all over you. Just look at Jay with his hesitant friendly smiles and long limbs, never guarding his expression for anything or anyone. If it wasn’t for Snafu and Burgie watching out for him he’d be the company’s wuss by now, no matter how much he’s proven himself in combat. Not Snafu, though; he made sure to carefully cultivate a persona that screamed danger, bared dog teeth and claws out from the moment he enlisted. He only really had to try for the first few weeks of bootcamp anyway- the Marine Corps is nothing but a gossip mill. All he had to do was get into as many fights as he could without getting kicked out in his first month, and everyone else did the job for him.

So yeah, he’s used to feeling bad, but not like this, not a cloying sense of wrong in his stomach that hits him from the moment he wakes up and just continues to grow and grow the more the day goes on, a sticky mass that gathers and rolls around in its own filth. It almost feels like it’s hungering for something, looking for something unknown; Snafu finds himself sneaking glances towards the docks every few minutes as if there’s something just beyond the horizon that’s coming just for him.

His skin feels wrong, spread too thin over his skeleton and itchy for it. He scratches at his inner wrist so much it starts to bleed, angry shallow lines raised red and sensitive. He doesn’t even know what’s making him so twitchy, restless like a caged lion, but he doesn’t like it; this place is putting him on edge enough as it is, with the threat of war looming just beyond reach. He doesn’t need another reason to look over his shoulder.

“You okay? Some bug bite ya?” Burgie asks him, brow furrowed in the kind of genuine concern only Burgie’s capable of and that strips Snafu naked every time. He blinks and catches himself scratching his wrist again, blood and torn skin caked under his nails.

He doesn’t know how to explain this clawing siren’s call in his veins- can barely explain it to himself, doesn’t know why the palms of his hands burn like he touched poison ivy- so he just shrugs and grunts in a way he knows Burgie will understand.

They’re sitting in their tent in a precious hour of stolen downtime, the door open wide and the suffocating heat of the island made easier by the roof over their heads. An ocean breeze drifts in through the mesh walls every once in a while and cools the sweat on his bare chest, on Jay’s upper lip where he’s smoking a cigarette. The morning seemed to stretch on forever with this antsy thing in his stomach pulling at his atoms, dragging him towards something.

He asks himself if it’s just a gut feeling, a bad guardian angel panicking over nothing or everything. Snafu’s intuition is good, had to be the way he grew up, and it saved his life many times both in the war and in peacetime. He wonders what could possibly trigger such a visceral reaction to make him feel that way when they’re supposed to be safe and sound on their little piece of shit island.

(He ignores the fact that this doesn’t feel like his usual gut feelings, the taste of metal absent from the back of his throat and the hairs on the back of his head laying flat and undisturbed. That, and the fact that Burgie noticed something’s up. Another bonus of growing up in the Shelton home- you conceal your emotions and you conceal them fast.)

The feeling grows so much that eventually it’s all he can think about. He sits on his bunk and tries to decide if he should go to the first aid tent, except he got malaria before and this doesn’t feel anything like it, and what can the corpsman give him that would help anyway? He’s not dying, he just feels like he’s constantly on the verge of tearing his skin open and running head-first into the ocean. He ain’t getting sent to Banika, not when they could get the order every day.

So he tries to distract himself. Borrows a book from Jay that doesn’t hold his attention for a single second, the worn-out paperback feeling coarse on his over-sensitive hands. He flips through the pages to create the illusion of productivity and to get Burgie to stop sneaking worried glances at him every fucking minute like he’s a frightened doe about to bolt. He lights a cigarette at about ten past noon just to do something with his hands, but the tobacco does nothing to calm his nerves. He finds himself tapping nonsensical little rhythms on his calf, repeating and changing whenever he realizes that he’s still doing it. At some point Burgie starts to hum along to his makeshift drums and they send each other knowing smiles from their respective bunks.

It’s at around one that the tension gets so bad it feels like that roiling mass of electric plasma is climbing up into his lungs, sending tendrils up his throat. Snafu sits on his bunk and pokes at a sore on his foot just to have something physical to pick at to distract him from whatever it is that made its home under his skin. It feels like his insides are screaming at him to get up and run until he feels like he’s made it, a distance he knows to be small and seems to only get smaller by the minute. He feels antsy and unwelcome, is almost sick with it, head spinning even though he’s sitting down, the day suddenly feeling twice as hot.

Maybe he’s finally going crazy. Maybe this is the same thing Silverstein over from Baker Company felt before he tried to blow his brains out. How stupid would it be if this was the thing that does him in, Snafu muses, half-amused half-terrified.

The thing in his blood roars. The sunlight streaming in from the door is blocked by the silhouettes of three men, helmets on and backpacks full to the brim. Snafu spares them a glance, feeling like he’s about to puke his heart out but showing none of it. One of them is a shortie with a wide nose and a stony expression. The one in the back is tall and handsome, strong eyebrows in a kind face.

Snafu’s eyes land on the third replacement. His consciousness gets shot out of a canon straight into outer space.

He’s a lanky looking kid, face still hanging onto some of that baby fat in an incredibly telling way. He’s holding onto the straps of his backpack like it’s the only thing stopping him from bolting and running, expression nervous like he’s not sure what to expect.

He looks like any other replacement when he first arrives on base, but something about him is so indescribably unique to Snafu that it takes the breath out of him. The beast in his stomach disappears as if snapped into thin air, so quick it makes his head spin and his ears ring. In the quiet of a single high-pitched whistle occupying the space between his ears something new settles itself in Snafu’s chest, something warm and soft that belongs exclusively to that boy in the door. Every fiber in his body tells him to go to him, to stand in front of this boot with flowers growing out of his head and take his hands and never let go; Snafu’s palms are burning in a whole new way now, cool like spring water, like fresh snow.

Fuck, he realizes in a single terrifying second. That’s his soulmate.

He’s filled with so much rage the next second it startles him; Snafu isn’t a stranger to rage in any sense of the word, far from it. Rage is one of his oldest friends, one that lives in the very marrow of his bones. He's never felt an anger like this though, a wrath pure and self-righteous and cold like mercury slipping in his veins. He wants to stand up and scream at the boot to turn around and run back to the boat, to take his skinny ass back wherever it is he came from and stay there and rot.

How dare he show up in Snafu's life now, in the middle of the fucking war, during a time where they're both pretty much as good as dead? How dare the universe present him with the one person that's supposed to be made just for him, shipped out here to replace dead men? How dare the universe put him in mortal danger time and time again by not being loved enough, by being overlooked and neglected and abused, only to hold a knife to his throat and tell him to love and surrender on the pain of death?

Snafu isn't stupid. He knows what'll happen if he refuses to touch this boy- sooner or later his body will start to give up on him bit by bit, first his kidneys, his intestines, his liver, then his heart, until he falls and doesn't get up again. The universe was kind enough (ha!) to mold a person specifically for him, miserable as he is, and it won't abide by denial of such kindness. Those who refuse to acknowledge their soulmates die simply for rejecting the gift that's given to them, and their soulmates are forced to live their life a lost half of a once-there whole.

Fuck. He’s screwed no matter how he looks at it.

It’s a good thing that repelling people is pretty much second nature to him by now, then. He has to get that boy as far away from him as possible and keep him there until one of them dies; from a bullet or the universe, Snafu doesn’t care. He fixes his eyes on the boy who ruined his life in a second and vows to ruin his life right back.

“Eugene Sledge,” he says in an unmistakable Southern twang. Snafu adamantly ignores the way the sound of his voice makes something deep in his chest leap and soar. He won’t forge any connections with this boot, he fucking won’t. The meaner he is, the better off they’ll both be.

“Grab a bunk,” Burgie concedes, completely unaware of Snafu’s inner turmoil.

Snafu thinks fast, throws his helmet onto the bunk the boot (his boot, some malicious and uncooperative part of his mind whispers) was about to put his backpack on. It lands with a dull thud and the boy sends him a confused glance, looking so much like a lost doe Snafu can’t decide if he should laugh or cry. Of fucking course his soulmate is kind and unable to understand meanness for meanness’ sake, of fucking course he’s innocent enough to still believe in the goodness of other people; of course he’d be confused by being bullied by someone he doesn’t even know. The shortie next to him sends Snafu a dirty look. Good. Snafu knows dirty in and out.

“Taken,” he says nonchalantly, leaning back on his hands and sending the shortie a look that conveys just how much of a non-threat he is to him. Burgie sends him a puzzled look, the first one in a while. Jay chuckles to himself and winks at him, pretending to go back to his book. He can be a little shit when he wants to, Snafu thinks with just a little bit of pride.

His boot- Eugene, right, that’s his name- just stands there, seemingly at a loss of what to do in the face of Snafu’s actions. His short friend turns to toss his backpack on the only other vacant bunk, only for Snafu to toss his makeshift sandal onto it before he can even blink. The outrage on his face is delicious, for lack of a better word; Snafu glows with the familiar feeling of getting all over someone’s nerves unnecessarily, suddenly feeling younger than he did in months. “Taken,” he repeats with a noncommittal tilt of his head.

If Shortie lived in their tent, Eugene would come visit him all the time, and eventually Snafu would have to learn more than he wants about him and start to see him as an actual person. That’s the last thing he wants- he doesn’t want anything to do with him, didn’t even want to know his name. The bitter taste of spite is so welcome in his mouth he almost revels in it. No-one pulls a fast one on him, and if they try, well. He’s got countless ways to make them regret it.

Jay takes mercy on the boots and leads them away. Snafu goes back to picking at his toes and tries his best to ignore the pain in his chest that only gets sharper as Eugene grows farther away.

He’ll be fine, he tells himself. All he has to do is stay mean and thorny and keep that kid as far away from him as he can until one of them dies and this whole ordeal ceases to be an issue. He can do that no problem- his whole entire life up until now has been a practice run for this. There’s no reason that a nervous new boot who just happens to be his soulmate would be able to break through his walls.

He’ll be just fine.

A few hours later find him sitting on an old tank and supervising his boot and his friends while they break their backs scrubbing oil out of drums. Snafu tells himself that he’s only keeping an eye on the new guys, making sure they don’t fuck up so collossally that the blame falls on him for not watching over them properly; what he’s really doing, though, is studying Eugene while he still can.

He’s a redhead, his boot. He can see it now that he doesn’t have that stupid fucking helmet glued to his head like they’re about to be shelled at any moment. His hair burns a rusty copper in the afternoon sun, so bright it’s burnt into the inside of Snafu’s eyelids when he closes his eyes. Snafu can’t say he ever had a thing for redheads- didn’t have a lot of them back in New Orleans- but he can definitely say he can see the appeal. He leans back on his hands, languid and relaxed with the privilege of not working, and wonders if the carpet matches the drapes as he watches Eugene’s slim back work under his sweat-soaked white shirt.

He might not be fine.

---

They’re getting shipped out to die on yet another shitty little island that Snafu can’t remember the name of but hates already, and he stands on the amtrak next to Eugene and sees the nerves thrumming just beneath the boy’s skin, can feel his fear like a ball in his throat. Snafu’s used to his own quiet brand of fear, the kind that sits at the base of your spine and shakes when you move; feeling someone else’s fear is unsettling, and he hates the universe even more for making him empathize with someone he doesn’t even want to like, let alone understand.

He doesn’t need someone else’s feelings rattling around in his chest, mixing in with his own. He barely understands his own feelings sometimes; trying to find out which feeling is his own and which isn’t has become the bane of his existence over the past few weeks. He’d find himself feeling frustrated for no reason and spend a good few minutes trying to figure out what could be the cause of it, only to catch a glimpse of red hair in the sun and remember that he has a soulmate he’s attached to whether he likes it or not. One memorable day a few days after Eugene first came Snafu felt a wave of such overwhelming grief and loneliness that he had to grab the nearest pole just to stay upright, red spots dancing in front of him. He found out a few hours later that Eugene’s childhood best friend shipped back home without even saying goodbye; he sat in the mess tent and couldn’t take his eyes off the defeated line of Eugene’s shoulders. He wasn’t all that hungry that evening.

(He woke up in tears a few nights. Eugene always looked worse for wear the mornings after, and Snafu wanted to say something but didn’t even know where to start.)

Snafu guesses it’s a good thing that he’s the only one who knows that they’re supposed to be soulmates. Sometimes only one person knows, sometimes they both do. Sometimes neither of them do, and it’s a miracle that they find each other at all. Snafu’s pretty sure Eugene knows nothing of their would-be bond. He did his best to learn as little as he could about Eugene, but he has a feeling that he’s the kind of person who grew up thinking that soulmates are the universe’s gift to mankind and that one’s life is complete after they find their other half; Snafu has no doubt that if Eugene knew they were soulmates he’d grab onto him and never let go.

Not all soulmates are a success story; Snafu knows what it’s like when those bonds go awry. He very expertly doesn’t think about it.

“I don’t smoke,” Eugene tells him over the roar of the engine and the waves crashing against the side of the amtrak. Snafu gives him the sleaziest smile in his arsenal; he’ll be smoking like a chimney by the time the war is over, guaranteed.

(He catches himself thinking about Eugene in future terms and gives himself a mental elbow to the ribs. He can’t afford to think about this fresh-ass boot like he’s gonna survive, can’t afford the liability of a soulmate in this hell on Earth.)

He throws up on Eugene’s shoes then acts as if nothing happened, unlit cigarette between his lips before Sledge can even process it. There’s a small spark of satisfaction at the scandalized look he gets for his troubles, then a bit of shame at the tsk of disapproval from Burgie. He doesn’t care about disappointing Eugene (or at least that’s what tells himself), but letting Burgie down is an offence punishable by death in Snafu’s books. Burgie puts his absolute trust in everyone he meets because he’s never been given a reason not to, and Snafu doesn’t ever want to be that reason.

They get off the beach in a blur of blood-screams-explosion-sand-death-fear-determination, not all of it his. There’s a point in the middle of it all where Snafu feels a rock-hard resolve settle in his chest and knows that that’s Eugene and that he’s still alive even with the world blowing up around them. Relief hits him so hard it’s almost blinding, and if it wasn’t for the man falling to the ground with his throat spurting blood in front of him Snafu might’ve had time to analyze that relief and ask himself why the fuck he even felt it in the first place.

He doesn’t, though, so he hoists the mortar higher on his shoulders and keeps on moving until they’re in the clear.

It isn’t until they’re safe between the slim trees and all squads have regrouped that he sees Eugene again, following Haney around like a baby duck follows his mama. His face is streaked with dirt and mud and tears, but he looks so gloriously alive to Snafu that he’s seized by a wild urge to fall to his knees and thank whoever’s up there for keeping his boy safe; he doesn’t even regret feeling that way, not when he’s so full of adrenaline that he could run across the damn airfield himself, backup or not. His boy is alive, and Snafu admits that he wants to keep him that way.

Maybe he’s had enough of settling for pain and jagged edges. Maybe he just wants to feel good for a while without asking himself if he deserves it. Maybe he wants to dip his toes into caring for someone the way he cares about himself.

So he berates Eugene for taking his boots off in the middle of a fucking warzone. He’s still rough, can’t help it, grumpy now that the adrenaline’s worn off and he can feel the aching of his bones and broken skin. This boy is going to be a piece of work if he’s stupid enough to think that he can just dry his socks willy-nilly in an active combat situation. Snafu watches him struggle to open his can and takes a quick second to wonder what the fuck he got himself into when he decided to watch after his soulmate.

Eugene is breathtaking when he smiles, surprisingly sharp-toothed behind those chapped lips. His hair is crusted brown with dirt in the sun and Snafu misses the burn of it, the way it stayed vivid in his mind’s eye in the dead of night. The thought that there might be something sharp and bruising in this seemingly naive and unmarked boy appeals to Snafu, mollifies him, makes it easier to see him as more than just a nuisance. He could never like someone with no edge to them, and now that he knows that Eugene is resourceful enough to make it through the beach he can feel his resolve to hate him weaken.

He trades his open can with Eugene, making sure their fingers don’t brush in the handoff because he doesn’t want to make it real just yet, wants to sit with this knowledge for just a little longer. It’s not often in life that he gets to keep good news to himself, and the warm candlelight of it is healing in a strange way. What’s even more healing is the grateful smile Eugene gives him when he gets his can; he looks so happy, almost proud of himself for earning Snafu’s favor without even knowing what he did to gain it. Snafu cracks open the new can and tries not to glow with satisfaction. He thinks he does a good job.

---

The very idea that they’re supposed to make it across the airfield with no water and barely any sleep is so ridiculous that only the Marine Corps could come up with it. Snafu quietly seethes as Ack-Ack explains their plan of attack, disappointed but not surprised at the blatant disregard for their life. He’s been in the service long enough to know that the brass doesn’t give a single fuck about the privates on the field and sees only the big picture, the lines advancing or retreating on their maps. The fact that Ack-Ack is sympathetic is only half a comfort; they still have to risk their lives running across that flat chunk of ground, little ants ready to be crushed by the enemy.

No amount of charisma and reassurance can make him feel better about the apprehension of knowing that he can lose his friends out there. Snafu doesn’t really care about his own life, had signed himself off as dead long before the war even started. It’s the thought of Jay laying lifeless on the ground that keeps him up at night, the image of Burgie’s lifeblood pumping out of his chest that haunts him.

And now he has Eugene, who might have made it off the beach but isn’t guaranteed the next hour. It’s stupid how just a day ago Snafu was okay with the idea that Eugene might die and now he’s so terrified of the very thought that he’s almost wild with it. He’s not used to how fast his opinion changed; he’s lived his life hating or loving people and holding onto those opinions like a lifeline. The fact that this boy got so far under his skin within twenty-four hours irritates him just a little bit.

Maybe that’s why they were made for each other, he muses as he takes out a cigarette. Maybe what he needed was someone to challenge him, to shake his worldview enough to slither in and nestle between his ribs. Maybe Burgie would be his soulmate in another life, he thinks with a smile, looking at where the Texan is talking to Leyden on the side. He’s the first person Snafu has ever met that managed to disarm him this quickly and efficiently, stepping right over his walls like they were a tree root in his way. Everyone Snafu knew up until then was so guarded, so careful and suspicious, but Burgie had a natural openness about him that was disarming in the best way possible.

Or maybe he needed to meet Burgie first before meeting Eugene- Burgie acting as sort of a test run, a toe dipped in the water. Maybe he’s ready to give in to Eugene now because of how soft he got here, in the cruelest place on Earth. Pre-war Snafu would have pushed Eugene out of his life until he was off the cliff and gone for good; this Snafu, a softer Snafu, is willing to give him this chance.

He looks to his right, finds Eugene crouching in the dry dirt and looking like he’s about to throw up his meager breakfast and pass out, in that order. His face is white under the dirt and grime caked on it and his chest is rising and falling way too quickly for someone who's done nothing but sit around for ten hours.

Snafu looks down to the cigarette between his fingers. He managed to take maybe two puffs off it himself, but Eugene looks like he needs something to fortify him, to keep him in the moment. Wordlessly, he reaches out until the cigarette is in Eugene’s line of sight. Eugene startles, wild eyes following the cigarette to the hand that holds it, then to the arm attached to it, then to Snafu’s face. Something about the way he looks at him pins Snafu down where he’s sitting, runs him through with a sharp dagger until it hurts to breathe. He doesn’t know what it is about this boy’s eyes that mutes him, if it’s the flecks of gold now visible in the harsh sun or the look of a drowning man in them, but suddenly Snafu feels like he can make it across the airfield just fine as long as he has Eugene with him.

Eugene takes the cigarette from him almost in an instant and it’s a miracle their fingers don’t touch in the exchange, because Snafu thinks he’d crumble and disperse in the dry wind if Eugene were to touch him right now. He watches those chapped lips wrap around the tip with the shaky uncertainty of a first-time smoker, watches the smoke leave his lungs almost as soon as it entered them, and for a wild second he wishes he could be that smoke, wishes he could live inside Eugene’s lungs just as much as Eugene is living inside his.

“Movin’ out!” Ack-Ack calls somewhere to the left. “Rifles, advance!”

“Always first,” Leyden mumbles as he gets to his feet, rifle ready in his hands. Snafu watches Eugene follow him, catches the small smiles they exchange before it’s too late. He catches Jay’s eyes as he passes him and gives a small nod, hoping beyond hope to see him again when it’s all over.

“Right behind ya, Bill,” Burgie calls out to him. It’s that loyalty that always makes Snafu feel safer in battle, the knowledge that Burgie will never leave them behind. He doesn’t feel any safer today, though, the phantom limb of Eugene’s presence next to him heavy on his mind. He doesn’t know if he can keep an eye on him in the midst of all the rubble and explosions- hell, he didn’t see him the entire time they were on the beach yesterday. He takes comfort in the fact that they’re both needed to work the mortar, the heavy barrel of it on his back a promise that he won’t lose his boy in all of this.

He snatches a quick look to his right. Eugene looks like an angel before battle, the holiness of a flaming sword and divine justice glowing in his eyes, in the purse of his lips. Snafu thinks about the burn of his hair and allows himself to close his eyes just for a second, just so he can see it flicker behind his eyelids.

“Weapons!” Ack-Ack yells. Snafu gets to his feet in a swift, practiced motion, steadying the mortar on his back. He takes a deep lungful of air, feels Eugene do the same over that unexplainable bond of theirs. They release it at the same time, bodies coiled tight in preparation of what’s to come. Snafu feels like the calm before a scream, the pressure in his chest building, waiting to be let out, wolf paws digging into the ground.

They start running.

Fighting is always a blur. It’s amazing how it all seems so vivid in the moment- the screams, the commands, the smell of blood, the world going to shit everywhere he looks- but when he tries to think back on what actually happened it’s like looking into a faceless black void. There’s always a leftover feeling of adrenaline, of bleeding inside the head, a pressure on his hands that he never knows the origin of. All he can remember is his boots hitting the ground and the pounding of his heart in the hollow point where his jaw meets his neck, and the fear of being there one second and then ceasing to exist in the next.

This time is different.

He’s taking each leaping stride with Eugene, their steps in perfect synch even when Eugene’s a few meters ahead of him. He hears the whistle of a mortar and knows exactly where to step so it doesn’t hit him, two pairs of ears working better than one. Every breath seems to last him longer than it usually does, and there’s a determination in his throat that isn’t entirely his. He watches Eugene’s back and finds the time to grin to himself.

There’s a glass terrarium in his chest where Eugene is, a vivid green place where something like hope and pride and affection blooms in the Peleliu sun. Snafu feels it shake with every step he takes, the glass shaking along with his violent movement but not breaking. He’s a little sorry that Eugene can’t feel what he’s feeling; knowing that someone out there is this proud of him will do wonders to anyone’s self esteem, especially during combat.

They’re about halfway through when a stray mortar fixes its eyes on Snafu, landing just behind him and sending his legs tumbling out from under him. He falls to the ground in a heavy thud, left side hurting where it met the prickly soil. It takes him a good few seconds to process what even happened, the world reduced to a high-pitched shrieking in his ears that mutes all other sounds; the land turned on its axis, vertical in front of his blurry eyes. Snafu sucks in a large breath, lungs burning, and manages to turn so he’s on his back before his muscles give up on him and he’s left lying on his back like a turtle that got flipped over.

The sky is so bright, a barely-there pale blue obscured by countless clouds of smoke. Snafu wonders if this is how he dies, absently, detached from his own mind by the ringing in his ears and the shock of getting blown up and hitting the ground again. Everything seems so far away when he can’t hear anything around him; with the sky above him he can almost pretend he’s a fish in the ocean, swimming it's undictated course day in and day out.

A sense of alarm hits him suddenly, making him frown. Strange. He doesn’t think there’s any cause for alarm- actually, he feels very peaceful now that he’s about to die. He doesn’t get what all that fear was about; this all seems very nice. All he has to do is look up and wait for something to come for him.

That’s when a figure blocks his line of sight, a silhouette of a man in the sun’s burning wheel. It looks like a halo, Snafu thinks hazily, as the man comes closer and drops to his knees next to him. Hands pat him over his clothes, urgent in their press against him. Snafu frowns again, does his best to focus on the man next to him. He’s wearing a helmet (oh shit, where did Snafu’s helmet go?) and his bold face is covered in dirt, but there’s something so familiar and assuring about his presence that makes everything seem okay.

Familiar. Snafu’s definitely met him before. Where has he seen this nose?

A flash rips through the front of his mind, half-memory, half-vision; burning red hair in the sun, determination like a battle angel. The man turns to him and reaches out to grab him by the hand just as Snafu remembers who he is. His eyes widen with the realization, fear freezing his insides when he realizes it’s Eugene, it’s his soulmate, shit, he didn’t want to touch him yet-

Eugene’s hand finds Snafu’s wrist.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, really. Maybe a flash of bright light, or for Earth to stop spinning, or for everything around them to halt. None of that happens; instead there’s this spark of connection, a warmth that blazes through Snafu’s body like a forest fire, zapping up from his wrist and into the rest of his body. He knows Eugene feels it too by the gasp he lets out, the sound echoing through the airfield even with everything around them still blowing up. Snafu thinks he sees Eugene’s eyes glow for just a minute, flecks of gold standing out in all that green-brown, but then he blinks and it’s gone.

Eugene looks at him like he just landed from the moon, mouth half-open like he’s about to say something, when a mortar lands too close for comfort and the outside world comes rushing back in. Eugene’s mouth shuts with a resolute click and he hauls Snafu to his feet with strength Snafu would never have guessed this skinny boy possessed. “You’re fine,” he tells Snafu very seriously, though Snafu can see leftover confusion in those eyes, can sense the wheels turning in his brain. “Let’s go.”

And then he yanks Snafu forward, linking their arms together as they run to join their squad. Snafu spots his helmet on the ground and bends to pick it up in one swift motion, plopping it back on his head; the familiar weight on his scalp shifts his focus from how warm Eugene is against his side back to the war they’re currently fighting, a rude transition from being a soulmate to being a soldier.

Oswalt is waiting for them up ahead, eyes trained on Eugene and those thick eyebrows furrowed in concern. Snafu can’t decide whether it’s good or bad that he waited for them (for Eugene, let’s face it. Snafu didn’t give him a reason to wait for him); on one hand, it shows loyalty to his friends, a thing that Snafu always values. On the other hand, he’s staying stationary for way too long. He’s not even watching the line, for fuck’s sake, what is he doing?

“Go!” Eugene shouts at him as they get closer, Snafu now steadier on his feet. Eugene has let go of his elbow and it stings, a hushed sort of longing settling under Snafu’s skin. He resists the urge to rub at the spot where their arms touched just a moment ago; he needs both hands free.

Oswalt nods, turns back around to where the rest of their squad is situated in a crater formed by a mortar. Snafu watches him turn, watches a spurt of blood erupt from the side of his helmet where something hit him; watches him fall to the ground like a puppet that had its strings cut.

Something like shock hits him straight in the chest, like he jumped head-first into a cold lake on a hot summer day. He feels it run through his veins, freezing his blood on its way to his heart. It’s Eugene’s, he knows it’s Eugene’s without even having to think of it; Snafu’s lost enough people before, had gotten used to it. This is the first casualty Eugene cared about, the first one he saw with his own two eyes. Those ones are always the hardest. Snafu grits his teeth and does his best not to think about curly black hair and gentle green eyes.

The next second the shock is replaced with something more akin to grief mixed with disbelief. They’re taking off before Snafu can even register what he’s doing- it feels like Eugene’s will took over him, took hold of his muscles and made him run like hell. Snafu was never a big believer, haven’t been inside a church for years, but he feels almost possessed.

They’re running towards Oswalt’s fallen body and all Snafu can think is God no no please no not him, but he knows that’s not him thinking that. The flare-up of Eugene in his mental space is startling, a contained explosion in a barrel that still manages to shake him apart. It’s almost like they’re playing tug-of-war and Eugene gave a great heave, sending Snafu to land on his hands and knees in the sand; like someone poured too much of Eugene into his mind and suddenly he’s overflowing with things that aren’t his. He feels his legs move on their own and lets himself fall into it.

They get to Oswalt, bending in perfect unison; one hand each hooks onto his webbing, and together they pull him into the crater like he weighs nothing. They skid to a halt next to Burgie and the possession stops, Snafu’s body back under his control and the rope back in his hands. It doesn’t feel any different than it did a few seconds earlier, just more him, somehow. The air in his lungs feels more familiar now, though he’s still breathing as fast as he did when he was an extension of Eugene.

Snafu pats Burgie on the shoulder as a greeting, then glances at Eugene. His boy looks so stricken under all that grime and blood on his face that Snafu thinks he’d be able to feel his shock even if they weren’t soulmates; he’s got expressive eyes, too open for a battlefield. Snafu cherishes them anyway. He watches Eugene shuffle towards Oswalt, watches him place a pale hand on a chest that’ll never rise and fall again; sees those long fingers dig into the fabric just for a moment before moving on to take the mortar sight from his fallen friend’s side. There’s a flash of remorse there, a bitter taste on Snafu’s tongue. Their eyes meet when Eugene turns to join the squad where they’re setting up the mortar and all Snafu can do is think how sorry he is and hope Eugene gets the message.

The moment, just like many other things in this war, doesn’t get time to sink. The mortar’s up and ready within seconds, military academy training kicking in and pushing to the forefront. Snafu looks through the mortar sight and does his best not to think of the man who held it just five minutes ago and the men he’ll kill while using it.

Eugene functions just as he did yesterday, efficient and neat; their call and response of Hanging! Fire! feels effortless, Eugene’s words riding on the tail of Snafu’s last syllable. They fire five rounds while Hillbilly directs them and Jay and Leyden pick off the ones they can’t reach, and Snafu finds himself slipping into a trance where every single nerve in his body is in tune with Eugene’s. He knows their mortars hit exactly where they’re supposed to without even looking; it feels like when they’re this connected to each other it’s impossible for them to miss. He could get drunk on it, this easy supply and demand that’s going just underneath the surface, and maybe in peacetime he would. As it stands, though, they hit their targets and earn a smile from Burgie, and that’s good enough for Snafu.

Then it’s over. They’ve taken the airfield.

The heavy sun is starting to fall into the horizon as they make their tired way into the bombed-out building, a decrepit concrete skin with its metal skeleton poking out. What’s left of their squad settles down next to one of the supporting pillars, sliding down to the floor amidst the rubble. Haney calls out orders and Leyden passes out barely-filled canteens to shell-shocked soldiers; Snafu watches Eugene and wants to hold his dear face in his hands, check him over for bruises, cradle him to his chest until he doesn’t look so quietly ruined anymore.

Their fresh Bond tingles under his skin, blood calling out to blood. There’s a bruise in the shape of Eugene’s hand on his wrist when he looks down to it, red rapidly turning into purple in the middle. It’ll fade over time until he’s left with nothing but a white outline on his skin, a reminder of where his soulmate touched him for the first time. Eugene has one too, his entire right palm a muted red in the afternoon sun.

Hillbilly climbs on a tank like it’s nothing and Eugene sends Snafu a look of awe and admiration, eyes looking for him first over Leyden or Burgie. Snafu smiles back and thinks that this boy is the most dangerous thing he’s ever encountered in this entire war, all soft belief and malleable trust.

His hair burns copper under the weakening sun. It’s good to see it paired with that sharp-toothed smile again.

Snafu is so full of affection for this boy he feels like he’s glowing with it, feels like there’s honey in his mouth dripping down his throat. Eugene must feel it too because his smile turns softer, a little confused behind those eyes. The fact that he can feel what Snafu’s feeling is slightly uncomfortable, but Snafu won’t apologize for this; he’s done enough of that in his life.

There’s still this fear that sits deep in his stomach that maybe Eugene won’t want him once he gets close enough to really see him, that he’ll turn his back on him even though they’re soulmates. Snafu’s lived a good chunk of his life being told he’s nothing, he’s worthless- maybe Eugene will pick up on that and leave. Snafu’s apologized for feeling things before, but only because he was stupid enough to admit to them the first place. If he kept his mouth shut he wouldn’t have had to apologize at all.

He’s learned to be tough, to be mean and cruel just like everything else around him. Eugene, who never experienced anything near as difficult in his life, won’t understand him- won’t even know to pry open his shell to see the soft meat inside. Does he really want to get hurt again?

Snafu tears his eyes away from his soulmate and turns to sit next to Burgie, the only person he doesn’t regret opening up to. He feels disappointment gather in his throat, and for the first time he thinks it’s an emotion they both share.

Hours later find Snafu sitting on the second floor of the airbase, engulfed in darkness where he’s crouched on the edge of the floor just above his squad. Yellow wolf eyes in the dark, watching over his pack from above, ears trained towards the pock-marked airfield. Jay’s sleeping with his head on his backpack next to Leyden, who looks contemplative in the faint moonlight. Burgie’s talking to one of the other NCOs out in the open, heads bowed over a map. Snafu sees the vulnerable nape of his neck between his helmet and shirt and resists the urge to leap down there and cover the skin with his own hand just so nothing can harm Burgie, illogical as it is. Burgie’s safe; they all are, for the time being.

There’s still that overprotective instinct that sits between his ribs and flares up whenever he looks at his friends, that need to growl and snap at anything that might harm them. Snafu does his best not to look at Eugene where he’s leaned against a support column for fear of what that instinct will do when he sees him; he fails, of course, skin itching where Eugene’s hand touched his wrist.

He looks down at his soulmate and tells himself he’s not aching. It’s been hours since they’ve established their Bond and they haven’t touched since; Snafu never really listened when people tried to teach him about soulmate bonds, but even he knows that that’s a big risk to take. By all accounts he should be down there right now, sitting next to his soulmate with as much skin touching between them as they can manage. He feels the effects of Bond Sickness already, a rancid feeling slipping into his nerves, coating his bones in a slimy layer. He knows it’ll become gradually worse until his joints ache and he won’t be able to move, his muscles atrophying around his skeleton. He’ll end up drowning in his own lungs if he doesn’t do something about it- not now, and definitely not tomorrow, but the gradual descent into deterioration and death doesn’t sound appealing no matter the timing.

There’s something from Eugene that swims in his blood, a confused disquiet that’s directed completely at Snafu. It feels like self-doubting, mirroring Snafu’s own but with a different flavor. He must be asking himself why Snafu isn’t talking to him, isn’t touching him, isn’t ecstatic that he finally found his soulmate. Eugene must have grown up thinking that the day you meet your soulmate is the happiest day in everyone’s life, must have heard the story of his parents and grandparents’ meeting over and over again. He probably can’t imagine why his own soulmate is acting like this.

With a pang of guilt in his chest, Snafu silently wishes Eugene had a better soulmate, someone that would be equally as excited as Eugene was about this. Instead he got Snafu and is suffering for it for no fault of his own.

Maybe if Snafu was braver he’d climb down from his high ground and sit next to him. Maybe he’d take his hand and press his palm against Eugene’s bruised one until it didn’t hurt anymore.

It’s a good thing that Eugene is brave enough for the both of them.

It’s gotten quiet (or as quiet as a warzone gets) when Snafu opens his eyes and realizes that the inner compass that points at Eugene’s presence at all times is pointing right behind him. His muscles tense and he almost reaches for his gun before his mind catches up and tells him that it’s okay, that Eugene is a precious thing that should never get hurt and should always be accepted. He knows Eugene felt it without even needing to check, can feel the pleasant surprise spreading in their chests as Eugene sits down next to him.

It’s not close enough to touch without deliberately reaching over, and it’s both exquisite and torturous; every single nerve in Snafu’s body is calling out to Eugene, the handprint around his wrist burning like copper hair, like candlelight. Snafu bites his lip and lets out a careful exhale through his nose, getting himself together before looking over to where his soulmate is sitting.

The hopeful look on Eugene’s face almost undoes him on the spot. He’s gorgeous enough to eclipse the moon even with countless cuts and bruises on his face, even with the remnants of tear tracks on his cheeks. The gold in his eyes turns silver in the moonlight, and Snafu wants to rise to meet him like the tide, like a wolf on a full moon. His blood feels like mercury in his veins, slippery and scalding, and he feels his heart beat faster against his bony chest.

“Hi,” Eugene says, voice heartbreakingly hesitant and small. It’s the first thing he’s said to him since they took the airfield and the sound of his voice makes Snafu want to howl- it’s scratchy with dust and screaming, but it’s perfect. Everything about him is perfect in that moment.

Snafu takes a breath, then realizes he forgot to breathe. He’s in a midpoint between tense and relaxed, skinny body unsure of the space it’s taking up and whether it wants to curl up against Eugene’s and never let go or run in the opposite direction. Those moon eyes decide for him; he stays rooted in his place and lets his heart sort itself out. “Hey,” he says back. His voice is scratchy too, from the pressure in his throat, from the grooves carved into it by a starstruck heart.

He’s not really sure what to say next, but Eugene does.

His boy holds out his bruised palm, reds and purples washed out in the moonlight. It’s steady where it’s hanging in midair, palm up for Snafu to see. “I’m not crazy, right?” he asks, eyes glued to his palm just like Snafu’s. “This- about what this means.”

Snafu can’t take his eyes off of his hand. His wrist is burning something fierce, a mosquito bite that won’t go away. Slowly, carefully, he lifts his wrist until it’s right next to Eugene’s hand; he doesn’t need to see them side by side to know that it’s a dead match. He was there when Eugene first touched him, was there when he first walked into his tent and made him go all confused. He tried to deny it before. There’s no point to it now.

“I’m your soulmate,” he admits quietly. The words stand between them for a few seconds before they’re snatched up by a nightly breeze, cool and refreshing against Snafu’s tired skin. He watches it ruffle Eugene’s hair and feels peace widening in his chest, feels it do the same in Eugene’s.

The next moment he’s filled with joy that isn’t his but quickly becomes familiar in him, a body absorbing the same blood type. Eugene’s positively beaming when he looks at him, eyes shining like new stars; he shuffles closer to Snafu, turning to face him fully with his legs crossed. “Can I-” he starts, a tinge of fear on his tongue.

His hand is really close to Snafu’s.

Snafu from a month ago would’ve snarled and snatched his hand back, would’ve scrambled to his feet and gotten as far away from Eugene as possible. Snafu from a month ago was a little more vindictive, a little less trusting, a little stuck in the past. Snafu has seen what soulmates can do, has seen his father wither away and turn bitter and angry and violent after his maman died; he swore never to let anyone get close enough for it to hurt enough to turn him into that when they left, and he made good on his resolve.

But in him promising to never become like his father he gave himself the freedom of choice, the freedom to build himself into a person that is cautious and knows the telltale signs of disaster. He turned himself into a gazelle and a wolf all at once, and those instincts won’t go away just by touching the man in front of him. Snafu still knows what’s good for him and how to recognize when something isn’t good, and Eugene feels like he might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

So he licks his lips and makes a choice.

“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes locked onto Eugene’s so he doesn’t miss the way they light up with joy. He still would have felt it in his chest, in the singing of his skin, but there’s something magical about how it changes everything about Eugene; he turns from a beaten-down, exhausted soldier into a gorgeous young man with not a care in the world in a blink, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. Snafu thinks he can almost catch a glance of the boy Eugene was before the war, ginger hair and freckles and laughter over Southern fields. It makes him want to see him through the other end of this war, to see him free and careless in the sun again.

Eugene takes a deep breath. Snafu’s eyes track the movement of his chest under his dirty uniform shirt, fixed on the collarbones jutting against the skin. He focuses his gaze back on their hands just in time to catch Eugene turning his bruised palm downwards, moving until their skin brushes together.

They both gasp at the contact; it’s electrifying in a way none of them has ever experienced before, but it’s exhilarating and delightful in every single possible way. Eugene’s skin is warm when he slots their palms together and wraps his fingers around Snafu’s wrist again, his touch against the bruise sending a delicious shiver up Snafu’s spine. Snafu’s eyes flutter closed with the input of emotions and sensations rushing into his mind, the breathtaking flutter of touching Eugene and the buzzing of his skin. He’s tingling all over the place and he almost wants to laugh with it, but the sound gets stuck in his throat.

Eugene looks just as giddy when he forces his eyes open. Snafu’s nostrils flare wide and he thinks he can smell honeysuckle in the air, or maybe it’s just the sweet honey feeling dripping down his throat and into his lungs. It’s pure affection in his bones, and an undercurrent of devotion and admiration underneath it that almost makes him dizzy because he’s not the only one who’s feeling it. Eugene is just as screwed as he is, all-in just like Snafu- head over heels from first touch, like the stories said it’ll be.

Maybe it’s because they’re in the middle of a war and it’s easier to get attached when you just want someone to remember you. Maybe it’s because it’s fucking absurd to find your soulmate on the battlefield in the first place. Snafu doesn’t care anymore; he just likes this boy.

“I’m Merriell,” he blurts out before he’s even aware of it. The name tastes unfamiliar on his tongue and slips awkwardly from his mouth, but it’s his. He’s spent so long as Snafu that he started believing it, bought into the idea that he’s fucked up and that’s all he’ll ever be. He doesn’t want that for himself anymore; he has an opportunity to be better, not just for himself but for Eugene as well.

Eugene smiles at him like he plucked a star from the sky and handed it to him in the cage of his palms. He really does appreciate that Snafu gave up this information willingly, Snafu can tell. He squeezes his hand, sending a shower of sparks up both their arms. “I’m Eugene,” he says back. He still sounds hopeful. It’s starting to catch on.

---

It doesn’t get easier after the airfield.

Peleliu turns out to be much more treacherous than the soldiers on it. Coral hills stretch out into the sky, hideous shades of grey and white and brown splashed with red where the two armies encountered one another. The contorted shapes of petrified corals are irregular enough to pose as an enemy soldier when you don’t pay close enough attention; all it takes it the illusion of movement in the corner of the eye and suddenly you’re convinced you’ve seen someone sneak between the jagged walls of a narrow canyon, or the barrel of a rifle pointed at you from a hole high in that hill. The hypervigilance forced on them by the landscape made everyone jumpy and tired, ready to drop to the ground and start shooting at any second.

It’s dry. It’s been dry for days. Merriell can’t remember the last time his lips weren’t chapped, can’t remember a time the skin on his knuckles didn’t split apart at the slightest movement. He’s a constant pillar of pain and salt in a desert wasteland, left to watch over a city that didn’t deserve to get ruined.

The coral digs into his palms, cuts at his shins through his pants. His body is so bruised and chafed it hurts to move, and yet he continues to put one foot in front of the other, continues to climb through those sharp hills until they tell him to stop. The sun beats down on them between periodical downpours that come and go as they please; they’ve had those on Pavuvu, too, and Gloucester was a constant onslaught of rain, but something about the constant flip-flop between sunny and rainy sets Merriell’s teeth on edge, makes him want to yell at the thin clouds to pick a side.

There are moments where he sees the faint outline of Eugene’s hand on his wrist and wonders what the fuck he got himself into, going off and letting himself get attached to that boy. Eugene might be a bit more seasoned now, especially after the airfield (after losing someone for the first time), but there are moments where it’s so painfully obvious that he’s still a boot, moments where Merriell kicks himself for shackling himself to someone this helpless.

Eugene needed to be dragged down and told to keep his fucking head down when they’re being attacked by enemy planes. Eugene needed to be taught how to open his cans- if it wasn’t for Merriell, he would’ve starved to death by now. Eugene needed Burgie to show him how to dig a good foxhole, one where his head won’t be poking out of it while sitting. He fell asleep during guard duty once, and thank God Merriell was the only one who noticed, because Gunny Haney seemed just about ready to murder the next person who slipped up in the dark.

It’s exhausting on so many levels, feeling like his heart is out of his body and he has to watch over it at every twist and turn. His boy is learning, but Merriell wishes he didn’t have to teach him anything just for him to stay alive, wishes they met under normal fucking cirumstances and it’d be okay for them to fall asleep whenever they wanted to.

These aren’t normal circumstances, though, and they’re not safe no matter what they do. The only thing that manages to settle that ever-present anxiety in the pit of Merriell’s stomach is constant touch: they walk with their pinkies linked when the road is wide enough; Merriell splays his hand on the nape of Eugene’s neck when they crouch in wait for ambush; Eugene holds his hand after every mortar they fire, desperately clutching their fingers together before they have to move again.

At night Merriell curls himself around Eugene and feels a growl reverberate deep in his chest at the mere thought of anything harming his boy, hand in dirty copper hair and lips pressed to a precious temple.

He always feels something relax in him (in them) when the sun sets, something that knows that they can rest together now. Those hours where they can sit together and make sure the other is alive and well are quickly becoming the only holy thing about this war; they dig their foxhole with an almost giddy sense of expectation that’s borne of experience, of knowing what the future holds for once. There’s nothing more comforting than sinking into the mud with Eugene’s head on his shoulders and their hands clenched together between them.

Merriell takes the first easy breath of the day when Eugene falls asleep on his shoulder and he can feel his part of the Bond go blessedly quiet and careless. This is what his boy should feel like all the time, and he’s going to work tirelessly until he does, until this entire rotten island is behind them and they can feel safe in their own skin again.

It’s raining again one miserable night- or rather, the day has been miserable, and the night is just making up for it. The sky is lit up by flare after burning flare, and their burning doesn’t even begin to compare to how bright the boy on his shoulder shines in the sun. Eugene has drifted off with a kiss to Merriell’s cheek; the fact that they’ve progressed up to the point of being able to effortlessly kiss each other’s face still amazes Merriell sometimes, and Eugene knows it and does his best to reassure him with even more kisses.

(There’s something so soft, Merriell thinks, about a man who wants to reassure someone with positive things.)

He’s keeping an eye out for his soulmate, always is these days, head leaned on Eugene’s and a hand on his waist under his shirt. Their skin tingles everywhere it touches, a familiar sensation that settles like the fizz of a freshly-poured soda. Eugene’s warm between Merriell’s hand and his shirt, a solitary soft spot in a sharp world. Merriell focuses on the rise and fall of his stomach, the puffs of air on his neck, and matches Eugene’s breathing without even thinking about it.

There’s something marvelous about being able to touch someone so freely after years where the only thing that touched his skin was clothes. Merriell thinks that he’d be tingling even if Eugene wasn’t his soulmate, knows for sure that even the touch of a kind hand would’ve left a bruise on his lonely form. He’s almost insatiable now that he can touch whenever he wants to- there’s always something in the back of his mind that wants to reach out for Eugene, something that has nothing to do with the Bond and everything to do with being starved.

There was always a part of Merriell’s brain that thought of himself as a wild wolf, but that part only pertained to food, to shelter and protection. He never realized that the absence of a pack can make a wolf just as wild.

Eugene mumbles something in his sleep, head giving an aborted jerk on Merriell’s shoulder. Merriell runs his hand up and down his side and shushes him, doing his best to think of calming things- curly hair in the Sunday morning sun, bayou water, lips on bruised knees. Things that Eugene has never experienced but are still comforting because Merriell considers them so, and isn’t it funny that their worlds have seemed to merge without ever meeting in the first place.

“He yours?” Burgie pipes up from across the foxhole. There’s no malice in his voice or his expression when Merriell looks at him, just curiosity and the hint of a pleased smile. It’s too dark to see his eyes where they’re hidden under his helmet’s shadow.

Merriell nods. They haven’t told anyone; Merriell didn’t really think it’s anybody’s business in the first place, and they both thought it’s kind of funny to let everyone figure it out on their own. Those who know them well enough to even notice that something is different are the only ones they care about knowing anyway, and the thought of Bill Leyden sputtering and pointing between them was enough of an incentive to keep their Bond a secret.

(Leyden didn’t get to find out before getting hit by a grenade. Eugene regrets not telling him before, which means that Merriell regrets it too.)

“‘M’happy for you, Snaf,” Burgie says over the soft rain. “It’s good to have someone to keep close in times like these.”

There’s melancholy in his voice, a longing that tears at the heart bit by bit. Merriell thinks about Florence, the woman Burgie met in Australia during their week of R&R and had to leave behind. They both knew they’re each other’s soulmate from the moment they met but made a shared decision not to make it official until the war was over- Burgie wanted to keep on fighting, and Florence wasn’t gonna stop him. Merriell knows it weighs over him, the what ifs floating in his mind day in and day out. It must be hard to know that your soulmate is out there and that you had a chance to be with them- and that you may never see each other again.

Merriell clears his throat. “You’ll see her again,” he promises. It sounds hollow, a nicety you say to placate a hurting friend, but he means it. He’ll get Burgie to the other side of this war even if he has to carry him on his back.

They’re quiet for a while, the only sound being the rain falling on their makeshift tent and far-off explosions. For a few seconds Merriell thinks he can see Burgie wipe at his eyes in the snatches of flare light, but it could’ve just been to get the rain out of them. There are a few things Merriell knows he’ll never be able to enjoy after this war- fireworks, thunder, bayou mud- but rain is never among them. No matter how hard it makes everything, rain will always remain a purifying force for him.

Eugene turns, nuzzling his nose further into Merriell’s neck until his face is buried in it. It’s warm in their little bubble of safety, their electric current flowing from one body to the next with every heartbeat. The hand that Eugene first touched him with is a loosely curled fist on his stomach, and Merriell spends the few seconds of a flare’s lifetime to find the outline of his wrist on the palm, touching the faint white line with the tip of his finger. It makes the hand twitch, a venus flytrap that found its prey.

“Mer?” Eugene mumbles, grumpy and half-asleep still.

Merriell shushes him again. “‘S’okay,” he whispers into a cold ear. “Go to sleep.”

There’s a sleepy grumble, then Eugene settles once again, slipping into slumber just as quickly as he arose from it. Merriell kisses the top of his head in apology even though he knows he won’t feel it; sometimes, Merriell is learning, it feels good to be soft just for his own sake.

“Soulmates in the front get benefits, you know,” Burgie says out of the blue. Merriell startles, having managed to forget that there’s a world outside of Eugene and their Bond out there. Sometimes it’s just that easy to get trapped in that bubble where everything is shared and nothing is judged. Merriell hadn’t experienced anything remotely like this in so long that he thinks it’s why his ribs strain against his skin; a kid deprived of good things hungers and learns to forget what it is that he’s hungering for, knows only the yawning pit of the absence of warmth.

He honestly doesn’t remember hearing about soulmate benefits, though that might be by design: the very idea of soulmates meeting in the service isn’t ridiculous only to him. It makes sense that the benefits are on a need-to-know basis. Merriell grunts his interest. “Like what?”

Burgie kisses his teeth, adjusts his sitting position so his legs are crossed instead of drawn to his chest. “Well, I’d have to ask Peterson to be sure, but I think you get an extra dog tag with your soulmate’s information on it, and you both get pulled off the line if one of you gets seriously injured. You heard of Rozen and Velasquez over from Love Company? ‘Parently they both got sent to Banika when Velasquez got that bullet to his side.”

Huh. “We need to sign some sorta paper for that?” Merriell asks. Might be worth blowing their self-imposed cover for those benefits; the thought of Eugene getting hurt and sent off the line without him is enough to set his teeth on edge. He pushes the image of his boy bleeding and hurt and alone out of his mind.

(Somewhere along the line Eugene became as vital as air to him. Snafu would’ve sneered at the weakness of needing someone this bad implied. Merriell knows that life is better when you’re not busy thinking about what your actions and affections say about you.)

There’s a smile on Burgie’s face. There almost always is, in some form or another, but this is the one Merriell has come to recognize as the one Burgie uses when he’s proud of him. Burgie’s proud of everyone in different ways; with Merriell there’s always a sense of accommodating and aiding growth. It makes Merriell want to be better.

“Just gotta report to your squad leader, really,” he says. Merriell doesn’t have to see his eyes to know there’s a twinkle in them.

The rain slowly fizzles out. In two hours he’ll have to wake Eugene for guard duty, but for now he lets him sleep. He focuses on the warm puffs of air against his neck and the hand on his stomach. Just knowing that Eugene gets to escape their hellscape for a while fills Merriell with an unexplainable satisfaction; he looks up at the momentarily dark sky and thinks of stars and fruit bats flitting between them, thinks of constellations of freckles on pale skin.

Maybe one day he’ll get to bring Eugene back home and show him what the sky out in rural Louisiana looks like. Maybe he won’t take him home at all and they’ll make a new home for themselves out of things that have nothing to do with the past and everything to do with them.

“Thanks, Burgie,” he says eventually.

There’s been whispers about rotating back to Pavuvu in the foxholes lately. They could get the word any day now; maybe they’ll finally get some time to relax, to breathe without fearing for their lives. Rain won’t be a hindrance for a few weeks, and they won’t have to take two hour shifts just to stay alive. It’s a nice thought. Merriell hangs onto it.

“Always,” Burgie says, almost as an aside. It’s sincere despite of how quiet it is, just like everything about Burgie is. Eugene lets out a deep breath against him; Merriell tightens the arm he has around his waist and closes his eyes. They’re safe as long as Burgie’s watching over them.

---

Pavuvu is an undisturbed paradise.

The first thing Merriell does after throwing his backpack on his ratty bunk is run straight to the showers like a maniac. He stands under the lukewarm stream and wastes a minute of his allotted two by just closing his eyes and letting the water wash over him, feeling it wash away the grime and carnage of Peleliu until it’s only present in the scars and bruises on his skin. The yellow block of soap glides over him like a dream, and when the suds wash away and collect at his feet he feels like a new man.

The sun doesn’t feel harsh on his drying hair as he makes his way back to their tent; if anything, it’s actually refreshing when mixed with the salty breeze carried over from the ocean and the scent of coconuts and lunch from the mess tent.

He stops in his tracks at the entrance to their tent, confused at the sight of a double bunk standing where his old one was. He’s never seen a double bunk in his life- it looks almost brand new, the thin mattress still white and the metal shining in the beams of light from the door.

“Soulmate benefits,” Burgie says from where he’s lying on his own (old) rack, shirtless with a forearm tossed over his eyes. He lifts it at Merriell’s stunned silence, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t think I forgot now, did you?”

He did; their hushed conversation honestly escaped his mind between the fighting and getting ready to go back to base. Most of what Burgie described didn’t affect their lives during active combat anyway, so Merriell pushed it to the back of his mind, where it got lost in the rubble.

“This a part of it?” he asks, pointing towards the double bunk with a raised eyebrow. He’s sweating, part heat part humidity, and he feels a drop rolls down his back, cooling in the wind. God, he could close his eyes and believe he really is in heaven if it wasn’t for the noise a couple hundred dirty and hungry Marines make.

“Yup,” Burgie answers, popping the P. He turns to the side, grabbing something from under his bunk which he then throws to Merriell; he catches it effortlessly, turning it around in his hands. It’s two new chains with dog tags on them, three on each chain; one has two dog tags with Merriell’s details on them and one of Eugene’s, and the other has the same but reversed. “Put those on and throw away your old ones.”

Merriell just stares at his new dog tags, marvelling at how official yet right his name looks next to Eugene’s. Merriell A. Shelton, Eugene B. Sledge, Merriell-and-Eugene, an entity that’s born of their Bond. It’s one thing to know that you have a soulmate, to feel it and experience it every day, but it’s another thing entirely seeing it become official in any capacity, even one as silly as little pieces of metal on a chain. He takes off his old chain and slips on the new one, cupping the disks in his palm for a second before letting them dangle down on his chest. They sit over his heart, rapidly warming from his skin.

He thinks it’s only right that Eugene is this close to his heart physically now. He’s already living in Merriell’s ribcage rent free, has made a home out of bone and tissue; it’s only fair that there’s a physical representation of how important he is to Merriell.

Maybe he’s blushing- his face sure feels warm enough for it. He doesn’t care. The sun and his shower softened him into a being that feels and doesn’t care to show it, a purring cat in a sunbeam.

There are footsteps behind them; Merriell knows they belong to Eugene, would have known even without the internal compass in his solar plexus. A hand settles between his shoulder blades, cool despite the hot day, long fingers tapping a rhythm against his spine. Eugene’s smiling when he turns around, ethereal in the sun’s burning halo and the specks of dust that float in the air. He looks clean and serene in a thin white shirt, broad shoulders and collarbones peeking through the neckline. Merriell’s mouth almost waters at the sight of him, a low-hanging peach, ripe and spotted pink.

Something small in him wonders what it says about him that the sight of Eugene clean and bright makes him want to ravish him; the other part knows that it has nothing to do with how “pure” Eugene looks and everything to do with the absence of mud and fear.

Eugene catches those thoughts- his eyes darken just a little, teeth looking slightly sharper behind those lips. Merriell licks his own lips, then looks down at the remaining chain in his hand.

“Here,” he says, almost whispers with how husky his voice sounds. He reaches for the back of Eugene’s neck, grabbing his chain and smirking at the raised goosebumps he finds there. He slips the old dog tags off Eugene’s head, replacing them with the new ones. Something dark and possessive curls at the bottom of his stomach at the sight of his name against Eugene’s chest; he runs his fingers down Eugene’s arm and links their fingers together, giving Eugene’s hand a squeeze. “Now it’s official.”

He wonders if it’s possible for angels to look this seductive. Eugene is completely clothed, yet he looks entirely predatory when he steps closer, crowding against Merriell until they’re chest to chest, dog tags clinking between their too-fast hearts.

Eugene’s just about to say something, pink lips parting under Merriell’s watchful eyes, when a loud groan is heard. It’s Jay, lying on his back with both of his hands pressed to his face. “Oh my God, can you please go devour each other somewhere we don’t have to hear it?” he borderline whines between his fingers.

Eugene flushes a brilliant red, the color clashing awfully with his hair; he steps back enough for the distance between them to be respectable, and Merriell misses his heat almost instantly, fingers gripping harder onto his soulmate’s. Burgie’s got a hand slapped over his mouth as he’s very obviously trying not to laugh, and starting to fail at it, too, small snorts leaving him in short bursts.

“Y’all are just mad that I have this gorgeous piece of ass to myself,” Merriell drawls defensively, pulling Eugene back in with their still connected hands. He snakes a hand around Eugene’s waist, resting it suggestively low on his hips. There’s a flare of embarrassment from Eugene that Merriell is quick to stomp out- he’s right, and he should say it.

Burgie gives up on stifling his laughter, throwing his head back and bellowing like a hyena. Jay makes a sound fit for a beached whale and rolls so his back is turned towards them, waving a dismissive hand over his side. Merriell thinks he can hear him grumble something about just wanting to sleep and thought Peleliu was bad; he gives his back the finger and pulls Eugene out of the tent. “We’re goin’ swimmin’,” he calls over his shoulder.

“We are?” Eugene asks him as they make their way through camp down to the beach. It’s the dead hours after lunch where no one wants to move a muscle, too full of decent-ish hot food and sun-stupid to really do anything. The sun warms Merriell’s shoulders and he feels light, carefree for the first time in weeks- it’s nice out, he’s safe and fed, and he’s walking towards the ocean with his soulmate. Everything about this moment is perfect.

“Better than stayin’ with those prudes,” he retorts lazily, tilting his head back just enough for the sea breeze to ruffle through his curls.

A few other Marines had the same idea, piles of uniform strewn randomly in the white sand. They pick a relatively remote place to undress, far away enough to have a slice of water to themselves but close enough to still see the other bathers. The waves are just right, lapping at the sand in measured intervals; Merriell gets a head start since he was shirtless to begin with, running straight towards the water once his pants and underwear are gone.

Eugene yells after him, but it’s swallowed the minute he gets his head underwater. It’s the most refreshing thing he’s ever experienced in his life; after weeks of hot, dry air and layers of dirt, to be finally engulfed by cold water, to be cradled by the sea in its natural rocking rhythm. Merriell breaks the surface and takes his first breath as someone who’s truly clean, clean in a way a simple shower could never achieve.

Naturally occurring water is inherently healing. Maybe that’s just the bayou kid in Merriell talking, the kid who grew up swimming in shallow pools and scooping up river snails in his soft hands, but he truly believes it. His maman said that water remembers where it was and who it saw, and that if something ever troubled him he should go sit on the water’s edge and listen to the frogs and crickets sing with the flow until he felt lighter. He spent countless nights out on the water, lying at the bottom of his boat with his eyes closed until all there was left of him washed away downstream.

He does the same now; floating on his back with limbs akimbo and the waves turning his hair into liquid silk, eyes stinging with salt behind his eyelids. All he can hear is the underwater rush of the tide, bubbles skirting past the shells of his ears, and his calm breaths.

His grandmere used to put salt on the windowsills and doorsteps in late September, brushing it away only once Samhain was behind them. For protection, she’d say, so bad spirits don’t get you. There’s something comforting about the feeling of salt water in his eyes, in his nostrils, in his mouth, sticking to his skin. It’s his own purification ritual, born of necessity rather than paranoia and fear of things to come. There’s always a leftover part of his soul that longs for salt water.

Something wraps around his ankle- cool skin, long, thin fingers, little fireworks under his skin. Merriell opens his eyes to find Eugene has joined him in the water, standing up to his collarbones. His hair is wet, turned dark brown, the ends of it dripping on pale skin. Merriell traces a droplet as it races down his face to his jaw, speeding over a highway made by a tendon in his neck and pooling in his left collarbone. He’s so pale he almost reflects the sun, and how fitting it is that he’s finally glowing on the outside like he is on the inside.

Merriell always sees him with a halo, real or imagined; Eugene shines bright even on dark, rainy nights, burns even when submerged in water. There are certain types of angels that burn with a thousand eyes, wheels of fire with wings just like Eugene. It’s fascinating that his skin is always so cold to the touch when there’s an infinite fire in his bones- shouldn’t the furnace warm up the whole house? Isn’t it only fair that boiling water makes a kettle hot to the touch?

Maybe it’s a self-contained warmth that tends to itself, a bonfire that cuts logs for it to burn.

His skin tingles when he wraps an arm around Eugene’s shoulders, when Eugene immediately hugs him around the waist and pulls him closer. He thinks he’ll never get used to it- how safe and understood it makes him feel, how it lights him up on the inside. He spent so many years cowering away from touch and hands that wanted to harm him that now the thought of a hand reaching to be gentle is a marvel in and of its own. The past few weeks have been an onslaught of constant touch, and Merriell thinks that he’d be tingling when Eugene touched him even if they weren’t soulmates; there’s nothing quite like being touched by an angel.

He’s weightless in the water as he snakes an ankle around one of Eugene’s calves. There’s always something in him that wants to get as close to Eugene as possible, that wants to climb inside his chest and stay there forever so they can really take every step together. He’s held it back on Peleliu because it was no place for an ache this deep, but now that he’s being held by him he feels like he might go wild with it, with how it scratches against his ribs.

There’s nothing holding him back now. He lets it run.

It’s intimate, the way they’re wrapped around each other; Merriell can hear his breath echo on the water’s surface between them, a hollow little sound that rings in his ears. Eugene is looking at him like he’s something beautiful, a statue of a god at an altar, and if Merriell is a god he’ll make Eugene his angel.

He grabs hold of the chain around Eugene’s neck, the one that has Merriell’s name dangling from it like it belongs there, and pulls him close enough for their noses to brush against each other. A drop of water glides from Eugene’s nose to Merriell’s, falls into his open mouth; Eugene follows it with his gaze and Merriell can feel his heart beating against his chest in sync with his (they’re always in sync, always-), feels his breath fan over his face. Merriell licks his lips and closes the distance between them.

Eugene’s lips are soft and his mouth is hungry against Merriell’s; he kisses him like he’s been thinking about it for days the way Merriell was, and maybe he did.

Merriell was expecting fireworks and epiphanies when they first touched on that airfield, but they never came. They do now, a single point of heat igniting where their mouths are connected and radiating to his entire body until he feels weightless for a completely different reason. Eugene tastes like salt water and purification, like a different kind of home; Merriell twists the chain in his fist and pulls him closer until he’s bent backwards from the force of it and he can feel a pinch in his neck echoing from where the chain digs into Eugene’s skin.

He’s so fucked. He’s never going to stop chasing this now that he’s had a taste of it, will want to spend eternity tucked into Eugene’s arms and sharing the same air.

They’re pressed together everywhere and it’s wonderful, skin sliding against skin in the water. Eugene’s hands are wandering across his back and weaving into his wet hair, and Merriell lets go of the dog tags once he realizes that he’s not going anywhere. It’s so weird to kiss someone and know for sure that there’s nothing else they’d rather be doing; their thoughts are moving fast and mixing together, but the string that connects them all together stays clear: I want this, I never thought I’d get to, do you know how fucking special you are, I’ll make sure you do every single day of my life.

A wave rolls by them and Merriell only notices because it splashes against them and gets into his mouth. He doesn’t know if it’s the salt or the sheer force of the love that’s sitting in his chest, but he feels absolved, angel-touched and marked by heaven.

So he prays for the first time in years- not to God, but to his own personal angel. He knows he’ll hear him.

Thank you.