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Okinawa
He’s tricking himself into thinking that he might have had a decent time if it wasn’t for all the fucking rain. There’s some truth to it in the simple fact that rain creates mud, which is all this island seems to be made of- just endless slippery mud that makes him slip and fall and then clings to every inch of him in a way he knows he’ll never be able to truly wash off. It traps and encases bodies, leaving it to some poor bastard to take a wrong step and find that his foot is in someone’s festering chest cavity. It stinks to high heaven in the rare moments the sun decides to come out, which is only pleasant to the flies.
Other reasons the rain fucking sucks: it makes it hard to aim and shoot when Eugene has to wipe at his eyes every five seconds just to be able to see. It gets into his canned rations, turning them into spongy meat soup. It makes it impossible to smoke his pipe. It pounds on the roof of their little makeshift shelter when he’s trying to catch some shuteye between watch duty and sporadic shellings. There are no words in the English language to describe how vile and disgusting walking in soaked socks for a week straight feels.
Above all, it just hammers in how miserable he is. It was easier to ignore it in Peleliu, where at least it was mostly sunny and dry when it came down to it, but the ceaseless rain makes it easier for Eugene to turn inwards and notice how rotten and dirty he feels down to the very marrow of his bones. Sometimes he feels like he’ll fully fall apart the next time his heart beats, like he’ll shatter to pieces right then and there and become one of the bodies being slowly buried by mud. Sometimes he feels like he already did and the maggots and filth took over him without him even knowing it. It’s easier, with the rain turning into white noise during those long nights, to stare out into the dark and feel himself evaporate into it, feel his soul fizzle out and be replaced by a dark rain cloud.
Something had to give, he guesses. It’s just a shame that that something was him.
It rains the night he fights with Snafu. He’s not even sure what they’re fighting about, but he’s so angry he’s shaking with it even before Snafu starts talking, and he’s just so fucking tired and cold and sick of everything. He screams at his best friend and doesn’t recognize himself in the rage of it, doesn’t recognize the voice tearing itself out of his throat, leaving his mouth dry and metallic and getting drowned out by the rain; Snafu screams back and it alarms him how satisfied it makes him feel that someone’s finally telling him that he’s being mean, and cold, and cruel, and how ironic it is that it’s Snafu telling him that of all people.
It rains the night Hamm dies and he screams at Peck while screaming at himself in his head. Look what you did, look what you fucking did, he was a kid and he’s dead in front of you, his blood is on your hands as much as it is on Peck’s and Snafu’s and the fucking enemy.
He doesn’t recognize this man who’s so full of rage and hatred that he aims his own father’s gun at a wounded man and shoots him point blank. He doesn’t recognize this man who screams at his best friend and his lieutenant and a dumb boot just because it’s the only thing that makes his chest hurt a little less.
Somehow, somewhere, in all the rain and mud and carnage, someone else was born in him, someone so vile that Eugene wants to cut him out with his kabar and leave him in the mud to rot.
He sits in their shelter after, stares out into the silver drops lit by the flare that just went up and just feels empty, scrubbed raw. His pants got wet when Snafu threw him away from Peck (even more ironic- Snaf despises Peck, what the fuck is he doing protecting him over Eugene), and the cold fabric clinging to his skin just serves to sour his mood even further. He’s not exactly seething anymore; to tell you the truth, he’s not even sure what he was so angry about in the first place. It was like this white-hot rage bubbled inside of him for so long, gathering, churning, corroding, that it had to burst out eventually. If it wasn’t Snafu drawling on it would’ve been something else that made him go off like that. Now that it’s out after building up for so long Eugene just feels exhausted, shaken like a drink a fancy gentleman might drink. His brain sits heavy behind his eyes and his limbs feel as if they were made of lead. He doesn’t want to move ever again; he honestly doesn’t know if he could.
God, he was so fucking stupid. How could he want to join a war like this? Because that’s the thing- he wanted this, wanted the guts and glory and blood without knowing what it was that he really wanted, what this would be really like. He feels immense pity for the boy who had a chance to escape this entire shitshow and decided that no, he wants to fuck himself up until he doesn’t know himself anymore. Wants to watch his friends die and explode and get shot to all hell, wants to follow his best friend to the end of the world just to get there and find that his best friend might not be the same person anymore.
Sid should’ve been a red flag, he recognizes that now. He should’ve seen the apathy in his childhood best friend’s eyes and realize that he made a mistake sacrificing himself for this so-called noble cause. Maybe Sid would’ve warned him himself, but he got there too late; the revolving door kicked Sid out and threw him in, and now he has to deal with it.
The sound of footsteps squelching in the mud shakes him from his reverie; he blinks, eyes dry from staring at nothing for so long, and looks just in time to find Snafu settling down next to him with a grunt. He won’t admit that he tenses up, he fucking won’t, because that means something changed between them and he doesn’t want to think that anything did. Snafu was being Snafu and Eugene was just tired. They can work this out, they have to, because Snafu became such an important part of how he deals with all of this that he can’t bear to lose him.
He throws a sidelong glance at the man next to him, scared to move, to startle him; Snafu was always a jumpy cat, ready to hiss and run at the first sign of trouble. Eugene was never the reason for Snafu bolting, and he’s not planning on starting now. He’s a little sorry that he put himself in a position where that might even be the case.
Snafu is the picture of nonchalance in a way that used to be familiar to Eugene but just annoys him now. Snafu only puts on an indifferent face with boots and higher-ups, people he doesn’t know and trust; the last time Eugene was on the receiving end of one of his poker faces was when he first joined and Snafu seemed determined to make him rue the day he was born. How dare he put up a cold front now, when they’ve been practically attached at the hip since fucking Peleliu, when Eugene picked him up from the rocky ground and dragged him to safety, when Snafu saved Eugene from having to give up something human while cutting out teeth from a dead man’s mouth? How dare he treat him like a stranger that he needs to guard himself from?
It’s not anger that climbs up Eugene’s throat, it’s hurt; he can tell by the bitter taste it leaves on the roof of his mouth, the way his tongue feels heavy behind his teeth. Maybe Snafu doesn’t recognize him anymore, too. Maybe he’s come full circle and joined Sid in a place where he’s not the same man he used to be and hates it.
Snafu lights a cigarette in an easy, practiced rhythm. He holds in the smoke for a few seconds, then lets it tumble out of his nostrils, turning him ancient and wise with how dignified it looks. The smoke drifts out of the shelter in a grey swirl and disappears the second the rain hits it.
Maybe it’s awkward, the way they’re sitting there like something’s come up between them that neither of them wants to discuss. Eugene’s used to being quiet with Snafu- despite what others outside of their squad might think, he’s not actually that much of a blabbermouth. They’ve spent plenty of long, silent stretches together during watch duty, or while marching from one shootout to the next, or in the twilight minutes where neither of them was fully asleep yet not completely awake. They’d play cards on Pavuvu, Snafu dealing them with an ever-present cigarette in his mouth, glowing leonine in the afternoon sun, and not a single word would pass between them. So yeah, Eugene is used to being quiet with Snafu, but not like this; not heavy and prodding, insects crawling around under a rock. The air is dense when he reminds himself to breathe.
Snafu takes another drag. Eugene’s fingers itch; for his pipe or for Snafu, he doesn’t know. It’s the kind of itch that settles itself into his joints and makes him ashamed of feeling it. He’s never hesitant about touching Snafu, but the distance between them right now seems so big that it’s almost unbridgeable. Eugene asks himself once again how he let them get to this.
A movement out of the corner of his eye startles him. He turns his head to see that Snafu had reached over that yawning gap between them, cigarette in hand with the filtered tip pointing towards Eugene. His expression isn’t as closed off as it was a few moments ago; he’s not exactly smiling, per se, but a corner of his mouth is turned up and it lights up his face and strikes Eugene with so much force that he almost gags on it.
“Got a smoke?” Snafu asks him on a march up to the hills of Peleliu. Eugene, barely broken in boot Eugene, smiles and gives him one. “Thanks, Sledgehammer.”
Slowly, hesitant and resenting it, Eugene reaches out and takes the cigarette. Their fingers brush in the exchange and it sends a warm current up his arm and into his chest. He places it between his lips and sucks in smoke mixed with guilt and relief. The nicotine rush is nothing compared to the knowledge that he didn’t fuck them up this time.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the smoke leaving him in starts and stops as he speaks. He looks at Snafu and lets himself be looked back at with those big green-grey eyes. Snafu is leaning back against the wall of their shelter, looking deceptively languid and relaxed in the flickering on-again off-again light of fleeting flares. He’s doing that thing he does where he scans Eugene while trying to seem like he isn’t paying all that much attention to him at all, but after spending so much time Eugene can see right through it. The catch is that Snafu can see right through him too; he knows he can see the confusion and uncertainty shining through him, and underneath those, regret. Eugene knows he doesn’t have to elaborate for Snafu to understand him, but he wants to. Maybe saying something out loud will soothe the burning feeling in his mind that whispers that he might not be sorry, and he might not deserve to be forgiven. “I didn’t- it wasn’t really you I was yelling at.”
He pauses, not sure what to say next. I’m miserable and you made yourself an easy target? I may not know how to control myself anymore? Nothing that comes to mind sounds good enough, and he knows that Snafu won’t hesitate to tear him to shreds the second he says the wrong thing. He has a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, Snafu does, and Eugene isn’t in a mental space that allows itself to be torn apart like that. Fuck, is Snafu talks to him harshly, the way he is now, he’ll just melt into the mud on the spot.
Snafu doesn’t say anything right away; Eugene can’t decide if he likes that or not. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff and all that’s stopping him from falling down is what might come out of Snafu’s mouth, and he’s wild with it, desperate just as much as he is indignant at the thought that the words of one man could mean so much to him.
It’s just that he knows, deep down, that what Snafu’s about to say will be the truth, and it could save him.
Those green-grey eyes drag up and down his body, from his muddy boots to his rain-slick poncho to his weary face. His eyes betray nothing; Eugene takes another drag off the cigarette just to do something with himself while his soul rests on the balance. Snafu is a good people reader, he’d always known that. Whoever he is now, Snafu will know, and he won’t hesitate to tell him.
It seems like it takes forever for Snafu to get to a conclusion that satisfies him, but eventually he nods and straightens up, one arm around his knees drawing them tight to his chest as he gets closer to Eugene. When he speaks the words leave his mouth like smoke did just minutes ago, airy and tangible, carried on his breath. “I know you didn’t mean to,” he says, his free hand gesturing for Eugene to hand him back the cigarette. Eugene does so without really noticing it, head too full of ringing relief; he feels like an over-filled balloon that got punctured and now all the air is rushing out with a shriek, like he could launch across the camp and land, useless and tattered, on the muddy ground.
“Don’t think that I haven’t noticed that black cloud over ya head, Sledgehammer,” Snafu continues, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a long restorative drag. The tip burns red-hot in the dark and illuminates his face for the briefest of moments; he looks exhausted, dirty like the rest of them, but something about him still shines so beautifully to Eugene. “It’s not like I can blame ya for it. This war ain’t making angels outta any of us.”
Eugene has a sudden wild impulse to kiss him, to launch himself forward and make it so the smoke leaving Snafu’s mouth would get trapped between them; wants to seal their mouths together until they both taste like cigarettes and remorse, until they breathe the same air. They’ve already shared everything from Peleliu to here; what difference would this make?
He doesn’t do anything, very carefully holds every muscle in his body in place so he doesn’t succumb to that urge. Maybe later, when things aren’t this vague between them, he can press Snafu against that big rock behind third squad and look into his eyes until they both know that this is what they want. They read each other like open books when they just allow themselves to loosen up for a change- but on this island, in this particular war, they haven’t had the chance to. Maybe this is where some of this suffocating distance stems from.
The war ain’t making angels outta any of us.
A small chuckle leaves him, quiet enough to almost be drowned by the rain and belated enough to sound self-deprecating. He looks down into his lap where his poncho is slowly collecting water between his criss-crossed legs. “Haven’t been an angel for a long time,” he murmurs. It’s not exactly a confession when they both know it, were both there to see him fall; still, it feels good to let that knowledge leave him finally, let it out into the rain where it can float, linger, and then dissipate. He feels a little lighter.
Beside him, Snafu echoes his chuckle. He looks amused when Eugene looks up at him, cigarette between his lips the way it was before they got the orders to cross the airfield. There’s always something so familiar about him even when he’s trying his hardest to isolate himself, a loyal quality that shines so clearly once you’ve earned the right to see it. He grins and that, too, is familiar, Cheshire-esque where it reaches his eyes in the gloom. He looks almost fond, and the thought makes Eugene smile back as much as he can. They’ve always had this feedback loop between them, each taking turns being the moon and the tide. It feels like the storm has passed and the ocean’s surface is quiet now, gleaming serenely in the moonlight. Eugene watches the smoke leaving Snafu’s nostrils and relaxes in the knowledge that the horizon is clear.
“Never liked angels anyway,” Snafu says, green-grey eyes looking straight into Eugene’s. That, too, feels like a confession.
The rain keeps falling.
San Francisco
If you came up to Merriell in the hills of Peleliu and asked him what he thinks his life would look like after the war, he’d laugh at you right to your face. He doesn’t plan on surviving this fucking thing, he’d tell you as if it’s the stupidest question he’d ever had the misfortune of hearing in his life, what the fuck are you talking about? The idea of life after this seemed so far-fetched and unrelated to the way his world worked. He couldn’t afford to run around those islands thinking he might have a future. Ain’t nobody going home.
Imagine his surprise, then, when he ends up not only surviving the war, but finding the love of his life in the middle of it; then imagine his surprise when he ends up living with the love of his life nearly four years after the war ended and leading a life that’s mostly happy.
This isn’t to say that it all went smoothly at first. Quite the opposite, in fact: he ended up abandoning Eugene on the train back home without even saying goodbye, a decision that he still regrets to this day no matter how many times he apologizes. He doesn’t know what it was about coming back home, but it made reality smack him in the face so hard that it woke him up to how ridiculous he was being. They haven’t discussed what would happen to them after they were back in the States, not even in China, foolishly putting off that conversation until it was too late. Merriell got off the train and hated himself for it with a passion, a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Burgie yelling at him for walking away from the one good thing that this war brought him.
He did it anyway.
The following three months were a blur of settling back down in a city he knew like the back of his hand, but he spent so much time with blood on his hands he couldn’t see the map anymore. He found a job in a lumber yard just so he won’t get evicted out of his Maman’s old apartment and spent his free time staring at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and turning his head to follow every red-headed person he happened to see on the street. He’s so guilty he’s sick with it, fat little worms of remorse hatching in his chest cavity and eating him alive.
What ends up saving him from himself is Burgie, who calls him on the payphone outside his apartment building and gives him a good earful after getting a letter from Eugene telling him what happened. He’s sort of ashamed that it took his best friend giving Eugene his address for them to actually start talking, and even more ashamed of the fact that he didn’t answer the first letter Eugene sent and instead chose to spend a month drafting dozens of apology letters only to scratch them all out and throw them in the trash. He wonders, bitterly, when his life turned into an old English novel, and when he turned into the elusive dark lover who mysteriously vanishes into the night and breaks the protagonist’s heart.
He does end up writing back, but not after Eugene sends a second letter pouring his heart out and laying it bare for Merriell to do with as he wishes. The bravery of it, the aching resolve to let himself be vulnerable just for the sake of closure, is what shakes Merriell into finally sitting his ass down and writing the letter he’s been running through his head for the past month. It’s not perfect; his handwriting borders on illegible with how hard his hand is shaking and the ink smudges when he doesn’t want it to, but he says as much as he can and includes the number for the payphone at the bottom of the page.
To his eternal gratefulness, Eugene calls.
It’s the most awkward phone call Merriell has ever had, but it’s also so wonderful to hear Eugene’s voice again, however guarded and forcibly cold it is. It takes a good few minutes before they get over the halting How have you beens and What have you been doings, but when the silence stretches on for a little too long Merriell breaks and finally addresses the elephant they’ve already addressed in their letters but seem incapable of glancing at over the phone. He apologizes and says everything he said in the letter and the things he thought of writing after he already placed the envelope in the box, and then he tells Eugene about the all-consuming guilt that made its home in his chest, in his hands, and he tells Eugene he loves him and that he never stopped loving him and maybe that’s why he left, and he does it all in the middle of the street on a Thursday afternoon with strangers staring at him as they pass him by. He honestly doesn’t care about the looks he’s getting as long as Eugene’s still talking to him; he didn’t realize how much he missed the way he talks until now.
He tries not to take it to heart when Eugene says he’ll need some time to forgive him. He knows he pulled a dick move, he owns it, and he says as much. Eugene gives him his home number and Merriell vows to get his apartment a landline; Eugene tells him he loves him before they hang up and Merriell runs to his apartment to get his wallet and search the phonebook for a telephone shop, and then bolts out of his apartment with his feet feeling lighter than they did in months.
He gets a white phone and puts it on the side table near his ratty old armchair, then proceeds to live in said armchair until he feels it’s acceptable to call Eugene again.
He doesn’t get the chance. Eugene shows up on his doorstep the next day.
They sit in his living room and talk for hours until the shadows draw long and disfigured on the hardwood floor and the street lamps outside start to flicker on one by one. They’re touching the entire time, Merriell’s hand on Eugene’s side where he has an arm wrapped around him, Eugene’s hair tickling his throat. They talk about what they want for them together and as individuals, about what they’ve been doing these past three months, about thudding back into civilian life, they say I love yous and I’m so sorrys and I promise I want this. There’s crying at some point, but not the bad kind; just tears of relief, of finding home after thinking you’ve lost it for good.
The talking stops after a while. Merriell kisses Eugene first because he’s still hurt and a little untrusting and needs to be shown that he’s wanted; places a hand on his neck, under his ear, and draws him in softly, carefully. It’s so familiar Merriell can feel his eyes get hot again and he presses harder when Eugene slides a hand up to his wrist and just keeps it there, warm and heady where he can feel Merriell’s pulse against the thin skin.
Merriell takes him to bed. They don’t get much sleep that night.
Eugene stays for a week, says that’s the longest he can stay before his mother sends his brother up to find out what he’s up to. They take the time to get to know each other outside of the war. Merriell learns that Eugene likes to sit on the balcony with the paper and a cup of coffee in the morning, soaking in the sun like a cat. Eugene finds out that Merriell will cling to him in his sleep no matter how large the bed is. Merriell carefully lets himself develop a liking to Eugene greeting him at the door with kisses when he comes back from work. They sit on the balcony after a dinner that Merriell cooks while trying to tone down the spice and smoke- Merriell his cigarettes, Eugene his pipe.
Merriell also learns that Eugene doesn’t go a night without waking up shouting and sweating. He learns that there are days where he can’t even get out of bed until well past noon, laying on his side and staring at the wall as if it’s not even there (or maybe he isn’t). Eugene finds out what happens when the old car down the street starts with a bang from the exhaust pipe and the echoes ricochet off the buildings and rattle the windows. They spend an hour on the kitchen floor after Merriell accidentally cuts his thumb while cooking dinner and neither of them can stand the sight of blood. Eugene makes an effort to make himself known when he enters the room after he pads across the living room in socks and Merriell holds a fountain pen to this throat before they both know it.
They might’ve made it through the war and made it home safe, but the war isn’t done with them, clings to them like a thin layer of dirt in the blazing sun of Peleliu, like Okinawan mud, resigns them to a new life that somehow has nothing to do with it and yet seem to be affected by it every single second. Being with someone else who gets it helps, but only so much; being part of their feedback loop means that they can only support each other before it’s too much.
The week ends all too soon and before they know it they’re kissing goodbye at the entrance to what was once Merriell’s apartment but somehow turned into their apartment, their own little space where they can drown in each other and nothing else matters. Eugene leaves and Merriell watches him walk down the street until he turns a corner and disappears, copper hair glinting in the sun burning itself into the back of his eyelids until it’s all he can see when he closes his eyes. They’ve agreed to call every day and that Eugene will be the only one to come visit, a silently mutual arrangement. Merriell got the impression that Eugene wanted to keep him as far away from his mother as possible for both their sakes and doesn’t see any reason to argue.
Eugene gets accepted into a university in San Francisco six months later and asks Merriell to move out West with him. Merriell agrees. There’s nothing tying him to New Orleans, not after his Maman died and he came back and realized the city isn’t his anymore. They find a quiet house, tall and narrow just like all the other houses around it. Merriell spends an afternoon setting up an entire wall of bookcases that takes up the back of their living room, then finds another one out on the street and puts it up in their bedroom. Eugene takes the money his parents forced on him and buys a fridge, an oven, and a washing machine, the only things they couldn’t haul over from Merriell’s old apartment. Burgie comes to visit for a few days and helps plant things in their small backyard, flowers and herbs and a lemon tree that Merriell obsesses over. Eugene comes home one day and finds out that Merriell built him a birdhouse and strung it from their porch and it takes a good fifteen minutes to get him to stop crying.
Starting a new life out West is both exciting and alienating for the exact same reasons. The first time they go grocery shopping has them returning home an hour and a half later with bags packed with local produce and food they don’t have back home, mainly snacks that Merriell burns through in three days even if they don’t suit his tastes. The rows of pastel-painted houses charm Eugene to the point of giddiness, the number of times he stops dead in his tracks on their afternoon bike trips making Merriell think he should do the same with their house. They get used to the hills and slopes of the city like they got used to the highs and lows of civilian life and everything it entails.
They get to know their neighbors. The elderly couple in the house on their right invites them to dinner on their first night in the house and seems endlessly charmed by their Southern accents and attitudes; Merriell is half convinced that the wife got eyes for Eugene from the way she giggles (yes, giggles) whenever he turns on the Southern Charm, though Eugene won’t entertain the notion. Eugene starts school and delights Merriell with stories of his professors and classmates at dinner. They make love in the small hours of the night, Eugene pressing Merriell into the mattress with kisses behind his ear that make Merriell wonder what he did to deserve being loved like that. They spread a blanket in their backyard and spend entire afternoons there, reading books and exchanging kisses until they’re sun-blind and soft.
Sometimes Merriell wakes up in the middle of the night and doesn’t know where he is. Sometimes he gets up to get a glass of water from the kitchen and finds Eugene sitting on the porch, eyes red and wet. Some nights they lean their heads together and watch the moon light up their garden until the sun replaces it little by little, the air heavy and bruised with the smell of honeysuckle. Some days Eugene comes back home to find Merriell reading a book without actually reading it; he carefully puts it aside and replaces it with his hands, squeezing Merriell’s fingers until he’s back from wherever he went to.
It’s not like they thought that moving out West would leave their problems behind; it’s just nice to pretend sometimes.
Eugene changes when the leaves start to match his hair, wilting and drying up just like them. The process is so slow that it takes Merriell a month to even notice that something’s changed, but when he does it’s like a flashlight directed straight at his eyes; it’s all he can see, and it stays on his mind long after it’s gone.
What makes him finally take notice is, absurdly, a drizzle. They’re sitting in the living room, Merriell in the armchair next to the unlit fireplace and Eugene on the couch with a textbook and his notes on the coffee table in front of them. It’s been a quiet afternoon; Eugene came back from a lecture just when Merriell was heating up leftovers for a late lunch and dove straight into coursework, meticulous the way Merriell never was about school. Merriell joined him after putting his dishes in the sink, ruffling his hair as he passed him on his way to the armchair, earning him a fond eye roll. They’ve been sitting there in their own companionable silence ever since, and the only thing that makes Merriell look up from his book is the realization that he no longer hears pen scratching paper.
Eugene is frozen in place when he looks up. He’s looking over his shoulder towards the door to the backyard, body twisted and his chin resting on his shoulder. Merriell can’t see his expression from where he’s sitting, but he can see how tense the muscles in his back are; the hand holding his pen in a white-knuckled grip is shaking, a tremor so small an untrained eye might not be able to see it. Merriell does, however, because he’s spent the last year fine-tuning himself to Eugene’s reactions to the point of becoming a tuning fork for his trauma.
“Gene?” he asks carefully, getting up and thanking God for making the armchair creak. Neither of them is good with sudden sounds, but Eugene is so high-strung right now that anything could send him into a panic.
Eugene doesn’t answer, keeps looking outside like a deer in headlights. Merriell follows his gaze and frowns, not entirely understanding what it is he’s seeing until a drop shakes a flower in the bushes outside and he realizes- it’s raining.
It hasn’t rained so far in the time they’ve been together, though Merriell seems to recall a rare rainy Saturday spent talking on the phone and the distracted quality to Eugene’s voice that came through even over the crackly line; he doesn’t know what rain does to him, haven’t categorized it yet. All bets are off on this one and it makes him nervous, a prickly feeling growing like thorns in his belly up to his throat, stinging him when he swallows. His fingers are tapping against his thigh without him noticing as he contemplates his plan of action. It’s a good rule of thumb to act with caution when it comes to things like this- soft voice, no sharp movements, lie down and show throat- so he crouches down next to the couch and places a hand on Eugene’s knee. “Gene?”
All he gets in response is a bob of his Adam’s apple, though he supposes it’s better than a jump that would just startle them both. His eyes are still glued to the backyard; the rain is getting heavier, the sky turning grey and overcast quicker than he noticed. Merriell places two fingers on his cheek and turns Eugene’s head until he’s facing him and his heart breaks at just how panicked he looks, eyes torn wide open and shining bright with unshed tears. “Hey,” he tries again, testing the waters with a small smile. His hand carefully plucks the pen out of Eugene’s now limp one and he sets it aside without breaking eye contact. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Talking is a long shot- there have been times in the past where Eugene clammed up and went completely nonverbal for anything ranging between a few minutes to six hours; Merriell just hopes he caught it quick enough for him to be able to talk still. It’s much harder to figure out ways to help when he doesn’t know what’s wrong in the first place. Eugene seems to register the sound of his voice, which is a good sign.
Still, it takes a few seconds before he actually opens his mouth and says anything, and when he does he looks stricken, like his tongue is too big for his mouth. “Uh,” is what comes out of him first, more sound than word. He licks his lips hastily, wide eyes blinking a few times in rapid succession. It looks like he’s trying his hardest to ground himself, so Merriell takes one of his hands between both of his and squeezes it just to give him something corporeal to focus on.
(He ignores the way Eugene’s fingers twitch against his wrist, blunt fingernails digging into his skin. Panic always makes Eugene jumpy, a bird ready to take off at the tiniest sound. He can hear the air whistling in his hollow bones and holds on tighter.)
Eugene’s mouth opens and closes a few times, yet nothing leaves him except for quick breaths that feel way too shallow. His brow furrows in frustration when several seconds pass and he can’t get a single word out, sweat glistening on his forehead when he drops his head and emits a frustrated growl. “Shit,” he hisses finally, fingers wrapping around Merriell’s wrist surprisingly hard for how fragile he looks at the moment. Merriell raises his free hand to his forehead, swipes his hair away from the damp skin so it doesn't stick; he can feel how tight Eugene is closing his eyes in the slight tremor he feels in his temple.
Shit sounds about right- things are going downhill fast. The longer Eugene is unable to get himself under control the angrier with himself he becomes, burning himself like he’s both the candle’s wax and the flame until there’s nothing left but a shaky mess.
Merriell takes the hand currently clutching his wrist and presses it to his chest instead, flattening his stiff fingers over his heart. “You gotta do it like me, yeah? Genie, hey,” he urges, gently tilting Eugene’s head up so their eyes meet. Eugene is visibly struggling, jaw locked tight and breath only coming out in grunts, but he locks his gaze on Merriell’s and doesn’t look away for love or money. Merriell smiles at him encouragingly and makes a show of taking a long, deep breath, chest rising and falling under Eugene’s hand. “Like me,” he repeats, then takes another breath. “You can do it, I know you can.”
Eugene nods, a sharp up-and-down motion that makes him look wild when combined with how labored his breathing is. Merriell laughs, can’t help it, but he’s suddenly so proud of this beautiful, strong man for trying to put his world together even from the depths of hell. “Yeah, there ya go!” he cheers, then goes back to breathing as evenly and deeply as he can.
The next few minutes are a blur of the same breathing patterns repeating over and over again, of Eugene looking at him like he’s the only thing keeping him on earth, like Merriell’s a piece of driftwood and he’s a man drowning; the more they keep at it, though, the more his breath evens out and his muscles relax, jaw unclenching enough to let him take in increasingly steady breaths. Merriell talks to him the entire time because he knows it helps him ground, tells him how great he’s doing and how proud of him he is. He means every word of it and he knows Eugene can tell when the look in his eyes shifts from desperate to grateful and the crease in his brow fades.
In the end they find themselves breathing in unison, Merriell on the floor and Eugene at the edge of his seat on the couch, half an hour after it started raining. Eugene exhales one more time and then sags like someone cut his strings- his eyes flutter shut while his head falls forward again and he falls back on the cushions, looking absolutely drained. Merriell takes the opportunity to sit on the couch as well, since he’s been kneeling the entire time and his knees are giving him hell. He settles down next to Eugene, laying a gentle hand on the nape of his neck and just letting it rest there, thumb rubbing a circular pattern into the clammy skin. He can still feel Eugene’s bird heart thumping in the nook just under his jaw, slowly calming itself beat after frantic beat, and something in him relaxes. He caught him this time; he didn’t fly away.
It’s not raining anymore when he looks outside, which he supposes is good. Maybe he can get Eugene to his feet now that the pitter-patter of drops on the windows is gone- he looks like he could use a good lie down, and Merriell wouldn’t mind resting as well. Eugene is always more open after he slept, his fuzzy brain making it so his emotions and stupid fucked-up logic aren’t as prominent.
Though it’s fine, Merriell supposes as he cards his hand through damp copper hair, if Eugene doesn’t want to say anything for now. Things aren’t always clear even weeks after a new trigger comes up, and they have time. Merriell isn’t going anywhere.
---
Maybe it was stupid of him to think that things won’t continue to get worse as winter drew closer. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe just inexperience; after all, they’ve never had to deal with a trigger that kept coming and going somewhat unpredictably, or one that could last over extended periods of time. Merriell won’t say that everything was flowers and candy up until now, and God knows they’ve had their fair share of bad weeks (and months, he reminds himself bitterly, the faint memory of alcohol burning in the back of his throat unbidden), but not like this.
The more it rains, the more Eugene withdraws into himself. He turns into a shadow haunting their home, sticking to corners and dark places; it’s become increasingly common for Merriell to come home from the garage to find him sitting somewhere, knees hugged to his chest and his face a carefully blank mask. Merriell braces for an inevitable burst of anger that usually accompanies Eugene’s quiet spells, having learned from experience that the more he holds things in, the greater the explosion is. Eugene is the type to collect things in his stomach for months at a time, letting them fester and rot and let off acrid steam until it’s pouring out his fucking nostrils.
This time, though, it doesn’t seem like there will be an explosion. It takes Merriell time to realize that this silence isn’t an angry silence but an aching one, a tired one, a silence that exists simply because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
Eugene sat him down a few days after that first rain and told him what it was about. He said that the rain reminded him of that Godforsaken night on Okinawa, of screaming through water and watching an innocent kid get killed; of feeling like he lost himself without even realizing it. Merriell remembers that night though he tries his damndest not to, would give everything for that memory to be replaced with a blank slate the way so many did before. He remembers yelling just because he was exhausted, and hungry, and sick of everything around him. He remembers the guilt. He remembers blood leaking out of a mouth that will never move again and the absolute, gut-wrenching defeat that sunk in his stomach like a rock.
He also remembers a confession, small and weak amidst the torrential downpour.
Haven’t been an angel for a long time.
And then, perhaps the bravest thing Merriell has ever said-
Never liked angels anyway.
And the thing was, he meant what he said. His Maman told him that everyone was born an angel and it’s the choices they make in life that determine whether they get to keep their wings or not. It’s possible that Merriell had wings once, ages ago, in a memory that used to exist but now exists in a void capacity. Merriell was born the minute he fell from grace and evolved into something else that’s holy- something that sees light in others and seeks to preserve it; and no one shined brighter than Eugene in the Pavuvu sun, copper halo and freckles on the bridge of his nose.
There are other kinds of grace on this earth than a heavenly one. Burgie and his honest eyes and loving heart. Jay with his unshakable loyal soul, willing to follow those he cares about until he isn’t scared anymore. Leyden, who’s so stubborn it makes him a lifelong friend. Oswalt, who turned around and waited for a man he didn’t even like to be saved.
Eugene, who went through hell and back and lives with that hell every day and still has such a capacity for love and compassion that it makes Merriell’s heart ache.
They both saw Eugene fall, but Merriell would like to think that he helped cushion the blow just a little bit. There’s a sense of kinship between the wretched and the damned, and maybe they wouldn’t have gotten together after the war if Eugene had stayed an angel, if he went back to that big white house and felt like he belonged there. Merriell used to think that he’d be dragging Eugene down if he came back into his life, but now he knows that he didn’t need to be pulled. He fell down on his own and it isn’t anyone’s fault, no matter how much Eugene seems to think that he deserved it. War’s just like that; it’ll make demons out of anybody, no matter how good.
It’s not like he thinks that Eugene’s angst is misplaced or unjustified. It’s not his place to judge that, and if it’s affecting Eugene it deserves to be taken seriously. He just wants to help.
Rain is falling again on a gloomy Wednesday afternoon. Merriell came back home to find Eugene curled up on the couch with all the curtains drawn tight and a blanket over his head. He looks so miserable, a little mountain that got lost to the ages, and it makes Merriell press his lips together in sympathy as he carefully sits down next to the lump that is his boyfriend.
“M’home,” he announces in case Eugene didn’t hear the click of the door through the blanket and the sound of his thoughts. He lays a hand on what he thinks might be a knee by the shape of it. Eugene is warm through the fabric, protected and crystallized in his cocoon. Merriell gives him a squeeze and reaches out, removing the blanket until he can find his face.
Eugene blinks in the light, rubbing his eyes and grumbling under his breath. He looks like a toddler woken up from an afternoon nap, if said toddler was plagued by relentless nightmares and the weight of everything bad he’s ever done: hair mussed, eyes dull and red, skin pale in a way that speaks of sleepless nights rather than complexion. He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing when Merriell left this morning despite being a firm believer in homewear and pajamas. His eyes find Merriell and immediately turn down to his lap. “Hey,” he mumbles. He sounds so tired.
Eugene seems to think that he still needs to be forgiven for that night. By who or what, Merriell doesn’t know, but he wants to tell him that if it’s forgiveness he’s seeking, he doesn’t need to wear himself thin in his searches. Merriell forgave him that very night, and will continue to forgive him for sins he didn’t commit. He’s not the church- he isn’t interested in chasing the innocent.
“D’you have anythin’ to eat?” Merriell asks. There’s a genuine worry there that in addition to seeing him wither away mentally he’d have to see Eugene grow slighter, slowly losing the ability and interest in taking care of himself in the face of his emotions. To his relief, though, Eugene nods.
He still isn’t looking at Merriell.
Something hurting snaps in Merriell, a vial in his chest that shatters and spills a liquid that’s warm and aching and so, so devoted to this man in front of him. It gushes out of his ribcage and fills him up to the brim, coats his lungs, makes him smell honeysuckle. Merriell would do anything for Eugene. He’s known that since the second that skinny redheaded boot pulled him to his feet and saved his life.
It’s time for Merriell to repay the gesture.
You can’t call this- whatever Eugene’s doing right now- life. Living shouldn’t entail waking up and feeling like someone stole your soul during the night. It shouldn’t include staying at home all day doing nothing, staring at the walls and crying until you can’t see a thing. It shouldn’t hold you hostage over things you did when you had no choice. Life isn’t supposed to make you fearful and tender at the sides. Eugene doesn’t deserve to live like this; he deserves to flourish and prosper, to spread his wings not because he’s scared, but because he’s free and he knows it, is willing to take advantage of it.
Somewhere along the way Eugene looked down and found weights tied to his ankles, then decided that those weights define him. Merriell just wants to see him fly again.
He can still hear the rain outside when he tries hard enough.
So he gets up. Opens the curtains. Their backyard is a vivid green shock with a smudge of grey skies above it, the birdhouse swinging on its rope in the wind. The leaves on the lemon tree are shiny and wet. The world looks clean and pure, perfect for a fresh start. Merriell takes a deep, restorative breath, then looks to the man on the couch behind him.
“Gene,” he calls. Eugene looks up at him, eyes curious like a puppy, then frowns when he sees that the curtains are open. Merriell smiles at him fondly, the only way he knows how. His lips only used to curl in a snarl or a smirk once, a long time ago; he’s glad to say those days are behind him now. He’s experienced and dealt enough cruelty in his lifetime. It’s time to be soft, and warm, and loving. “Come here,” he says, reaching out a hand; palm up, soft belly exposed.
Eugene visibly hesitates, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Merriell knows that it’s hard to get up from that warm cocoon and take that first step. He’s done it himself before a thousand times and it was never easy. But if there’s anyone out there who can do it, it’s Eugene.
Merriell was reborn when he fell. He can show Eugene how to rise from the ashes, too.
His smile only grows when Eugene gets to his feet and takes his hand, joining him at the door. The feeling of their fingers interlacing is so familiar by now that it’s like a second heartbeat, essential and selfless. I do this for you, it says, I’ll always do this for you and I don’t want anything in return. Merriell squeezes the fingers between his. “Do you trust me?” he asks, plain and simple.
He knows the answer. They wouldn’t’ve made it this far if they didn’t trust each other even a little bit. The war is a given- you can only go so far without trusting your squadmates, the men in the foxhole next to you. That trust was established the second they hit the ground running (“Hanging!” “Fire!”, that well-practiced routine that kept them alive) and carried them all the way to Peking, a great wave in the Pacific Ocean.
Merriell is big enough to admit that he broke that trust. He knows he did, knew it the second he turned around and left Eugene on the train. It took time to rebuild it, but something like this doesn’t go away no matter how hard betrayal hits. Sometimes, when they’re together in their own bubble, it feels like that old routine never went away; they’d be in the kitchen making dinner, weaving around each other seamlessly in that small space, and all Merriell would hear is that same old call and response- Hanging! Fire!- in the way Eugene’s hand lingers on his hips when he went past him, in the burning brand of his front against Merriell’s back in front of the stove.
He studies Eugene with half-lidded eyes, notices the way his eyes continue to flick over to the backyard every few seconds. He looks nervous, bottom lip chapped and red between his teeth, but when he finally meets Merriell’s gaze head-on he looks so sure it makes Merriell want to sing. “I do,” he whispers back, matrimonial in its earnesty.
Merriell knows Eugene trusts him, but it doesn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat when he hears it out loud. He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to Eugene’s mouth, can’t help himself when it feels like he’s about to burst with love and adoration. Eugene chases him back with a hand on the back of his neck pulling him closer and Merriell lets himself drown in it for a few more seconds, lips moving against Eugene’s like it’s the only prayer he remembers. Eugene is the city he knows like the back of his hand now, and as long as he recognizes everything about him he’ll never have trouble finding himself anymore.
He forces himself to draw back after a few more kisses. The soft look in Eugene’s eyes almost undoes him, the way he looks at him like he’s Eugene’s only saving grace. He might’ve been uncomfortable with being given this much importance in someone else’s life in the past, but not with Eugene. He’d drag that boy out of hell if it was the death of him.
“Come on,” he breathes, then opens the door and steps outside.
The rain hits him instantly, countless drops pounding on his head, his shoulders, baptising him into nature and winter. There’s always something so refreshing about being in contact with naturally occurring water, Merriell muses as he spins barefoot in the grass. He feels instantly absolved of daily worries, the rain cleaning him of the mundane until all that’s left is just the quiet and openness of the great outdoors in their little backyard. He laughs, can’t help it; it’s ridiculous how weightless he feels in that moment.
Eugene is standing in the cover of their porch when he turns to look back at him, hand clutching one of the wooden supporting columns and the other curled into a fist on his chest. He looks nervous, almost wild with it in the way his hair is still sticking upright from his nap. “Merriell,” he starts, then runs out of ways to go with that sentiment.
Merriell helps him the way he always will, runs up the steps until he can grab the hand on that skinny chest. He knows he probably looks crazy right now, rain-wet with water shining crystalline in his curls, but he doesn’t care. There’s no point in caring about those kinds of things when they’re so glorious.
“Come on,” he says again. He smiles at Eugene, going for reassuring but knowing it probably comes off as wild. He takes one step down, then another, their joined hands stretching until his feet are in the grass and Eugene’s are still on the deck.
There’s a still moment where all they do is look at each other over the bridge of their hands, Merriell wet and Eugene hesitant, hand still on that column. The pitter-patter of rain provides the only soundtrack, clean in its simplicity. Eugene closes his eyes, takes a deep breath; then, miraculously, bravely (braver than anything he did in the war), he lets go.
It’s a swift movement that surprises both of them; one second Eugene’s standing rooted to his spot, clutching the only thing that’s keeping him safe, and the next he flies down the stairs and wraps his arms around Merriell’s neck in one fell swoop, the wet grass sending up droplets around his bare feet. Merriell collects him in his arms like it’s second nature, holds him close and tight- one arm around his waist, the other hand settling safely between his shoulder blades. One of them makes a choked sound that reverberates between them in the wet air; it could be either one of them for how emotional this moment is, and neither of them cares.
Merriell buries his face in Eugene’s shoulder, feels him do the same. He can feel how bad he’s shivering, the arms around his neck trembling and his heart beating hummingbird-fast against his ribcage. Merriell has never been prouder of this man in his life, of his will to try and forge on even though he’s exhausted and terrified and scarred beyond recognition. It doesn’t matter how long it took Eugene to take those steps, or how faltering they were- it’s the fact that he was willing to join Merriell in this spot that makes it hard to breathe through the waves of love crashing on him right now. He presses a kiss to Eugene’s collarbone, then lifts his head and presses more kisses to the side of his neck, behind his ear, the hollow point behind his jaw.
It’s exhilarating, being this in love with someone. Merriell is simultaneously sad that he never got to experience this up until now and so, so unbelievably happy that he does get to experience it now with this incredible man in his arms. He presses his face into the side of Eugene’s and breathes him in, that same familiar scent of honeysuckle and bedsheets mixed in with rain and wet ground making a new scent, something clean, fresh, new. Merriell wants to inhale it in until his lungs can’t take anymore and then keep it in a box next to his heart forever.
“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you,” he whispers against Eugene’s wet skin. He’s never seen Eugene drenched like this, the only times that got even remotely close being when they’d go out for a swim on Pavuvu and he’d put his clothes back on without drying off. His hair is dark brown when wet, and Merriell runs his fingers through it and misses the copper of it in the sun.
Eugene shivers against him, turns so his cheek is brushing Merriell’s. There’s something frantic to the up and down of his chest that’s slowly calming down. Merriell lets him get used to this, to the downpour still hitting them, gluing them together wherever their wet skin meets. They’ll have to toss those clothes in the wash later, probably get a hot shower as well, but there’s no rush to get there. This is perfect too.
“It ain’t your fault, Gene,” Merriell says, loud and clear so the other can feel the words vibrating in his chest. “None of it, ya hear? Don’t go blamin’ yourself for things ya couldn’t prevent. You can’t dwell on it.”
He says it and means it, the way Ack-Ack did, the way Eugene did when he said it to Hamm and Jay. Things happen in the war that aren’t anyone’s fault, that’s just how it is. It takes time to accept that, and Lord knows Merriell had some reconciling of his own to do. He knows Eugene can do this.
And even if he can’t, well. No one said he has to do it alone.
Eugene pulls back just a little, enough to press his forehead against Merriell’s. It’s impossible not to feel safe in that little circle of his arms, even when those arms are shaking and wet. Their wet hair sticks to their forehead and itches when their skin smears together, but the way Eugene’s eyes shine through the rain makes Merriell forget all about it. Eugene looks shaken, and scared, and so breathtaking that it hurts. Merriell wants to melt into him the way the rain melts into the ground, wants to be absorbed until something new blossoms between them.
“Thank you,” Eugene says in the end. He doesn’t sound like he believes him just yet, but he will, some glorious day in the future. One day he’ll sit on the porch in the rain and feel nothing but appreciation for nature and new beginnings, and maybe a little sadness for what once was, too.
Merriell kisses him. It keeps raining.