Work Text:
Eugene announces his presence in New Orleans with a knock on Merriell Shelton’s door. The air is sticky sweet, the sweat trickling down his neck a grounding, physical reminder of where he stands. It’s nothing like his home in Mobile; the green lawns and white fences, the buzz of cicadas in a grove of blossoming trees, all noticeably absent. Here is the heat of a city. Cracked pavement burns, browned grass wilts under the attention of too many stepping shoes. Flies flit around Eugene, tickling at his collar.
He shifts from foot to foot, pressing nervously at his starched white shirt, as he waits outside the shabby door. He flicks a glance down the length of the rest of the building. Shelton’s door is one of three set into aged brick, both neighbor's windows curtained close and uninviting. Eugene sets his gaze firmly back on the door in front of him, chasing away the niggling thoughts of uncertainty, of unbelonging. He’s here to see Snafu (Shelton, he reminds himself), the door in front of him a marked target he’s ordered himself to hit. It’s been three years and his mind is awash with memory and feeling but for now, there’s only the target. Wait for the door to open. Ignore the rest.
Shelton opens his door.
He’s unchanged.
His shirt hangs open at the collar, unbuttoned to alleviate the heat of the Pacific tropics (but that isn’t quite right, is it?); his trousers cinched with a belt around a hollow stomach; bright, watchful eyes framed in shadow, suspicious of the encroaching enemy (but there’s no enemy now, is there?). His uniform may have changed to fit Shelton, but he’s still Snafu.
“Sledge,” Shelton drawls out, his tone hinting at a question.
“Shelton,” answers Eugene, “I hope you don’t mind me barging in on you like this.”
Shelton shakes his head with a raise of his eyebrows and opens the door wider in invitation to Eugene, his hand gripped high and tight on the frame.
The interior of his house (not house, apartment, comes uncharitably to Eugene’s mind) is barren, the furniture sparse and utilitarian. Smoke has yellowed the wallpaper, and scattered papers and forgotten mugs are strewn about the meager surfaces. Two doors break the sea of wall, one to the left opening onto a kitchen, from which brown and peeling linoleum peeks out; the other opening to reveal Shelton’s bedroom, which Eugene quickly looks away from.
His good breeding paints a smile over his face as his eyes roam over the home (apartment), “It’s nice. Thanks for having me, I know it was short notice.”
Or, no notice actually, but Shelton merely hums in response and gestures to the kitchen, “Coffee?”
Eugene nods and follows Shelton into the kitchen, seating himself at the table as Shelton busies himself at the counter. Silence settles and Eugene tries to settle himself along with it. It’s difficult to reconcile the Shelton he knows, trusts, with the Shelton standing beside him in this unknown place. Eugene knows nothing of his work, his home, his family. When they had served together, those things were unimportant. He could trust Shelton with his life; everything else paled in comparison.
Now there are no bullets ricocheting around, no commands to follow. No immediate death on the horizon.
The click of a cup on the table brings Eugene back and he looks up at Shelton. He wraps his fingers warm around the steaming mug and smiles in embarrassment, trying to find the words he wants to say.
“No milk or sugar,” Shelton says, waving his hand in a lazy arc over their mugs, “so don’t ask,” he ends with a grin.
“I prefer it black, so that suits me just fine,” Eugene answers with a matching smile. He’s unsure how to continue, how to begin, and his body betrays his anxiety, eyes moving from cup to Shelton to walls, back to Shelton, back to cup. It’s a curious change from their time overseas, Eugene restless and Snafu calm.
“So,” Shelton prompts.
“I wrote you,” Eugene starts.
“You did.”
He had gotten the letter, then. Something smarts in Eugene at that. He wonders if Shelton had kept it. If he had tried and failed to respond. If he had thought about him at all. He wonders and then he stops himself, moves on.
“It was years ago, right before I started school, right after getting home. I guess I had wanted to close that chapter, by writing to you. Try and forget about the war.” Eugene breathes in, exhales out a weak laugh, “Guess that didn’t work, seeing as how you didn’t respond. I suppose I’m here now to try again, but made sure you couldn’t ignore me this time.”
“Seein’ me ain’t gonna make you forget the war, Eugene.”
“Not seeing you didn’t make me forget, either. Thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”
Shelton shrugs at that and takes a sip of his coffee, dropping his eyes from Eugene. There are questions Eugene wants to ask (Why did you leave? Why didn’t you wake me? Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why didn’t you write back? Why did you leave?), but Shelton is looking away, quiet, closed, and unknown, and Eugene is embarrassed.
It’s stupid to miss the war, with all its horrors that follow him still, but Eugene misses it all the same. Misses it in the way that he doesn’t know how to relate to Shelton now without it. Misses the easy silence that followed them through the Pacific, so different from the silence that surrounds them now.
He washes the loss away with another drink of cooling coffee and tries, “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah.” Shelton crosses his arms, “You too, Sledge.”
After a pause, he uncrosses his arms and looks back up at Eugene, smiling, “You hungry?”
Eugene raises his eyebrows at the non-sequitur but nods, agrees, mentions that he hasn’t eaten since the train, that he could go for some food, yes thank you. Abandoning their half-empty mugs with the other forgotten dishes in Shelton’s apartment, they leave together, Eugene close behind Shelton.
*
The walk is mostly silent, interrupted only by Shelton pointing out a shop or bar he frequents or chiding Eugene for walking too slowly. Outside of that claustrophobic apartment, Eugene feels himself softening, smiling more easily. His feet follow Shelton’s, his ears tracking his solid steps on the sidewalk, but his eyes track the sky and the few birds that flutter overhead. He feels their presence as strongly as he feels Shelton’s, and his earlier tension evaporates into the air, up among the wings and clouds.
Soon they find themselves seated at a vinyl diner booth, opposite one another and Shelton is fiddling with his cigarette lighter, flicking the flint wheel on and off, on and off. Eugene drags his eyes away from Shelton’s hand, gritting his teeth against the memory of a train, another time. The appearance of their waitress, a blandly pretty young woman, is a welcome distraction.
After their waitress has left, Shelton lights a cigarette and puts away his lighter. Eugene breathes out. They meet eyes.
“Why’re you here, Gene?”
“I wanted to see you.” he says, and Shelton watches.
“I graduated from college this summer. Not to sound like I’m not happy about that, or not proud of it, but I thought I would’ve felt differently. Like being in school would erase being in the war. Or graduating would replace leaving the Marines. But I still think about it all the time. School didn’t erase much of anything,” he pauses to take a drink of water, swallow down the heady memories of blood and dust. Of Snafu.
“Guess I didn’t think about it too much. Just felt right to come see you.”
Shelton’s cheeks hollow around an inhalation of smoke as he thinks over Eugene’s answer, his eyes traveling upwards with his exhale, “Sounds like y’did think about it.”
Tension crawls up Eugene’s spine and he flushes, “Just meant it wasn’t planned, is all.”
“Uh-huh. What’d you study in school, then?”
“Business. I'm more interested in the sciences, but I thought I should choose a more practical option, though now I’m not too sure. I think if I did it again, I’d pursue something like that. Biology, maybe? I’m thinking I will go back to school, actually– I’m talking too much about myself, aren’t I?” he laughs.
“Nah. I like hearin’ it.”
Before anything else can be said, the waitress returns with their orders– two sandwiches, water (Eugene) and coffee (Shelton)– and Shelton turns to watch her. His flirtatious smile elicits a blush and his eyes track her when she walks away. Eugene watches him, waiting for Shelton to meet his eyes again, resume their conversation, but after a low whistle Shelton just drops his eyes to his plate. Eugene does the same.
They eat in silence, Eugene barely tasting his food and Shelton hardly touching his, instead gulping down mouthful after mouthful of coffee. When the waitress returns to refill his cup, he doesn’t look at her– he looks at Eugene.
“You keep in touch with the others?” he asks.
Eugene follows the coming and going of their waitress, her confusion mirrored on his face at Shelton’s lack of attention, after such a show of it earlier. Only once she’s left and Shelton has a fresh cup cradled in hands does Eugene register his question.
“I’ve only kept in touch with Burgie and Leyden. They’re both well. Burgie went and married Florence after all, did you hear?”
Shelton nods. “Bet he was real relieved ‘bout it too,” he says with a grin pressed against the rim of his cup.
“Well, sure. I’m still surprised she said yes,” laughs Eugene, “And how about you? You got a girl?”
“It look like I got a girl, Gene?”
Eugene has no idea what it looks like. But he thinks of him sitting alone in his pitiful apartment, answering the door to Eugene, having dinner with Eugene, his looks at the waitress, his looks at Eugene.
He shrugs, “Guess not.”
“You?”
“What? Have a girl? No, I’m sorry to say I do not.”
Shelton hums and returns to silence, lights another cigarette after finishing his second coffee. Eugene follows suit, returning to the easy actions of finishing his sandwich, his water. His eyes turn to the window, the dimming light, the blue of a summer evening.
“You got a place to stay tonight?” Shelton asks suddenly, his eyes downcast.
“I checked into a hotel in town after I arrived.”
The pause that follows is filled by the arrival of their check, and the process of divvying up payment, cash and coins dropped on the laminate tabletop. Eugene counts the money twice and adds an extra dollar onto their tip before rising and joining Shelton outside.
Night has fallen by the time they leave, the sky too hazy to see the stars and street lamps casting golden haloes onto the pavement. Shelton steps into one as he lights his third cigarette of the evening, a miniature halo cast to his face. His eyes follow the path of pedestrians filing by, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other at his mouth.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Eugene asks.
“Sure. How long you staying?”
“I told the folks back home I’d be gone a week.”
“Come by tomorrow after five. I got work.”
Eugene is suddenly acutely embarrassed that he didn’t ask Shelton anything about his life or his work, anything other than You got a girl? But he’ll ask him tomorrow, he thinks. He has a whole week to ask him; to know him.
He agrees, he’ll see Shelton tomorrow after five, and he holds out his hand. Smiling, his mouth pursed around his cigarette, Shelton grasps his hand and shakes it. Their hands are gripped tight around each other, the goodbye formal, yet close.
It’s the first time they’ve touched in three years.
***
Shelton opens his door to Eugene the next evening, freshly showered and heavily perfumed with aftershave, crisp white shirt tucked neatly into well-fitted trousers, and Eugene can’t help but laugh. The sight of him so polished, buttoned-up and fresh, is a strange one. Shelton returns his smile, tinged with bemusement, as he steps out alongside Eugene, shutting the door behind him. They’re close on the stained cement stoop and Eugene clears his throat before asking where they’re headed.
Shelton’s smile widens as he responds, “You’ll see,” and he moves forward, beckoning Eugene to follow.
Their destination turns out to be a bar. The interior is spacious but sparsely populated, the wooden floorboards pitted and worn by use, rickety tables peppered around the perimeter of the room. Soft light from the wall sconces and smoke from the few patrons dress the room in a gauzy haze. Finishing the scene is a lone pianist staged at the back of the bar, playing for two dancing couples. It’s not what Eugene expected.
“You couldn’t just tell me we were going to a bar?” he asks drily as they seat themselves.
“Wouldn’t wanna spoil the surprise.”
“Is it always this crowded in here?”
Shelton looks around, appraising the emptiness as if he’d just noticed. He shrugs, “It’ll pick up later.”
They order two beers and sure enough, as they nurse their drinks, groups of people slowly start to filter in. As the crowd grows, the pianist is joined by a small jazz band. Dancers drawn by the arrangement flock to the center of the floor, brightening the smokey room with their lively steps and laughter.
Shelton and Eugene order two more beers.
“So, where are you working?” asks Eugene, raising his voice to be heard over the new crowd.
“Lumber yard.”
“Oh. How’s that?”
“What d’you think, Gene?”
Eugene takes a drink, considering, “I think it sounds like shit.”
Shelton laughs, “You ain’t wrong about that.”
Wearing matching smiles, they lapse into comfortable silence as they work on finishing their second drink. Shelton rotates around on his barstool to watch the dancers, his beer pushed against his bottom lip. Bony fingers tap out the staccato rhythm of the band on the glass, dislodging a bead of perspiration that runs over jutting knuckles.
Against his better judgment, Eugene orders a third round. He’s had little experience with alcohol and he’s already too warm, his head light and limbs loose, but the band is playing well and Shelton’s smiling, his eyes still cast away, out to the room. At the sound of their order finding its home on the bar with two dull thuds, Shelton twists his body back around, his shoulder brushing Eugene’s, mouth inches from Eugene's ear. When he speaks, it’s quiet and close.
“Hey, Gene. You should go and dance.”
Eugene stares, “No way am I goin’ out and dancing. Hell, who’d I dance with, anyways? You?”
Shelton’s breath is bitter and hot against Eugene’s cheek when he laughs, “There’s a girl there who’s been eyein’ you the whole night. Go on.”
“Shelton. I’m not going.”
“C’mon. What else you gonna do? You said you ain’t got a girl, right?”
Eugene traces his eyes over Shelton to the girl he spoke of, sitting three stools down from them. She’s pretty, dark hair curled over her shoulders, glowing with youth through the sheen of smoke that coats the bar. She’s wearing a yellow dress, her lips carved out in red, and she blushes pink when Eugene meets her eyes.
With one last deep drink for courage, Eugene stands, “Alright. If I go, you gonna go dance too?”
“Fuck that. You treat her good for me, though.”
Body light and buzzing from the liquor, Eugene feels Shelton watching him as he floats over to the girl and asks her to dance. He feels silly, taking her hand and leading her out to the dance floor. He’s never been much of a dancer, even before the war, and he’s regretting letting Shelton goad him into it. His limbs are too long, too skinny, his steps awkward and off beat. But the girl, Mary, is sweet and she laughs kindly at his clumsiness as she guides him, her small hand soft in his.
Mary says she hasn’t seen him around before (I’m just visiting), asks him where he’s from and why he’s in New Orleans (Alabama. I’m just here to see a friend), and she’s so glad he’s come, he seems like a real gentleman, not like some of the men around here.
Their conversation ends abruptly as the music changes to something livelier, faster. Mary’s red mouth parts in exclamation– she loves this song– and she pulls Eugene further into the throng of dancers, more now and ever growing, watered by alcohol and flourishing under the excitement of the night.
Mary’s movements are fluid, her skirt rippling into a wave as she spins away from Eugene, spins back to him, one hand braced against his chest. His heart stutters (murmurs), his hand grips at her waist to pull her closer. She laughs, her breath hot against his cheek and drapes her arm over his shoulder, swaying along with the rhythm of the band, the rhythm of the other dancers.
Bodies press in against them, pulsing along to the throb of the double bass, feet tapping a tattoo on the floorboards, shaking, shaking the room. The trumpets scream out their melodies, ringing through Eugene’s ears. Dancers push, push against each other, disembodied limbs tangling, rising and falling with the music. The beat of the drums match the beat of a heart, frantic and fast, faster now. The temperature rises in the room, eighty to ninety to one hundred degrees. One hundred and ten marked in pencil in a faded bible. The metallic crescendo of cymbals shiver through the crowd in anticipation for the crash of metal. A clash. A gunshot.
Someone falls. Someone rises, marionette legs pushing the ragdoll of a body back into the form of a dancer. Cheers from the crowd echo through Eugene’s memories. They’re dancing, just dancing, his mind tells him. But the show goes on. Figures spin, pulled by the strings of the double bass, pushed by the piston valves of the trumpet. Mary’s movement slows as she watches on, her eyes wide and glassy, mouth slack. Cracking up. Going Asiatic.
Eugene pulls his hand from hers, imagines it stiff and cold, and stumbles back into the crowd, feet tripping over coral and loose stones. A voice mutters out apologies as he forces himself clumsily out of the crush and he guesses it must be his. He shouldn’t be making a scene, ruining the night for all of these people. Heat rises to his cheeks in a flush, his eyes pricking with tears and his throat tight.
Mary, the bar, the dancers and the band fade from his vision but the sound. The sound. The ringing in his eardrums. The racing of his heart. Shells bursting. Bullets cracking. Shouts, screams, the thud, thud, thudding of falling bodies. It echoes.
*
Shelton finds him outside. He’s managed to stay upright, following his father’s voice, breathe in, breath out. Inhale, exhale. Eyes closed and scrubbed clean of tears, he breathes.
He feels, rather than sees, Shelton lean in. Hears his concerned voice, “It’s alright, Gene. You’re okay.” His hand brushes Eugene’s elbow, only for a second, before withdrawing, his touch cautious.
“You’re okay, Gene,” he repeats and Eugene opens his eyes.
Shelton is watching him, his arms crossed tightly over his narrow chest, folded in on himself. Cautious.
“You got a smoke?”
Shelton unfolds to comply, locating and delivering the requested cigarette. Their hands brush as the transaction is completed and Shelton leans in, close, as he lights his cigarette for him.
“Shit,” Shelton says, drawing out the vowel, leaning back, “Scared me back there, racing out like you was on fire.”
The rush of nicotine reminds Eugene’s body of its previous consumption of three pints of beer and all of the tension rushes out of his body, leaving in its wake a dizzy giddiness. He chokes out a laugh, “Shit, Snafu, I scared me too.”
Shelton’s eyebrows furrow, looking down as he lights a smoke for himself. On the exhale, he responds, “Haven’t heard that name in a while.”
“Oh.” Eugene pauses. Takes time to disentangle the man in front of him from the man who left quietly on a train out of the Pacific. “I’m sorry,” he smiles bashfully, “Too many memories tonight, I suppose.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry about, Sledgehammer.”
They take matching drags on their cigarettes, bodies falling together, shoulder against shoulder, as they both lean back against the hard stone of the building’s exterior. Snafu and Sledgehammer.
“Guess your girl is missin’ you in there,” Shelton says out into the night.
“Oh, hell. I think she’s probably done with me, embarrassing her like that. I hope she’s not too upset,” says Eugene, eyeing the door guiltily.
“She’s probably lookin’ around, hoping for you to come back. Nice guy like you? Shit, she’s definitely waitin’.”
“I don’t think she’d be thinking I’m too nice, after cracking up like that. No, I think I’m– I think I’m done for the night.” Inhale. Exhale. “Let her find someone better. Little too much excitement for me, I think.”
Eugene pushes off the wall and stubs his cigarette out on the pavement and after one last drag, Shelton does the same. He’s worrying at his bottom lip, sucked in between his teeth, a habit familiar and well-rehearsed on his face. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, opens it again.
“Yes?” prompts Eugene.
“Why don’t you– “ he stops, starts again, “You wanna stay at my place tonight?”
“You worried about me losing it if I’m left on my own?”
Shelton shrugs, “‘S not much, but it’s close. You wouldn’t have t’walk back to your hotel.”
“Alright,” Eugene says, “Sure. I don’t think I’d have an easy time finding my way back there anyways. Probably get lost and end up wandering the streets all night.”
Shelton smiles. It’s settled then. Eugene follows him home.
***
Eugene spends the night on the couch, made into a hasty bed with a blanket and pillow procured from Shelton’s bedroom. In the morning he’s woken by a clatter from the kitchen followed by a low curse. Blinking sleepily, he sits and stretches his legs, taking in the room lit by morning light. Dust motes floating lazily through the sunbeams filtered by the thin curtains, the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, his clothes folded neatly on the side table. Last night, tired and unthinking as he was, he thought nothing of discarding his pants and shirt before retiring. Now, though, sitting in his undershirt and shorts, he feels exposed and embarrassed.
With Shelton preoccupied in the kitchen, Eugene quickly grabs his clothes and heads to the bathroom to wash and dress. His reflection in the cracked mirror is strange, face pale and drawn, unkempt hair falling over furrowed eyebrows. It’s messy, unpolished. As he turns his head left and right, hand combing through tangled hair, he thinks he’s starting to fit in better with his current surroundings. With Shelton.
Outside, Shelton is waiting for him, framed in the doorway of the kitchen, his hands clasped around his coffee.
“Mornin’” he greets, his voice slow and thick with sleep.
“Morning to you too,” Eugene responds then nods his head in the direction of the kitchen, “Any coffee left over?”
Shelton steps away from the door, grinning and gesturing with his mug, “Go on and find out.”
As it turns out, there is coffee left over and Eugene helps himself, tamping down his doubts on the cleanliness of his cup as he pours. With his back to Shelton, he says, “I should go to the hotel today to get my suitcase and check out. If I’m going to be staying here, that is. Sure would save me some money, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” echoes Shelton in a murmur. Louder, “I gotta work again today. I can give you the key so you can come and go. Don’t have to wait around for me.”
“That’s– You’d trust me with that?”
“Trusted you with a helluva lot more than that before.”
“Well,” Eugene says, blinking, “Thank you.”
*
Shelton leaves shortly after that, dropping his key into Eugene’s palm before departing. Eugene wastes little time around the apartment before following his lead and leaving also. His hotel is around two miles away, a relatively short distance considering his history in the Marines, but too far on an empty stomach and college softened legs. He finds a cafe near Shelton’s apartment and stops in, orders a coffee and an éclair, and sits outside to enjoy his breakfast and watch the city wake with him.
After finishing, and ordering a second pastry, he sets off for his hotel, taking his time and stopping often to peer into shop windows, dropping in once on a bookseller to browse their offerings. He enjoys being on his own, unknown in this new city, ambling lazily and without purpose, without someone following or waiting for him.
He thinks of Shelton, lit golden by the morning and offering Eugene his key. At night, repeating you’re okay. Sitting opposite at a formica table in a diner, smiling. Sitting on a train, leg pressed to leg, whispered names before sleep. A touch offered in the darkness of Okinawa. Plucking out gold from a corpse’s mouth in Peleliu. But that’s not Shelton (is it?); that was war. They’re not soldiers anymore. They’re just men. Friends.
Eugene turns his thoughts back outward as he continues his walk to his hotel, one hand fixed in his pocket, fiddling with Shelton’s key.
He completes his two-way journey, dropping his bag at the apartment, before heading back out to find a grocer, in an attempt to fill Shelton’s empty fridge and pantry. He debates briefly over a case of beer before adding it to his total.
The rest of the afternoon is spent waiting for the evening. He delights in the street musicians that are dotted along the sidewalks of the city and his pockets grow empty as he tips their performances. Everything he sees is charmingly foreign: the people and the music, the French architecture. Everything quaintly different to his home in Mobile, but removed enough to not be uncomfortable.
Back at Shelton’s apartment, his home for the next few days, his discomfort closes back in.
Shelton arrives back home a quarter past five and heads straight to the bathroom without a glance or word towards Eugene, shucking his shirt off along the way. Eugene sits primly on the couch and resists the urge to pick up the shirt, clean up after Shelton. He is not his mother. He is not Shelton’s wife.
Emerging from the bathroom, his face freshly washed, wet curls plastered to his forehead, and undershirt untucked, Shelton looks at Eugene, nods in acknowledgement.
“You wanna go out?” he asks.
“I don’t know about that. I’m pretty tired. I’m still recovering from last night,” Eugene jokes weakly.
“We don’t have to go to a bar.”
“I think I’d rather stay in.”
“What, you wanna sit around here all night?”
“I bought beer today. It’s in the fridge.”
Shelton hums and crosses one arm across his chest, the other plucking at the hem of his shirt. He won’t meet Eugene’s eyes.
“You can go out if you want,” Eugene offers, “I don’t mind.”
Shelton bites his lip, glancing up to look at Eugene, his eyes roving over him, searching. Eugene tenses. The whole room tenses. “I don’t mind, really,” he repeats.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
With that, Shelton disappears into his bedroom. Eugene stays still on the couch, wondering if he should change his answer. Wondering if Shelton will change his. But Shelton emerges, redressed, from his room and moves quietly and quickly towards the door. He pauses in front of it, his hand on the knob.
“I’ll be back later. Won’t be gone long,” he says, his back to Eugene, his head half turned towards him.
“Sure. Have a good time. Don’t get into any trouble out there.”
Shelton laughs quietly, “See you, Sledgehammer.” He leaves.
*
Shelton returns shortly before midnight. Eugene is still awake, sitting with his back to the arm of the couch, his knees folded towards his chest, a book propped open against his thighs. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, closing, and watches as Shelton stumbles forward, towards him, before collapsing close beside Eugene on the couch. Eugene closes his book.
Shelton is visibly drunk. He places a hand, fingers spread, next to Eugene’s foot, his eyes tracking the movement. He clears his throat and asks with voice slurred, “What’re y’readin’?”
“It’s an ornithology book,” Eugene answers, then clarifies, “About birds.”
“Birds.”
“You seem like you had a fun night.”
“Mhm. Missed you though.”
Eugene doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. They sit in silence for a few moments, Eugene watching Shelton as Shelton watches the floor. His hand moves to his knee, thumb and forefinger pressing together a fold of fabric. Pressing then releasing. Fold then unfold.
“Is– Is the couch comfortable enough? Is it okay?”
The role of polite host cast to Shelton makes Eugene laugh. Shelton looks up.
“It’s fine. This suits me just fine.”
Shelton’s jaw clenches, unclenches. He smiles, looking back down to the floor, “Yeah, okay. Good.”
Rising, he reaches out to Eugene, hand hovering over knee, before withdrawing.
“Goodnight, Sledgehammer,” he says, quiet.
“Goodnight, Snafu,” Eugene responds, quiet.
***
Eugene wakes up alone. He almost calls out for Shelton, but there’s no point. The apartment is a mausoleum. The air is still, silent, Eugene’s breath the only disturbance. He sits slowly, pushing his body against the weight of the room. The evidence of habitation is clear but impersonal, the apartment lived in but lonely. Shelton’s absence stands out starkly not because his presence is loud, but because the lack of it is so quiet.
It’s like he was never there.
Gone. And no goodbye.
Eugene inhales. Exhales.
In the kitchen, he finds a tin of coffee. After he’s prepared and drunk his breakfast, he returns to the living room and tidies the couch, pillow placed delicately atop folded blanket. He washes, taking his time in the privacy of the apartment to return himself to some semblance of normal. Clothes clean and tucked, hair brushed, face shaven and smooth. Then he gathers up the lost dishes and brings them to the kitchen. He unpacks and repacks his suitcase. He reads some. Goes back to the kitchen to wash and dry the dishes, putting them away where he guesses they go.
He tries to take a walk around the block, but the emptiness of the apartment draws him back in.
Shelton’s bedroom is as drab as the rest of the place, a mattress on a low frame against the far wall, mismatched side table and dresser finishing off the decor. The only personalization apparent are the dogtags hung by a tack in the wall near the bed. Eugene thumbs the metal tags; one for dying, one for living. They drop back against the wall with a clink as he turns his attention to the dresser, and on top of it, a radio. He takes the radio and leaves the room.
He finds mostly static and distorted voices, but then, with patience, a station playing something low and croony. Eugene sits and listens to the tinny voice, grateful for the company of it, and he waits.
*
By the time Shelton’s returned, Eugene has turned off the radio and has busied himself in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich and more coffee. He hears the door close and Shelton moving around, then running water from the bathroom. Eugene meets him in the living room as he exits.
“Welcome back. Good day?” he greets.
“Hm,” Shelton shrugs one shoulder, his eyes roving over the room, the tidiness, the radio. “You’ve been busy.”
“Well. I didn’t feel much like going out, so I thought I could make myself useful around here.
“Yeah? I didn’t know you were such a domestic.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he replies with a roll of his eyes.
Shelton laughs and steps towards Eugene, glancing behind him to the kitchen, “You makin’ dinner too?”
“Not for you.”
“That’s too bad,” says Shelton, moving past Eugene into the kitchen.
Eugene follows, asks, “Are you going out tonight?”
“Do you want to?”
He pauses, nods, “Sure.”
“Better finish your dinner then,” Shelton grins.
He fishes out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, sitting down at the table, his legs stretched out, posture lazy, tapping the pack against his palm. Eugene ignores him and moves to the counter to finish the construction of his meal, feeling Shelton’s eyes bore into his back.
Fed up, he snaps over his shoulder, “Are you just gonna sit there watching me?”
“Just waitin’ for dinner to be served.”
Eugene balls up a dish towel and throws it at him.
The reaction is immediate, the click of a shut lighter, legs jerking to lift his body from his chair, the hand holding his cigarette lifted high and safe from the cloth projectile. He’s laughing, “Shit Sledgehammer, you tryin’ to burn me up?”
“It’d serve you right.”
Shelton does end up making his own dinner, though clearly put off by the task and taking little care. They lean together against the counter, sandwiches in hand and passing a shared mug of coffee between each other. Afterwards, Shelton lights two cigarettes, passing one to Eugene, and leads them out of the apartment.
*
It’s not yet evening and the streets are still full of the day’s pedestrians, though glimpses of the city’s nightlife peek out from the corner of buildings, from the doors of bars. Shelton smokes his way through his first cigarette and lights up a second, the smile from earlier still lurking around the corners of his mouth.
They stop into a bar, a cramped hole in the wall, full of tired men perched at the bar or around the walls like birds in a roost. Shelton nods to one of the men as they order. The man is young and he smiles their way when Eugene glances over. Looking away, he asks, “Is that a friend of yours?”
“We used to work together.”
“Do you want to go and say hello? I don’t mind.”
Shelton barks out a laugh and picks up his newly arrived drink from the bar, “No, Gene. I ain’t here to see him.”
In lieu of response, Eugene takes a drink.
They finish their beers companionably. Eugene talks more about college, his plans for further education. Shelton nods along, his eyes fixed on the wall of bottles in front of them. Shelton tells Eugene about his family, a sister moved away, both parents passed. When Eugene expresses his condolences, offers to buy a second round, Shelton declines and suggests they go back home. The night is still early, but Shelton is tense and there’s beer at the apartment. As they leave, Eugene meets the eyes of Shelton’s friend and waves an awkward goodbye, curious at the hint of Shelton’s other life here in New Orleans.
Outside and alone, the mood relaxes. Shelton lights another cigarette and grins as Eugene reaches for it.
“Look at you. What happened to the boot who wouldn’t smoke, huh?”
Laughing, Eugene takes a drag and passes it back, knocking his shoulder against Shelton’s, “And whose fault is it that I do?”
Lights glitter through the streets, restaurants and bars lit up festively, soda shops open late twinkling pastel and merry. Eugene and Sledge share their cigarette, walking close, winding their way around the other nighttime travelers, young and old dressed brightly, perfume wafting from every figure. Buskers are out in full swing, lending a melody to the movement of the pedestrians. Shelton keeps them at a quick pace, shuffling Eugene away from the distractions of a tourist. Closer to his apartment, the lights dim and the sound fades, turning patchy and nondescript.
Back home, Shelton flips on the lights and collapses into the armchair sitting catty corner to the couch and orders Eugene to bring them the beer from the fridge.
“What, am I your servant now?”
Shelton swings out an arm, liquid movement coursing over the evidence of Eugene’s work from today, as an answer.
Eugene grumbles but does it, knocking one against Shelton’s reclined head when he returns, taking a drink from his own. Shelton’s eyes open at the touch, slow smile stretching his face, and reaches for the bottle, their fingers meeting over glass. Eugene pulls back, swallowing, the heat from the alcohol warming his face.
They finish one, two, three beers before Shelton says his goodnight, now from beside Eugene on the couch, the carefully folded covers carelessly heaped in the corner, the dip of the old stuffing drawing them close, leg against leg.
At the entrance to his bedroom, he pauses, shadowed by the dark opening.
“Let me know if y’need anythin’, Sledge,” he drawls out.
Eugene wrinkles his brow in confusion, a laugh creeping up the back of his throat, “Sure, Snaf’.”
Still standing silent at the door, Shelton jerks out a nod, and Eugene emphasizes, “Goodnight.”
Shelton knocks his fist against frame twice, “‘Night,” then disappears behind closed door.
***
Eugene wakes to the sound of gunfire, smoke clouded behind his eyes turning to red, his mouth coated with dust. The shots rattle through him, a tremor starting in his hands shivering through the rest of his body, laying stiff and unguarded in the darkness. Memories swirl through his mind, grey and distorted from the night’s drinks, the ringing in his ears harmonizing with his beating heart, following the lead set by his pounding head.
His neck cracks as he turns it from the awkward position it fell to. He swallows the grit from his mouth, wetting his lips to wash away the smoke, the dryness. Breathing and blinking, he registers his current position: Shelton’s couch. Shelton’s apartment. New Orleans. Safe.
With memory changing back to reality, scenery changing from sepia airfield to blue civilian night, he notices a line of yellow light glowing from underneath Shelton’s door. Let me know if y’need anythin’, Sledge.
The door creaks when it opens and Shelton’s dark rimmed eyes dart up at the noise. His chest and feet are bare, his back propped against the wall, one knee rising in a sharp angle, the smoke from his lit cigarette framing his neck and shoulders. He raises the cigarette to his mouth, inhaling deeply as Eugene sits near Shelton at the edge of the mattress, his body half turned towards him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Eugene hears himself ask.
“Nah. Don’t sleep much anyway.” Shelton leans across the bed, ribs stretching skin, to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. He’s slow in his movements as he returns to his original position, his voice quiet, “You okay, Gene?”
“Do you– “ He stops, his fingers curled tight over the edge of the mattress, white knuckles bleeding into white sheet, “You ever have nightmares?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“Is that why you don’t sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
Eugene breathes out, flicking his gaze over his shoulder to Shelton, his body lit sickly by the yellow light, his eyes shining wet (the jaundice that’s going around, the heebie-jeebies), his expression closed and cautious. He raises a hand, hovering over Eugene’s shoulder, phantom comfort painted in shadow over bone. Eugene holds his breath. Shelton drops his hand.
This hesitation between them isn’t new. Born one night in a foxhole on Okinawa, it followed them home, grew up over the years they lived their separate lives. Eugene’s throat catches on something hard as he watches the fall of Shelton’s hand.
“You don’t have to be so goddamn careful, you know,” he bites out, releasing his hands from their grip on the bed, twisting to face Shelton fully.
Shelton raises his eyebrows and blinks slowly, his shoulders rising to his jaw as his back straightens against the wall.
“I’m not gonna break, or run away, or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking, Snaf’.”
“What d’you want then, Sledge?”
He wants to be back home, young and free, playing under sun dappled light with Sid and Deacon. He wants to be back in the Pacific, sharing trust and cigarettes with Snafu. He wants to hunt with his father, light fireworks, dance with a girl in a crowded bar, sleep through the night without tearing himself apart through memory. He wants to be able to smile with ease.
He wants to lose the war.
The bed shifts as he moves, and he presses dry lips to Shelton’s.
Shelton’s hand finds his wrist, his fingers wrapped around bone, thumb pinned to tendon.
“Gene,” he says, drawing chin to neck, away from Eugene, his eyes wide.
Eugene drops his gaze, “Don’t you want to?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“Well?”
Shelton’s hand moves from Eugene’s wrist to his jaw, his fingers tickling the short hairs at his nape, his thumb light against his cheekbone, “You sure?”
“Merriell. I’m sure,” Eugene says, with more force than he feels. He meets Shelton’s eyes again, grey and searching, brows drawn close over heavy lids.
“I’m sure,” he repeats.
Shelton breathes out a laugh and closes the distance between them, his other hand finding a place at Eugene’s waist. It starts unexpectedly, Shelton’s lips soft against his own, gentle and chaste. Eugene tilts his head and Shelton’s hand moves, fingers curling through hair, mouth opening to kiss again, deeper, closer.
He tastes bitter, smoke-stained acrid, as they move together. Shelton’s hand slides under Eugene’s shirt, hot against his skin, burning a path from waist to ribs to shoulder blade, pulling, drawing him down, chest against chest. Lips part over tongues, legs tangle together, thigh to hip, knee to knee, foot to ankle. Eugene braces himself over Shelton, one arm bent underneath his lower back. Teeth click as Shelton smiles into the kiss, whispers something unintelligible, before cradling his forehead in the crook of Eugene’s neck, leaving a trail of kisses feather light along his collar.
“Gene.”
Eugene moves his hand to find the pulse point at Shelton’s throat, his fingers laid out over the quick rhythm of it, “Yeah, Merriell?”
“You sure y’aint gonna run off?” he asks, muffled against Eugene’s skin.
“I said I wouldn’t.”
Shelton raises his head, his gaze flicking from eyes to mouth to eyes, and drops his head back against the wall, “Yeah I guess you did.”
“Come here then,” he murmurs, kissed-red mouth opened in a silent laugh and Eugene moves to close it. Shelton says his name again when they part, quiet and slow.
Eugene’s eyes are closed when he responds, “You’re gonna wear that out, the way you keep using it.”
Laughing again, Shelton shifts his body from reclined to laying, pulling Eugene down along with him, one hand still at his back, short fingernails scratching lightly at bare skin, the other moved to Eugene’s hairline, smoothing back his bangs. He kisses Eugene’s forehead, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, his lips.
Time stretches as they kiss, the faded light from the small window turning from black to blue, Eugene’s shirt discarded, Shelton’s hand tracing down the line of his spine, landing to rest on his hip bone, fingers teasing at the band of Eugene’s trousers.
With a sigh, Eugene rolls over onto his back, eyes staring at white ceiling. His movement ripples out to Shelton, hand sliding from hip to stomach, his body turning to his side, stretched long against Eugene.
“Gene,” he says again, drawn out and teasing.
Eugene closes his eyes, “Merriell.”
Shelton hums, taps his fingers against Eugene’s stomach, one, two, three, four, five small touches, before it withdraws.
“You tired?” he asks.
“Aren’t you?”
“Told you. I don’t sleep.”
“I think that’s bullshit, is what I think.”
“Don’t remember askin’ you what you thought, Gene.”
Eugene opens his eyes, turning them from ceiling to Shelton. In the hazy mixed warm and cool light from the lamp and early morning, he looks so young, his cheeks round from his smile, his forehead smooth and relaxed.
Though Eugene is just looking, Shelton must read something in it because his expression changes, brows lowering over eyes, his smile shrinking. Cautious again, he runs his fingers light over the line of Eugene’s jaw, the ghost of an embrace, before returning it to his own body, tucking beneath his other arm as he crosses both over his chest, awkward and sharp in his current position, laid out on his side.
“Merriell. I’m just tired,” Eugene says, punctuating it with a peck.
Shelton unfolds like tightly creased paper, arms releasing, joints loose and liquid, and a hand presses hot against Eugene’s chest. The smile from earlier, young and hopeful and strange, returns to his mouth.
“Yeah. You get some sleep then, Gene.”
“Goodnight, Snaf’,” Eugene responds, covering Shelton’s hand on his chest with his own.
He breathes out, his gaze traveling back to the ceiling. Listening to Shelton’s steady breaths beside him, he closes his eyes.
Eugene sleeps.
***
The next day, when Shelton leaves for work, he leaves with a whispered goodbye and a brush of his hand against Eugene’s shoulder. Eugene watches him go, laying bare chested in Shelton’s bed, blinking and silent.
The day passes foggily, Eugene unsure and tense, napping idly, moving from bed to couch to bed to chair. Shelton’s return happens suddenly, the passage of time a surprise to Eugene. He rises at his entrance, hands fisted at his sides, forces a smile and a greeting.
“No dinner ready today?” Shelton asks with a grin and a glance toward the kitchen, moving lazily towards Eugene.
Jaw clenching, Eugene stretches his hands, digits unpeeling from palms, “I’m not your damn wife now, Shelton.”
Shelton stops, narrows his eyes though his smile stays in place. His hands move to his pockets.
“We should go out,” Eugene says, after a pause, “Do you want to?”
“Sure,” Shelton shrugs.
*
They do go out, first for burgers and cokes and then for drinks, at Eugene’s insistence. At the bar, the same place as the second night, Eugene gulps down his beer and comments on the music, the dancers, the night, asks about Shelton’s day, his drink, his mood. Every silence, every pause, is filled, Eugene chattering nervously as Shelton watches, listens, responds, slowly nursing his drink. Eugene finishes two beers and Shelton only one before they decide to return home for the night.
At Shelton’s apartment, Eugene walks straight to the radio, turns it on and finds a station playing music, then sits on the armchair. Shelton follows, his movements slower, calmer, his eyes still watching. He sits on the couch, his back heavy against the cushions.
Fishing out a cigarette and lighter, he gestures to the radio, “Sorry you didn’t dance tonight?”
“No, I am not,” Eugene laughs, “I don’t think I’ll go out dancing again for quite some time.”
“Yeah?” Shelton hums, lighting his cigarette, eyes cast down to the embers, clouding the room with his exhale.
“Sorry you couldn’t watch me make a fool of myself?”
“Sorry I couldn’t watch you.”
Eugene’s grin falters, an uncomfortable prick of heat burning through the knobs of his spine up to his neck. Shelton turns his head to Eugene, fingers pinched delicately around cigarette, and smiles, slow and languid at Eugene’s reddening face. The music turns to something instrumental, soft melody filling the silence.
“Well,” Eugene says, standing suddenly, “Come on.”
He reaches a hand out to Shelton, clammy palm extended in invitation, his smile pulled tight. Shelton shifts and straightens in response, back then chin then eyes then eyebrows rising in succession at Eugene’s upward movement.
“You askin’ me to dance?” Shelton asks, hand pressed to breast in mock coyness.
“You said you wanted to see me dance. I sure as hell ain’t gonna dance alone.”
“Can’t watch you very well if I’m stood next to you, can I?”
“Do you want to or not?” Eugene asks peevishly with a roll of his eyes.
Shelton shrugs, tucking a smile against his shoulder, glancing away before rising in one fluid, lazy movement. Feet flat on the floor, legs pushing body up and forward, his hand finding Eugene’s. Placing his cigarette in his mouth, jauntily held aloft by pursed lips, he rests his second hand on Eugene’s shoulder.
“Teach me t’dance, Sledgehammer,” he says, drawing out the words, consonants dulled by cigarette perched between teeth.
Swallowing down uncertainty, Eugene nods, one hand finding Shelton’s waist, the other raising their joined hands, pulling them together. It’s intimate, here in the quiet of Shelton’s living room, the both of them poised stiffly for their dance, bodies held close. It’s no different than their time overseas, Eugene reminds himself, no different from the men who would dance for fun or embrace for comfort during the war. They’re just two ghosts, following familiar footsteps, finding one another through a haze of memories, existence proved through touch.
With so little time left, Eugene is afraid to let go.
“Just follow me, alright?” he says.
Eugene steps forward. Shelton steps backward. Both of their gazes travel down to their feet, careful in their steps. They try to match the rhythm from the radio, unhurried and swaying. Moving closer together, their pace wavers and Eugene steps too soon, Shelton too slow, and foot meets foot, heel on toes. Shelton utters a low curse and a huff of laughter, detaching to shake out his hands and stub out his now too short cigarette butt. He wastes little time before reconnecting, hand in hand, hand on shoulder, face open and bright, nodding to Eugene to begin again.
The song ends and another one starts, something lighter and uptempo, and Eugene readjusts to match it, lengthening limbs and distance, arms bent sharply in ballroom form. Shelton grins and follows his lead, bemused smile playing across his features. Their feet move in quick beats on the floor and it doesn’t take long for them to bump up against the chair, couch, each other. With each hit, their smiles widen into laughs and their posture loosens, Eugene relaxing and Shelton pulling closer.
The music is soon forgotten and Shelton wraps his arm around Eugene’s shoulders, pressing his mouth to Eugene’s neck, leaving kisses punctuated by smiles.
“You wanna go to bed, Gene?” he whispers against skin.
“What, you tired of dancing already?”
“Don’t think I could survive more, partner like you.”
Eugene kicks his foot against Shelton’s, laughing, “See if I ask you to dance again.”
“Oh no,” Shelton mocks, moving his face from Eugene’s neck, mouth twisted into a teasing grin. He withdraws but leaves one hand still clasped around Eugene’s, “Don’t say what you don’t mean, Gene.”
Eugene inhales. Exhales.
Shelton’s grip tightens then loosens. A question. Eugene laces their fingers together then smiles. An answer.
*
Pressed in the doorway of Shelton’s bedroom, Shelton goes to his knees for Eugene.
*
In his first year of college, Eugene lost his virginity. It was another freshman, a girl Eugene met at orientation. She was studying communications and working as a typist on the weekends to pay for her tuition. She was kind, though Eugene got the impression that she didn’t care much for him. That was fine by him. He was lost and looking for something. Anything.
They went on a couple of dates, simple things. Out for lunch during the day. Out for drinks during the night. On the third date, she brought Eugene to her room and undressed.
It was nice but over quickly. Eugene did his best to be gentlemanly, and she did her best to be understanding. Feeling the rising swell of panic in her low-lit room, in her unfamiliar bed with her unfamiliar eyes watching, he dressed clumsily and excused himself with a kiss and an apology.
They saw each other twice more after that. He slept with her once more before they parted ways, led on separate paths in their separate lives.
Laying bare next to Shelton in his unfamiliar bed, Eugene thinks, I never really said good-bye to her.
***
“Your visit to New Orleans everythin’ you hoped for?” Shelton asks with a grin, propped up by a hand spread on his temple and elbow pressed into the mattress.
“And more,” Eugene responds with a grin, matching his expression to Shelton’s.
It’s late morning and they’re still laid out in Shelton’s bed after sleeping in. Shelton hasn’t mentioned working today, and Eugene isn’t sure if he doesn’t have to or if he’s choosing not to. He doesn’t ask.
“I was thinking of staying a little longer actually,” he says.
Shelton shifts, biting his lower lip, eyes moving from Eugene’s face to his chest. Shelton’s hand is splayed there, fingers fanned over breastbone, and Eugene feels his heart thud against the touch.
“Ain’t your folks expecting you back tomorrow?”
“I’d tell them. Write a letter. Hell, I don’t know.”
“Letter’d take too long. They’d worry.”
“I’ll call them, then,” Eugene snaps, turning his head to look at the ceiling. “That sound alright to you?”
“I guess that’s alright,” Shelton says quietly, his fingers on Eugene’s chest drawing together in a flat plane of skin against skin.
The ceiling is water-stained and cracked, and Eugene traces the path of the fissures with his eyes. His face feels hot, his throat tight, tongue pressed to clenched teeth.
“Do you not want me to stay?” he hears himself say.
“Don’t be stupid, Gene.”
“I’m not being stupid. I just don’t know what the hell you want from me, Shelton.”
He hears Shelton draw in a short inhale. The hand on his chest leaves, returns to its owner.
“I’m sorry,” Eugene says quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looks back to Shelton, who is looking back with eyebrows drawn tight over his eyes, expression questioning. Eugene turns, rising to his elbow to mirror Shelton.
“Merriell,” he says, softly, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know, Gene.”
Eugene reaches a hand to cradle Shelton’s jaw, moving forward to kiss, to connect them again, but his motion is brushed away by Shelton, rising to sit, knees tucked to chest. He’s looking away, posture and expression turned inwards. He’s chewing on his bottom lip again, lost in his own thoughts and Eugene can’t do anything but wait.
“You… You got a whole life to get back to, Gene,” Shelton speaks.
Eugene’s not sure, though. He’s not sure what the life he needs to get back to is. Is it the sprawling white home from his childhood? His family, waiting and hoping he’ll make something of himself? College? Sid Phillips, comfortable and known friend? A nice girl his parents would approve of? Eugene moves to lie on his back, dragging two hands down over his face, hoping to drag out the answers alongside.
“I got a life too, Gene.”
“So that’s it? We’ve got lives to get back to?” he mumbles out between palms.
“Promise I’ll say good-bye this time.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Come on,” Shelton murmurs, plucking a hand from Eugene’s face, his soft smile appearing in the new space, “It don’t gotta be forever, right?”
Shelton in Mobile. Shelton meeting Sid, shaking his hand with offered pleasantries. Shelton sat at the dinner table across from Eugene’s parents, polite and gracious. Shelton visiting Eugene at school, socializing with his college friends. Something in the visions snag, a puzzle pieced forced tight, an impossible fit.
“Right,” responds Eugene.
*
The day continues in starts and stops. They stumble through the hours together, their movements clumsy and mismatched.
After midday, Eugene takes two beers from the fridge, hoping to sand away the rough edges of their morning, handing one to Shelton. But the melancholia persists, spreading through his sprawled form on the couch, his legs in Shelton’s lap. Eugene sips at his beer, eyes downcast.
Shelton’s hand, currently tracing circles on Eugene’s ankle, stills, resting at the jut of bone. Eugene looks up.
“You speak any French, Gene?
A laugh startles out of Eugene, “No. Do you?”
Shelton shrugs a shoulder, grinning, “Yeah.”
“Where the hell did you learn French?”
“Parents used to speak it some. Couple of guys at work speak it. Ain’t hard to pick up around here.”
“Well, shit.” Eugene takes a drink, huffs out an incredulous laugh, “Let me hear something, then.”
Carefully, Shelton sets aside his beer, sets aside Eugene’s legs, and shifts so that he’s sitting close. He presses his mouth to Eugene’s jaw, leaving a quick kiss, then whispers something, soft and lilting, that Eugene can’t understand.
“What was that?”
“Somethin’ nice.”
Eugene swallows down annoyance, feeling more distant from Shelton than ever. He pushes him away and meets his eyes.
“You never spoke French before.”
“No one else did either.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“What, to impress you?”
“To tell me. Friends do that sometimes, you know. Tell each other things just to know each other better.”
“Yeah?”
Shelton’s smile is light and teasing but his jaw is hard, clenched angular and sharp. Eugene lifts himself from the couch, motioning to the kitchen, “I’m going to get another beer. You want one?”
Shelton shakes his head and Eugene leaves. In the kitchen, he pauses. Inhale. Exhale. Friends. That’s what they were. That’s what they are. But that’s not quite right anymore, Eugene thinks. Not with two nights spent together. Not with whispered French against his jaw.
Despite his morning admission, he finds himself wishing he were leaving tonight instead. This room, this place, this person are all as strange to Eugene as they were when he had arrived at Shelton’s door six days ago.
Back in the living room, Shelton is sitting by the arm of the couch again, leaving ample room for Eugene to fill.
“You know now, though,” Shelton says, words said quickly.
“What?”
“That I speak French. Now you know.”
He does know now. Now that it can be spoken privately, lips on skin, privately in the evening of Shelton’s apartment. Now that it’s something other than friendly information.
After a while of Eugene silently sipping his beer, Shelton gets up to get himself a drink too. When he returns, he sits with knees folded, toes touching tentatively to Eugene’s thigh. Cautious.
Slowly, they let themselves relax, bodies shifting with the shifting light, evening turning to night. They finish their second beers sitting close and Shelton lights a cigarette. Smoke trails from his mouth when he invites Eugene to bed.
Laid out in the dark of his room, Shelton kisses Eugene, slow and sweet and silent, his hands cupped around Eugene’s skull, clasped to his hip. The embrace is gentle. Cautious. It’s over before Eugene can let himself respond and the air is cold when they separate.
“Goodnight, Sledgehammer,” Shelton says, quiet.
“Goodnight, Snafu,” Eugene responds, quiet.
***
The train station is crowded the next afternoon. Eugene had spent the morning packing, under Shelton’s watchful eye and chain-smoking mouth, and standing at the exit of Shelton’s apartment, they had said their first goodbyes: a hurried kiss, a rough embrace.
Now, they stand together amidst the mass of people at the station. Families, couples, lone travelers standing and shifting together as one body. Shelton’s folded in on himself, arms crossed, and Eugene too feels tense, feels himself shrinking, the two of them creating a circle of calm among the busy crowd.
“You’ll write to me, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
Eugene smiles. He holds out a hand, “I’ll miss you, Shelton. Thanks for, well, for everything.”
Shelton grasps his hand and shakes it, “Sure, Gene. Travel safe.”
They say their goodbyes with their hands gripped tight around each other, the touch formal and fitting for their second goodbye, surrounded by others.
They release and Eugene steps back. He waves awkwardly one last time. Smiles. Turns and boards the train.
Onboard, he finds a seat away from the windows and closes his eyes.
The train departs and Eugene goes home.
***
July, 1949
Merriell,
It’s been a couple of days since I’ve been back home and I’m missing you and New Orleans already. Everything seems so much quieter here now.
My parents were real interested in hearing about you and my trip. I told them maybe you’d come for a visit here. It’d be funny to see you here, but I’d be glad to.
I’ve been spending a lot of time outside, birdwatching and appreciating the differences between the country and the city, though I do miss the excitement of it. I can’t say I miss the dancing though. At least not the dancing in the bars – I’m still pretty sure that I’m finished with that forever.
I think I’ll be going back to school, maybe in the Spring. I know my mother is ready for me to start doing something (she’s been antsy about that since I got back from the war). I’m still not quite sure what I want to be doing, but I do want to keep moving forward. I think you helped with that.
I know I thanked you when I left, but I’ll thank you again here: Thank you!
I hope you’ve been doing well too. I’m missing you and hoping you’ll write back.
Your friend,
Eugene Sledge
*
July, 1949
Dear Gene,
Thank you for your letter. I’m glad you’re doing well. I’d like to come see you one day. You can show off Mobile to me.
It’s quiet here too. I haven’t gone out much, but I miss you when I do.
I’ve been well too. Everything is the same, except for you not being here.
Good luck with school and say hello to your parents from me.
Yours,
Merriell
*
January, 1950
Merriell,
Hello! I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. My brother and my friend Sid (I can’t remember if you knew him) have been pushing me to re-enter society, as they say it. I guess I’ve been a little too antisocial since I’ve gotten home.
That’s been keeping me busy, meeting new people and making new friends. It’s strange and I still don’t think I’m too good at it, but it reminds me of being out among the crowds in New Orleans.
Other than that, I’m not sure what’s kept me so preoccupied. It seems like all the days are filled up, but now that I’m writing, it’s hard to think of something to say.
I suppose the holidays came and went, which is always a little overwhelming. Do you think so too? Being older, I can’t say I find Christmas all too exciting, but the family loves it so I go along with it. It was nice, even if I’m being a Scrooge about it all! I hope your holidays were nice too.
How have you been? Happy (belated) Christmas and New Years!
Until next time, I’m sending you my best.
Your friend,
Eugene Sledge
***