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They don't even start fucking until they get stateside, so everyone can shut up with about DADT regs, okay? Stafford was never one for rules, but he also wasn't one of those kids that dismembered his childhood pets or like, cut the tails off fucking neighborhood squirrels. He didn't grow up wanting to bomb the shit out of Middle-Eastern countries or Hajji kids minding their own business either, but hey, it's a part of the job. He's a Marine, and GI-Joe was kind of a pussy, anyway.
Christeson is different. Of course he is, with his clean fingernails and his polite smile, like he thinks, what, saying his pleases and his thank yous will stop a Hajji from shoving a stolen M80 in his face and pulling the trigger? No way. It'd be bye-bye brains, and that dude's last thoughts would be about fucking pronunciation or some shit—am I saying this right?—and he'd be dead. He's the last person Stafford ever expected to meet in the Marine Corps, aside from maybe Ray Person or something.
Stafford's not proud to admit that he gets air sick on the flight home. It doesn't help that he has fucking, like, pneumonia or malaria or some disease that seizes up his insides and makes him have to take a crap every twenty minutes. It's not the sexiest that he's ever been with the night sweats and the smell, but when he's on his way to the shitter, he leans over Christeson's seat and says, "Johnny, yo, Johnny-boy, you gonna come visit me? I want to see your ass in Tampa." He offers, but he's not actually expecting Christeson to take him up on it.
Christeson's, like, close to his family. Weird close, so Stafford's not actually waiting on the visit. It's cool. They have computers and cell phones like anybody else, and they email once in a while, but after a couple months, when the pneumonia/malaria bullshit has gone away for the moment, and the doorbell rings, Stafford's a little surprised about it. It's a shitty little house, in a shittier part of town, but he bought it with the money he accrued during his service. That's how the letter said it too, all professional-like, like Stafford ever gave a shit about words in fancy packages. So the house is all his, even if he'll be paying it off 'til he dies.
He's lived there for five months, since they got sent home, and in that whole time, he doesn't know a single person that's knocked. His mama and daddy sure as shit wouldn't ring the bell and the friends he still has in the area know how to get in without keys. The back door, for example, is rarely ever locked.
There's short set of stairs that lead to the bedroom, and if he stands on the middle step and cranes his neck, he can see out but no one can see in. He's kind of paranoid sometimes, now, about getting attacked in the middle of the night, even though any Hajji that braved the weather in Tampa, especially in December, is a brave-ass motherfucker.
His guest is a guy with short hair and a white, buttoned shirt. He has his hands in his pockets. He's standing totally still and Stafford can tell who it is just from the collar. When he opens the door, it's just a little, and he says, "We don't want any," because Christeson is really easy to fuck with.
John jumps, like he's surprised, and when he turns to face Stafford, he's smiling. "Hey," he says. His smile-to-tooth ratio is fucking insane. Being stateside has done him a world of fucking good, too, because he's broad-shouldered and tan, even though it must be snowing right now in Illinois.
"What you doing here, fool?" Stafford asks, but he doesn't wait for Christeson to answer, dragging him in the house by the collar, and giving him a hug. It's the first time he's seen anybody from Bravo 2 since he got home, and of course it's fucking Christeson, like they didn't get enough of each other in Iraq.
Christeson shrugs. "You told me to visit, Q-Tip. Here I am."
"Oh!" Stafford shouts like he's at a rally, like maybe they're back at Matilda again and he needs to attract attention, or in the Humvees, maybe; like the rest of the company is still around to hear. Sometimes, he forgets that their tour is over, that he got to come home, even if it is to Tampa, where the high for the day is usually in the low 100s. "I was being polite," Stafford says, dragging his words out to make them longer. "I didn't think you'd actually take me up on it, man. Who the hell wants to come to Tampa?"
John gestures to the duffel by his feet and smiles again, the asshole. "Me," he says.
They don't even start fucking until they get home because Stafford had no idea Christeson was even into dick. It's not the first night, it's not the second night either, but the third night, fuck. On the third night of Christeson's visit, Stafford wakes up still screaming from nightmares. He'd get 'em all the time as a kid; these scary, never-ending hallways; doors with no knobs and flesh-eating piranhas chasing after him, not needing water to breathe and moving through the air like some giant, mutant birds with teeth instead of wings. Nightmares don't make sense, that's why they attack when you're sleeping, when you're defenseless and can't think straight.
Every single person Stafford's ever talked to about it has always said the same thing. His head gets patted, hair ruffled—back when he had enough hair to ruffle—and they say the same fucking thing every time: "It's just a dream, Evan. Go back to sleep."
He wakes up screaming on the third night, and Christeson's there. Not on the bed, but standing in the doorway, in just his long sleep pants. He's not wearing a shirt, and Stafford says, "Jesus shit, fucker. You scared the hell out of me. What you doing? You skulking?"
Christeson doesn't laugh, even though he looks like he wants to. His hair is still short, but he runs his hand through it anyway. "I get 'em too," he says quietly. The room is dark, but Stafford sees him taking a step closer. "Remember that kid Trombley shot?" Christeson asks, and his voice is weirdly hushed, like there's a chance he might wake up somebody else.
"How could I forget that shit?" Stafford asks, leaning back against the headboard. It's not exactly an invitation for Christeson to come in and make himself comfortable, but he does anyway, perching at the very edge of Stafford's bed.
Christeson shrugs. He's got scrapes and bruises on his chest. Most of them are faded, scabbed over; most of them he probably got during normal wear and tear. Going around in an open-top Humvee through a war zone is probably the stupidest thing Marines have ever done. It's a fucking miracle that none of them got hurt worse than they did.
"I don't know, man," he says. He's wringing his hands together like a third grader at a spelling-bee. "I don't know. I keep wondering if what we did over there." He cuts himself off, like maybe Godfather or Sixta or fucking Captain America are just waiting to barge in. "I keep wondering if we did the right thing," he says, speaking more quietly the next time. He shrugs, and he's fucking naked from the waist up, so Stafford sees all of it, the whole package. He's seen Christeson without anything on a hundred times, but for some reason, this one seems different. Maybe it's that Christeson catches him watching and looks so concerned about it, about him. "What?" he asks, and he does laugh, he does this fucking adorable little snort thing that Stafford would've kicked his ass over in school. "What the fuck you looking at me like that for, Q-Tip?"
Stafford doesn't think about a million different things. He thinks, "I would've never guessed you liked dick too, man," and then he says it. It could go one of two ways, but Stafford's betting Christeson won't punch him over it, even if he is wrong.
As it is, Christeson's eyes widen just a little. "Is this," he says, speaking slowly, like Stafford's the third grader. "Are you hitting on me?"
Stafford shrugs. "You interested?" he asks. His heart's still thudding hard against his ribs. Fucking piranha-shaped Hajjis breaking into his house.
"That's your game," Christeson says, something like disbelief in his voice. "That's it? 'Are you into dick' and 'are you interested'?" He snorts. "Since when are you into dick?"
"The fuck you know about what I like in bed?" Stafford asks. "Like I'd talk about getting fucked up the ass with Encino Man walking around, man. I'm not stupid."
Christeson grins and for the first time since Stafford woke up, he looks relaxed. "Sure you are," he says and then turns his knees up, crawling closer to where Stafford's propped up by the pillows. "You're a total fucking dumbass, Q-Tip," he says, and his breath ghosts across Stafford's chest like he'd planned it.
They stare at each other for a minute. It could be longer. Christeson barely breathes, it looks like; doesn't chew on his lip or even blink, just sits there, hunched over on his knees and looking Stafford right in the face.
"Do something if you gonna do it," Stafford says, pushing the words thinly through his teeth. Christeson cranes forward like he's actually gonna try, but ends up just face-planting against the mattress.
Voice muffled from the sheets and blankets, he says, "Nah," and only laughs when Stafford tries to kick him. "Quit it," he says, deflecting kicks to the kidneys easily. "I'm gonna take a nap."
"The pull-out is good enough for you, brother," Stafford says. "Get outta my space."
Christeson pops his eyes open and grins, even though his face is mostly hidden. "'m comfortable," he says, face pillowed against his arms. "You go sleep on the pull-out."
"Fuck you." It's a testament to how long they've hung around together that Christeson doesn't even flinch. "You fucking tease," he adds, just because he can, but instead of getting mad, Christeson just grins at him. "You're worse than fucking—"
Christeson's eyes are closed, but he still reaches across and grips Stafford's wrist tight, like he's giving him an Indian burn while half-asleep. "You compare me to Trombley," he says. "I break your face."
"Yeah, whatever," Stafford says. "You can try."
Christeson grins. "Try it," he says with a shrug. "And see." He rolls over, easy as pie, and falls asleep. Stafford doesn't know if he's faking it or not, but Marines get pretty used to taking the time they can, wherever they find it.
It's fucking weird, though. Sleeping in a grave a couple inches away from somebody is completely fucking different than sharing a bed.
He wakes up to Christeson's mouth against his shoulder, hot but not drooling. Stafford free-balls it in bed most of the time, because it's not like Tampa's ever really cold, even in the winter. He wakes up, startles awake, really, because it's not just Christeson's mouth on his shoulder, it's Christeson's fingers on his dick, tugging him awake with a morning handjob like this is just something they do now.
"Uh," he mumbles, and his mouth tastes like dryer soap and cotton balls. "What the fuck, bro?"
Christeson just fucking chuckles, the psycho. "Shh," he soothes. "You'll ruin it."
"I'll ruin a handjob?" Stafford tries to crane his head, tries to meet John's eyes, but it's hard with the way their bodies are positioned, stuck so close together on the mattress they might as well be attached with glue. "Pretty sure it's hard to ruin a handjob," Stafford adds a couple seconds later. His brain is about to leak out his ears.
Christeson laughs, his teeth nipping down against Stafford's shoulder. "Tell that to my ex-girlfriend," he says, and then does some fucking northerner twisty thing with his wrist that actually has Stafford groaning and shifting his hips up to get friction on something—anything, and then coming against nothing but the bare air.
Stafford's brain goes offline for a minute or fucking five. "Where the fuck," he says, when he's gotten himself back together. "did you fucking figure that shit out?"
Christeson shrugs, and smirks like the fucking smug asshole he is. "I don't know," he says. "Around."
"Around?"
"Yeah, Q-Tip," he says, rolling over. He's drooled a little on Stafford's arm. "Around."
They make breakfast together in Stafford's tiny-ass kitchen. Or, correction: Stafford makes breakfast. Christeson is really fucking useless. He sits at the rickety table and reads last week's paper, says no to coffee, but yes to juice, and doesn't mention one fucking thing about the handjob or the fact that along with his war wounds, Stafford has teeth marks on his shoulder now.
Stafford's been able to make hash and eggs since he was a kid, and it doesn't even take long to set the sizzling plates down on the kitchen table. "Don't expect this shit every day," he says before digging in. Neither of them even say anything until their plates are clean and Christeson's grinning over at him like he's the fucking cat with the fucking canary.
"I didn't expect it today," Christeson says, going back to the paper again. There's a spot of syrup on his mouth, just at the corner of his lip.
Instead of wasting his time staring, Stafford gestures. "Yo," he says, and points to his own face like a chalk board. "You have stuff."
Christeson blinks at him. "What." He wipes ineffectually at his face, his grin only getting wider the more Stafford gestures. "Do I have something on my face?"
"I'm kicking you to the curb, man," Stafford says, but when he gets up to throw the dishes in the sink, Christeson grabs him by the shirt, tugging him back. "Fucking what?"
"I'm just, uh," Christeson stutters, and for the first time all morning, his smile slips. He scratches his nails against his neck and rolls his eyes. "Thanks for inviting me down here, man. You have no idea what it's like at home right now."
They stare at each other for a minute before Stafford blurts, "Yo, it's December." By the way Christeson laughs, he can tell he sounds like an idiot, but it's the fucking truth.
"That's what usually comes after November," Christeson says, being an asshole and pointing out the obvious.
Stafford's a killing machine. He's a fucking badass Marine motherfucker. When he drops a punch to Christeson's shoulder, they both wince. "Yo," he says. "Don't your folks, like, have some big fancy dinner party for the birth of Jesus or some shit with your white-people silverware and hired help to pretend to make it fancy?"
Christeson looks uncomfortable, but he doesn't lie about it. "Yeah," he says eventually. "They wanted to do some whole big thing, invite the Mayor, all this shit." He kicks Stafford's ankle. "Meanwhile, I already met the guy. Clammy hands. We stood next to each other at the parade."
"You got a parade?" Stafford can't help laughing. Of course fucking Christeson would get the keys to the city, too. "You are such a badass motherfucker," he's not teasing for once, but Christeson smiles anyway, like he's waiting for the punch line.
"You invited me down here, though," Christeson continues inevitably, like Stafford hadn't cut in. "So I came."
Stafford laughs, and then lunges, tackling Christenson to the floor. "Not yet you didn't."