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Out here in the wilderness, time has its own, distinct way of passing: slowing down until you barely notice the seconds ticking away as they stretch into hours – decades – eons, and every breath you take feels like a lifetime. And then, from one moment to the next, it seems reversed. Suddenly, time rushes on and in the blink of an eye, a week has passed and you can't help but wonder where it went and when you lost the hours and days in-between. But it doesn't matter.
The moments that do matter, they won't pass unnoticed.
The ship.
A confident smirk on Witt's face, the mindless arrogance of a man who believes nothing can touch him, and yet Welsh cannot bring himself to hate him.
Angry words, insults thrown over the table: "You'll never be a real soldier, not in God's world." -- "I can take anything you dish out. I'm twice the man you are."
But there's no real anger behind them. It's a battle of wits, and somehow, they're both revelling in it. An uneasy dance. There's more between them than they let on, much more. Eyes locked on each other like a sniper tracking a target, but their lips are twitching. They are heading somewhere. Where, they have yet to figure out.
"I might be the best friend you ever had. You don't even know it."
Later.
The first attempt to win the hill, and suddenly Witt is beside him, smiling at him. Welsh didn't see him coming; but there he is, smiling, for God's sake! As if the heated words had never been spoken. As if there's some private joke between them. As if he knows something about the two of them and what's going on, and Welsh doesn't.
And maybe – just maybe – that's true.
He wants to protest when Witt asks the Captain for permission to rejoin the company, but eventually thinks better of it. Admitting – if only to himself – that he does in fact want Witt here, with him. He doesn't turn back to look at Witt, but he can feel the smile. There might be an answering one on his own lips.
Later.
The night is blue.
The grass softly sways in the wind, and if this was another place, another time, maybe he'd notice the beauty of the surroundings. But this is war, and it is cruel and bloody and lethal, and there can be no beauty in a place that's filled with death. There's beauty in the man sitting opposite him, though.
He tells Witt he feels sorry for him, tries to bring him down from the tightrope he's walking before he falls. If Welsh speaks too harshly that night, it's because he's worried for Witt. Maybe, it's always been like that.
Witt calmly, almost stoically absorbs him words, a gentle smile engraved on his face. He doesn't talk back, for once.
Instead, when Welsh is done with his lecture, Witt leans forward and pressed his lips to the sergeant's.
Before Welsh has even a chance to react, Witt sits back again, smiling. Always smiling. Welsh is about to ask him what this is supposed to mean, but Witt gets up and tells him to go to sleep.
Welsh watches him leaving, knowing that he will not get any sleep that night.
Later.
Finally, a moment of peace, treacherous as it may be. Sunlight streaming through the leaves, turning the village into warm shades of brown and green.
And once again, there's Witt. The words spill from Welsh's lips, simply because he doesn't know what he'd do if he stopped talking. Pointless questions. Witt ignores them.
"You care about me," he says, and the world stops turning.
The house may be lonely, as Witt said, but not for long.
Stolen kisses behind the walls that shield them from their comrades, and this time Welsh is responding, giving as eagerly as he receives. There's a kind of desperation in the way he holds Witt that he cannot even explain to himself. As if, somehow, he's afraid Witt would slip through his fingers, dissolve into nothingness if he didn't hold him tight.
Witt doesn't mind.
They make love in the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the window. He watches Witt's face as he comes, the complete rapture clouding his features, and realizes that this is as close to perfection as it'll ever get. He doesn't know whether the thought makes him happy or sad.
"I still see a spark in you", Witt whispers, and he doesn't disagree. But silently, he wonders if the spark hasn't lit a fire already, and if that fire is going to burn him eventually.
Later.
Later.
"Where's your spark now?"
Soil. Dirt. That's all that's left. A grave down in the deepest jungle in a foreign country. A place that will be forgotten before the war is over.
He doesn't cry. He won't cry. He refuses to cry.
He tells himself he has always known it would end like this.
This army's gonna kill you, he told Witt, that day on the ship, what seems like a lifetime ago. And he was right, wasn't he? In the end, he was right. He has never wished more than now that he hadn't been.
He brushes himself off, stands up and leaves the grave without a backward gaze.
Later.
There is no later.
No later that matters, anyhow.