Work Text:
and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Warm August air sticks to his skin, seeping deep into him and warming up his bones. Golden flecks of light are slowly shifting hue to the tones of orange and reds and everything around him is quiet and still. As still and quiet as nature can be when it’s the season of ripe. The buzz is faint but permanent and makes him feel more alive, more human. And in turn, it equally exhausts him.
Once the weekend had approached, he gladly retreated into his camper. Guns to fix up, laundry to sort through; it kept him busy. Lately he finds that the routine, however, is not enough to ground him. Sometimes he powers through it already feeling worse for wear.
It’s when he notices soft footsteps coming his way; hat pushed to block his features from others and the sun, he finds himself both grateful and terrified of what’s to come. The footsteps stop, but the sensation of another’s proximity lingers. It’s not the threat of imminent danger but feels no less frightening. To think that he might let another person down over his own mismanaged mood swings scares him just as much as the possibility of getting stabbed during the fight.
Sun hides from him as someone blocks it and in turn makes him shiver in the sudden drop of temperature. It’s light, barely noticeable, but refreshing enough to disrupt the nap he’s been drifting in and out of. Taking a deep breath, Mundy doesn’t trust himself enough to move or speak. In fact, he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck the conversation up in general. As he pushes his hat up to see who or what’s silently waiting for his attention, he catches the glimpse of dark blue obscured in the warmth of the sunset.
“One day I’ll find you here, toasted to death,” a pair of eyes observe him with a playful smirk that fades as quick as it came, when he doesn’t respond to the bait. Instead, Sniper offers a soft smile; sleep is still imprinted on his features.
“Been a long week, is all,” he begins slowly, trying to ignore how foreign his tongue feels in his mouth “is Soldier still pissed over the headshots?”
“Ahh, yes, yes, you’ve done just wonderful, I don’t think he’ll get over that unless he plots a far crazier way to even out the score,” Spy huffs impatiently, moving out of the way only for sun to hit Sniper’s eyes and obscure his view. He squints but remains still, letting the Frenchman circle around him as he continues lamenting, “see, if I wanted to talk work I could’ve just stayed at the base.”
“Well, then why don’t you tell me how your week was,” Sniper hums, keeping his eyes closed. The warm tones play around as the sun’s about to meet the horizon. He welcomes that buzz, hoping it’ll buy him time to get his thoughts in order before his partner starts poking into his withdrawn presence.
It’s when no response comes when he truly forces himself to sit up and look around. Silence and nature surround him, and no trace of Spy seems to be around. Has he dreamed him up in his musings? Mundy finds himself scared stiff that he’s finally bored Spy enough to make him leave. He wouldn’t be surprised, to be honest, he’s never thought of himself as an entertaining type to be around. The door to his camper now wide open proves his assumption wrong. Thankfully.
“What the heck are you up to?” Mundy calls, both curious and cautious.
“Get over here and help me, will you?” Spy answers, his voice coming out muffled. Moving around inside the camper Mundy catches a glimpse of the man in the side window, wondering just what Spook’s up to. He grunts, forcing himself to rise to his feet with a lazy stretch. Perhaps it’s good that Spy’s here with his whole resplendent self. His silver tongue and brisk energy pulls on him, refusing to let him stagnate.
He’s both grateful and terrified.
Before he can fuss over whatever’s going on in the interior, a large heavy blanket lands in his arms, forcing him to take a couple of steps back. All he can muster at that is a questioning look as he watches Spy waltz around, collecting all sorts of sheets and blankets and trinkets he himself forgot he’s had. Any other time, he’d protest this as invasive. Now? He’s too paralyzed to even bring it up.
“Have you made this one yourself?” Whatever mystery Spy’s came up with, he makes zero to no effort to give Mundy a hint. In fact, he stops to look at him, awaiting an answer while holding up an old, knitted pillow he tested his yarns on. As if it was Mundy who should explain himself. The pillowcase is quite a botched and improvised endeavor, but one which he comes back to when in need of a reference for other projects.
“I’ve- mate, what the heck is all of this? I don’t think I’ve ever asked for a makeover. Especially not unannounced.” Moving inside, he clutches onto the blanket that has been thrown his way earlier. Spy, as it seems, isn’t willing to budge.
“I suppose that’s a yes. Good to know,” he nods to himself, taking the pillow under his armpit, ready to grab another thing he’s pulled from god-knows-where. It’s only when Sniper’s hand grips his wrist when the man finally stops mid-motion.
“What the fuck are you on about?” Mundy’s voice is harsher than he initially intended and as a result dies down as soon as his words leave his mouth. Indecisive, he doesn’t trust himself with words enough to say anything else. As the silence stretches on it gets more than obvious something about today simply isn’t right. He doesn’t want to fail Spy; doesn’t want to fuck it up between them just because he’s sluggish and brash. Spy, no matter how annoying or seemingly spiteful, deserves so much better.
Questioning eyes behind the blue mask search his features. Patiently, Spy’s free hand cups his cheek, pulling him down. And he lets him, momentarily forgetting whatever troubles him. The light kiss to the corner of his mouth disarms him entirely and Spy takes the chance to pull himself free from his grip.
“Take these things outside, please,” the man begins slowly, pulling away only to plant another kiss to the other side of his face, “I’d like to make it comfortable if we are to stay outside for the night.”
“Oh,” Mundy’s voice is faint, barely above a whisper, “are you sure you’d like that?”
“I am sure,” the shorter man nods, absentmindedly fixing up the collar of Sniper’s shirt. “In fact, I think it’ll be quite lovely. I certainly haven’t seen stars in a long time.” Mundy’s about to lean in again, hoping to steal another kiss, but falls short as Spy manages to retreat. In turn, Sniper finds himself being offered another set of things the man intends to drag outside.
It seems that there’s a bit of a pattern. It’s always Spy who initiates the closeness. Softly, carefully, he’s circled closer and closer, stealing touches and kisses here and there. These small acts of endearment have grown on Sniper, and usually, they are able to share that closeness. It’s when Spy withdraws and avoids him, preferring to be the giver rather than receiver entirely, Sniper can sense something’s off. Something is off with his own moods today too, perhaps he’s just projecting his worries. Perhaps they’ve unsettled each other by accident.
When it comes to talking things out, Spy takes the lead. When both become avoidant, Sniper finds himself at a loss. He was never able to turn the tables the way he hoped. He should be able to breach the barrier and speak his mind but he can’t. Perhaps it takes time. When he thinks of it that way, he can find a bit of comfort in it. He’s been patient till now; all his life, really. What’s one more depressive spiral compared to that?
As they assemble their little fort of pillows, blankets and sleeping bags near the camper, the sun's already on the edge of fading. Shadows slowly creep and envelop the vast area surrounding them. In the distance, a couple of lights flicker on near where the base is supposed to be. While taking care of the small bonfire to ensure warmth throughout the night, Mundy keeps his hands and mind busy enough to soothe his anxieties. It’s because actions make sense. They offer a direct result, rather than an abstract set of rules he’s to follow when overthinking.
Somewhere in the back, Spy’s occupied with preparing a makeshift charcuterie board with whatever he could find in the camper. That being said – there’s a lot more crackers and puffed rice cakes than meat, but it’ll do.
“Well, I surely haven’t had cheese puffs with wine before, but there’s always a first time for something,” Spy chuckles as he settles down, his tie and coat folded neatly to his left where smoke doesn’t reach. Sniper too makes himself comfortable, allowing his leg muscles to ease build up tension. His side and thigh have always been troublesome. When a change of weather is due, it spikes up.
“I’ve never eaten flowers either,” Mundy shrugs, accepting a mug of wine Spy’s poured for both. As their ugly old ceramics click in a toast, he continues, “how do they even taste like?”
“It depends on what you eat them with,” the man hums, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere between them while fading back into his musings, “you can have them as they are, or you can add them to dishes. Toasts with cream cheese and edible flowers are quite delicious.”
“See, to me it seems like it’s done more for the looks than anything else,” he tilts his head while taking a sip. There’s no judgment to his tone, if anything, he’s curious.
“Can’t say that it doesn’t look pretty, you know? Sometimes the truth's somewhere in between.” In the faint orange light of the bonfire flickering, the liquid in their cups turns pitch black. A thick, sluggish sky that swirls around, wrapping around itself before being consumed. There’s something unspoken floating around them. It casts shadows over Spy’s cheeks, blurring out lines around Sniper’s jaw. Shadows eat at their frames much like the turned-strange liquid they’ve poured themselves.
It sticks to their insides, eating away; filling up the cracks it creates. Seems like they are good at this – acting like it’s not there. Pretending that they aren’t circling around a hurdle of build-up anxiety. How patient should one be before it spills over?
Actions make sense. Acting?
“What flowers do you like?” Spy’s the first to break the silence, eyes finally meeting him in the process. Curious, his hands cup the mug as if he wanted to warm them up.
“Can’t say if I have a favorite, but sand daffodils are interesting,” he blinks away as his aviators slip down his nose. Either way, he doesn’t bother to fix them. Peering over at Spy like this allows him to focus on form over detail.
“How so?”
“Well- are you actually going to listen to an infodump about flowers or are you just fishing for a topic?” Sniper chuckles, reaching for one of the crackers on the board.
“Mick, not everything’s a threat,” the man huffs, taking the chance while Sniper’s preoccupied with munching to steal his glasses, “when I was young, I used to like flipping through gardening magazines, that however doesn’t come close to how they may look in real life. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Gardening magazines?” He’d like to stare at the man, not in anger over the thievery, more in surprise over yet another thing he would’ve never guessed about him. As that proves difficult in the poor light and with no glasses, he sets his mug down to fish for a spare in his vest.
“You’re going off topic, that’s for another time,” Spy waves him off, and when Mundy’s vision clears up, he can finally see him sport the aviators so nonchalantly as if they were his own. Safe for the fact that they don’t even fit him, it’s all rather comical and endearing.
“Right, so, sand daffodil,” he recovers rather quickly, leaning back a bit to get more comfortable, “they aren’t any special, but I find them interesting because they pop right out form sand near beaches. Everything else there is so harsh and suddenly, you can spot white petals. And I find it silly that they resemble lilies, may smell like lilies but aren’t considered true lilies.” This earns him a confused look from Spy, who gravitates closer to him as he speaks.
“What’s the difference anyway?”
“Well, they share the same clade if I remember that right, but are two different types of flowers. It’s its own whole thing and it gets pretty confusing to be honest.” As the conversation progresses, they find themselves itching closer. It goes unnoticed, but as he looks over to Spy, he finds himself leaning closer; finds the man doing the same while still preoccupied with the bonfire near them. He doesn’t dare to touch him or disrupt his musings, but that shared proximity comforts him; allows his nerves to ease up.
“What was that whole thing with gardening about?” a low murmur leaves him, eventually pulling Spy’s attention back to him.
“You won’t let that slide, huh?” Spy chuckles.
“Well, I’ve shared my knowledge, I don’t think it can be too embarrassing not to share yours. Especially not after knowing you munch on flowers.” He offers back a heartfelt smile, finishing up his drink.
“Does that really bother you so much?” The man seems to be in a playful mood, dodging his questions and nagging on. It’s a nice little way to avoid talking about himself, but it won’t fool Mundy. Not after what they’ve lived through together.
“Hey, bother is a strong word. It’s just that I haven’t heard of it before.” He offers back in turn, not willing to budge.
“Ahh semantics,” Spy rolls his eyes, clearly sensing defeat, “I’ve been collecting magazines for this or that over the years. If it wasn’t gardening it was ceramics and a couple of other things. Nothing too wild- just a hobby.”
“And what has drawn you to gardening? Did you just wake up one day and subscribe to that because you felt quirky?”
“Well… yeah? Partially at least. I don’t know, it just happened to be. I've grown interested in the way flowers can be arranged – that some can’t be potted together for this or that reason. One would think that it’s just like that. That you water a plant and keep in near the light and you’re happy to go. Sometimes it’s horrifyingly overwhelming to find out how many rules there are to ensure you’re doing the task the way it’s supposed to be done. That goes for… pretty much anything else, right? From gardening to horse riding to… to you know… what’s the word-” stopping mid-sentence, he seems to fish for the right term.
“Object or action?” Mundy offers a lead, playing with the empty mug.
“Action with a car- driving! Driving, right.” His voice dies off and the silence creeps up between them again. Neither one bothers to continue and that’s just as okay. Sometimes it’s okay to just exist. To be around each other and feel content knowing there’s no status to uphold. To know that not everything needs to be said to be understood.
The fire dims, conjuring lazy, slow lines moving around both of them. Adding a log or two to keep it going, Sniper decides to finally settle down completely. With his eyes fixed on the slow-revealing sky, he absentmindedly lets his tongue slide.
“Thank you for sticking around,” it slips, leaving him vulnerable in a way he’s not sure if he likes, or if he’s ready for. Unintentionally, he braces himself for a response, eyes glued to the stars above him. So vast and endless, he wishes for the sky to wrap itself around him, hiding him in the flickering nothingness.
“Huh?” Spy blinks at him, taken out of his musings he seems so lost and out of his element. For the first time, he doesn’t seem to possess a witty remark to fall back on. Consequently, this leaves Sniper at loss too, anxiety spiking up again.
“Well, I’ve been- off. I’ve been vile; yet you’re still here- too patient. The fact that you’re still around means the world to me,” he falls silent for a moment, dissatisfied with how his words come off. Staring off at the sky, frowning, his heart races and his mind scolds him. He’d like to clarify but can’t seem to find the words the longer the silence stretches on.
The person next to him moves in his peripheral vision. The aviators Spy’s been wearing click as the man puts them aside. Scooting closer, a pair of light brown eyes appear above him, downturned. Spy’s eyelashes flutter as he watches Mundy with patient softness. He blocks the vast endless universe above them, creating a brand-new world for Sniper, one full of his ravish and charm. He wants to reach out- make sure he’s not just a muse.
Actions over acting.
“You’re more than what you’ve been told.” Gloved fingers press against his temple, fixing up few strands of hair that have gone astray. Tone so velvet; it makes Mundy’s breath hitch. Raw and terrifying, he’s not sure if the warmth spreading in his chest is the result of their physical or metaphorical closeness. And in that moment, he truly doesn’t want to mull over any of it.
Actions.
Cupping his hand in his own, his fingers are ever so gentle. Hopefully Spy won’t try to pull away this time. Turning his face to the side, his gaze remains fixed on the man above. That way he makes sure he can see the reaction. It ensures that he’s there with him as his lips press against the heel of Spy’s palm. Fabric of the man’s glove is soft and warm. A layer separating him, protecting Spy from the outside world. Sniper observes, imprinting every inch of him in his memory, noting how his expressions change with each kiss that comes. How his breath loses rhythm, emotions overruling his senses.
“Have you ever whistled on grass?” Mundy whispers against the hand he’s holding. Taken by surprise, taken out of the moment, Spy doesn’t respond right away.
“That’s a silly children’s thing,” he forces himself to clear his throat, voice uneven.
“But have you?” Sniper insists, a newfound energy flickering over his features. Spy refuses to budge, offering stubborn silence. Mundy must’ve really taken him out of the moment. If anything, it forces him to chuckle. “It’s not that hard, I could show you,” a beat later, before the man can protest, he pulls himself up. Looking around the bonfire, he pats the ground for a blade of grass.
“Aha! There it is,” he returns back to his comfy spot, making sure that Spy sees what he’s up to, “all you’ve got to do is to place it against your thumb and this soft part below the thumb.” He demonstrates what he intends to do, offering another blade of grass to Spy afterwards.
Reluctant, the man accepts, trying his best to follow along step by step.
“Now that you’ve got that done, just try and blow into it,” again, Sniper goes first. The sharp, high-pitched sound that he manages to produce startles them both, “now’s your turn.”
Spy’s fingers carefully wrap around the blade, creating a small gap where the grass fits in. As he brings his hands up to his lips and blows, nothing but a muffled puff of air comes out. He frowns, momentarily adjusting the blade to try again. No luck.
“Oh, this is bullshit,” He’s about to throw the piece away before Sniper interferes. Scooting closer, he pulls on Spy’s wrist to get the man’s attention.
“Your gloves are in the way,” he hums, “I’ll be so much easier if you’d just-”
Spy pulls, trying to free his hand to no avail. Eyes piercing a spot between them; he doesn’t want to acknowledge the other man’s patient presence. So close, so tender. The serenity they share when faced with each other’s insecurities is endless. As the moment stretches on, Sniper’s the first to double down on his intention.
“I’m sorry, if it’s not something you’d want to do then… I won’t push you,” as he’s about to loosen up his grip, the other man, still avoiding facing Sniper, grabs onto his hand to keep him still. “Uh, Spook?”
“Lay down and look up at the stars.” It’s a demand. Soft spoken, but firm. He does just as he’s told, retreating back to settle down between the sleeping bags and pillows. He can’t see him, but the body on the edge of his vision shifts. Gently, a layer of something soft presses against his chest. Against his own judgment, he pats the spot without looking only to feel the same soft fabric he knows Spy’s gloves to be like.
“Don’t move,” a whisper, more rustling. The shadows swirl around them both, awaiting in impatient buzz. The fire illuminating them wraps them in comforting warmth as everything else lays still.
Then the sharp whistle sounds out, piercing through the thick black night. It’s then, when Sniper’s eyes settle on the man to his left. Their eyes meet as Spy’s hands lower down from his mouth, settling in his lap. Bony calloused fingers wrap around themselves, almost too shy to be seen. Mundy doesn’t follow the movement with his eyes, trying not to pry.
“Please don’t ever change.” Unmoving, his lips wrap around the words with mellow patience. A breath uttered, left hanging between two bodies in a circle of warm light.
Spy’s eyes flicker in surprise, and he could swear he’d seen a small smile creep on the man’s features before he hides his face in the crook of Sniper’s neck. It’s okay. It’s all okay that way. He shifts to allow Spy to make himself comfortable in his arms. Both eventually settle on watching the stars above them.