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It was Friday evening, and Sniper was in one of those moods that only Friday evening could bring; the week’s work was all done, which gave him a satisfied and accomplished sort of feeling, and he had two days of rest and recreation to look forward to.
As soon as he took a quick shower and changed his clothes—he hadn’t gotten the chance to respawn before the work day ended and he was covered in dirt and grime—he grabbed a black leather case from the closet and took it with him to the couch. He pushed the two buttons on the front and popped it open, revealing a glimmering saxophone. He looked at it lovingly, smiling to himself as he pulled the instrument from the case. It was hard for Sniper to believe he’d stopped playing it for so long—he’d gotten back into it only a few months ago, and it was wild how much he’d missed it.
Sniper settled himself into the couch and put the saxophone’s mouthpiece to his lips. What should he start off with, on this fine Friday evening? If he thought too hard about it, he’d sit there all night agonizing over the perfect song and wouldn’t play a single thing. Not long ago, though, his best friend had given him an excellent piece of advice, which was to play the first song that came to his mind. And he did just that—he began to play a soulful rendition of “Dancing Queen,” swaying a bit to the melody. After that, he played a part of “Piano Man,” which he got bored of pretty quickly. Mid-song, he switched over to “Tiny Dancer.”
When he got to the chorus, he heard the sound of a key turning in the front door lock, followed by the door swinging open. There was only one person he’d entrusted a spare key to, and that would be Scout. He’d gotten tired of getting up and stopping what he was doing just to let the man inside, so Sniper had given Scout a key of his own.
In lieu of a hello, Sniper changed his tune to the Pink Panther theme song. That always made Scout cock his shoulders to the beat of the music, or at least crack a smile. But there was none of that today; Scout had a sour look on his face, which was uncommon, to say the least.
Furrowing his brow, Sniper pulled the saxophone from his lips and propped it against the coffee table.
“Something troubling you?” Sniper asked him.
Scout didn’t answer him; the man made his way to the kitchenette, where he pulled an energy drink from the fridge. (Sniper didn’t drink those horrid things, but Scout loved them, so he kept the camper well-stocked.) He popped the top and drained half the can, then slammed it onto the countertop.
“We need to talk,” Scout said.
Sniper’s blood ran cold. Of all the things you could say to someone with Sniper’s level of anxiety, “we need to talk” was one of the worst phrases you could utter. That, combined with the awful look on Scout’s face, made Sniper want to crawl into a deep, dark hole and die there.
“All right,” Sniper said carefully.
Scout left the kitchenette, his drink apparently forgotten, and flopped down on the couch next to Sniper. They were close, their knees nearly touching.
Scout took a deep breath. He wouldn’t meet Sniper’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of stuff,” Scout said.
That was another gut punch for Sniper. Nothing good usually came after those words either. But he had to persevere—this was his best friend, after all.
“What sort of stuff?” Sniper asked him. Before the other man could answer him, a horrifying thought came to Sniper’s mind. “You’re leaving the base,” he said. “You’re quitting.”
“What? No.” Scout shook his head. “I’m not quitting.”
Though he didn’t show it, Sniper was very much relieved to hear that. “Well,” he said, “what’ve you been thinking about, then?”
Scout was silent for a moment. He stared across the room, looking deeply into the beveled glass of the television set, which wasn’t turned on.
“I’m tired of being miserable,” Scout said finally.
He offered Sniper a quick glance, and Sniper noticed that the man’s eyes were glassy. Sniper had seen Scout cry exactly one time, and he wasn’t keen on seeing it again. This is serious, Sniper thought. He considered putting a comforting hand on Scout’s shoulder, but decided against it; that could be the final tipping point, could make Scout feel even worse.
“Miserable?” Sniper said, furrowing his brow. Scout couldn’t be miserable; Scout was, well, Scout. He’d seemed like his normal, peppy, chipper self until just now. “Sorry, mate, I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary about y—“
The rest of the sentence died in his throat as Scout grabbed him gruffly by the shirt collar, yanked him close, and smashed their lips together.
Sniper’s eyes went impossibly wide as his brain tried desperately to make sense of what was going on. He’s actually kissing me right now, he thought stupidly. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t daydreamed about something like this, but he knew it would never happen—simply put, Scout wasn’t gay. Scout had had about a thousand girlfriends since Sniper first met him. Everybody on base knew Sniper was gay, no secret about that, but Scout…
Slowly, Scout pulled away, disengaging their lips and letting go of Sniper’s shirt collar. Sniper sucked in an embarrassing breath of air, as he had temporarily forgotten how to breathe.
(Hold me closer, tiny dancer.)
He’s looking at you, Sniper thought wildly. He’s looking at you with those gorgeous blue eyes. Say something, you fucking idiot.
But Scout beat him to it. “I’m sorry,” he said bitterly. “I’ll get outta here.”
Scout made a motion to stand up, but Sniper, surprising even himself, reached out and grabbed him by the hand.
“No, nonono,” Sniper stammered, holding onto the other man’s hand like he was dangling off the edge of a building. “Stay.”
Scout lowered himself back down onto the couch cushion, looking cautiously at Sniper.
“That’s what kissing’s supposed to feel like, huh?” Scout said quietly.
“Was it…different, then?” Sniper said. “From kissing a girl, I mean?”
“Oh, for sure,” Scout said. “I just thought I was kissing the wrong girl, and that’s why I didn’t like it. But I’ve kissed like fifteen girls—no, wait, Melissa makes sixteen girls—and it just…didn’t do it for me.”
“But just now,” Sniper said, “when you kissed me…did that…?”
Scout pulled his hand out of Sniper’s grasp and hid his face in his hands, then mumbled something Sniper couldn’t understand.
“Say again?” Sniper said.
“It was amazing, okay?” Scout said sharply, his voice almost a shout. “It was—“ He made little explodey motions with his hands. “Fireworks.”
Fireworks, eh? Sniper had to fight to keep a grin off his face. “You’re saying it like that’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not bad, it’s just…” Scout let out a long, cheek-puffing sigh. “When my Ma finds out that I don’t…that I’m…she’s gonna hate me.”
Sniper nodded in understanding. He knew that feeling well. “I never did tell my mum and dad I was gay,” Sniper said. “Looking back on it now, I’m sure they suspected it. They’re gone now, so it doesn’t matter. But I get it. My folks wouldn’t be happy with me, either.”
Scout gave him a look that Sniper could only describe as pitiful. “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he said.
“More damned if you don’t,” Sniper said. “Didn’t you just say you’re tired of being miserable?”
Scout went silent for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “I am tired of being miserable.”
This time, Sniper saw the kiss coming. As their lips connected, Sniper was bold enough to reach up a hand and thread his fingers through Scout’s dirty-blonde hair. It was softer than he’d imagined it to be.
After what seemed like an hour, but in reality was less than ten seconds, they broke apart, their faces inches from one another’s.
“You know what I think we should do?” Sniper said.
Scout was fighting back a smile, Sniper could tell. “What?” Scout said.
“It’s Friday night. We could go to the movies. Hold hands in the dark.”
Scout’s face reddened. “Like a date?”
“If you want it to be,” Sniper said.
Scout considered it. “We can stop at the convenience store before we go and smuggle snacks in my bag.”
“Oh, naturally,” Sniper said. “The snacks they sell at the movies are always so stale.”
Scout laughed. “Who’s driving, you or me?”
“I assumed you would. Your car’s a hell of a lot nicer than my truck.”
“You got a point there,” Scout said. “Meet me at the garage in fifteen minutes?”
Sniper didn’t need fifteen minutes to prepare, but he decided not to mention that. “Sounds like a plan.”
Scout stood up from the couch and made his way to the camper door. As he opened it, he looked at Sniper over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said.
“No worries,” Sniper replied.
When the door closed, Sniper leaned back against the couch cushion and closed his eyes. He hoped he wasn’t ruining a perfectly good friendship just for the possibility of having…more than a friendship with Scout. But the thought passed as quickly as it had come.
He got up and walked into the kitchenette, where he picked up Scout’s half-empty drink can. He poured the leftovers into the sink, the liquid hissing and smoking as it went down the drain.
“What the hell is in these things?” Sniper wondered aloud. And how was Scout still alive after consuming so many of them?
There were many things, he thought with a smile, that remained to be discovered about Scout.