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When the day goes to night, the bomb detonates, the smoke clears, and the curtain closes. Black always finds himself back in the same place.
Tucked away in shady motels most well-minded individuals would tend to avoid, nestled in infrequently washed sheets, the motivator behind Black’s treachery showed itself. It was not an ugly sight, no, not by any means. It was quite beautiful, refined even.
A battered man sits propped up on a pile of pillows in a sort of sleepy sentinel. Moonlight streams in from cracks in the curtains parallel to the bed, almost purposefully just to highlight his features. His softened eyes, sharp cheekbones, and his long nose that, no matter how many times Black broke it, remained ever appealing. Curls of hair peek out from underneath his white wide-brim hat, catching the light in such a way that it shimmered like silver. Black’s stomach churns at the sight of him. It is not dissimilar to the feeling he gets when he is about to face off against White on the battlefield. The anticipation that sets his hair on end, the tension that coils in his muscles, the addicting thrill of adrenaline entering his veins Black supposes that this is a battle of sorts, less against White and more against himself. Against the ideals he stands for, and the country he fights for.
Black shuts the door behind him, sealing his fate. He slides the flimsy door chain lock into place and jams a nearby chair under the knob, more so out of habit than an actual preventative measure. White smiles at this, his humored expression a rare sight for a man so often consumed by rage and hate. It was unnatural to see his face contorted in such a way. It was as though some unspoken rule was being broken for White to be able to make such a devastating expression; for him to do anything besides scowl and glower at Black felt illegal.
Black slowly trudges toward the bed, feeling each step reverberate in his not yet closed wounds. White had gotten some good shots in on him this week, or rather, good stabs. He always has been particularly crafty with knives or really any sharp-edged object. Black has learned this through years of painful experience. Scars coat him head to toe: thin ones, long ones, gashes both deep and shallow. He feels as though his body is a mere canvas for White’s knife, a block of wood for him to carve into whatever shape he pleases.
He stops short of the bed and goes to shut the curtains further, despite how his body groaned for him to lie down. It slides shut, cloaking the two spies in a charged darkness. White is barely visible to Black’s trained eye, a vague blur of pale skin nestled among the mound of similarly white pillows.
White looks blankly into the darkness, his murky gray eyes seeing but not really perceiving what lies within it. White always had the worse vision out of the two, being somewhat short sighted for some unknown reason.it didn’t affect him too much outside of his marksmanship being a little inconsistent at longer ranges. Black wishes that if he stayed still enough, White would forget that he’s here and all about this unspoken arrangement between. Bury the body of these treacherous tenderhearted moments. And maybe Black could forget about him too; omit the feeling of his skin on his, his warm breath on his neck, the repose of lying with the only person who knew him truly. It’d surely make his life a lot simpler. Well, as simple as a world class spy’s life could get.
The bed springs creak as White shifts in the bed, making space for him. A sigh escapes Black, and he gimps over to the bed and awkwardly slides in, trying not to flex his muscles too much. The mattress is stiff and unforgiving to his tender flesh; it was like lying down on a boulder covered in a pillowcase. The sheets are scratchy and thin like a worn burlap sack. Cold filters in from cracks in the wall paneling and the piss-poor seal around the window. He hears the wind hissing by and the weary activity of those still awake. Car horns honk like a distant bird's squall, hecklers in the street calling out to any passersby with promises of flesh or liquor or any matter of illicit services. The world carries on unaware of utter treason taking place in this 5th rate motel. The fate of entire countries hangs in the balance of two spies, balanced upon a bed-born armistice and an agreement to share in sin and sedition. The general public's ignorance to everything that goes on around is something repulsive to Black, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Secrecy and going undetected is a vital part of his job description. Other people knowing about this would complicate things. Each witness would open up a world of unseemly possibilities: discharge, capital punishment, execution.
White’s body is a beacon of potential beside him, a universe of possibilities within itself. Anything could happen. He could strangle him in his sleep, gouge out his eyes, snap his neck, suffocate him the sheets (though that might be a challenge considering how thin they are), bludgeon him with the rock-hard pillows; the possibilities are nearly infinite, only confined to Black’s drowsy imagination.
The man looks almost incapable of such violence, half asleep like this. His bandaged back faces him, an incredibly bold move considering he’s seen what Black could do with even the smallest of openings in his defense. It was almost like he trusts him.
Black’s heart stirs at the thought. It’s absurd to think that, downright delusional to even imagine such a thing developing between him and man he tried to kill on daily basis. Scars and bruises occupy the exposed parts of White's back. Bullet wounds dominate the majority of the scars, puckered patches of skin where high-caliber bullets pierced through him, craterous indents on the large of his back warped by shot-gun pellets, and long thin scars along his shoulders and sides where his bullets only grazed him. Black remembers creating each and every one of them. The moment before the shot, anticipation coursing through his veins like a forest fire, the weight of the gun in his hand, the goading call of the trigger. It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed him yet. The bullet always seemed mere centimeters away from its target, vital arteries left unpierced by a mere fraction of an inch. It’s infuriating, but he can’t say that he doesn’t suffer from the same affliction. Despite White’s efforts, Black always seems to slip away from him; escaping before his knife could truly make him bleed. It’s a limbo they’ve been stuck in for nearly 20 years now. It makes him want to tear his hair out some days, wishing that he'd just win already, but yet he doesn’t know what he’d do once he won. A future without White sounds like a listless one. Purposeless even.
Black diffidently scooches closer to White and gingerly drapes an arm over him. White rolls over to face him, stifling a grunt as he pulls against his stitches. His hand moves to rest on Black’s hip, nonchalantly slipping his hand underneath his untucked dress shirt to touch his skin. His thumb traces over an old scar that peeks over the waist of his black dress pants, a meaty gash that spans from the bottom of his ribs to the juncture where his thigh meets his torso. A reminiscent expression plays over White's face. The familiar fire in his eyes is barely visible in the low light, a small yet sharp smile tugging at his lips.
Black tucks his head into the crook of White’s neck and shuts his eyes and takes a breath. He lets himself be submerged in the tepid heat of White’s body, the scent of that oddly flowery cologne he uses, the brush of his coarse hands as they roam underneath his shirt. He shudders despite himself, in spite of how many times they’ve done this.
His hand finds itself curled in White's hair, twirling the soft strands in between his fingers. Their legs intertwine with each other, slotting together like puzzle pieces. He feels White shifting, moving to burrow his head into Black’s neck, his ear pressed up against his throat to hear the resilient beat of his heart.
The world around them seems to fade, at least to Black it does. The noises of life outside the motel dissolve into a static hum, and the cold seeping in through the window doesn’t seem to be so harsh anymore. Sleep begins to creep up on Black, lulling his mind into a gentler state that would allow for him to forget about the circumstances of this momentary reprieve. For a moment, everything is calm. The countries they represented, the ideals they stood for, and the intelligence they desperately squabbled over seemed far away: a distant backdrop in the theater of their lives. All that mattered now was contained in the sanctum of their motel room: each other.