Work Text:
One of the things that sticks out the most in David's mind following his uneasy reunion with the company, along with the foul attitudes and bone-deep weariness that wafts from the men like the stench of gunsmoke and sweat, is the image of Liebgott's fingers dancing around the white carton, circled with a red band, that poked out of the front, left pocket pocket. It's an odd thing to stay engraved in his mind, over the ruinous mess that is Haguenau, the suspicious stains on the mens' uniforms, or the unkempt beards that lined their faces. David is absolutely certain that he didn't notice the movement of Liebgott's hand at the time, or what it was circling, too focused on taking in his barbed words and the scoffs that followed every reveal that he didn't know a fate he couldn't possibly know (though he now feels guilt well heavily in his gut despite) to consider much else.
Now that he's on the other side, however, waiting in the airy, cold townhouse designated company CP and awaiting his platoon assignment, the image of the carton of Chesterfields, stark against the blackened fabric of Liebgott's once olive-green ODs, stands out like nothing else.
(Across the room, in the large, dusty foyer, the new lieutenant - Jones, from West Point, he introduces himself as, stumbles under Captain Speirs' assessment, and David can't help but wonder if that's what he looks like to the rest of the men, a fumbling replacement, with all his prior experience with Easy wiped clean from the slate.)
Chesterfield's aren't David's cigarette brand, not that he thinks himself the type of man to hold loyal to one brand above all else, especially during the war, but he doesn't think he's ever smoked one - preferring the taste of Pall Malls of the selection commonly available. The gold decals of the battered carton, when glimpsed between the gaps of Liebgott's fingers as he slid a cigarette free, were so striking, however, that curiosity burns at the back of David's throat for the first time, along with a heap of other feelings.
There's also something fitting that, for all the change and turmoil Easy has clearly gone through, all of which David is just catching the tail-end of (again, that guilt), that the brand is still the one filling Liebgott's pocket all these months later.
Back in Holland, Liebgott smoked Chesterfields whenever he got his hands on them. A statement as obvious as saying that back in Holland, it rained more than anywhere else in the world. All David knew of Liebgott back then was a few funny jokes said amongst a group, of which David sometimes partook. Despite the fact they were both members of first platoon - Liebgott in Sergeant Martin's first squad, David in Sergeant Randleman's second, there'd been little reason to talk (though their sergeants always seemed to find the time), and David had been content with his own company, or that of the few confidants he had found in the platoon, of which Liebgott was not a part. Even still, David had noticed Liebgott's preferences.
During those dreary weeks, where the sound of rain pitter-pattering off their helmets was a near constant companion as they trudged between Nuenen and Uden then back again in an endless back and forth, seemingly never taking any ground no matter how much they took, if there was a cigarette between Liebgott's fingers or cushioned by the plush of his bottom lip, it was always a Chesterfield (at least in David's memory).
The association between Liebgott and the brand had become so embedded in his mind that, while David was in hospital, he had caught sight of the familiar carton on a bedside locker one day and, for a brief flash of a second, had thought Liebgott was back, tending some wound or another with a cigarette as he tried to sweet-talk a nurse into giving him extra care. When he'd quickly realised that Liebgott wasn't around, David had felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, then felt even worse for that disappointment. He didn't want Liebgott to be in the hospital - being in the hospital meant he'd been hit, but for all that concern over the fate of the rest of the company, David had been lonely, and the thought of a familiar face was a pleasant one. Even if that familiar face belonged to a, at that point in time, near-stranger like Liebgott.
"How's the leg, Webster?" Lipton's voice cuts through David's musings, once the talk of the potential patrol peters out, like a knife through butter, though with none of the harshness. Even with pale, clammy skin, and the shivers that come with illness, Lipton looks kind, approachable.
David clears his throat. "Better, sir."
"That's good. We’re happy to have you ba-" Lipton's cut off by a coughing fit of such force that he bows over.
Before David, or Jones, can even stand to offer some assistance (he's not sure what he could do), Captain Speirs is back in the room, a silver tray tucked beneath his arm which quickly gets abandoned on the coffee table as he leans over the back of the couch, hand on Lipton's back.
"For Chrissakes, Lipton," Speirs says, voice quiet and softer than it has a right to be, as he rubs circles into Lipton's back, "you're more help to me well."
This sounds like a well-trod argument, and Lipton sighs when the worst of the coughing is over. "I know, sir. Just let me get these men sorted -" he gestures to David and Jones with one hand "- and I'll be out of everyone's hair."
Speirs bites down on something, and David watches as a silent conversation is passed between the two men, before he nods. He pulls a carton of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and memories of whispered stories flicker through David's mind.
"Second platoon needs the most men, officers and enlisted, so that's where you'll be assigned," Lipton says to David and Jones. "We've had to move some of first over, Webster, so there'll be some familiar faces," he adds, no doubt as a kindness.
"Thank you, sir," David replies. He's not going to bring up the welcome he's received from those familiar faces.
Lipton nods, the dismissal clear, and the way Speirs leans over the back of the couch, handing Lipton one of his Luckies, which he takes, tells David that neither man is interested in hearing about company hazing rituals all that much. The light of Speirs' lighter casts stark shadows across his and Lipton's face as he lights both of their cigarettes, and David feels like he's intruding on something he has no right to see.
A different feeling, one that's not guilt this time, settles in David's chest just as heavy, and he can't help but think about the cigarette dangling from Liebgott's lips.
*
Later, David's back in the CP, with the enlisted men, this time (Speirs and Lipton are out of sight), the news of the patrol still hanging over everyone's heads, even as they squabble over the supplies that survived rear-echelon long enough to make it to the front. The smell of army soap hangs in the air, a welcome change from the stench that had greeted David earlier.
As he readjusts his hold on the box of grenades and explosives unceremoniously thrust into his arms to avoid the way his fingers cramp and splinters dig into his skin, Liebgott's hand, as hot as a poker-iron, even through the layers of David's uniform, squeezes his bicep.
"You been working out?" Liebgott's lips curve upwards in a smile as he speaks, one that's hard to read as either sincere or jeering.
David looks around quickly. He doesn't think anyone else heard, or, if they did, they're going to give a reaction, and he feels his cheeks flush red-hot. "No. Why would I?"
Liebgott clicks his tongue in disapproval. "That's not what a paratrooper's supposed to say, Web." Then, he shrugs, and turns his attention back to the table and the supplies, momentarily unguarded as Luz's attention is drawn elsewhere by the chaos surrounding them. "I was just gonna ask how you found the time - what with all the doting nurses." His fingers brush against a wrapped box of Chesterfields. "Figured that's why you didn't want to come back to us."
It feels like bait being dangled off a hook in front of his face, and before David can stop himself, he's sighing loudly. "There weren't any 'doting nurses'. You know that - you were there too."
"And I got out." Liebgott's lips curl in the makings of a sneer, but there's a glint in his eye - almost excited, that throws David off. Were David's hands free, he'd pinch the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, Liebgott hooks his boot around the back of David's calf, dragging him forward. "Stand there a sec," he orders, as he uses David as a shield to swipe the carton of cigarettes across the table and into his pocket, out of Luz’s line of sight.
David wonders if it's possible to get whiplash from just a conversation. If anyone were to make it so, it'd be Liebgott.
Nodding his head towards the direction of the open box of Lucky Strikes, David asks, "why not try to take the Luckies?"
Liebgott rolls his eyes, like David's an idiot for even asking. "I don't want any. Am I not allowed have favorites, Web? Fuck."
"I'm not judging," David shoots back. "They're not my favorite either."
"Ain't you special," Liebgott says, though there's no heat in his words, and he tilts his head in a way that, were this anyone else, David might think is playful. "You like Pall Mall, right?" Liebgott waits until David nods (which he does after he gets over the shock of Liebgott noticing in the first place), then he turns back to the selection of boxes. "Don't think there's any here, buddy."
"It's alright. I-" David just catches himself before he says that he'd bought a couple of cartons before leaving rehabilitation. The look in Liebgott's eyes tells him he noticed it anyway. "I'm not that fussed," he finishes.
Liebgott hums, considers David for a moment that stretches out too long, then turns back to where Perconte and Martin joke, growing louder and louder in volume to be heard over each other. "Hey, Perco. You want some Luckies? There ain't any fans here."
"Hey - that shit ain't yours to give away," Luz interjects.
Perconte scoffs, and he waddles over. "What, and make all my hard work be for nothing?" With a gloved finger, he rubs at his sparkling white teeth.
David quickly realizes that whatever brief interest he'd held for Liebgott has vanished, as he turns away, leaning over the table to joke with the other men. It leaves David feeling out of sorts.
Luz, grumbling something about his efforts going to waste, claps David on the back. "Come on, Web. Let's get these to OP 2." He shakes the box in David's hand and starts towards the front door, Jones and Vest trailing behind. Once they're outside in the biting cold air, Luz turns towards David again. "Ignore Lieb, you know how he is. I don't hate you for getting handsy with some nurses." He shoots a wink over his shoulder, the cigarette in his mouth bouncing with the movement of his jaw as he speaks.
David's torn between pointing out that he doesn't actually know how Liebgott is - he doesn't know him that well, or saying that he never got 'handsy' with any nurses. From behind, a loud jolt of laughter echoes from inside the CP. "Oh I know," David settles on, "I'm sure he'll get bored eventually."
The thought doesn't fill David with relief. For all his confusion about Liebgott zeroing in on him, he can't say he finds the attention all that grating - certainly not when he's comparing it to the disdain and disinterest Jones is being treated with. No one's questioned how long David's going to last on the line yet. Another burst of laughter sounds from behind, followed by the noises of playful squabbling.
Want curls like a serpent in David’s chest.
*
The first to spot David as he enters the dank, damp smelling basement where they’d been told to prepare for crossing the river, is Sergeant Randleman. He claps Garcia, who he'd been speaking to, on the shoulder once, saying something to him too softly for David to catch, before he approaches. Randleman is as hulking as ever, had appeared that way on the truck, “the Bull” an apt nickname, and David feels smaller than usual as he stands next to his old squad leader.
Around the cigar that's ever present in his mouth, Randleman says, "you remember how to set and detonate those fuses, boy?"
It's hard to tell if it's an insult or a genuine question borne from concern. With the Bull, it's likely that it's both.
"Yes, sir," David replies, deciding to answer it as genuine, even as he beats back the urge to suddenly stop and check that his uniform is up to standard.
Randleman clicks his tongue and nods, pulling the cigar from his mouth and blowing a cloud of smoke over David's head. "You'll be alright. Everyone-" his eyes dart to Jones, "- most everyone here knows what they're doing. Should go off without a hitch so long as you're careful and follow the plan."
If Randleman's about to offer any more advice, he's cut off by the sound of boots descending quickly into the basement. He straightens up, like he has been struck by lightning, places the cigar back in his mouth, and he gives David one more nod before leaving him to join the newly arrived Sergeant Martin.
Slipping further into the room, David glances over the rest of the men who huddle around Malarkey for the food he serves up, nurse cups of coffee close to their chests, or sort through their weapons for what they'll need and what they won't. He catches Liebgott's eye as he sits sprawled across one of the small, squat tables, his boots propped on a rickety wooden chair as a footrest. He taps a beat with the corner of his cigarette carton (one of the boxes he had swiped earlier, perhaps) that's familiar to David's ears, though he can't quite place it, while a cigarette smoulders as it dangles from his lips.
"The Bull give you any advice?" Liebgott asks once David's close enough, smoke slipping out from the corner of his mouth.
"Just to be careful," David says as he places his helmet on the table to Liebgott's right. Looking back over his shoulder, David watches as Randleman leans close to Martin, reads the familiarity evident in the way the both move with each other as they speak. David's all too aware of the careful distance between him and Liebgott when he turns away. "Are you ready?"
Liebgott snorts a laugh, another puff of smoke clouding his face. "I ain't the one who's been missing a couple of months, Web." He looks David up and down, the cherry of his cigarette bobbing with the movement of his tongue. "Don't worry about me, Web." His voice is more serious this time, like the gravity of the situation is taking over the desire to rib David. With the cigarette pinched between his fingers, Liebgott points to where Malarkey serves food. "Eat up. Don't wanna go across the river hungry - trust me." His voice is soft, softer than David’s ever heard it, and he wonders just how badly Liebgott thinks this is going to go.
*
The stench of exploding earth and ash cloys in David's nose as he pulls back the bolt of his M1, firing a shot as he runs for cover. His jump boots slip and skid on the ice, his trigger finger aches from use, and he's certain he's missed the shot - the bullet firing too far wide, but the clap of the rifle is more reassuring than fleeing without even trying.
When his heart is not pounding in his ears, drowning out the rush of the river and the sounds of allied and enemy gunfire, David will laugh to himself over that thought, how soldierly it is.
Only a few paces ahead of him, Jackson groans his death moans (even now, it's obvious that he's not surviving this) while the German prisoners, the reason they're even in this position, babble incomprehensibly, even to David. Time seems to move slower than usual, each second crawling along like molasses as the world erupts into chaos around the patrol.
Why won't someone blow the whistle ? David ducks behind a blown-out wall, pulling back the bolt of his rifle again and steadying himself on his feet.
A mortar ruptures the ground twenty feet to his right, raining dirt over David, which catches in his hair and uniform. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he scans the shadows where the rest of Easy lurk on the other side of the river, and wonders if they're asking the same question: why won't someone blow the damned whistle? He hopes that they're ready and waiting. He hopes that Liebgott's there, machine gun poised, with his animosity and fire now waiting for the right moment to be unleashed on the German's rather than a friend.
Firing another shot, David runs back towards the bank, zig-zagging to dodge the hail of bullets. He's halfway there, able to make out the white foam of the rapidly flowing water that churns over the rubber boats, threatening to capsize them and doom them all, while Sergeant Martin barks orders loud enough to be heard over the artillery, telling him to hurry up, while waiting for each man to pass before going himself, when David hears it: the shrill, sharp sound of the whistle.
It cuts through the air as sure as any bullet, and, within a heartbeat, machine guns kick to life.
The noise is all encompassing. The sound of bullets ricocheting off the walls, or hitting their targets, while tracer shots light up the night, drowning out all other sounds until it's all that David can hear, even over his own heart.
As he slides towards the dingy, David thinks that, for a brief moment, it's the sound of relief.
*
Afterwards, the sound of the bullets, artillery and Jackson's begging for life still ringing in his ears, while every one of his muscles cry out for rest, David lies flat on his back, wide awake in his bunk. He stares up at the moldy ceiling just a few scant feet above his head, tracing the cracks and chips in the paint with his eyes in the hopes that it will have the same effect as counting sheep. It doesn't. His brain is too active, too wired up, for him to get any sleep, too alert for dreams to take over from reality. Through the thin net curtains haphazardly closed over the window, the grey sky starts to light up the room with a thin sliver of light. The sun is on its way up, David thinks, though he doubts Haguenau is going to be bathed with any of its warmth, not that it deserves it.
The knowledge that dawn, and the day's reveille with it, is only a short time away makes it all the harder for David to justify sleep to himself, for him to claim whatever few minutes he can get of rest.
With a sigh, he runs a hand down his face, over the bristles on his cheeks that he'll need to shave before he gets called up, because he doubts the same standards that apply to the officers will apply to him, and swings his legs over the side of the bunk. He jumps down, cushioning the sound of his feet hitting the ground as best he can. The wooden floor is ice cold, even through the two pairs of woollen socks he's wearing, and he just barely resists the urge to shiver and chatter his teeth.
It's harder to stop the chill that creeps down the knobs of his spine when he looks across at the empty bunk opposite him. The indent from where Jackson had been lying, alive, only a few hours earlier is still visible.
David tries to swallow the lump in his throat. It doesn't dislodge.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the rest of the men in the room, who toss and turn, snoring and mumbling in their fretful sleep, David grabs his jump boots, left at the end of the bed and still stained with mud, and loosely laces them up, before throwing on his jacket and gloves. He slips out onto the landing, closing the door behind him.
The rest of the house is so silent that the sound of a lighter clicking is as loud as a bomb going off; so dark that the flickering flame lights the whole hallway up a burnished gold. David pokes his head over the wooden bannister. In the hallway on the bottom floor, Liebgot's face is lit up orange by his lighter's flame as he brings it to the cigarette in his mouth. The light makes the angles of his face more stark, and David can't help but take a moment to examine them, before Liebgott's near-black eyes, black as pitch compared to the whites of them, dart up to meet him.
The click of the lighter when Liebgott flicks it off is another bomb in David's ears, and the house is plunged back into murky shadows again. David can still feel Liebgott watching him, as he rounds the landing in the dark and silently descends the staircase to the bottom floor. The cherry of Liebgott's cigarette stays ever present in his periphery.
On the ground floor, the light is hazy from the near-dawn, and, for a brief second, David wonders if he is dreaming, if he actually did fall into some form of slumber and that this is just a figment of his sleeping mind. The way Liebgott shuffles to the side, as though to make room for David's presence, has him nearly believing it.
"Couldn't sleep," David says to explain his being here, once he's come to stop beside Liebgott, leaning up against the wall. It's cold enough that David's breath clouds in front of his face as he speaks, and he buries his hands deeper into his pockets. "You?"
"No, Web. I like being awake at four in the fucking morning." Liebgott scuffs the ground with his boot, the laces untied and clattering across the wooden floor, then sighs. The sound is enough to stop David from bracing himself for another argument. "Always too keyed up after shit like that to sleep anyway."
Liebgott takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke that mingles with a puff of his icy breath. David's shocked that Liebgott would even admit such a thing to him. Maybe this is a dream for him to say a thing like that. After all, he hasn't seen Liebgott since before the patrol.
It's only the taste of the smoke on his tongue, too rich to be anything but reality, that convinces David that this is all real.
"Have you gone to bed yet?" David asks to satisfy his curiosity as much as out of concern for the dark circles flanking Liebgott's eyes.
Liebgott shakes his head. "Just back from the OP," he says. Smoke slips from between his lips as he speaks, and David swallows the taste of it. It's as much a reassurance as the sight of Liebgott himself. "How'd it go? The patrol?"
David wonders, selfishly, if he should mention Jackson, if doing so will just ruin whatever is settling between the two of them, bring about another excuse for Liebgott to spit vitriol, to say the thing that's been at the back of his mind this entire time: how unfair it is that David's fine, while Jackson, who stuck with the company through thick and thin, is dead.
"Badly."
"I figured. I could hear...you know." Liebgott considers David for a moment, looking him up and down. For a split second, David spots his fingers twitch, before Liebgott readjusts his grip on his lighter and clears his throat. "You want a smoke?"
"Oh," David says, caught off guard. "No thanks, I've got my own." David reaches into his pocket and slides out his carton of Pall Malls, which had survived the patrol without even a drop of water staining the packaging.
"Right," Liebgott coughs, dropping his own packet back into his pocket.
It takes David a second to recognize the disappointment in his voice, and then the opportunity he's just missed out on hits him like a slap to the face. David's spent hours upon hours trying to get back in Liebgott's good graces, trying to figure out why they're butting heads when he doesn't even want to be, and when Liebgott offers him a cigarette, he puts his foot in his mouth and says he has his own.
The taste of the Pall Mall is bitter on his tongue.
"Thanks for the covering fire earlier," David says after a few moments of silence, hoping to salvage whatever he can from this moment, and, if nothing else, knowing that his back was covered by Liebgott when the time called for it is deserving of thanks.
Liebgott plucks his cigarette from his lips. "I hardly wasn't going to not shoot, Web." He throws his eyes up to the heavens, like David's an idiot, though there's an upward curve to his lips that wasn't there before, and it's missing the harshness of the smirk David's grown too accustomed to. "You should be thanking me for shooting straight. Couldn't see jackshit with the smoke."
Despite himself, despite the heavy silence that's settled over the house and the platoon since their return, David laughs. "Alright. Thanks for shooting straight and not sending me right back to the hospital."
The smile that breaks out on Liebgott's lips isn't something David thinks he can just describe as a curve of his lips, and he feels his heartbeat speed up in his chest. "Was hardly going to let you off that easy, buddy," Liebgott says as he taps his cigarette to clear it of ash, before rubbing his eyes, suddenly looking as exhausted as David feels. "And thanks for...thanks for getting me out of going across."
"You've already thanked me."
"You know what I mean," Liebgott replies, sounding far more sincere than he had before, out in the street with a crooked smirk on his face and Chuck laughing over his shoulder.
David smiles back at Liebgott. "Don't mention it. You deserve the break, and it's like you said, my German's as good as yours. There was no point in us both going through it."
"And the smart move would've been letting me go over."
"That didn't seem fair."
A strange look flashes across Liebgott's face, made visible by the light from the sunrise that shines through the hall window. "Thanks, Web."
They continue smoking together, not saying much more, but staying in each other's presence, until the sounds of the other men rousing pops the peaceful bubble that had settled over them. With a sigh, David stubs his cigarette beneath his heel and pushes himself from the wall, his movements matched by Liebgott, who smothers his cigarette on the mud-stained Persian rug that runs down the length of the hallway. Before they part ways, Liebgott catches David's eye one last time, and he gives him a small nod.
*
As they wait for the second patrol, wait for the plan that will no doubt go as poorly as the last one, with another of the gathered men crying out for help on the floor of the basement, Cobb spits drunken vitriol at David.
It's easier to ignore these insults, David's not sure why, but there's something he can only describe as pathetic, watching Cobb stumble across the room, the bottle of schnapps sloshing in his grip. It's enough that David doesn't feel angry, and the need to defend himself hardly raises its head. His eyes drift over to where Liebgott watches, his brows furrowed as he raises a mug of coffee to his lips.
Liebgott's eyes meet David's over the rim of the cup, and he raises one eyebrow, as though telling David he's waiting to see what he'll do, as though he's as shocked as David that he's not taking Cobb's bait.
It's Sergeant Martin who gets Cobb to shut it, the glare as effective against Cobb as it's always been against anyone else.
With Cobb suitably chagrined, David turns back to Liebgott, who is still watching him, as though waiting for David to look. He moves through the furniture, rearranged at some point to hide Jackson's bloodstains on the stone, to stand at David's side.
"What are the odds that that Kraut on the bank is still kicking - we can just grab him?" Liebgott asks, leaning forward conspiratorially.
David shakes his head, trying to flatten the smile that threatens to push his lips upwards. “I think someone got him with a grenade earlier, I’m afraid.”
Liebgott clicks his tongue. "Typical. Hoped the Krauts might see it as a favor and let us do it - it’d save us both from having to go over." He punctuates it with a wink, which makes David's stomach do a somersault that he can’t quite blame on the nerves.
It turns out that neither of them are going over - their orders are to lie, and get a good night's rest. David hardly believes the words, much less that they're coming out of Captain Winters' mouth.
Around the room, the men audibly sigh with relief, clapping each other on the shoulders and pulling each other into half-hugs as the knowledge that no one's dying tonight sinks in.
David watches the interactions, relief settling in his own chest as his tired body cries out for his bed. He watches the officers speak in low murmurs, waits for one of them to turn around and pull the rug out from under their feet with an announcement that Battalion won't be fooled, that the patrol needs to happen.
A warm hand on the nape of his neck jolts him back to the present. Liebgott leans in close, his breath tasting like coffee. "And you said it couldn't be done, Web. You don't need to sell yourself so short," he says with a laugh that's boyish and playful.
Something warm and satisfied settles in David's chest in response.
*
David's palm, even through his glove, is still warm from Liebgott's hand as he settles onto the truck. It's only as the engine rumbles and chugs to life, the wheels churning up mud and slush before moving, that it really sinks in that they're moving out, off the line. Liebgott's extended palm, on the other hand, still feels like a figment of David's imagination and he thinks it will take far longer for that to feel real. Despite the biting cold wind, David can feel his cheeks burning hot, the flush creeping down beneath his collar along his neck.
The sound of shuffling and cursing to his left makes David look up, just in time to see Ramirez slide down the bench, making room for Liebgott, who falls into the seat right next to David, sitting close enough that David can feel the pressure of his arm against his own.
"You ever been to Paris before, Web?" Liebgott asks, leaning impossibly closer to be heard over the whistling artillery that flies overhead.
Somewhere in the distance, a building collapses with a boom, but David can't look away from Liebgott's face.
"No, not yet."
Liebgott nods, like he's satisfied with the answer, and slides a half-empty carton of Chesterfields from his left-breast pocket. "You're gonna love it. We get a weekend pass and I'll show you the sights Web - all of 'em, the tower, the clubs, the arch. It'll be good." With his free hand, Liebgott claps David on the shoulder twice, making David's heart skip two beats at the contact. Then, he offers the open carton to David. "Want a smoke?"
This time, David extends a hand. "Sure."
Liebgott hums, clearly pleased with his answer. Plucking one of the cigarettes and placing it in his mouth, David starts patting down his pockets in search of his lighter. His fingers just brush against the cool metal of it, when Liebgott shows his own.
"Here, let me," Liebgott says, and David lets his own lighter fall deeper into the folds of his uniform.
Liebgott scoots forward, so that the lines of their bodies are pressed together on the bench, ostensibly to reach the cigarette in David's mouth and protect the flame from the wind, and lifts the lighter to David's face. The warmth of the flame dancing against his cheeks mingles with the warmth of the flush that's only growing in intensity.
David holds his breath as Liebgott lights his cigarette, losing himself in Liebgott's eyes and the way his lips, red with the cold, quirk upwards, like he knows what is running through David's mind - that is: nothing at all that isn't this moment, here and now. No schemes, no guilt, no jealousy, just the feel of Liebgott's body pressed to his, the warmth of the flame kissing his skin, and the feeling of satisfaction pooling in his belly.
The taste of Chesterfield is as smooth as pleasure on his tongue, and David decides, then and there, it's his favorite brand too.