Aquamaniac vs. the Roman Empire
Author: emmastark
Aquamaniac vs. the Roman Empire continued
Chapter Four: Audaces Fortuna Iuvat or Fortune Favors the
Bold
The air felt heavy, dripping with moisture and tension.
Hannibal waited.
BA waited.
The small room, the Roman bath – were filled with their
waiting, filled to bursting.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crane drove fast up through Topanga Canyon, tires on the
Army green jeep squealing as they cornered on the narrow, curving road.
Three jeeploads of MPs followed them up into the hills. They
had to get the A-Team this time. They just had to.
Crane chanced a quick glance at his CO.
Decker’s jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark and stormy
with fury. One of his hands curled around the dash, the other clutched
spasmodically at the butt of his gun.
Crane swallowed. Was there anything more beautiful than
repression? Anything more erotic than black lace-up army boots and jungle green
fatigues? Anyone more irresistable than…
Shut up, Crane told himself. Shut up. Even if he wanted it,
he’d never let it happen.
Would he?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Face woke slowly. The sun was in his eyes, warm on his skin.
The grass tickled his bare legs. The breeze whispered sweetly in his ears, and
he thought he could hear the ocean, maybe, far, far below. The air up on their
high hill smelled sweet and fresh. Green.
So little of Los Angeles smelled green. He opened his
eyes.
Murdock was wandering along the hillside, picking daisies.
Well, not real daisies, maybe. But the California equivalent. Close
enough.
Face felt a surge of protectiveness in his gut, almost
stealing his breath away.
Murdock was everything beautiful and dear and good to him.
Everything right. But real at the same time.
How could somebody go through what he’d been through, war
and pain and loneliness, mental illness and cold white walls, all of it, and
still lay his heart open the way he did?
People didn’t give him enough credit when they called him an
innocent. None of them were innocent anymore (although this place, this
hillside, looked so very much like Eden).
No, that was too easy. Murdock knew exactly what he risked
when he walked through the world that way, trusting, compassionate, caring. He
knew, and he risked it anyway.
Murdock looked up and caught Face’s eyes. Grinned that
cockeyed grin. Climbed back up to him, then dropped to the ground, his lap full
of little white flowers.
Face watched as Murdock spun one of the flowers between his
fingers.
"What you thinkin’, muchacho?"
Face propped his head on his hand. "I was thinking I’m
lucky. I was thinking I love you."
Murdock smiled, and plucked a tiny white petal from the
flower in his hand. "He loves me," Murdock said, then plucked another
petal, and another. "He loves me, he loves me, he loves me."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crane pulled into the vast recreation area, one of hundreds
of parks that interconnected with each other throughout the Santa Monica
Mountains.
This recreation area was a jungle of little white star
trailers, halogen lights, strung electrical cords, sound equipment, cameras.
And people. Show people. Fucking democrats. Liberal commie bastards. Not a real
man among them.
Crane looked over at his CO, at Decker, his gaze pulled like
a magnet. Now there was a man.
"Crane! Get over here, soldier!"
Crane double timed it over to Decker’s side, and listened as
he shouted out orders to the gathered MPs in that gritty gray voice.
Crane had never seen Decker with a woman. Or with a
man.
He’d seen him with a glass of whiskey, sitting alone in the
Officer’s Club.
He’d seen him naked, showering off hot sweat in the men’s
shower room, water sluicing off his long, lean, muscular form, dog tags resting
in the sparse, damp hair on his chest.
He’d seen him defeated, but standing anyway, shaking his
fist defiantly at the gods, who refused to let him win just one round, just one
fight.
Decker slung an AK-47 over one shoulder. "They’re in
there, men. And we’re gonna take them down. Search every building, look at
every face – you’ve got the posters. Lewis, MacAvoy, Long, Chan, take the left
perimeter and work south toward team two. Go! Go! Go!"
The men rushed off, their boots pounding in the soft
dirt.
Decker stepped into the fray.
Crane followed, determined to watch his CO’s back.
And his backside.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Hannibal stepped forward.
It was difficult to breathe. The air was too moist. Too
hot.
He stared at his Sargeant. His friend. His man.
There was something almost impossibly masculine about BA
Baracas. Overt and intimidating.
It brought something out in the Colonel.
Women were wonderful. He loved to love women, smooth skin
and flashing eyes, the curve of a hip, soft breasts, sweet smell of their
sex.
Men were different. Dangerous. Hard.
Making love to a man, for Hannibal, was challenge, the jazz
personified.
There was a certain quid pro quo as you gave bits of
yourself, took pieces of the other. Challenged and surrendered. Felt the threat
of each other’s strength, then trusted yourself in each other’s hard, calloused
hands.
Hannibal took another step through the warm water, feeling
himself harden in spite of its soft caress. He looked at BA, let his eyes trace
the lines of dark muscle. Raised his eyes to that unfathomable black gaze.
Quid pro quo.
BA stepped forward, toward Hannibal, and suddenly they were
close to each other, too close, close enough to smell each other’s heat, feel
each other’s breath. Too close.
Something had to give.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Everything was confusion.
Actors milled and scurried. Some screamed. One group of
young punks had started a random sit-in. Others mistook the soldiers for extras
and tried to get them to exchange their green fatigues for white togas.
Decker had confronted some guy with a baseball cap on,
thinking it might be that Murdock character, only to find out it was the
Director.
The Director had shook his head repeatedly, muttered
something about McCarthy, then pointed toward a path into the woods.
Decker had charged forward, hell-bent on capturing his
nemesis.
The A-Team was his albatross, a weight around his neck, a
curse, but he forged on anyhow, damn them all. Holding everything in, dragging
everything behind.
Crane knew what it was like to fail. He’d failed at
everything his whole life. But when Decker had taken him under wing, he’d
learned that failure didn’t have to define him. Not if he didn’t let it.
If only he could thank Decker for that. Thank him properly.
Take some of that weight, that unbearably heavy weight, off his shoulders for a
little while.
Decker plunged into the woods, but before Crane could
follow, he was over run by a pack of nubile, naked young women, draped in
shimmers of clinging wet silk.
Two men rushed past him on a camera dolly, one shooting, the
other pulling focus. Crane was knocked off his feet.
The Director was shouting, "Run! Run! We need slower,
bouncier running, ladies! Look afraid! The Aquamaniac is right on your heels!
Bounce, damn it! Bounce!"
Crane got to his feet and rushed toward the path his CO had
taken. But the path was empty. The woods were silent.
Behind him, Crane could hear the Director screaming at the
young actresses. "Cut! Damn it, we need bouncing! Fear and bouncing! This
scene is critical, do you hear me? All vestal virgins back in the water, back
in the water…"
Crane stepped forward. Into the woods.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Face lay on his back on the cool grass, staring up into the
blue. His wooden sword jabbed him in the back a little, and he shoved it
away.
Murdock was braiding his daisies into a chain with long,
deft fingers.
Face smiled. He was so comfortable. It wasn’t often that
they could just be. Just relax. Just play. He kind of liked it.
One of the clouds that moved slowly across the sky above him
caught his eye. "That cloud looks kind of like an airplane."
"What cloud?"
Face pointed, and Murdock stared up at the sky, which was
filled, now, with fluffy wisps of white. He cocked his head and studied the
cloud carefully. Then he sighed.
"I was never much good at clouds and inkblots,
Facey."
Face looked at Murdock, then reached over and pulled him
close. He eased Murdock’s head down into his lap, then smoothed the dark hair
back, gently, from his face. "You see things as they really are, Murdock.
That’s all."
"Ah’m crazy, ‘member? No good at reality," Murdock
replied, turning his face into his lover’s lap.
Face leaned down and kissed Murdock’s temple. He stayed
there, draped close over his love and friend, protectively, lips grazing the
soft cheek. "Maybe you’re… maybe you’re too good. I think if you see things
really, like they really are, and… and you’ve been to some places like we’ve
been… you start to understand too much."
"Y’all were there too. You didn’t break."
"We don’t see the way you do. And you know better than
anybody how we’re broken."
Face’s voice had gotten soft. Murdock reached up and put his
arms around Face, murmured softly into his hair.
"Together we make up for the broken places, baby. We’re
okay."
They held each other for a moment.
Murdock ran his hand through Face’s hair. He loved to run
his hands through Face’s hair. "Sorry, Faceguy. Everything crashes into
the old noggin sometimes."
Face shook his head. "Shhh." He pressed his
fingers to Murdock’s lips, then let that silencing comfort become caress.
Murdock smiled, then reached over and grabbed his chain of
daisies. He braided the ends together and placed the ring of flowers on Face’s
golden hair.
Face grimaced. "Murdock, do you have to…"
Murdock silenced him by pressing his hand to Face’s lips.
Turn about, fair play. Then he replaced his hand with his mouth. Then he
straddled Face. He pulled up the loose white linen of Face’s toga, pulled it up
and off, then scooted up a little so their cocks brushed against each other. He
felt a jolt of heat run up from his groin to his heart. Face looked so… so… so
damned irresistible, all tousled and warm in the sun. Flowers in his hair.
Murdock shifted his hips, and felt an answering heat and hardness in his
lover.
Face moaned happily. And gave in gracefully. After all, if
his lover was turned on by daisies, why fight it?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Something had to give.
Hannibal stood there, his pale blue gaze captured. He could
feel heat radiating off his Sergeant’s body. The big man’s skin was beaded with
perspiration.
There was something in BA’s face… his eyes? No. Maybe the
tiny quirk at one corner of his mouth. He didn’t smile. He almost never smiled.
But there was something there, in his face, that someone who knew him well
could distinguish as… happiness? Caring? Concern? Well, it meant
something.
Hannibal sighed silently. Watched as his friend took a deep
breath.
Then there was a sound behind him.
Then BA’s lips were locked tightly on his and he was pushed
back, pressed into the water, under the water, held deep, still, silent.
He moved instinctively to struggle, but BA’s hands were
locked around his arms like steel. He opened his eyes.
The chlorine stung (and should there really be chlorine in a
Roman bath? Was that verisimilitude?).
His lungs began to ache from lack of air. Fear gathered in
his balls and drove upwards into his chest, but he didn’t panic. Fear was an
old friend, and they’d danced the two-step too often to take each other by surprise.
Hannibal looked into his Sargeant’s eyes. Separated by only
inches and clear water, he could read the message there. Trust me. Trust me.
Trust me.
And he did.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Decker forged, alone, along the path through the woods.
Alone.
Always alone.
He paid no attention to the beauty of the land around him,
the trees and blossoming undergrowth, the squirrels and the birds.
He was a soldier.
The job defined him, the cut of his hair, the way he stood,
the clothes he wore. What he said, what he did. But as forty passed him by and
fifty approached, he’d begun to wonder if there was anything else to him.
Anything else for him. Just an army green loneliness? Cold
steel, warm whiskey and an empty bed?
He moved faster. Keep moving. No thinking.
He had taken half a dozen random paths, and they had lead
him up into the hills. That’s where the Director had told him the second unit
was shooting.
He shoved his way past a dangling branch, and suddenly he
was at the base of a hill. He could see two figures up at the top. Two very
cozy figures, rocking together. The one on top had his dark head thrown back
and even from this distance, Decker could hear a low, sultry moaning.
He lifted the AK-47 off his shoulder and took off the
safety.
Swiftly, silently, he began to climb.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crane sat down on a fallen log.
Lost.
He’d followed his CO into the woods to be his back-up, to
help him, support him. Now he couldn’t even find his way back to the jeep.
The dogtags that hung from his neck jangled together, and he
grabbed hold of them. Then, impulsively, he took them off. Lay them in the
middle of the path.
He walked a little, then took off his cap, and lay it in the
path. Walked father. Set down his jacket.
What was he doing? He wasn’t sure. But maybe his commanding
officer just needed an excuse to let everything go. Maybe he needs… me, Crane
thought. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and kept walking.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
BA opened his lips just a little, and breathed his own warm
breath into Hannibal’s mouth.
Hannibal accepted the gift gratefully. What was wrong?
Something.
His mind catalogued the possibilities, reviewed strategies,
listed enemies and assessed probable outcomes. But while his mind was moving,
trusting his teammate’s judgement, but readying itself for action, his body
responded to the familiar (but unfamiliar) feel of lips on lips, bodies pressed
close, the taste of another’s intoxicating scent in his mouth.
Hannibal heard another sound (a door closing?), muffled and
echoing oddly through the water.
BA’s gaze lifted. Then Hannibal was, carefully raised out of
the water from some strange baptism of lust and danger. BA pulled away a
little, but kept his hands on Hannibal’s arms until he got his feet under him.
The room was empty, now.
Hannibal caught his breath. "Report,
Sargeant."
"MPs. Three of ‘em. Don’ think they saw us
though."
"Decker."
"Hmmph."
"We’d better find Face and Murdock."
BA nodded, then lifted himself out of the water. He reached
back a hand to Hannibal and pulled him up.
Hannibal kept his hand. For just a moment. Let his other
hand run down the broad shoulder. Let his eyes show the jazz that raced through
his veins.
BA gave him that look again. Nodded again.
Some kind of promise passed between.
They both grabbed towels and began drying themselves
off.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Face lay in the warm grass and thrust his hips up toward
Murdock.
Murdock lay over him, pressing into him, pressing their
cocks together, sliding up and down with exquisite, slick perfection.
Murdock’s head was thrown back, and wonderful little humming
noises were coming from the back of his throat. His eyes were closed, and he
looked… enraptured.
Face grinned, and pressed up even harder. Murdock felt so
good to him. Everything they did felt good. Hell, he even liked just holding
hands with Murdock. He’d never liked that kind of thing, public displays of
affection, hand holding, touching, patting, petting. It had made him
uncomfortable. But Murdock had a way of touching that was so reassuring, so
true…
So hot. Murdock reached down and took both of their cocks in
his hand, stroking them with his long fingers, pressing them together.
Face felt the catch at the back of his throat. His breath
came in short gasps.
He was on fire. He felt his balls clutch up into him.
He saw Decker.
The instant drew itself out, and everything was crystal
clear, all of a sudden. The air. The sound of a seagull, crying. The
light.
Decker was moving slowly toward them, weapon raised and
ready.
Murdock, eyes still closed, shifted against him, back and
forth, back and forth.
They had no weapons.
The scent of crushed pomegranate wafted along on the
breeze.
Decker came closer.
What do you have? A picnic basket and a wooden sword. Hey,
maybe you could throw a banana peel under his feet…
What to do?
His lover moved gracefully against him. His lover. Protect.
What to do?
Decker was only ten yards away.
Face remembered, suddenly, something that Hannibal had told
him. "Do the impossible, kid. They’ll never expect it."
Face remembered asking, "What the hell does that mean,
Colonel?"
Hannibal had just shook his head, grinned, and puffed on his
cigar.
Face grasped Murdock’s arms and rolled over on top of him,
grabbing his wooden sword. He rolled to his feet and, yelling
"Yaaaaaahhh!" loudly, plunged toward Decker and brought his wooden
sword down onto the AK-47.
The automatic weapon fired loudly, leaving a trail of
bullets in the warm earth.
The gun clattered to the ground, and Face brought the wooden
sword down on Decker’s shoulder, then on his head. While the man was
disoriented, he grabbed his hand gun from his hip.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Decker fled. Away from the naked mad man on the top of the
hill. Away from his own failure. Away.
He half ran, half fell down the grassy hill, and plunged
into the woods.
His heart raced.
He only stopped when he saw something glittering on the path
ahead.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Murdock knelt in the grass and stared up at Face.
This was crazy.
Face was naked and walking toward him. He was carrying a hand
gun and an AK-47 was draped over his shoulder. He’d vanquished Decker with the
wooden sword that he still held in his right hand. He was hard, and his cock
bobbed just a little with every step he took. He was breathing heavily.
"Face…"
Face dropped the weapons to the ground beside Murdock. He
grinned that cocky grin, the one that slayed you. It would have brought Murdock
to his knees if he wasn’t already there.
"Facey, what…"
"Do the impossible," Face said, pulling Murdock up
against him. "They’ll never expect it."
Face grabbed onto Murdock and held tight. His eyes were very
bright.
"Face…"
"Make love to me," Face said.
Murdock could feel Face’s chest rising and falling, fast,
his heart racing. He wrapped himself around his lover, lowered him to the
ground, and plundered his mouth with hot kisses.
"Make love to me," Face said. His lips were hot
and swollen and sweet.
"Yes," Murdock said.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
They were soldiers.
They were hard.
Murdock pinned his lover’s naked body to the ground, pressed
himself against hot flesh, moaning.
Face yanked his arms loose, grabbed hold of Murdock, rolled
them over so he was on top. Plundered that sweet mouth, gasping, aching for
release.
Murdock rolled them again, shoved Face’s wrists into the
grass, kissed his mouth, his throat, the place above his pounding heart.
Their eyes glittered in the hot sunlight. Love was there.
(Always there.) But at that moment, aching need was overwhelming, each for the
other. They could smell each other’s heat and sex, feel the sweat-slick skin
beneath their fingers, hot and moist and wanting. Murdock could taste salt on
his tongue as he moved his mouth hungrily over Face’s smooth, tanned
chest.
It was not a socially acceptable phenomenon. Not something they talked about. Not something most people (people who hadn’t been there, people who hadn’t been where they’d been) would understand.
But violence is an aphrodisiac.
The encounter with Decker, sudden violence, gunfire, attack,
counter-attack, sweet victory had left adrenaline surging through their veins
like a freight train, pounding.
There was anger that what was most dear had been threatened.
There was relief that what was most dear had been protected. Everything was
spilling over into need.
They were hard.
Murdock’s long, strong fingers pressed into Face’s shoulder,
pulled him up and over beneath him. He stretched himself full length across the
smooth, tanned back, burying his face in soft, sweet, honey-colored hair,
kissing the place where strong jaw met soft sweet flesh of throat, letting his
tongue run down Face’s spine to small of back. Letting his hands run down from
strong shoulders to narrow waist (the ghosts of scars), along the strong,
rounded sweetness of his lover’s ass.
Face writhed beneath him, half-turning, lips parted.
"Want you..."
Murdock grasped Face’s hips in his hands, pulled Face up
against him.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
They were soldiers.
They were hard.
Silent promises had passed between them, lips had
touched.
But they were soldiers. The threat of danger pulled them
away from their own small pleasures. They could not resist its call.
But that other call, just as primal, just as strong, sang in
their blood, pressed against cool leather and constricting cloth. Set aside,
but not forgotten.
Not forgotten.
Hannibal drew the broad sword from its sheath and handed it
to BA. It wasn’t a gun, and they could have used a gun. Better than this
polished, but unsharpened steel. He’d learned long ago, however, to make do with
the tools at hand. He drew his short sword and raised the shield to his
chest.
The two men moved carefully out of the Roman Bath, into the
sunlight, and prepared to engage the enemy.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
They were soldiers.
They were hard.
Crane sat on a rock, letting the cool water caress his feet
and legs. The breeze, filtered through the sheltering trees, ghosted against
his hot skin.
His eyes were closed. Head tilted back.
He let his hand drift down, stroke his aching cock.
He thought about Decker.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Decker picked up the dog tags, walked farther, picked up the
cap, the heavy black belt and matching shoulder holster, the army green
fatigues. He held them close. He let his calloused thumb run over the cold
metal letters that spelled out ‘Crane.’
He kept moving. Deeper into the woods.
He was confused, but he was an army man. He’d never let
confusion stop him before. Never let doubt be a factor in his actions.
The words of his drill sergeant, so many years ago, played
in his ears. The man who had turned him into a man. "We don’t pay you to
think, asshole! We pay you to kill! Kill, kill, kill!" Decker smiled. He’d
loved being a grunt. Back before the war, before promotions. Before
confusion.
The discipline of the army had comforted him. The rules, the
regulations, the orders had given meaning to his life.
He’d kept on doing what he’d been taught to do, before the
war, during the war. Others had become confused, but he had allowed the US Army
Guidebook to be his bible, and he had not been shaken from his path.
He continued to do his duty now.
But there was something wrong.
Was it that he was getting older? Was he allowing doubts to
spring up within him because he didn’t have the strength he’d had at twenty, at
thirty, at forty to shove them back down where they belonged?
Was it that he was alone? The years had left him... nothing.
The clothes on his back, tin medals from forgotten wars.
Confusion pressed itself into him. He kept moving, but it
was getting harder. Harder to reconcile his thoughts and his actions ("We
don’t pay you to think, asshole!). Harder to keep fighting, fighting, fighting.
Harder to stand alone, here, against the world.
Decker picked up two socks and two carefully polished black,
lace-up boots. A white strappy t-shirt. A pair of faded boxers, in cotton
camouflage. He adjusted himself carefully, hot and hard beneath his own tight-fitting
fatigues, but he did not think.
He moved forward until he could see the familiar figure of
his Captain, seated on a rock in the middle of a stream.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Murdock grabbed the small bottle of olive oil off the
checkered cloth beside them, and gasped when he poured the cool liquid onto his
hot cock. The smooth, golden oil ran down onto Face’s ass.
Murdock tossed the bottle aside and stroked his lover’s skin.
Desire clutched at his throat, making it difficult to breathe, but he felt
protectiveness welling in him also. He reached around his lover, embracing an
excuse to touch the hard heat that lay beneath, touching an excuse to hold his
lover close.
Face knew. "Love you," he said softly. "So
much."
Murdock could not speak (desire, clutching at his throat),
but let his fingers say the words again, Braille in reverse, messages written
on soft skin, the tapping of a lover’s code. His hands were firm and careful and
gentle and strong. He pressed himself against Face, the touch itself relief,
but wanting more, pressing. Resistance and release, close heat, tight sweet
(sweet) hot yes more harder wanting god yes pressing sweet hot tight more
harder deeper yes grasping holding pulling closer pressing deeper sweet tight
yesssss...
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
There were no soldiers.
Hannibal and BA moved carefully around corners, eyes
scanning the half-constructed sets for any sign of danger.
But there wasn’t any.
Extras, clad in togas and sandals, wandered aimlessly
between the star trailers and the food table. Production assistants moved
purposefully through the confusion, hauling props and scripts and clap boards
and notepads. Grips and best boys wrangled cords and equipment. But there were
no soldiers.
The two men circumnavigated the area that the film crew had
taken over, then expanded their search to the woods nearby.
They were aware of each other, as they moved. There had been
an awareness for a long time, soldiers together, depending on each other. But
this was different. It was as though they could feel each other on their skin,
awareness amplified by heat and desire.
BA kept licking his lips. He could still taste Hannibal
there, a deep, smoky sweetness that was stronger than the chlorinated water,
that lasted on his tongue.
Hannibal felt the jazz in him and the strength and sureness
of the man at his side. He moved easily, the patterns of search long ingrained
within him.
The foliage became greener and they could hear a stream,
running over rocks. There was evidence of people passing, a Fritos bag bloomed
red and gold in a bush beside them and a random script page had been torn out
and stepped on in the path. When the stream came in sight, Hannibal
grinned.
The soldiers, all fourteen of them, had captured... the
vestal virgins.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
PFC Chan was kissing a red-head, his fingers clenched in
wet, clingy white silk. Sergeant MacAvoy had draped his fatigue jacket over the
shoulders of a big-eyed brunette, and they were blinking at each other shyly.
Lewis was talking up twin "virgins" and they were explaining their
cameo appearance with the Aquamaniac itself to him. Long had a sweet little
blonde sitting on her lap, and had wrapped her arms protectively around the
other woman. To keep her warm. Pickering was puckering up for a little kissing of
his own. The entire outfit was completely and thoroughly... distracted.
Hannibal pulled a cigar out from the place, between his
tunic and his armor, where he’d stuck it hours before, and lit it carefully. He
smiled at BA. But felt a little cautious, suddenly, now that there was nothing
standing between them.
Somebody grabbed his arm.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Murdock came hard, crying out in wordless joy, overwhelming
relief. Gasping for breath, he sagged down onto Face. Where he had been holding
his lover up, hard, close, his lover now held him, supported him.
Slowly, carefully, Face lowered them both down, then turned
to Murdock. Captured his mouth.
He was still hard (blissfully hard, achingly hard). His ass
felt hot and it ached a little too, but felt so good. Murdock felt so good
inside him, always. But he wanted more. He let his mouth (hungry mouth) reveal
his need, and Murdock raised his eyes to Face’s bright blue gaze.
Face melted a little in the warm, chocolate satisfaction of
those eyes. Murdock’s eyes got him every time. He loved that strong, rangy
body, so gentle and warm, the softly furred chest, long legs, tight ass. He loved
that voice, flights of fancy in smooth, level, laughing tones. The wild dark
wisps of hair. But those eyes saw everything, saw right into him every time,
from the very beginning.
Nothing in his life had made him feel loved until he saw
love in Murdock’s eyes.
Murdock was still gasping (grinning), but Face couldn’t stop
kissing him, tasting him, feeling him.
"Want you, now," Face said softly,
insistently.
Murdock reached up and touched Face’s lips. Grinned
more.
Fill and be filled. Take and be taken. Give and
receive.
Murdock batted his long, dark lashes and gave Face his best
come-hither glance. "Come an’ get me, baby," he said.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Decker took a swig from his flask. The whiskey burned nicely
as it went down.
He looked at Crane.
The young Captain was stroking himself firmly, eyes closed,
unaware.
Bird watching, Decker thought randomly, as he moved a bough
aside so he could get a better view.
He took another drink.
He was carefully not thinking, acting, not thinking and he
took his wallet out of his pocket.
He took another drink.
He had three pictures in his wallet. One of President Ronald
Reagan. One of General George S. Patton. And one of his mother. He laid them on
a rock and looked at them for a moment. Studied them.
Took another drink. The whiskey had begun to burn in his gut
and it was a pleasantly familiar feeling.
He took off his cap, his army green cap, and laid it over
the pictures.
He looked at Crane again and took a drink again and began to
unlace his boots.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
BA growled and the PA paled and shrunk away.
Hannibal took another puff on his cigar, then smiled at the
young man. "What can we do for you, kid?"
"The... the Director he, um, wants to know if you’re,
uh, ready for that scene? I mean the battle?"
Saved by the bell, Hannibal thought. Only he didn’t think he
wanted to be saved. He glanced at BA apologetically.
"Lead on, MacDuff," he said.
"McKenzie, sir. Dirk McKenzie."
"Of course you are," Hannibal replied.
The battle scene was ready to go when Hannibal and BA
arrived. Armies in place with swords and shields and the Aquamaniac in all its
glory (even if manned by a stand-in) loomed over the Director, taking a few last
minute notes.
The sun was just settling low over the horizon. Magic hour,
that last hour before the sun sets, was giving everything a warm red-gold
glow.
"Okay," the Director said, taking Hannibal’s
still-burning cigar and passing it off to a startled production assistant.
"You know the drill, John. Lines to your men, rousing them to action. They
give the war cry. You engage the Aquamaniac. You’re pissed. Really pissed. This
guy has killed your parents, ravaged your vestal virgins, viciously attacked
your city..."
"The Aquamaniac has its reasons, Ron. It’s not just a
mindless..."
"I know, I know. Not a mindless killer. We’ll get your
insert shots tomorrow, with you in the outfit. But today you’re in the mind of
Hannibus Maximus. General of the Roman Empire’s army. Defending your people
against the ravages of the beast."
Hannibal slid on his helmet. "Against the ravages of
the beast. I like that." He raised his sword.
The Director strode back into position beneath the camera,
which was high above the scene on a crane, taking in the army of extras and the
woods behind from which the Aquamaniac would emerge.
"And... action!"
Hannibal shook his sword in a rallying move, facing his
army. "Victory at all costs!" he shouted. "Victory in spite of
all terror! Victory however long and hard the road may be, for without victory
there is no survival!"
The men let out a piercing war cry, shouting and whistling
and calling for blood.
The Aquamaniac lumbered out of the woods toward the gathered
forces, moving implacably toward them.
Hannibal stepped forward, sword raised, to engage the
enemy.
BA watched as the sun, red gold on the horizon, beat against
the steel of his Colonel’s armor. Watched as he approached the beast, head held
high, sword gleaming.
Then the Aquamaniac attacked.
The lumbering creature lifted its heavy arm and knocked
Hannibus Maximus to the ground.
BA didn’t think; he acted. Ran across the field through the
gathered forces who were chanting "Hann-i-bus! Hann-i-bus!" Brought
his sword down on the Aquamaniac’s broad green back.
Hannibal got to his feet and lifted his shield to defend
against another blow, then jabbed at the creature’s middle with his short
sword.
BA’s sword flashed as he brought it, two-fisted, across the
Aquamaniac’s shoulder and Hannibal followed through with a hard blow to the
creature’s throat.
They worked together with the ease of years of practice and
long trust. They parried each blow and backed the creature up farther and
farther... until it turned tail and ran.
The army went wild, cheering, jumping up and down, shouting
for joy.
Hannibus Maximus turned to Barac, dropped his sword and
shield in the dirt, and in the last light of the red, setting sun, grabbed hold
of the other man’s jaw and kissed him hard.
The army paused for a moment. Then went wild again,
cheering, jumping up and down, shouting for joy. The General had saved the
city, vanquished the enemy and got the, er... guy. And all was right with the Roman
Empire.
"Cut!" the Director cried.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
BA followed Hannibal into the woods, thinking about the
mechanics of loving another man.
There hadn’t been any manuals for him when he’d started along
this path. Nineteen sixty one. He’d been sixteen years years old and wanting,
wanting, wanting -- the ache in his groin a constant reminder that what he
needed he had no idea how to get.
Maybe there were manuals, somewhere. Books. But if he went
to those places, he’d scare those people (he was very big and very black, even
then, even at sixteen) and he didn’t want to scare anybody. (Maybe he’d been
scared himself, to go to those places. The forty year old him could just about
admit that.)
Man/woman loving had all kinds of books to follow.
Cinderella all the way to Gone With the Wind. Books and movies and television
all showed you the right way to love somebody.
If you were different you were on your own.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Decker carefully rolled up the cuffs of his fatigue pants.
He took off his shirt. The air was cool, now that the sun had gone down.
He stared at his cap. He knew what pictures it covered. He
knew exactly who he’d be turning his back on if he turned his back on them.
Everything he’d ever been. But what had they done for him anyhow? Dead, dead
and crazy. Not one of them had held him through the long silent night or let
him touch them in the morning. Not one of them was real, really real, really
there.
But someone was there. Someone was naked and willing and
stroking himself, sitting on a rock in the middle of the stream behind
him.
Decker didn’t know why, exactly. He didn’t know what was
supposed to happen next. What would the US Army Guidebook tell him to do
now?
For the first time in his life, Decker couldn’t find it in
himself to care. He turned his back on his President, his General and his
Mother and waded out into deep water.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
The art of loving and the practice of sex are very different
things, Face thought, as he poured olive oil over Murdock’s backside. Some of
the oil pooled at the small of Murdock’s back, and Face leaned over and lapped
at it.
Murdock giggled and squirmed a little. Face grabbed his hips
and pulled him closer. Closer, ‘til his cock (so hard, now, waiting so long,
now) rested against Murdock’s ass. They were both on their sides, now, kind of
spooned together, and Face ran his fingers down Murdock’s back.
Face had "practiced" sex for a long time. All
kinds of sex. Sex with women, sex with men. Sex with experts and sex with
professionals. Sex with people older than himself and sex with virgins. All
kinds of sex. Some he remembered fondly. Some he got hot remembering. Some he
tried not to remember at all. All kinds of sex.
He slipped his hand between Murdock’s legs. Ran his fingers
gently over Murdock’s cock (soft now, and he was gentle with it), ran his
fingers through the soft hair, almost scratching (Murdock hummed a little in
the back of his throat). Then he lifted Murdock’s leg up (carefully) and eased
himself forward.
They were both slick with oil. Murdock was very relaxed,
eyes still hazy from coming, body trusting Face’s touch. Face pressed against
him slowly. His body told him to hurry, hurry, hurry, slam hard, come fast, but
he breathed in and out, controlling the urge. There was something to be said
for sex at almost-forty over sex at seventeen. Fast is fun sometimes, and hard,
but so is slow and easy and when you’re thirty-eight you actually have the
self-control to choose which one you want to indulge in when. Sometimes,
anyway. Face grinned to himself and pressed into Murdock, his breath hitching a
little as he moved inside his lover. He supported himself on one arm and
supported Murdock’s leg with the other, pressing deeper until the two of them
were spooned together in earnest.
His eyes threatened to roll back with the sensation.
Darkness was falling, but sweat broke out on his skin as he struggled to stay
still, hold the moment, feel the heat that radiated between their two bodies (one
body), feel the grip of Murdock’s ass on his cock.
Face knew all sorts of tricks. He knew about all kinds of
toys. But he was just now finding out how good the practice of sex could be,
when you matched it with the art of loving.
Bodies could fill empty places in other bodies, but only
love could fill the empty places in your heart.
Face hadn’t known how empty he truly was until Murdock came
along and started filling him up.
Face moved gently inside his lover, finding a careful
rhythm, listening to the cadence of their breaths and moans. This was a
position that was just right for a long, luxurious fuck. Face didn’t want it to
ever end.
This was a new kind of sex for him, after all. Sex with
love.
He needed lots of practice.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Hannibal had kissed him.
BA was still wondering about that. (He didn’t wonder where
Hannibal was leading him, as they walked deeper and deeper into the woods. He’d
followed Hannibal for a long time, and trusted him to lead.)
Some man (nameless man) that BA’d picked up in a bar one
time had told him kissing was for girls. "Prostitutes and queers know that
sucking face has got nothing to do with getting off." They’d gotten off without
kissing.
How did men touch each other, though? You learn from what
you see, and you don’t see men touch. Not really. Slap on the back. Wrestle
around. Try to kill each other, that’s okay. But was there another way?
BA’s sexual experience had consisted mostly of picking
someone up in a bar (a look, a drink), going somewhere, stripping and fucking.
Sometimes they didn’t go anywhere (a stall in the bathroom, the alley behind
the building). Sometimes they didn’t strip.
But that was... physical. This was Hannibal.
The first gifts they’d given each other were trust and
respect.
They’d touched each other, too, over the years. Gotten
comfortable with each other’s hands as they worked together, with each other’s
shoulders as they pressed against each other in narrow quarters. They’d each
been hurt before, and tended each other’s wounds. Carried each other from the
field of battle.
But that was just doing what had to be done. Men could do
that. Men could do that every time, then close off whatever else something
might have meant. Close off wanting.
BA’d done it for years.
The only other man he’d kissed had been the fool. (Who else
had he ever cared about, besides these men?) And that had been in the thick of
it, back during the war, fire coming down around them like Revelations, so it
didn’t really count. What happened when you were about to die could be closed
off too.
They’d been pinned down behind some trees (scant cover), and
they’d already argued over whose screams they’d heard (and why the fuck could
you hear somebody screaming over this kind of fire, deafening fire, what god
made that rule, that you could always hear somebody screaming). They’d already
argued over what they were going to do (go out and motherfuckin’ get some --
okay, they weren’t quite at their tactical best right then, but they were both
young, both new, both just wanting to make it the hell out of there, get
themselves out, get the others out). Murdock checked his M-16 and listened to
the dark a minute, trying to hear (impossible to tell) what was going on. And
BA had grabbed him by the head with both hands and pulled him forward onto his
knees (both on their knees, facing each other) and pressed his lips against
Murdock’s lips. He’d stared into the startled, dark eyes for a moment, then
closed his own, letting go, letting his hands drop to his sides. He’d opened
his eyes again when Murdock touched his face with one dirty (but very gentle)
hand. "’sokay," Murdock said. "Hang in there, baby, jus’ hang in
there, an’ you an’ me’ll just go on out there, blastin’ like the cowboys we
are, huh?"
It was okay, maybe, to get carried away when you were about
to die (or thought you were, and god, they’d both thought they were gone, gone,
gone on that one). But just how did you calmly and quietly (no emergency, no
war) approach another man?
BA felt his throat get dry as Hannibal paused beside a
little stream.
This was way too important to mess up.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
The water was cold. Decker stood there, in past his knees,
trying to catch his breath.
Crane opened his eyes.
The two men stared at each other for a moment.
Crane blinked first, then gave an odd little
almost-smile.
Decker sat down on a rock not too far away and wondered how
this went. Wondered if Crane knew how this went. Or were they both virgins in
these woods?
"How does that one poem go, sir?" Crane
asked.
Decker frowned. "I don’t know many poems."
"It’s the one you told us when we first came into your
unit."
Decker nodded.
" ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ Our fearful trip is
done," he said, reciting the poem carefully in the growing dark. He wasn’t
sure why Crane had asked. But he said the poem anyway.
" ‘The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we
sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all
exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and
daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the
deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up-
for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and
ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying
mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is
some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father
does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and
sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in
with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.’"
Decker fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself.
Poetry, what he knew of it, always made him feel vulnerable. Not wearing his
uniform made him feel vulnerable, too. But maybe that’s how you had to feel to
get anywhere with someone.
"That’s about Lincoln," Crane said softly.
Decker nodded. Not his favorite president. But he’d always
liked the poem. His mother had sent it to him when he’d graduated from
Officer’s Training School. There was something there... that he’d wanted. That he’d
craved, even then. Would anyone be sorry when he was lying cold and dead?
"He was a... man’s man," Crane said
hesitantly.
"Lincoln?!" Decker said, startled.
"No! No, Whitman. Walt Whitman. The writer."
Decker relaxed a little. "Writers. They’re all
fairies."
Crane stared at him. Stared into him. "Is that what we
are, then?"
"No!" Decker said.
"Then what are we?"
"Soldiers. We’re... soldiers. Like you said. I...
you’re a man’s man." Decker was having trouble catching his breath again.
The cold water beat into his legs. He didn’t know what he was doing.
What was he doing? Crane’s voice was very soft. Decker could
barely hear it over the sound of the stream, running. "Are you a man’s man
too?" he asked.
There was no lying, here.
In the woods. In the tired, empty loneliness that was his
life. In the dark. There was only truth. "I don’t know," he said.
"I only know... I want something that’s not cold and green."
Crane smiled. Looked down at his hands, then back at Decker.
"I’m warm and brown," he said. "How about me?"
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Face moved his hips in a slow, careful rhythm. Beside him.
Inside him. Beside him. Inside him.
Trust was a gift. Who knew that better than someone who
could never trust anyone? Murdock lay in his arms, eyes closed, head tilted
back, throat exposed. (What primal parts made that vulnerability so frightening?
So appealing?)
Murdock gave him too much sometimes. Too much, and then he
pushed away, ran, turned away. Just so he could breathe. He’d go into the
bathroom, once in awhile, to catch his breath. Close a real door between them
because the other doors, the mental doors, the doors to his heart, the doors to
his soul were coming down too fast. Who was the guy in the Bible who’d played
his horn and the walls had come tumbling down? He should remember... But how
did the people in the town feel, to have their walls all broken? Whoever had
been telling the story said it like it was a good thing, but what had happened
to the people inside, when all the protection they’d depended on was gone?
BA’d said, one time, that they were the real odd couple, him
and Murdock. And he’d been right. (BA knew too much about them sometimes.
Understood too much. But he’d never hurt them, never let them be hurt, if he
could do anything, anything to stop it. He just knew. And that was another door
broken down.)
It came back to practice, again. Hannibal had told them a
thousand times, "You react how you train." And then made them fight
and shoot until it was second nature. Was that what Murdock was doing with him
(to him) then?
You react how you train.
He knew how to have sex because he’d done it over and over,
knew the proper acts, the proper responses, how to make someone moan, how to
make someone come.
(Murdock moaned, then, as he angled himself down, pulled
harder, went deeper. Murdock’s mouth fell open and he was making harsh little
gasping noises, gulping air, moaning...)
Perhaps if he were conditioned (if Murdock conditioned him)
to love, he wouldn’t have to run so often. Maybe he could stay here, in this
place (and what was this place anyhow? This midsummer night’s dream of a
place...) and love Murdock forever. Forever didn’t come to easily to him. What
had been forever?
What could be forever?
Murdock told him forever all the time.
Murdock had looked sad when he’d told him, "If anything
could be forever, I think it would be you." He’d thought Murdock would be
happy when he said it, but he’d just looked sad.
Face let the rhythm carry him away. The rhythm wanted to
carry him away, from thought, from memory. The rhythm wanted to put him in the
moment and he wanted to be in the moment, love and be loved.
He wanted Murdock.
White blindness was creeping into his vision, turning night
into stars. Heat radiated off Murdock’s body, into him, from the place where
they were joined.
He moved in and out harder, now, following his body into
loving oblivion, tight heat. Wordless giving, and taking.
It was only the two of them, now, no history, no others. No
world to interfere, no memories.
He heard moaning, and it was him this time, head thrown back
(trusting, yes) lips parted, screaming at the sky (the starry night) and the
words that tumbled from his lips were "love, yes, oh, please, yes, love, yes,
Murdock, love you, god I love you, don’t ever leave me, love you so much, oh
love" and then he was swallowing all words in great gasps of night and
stars were in his eyes and blinding and he was one with Murdock and everything
was right.
Practice makes perfect.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Hannibal sat down in the sand and BA sat beside him. Close,
but not too close. They stared at the running water, which was dark, except for
brief twinkling moments of starlight.
Hannibal held his hands out in front of him. They were
steady, but he didn’t feel steady.
He loved the heat of the moment. Some people lived for the
heat of the moment, and he was one of them. He knew that.
He also knew that he’d always been better at sex with
strangers than he was at sex with people he knew.
Sex with strangers was all chase, feint and capture,
movement, running, hunting, pouncing. Fun. And you didn’t have to worry about
what any of it meant, didn’t have to worry about hurting anyone.
So why had he set about seducing his Sargeant?
(It could be argued, of course, that his Sargeant had set
about seducing him...)
He was an intelligent man. Very intelligent. He had to have
seen this coming. (Seeing what was coming, the ramifications of every action,
was one of his specialties.)
Maybe he wanted to be caught.
Who wins, after all, if the game never ends?
Sex had brought him here. No doubt of that. He’d been on the
chase all day, hot and full of himself, confident and careful by turns, playing
everything, heart racing, blood pumping fast. Men had always turned him on as
much as women (and the Army was like a gift at seventeen, all boys, all men,
all hard and hot and wanting it). BA was all that, heat and masculinity and
strength. A real man.
A real friend.
There it was again.
So no games. Could he do it with no games? That would lead
to... meaning. So what did he mean by this? It had started with sex, but the
heat was layered on top of years of banked, warm trust. Connection. Honesty.
He hadn’t ever told them everything. Ever. But he hadn’t
ever lied to them. Had taken care of them.
Could he do both?
He wanted to escape, the impulse to escape now as strong as
the impulse to come here had been. But he’d never let cowardice rule him, and
on principle he didn’t let it rule him now. He’d practiced courage all his life,
and though it didn’t let him move, now, it kept him from running.
BA reached out. Stroked his fingers down Hannibal’s
arm.
Hannibal wondered how much courage that small gesture had
required.
He found himself turning toward his friend, his Sargeant,
his teammate. (So much, these men were to him now. So much, words failed to
signify.) They were both shadows here, both dark as night fell and the trees
above obscured what little light there was. But they knew each other.
Touch, scent. The sound of breathing, and the taste of each
other’s lips from that one kiss (made from circumstance) and the other (made
for show). They knew each other. Hannibal reached out and let his hand find the
rough cheek. Closed his eyes against the night and let his fingers trace cheek,
jaw, throat, bare chest.
Surely someone who broke the rules for fun could choose (choose now) to play for keeps this time, to play for real, the game played for mortal stakes, and no more playing. Real.
Words. They needed words. Words to tie them to each other,
bind them together, make things in earnest.
Hannibal cleared his throat (the sound loud in the quiet,
against the sound of running water and quick breath). "I’m... glad you’re
here," he said.
His fingers (on full lips) felt a small, swift smile, and
maybe the words weren’t what he’d use when he was on the chase, but they seemed
to have been right for realness. For now. For them.
Hannibal leaned forward as BA leaned forward and their lips
met, now, in a kiss that was neither circumstance nor show.
It was chosen, and it was chosen by them both.
Strong and gentle. Sweet. Their lips pressed together and
there was hunger there, but it was tempered with care.
Hannibal felt BA’s nervousness (which matched his own) and
that made him more confident, somehow. He would not break with loving, and
neither would the man beneath that kiss. He grasped BA’s shoulders, which were
broad and strong, and felt an answering grip on his arms.
Hard kisses with soft lips demanded more, and then they lay
down and pressed against each other, holding, kissing.
The stream ran.
They stayed.
^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Decker stood, but the water was deep and fast at that place
in the river. It was dark, now, and he couldn’t see where he was walking. When
Crane reached out a hand, he took it.
There was a strange confidence in the younger man. Decker
gave into it, let it lead him, let Crane lead him over to the bank. Crane’s
clothes were there, all in a pile, from where Decker had gathered them, and Crane
eased Decker down onto them, then sat down beside him.
There wasn’t much room, on the small pile of camoflage
fatigues. Their legs pressed together. Both of them were wet, from the river.
They could feel themselves (each other) shiver. But they didn’t move.
There was something about the moment that was like glass,
easily broken. And they weren’t careful men. They were soldiers. Breaking
things is very easy. They knew how.
The sounds of night and moving water worked on them, and the
place where their legs touched was warm.
Crane lifted his knees to his chest, suddenly, and wrapped
his arms around them. Rested his head on his hands.
Decker watched his silhouette. Watched him thinking, moving
for them both. He watched.
"You are my Captain, Colonel. You always have
been," Crane said softly.
Decker held his breath. Captain. My Captain. "I’m no
Captain," he said, the words pulled from bitter lips. "I’m a failure.
What have I ever done? Ever?"
"You’ve stood up to them, sir. Stood up and took
everything they’ve thown at you, all of them. You never backed down."
Something stirred inside Decker’s chest. Tears, maybe. Or
pride. He wasn’t familiar enough with either to recognize them when they
came.
He reached out his arms and drew Crane (naked, still,
trembling with cold) into his arms.
They both paused for a moment, seeing if the moment would
break with the sudden movement. But it didn’t.
Decker let his head rest on Crane’s shoulder, tasted water
and salty sweat on his lips.
It felt good to have someone in his arms.
Very good.
TO BE CONTINUED