Archive of Our Own

Later on, Eugene was embarrassed by the fact that it took him so long to realize. 

He was, at least, somewhat relieved that no one else had realized, either. Except Burgie, but he had been there since the beginning, and had apparently already known. How had he already known? Eugene wasn’t sure, and the thought of Burgie knowing already, knowing before Eugene knew, kept pestering him. Had Burgie found out? Had he been told? Either option caused a strange irritation to scratch away at the inside of Eugene’s chest, although he wasn’t sure which option made the irritation worse. Finding out, or being told. If Eugene thought too long and too hard about it, he probably would have admitted to himself that Burgie being told was the worst option. That implied something, a level of confidence that Eugene was supremely uncomfortable with (and dare he say a bit jealous of). 

Regardless of how he found out, Burgie knew, and the rest of the company had no idea, apparently. Eugene included. 

More than the embarrassment of not realizing, was the sheer disbelief. How had he not known? He found out so much later, after so much had already happened, so much time had passed. He wasn’t a boot, fresh off the boat, anymore. He’d fought, sweat, and bled with his brothers in arms. He’d cemented himself into the company, earned a nickname...hell, he’d shared a foxhole with and somewhat befriended the cagey Cajun bastard. And still, Eugene hadn’t known that one little detail. 

Eugene wouldn’t call himself and Snafu friends, exactly. He wasn’t sure that Snafu had anything that could be defined as ‘friends’, and that included Burgin. He couldn’t even claim to have an understanding with Snafu, because he sure as hell didn’t understand a single thing about him. Sometimes, Eugene thought that Snafu might actually defy all understanding, as if he was some sort of being beyond logic, a scrawny war dog defying all attempts to quantify and label him. 

And yet, Eugene and Snafu had...something. What that something was, Eugene couldn’t rightly say. Still, Eugene wasn’t surprised that Snafu hadn’t told him, because the likelihood of Snafu sharing any actual personal information, especially something that intimate, was as likely as the Japs suddenly giving up and going home. It wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t that Snafu hadn’t told him that left Eugene reeling, but rather that Eugene hadn’t realized. After all these weeks of combat, stuck in muck and mud and corpses, sharing foxholes and tents. Hell, Eugene and Snafu had seen each other piss and dress and shit and shower and shave, and still Eugene had noticed nothing out of the ordinary about his fellow marine. And, in all likelihood, it would’ve taken him much longer to realize if not for a moment of downtime, when, in between sharing cigarettes and shooting the shit, Snafu had paused in the middle of some vulgar story. 

It could have been just another passing moment, but instead of continuing the tale, Snafu remained silent, wider eyed than normal, while some kind of emotion crossed over his face that Eugene could not recognize. In a drawl that sounded a bit less lazy than usual, Snafu had muttered “Fuck” and stuck his hands down the back of his dungarees. 

Leyden had laughed, loudly. “Shit, Snafu, the fuck you’do that for? What, you piss yourself or something?” 

A collective chuckle went around the portion of the company spread about within hearing distance. Some fella Eugene had never bothered to really learn the name of, chimed in “Or did you shit yourself like De L'Eau?” 

Jay reddened slightly as another cacophony of laughter sounded. Eugene didn’t join in. Neither did Burgie, who, instead, was regarding Snafu with a quiet concern in his blue eyes. It was a look Eugene had become familiar with, a kind of almost paternal care that Romus Valton Burgin exerted for the rag tag group of boys who served both under and with him. Burgie was just that kind of person, looking out for others, caring for those who no one else ever bothered to. 

“Snaf,” Burgie said, as the rest of the men carried on laughing. “You alright?” 

Snafu seemingly ignored them all. Hand still crammed down the back of his pants, his mouth twisted into a grimace around the cigarette he still held clamped between his teeth. Eugene didn’t say anything, just watched. And, as Snafu withdrew his hand, Eugene wasn’t quite sure who was more surprised, himself or the group of men who quickly fell silent, rowdy laughter tapering off, as Snafu’s hand came away coated in something looking suspiciously wet under the glaring sun. 

Something wet and… slick. 

Snafu stared at his hand. Eugene started at his hand. The suddenly silent men stared at his hand. 

“Well fuck me,” Bill Leyden muttered. “Who would’ve known we’d had a bitch among us!” 

As if a cord had been snapped, Snafu jerked around, hand forgotten, and bared his teeth in one of his trademark snarls. The mad dog snarl that Eugene was coming to think of as Snafu’s automatic defense mechanism. Convince people you’re batshit enough times and no one will wanna mess with you. It was, Eugene had to admit, a pretty solid logic. 

“The fuck you say to me? Say that to my face, Leyden, and I won’t check if there’s any gold in your teeth ‘fore I pull them out.” 

“Stop it, both of you,” Burgie ordered. “And Leyden--shut the fuck up.” 

Leyden’s hands came up in the universal gesture of defense. “Hey, hey I’m sorry alright? Just surprised is all. No harm, right Snaf?” But a scowling Snafu was already standing up and turning to go without a backwards glance for Bill. 

“Shelton,” Burgie called to Snafu’s retreating back, and he paused, not turning but quirking his head a little, just enough that it was obvious he was listening to what Burgie was about to say. “Shelton, grab something to change into, alright? Before...well.” 

“Before someone’s on ‘em like a bitch in heat?” one of the men suggested amidst the silence. The man’s voice wasn’t much more than a mutter, but based on the tensing way Snafu’s spine snapped straight, Eugene guessed that it wasn’t quiet enough.

Again, silent swept through the group of men, until someone, not Burgie this time, hissed out “shut the fuck up ”. But, instead of snapping or turning around and going at the man’s throat with nothing but his teeth, Snafu just wiped his still sticky hand on the thigh of his pants and kept on walking, as if nothing had happened. The cluster of men watched, wide eyed and silent, as if they were witnessing a drama unlike anything they’d seen before. Better for them than the movies, Eugene thought bitterly. 

Burgie was watching Snafu walk away, the concern in his blue eyes palpable to Eugene even with the distance between them. Since he’d first gotten here, Eugene had noticed the way Burgie stuck to and stuck up for Snafu. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around. Regardless, Eugene noticed that the surprise filtering through the rest of the men, De L’Eau and himself included, was not reflected in Burgie. Meaning that, to Burgie, this revelation of Snafu’s wasn’t a surprise. 

Eugene didn’t know how to feel about that. 

At Snafu’s leaving (and not returning) conversation started to pick back up. One look at Burgin and everyone knew not to say anything too cruel or vulgar about what had just happened, at least not while Burgie was around to hear it, but the topic of conversation had definitely taken a turn. 

“I’d no idea,” Leyden said. He looked at Burgie, looking as chastised as Bill Leyden could possibly look. “Didn’t mean nothing ‘bout it, Burgie, you know that, right?” 

“You had no idea? Hell, Leyden, none of us had any idea we were serving alongside an omega bitch!” One of the guys said. Eugene thought he’d been the same one who, earlier, had made the comment about De L’Eau. Though he didn’t know the man well, Eugene decided right then and there that, fellow marine or not, he didn’t like the bastard. 

Slowly, as if emboldened now that a few guys had said things, the other men started interjecting, adding comments here and there. Few said anything directly about Shelton, and Eugene noticed more than one man shooting careful glances at Burgie, afraid to say anything that would make the Corporal anymore pissed off at them. 

“Never thought it was right,” One of the men, Walt, said. His voice was muffled as he lit a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. 

“Never thought what was right?” Jay asked. 

Walt grunted, and gestured in the general direction Snafu had gone with a disinterred shrug of his shoulder. “Letting people like that fight in a war. Ain’t no place for them, if you ask me.” 

“Like letting women fight,” someone added. 

“Hell,” some fresh faced boot said, “I didn’t even realize that male omegas were a real thing. Thought it was just, you know, shit made up for girlie magazines.” 

Several guys laughed. “Wet boys? Hell, kid. Yeah they exist, just don’t see them much. ‘Specially not in a place like this.” 

Throughout it all Burgie had remained silent. He’d pulled his rifle into his lap and was looking down, seemingly focused on it, although Eugene couldn’t tell if he was cleaning it or just holding it. Even Leyden had refrained from commenting anything lewd. And, when Eugene glanced at De L’Eau, he found Jay still slightly red faced, either from remaining embarrassment from the comment, or out of sympathy for the things being said about Snafu. Either was possible, Eugene supposed. 

As for Eugene, well, he kept his mouth shut. He was too well raised to talk shit about someone behind their back, and even if he hadn’t been he wouldn’t have done that to Snafu. Later, he thought about how he could’ve spoken up in Snafu’s defense, but he didn’t really want to make enemies with the men in his company. Besides, no matter what he said it would’ve just been laughed off. Or worse, he thought with a grimace, mind coming up with countless things the men could say about both him and Snafu. 

And so Eugene remained silent, while all the while his mind was going a hundred miles a minute. Not only on this revelation of prior unknown information, but also on the fact that Eugene hadn’t known . 

How hadn’t he known? He was closer to Snafu than he was to any other man in the company, wasn’t he? Why hadn’t Snafu told him? Was he wrong in wishing that he had? Was he making a big deal out of nothing? 

In the end, the whole thing wasn’t even that big of a deal. Snafu still went out everyday and killed japs with the rest of them. Nothing changed. It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have changed anything. It shouldn’t have even mattered. And yet, Eugene found that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

*

The revelation that Snafu was among a minority in terms of his secondary gender changed little. In the grand scheme of things Eugene guessed it didn’t really matter what Snafu was: alpha, beta, or the elusive male omega—there was a war on. Secondary gender alignment meant next to nothing. Nobody cared who was shooting the gun, just that they were shooting it, and that it was pointed at the enemy. 

While Eugene’s world may have been temporarily knocked off its axis by this discovery, everyone else seemed just fine. Sure, there were the occasional snide comments, the lewd remarks, and a bit more debate than before about who really belonged in war, men or women (and, implied more than said, omegas). Other than that, things remained the same. Even the comments died down as the men simply got tired of beating the same horse, and moved on to other things to joke about and other people to poke fun at. 

Snafu himself seemed to have moved past it, as well. Eugene hadn’t seen him the rest of that day, and even later he had no idea where he’d disappeared off to. But, when Snafu had finally reappeared right around the time they needed to move out, he’d been dressed in relatively clean pants and the faint sweet scent that had permeated the air around him earlier was now gone. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given any kind of hint as to what had occurred earlier, and his face had been set in an expression so blank, Eugene had wondered if he’d somehow managed to forget about what had happened entirely. 

Even if Snafu somehow had managed to put the kerfuffle out of his mind (which, the more Eugene thought about it he was sure Snafu hadn’t, but had merely shoved it somewhere where he wouldn’t have to think about it and could pretend it was nothing), Eugene was unable to forget about it. It grated on his conscience, and, worst of all, he wasn’t even sure why he couldn’t stop thinking about it anymore. It wasn’t even about not already knowing (even though he was still bitter about that). 

Now, despite everything going on as usual and the entire company treating Snafu essentially the same as they always had (like a rabid dog prone to snapping if anyone put a hand too close), Eugene found himself unable to go back to how things were before. He still worked alongside Snafu, of course. They were both mortermen in the same company, they had to work together. And they worked well together, everyone knew it. It wasn’t that Eugene had a problem with; wasn’t sharing smokes and foxholes, wasn’t curling up next to each other in the mud while the other kept watch, wasn’t shooting the shit and laughing at crude jokes, wasn’t Snafu’s biting and sometimes outright cruel humour; No, Eugene had no problems with that. It was all the same as before, as Eugene and Snafu discovered more and more that while they worked quite alright by themselves, they worked just as well (if not better) as a unit. They worked well together. 

Eugene had no problem working side by side with Snafu. The whole thing about Snafu being an omega didn’t affect Eugene’s respect for the other man, despite how batshit crazy Snafu acted, or his trust. Snafu was still a competent marine; Eugene trusted him to have his back. 

None of that was the problem. The problem, Eugene discovered, was that he couldn’t stop looking at Snafu.  

Of course Eugene had looked at Snafu before, but he hadn’t looked at him. And now he was, and he didn’t know why. Eugene didn’t if it was because of the whole omega thing, or if it was because of the whole omega thing. 

Eugene didn’t know if there was a difference. There was a difference, wasn’t there? Was there a difference? Was Eugene suddenly finding it hard to look away from the curly haired boy because he now knew a surprising bit of information about him? Or was he finding it hard to tear his gaze away because of what that information was? 

Eugene didn’t know. He didn’t know why he was suddenly looking at Snafu in a new light (if that is what he was doing), and he didn’t know why he couldn’t stop looking. 

It wasn’t blatant staring (as Snafu himself was often guilty of doing). It was just glances. Sometimes, here and there, just quick little things. Eugene would be looking and then would find himself suddenly caught on some little details; his eyes lingering on dark curls, or that stupidly pouty mouth, or the way Snafu’s jaw looked sharp enough to cut. It was like Eugene was in a trance. 

Eugene didn’t like it. He might have liked it. He didn’t want to like it, because if he liked it, then it meant he was looking at Snafu differently. And, if he was looking at Snafu differently, it was because of this new knowledge that Eugene had. 

If Eugene was looking at Snafu differently, it was because he had allowed his opinion to be swayed by something that didn’t even matter. He wasn’t one of those stupid knotheads obsessed with omegas. He wasn’t someone who thought omegas were good for nothing but getting fucked, as if they were less than people. He may have been an alpha, but Eugene prided himself on his belief that people were more than just their secondary gender. He wasn’t going to judge Snafu for being an omega, wasn’t going to treat him differently, look at him differently. He wasn’t. 

It was just…

Back in Mobile omegas weren’t exactly popping out of the woodwork. Sure, there were some here and there. Most of the time, if Eugene saw an omega, they were already married, mated to some old money fellow. He’d only ever seen a few in his lifetime, all female of course, at parties thrown by the socialites his mother knew, and once at a country club he’d accompanied his father to. The omegas Eugene had seen had all been pretty, pampered, dressed to the nines, and very soft looking. Omegas were, as people always said, notoriously delicate little things. 

There was nothing delicate about Snafu. 

And, as Eugene watched Snafu fiddle with the handful of gold filled teeth he’d just cut out of some dead jap’s mouth, none of the words used to describe the omegas he’d seen back in Alabama could be used to describe the savage mess that Snafu presented as. If Eugene hadn’t seen proof firsthand, he doubted he’d have believed it if anyone had told him. Even now, it seemed impossible. Snafu didn't fit within the constraints of "omega". Eugene had assumed, previously, that Snafu was an alpha like him. It hadn’t exactly fit, either, but one’s gender dynamics weren’t necessarily an end all be all thing. Since joining the Marines Eugene had seen an abundance of alphas, all different in their own rights, and not all fitting in the general idea of what an ideal alpha should be. Hell, Eugene himself didn’t fit the alpha stereotype. 

Of course, as Eugene had already told himself time and time again, it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He needed to put it out of his mind—he needed to put Snafu out of his mind. 

The sunlight, that same harsh glare that had been cooking them from the inside out ever since they’d landed on Peleliu, glinted off the gold in Shelton’s hand. That metallic golden glint, then yellow stained enamel, then the blackbrown of aged blood. The roots were still in some of them, Eugene realized, bloody little things decaying in their calcium casings. It should have turned his stomach—it did turn his stomach, once upon a time, when watching Shelton carve teeth from Japanese skulls with his ka-bar was something still considered grotesque even amidst the horrors of war, but with time that disgust had sense faded to an uneasy numbness, Eugene’s ability to be shocked drawing away as the days dragged on. That was war; all manner of fucked up things became something like the norm. What was considered abnormal when on a daily basis men went out to kill other men? What were a few little teeth compared to all the horror and shit and blood and bodies that surrounded them? Sure, it was fucked up, and Eugene from a year ago, a month ago even, would have blanched in horror. 

Maybe, Eugene thought, the constant exposure to the traumatising nature of war had merely desensitized him and every other man knee deep in the shit of war to the things that normal people would have gaped in shock at. Maybe they’d just grown used to it, because it was either that or snap, go completely asiatic. Maybe, Eugene thought, maybe it was that. 

But now, as he gazed at the gold filled teeth cradled in Snafu’s wide brown hands, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

He must have gotten lost in thought (as he often seemed to do now), because one moment he was looking at those teeth and then the next he was fixated on Snafu’s eyelashes, the purpling bruises underneath that he knew were reflected in his own face, and Snafu’s eyes (glass green or ocean blue or rain grey—Eugene could never quite tell). Those indeterminable eyes which were now meeting Eugene’s own. 

Snafu blinked, lazily. “Something on my face?” Vowels drawn out long and slow in an accent that managed to be so different from Eugene’s own while still maintaining a kind of similarity—like something sweet, the faint hint of honeysuckle and sweet tea, magnolia and jasmine in bloom on a humid August afternoon, all echoing in the lazy drawls and twangs of the American south. 

“What?” Eugene asked, stupid in the face of being caught staring. 

“My face. You been staring at it for a bit now. There something on it? Or is it my good looks that got you so mesmerized ,” Snafu said. He smirked as he drew out the last word unnecessarily long, turning it mocking. 

“Mesmerized? I’m impressed, Shelton. Didn’t know you knew such big words.” 

He was still flustered, and his words came out sharper than he meant them to. But instead of snapping back, Snafu just tossed his head back and laughed. 

“I’ve seen a book or two in my life, Sledgehamma.” 

Snafu grinned as he said it, and Eugene found himself grinning back. 

And, just like that, the moment was over. 

Burgin was striding towards them, gun slung behind his back, and determination pulled tight across his face. “Ack Ack got orders,” Burgie said, drawing near to them. “Come on fellas, time to get going.” 

Burgie’s words earned a lazy salute from Snafu, and a sardonic little “aye aye, cap’n,” that Burgie steadfastly ignored.

Eugene hauled himself up from the rock cropping he’d been sitting on. That was the nature of this war, it seemed. A year's worth of battle in a day for a moment of rest that was gone all too soon. 

Snafu pocketed his jap gold, stood, and tucked his half empty carton of cigarettes away where he always kept them, nestled away in the chest pocket that rested closest to his heart. Men kept their most valuable possessions there; some kept their reasons to live there. Eugene kept his bible in his. 

As Eugene turned to follow Burgie he took one last quick glance at Snafu. 

Snafu grinned. 

“Back to the grind, Sledgehamma.” 

*

The grind was this: day after day, night after night, foot after foot of coral infested ground covered by dry earth and the pounding of booted feet. The air overhead lit up by the burning sun during the day, cooking heads in helmets and threatening to set what little water they had boiling in the metal canteens; the night set alight by flares and shelling, like some kind of hellscape version of the fourth of july. 

Orders came from up high and trickled down. Where they came from didn’t matter, what they meant didn’t matter. What mattered was that when the order was given the order was followed. By the time that Eugene was trudging across the desolate wasteland of Peleliu he had learned that as an enlisted man it was not his place to question. If an officer gave an order, the order was followed, even if it was full of shit. 

“It’s bullshit,” Snafu said. “Absolute horseshit. These officers get out here with their fancy titles they got ‘cause a daddy’s money, stupid spoiled little boys who don’ know jackshit ‘bout fighting a war. And us grunts out here in the shit and the blood and neck deep in goddamn nips, fucking slant eyed bastards, fucking shooting and getting shot, an’ stoping when we’re told’a stop and killing when we’re told’a kill—fucking shit man, it’s shit.” 

He wasn’t entirely wrong, Eugene would admit. While Eugene would have phrased it very differently the general gist of what Snafu said was in line with what was often on Eugene’s mind. He just never voiced those opinions, because as frustrated as he got with some of shit that he saw happen, and the general unfairness he felt, he didn’t see the point. He could complain and groan all he wanted, but at the end of the day he’d still have to do the things he was ordered to do. Still, before Snafu was even halfway done talking Eugene had essentially tuned him out, eyes nearly glazing over as he listened to the drawling drone of Snafu’s voice, his body working automatically to place one foot in front of the other. 

Burgie, who was walking near enough to hear the long winded tirade, waited until Snafu ran out of breath and paused to take another, before simply saying “Snafu, shut up.” 

Snafu did not shut up. 

It was like that most of the time. Eugene spent his time with Shelton by his side, either droning in his ear about anything and everything, or merely existing as quiet company. Strangely enough it was in the quiet moments that Eugene felt the companionship between them grow. 

Since the airfield, when Eugene had first been christened Sledgehammer, and Snafu had stopped trying to intimidate or ignore him, when Eugene had managed to shake off the title of just another boot ready to die like so many others before him, the silent moments with Snafu had changed. It wasn’t the unnerving silence that Snafu reserved for men he didn’t like, or men who went out of their way to be alpha pricks, or the new boots, complete with wide eyed stares set to discomfort. Instead, it was silence for the sake of silence. 

Eugene liked it, actually. He liked knowing that they could merely exist in each other’s company without having to fill it with words. If it had been anywhere else he would have called it nice. Side by side, in a foxhole or climbing across dirt and cliffs, with Snafu was the closest thing to peace that Eugene had experienced since he had landed on the hell that was Peleliu. 

"Yeah Snafu, shut the fuck up." 

"Don't tell me what to do, Bill Leyden." 

"Sides," Bill continued, "Not every officer is shit. Just look at Ack Ack." 

Burgie nodded. "Can't ask for anyone better than the Skipper." 

Even Snafu couldn’t argue with that. “True dat, Cap’n Haldane’s a god among men. Ain’t that right, Sledgehammer?” 

Eugene hummed in agreement. “Ack Ack’s something else, alright.” 

That was something, at least. There was always going to be a hierarchy in war, always going to be orders trickling down to the grunts who had to carry those orders out, but sometimes, when there was a decent man there to give the orders, it wasn’t always quite so bad. Captain Haldane was that kind of man. Someone who commanded respect, someone who gave orders and had them followed because he was the one giving them. Eugene couldn’t imagine a better CO if he tried. 

“We could have it a lot worse,” Burgin said. “Lucky as it is, with the Skipper and Hillbilly.” 

“Don’t forget Gunny Haney,” Jay said. 

“‘Course not,” Bill said with a laugh. “Pops ain’t too bad, either.” 

Eugene found himself smiling. War was shit, but at that moment he figured that things could be worse. They had a moment’s pause in the walking, a brief respite where they could sit and catch their breath, just until the next cycle of orders came down the line and they had to pack up and move, again. It was the repetitive nature of war, but for a minute Eugene didn’t care. He took a breath, ignoring the stench of the island, the rot of the dead, and marked another tick down in his bible. Another day there, another day gone. 

A hand came out of his peripheral vision. Tanned skin, dirt encrusted the nails on the end of the blunt, calloused fingers; grown familiar over the past weeks from seeing it handling mortars, holding guns, taking cigarettes more often than offering. One of the broad, brown hands that Eugene had found himself gazing at, more and more often in the recent days. 

“Sledgehammer?” 

Eugene took the offered cigarette, tucked it between his teeth, then let Snafu light it; his broad, capable hands cupped around the lighter as if to protect the precious flame from the nonexistent breeze. 

The men settled in for a brief respite. Snafu sat next to Eugene, two skinny men encased in Marine issue green. Hardly more than boys, Eugene thought. And there were a lot of them there. Kids basically. Sometimes it seemed wrong, seeing so many youthful faces in the midst of war. Faces like Leyden, who’d volunteered almost straight outta highschool. They didn’t belong there, not really, but then, when Eugene had the energy to really muddle it over, he figured that none of the guys really belonged there. 

No one ever belonged in war, but without them there’d be no one to fight the battles. 

And so it went. 

The battles kept coming. The brief moments of peace were just that—brief, transient, fleeting. 

Bill Leyden was the first to go, shrapnel to the face as Eugene desperately tried not to die or let anyone he knew die. In the moment he was too busy trying to wrestle his rifle off the ground, too busy trying not to get run through by a Japanese blade, to think about anything else. He didn’t think about bad things, didn’t think about that stupid saying he grew up hearing, about how bad things come in threes. He was too busy looking at the blood spreading over Bill’s stupidly young face, too busy watching men being burnt alive, too busy watching men firing rounds into men already on the ground. He was too busy being caught up in the mess of war to think of anything else. 

War had a way of doing that, invading the mind so completely that killing and blood is all one could think about. It was like a disease, something terminal, something that crept in and took over and didn’t leave until it killed the body it was in. 

Maybe there was something in that stupid saying, after all, because the bad things didn’t stop with Bill. Of course, that could have all been bullshit. It was war, after all. Everything that came was a bad thing. 

Hillbilly got shot. And then he got shot, again. 

Eugene dropped the handles of the stretcher, and watched the warm blood slick the uniform that had once belonged to their Lieutenant, now just clothes on a corpse. What if they’d been sooner, he thought. What if they’d been faster, quicker, gotten there and back just a minute sooner. What if that bullet had never hit. 

And then a sniper got the Skipper, and Eugene wondered if men like that could die then what was the hope for the rest of them. 

Snafu had just shaken his head. "Don't do no good to dwell on it, Sledgehammer." 

But how could he not? 

Thoughts occupied his mind, an endless drone of buzzing flies circling around his brain. Even in the quiet moments (not that there were many of those to be found in war) and even under fire, in the middle of combat, Eugene couldn't put it out of his mind. Even when he was dead tired and so thirsty he would have sold his soul for just a sip of water; his mind kept on buzzing. 

Maybe that was his problem. He overthought things. Always had, maybe always would. The more he tried not to think, the more those same old thoughts rattled around inside his head. 

Through it all he stuck close to the men he’d come to know, those of them who remained. Oswalt was gone, shot dead back on the airfield that seemed like so long ago. Leyden had been patched up, and Eugene knew he’d see him again, sooner rather than later, probably. Countless other men, men who Eugene had known the names of and those whose names he’d never taken the time to learn, had died or gone. Some didn’t die, but dying they might as well have. Sometimes, Eugene thought that dying would have been kinder. 

Through the months spent on Peleliu, Snafu was always nearby, somewhere in the space around Eugene. He’d gotten used to turning and seeing the Cajun nearby, within talking distance, and, later on, within arms reach. They’d drifted closer, as was bound to happen in war. It made sense, to stick by the men you’d come to trust. As they physically grew closer, the silences stretched, but it was that comfortable silence. An understanding shared between the two of them. 

Eugene wondered if the version of him pre-Peleliu—with vomit on his boots and so much fear in his heart—could see him now, what he’d think. What would he think of the horrors he’d seen, the men he’d killed, the men he’d seen be killed, or of the fact that Snafu Shelton, that snide asshole Cajun, had become the closest thing to a friend that he currently had? Eugene had no way of knowing, but part of him figured he’d never have believed it if he’d been told. 

Now, Peleliu was in the past. 

Going back to Pavuvu, after two months in combat, was a surreal experience. Eugene spent the boat ride in some kind of daze, aware of the fact that they were leaving, but hardly daring to believe it. Half of him simply felt numb with...relief? Sorrow? He wasn’t sure, but he had a creeping suspicion that it was a feeling shared by the rest of the men. Even those who had already done it once or twice before, the veterans of Gloucester and Guadalcanal. He could see it in the vacant stares, the tired and deadened eyes looking out of filthy, hunger thinned faces. 

Eugene sat and smoked on deck, gaze locked on the blue of the ocean in front of him, behind him, all around. It seemed strange, somehow, that after all that had happened in that corner of the world that water could still look so blue. Crystal clear and peaceful. He’d seen bodies in that water, bloodied and rotten, skin softened with moisture. All that, and to the naked eye it was like nothing had happened. Like it was all a bad dream. He took a drag of his cigarette. In his hand he clutched a lighter that had just been gifted to him. Silver, blue and red 1st Marine emblem on the side. He felt a brief, fleeting flicker of amusement in some small part of himself. On the way to Peleliu Snafu had offered him a cigarette. Eugene in the pre-Peleliu days hadn’t smoked. He’d turned it down, and Snafu had vomited on his boots. 

On the way there he’d been so nervous, almost pissing his pants scared, not knowing what to expect. Now he knew what to expect, yet knowing somehow made nothing better. 

When they touched down on the sandy, crab littered shores of Pavuvu, Eugene wasn’t really expecting anything. Maybe a brief moment of peace, maybe some time to reflect. He wasn’t expecting women. Clean, bright eyed, fresh faced women dressed in pristine white. For a moment his brain blanked out and he stared, stupidly, at their pressed white uniforms. 

They were handing out juice. Juice. 

One of the women looked at him and smiled as she poured the sweet smelling liquid into little paper cups. “Welcome back, marine.” 

For the past two months they had been exhausted, dehydrated. Marching and fighting and killing with empty canteens. He’d seen men drink out of filthy puddles, nearly come to blows over sips of stale, iodine laden water. He watched men collapse, had felt the hopeless desperation for just one sip of water, dammit . 

And now, juice. 

Fury wasn’t the right word for what he felt. He didn’t know what he felt, didn’t know if he could find the right word if he tried to. He took the cup and stared. 

When the sailor nearby laughed and told him to move on, Eugene turned towards him. He didn’t know what expression was on his face, but whatever the look it was enough to melt the amusement right off the man’s face. 

Behind him, he could feel the warm, hovering presence of Snafu. As Eugene drained his cup and walked away, Snafu followed. 

“Sledgehammer.” Snafu hesitated, looking like he wanted to say...something. Maybe an attempt at being reassuring, or comforting, but Eugene couldn’t really imagine Snafu as either of those things. 

“C’mon,” he said instead, nudging Eugene’s shoulder with his own. “Let’s find a tent ‘fore these assholes claim all the decent bunks.” 

Somehow, Eugene found it within himself to snort. “Decent bunks? On Pavuvu?” 

Snafu grinned. “Aw, they ain’t so bad, Sledgehammer. Better than what we been sleepin’ on.” 

“Ain’t much of a contest when it’s shitty bunks compared to hard dirt, Snafu.” 

“Shitty? That a swear word I hear, boo? Hell, guess we’ll make a marine outta you yet.” 

The sound Eugene let out was hardly anything, barely more than a puff of air, but he guessed it counted as a laugh. Shaking his head, he followed Snafu as he went in search of somewhere to sleep. 

*

Pavuv was still the same coconut, rat laced, crab infested shithole that had always been. While Eugene hadn’t been there to see how it had been after Gloucester—when the Seabees had supposedly cleaned it up for the arriving marines, but in actuality had done just about jackshit—he had experienced the less than desirable living circumstances before they shipped off to Peleliu. And, upon returning to the island, it was much of the same. The only difference now was with Eugene himself. 

After Peleliu rotten coconuts and crabs were nothing. At least they had water on Pavuvu, at least the rot permeating the air was that of tropical fruit and not the sun baked, fly ridden flesh of enemy and comrade alike. 

After Peleliu, Pavuv felt like paradise. 

“Folks back home prob’ly think we out here on vacation, soakin’ up the sun and drinking margaritas or sum shit.” Snafu snorted and took another drag of his cigarette. “Little do they know.” 

“Margaritas? Fuck, Snaf, I know you’re an omega and all but do you gotta act like a girl, too? Fucking keep your girlie drinks. Gimme some whiskey or rum.” 

“Fuck you, Bill Leyden.” 

“The both of you shut up. I’m trying to relax. Besides, you even old enough to drink, Bill?” 

Bill shot Burgie an incredulous look. “Fuck, Burgie, we’re in the middle of a war. Who gives a damn about being old enough to drink? I’m old enough to shoot folks, ain’t I?” 

“The man’s got a point, Burgie. You can kill a man, you can drink a beer.” 

Eugene listened to the discussion, but kept out of it. They hadn’t been on Pavuvu long when Bill rejoined them, looking a bit more scared than before, but infinitely better than he’d looked the last time Eugene had seen him, when his face had been bloodied and raw, torn up by shrapnel and debris. Despite the new scars, Bill seemed much the same as ever, and on that particular day after chow Eugene had found himself accompanying Bill, Burgie, Jay, and Snafu down to the beach after a rare bout of fortune where the entire second squad had been given the afternoon off. They’d lazed about in the sand, smoking, and shooting the shit while watching the ships come in, bringing both supplies and new recruits. As was bound to happen when Snafu and Leyden were in the same general area, some kind of argument had started up. It had changed countless times, and Eugene had given up trying to follow just what they were disagreeing about. It was, Eugene had slowly come to learn, apparently just how they talked to each other. 

One of the two would say something, the other would tell them to shove it, and curses would be thrown until someone else stepped in. More often than not, they’d end up joining forces against the unlucky person who had thought to try and break up the argument, going from opposing forces to a united front in a blink of an eye. 

Eugene didn’t exactly understand it, and he didn’t think he’d ever understand Snafu and Bill’s strange friendship, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter. 

At that moment it didn’t really matter; nothing really mattered. 

Eugene leaned back on his elbows, sand biting gritty and rough into his sun reddened skin. Across the expanse of beach the ocean stretched blue and bright into the horizon, not stopping until it met the blue, blue sky. There was no line of difference, and if Eugene hadn’t known better he would have thought that the ocean had just melted into the sky. For a moment everything was calm, and the bright blue sky hanging over the ocean and over the sands of Pavuvu and over him and his buddies looked just like the sky back home in Alabama, that true blue sky that shone on late summer evenings. When he closed his eyes and let the ocean breeze sweep over him, bringing the scent of salt and seaweed instead of rot and death, he felt as if he could have been somewhere else. Anywhere else. It was as if that salty, briny breeze washed away all that that had happened, blew away the stench of war, and for a moment Eugene felt as if the horrors of Peleliu were washed away, as if everything was washed clean. 

“Sledge?” 

Eugene blinked his eyes open. 

The argument had stopped. Bill was horizontal on the sand, snoring softly, and both Jay and Burgie had moved farther away; Jay down to the edge of the water, and Burgie leaning up against one of the rock outcroppings, fresh cigarette in hand. 

“Eugene?” 

Snafu’s voice sounded strangely solemn, not at all like his usual mocking lilt, and it had Eugene blinking, again, wondering if part of his was still lost somewhere in the mesmerizing blue of the waves. 

“Yeah, Snaf?” 

Snafu regarded him steadily, big blueish eyes just as wide and unreadable as usual. He had moved closer at some point when Eugene had been zoning out, and now sat right up next to Eugene, bony shoulder against bony shoulder, skin against skin. Eugene fought the urge to shiver when he realized it, but Snafu seemed unbothered. He continued to look at Eugene, intent on eye content. He was close enough that Eugene could have counted his eyelashes, if he’d wanted. 

“Yeah? Snafu?” Eugene repeated, clearing his throat roughly. 

“You alright?” Snafu said, blinking slowly and finally looking away. He focused his gaze out at the ocean, same as what Eugene had been seemingly so entranced by, and Eugene found himself a strange mixture of glad that Snafu had broken the intense eye contact and wishing that he hadn’t. 

“Seemed like ya were gone for a minute. Like ya were somewhere else.” 

Eugene shrugged and looked back at the sea. “I’m right here, Snaf. Ain’t going nowhere.” He bumped his shoulder against Snafu’s, looked at him, and grinned. “None of us are, unfortunately.” 

Snafu smiled his crooked grin, more smirk than smile, but this time Eugene thought that maybe it looked just a little bit softer than normal. Just a little bit more genuine. 

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere til the man tells us to,” he said. 

Eugene hummed in agreement. That was how it went. If orders were given, then orders were followed. They were, for all intents and purposes, the property of the United States Marines. If the USA said go here, shoot them, capture this, then they did. Sometimes, Eugene thought about how different the war would be if he had completed officer school instead of purposefully flunking out; how different things would be if he was one of the men giving orders instead of just following them. Would it have been easier? Maybe, probably, at least in some ways. But it hadn’t happened. After all, he hadn’t wanted to ‘miss’ the war. 

He snorted softly and shook his head at the thought. What an idiot he’d been, just a stupid green boot looking for glory and honour in all the wrong places. As he sat there, sand warm and rough under his bare feet and the palms of his hands, he figured that he was, all in all, okay with how things had turned out in regards to being a participating member of the war. If he’d been an officer he wouldn’t have met the people he’d met now. Burgie, and Leyden, and Jay, and Oswalt, and, of course, Snafu. As he looked at his fellow Marine, still sitting close enough that sweat had started to form where their sun warmed skin touched, Eugene decided that yeah, he was alright with where he’d ended up. 

“Wonder what the new recruits will be like,” Eugene said. 

Snafu was watching the boats as they docked, the lines of uniform clad men bustling off. From the distance it was impossible to see anything more than basic human shapes, some shorter, some taller, impossible to guess ages or any sense of individual identity. From far away they were just people, just bodies. Like toy soldiers. Little boys going to a grownups war to do nothing but die. Eugene shook his head, trying to rid himself of those thoughts, and then thought of how it hadn't been long ago that he’d been one of those faceless, identity-less green clad figures, confused and nervous and fumbling around not knowing what the hell to do. 

Sometimes It seemed like it had been years.

“Stupid,” Snafu said. “They’re recruits, Sledge, dumb as bricks and thinkin’ they own the place. Dumb, green boots that’ll more’n likely get shot the first time they step foot in ta battle.” 

Eugene blinked. “Hey now, they can’t all be that bad. I was one of those recruits, once, ya know.” 

Snafu pulled his eyes away from the boats long enough to give Eugene a grin, heavy eyelids half closed in a mischievous smirk. “Yeah, I know, Gene. And you was so green you had shoots of grass growing out your ass, taking your damn boots off in the middle of a battle.” He snorted, fondly. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Hey,” Eugene scoffed. 

“Were an idiot,” Snafu corrected. “But hell, you done turned out alright now, Sledgehammer. Still kinda dumb now, though” 

Eugene couldn’t do anything but laugh, and watch as Snafu turned back to the boats and recruits. Snafu watched the boats while Eugene watched him and wondered when the scrappy little Cajun had become someone that he not only willingly spent time with, but someone that he actively sought out. He felt better when Snafu was like he was at that moment, within his range of vision, tucked up nice and close next to him. 

If he took the time to really think about that, about how much he enjoyed Snafu's company, how much he liked the close proximity, he'd become aware of a strange feeling that seemed to exist inside of him. Something he couldn't put a name to, something warm and liquid that started in the pit of his stomach and spread, molasses slow, out to his extremities. It didn't tingle like fear or nerves, but instead felt languid, and syrupy sweet. Like the slow spread of heat from drinking hot cocoa on a cold winter's day. 

Eugene wasn't quite sure what it was, but part of him was sure that if he really thought long and hard about it he'd figure it out. And, for whatever reason, naming that feeling scared him. Because he liked it, but he wasn't certain he should be feeling it in the first place.