Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Sink’s throwing a party tonight,” Ron said from the doorway of Carwood’s billet.

“I heard,” Carwood said without looking up from his half-finished report. Ron was the only one who walked into his quarters without knocking. He’d grown used to Ron stopping by, sometimes greeting him like they were already in the middle of a conversation, or else just sneaking in and waiting until Carwood noticed he was there.

Carwood heard Ron shut the door before sitting down on his bed. “You should come.”

Carwood looked over at him from his place at his desk. “I don’t know.”

“It’s for everyone, not just officers.” Ron had a Hershey bar in his hand. He broke it in half and handed one over. “Although you are an officer.”

“So you like to remind me.” Sometimes Carwood thought Ron took more pride in it than him. “I thought I’d use the quiet to catch up on paperwork.” Never in his life had he seen so much paperwork. He supposed it was even worse for higher-ups, but apparently ending a war required a paper trail glutted with signatures from ranks both high and low. He nearly bit into the chocolate, but thought better of it. He wanted a cigarette instead.

“Most of Easy will be there, I got them out of guard duty. There’ll be gallons of booze. And women, apparently.” Ron winked, not that Carwood didn’t already know he was teasing.

“Can I have a cigarette?” Carwood asked, still half-distracted. Amused, he added, You’re not doing a very good job of selling this.”

Ron fished out his pack - he’d taken lately to putting them in a slim silver cigarette case that reminded Carwood of something society ladies would use - along with a lighter, one of the three Carwood knew Ron had on his person at any given time. This one was carved with someone else’s initials: F.B.W. Ron stuck two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them as one. Carwood thought he tasted chocolate on the end of his when he took a drag.

“I’ll be there, how’s that?” Ron said, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth in a bluish stream.

Carwood mirrored him. This cigarette tasted a great deal better than the one he’d bummed off of Luz that morning; it had been a shitty Pall Mall that made his throat ache. Ron always managed to scrounge up unfiltered Lucky Strikes. When Carwood was just sitting around - trying to get to sleep, for instance - and his thoughts wandered to Ron, as they did more often than not, he fixated on the label’s red bullseye, how Ron’s fingers nearly covered it all up when he held the carton. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, and I want you there.”

Carwood checked to make sure the door was locked before sitting down next to him, close enough their shoulders brushed. Ron’s eyes were dancing. “There’ll be fireworks,” he added. “A belated Independence Day.”

“Well, now I have to come.”

“The fireworks are a bigger draw than me?”

“What’s your plan?”

“No plan.” Ron sat back, looking up at the ceiling. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt. Carwood glimpsed the smattering of dark hair on his chest where he neglected to button up.

It startled him daily how he could see little things like that and feel desire. Although he didn’t recognize it at first for what it was, he’d felt it since the first moments he saw Ron. Before, he couldn’t have said he ever looked at a man that way, but now he craved whatever he could glimpse - Ron’s steady hands, which were marked with callouses, the whorls of soft hair at the nape of his neck, the pink tops of his ears. He looked at Ron when he strode around; he always seemed to be going somewhere important, even if Carwood knew for a fact that he wasn’t. The other day he had caught Ron dozing in the sun, his back to a stone wall, and stared at the way he looked with his hands crossed behind his head until Ron had opened one eye and said, “And you keep berating me about subtlety.” It had taken Carwood a quarter hour to fight down his blush.

He figured the war must have started it somehow. Likely right when Ron had skidded in front of Dike and relieved him from command. Ron had looked so serious then, his helmet low, gun shining in his arms. His eyes had been bright and steady as he turned towards Carwood to ask for an update on the situation. Two barked commands and Easy had been back on its feet.

But now, far away from that moment, Carwood knew the way he felt went beyond the war, went deep into the well of his soul. He didn’t know what that meant, if he was queer and only realized it now, or if Ron simply resisted categorization, but he found it didn’t matter. Ron had laughingly referred to himself as queer one evening, admitted he’d do it with women but always liked it best with men. Carwood had blushed when he heard the declaration. It was just like Ron to speak so brazenly, but Carwood didn’t know if he’d ever be able to say it aloud. Regardless, this was the situation and he wasn’t about to give it up.

He smoothed down Ron’s collar, thumb brushing his skin. Ron looked at him, the first hints of a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. He yanked Carwood down and kissed him, gentler than Carwood thought he might. They’d been doing this as often as they could lately, necking like teenagers behind closed doors and in the dark. That was another thing that startled Carwood, how he could kiss Ron for five minutes and feel as satisfied as if he spent the whole day in bed with him.

“You remembered I love fireworks,” Carwood said once he rolled onto his back. There were water stains on the ceiling, thin cracks spidering out in all directions. He had told Ron half that story over dinner at the Officers’ Club last week. The second half, Bastogne and the trees that splintered like old toothpicks, he had told much later, more into Ron’s neck than anywhere else.

“It was spectacular,” Ron had agreed. “I remember I couldn’t stop imagining what it looked like from above, the men all scrambling like ants into anthills to get out of the line of fire.”

Carwood had thought about that before he went to sleep that night and felt a little sick imagining the men as bugs.

“Of course,” Ron said, rolling onto his side, right up against Carwood. His body was always warm, and Carwood appreciated how he seemed to have a compulsive need to share it. “So you’ll come?”

“I’ll come.”

“Harry’ll be pleased. He keeps threatening to leave, says he wants to see us all as much as he can before he goes.”

Carwood sat up. “If I’m going to go, I need to finish this report.” He slid off the bed, berating himself for his cowardliness. Any talk of the future, no matter how casual, and he clammed up. He may as well be putting his hands over his ears, humming to block out the conversation.

“Alright,” he heard Ron say.

Carwood concentrated on his desk, on the smooth wood if not the report itself, nearly two-thirds typed. Before Ron left, he squeezed Carwood’s shoulder, and he felt the warmth through the fabric, all the way to his skin and muscle.

****

Colonel Sink commandeered a large house set against the lake that was painted an assortment of soft purples and blues. Its shutters were made of scalloped wood, painted bright white. It reminded Carwood of a wedding cake before it was cut, enormous and pristine despite the army taking up residence. By nightfall, nearly everyone in the 101st had squeezed onto the property - some inside, the windows and doors thrown open to tempt the evening air, others sprawled on the grass, the steps to the lake, the shore. The lake looked black during the night, except for the moon’s silvery reflection.

Carwood sat on the wide back porch with Martin and Randleman and Foley, the latter of whom was trying to get the attention of a young woman serving beers at a makeshift bar in the corner, as well as some platoon leader from Dog Company Ron knew. Ron had been with them earlier, but before long Lewis had swung by their table and tugged him up by the collar, like one might do to a puppy.

“Come on,” he’d said impatiently. “Play a drinking game with me.”

“Five bucks says he’ll throw up in the lake,” Ron had said, but he’d let himself be led away.

Carwood remembered the first thing Lewis said to him about Ron. When they were all packing up to go on the road again after the night in Rachamps, he had come over with Dick to congratulate him on the promotion.

“So Speirs told you, then?” Dick said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good for you, Lip,” Lewis said from Carwood’s other side. He nudged Carwood’s shoulder and added, “Speirs was very adamant you get the commission, you know.”

“He was,” Dick said. “Went around talking to everyone about you, then came to me and made his case. Not that I needed much convincing.”

Carwood bit the inside of his lip then, thought about what Ron had said in the church. Ron had been very earnest and serious, intense in a way Carwood had just started to realize was how he always acted. Carwood didn’t like being the center of attention, and even though it had been just the two of them talking, he’d felt like he’d been looking into the sun. Ron wasn’t at all how he expected him to be, warm where he’d thought he would encounter something ice cold.

Ron had gone to headquarters to deliver his report right after, and Carwood had expected him to stay there for the night. But he’d come back and paced among the men, squatting to chat with the few still awake. Carwood’s esteem for him had risen substantially once he saw that; the men had been anxious, unused to sleeping indoors, and he’d helped convince them to rest.

“Just doing my duty, sirs.”

“But he’s right. You’ve looked out for Easy since day one. I should have thanked you a lot earlier.”

Carwood shook his head. “Thank you for recommending me for the commission, but I would have done it regardless.”

“Speirs is something else, isn’t he?” Lewis said. “I feel like he ought to be running around in plated armor, a sword on his hip.” This had mostly been directed at Carwood. Carwood had gotten the feeling Lewis had already tried that line out on Dick, it had a polished sort of sound to it.

It sounded just about right, though. Carwood could see Ron as a knight, saving princesses from witches and ogres, slaying dragons. In silver armor instead of army fatigues, his Tommy gun replaced with a longsword. Different stories, though. Did you hear about Sir Speirs, the knight who slain a whole group of bandits from the enemy kingdom intent on killing the king?

Carwood got up without saying anything to his tablemates, all of whom were engrossed in some conversation he missed the beginning of. Foley, meanwhile, managed to coax the girl over. She blushed prettily as he complimented her English.

He didn’t need another drink; he planned to nurse the same beer as long as he could. He wound his way through the house to the steps by the lake. He sidestepped a group of men playing poker and a second challenging one another to sprints. By the lake itself, he thought he saw Lewis, but before he could take a step closer, someone grabbed his elbow and spun him around.

Ron’s face and shirt were covered in blood. His upper cheek shone with the first hints of a bruise. “What the hell happened to you?” Carwood demanded.

Ron smiled; his teeth were pink. “Harry and I had a brawl.”

“Ron, you didn’t.”

“We did,” Ron said, sounding deeply satisfied. He leaned in close to Carwood. His breath smelled like liquor. “I’ve been promising Harry we’d have one for weeks. Sink cut us short, though.”

Carwood must have made a face, because Ron laughed. “It’s alright, he just chewed us out. I’ve been chewed out before, I don’t mind it.”

Before Carwood could respond, he said, “The fireworks are starting,” and dragged Carwood away from the crowded shoreline into a wooded area. Ron sat close, thigh pressing into his.

Someone called loudly for his friend. A private stumbled by with a girl, both of them giggling. Carwood turned to Ron, intending to ask him why the hell they came all the way over here when surely more than a few were looking for them, but then Ron covered Carwood’s hand, palm down on the ground, with his own.

Carwood looked down to hide his smile. He felt like they were a couple at the movies, the screen still dark, waiting not only for the picture but for one of them to make a move. Except they did that already, didn’t they? Over a month ago now, in Ron’s chalet. They had been smoking and playing an uninspired game of cribbage when Ron threw down his cards and hastily stubbed out his cigarette. He had leaned forward, looking at Carwood for several of the longest seconds of Carwood’s life. Just when Carwood had realized what Ron wanted to do, and wondered, feeling hot all over, if it would happen, Ron leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

When they had broken apart, Ron swallowed hard and said, “I meant to ask first.” But there had been relief in his tone, in the way he smiled when Carwood moved to sit next to him and their lips met again. Carwood had felt it too. He hadn’t read Ron wrong. Whatever had been swelling between them had burst, and now they were doused in it.

He hadn’t gone back to his rooms that night until it was closer to morning. Ron had sent him off with a tender open-mouthed kiss against the door, body pressed up tight against his, hands cradling his jaw. “Meet me for breakfast,” Ron had said, and Carwood had.

“You sure you’re alright?” Carwood asked, interlocking their fingers with a small squeeze.

“I feel fine.”

He spit into his palm and rubbed at the blood on Ron’s face. Even in the dark, he could tell he wasn’t doing much but smearing it over his cheek. “Here,” he said, shoving Ron his beer, “wash out your mouth.”

Ron did as he asked, then downed the rest of the beer. He looked at Carwood with a serious expression on his face. “It was friendly. The fight. Harry begged me and we did it for the audience. It was just for fun.”

Before Carwood could say anything, the first firework exploded over their heads with a teeth-rattling boom. It glowed red and orange in the sky before falling towards the lake.

For a long moment, Carwood was caught up watching it. Then he noticed Ron’s gaze and flushed. “This is nice,” he said, unsure.

“Yes, it is,” Ron said.

Another firework, this one green, streaked across the sky. It was followed by a quick succession of blindingly white sparklers that crisscrossed each other. Carwood smiled at the whining they made every time they twisted in the air. A few seconds later, huge booms had him full-on grinning. But then the next moment he remembered Bastogne, and sobered up. Ron, as if understanding this thought, shifted closer.

Carwood hadn’t heard a sound like that in months. There were no gunshots or bomb blasts in Zell Am See aside from rifle practice and the lone altercation.

He snuck a look at Ron. The alcohol softened his face in a way Carwood remembered from the Eagle’s Nest. The blood should have made him seem dangerous, but it didn’t, especially in the multicolored light from the fireworks. He was itching to leave Austria and get on their way to the Pacific, but now he didn’t look it. If they were alone, Carwood would have kissed him. Put a hand in his hair, pushed it back from his forehead.

In the lull between the next set of fireworks, Ron said, “Will you come back with me later?”

“Yes,” Carwood promised.

****

Carwood shut the door to his billet and stared down at the letter in his hands. Margaret had written the return address in that dark blue ink she favored. It felt thick, four or five pages long, as if to make up for the prolonged period of silence.

Margaret Lipton, she wrote in the corner above their address. Before they married, her name had been Margaret Reilly. The last letter he had gotten from her had been short, only five lines, mostly pleasantries. Uncharacteristic, because the Margaret he knew talked enough for the both of them. Her previous letters had been full of the tiniest of details about home - her voice and piano students, the boarders, some of whom Carwood hadn’t even met, life in Huntington. Carwood’s family, and how Margaret fit in with them. The last letter didn’t say much at all, just that everyone was alive and well and that she read about the mess in Bastogne in the papers. He had gotten it three months ago, and although he’d replied, there hadn’t been anything since.

He remembered her dark hair, always curled tightly from rollers she wore to bed, her wide smile, the birthmark on her lower back. He remembered the way she spoke his name. Why had they gotten married? They had dated in high school; they went to school dances together. It made sense, that’s what everyone agreed.

Carwood ripped the envelope open, but didn’t unfold the letter.

Around the same time he had gotten that other letter from her, he’d interrupted Ron in the middle of his own letter writing. Ron had been straddling his desk chair backwards, staring down hard at an empty piece of paper, when Carwood opened the tent flap. He had been intending to ask Ron about tomorrow’s training exercises - they were finally in reserve - but the words had left him once Ron looked up at him and said, “Did you know I have a son?”

Ron didn’t wear his wedding ring - not now, in Austria, and certainly not then, in Mourmelon, either - but Carwood had heard from Lewis that he had an English wife. This hadn’t been the first time Ron confided in him - somewhere along the line, their conversations became personal whenever they got moments alone - but that was personal, even for Ron.

“Congratulations,” Carwood said. He didn't know what to think; Ron didn’t seem very happy.

“It was an accident,” Ron said. Then he shrugged and added, with that characteristic crassness Carwood knew he possessed, but still never expected, “I didn’t have much to do with it. All I did was stick it in, she handled the rest.”

He leaned forward, almost tipping the chair. His voice was flat as he continued, “So I gave her my name. She’s a nice girl, I didn’t want anyone to shame her.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, sir,” Carwood said, turning to leave.

“If I could stop writing to her, I would.”

“Sir, you did the right thing, marrying her.”

Ron shook his head. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss your wife?”

Thinking about what he had said to Ron still made Carwood’s stomach twist up. He had taken vows. It might have been a small wedding, a rushed one on a weekend pass, but he took vows with Margaret.

“No,” he said.

Ron’s head snapped up. His hair was falling into his eyes. He swept it back carelessly. “No?”

Carwood shrugged, looking off to the corner of the tent, where a small pile of silver sat, half-polished.

“Why not?” Ron asked.

“I’m not sure. It just seems harder to think of home now.”

Ron didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “My son was born in January. His name is William.”

He had smiled a little as he said it, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and Carwood had thought about that smile often in the days that followed.

Ron still wrote to his wife regularly. It seemed that somewhere along the line, they’d fallen into a comfortable correspondence where Elise shared news about William - and even a photograph once, Ron had shown it to him proudly - and Ron replied with silver.

Carwood wondered, as he opened Margaret’s letter, if their relationship would be better if he had a child with her.

Dear Carwood, the letter read, I didn’t want to tell you like this.

Carwood sat down on his bed. Margaret had a tendency to repeat things, to speak circuitously. The letter only said one thing, but a dozen different ways. She wanted to explore how things might go with someone else, she wrote, and she wanted to tell him in person, but she simply couldn’t wait any longer. There was no telling when Carwood would even be home, if the news about the Pacific meant anything. And it wasn’t like Carwood was writing.

When he got to the end, he folded the letter back up carefully and put it in its envelope.

The night before, when he and Ron had finished and were in Ron’s bed, Ron, still tipsy, fell asleep quickly. He had thrown an arm over Carwood’s chest and pressed up against him. Carwood had listened to his heavy breathing for several minutes before kissing his head and slipping out from underneath him.

On the way back to his rooms, the guilt he shoved aside whenever he was with Ron had come to the forefront of his mind. He had felt sick and stopped for a moment. Two men, their arms slung around each other, singing drunkenly, had shoved past him. He’d stood there for several long minutes, looking at the black lake, before forcing himself to go and get some sleep.

He looked down at the ring on his finger. It would be suspicious if he took if off. Everyone would notice, and someone - Harry, or George - would ask about it. Ron would certainly ask about it. Carwood sometimes felt like a deer and Ron a wildcat, with the way Ron’s sharp eyes looked him over.

Ron had kissed him tenderly last night. He’d curled his fingers around Carwood’s wrist, coaxed him into his lap, and simply stared at him for several seconds before kissing him on the mouth.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Carwood had asked. He’d tasted a hint of Ron’s blood along with the liquor. Ron had only made a small noise and tugged him closer.

Carwood took off the ring. He rubbed at the simple gold band, dull now from the wear and tear of war. Margaret wanted a divorce. She said it so plainly. Divorce.

He put the ring back on, twisting it around on his finger.

****

“Carwood!” Harry shouted. “Be a good man and come on over!”

Harry looked terrible. Carwood believed the fight was even - Ron had a nasty bruise on his side from Harry’s boot - but Ron had punched him twice in the face, and the bruises had mottled purple overnight.

“Good to see he didn’t knock out those teeth, sir,” Carwood said. He took a seat across from Harry. Harry offered him his cigarette, which he took gratefully.

“Oh, Kitty would be up the wall. And stop with the ‘sir,’” Harry said. “Jesus, Lip, come on. If you’ve stopped calling Ron ‘sir,’ you can stop with me.” He took a gulp of coffee, clutching at his head. “Goddamn.”

“Bad night?”

“Puked everywhere,” he said, “and my mouth fucking hurts. Ron knows how to throw a punch. I’ll give him that much.”

Carwood shrugged sympathetically. Harry stole back his cigarette, shaking his head. “This always happens when I mix drinks. I should’ve just stuck to the one, like Nix.”

“Maybe next time don’t go around asking people to kick your ass.”

Harry laughed. “Is that what he told you? What a bastard. If we’d been at it a second longer, I would’ve had him. Besides, he was the one who said yes to it, he didn’t have to.”

“I’ve never known Ron to back down from a challenge.” Carwood made to stand up, but Harry reached over the table and tugged him down. “I’ve got sandwiches coming. Stay for lunch. Nix’ll be here any minute.”

Lewis arrived a moment later, looking chipper despite his pinkish eyes. “Gentlemen,” he said, unable to keep the grin off of his face when he caught sight of Harry, “how are we today?”

Harry just gave him the finger and took another sip of coffee.

Lewis lit a cigarette. “Have either of you seen Ron?”

“Not since last night,” Harry said. “Why?”

Carwood just shook his head.

“Dick’s looking for him, says he wants to talk about setting up a hiking expedition for the boys.”

“That might be nice,” Carwood said. “You can tell they’re getting restless, even with the drills and exercises.”

“You’d think they’d appreciate the vacation,” Lewis said. “Or, you know, not being shot at.”

“Paradise is boring,” Harry said. Lewis looked over at Carwood, his eyebrows raised, likely about to snark about Harry’s off-brand philosophizing, but then Harry raised his hand and said, “Look, there’s our food.”

When they were situated, cigarettes stubbed out in a saucer, with fresh coffee and sandwiches made on the dark chewy bread that seemed to be favored here - Lewis took a bite into his and made a face, but kept eating anyway - Carwood said, “At least some of them have been able to go home.”

“Not too many, unfortunately,” Lewis said.

“It feels cruel that most of the officers could, if they wanted to, but not their men. Don’t they need leaders?”

Ron strolled up, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, pinching a cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. The bruises on his face had darkened overnight, and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose Carwood swore wasn’t there before. “Officers are cheap,” he said. “If you want to win a war you need bodies.”

He sat down next to Harry and reached across the table to steal half of Carwood’s sandwich. “Wasn’t expecting to see you up and walking today,” he told Harry.

“Ron,” Carwood said.

“What?” Ron said around a mouthful. “You can always order another one.”

“About the other thing.”

He shrugged. “It’s true. You need someone to gut the enemy personally. Boots on the ground and all that.”

“It just sounds so depressing when you put it that way.”

“God forbid war was anything else,” Harry put in. “Nix says Dick was looking for you, Mr. Sun Tzu.”

“Right,” Ron said. “Anyone want to come hiking?”

****

Carwood tilted his head back, letting the shower water run over his chest. He shook out his shoulders. Weeks of hot water and he still wasn’t used to it, wasn’t used to showing indoors, and in private.

Ron had gathered a hiking group after lunch. Along with Dick, they had gone off the path and into the mountains. It had been a pleasant change of pace from other afternoon activities, mostly swimming and sports, and when they got back to their camp, the boys had seemed more relaxed. Dick, Lewis, and Ron had been called away to a meeting, and Harry and Carwood had hung around with some of the boys until it got dark, fireflies winking in the air.

He’d taken his wedding ring off before he got in the shower so it wouldn’t get lost down the drain, and while he couldn’t see it, he knew it was there on the countertop, next to his watch and towel.

All afternoon, between the men calling for his attention and Ron circling back from the front of the group periodically to talk to him, he’d barely thought of the letter. But now he couldn’t get his mind off it. He ought to reply to her. Should he tell her to send the papers now? Or maybe the war would end before they could process the paperwork, so it would be better to leave it.

Carwood scrubbed at his face, then turned off the water. He stood in the bathroom for a long time, looking at his reflection in the foggy mirror, before he put on the ring.

He had been dressed barely five minutes when he heard a knock on the door. He opened it, expecting Ron or else George, but a runner he’d never seen before was there instead.

“Sir,” the boy - and he truly was a boy, his cheeks baby-smooth, all narrow shoulders and bony limbs - said, “Captain Speirs is looking for you, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“Down at the company CP, sir.”

Carwood found Ron in the main room, sitting on the long conference table, eating an apple. He had showered and shaved; Carwood saw that his hair was still wet.

“Winters wanted a transfer,” Ron said. “Back around the D-Day anniversary.”

“What?”

Ron slid off the table. “A transfer. To the front.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Says he wanted to get it over with.”

“What about the men?”

“He hasn’t commanded them personally in a long while now. It would have been fine if he went.”

“Nixon?”

“Would’ve gone with them. You know they’re attached at the hip anyway.”

“I didn’t know about that.” But it did sound like something Dick would do. Carwood leaned up against a filing cabinet, gesturing around the room, to the maps on the walls, the American flag and 101st Division banner side by side behind the head of the table. Everyone still got a kick out of the fact it was an actual office, instead of just a room in whatever house had the most intact furniture. “Why’d you ask me to come here? Why not your rooms?”

Ron looked at him impassively. Then he threw his half-eaten apple into the wastebasket, like one would a basketball, and crossed his arms over his chest. “What would you say if I went?”

Carwood swallowed hard. “You put in the paperwork?”

“Not yet.”

“Easy needs you.”

“Easy’s mostly going to be replacements soon enough.”

“It’s still your company.”

Ron inspected his scabbed knuckles. “You know,” he said, “I miss being a platoon leader. If they let me have my pick of positions, I would go back to being a platoon leader.”

Carwood’s throat felt thick. Ron had been talking about the Pacific ever since they saw that newsreel about Okinawa. At first, it had seemed likely that their stay in Austria would be merely a short respite before they were shipped out again, but now Carwood had to admit he agreed with Harry that the war would end before Easy left Europe. But he couldn’t tell Ron that; Ron kept asking around for news about the front over there, and when he relayed it all to Carwood, he spoke a little quickly, animated in a way Carwood rarely saw and felt fondness for despite the reason behind it.

“Ron,” he said. “Think about it some more.”

“Army bureaucracy moves so slow, they probably won’t even look at it until the war’s through,” Ron said. He took a step closer to Carwood, frowning slightly. “I picked here because I needed to tell you in private. And every time we’re truly alone, I just want-”

“Ron,” Carwood said warningly. Ron shut his mouth, but he took another small step in Carwood’s direction.

Carwood didn’t move. He wanted to take one of Ron’s hands in his, see if it was sticky from the apple. The bruise on Ron’s cheek had swelled, the skin shiny, despite the ice Carwood found for it after the fireworks. It probably it hurt, not that Ron would ever complain.

“What are you doing tonight?” Ron asked.

Carwood indulged the change of subject even though he couldn’t take his mind off of the thought of Ron with another company, cutting his way through jungle, or else dropping on Tokyo. Ron thrived under pressure; he’d probably relish in long nights spent holding the line as the enemy threw body after body at their defenses. That was what they did. Carwood saw the newsreels. When the battles were finished the bodies were laid so thick you couldn’t see the ground.

“Paperwork,” he said.

“Lucky us,” Ron said. “Mind if we work together?” He fished two cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.

“Sir, let me,” Carwood said, plucking them out of Ron’s hand before Ron could find his lighter. He ruined it a little by letting his mouth twitch up in a grin. He couldn’t help it, even if Ron seemed bent on putting the world between them.

Ron stuck the cigarette in his mouth and smirked around it. “Quit fucking with me, Lieutenant.”

****

The plan, of course, had always been to do his duty to his country, however long that took, and then go back to school if he could afford it. Carwood didn’t mind the military - he was proud of his service, and of his men’s too - but he never imagined a future where it was all he knew professionally. He still didn’t.

He had the points to go home if he wanted, but even before the letter, that hadn’t truly been an option. Dick had told them that they needed to decide what to do, but for Carwood it wasn’t a decision at all. Not while his men were still suited up to go to war, and not while Ron commanded them. Ron hadn’t spoken to him about it yet, but Carwood thought he already knew Ron’s answer to what he wanted to do postwar, any dislike of bureaucracy notwithstanding.

The rest of the week and most of the next passed in a blur. The pleasant summer air made training bearable. Carwood managed to send off a few more of Easy’s men. He didn’t speak to Dick or Lewis about the transfer that wasn’t, but he mentioned it to Harry, who nodded vigorously and said, “Those fuckers wanted to abandon us.” Carwood chose not to mention to Harry that he threatened nearly every day to hang up his wings and go back to Kitty.

He spent most evenings with Ron. Ron seemed to understand that he hit a nerve and didn’t bring up any talk of the future, although he sometimes shared news of the war in the Pacific. They played cards, took walks around the lake, worked on reports together. When they could, they went to bed, and Carwood liked that best of all. Ron smiled the whole time, like he won the lottery and couldn’t quite believe it yet. Sometimes it was wide and Carwood could see his teeth, which were stained with tobacco in a way that still managed to be charming, and other times it wasn’t there unless Carwood was looking for it.

One such night ended with Ron swallowing Carwood’s come and turning his head to kiss the thicket of scars on Carwood’s upper thigh. Carwood twitched. The skin there was still sensitive, so mangled that Carwood didn’t like to look at, although Ron loved to trace it with his tongue. Their uniforms were only half off; Ron had kicked the door shut and grabbed at Carwood with a kind of intensity that Carwood hadn’t seen outside of situations including Ron, a gun, and a crystal clear objective.

He put his hand in Ron’s sweaty hair. “Come here,” he said, but Ron shook his head.

“No need,” he said. He sat up, and Carwood saw a dark patch on his unbuttoned pants.

Carwood felt a white-hot spike of heat go through him. “Come here anyway.”

Ron brushed their lips together. The first time they did this, Carwood had found it odd to taste himself, but now he didn’t mind it. Still, it felt dirty enough that he squirmed, curling his toes, when Ron deepened the kiss.

After a moment he rolled them over and shoved Ron’s pants and skivvies down his legs. Ron, who went along with this willingly, said, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t want you to get uncomfortable when it dries,” Carwood said.

He stood, tugging his own pants up, and went into the bathroom to wash them out. When he returned, he saw that Ron was still on the bed, eyes closed, hands crossed behind his head. He looked silly in just his shirt. Carwood took in his strong bare legs, dusted with dark hair, and how that same dark hair trailed down his navel to his cock. He sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed at Ron’s feet. Kissed the sole of the left one. Ron jerked, opening his eyes.

Carwood kissed his right sole, then the tops of his feet. He ran his hands up Ron’s legs and settled on his side next to him, then kissed his bellybutton.

Ron breathed in sharply through his nose. “Carwood,” he said. “What…?”

“I came in and saw you,” Carwood said. He kissed Ron’s hipbone. “I wanted to touch you.”

“Jesus,” Ron muttered. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Carwood just hummed, kissing a little lower.

“If you want me to go again right now, you’ll be disappointed.” Ron coaxed Carwood up, so that they lay side by side. He pulled the sheet up around them.

“Someone could knock,” Carwood said. “It’s not that late.”

“They could,” Ron agreed.

“You’d have to scramble into the bathroom.” He looked at Ron. “Do you worry about it?”

“About what?”

“Getting caught.”

“We’re discreet.”

“But that’s not foolproof.”

Ron tightened his hold on Carwood momentarily. “It’s worth the risk.”

Carwood couldn’t breathe for a moment. He squeezed Ron back, wanting to tell him about the letter. How would he start that sentence? Perhaps it would be best just to show it to him, let him read all the way to the end. But that meant asking about what would happen after this war was through, and he wasn’t ready to face that question.

He allowed himself a moment of indulgence, imagined that this room wasn’t in a hotel in Austria, but rather in a house somewhere back in the States. A house that they lived in together, where they didn’t have to worry if someone would walk in and ruin it all.

Then Ron said, “I asked Sink if we’re moving out anytime soon.”

Carwood tensed. Ron must have felt it, because he rubbed Carwood’s back. “He said he didn’t know anything,” he said. “Not yet. Maybe by the end of the month.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Carwood ventured. He waited for Ron to say more, maybe mention his transfer paperwork, but he didn’t.

“It’ll be unlike anything we’ve known before,” Ron said instead. “Europe looks like home, more or less. The environment was tough, but at least we were used to it. Nothing at all like those islands out in the ocean. They may as well be sending us to fight on Mars.”

His tone didn’t match the words coming out of his mouth; it was pitched in that way Carwood knew equaled eagerness.

“You’re excited, then.”

“I know that’s not what you’re supposed to say,” Ron said. “But it’s killing me to be here while there’s action over there.”

What are you going to do when the Japanese surrender? Carwood wanted to ask. Instead he said, “I’m sure you’ll excel there too.”

“Carwood,” Ron said, “I know I asked this already.”

“Asked me what?”

Ron hesitated. “You have the points to go home, don’t you?”

“I’m not going home right now,” Carwood said. He kissed Ron’s shoulder. “If they need me in the Pacific, I’ll go to the Pacific.”

He felt Ron’s lips brush his temple. Would they even be together in the Pacific? He hadn’t gotten his new assignment yet, but he suspected the army would remember soon enough. And even if they were, it couldn’t be like this, not if they were on the line.

“Good,” Ron said.

Carwood squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like he should say something more, explain somehow the emotion welling up in him, but he couldn’t.

****

Carwood woke up in the middle of the night to someone knocking hard on his door, over and over. “Lip!”

He recognized George’s voice and shot out of bed, stumbling over to the door in the dark.

“Jesus, Lip, I thought you weren’t here. This was mostly just to check where you weren’t,” George said when Carwood opened the door, tucking in his shirt at the same time.

Light streamed in from the hallway, making Carwood squint. “What time is it?”

“About 0300 hours.”

“Why are you-”

“So you really haven’t heard yet?”

“Heard what, George?” Carwood said tersely.

“Grant’s been shot.”

“What?” Carwood sagged against the doorframe, dragging a hand down his face. Janovec, and now Grant. Ron was fond of Grant. Everyone was, but Ron in particular. “How?”

“I thought someone would’ve told you by now. Speirs is out of his fucking mind. Didn’t shoot the guy, but still. I’ve never seen him this mad.”

“What happened?”

“Walk with me,” George said, leading the way down the hallway. “Grant was out on patrol when he and the guys he was with stopped some drunk guy who’d shot two German officers.”

“Christ,” Carwood said.

“He got out of the jeep, tried to talk to the guy, but before he could get too close, the guy shot him in the head.”

“So he’s dead,” Carwood said as they rushed down the stairs, two at a time.

“No. Speirs and Doc took him to a Kraut surgeon who managed to operate in time. Apparently he’s gonna make it.”

Carwood breathed out heavily. “And you got him?”

“We caught him, got him a bit roughed up. I was playing cards with Tab outside - Tab was the one who found him - when Speirs came in. We all thought for sure he was gonna shoot him, but he didn’t.”

Carwood blinked. “Why the hell didn’t anyone wake me up?”

“Sorry,” George said apologetically. “We thought you already knew.”

“Where’s the Captain?”

“I think he’s talking to Sink.”

“Thanks, George.” Carwood pushed the lobby doors open, about to run down the road to the Battalion HQ, when George called to him.

“You might want to give him some time to cool down. He was very, you know, shouty.”

****

Carwood waited nearly forty minutes for Ron to emerge from Sink’s office. He felt the late hour the whole time; he was awake, but it felt strange to be in this room, with its fancy furniture and cheerful wallpaper, while the clock on the wall ticked towards four in the morning. Ron, rubbing at his eyes, nearly strode past, but then he saw Carwood and paused.

He looked tired. He carried his cap in his hands, and his hair was mussed. This had been the rare night Carwood didn’t see him; Ron ate dinner with some of his old friends from Dog.

Carwood stood without saying anything, and the two of them hurried shoulder to shoulder into the street. Ron walked stiffly, no doubt still tense, but by the time they reached his billet, he managed to take a deep breath and let it all out with a sigh. He unlocked the door and guided Carwood in. Carwood turned on one of the lights and watched as Ron locked the door carefully. Then he leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut.

Carwood just stood there looking at the way Ron was working his jaw. He didn’t know the right move to make, only that he wanted to be there for him. Thank God Grant didn’t die; Carwood knew Ron would be worse if he’d died.

“I’m going to make us drinks,” Ron said eventually. He unbuttoned his jacket on his way to the kitchen and threw it on the floor. Carwood heard two hard thumps as Ron shucked off his shoes. Then he walked back with two little rose-colored tumblers filled, Carwood knew, with brandy. Lewis knew Ron’s favorite - some French cognac that came in a crystal bottle shaped like a teardrop - and had packed up a whole case for him at the Eagle’s Nest.

Carwood sat in one of the armchairs, letting the brandy sweat on the side table next to him, as Ron paced and sipped at his drink. When he finished, it seemed like some more of the anger had gone out of him; his walk wasn’t as aggressive. He picked up Carwood’s untouched glass and sat down across from him.

“So you heard,” he said flatly.

“Luz filled me in.”

“Sink told me I should’ve shot him.”

“Ron,” Carwood started, but Ron interrupted.

“I don’t know why the hell I didn’t. Sink told me that earlier tonight he roughed up two Privates in I Company and raped one of the Austrian women.” He tilted his head back, eyes shut. “All before he fucking - before he shot Grant. And he was drunk. In public. What a fucking disgrace.”

Carwood didn’t say anything.

“I know that everyone thinks I like killing people. But I don’t. I’ve never lost sleep over it, but it’s not like I seek it out. I like being in battle. I like completing our objective. I like this life, but not because I get to shoot things. Well,” Ron amended, considering, “maybe a little because I get to shoot things. But not people. I don't-"

He broke off, looking at Carwood so intently Carwood shivered. "I wanted to kill him. Grant didn’t deserve this. He took away Grant’s life, because even though he’s going to live, it won’t be the same.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t,” Carwood said. “Maybe you weren’t sure that was really him.”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “I trust Talbert.” He gulped down the drink in one go before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Sink said I should’ve shot him. The boys couldn’t believe I didn’t. I think some of them were waiting to see it happen. What do you think?”

Ron was fond of Grant, but Carwood was fond of everyone. Any one of their boys could’ve been shot at tonight, and it wasn’t fair that they still had to worry about that when they were far from the front lines. Carwood felt anger rise up in him. They’d all killed men. They’d all done things they would never do outside of the war. But Grant didn’t die during a battle. He died during guard duty, from friendly fire.

“You should’ve shot him,” Carwood said.

Ron nodded. He bit his lip.

“But it’s okay that you didn’t.” Carwood wanted to hold Ron and listen to his heartbeat, and for Ron to hear his in return. “There’s been enough bloodshed in this war already.”

“He doesn’t deserve to wear this uniform,” Ron said, gesturing between the two of them. “He doesn’t deserve his fucking wings.”

“I’m sure they’ll discharge him dishonorably.”

Ron stood up abruptly.

“What are you doing?” Carwood asked.

Ron just raised his glass and walked into the next room. When he came back, he leaned against Carwood’s chair and said, “I withdrew my transfer paperwork.”

Carwood looked up at him. “Good,” he said.

Ron grimaced into his glass. “I was going to cancel it anyway, after I talked to you. But now the thing with Grant made it clear I can’t leave Easy.”

Carwood smiled. “Ron.”

Ron ducked his head down. “It would be irresponsible of me to leave such a valuable resource to the military in the hands of the wrong - well, someone else, someone who doesn’t know them as well.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Carwood said, but his smile grew wider. He ruined it with a yawn that he just barely managed to cover with his elbow.

“Here,” Ron said, holding out a hand to help him up. “You ought to go to bed.”

“It’s nearly time to wake up.”

“Just for a few hours. I already cancelled the morning drills.”

Before Carwood went back to his own rooms, Ron stepped close. He let himself be held like Carwood wanted, boneless with the wall at his back. Then he slumped forward, ear pressed against Carwood’s chest.

There wasn’t really anything more to say, so Carwood didn’t even try.

He thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep so near to dawn, but as soon as he turned down the bed sheets, he had to blink to keep his eyes open. He dreamt of tropical islands with white sand and broken palm trees littering the shoreline. He kept hearing Ron’s voice shouting orders somewhere in front of him, but no matter how fast he ran, he never managed to catch up with Easy.

****

“You know, a lot of men who do this,” Ron said, “they tend to pretend none of it happened and then go home to play house with their wives.” He folded up the letter and handed it to Carwood.

They were sitting at the end of a pier that jutted out into the lake’s shallows. It was made of smooth, well cared for wood, nothing like the flaky clapboard at the fishing spot around the corner from Carwood’s house. The sunlight kept sneaking off behind the clouds. Ron’s face was half in shadow. It made him look peculiar, one eye lit up, the other hard to read.

Carwood looked out over the lake. He and Margaret had never really lived as husband and wife. The assumption was that there’d be time for that later. Carwood would get through school and find a better paying job so Margaret could take on less students and focus on raising their children. As far as he knew, Ron had never lived with his wife either.

Ron’s face didn’t betray anything, but despite the fact they weren’t touching, Carwood felt how tense he was.

“I thought you’d be happy about this,” Carwood ventured. He saw immediately this was the wrong tack to take; Ron’s mouth tightened. He shifted so they weren’t so close to each other.

“That’s what I like to do in my spare time, break up marriages. You know, when I’m not shooting soldiers.”

“You didn’t break anything up.” Carwood ran his finger along the edge of the letter. “I’m not the blameless one here. I’ve been cheating on her.”

He’d never said it aloud before. It sounded strange to say it so plainly. When he used to think about it, forced himself to think clearly about what he was doing, even though Ron made it so easy to forget his vows, his stomach twisted up. He’d nearly been sick the first time, not because his feelings for Ron disgusted him, but because it went against everything he’d been taught. He cheated on her, and her cheating too didn’t make it any less irresponsible.

“You’re still wearing it. The ring.”

Carwood looked down at his left hand. The ring was still dull and banged up, and now it was all he noticed when he looked at it. Months ago he thought he’d replace it when he got back, keep the original next to his dog tags for safekeeping. A tangible memory of the war. “I didn’t want to invite questions.”

“How long have you known?”

“About two weeks now.”

“Two weeks?” Ron stood, wiping his hands on his pants violently. “Christ, Carwood.”

Carwood scrambled to his feet. “What’s the matter?”

Ron just shook his head and shoved past him. The clouds shifted, pouring out bucketfuls of sunlight. Carwood shaded his eyes as he looked at Ron stride down the pier, shoulders set stiffly.

“Ron,” he called, but Ron didn’t turn back.

That was the first time Ron had ever walked away from him in the middle of a conversation. Carwood stood there dumbly until he couldn’t see Ron anymore.

Then he sat back down, exhaling hard. “Fuck,” he swore. He was clutching at the letter so tightly it’d started to tear, so he finished the job and threw the pieces into the lake.

He stayed out on the pier a long while after, until the clouds threatened any glimpses of sun and the air had grown chilly from a stiff breeze. He thought about Margaret’s pretty mouth and the way her dresses hugged the flare of her hips. The way she laughed; he’d always thought she had a pretty laugh. Then he thought about Ron. Everything about him was muscle, like a sculpture, one of the classic ones Carwood supposed he saw a lot of in college. He had a deep voice and smelled like a man and while his lips weren’t anything like Margaret’s, they were better to kiss.

He understood more of Carwood than Margaret ever did, and Carwood supposed that ought to count for something.