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Runner's not sure where to look. He stares at the decorations hanging from the ceiling: paper cut-out stars and some balloons strung up next to the windows. He watches the patrons at the bar, ordering drinks and laughing. He absolutely does not look across the table to where Chuckler is nursing a pint full of beer. Chuckler, who is running his tongue around the rim of the glass with an expression of damn near obscene pleasure on his face, dipping his finger into the froth now and again, then sucking the digit into his mouth, humming in satisfaction before releasing it with a loud pop.
Runner glances down at his drink, almost half gone – his belly is warm from the two he's already had, head swimming a little. Huffing, he fiddles with the handle of his glass and is forced to admit the truth silently to himself: he really is a cheap drunk. Chuckler giggles, admiring his own drink, gazing lovingly at it with an expression much like the one he'd had earlier on the street, watching the girls walk past in their flowing skirts and cinch-waisted dresses; all curves and sexuality that had made Runner's stomach clench up with want.
It's been so damn long. Too long spent pressed up against other men, sprawled together in dirty, cramped foxholes, in machine-gun pits with muscles thrumming from the residual vibration of automatic rounds. On more than one occasion he'd found himself pressed closer to Chuckler than was strictly necessary, feeling like a thief in the dark and sneaking touches that were so chaste it felt silly for it to feel so overwhelmingly illicit.
And maybe there had been feelings that went along with those touches, a low simmer beneath his skin that edged closer to the surface as the days wore on. Something he had ignored, of course, because it was all nothing more than a result of the unavoidable closeness afforded by their present military lifestyle. Just the need to reach out and touch something solid, grounded, as the whole world shuddered and shook and dirt fell from the sky and into his eyes.
He swallows it, all of the possible realisations, the words that might accompany the truth, washes it down with bitter Australian beer. He can feel the alcohol seeping into his blood, making his vision waver and his tongue get thick. There are women at the bar and he knows he's not terrible looking, he could probably convince one of them to sleep with him.
He barely has time to think it through before Chuckler is speaking, all exaggerated hand movements and toothy grins, drawing Runner back into the all-encompassing whirlwind of his personality. Runner wishes he could find a way to disengage the part of his brain which focusses on the plump swell of Chuckler's lips and the sharp angle of his jaw when he laughs.
Other Marines filter in and out of the bar, creating a loud continuous hum that rings in Runner's ears, distracts him a little from the way Chuckler's throat muscles move as he gulps down mouthfuls of alcohol. By the time the MP's show up, Runner's down to his last inch of beer but still sober enough to recognise the undeniable expressions of intent on their faces as they stalk toward the building. Chuckler sees them, too, and with a brief nod they're both up out of their seats and edging calmly toward the back door, making it outside before all hell breaks loose behind them.
Hand clutching at his arm, Chuckler drags Runner down the ally, round the corner, and for a while they walk aimlessly, end up in a place Runner doesn't have a hope in hell of recognising, especially not in the dark. The sudden jolt of exertion has made his blood pump fast, heart hammering, the alcohol finally peaking.
He staggers rounding the next corner, reaches out to grab hold of Chuckler's arm to steady himself, except it only makes things worse. The world tumbles sideways until Runner finds himself backed up against a wall with Chuckler right there in front of him, staring at him with a weird, almost curious expression.
“Hey buddy,” Runner slurs “ What?” He feels a little woozy, bricks hard against his back. Chuckler is so close that he's all blurry. The strange look on his face becomes more pronounced and for a moment Runner thinks he's going to get hit. He'd probably deserve it, but for what he's not quite sure. Maybe he said something out loud, something he wasn't supposed to admit. Furiously his brain tries to back-track, tries to unravel and re-focus the last thirty minutes.
“Christ, I'm not stupid,” Chuckler says, and Runner's pretty sure he never said anything like that. In fact, he's almost certain he didn't say anything at all. He thinks about ice creams, the soft peak of vanilla curling at the touch of Chuckler's lips. He wonders if he's made it too obvious; his sudden and overwhelming fixation.
“Uh,” he says, and that's as far as he gets, half-wishing they were back at the bar, beer in hand and getting manhandled by the MP's. Maybe if he had another drink he could finish his sentence – could think of something coherent to say in the first place - but suddenly Chuckler's lips are hot against his neck, open-mouthed kisses that tickle the spot below his ear. He could deny it, could tell the other marine he's got the wrong end of the stick, but his body is reacting faster than his brain can process the situation, legs wobbling as he reaches out to grab hold of Chuckler's hips to try and stop himself from falling down.
Chuckler grins; Runner feels it spread out against his throat, feels the shudder of laughter pass through the other man's body. Runner doesn't feel at all like laughing, too busy trying to concentrate on not melting into the building he's pressed up against. Chuckler kisses a trail toward Runner's lips, doesn't even bother trying to hide the smile on his face when he pulls back. And suddenly it's hits him; the heat of Chuckler's body crowded in so close to him; the cool tingle of saliva drying on his neck; the hardness rubbing against his leg. The very fact that he's here, allowing himself to be so stupidly, stupidly vulnerable.
There's a pause; a deep breath taken before Chuckler leans in and presses their lips together, as if this is the crucial moment; this is what will seal the deal and make this whole thing more than just a drunken accident. And he doesn't expect Chuckler to be so gentle, so tentative with the pressure he applies; isn't prepared for the hand that snakes around to cup the back of his head and hold him still.
The sound Runner makes is undignified, bunching handfuls of Chuckler's shirt in his fists as he opens his mouth to let Chuckler deepen the kiss. Runner thinks of the boondocks, way back when they'd first met. He should have known then, should have realised that what everyone else called hero worship was more like a schoolyard crush. He hadn't been embarrassed by his actions then, but now, the hindsight is almost crippling.
“We need to go somewhere,” Chuckler whispers, pulling back just enough that his breath puffs out hot against Runner's mouth. It's a terrible idea – possibly one of Chuckler's worst – but Runner's never been the one to tell him otherwise, so he nods in agreement and tries not to think about what he's actually saying yes to.
The motel lobby is blessedly empty and Runner doesn't quite catch what Chuckler tells the woman behind the desk, but it's definitely not the truth because she laughs excitedly, flirtatiously, the jingle of keys following soon after. Their allotted room is tiny, a double bed taking up most of the available space. A weak sliver of moonlight attempts to illuminate the shadows without much success and Runner decides he should really ask Chuckler how he managed to wrangle them a room with only one bed without seeming suspicious.
Chuckler wraps himself around Runner's body, licks clumsily at his ear, his neck, forces words out in between more wet, open-mouthed kisses and says, “c'mon, touch me”. But Runner hasn't got a clue where to put his hands, reaching up and pressing his palm to Chuckler's neck, the pulse strong and steady underneath the skin. It's been so goddamn long that Runner doesn't know what to do with all the want that bubbles up inside him, trembling until he's pulling at the air like he's drowning, choking on oxygen as Chuckler sucks a bruise into the delicate skin across his collarbone.
Runner allows himself to be pushed down onto the bed, sinking into the mattress with a sigh. In the weak light he watches Chuckler peel off his shirt and throw it aside, watches his muscles move as he kneels on the bed and eases himself forward until they are chest to chest. He expects the usual witty repartee but instead, Chuckler sits back, straddling Runner's thighs and reaching down to unbutton his shirt. Even in the dim light Runner can make out the blush on Chuckler's cheeks, the lingering violet shadows beneath his eyes. As his fingers work they brush against Runner's chest; the silence is deafening and Runner wishes he could think of something – anything – to say, his usual ability to make light of any situation completely derailed by the gentle pressure of Chuckler's hands. He opens his mouth to speak but only air comes out, a soft and shaky exhale which Chuckler leans down and captures between his lips, pushing aside the fabric of Runner's blouse as he does. Up close, Chuckler smells faintly like the cheap unbranded soap they've been given to use in the stadium showers, nothing at all like the heavy scent of sweat and grime that he's used to; Runner inhales deeply and attempts to convince himself that they're somewhere else entirely.
Runner often wonders what his life would have been like had he not joined the marines. He watches Chuckler grinning above him, all teeth and that bright mischievous glint in his eyes, and he doubts he could ever feel this way about anyone else – it scares him to imagine what his life might have become without the war. He runs his palms over Chuckler's thighs and tries not to think too hard about what it will be like when it's time to leave the corps and go their separate ways.
Chuckler scoots back, fumbles with the fastenings of Runner's trousers, leans down to press his lips to the sensitive skin stretched over his hip. And there's no parallel for the way Chuckler settles between his legs, suddenly so sure and so determined, removing Runner's pants completely and pressing his lips to the naked skin of Runner's thigh like it's the easiest thing in the world. Runner can't help but reach out and tangle his fingers in Chuckler's hair which, for once, isn't caked with silty island mud.
Hot air drifts over Runner's inner thigh and he holds his breath, the anticipation causing his entire body to prickle with want. He isn't prepared for the sensation of Chuckler's mouth on him and he gasps, hips pushing forward and driving his cock further into the tight, wet heat, the hum of Chuckler's amusement vibrating all around him.
When Runner looks down, Chuckler's cheeks are red, lips spit-slick and stretched wide around head of his cock. It's the dirtiest, most amazing thing he has ever seen. He catches a swirling flicker of tongue when Chuckler pulls back, watches mesmerised as he licks from base to the tip then takes the length of him all the way inside his mouth. Runner can't last, not when Chuckler's fingers are gripping his hip hard enough to hurt, swallowing him down and humming happily like he's been waiting to do this all his life. Runner presses his palm to the side of Chuckler's face, to the curve of his shoulder, screwing his eyes shut tight as climax shakes his body and tears the breath from his lungs.
Chuckler kisses him shortly after and his mouth is bitter with the taste of him; Runner parts his lips, lets the other man lick into his mouth and tries not to fall too deeply into the foolish contentment which settles inside his chest.
“When we get home,” Chuckler whispers against Runner's mouth, “I want you to come visit me.” And Runner isn't sure if that's what he was expecting Chuckler to say, the soft, honest look in his eyes threatening to undo him. He nods dumbly, fingers trailing down over Chuckler's torso, smoothing across the coarse curls between his legs. “I want you,” he adds, and Runner kisses him, swallows all of his words and bites down gently on his lower lip, wrapping nervous fingers around the hard line of his cock as he does.
Chuckler drops his forehead down to rest against Runner's chest, mouths lazily at the tight peak of his nipple as he thrusts his hips, wet tip of his erection pressing against Runner's thigh. And Runner tries not to dwell on Chuckler's request, palm slick and wringing the whimpers from his throat. He doesn't know if he could stand it, knowing how much he was wanted if anything were to happen, if--
he shuts his eyes, concentrates on the way Chuckler cranes his neck and drops clumsy kisses against his throat, whispers yes, god, then says his name against the tender spot just beneath his ear, tickling the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck. He doesn't think about the boondocks; he doesn't think about the smell of dirt or the sound of gunfire in the distance. He opens his eyes and doesn't think about the rain seeping in through his clothes or the warm pressure of Chuckler's hand, seeking out his arm in the dark.
Runner wants to remember it all; the way Chuckler's brow creases, eyelashes fluttering shut as he comes, mouth slack with pleasure; the way that afterwards, he barely hesitates before surging forward, capturing Runner's mouth with a kiss which is impossibly deep, bruising his lips; the way his heart clenches at the soft I love you which he feels more than hears against his jaw.
In the stillness that follows, Runner allows himself to be held flush against Chuckler's chest, their legs tangled together in the sheets. The huff of amusement that Chuckler releases ruffles his hair and he can't help but smile, ear pressed over the other man's heart and listening to the way it races.
In the stillness that follows, the gentle rumble of Chuckler's laughter sounds nothing like thunder at all.