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It's a quick press. Barely there for a second. Hardly even really a kiss at all—Sniper's not even sure he feels anything, with how hard he's shivering.
But god, it makes a difference.
Dirt wedges beneath his nails as he roughly digs into the ground, seeking purchase in the soil that keeps slipping through his fingers. Leaving him with nothing.
Too quick, too agile. Every time Sniper had lined up a shot, the enemy Scout slipped just beyond reach before his fingers could release the bowstring.
In the end, his speed worked against him. Rain slicked the battlefield, turning grass into slippery hazards and mud into snares, waiting to wrench ankles or steal footing.
Sniper saw it happen from afar—how Scout's feet skidded out from under him as he misjudged his step on the rain-slick slope. The momentum he’d relied on so heavily deserted him in an instant.
In that momentary lapse, Sniper's arrow found its mark.
Over and over, Sniper presses his lips against Scout's unmoving ones. They're so stiff they feel plastic against his own, like wax molded into a crude facsimile of a person.
Would he want this? It makes all the guilt come flooding back, clawing its way up his throat until he can barely breathe around it. And he still can't bring himself to stop.
If only it felt a little less good.
The inside of his cheek is dry. So is his tongue. Lying limp as his own slithers in, probing the cold recess of his mouth like a parasite. Searching for the warmth that’s not there.
A whimper escapes him before he can choke it back as his thumb hooks on the curve of Scout's bottom lip, trying to keep the kiss open, chasing whatever fleeting semblance of closeness he can. It's pathetic—this need for affection from someone he has no right to. He feels like a dog lapping at his face.
The acrid, bitter taste coats his tongue and throat. It's sharp enough to twist his face into an involuntary grimace and for him to have to pull back a fraction, sucking in a deep breath.
They're out in the open. What if someone saw? The thought comes and goes when he dives back in, hungrily sealing his mouth over Scout's. His tongue rests against the roof of his mouth, the wet muscle twisting on itself with every pass. It's nauseating. How he wouldn't care.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Like he hates him.
And maybe he does, for doing this to him.
When Sniper finally pulls away, a thin strand of saliva stretches between them before snapping under its own weight and splattering across Scout's jaw.
The next breath he takes rattles.
You're sick, his brain wails. Sniper doesn't have the strength to try and correct himself.
His hands finally come down from where they've been hovering over Scout's shoulders. Reaching for the arrow embedded in his chest.
His first attempt failed, fingers sliding uselessly along the bloodied surface. Focus.
This time around, he holds it steady.
With a final, decisive pull, the arrow tore free with a sickening wet sound. It hits the ground beside him with an audible thunk—splintered and ruined beyond repair. Sniper stares at it like it might hold some kind of answer.
The wound is still bleeding far too much for his comfort—thick streams of blood pouring out faster than they have any right to. That's... no, he did hit an organ of some kind.
Scout's mouth hangs open slightly now, and for some reason that small detail makes the regret slam back into him fully formed and screaming.
He's going to be sick.
He's going to- no, no, he's not going to be sick. He can handle this. He's done worse.
His legs threaten to give out beneath him when he finally forces himself to stand upright again. The bow in his hand feels heavier than it did before.
He's going to have to clean his gear later. He wonders why that thought bothers him so much.
A sudden rustle in the nearby brush catches his eye. His eyes dart toward the source just in time to see a bird take flight from one of the trees—a small thing with feathers, before it swoops low across the horizon and disappearing entirely from view.
He knows this won’t be the last time—not by a long shot.
He’ll do this again.
Soon.