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It's not Klinger's fault that Igor is in a bad mood, just like it isn't Igor's fault that Klinger is. It's that damn visiting General Olaffson and his snide opinions on the military bearing—or lack thereof—among the KP staff that have left the both of them still bristling as they clean up after dinner. No one's fault. But the constant clanging as Klinger throws pots and utensils into the sink with more force than necessary definitely isn't helping.
"Would you stop banging those around?" Igor snaps, ignoring in his frustration the fact that he's likely making just as much noise by slamming cupboards open and shut as he puts the dried dishes away.
"Oh, sure," Klinger says, tight and sneered. "I'll stop banging things when you stop."
It takes both of them a second to react—Igor would bet they both picked up on the double entendre immediately, but neither of them was willing to be the first to laugh at it. But then either his eyes must widen or Klinger's mouth must twitch, and once the first crack in the dam has appeared there's no stopping the flood of laughter as they clutch at counters and sinks in an attempt to keep themselves upright. It's perhaps more raucous than the joke warrants, tilting towards hysterical, but it's a desperately-needed outlet for the evening's simmering frustration.
"If you—if you're hoping," Igor manages, breathless and giggling, "if you're modeling yourself off my celibacy you'll be waiting a long time. Better go for—for Father Mulcahy, or Radar."
Klinger scoffs, but all the poison has drained out of it. "Who are you sleeping with? I hardly ever see you on dates."
"I have a wife and a girlfriend. I don't have time for dates," Igor says. The laughter is tapering off, true, but he's still fighting down a grin and he doesn't expect Klinger to turn so abruptly sober.
He stops laughing all at once and offers Igor the tight, uncomfortable smile he pastes on whenver the camp's teasing about his outfits or his nose tips over into too much. "Right. No need to cheat in Korea when you've got your hands full at home."
Igor can't help but laugh again, even if it just turns Klinger's smile even more brittle. Klinger can be such a puritan sometimes. You'd think he were the Catholic priest, not Mulcahy, with the huge deal he makes out of his monogamy and virginity. He'd probably be a lot happier if he loosened up and tried living life the way Igor does.
"It's not cheating if everyone's in on it. Then it's just a good time," Igor says, breezy and unconcerned. He wouldn't talk so lightly about it back home, but one man, one woman relationships mean less over here. Here, no one cares.
Klinger eyes him suspiciously, as though he expects Igor to pull off the Igor-shaped mask he's wearing and reveal the grinning, lecherous face of Hawkeye Pierce. "You're yanking my chain."
"Swear I'm not. The three of us, we're the best things that ever happened to each other. I'll show you next time we get mail," Igor says, shrugging off Klinger's skepticism. He thinks he probably has more in common with Hawkeye Pierce than Hawkeye will ever bother to learn, although he'd like to believe he treats the women in his life with a little more respect than Hawkeye does. "If we don't both wind up court-martialed for poisoning a general."
"Please," Klinger says, setting another pot in the sink with a resounding clang. "You'd be court-martialed. I wouldn't get caught."
Mail call comes the next morning, by some coincidence, and true to his word Igor carries both Katharine and Suzanne's letters in the breat pocket of his Hawaiian shirt through the day's duties and into the after-dinner clean-up. General Olaffson managed to keep his opinions to himself well enough that Igor feels only slightly more on-edge than normal, and he's expecting Klinger will be the same.
Klinger, however, seems miserable. He is sullen an untalkative, tossing ladles listleslly into the sink rather than setting them down with the intent to make noise, but the effect is the same. One clang is as annoying as another.
Igor puts up with it for about five minutes before he breaks. "Alright, what's the matter with you? I carried these letters around in my pocket all day and now you're not even in a mood to hear them?"
"You're not the only one who got a letter from home." Klinger tosses a skillet into the sink and winces at the clatter.
"Bad news?"
"Turns out Laverne isn't very interested in monogamy, either."
"Shit," Igor says, heart sinking. "She cheated on you?"
Laverne doesn't seem like the most thoughtful or caring wife in the world, from what Klinger has said of her, but he clearly adores her and Igor wouldn't wish infidelity on anyone even if Klinger didn't think the world of Laverne. He can grudgingly admit to himself that maybe tonight is not the time to share Kathy and Sue's heartfelt letters after all.
Klinger throws down his dishtowel with a frustrated sigh and, giving up on any pretense of work, slides down to sit on the dirty floor, back pressed against the prep table. His tired glare looks more defeated than angry.
"She said she thinks we should try seeing other people while I'm here, which means she's found someone else and wants my permission before she cheats."
Igor slides to the floor beside him. He hates towering over people, and the dishes aren't going to get any dirtier just by sitting for a few minutes. He can spare a listening ear for a fellow hopeless romantic in need.
Klinger glances sideways at him briefly, startled, and then fixes his gaze on his damp knuckles where they grip the knees of his fatigues. "Is that how it started, for you? Am I just supposed to say yes?"
"No. I mean, I don't know. No, it's not how it started for me." Igor doesn't have an answer for this; he's never been asked to give advice based on his unconventional lifestyle. "We were all dating before Kathy and I got married; it was different."
"Why?"
Igor shrugs.
"I liked them both, and they both liked me, and after a while they decided they liked each other. Kathy wanted kids and Sue didn't, so it just made more sense to marry Kathy. It's… well, honestly, I can't imagine living my life any other way. If you asked me to choose between them I couldn't. It was the right decision, for us."
Klinger stares at him for several long, awkward seconds, and Igor wrestles down the fear that he's maybe been too open. Just because a guy wears dresses doesn't mean he's automatically okay with common-law polygamy and lesbianism. Then Klinger shakes his head, unclenches his hands from his pants, and stands, stepping back up to the sink as though the conversation never happened.
"You're a weird guy, Straminsky. You can read me the letters tomorrow. Maybe it'll help."
The next day is better in some ways—Klinger's mood seems to have improved with a night's sleep, at least—and worse in others. General Olaffson is on a tear about military discipline, which means Major Houlihan is on an even bigger tear about the enlisted men making her look bad in front of the General. Lunch was an excruciating affair; dinner was even worse.
"I need a drink after all that," Igor says, as he and Klinger stagger out of the kitchen and into the cool night. He doesn't expect to get one, since the O-Club won't be open at this hour, but he voices the desire anyway.
Klinger stretches his arms over his head until his shoulders pop and nods his agreement. "I've got brandy."
"How?"
"Major Winchester owed me."
Igor isn't about to say no to Winchester-sourced brandy, so he follows Klinger gamely towards his single tent and waits while Klinger stuffs petticoats and frilly underthings back into his footlocker to make room for Igor to sit. He wonders how much Laverne knows about the crossdressing, and whether she would approve of it if she did.
"Cheers," Klinger says, when he has located a mostly-clean glass and poured Igor several fingers of brandy. He toasts Igor with the bottle and then proceeds to drink straight from it. "I only have one glass."
Igor hides his smile behind a sip of brandy. It's good. "Thanks for your hospitality."
They're pleasantly drunk by the time Klinger asks, head lolling back against his cot and fingers tapping out the rhythm of some jazz standard on his thigh. Igor has never seen him this relaxed. It looks good on him.
"Okay, show me the letters. Maybe it'll help me understand, or… or make up my mind."
Igor isn't so confident that it will, but he hands over the two bundles of paper anyway and takes the opportunity of Klinger's distraction to steal the bottle and pour himself more brandy. He should probably be worried about germs, since Klinger's mouth has touched the rim, but given the slop they both handle daily he can't bring himself to care.
Klinger reads quickly, lips moving to himself as he takes in the words and the overflowing sentiment behind them. Igor has only had them for a day and a half and already he knows them by heart; he can tell when Klinger reaches Kathy's description of their downstairs neighbors as two peas looking for different pods, or Sue's recounting of her harrowing near-death encounter with a runaway shopping cart at Winn-Dixie. It's surprisingly nice to share this with another person, he realizes, to know that someone else can see their love for him and each other. It makes him feel a little less lonely.
"They miss you," Klinger says, when he finally looks up. "They don't say it, but it's obvious. But they're… happy together, and with you?"
"As happy as any of us can be right now," Igor says. "I have it the worst, since they still have each other."
Klinger makes a thoughtful face. "So if Laverne found a man, and I liked him too…"
"Do you like men?" Igor says, too drunk to stop himself from asking. Klinger would be well within his rights to deck him for it.
Istead, he answers.
"No. But—if Katharine and Suzanne learned to like each other, maybe I could—"
"We should test it." Igor cuts himself off, shocked by his own recklessness, but, when Klinger doesn't immediately decline, he leans into it. Why not? What better way to see if Klinger, the most devoted husband in camp, could stray from that path and feel alright with it? "We should test it. Before you agree to anything you might regret."
"Do you like men?" Klinger says, leveling Igor with that suspicious gaze again. It's not an outright no.
"No," Igor says honestly, "but I'm drunk. And you're in a dress."
They don't kiss, which is fine. Igor would rather save his kisses for when he's back on American soil, safe in his cozy apartment where he can hold both Kathy and Sue at the same time without fear of judging eyes. This isn't about that.
It's immediately clear that neither of them have ever touched another man before, and there is a fair amount of fumbling and apologizing before they're able to gain any traction, but once they've settled into the correct grip and pace for each other's liking, it's… nice. Igor still can't say he's particularly into men, but Klinger is wearing a dress—even if it's hiked up around his waist at the present moment to give Igor better access to his cock—and, quite frankly, it's just a relief to have someone else's hand on him.
Klinger seems to feel the same way, though he is clearly making a vain attempt to enjoy it more than he is. He keeps his eyes trained on Igor's face, cataloguing each expression for some sort of answer or clue, but every now and then he remembers what they're supposed to be testing and directs a half-hearted glance down towards where his hand wraps neatly around Igor's cock. He doesn't seem particularly thrilled by the sight of it.
"Thoughts?" Igor says, when he has sacrificed his undershirt to wipe his hand clean an offered it to Klinger to do the same. It would be a damn shame to stain any of Klinger's pretty clothes.
Klinger grimaces. "It was… nice."
Igor can't argue with him.
"You should tell Laverne no," he says. He still thinks loosening up would do Klinger some good, but if there are people out there who were made for Igor's way of life, Klinger clearly isn't one of them. "You're a one-woman guy, Max. Don't force yourself into something else."
"But you're happy," Klinger insists.
"Yeah, and I'm saying you should do what makes you happy. And it's not sleeping with men."
Truth be told, Igor isn't sure Klinger will ever be happy hanging all his hopes on a woman who can't give him the same devotion he can give her. But that's a problem for another day. Igor is just a twenty-two year old draftee; he can't be expected to play relationship columnist that often.
Klinger grimaces again, which is all the confirmation Igor needs. "No. I guess not. Thanks for… testing it with me, before I made a mistake and wrote back to her."
Igor pulls his boxers and fatigues over his softening cock and stretches, preparing to stand. It's late, and Major Houlihan will no doubt be in top form at reveille.
"Bring the letter to KP tomorrow. I'll help you write a response."
"You'll word it better than I ever could. Hell, after all your talk about how much you love your girls, maybe I'd rather be married to you," Klinger says with a rueful shake of his head. "You might be on to something after all."