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The air was chilling. It ran through his bones, through his blood.
Wind blew a flurry of snow in his direction, dusting his hair and coat. The world was a bright tundra, a forest surrounding him in nearly every direction. The distant horizon painted a pretty picture, snow covered mountains that he and Wintergreen have traversed before. In front of him was a log cabin.
Everything has been stripped away from him— nearly. Nearly everything.
Without a word, Slade entered the home. His eyes were tired, he hadn’t slept for days. But his instincts weren’t in the gutter. He would’ve been able to hear if anyone else was there.
It was nearly untouched. Completely the same as he left it. Melancholy was in the air as his eyes silently darted around the living room. The couch, the fireplace, the pictures. Wintergreen had touched nearly every corner of this place. He… where would he even start? Perhaps this was a bad idea. Perhaps he should still be out there, fighting for him, killing for him.
Wintergreen would want him to rest a little bit, right?
He swallowed thickly, dropping the bag that was on his shoulder with a thump to the floor. Next to him was a coat rack. A long black coat was hung on it, as well as an old hat. With wide eyes and a hitched breath, Slade scrambled forward and grasped the coat with clawing hands. He breathed in shakily and forced himself to calm down.
This wasn’t his favorite one. Ironically, his favorite was a rich dark green jacket that could be used in both business casual and formal affairs. Slade was pretty sure it was in their home in Africa.
His expression now blank, Slade stared down at the coarse coat in his hands. He raised the coat to his nose… It still smelled like him. That deep, cedar wood scent that’s changed a small bit over the long years. Recently it’s stayed the same.
But it’ll never be able to evolve anymore will it? Slade will always have his blood on him, the chunks of his long dead corpse that went flying into his hair and even in his eye. Forever now, Wintergreen’s scent will be rot.
When was the last time they were here together?
It couldn’t have been long ago, the wood in the fireplace wasn’t very old… maybe Wintergreen left something of his own in their bedroom. He should look.
He should.
Slade inhaled the scent once more, deep memories flooding through his brain. Wintergreen in the morning with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wintergreen on a plane next to him as they went to their next contract. Wintergreen in his uniform, helping him up after he took an ass kicking in the military. Wintergreen pressed against him, heavy breaths against his face as their bodies slid against one another aided with lube and sweat.
Backing away slightly, Slade took in a deep breath as his eye went over every visible stitching in the coat. When did Wintergreen buy this thing anyway? Did he ever buy it? Was it a gift? Did he just find it somewhere? How many times has Slade seen him wear it?
Did him and Wintergreen ever have sex with this on him? Did they ever desperately rut up against one another while he was wearing it?
With a heavy heart and an idiotic brain, Slade scrambled to unbuckle his belt with one hand, breathing shakily. Wintergreen. It still smelled like Wintergreen.
His lip quivered. His hand shoved down his pants and along with it, his boxers. The air was cold. He was flaccid.
But it was Wintergreen.
Slade thumped his head against the wood too harshly. It didn’t hurt him at all. It should have. Slade reached out one hand to press against the wall, stabilizing himself while his other hand, still holding Wintergreen’s coat, traveled lower. He wrapped it in his fist and clenched his eye shut. Slade would have been ashamed. Wintergreen would’ve been the one to do the shaming.
But Wintergreen wasn’t here.
…he was though. Wasn’t he?
Yes. He was.
Swallowing down his bile, Slade thrusted his hips into the fabric, rutting his flaccid cock against it. It hurt. It was dry against him. Maybe he didn’t deserve something to wet his way and make this more pleasurable.
In the military… Wintergreen and him just used saliva.
With that thought in mind, Slade gathered up a wad of spit in his mouth and spat it down directly onto his cock. Wintergreen has so many more jackets left in various spots along the world. He can just find a new one.
He grunted, vision still dark. Once more he thrusted into the coarse fabric, the spit aiding his way and making it much more enjoyable. What would Wintergreen be saying to him right now? Would he put his hand on his back and murmur heatedly into his ear in that wonderful British accent he’s heard constantly for three decades?
“That’s it, Slade,” he would say huskily. “Good, just like that.”
Slade panted lightly, feeling his cock twitch at his imagination. Would Wintergreen dip his mouth down to his jaw and suck on his skin knowing a hickey would never stay? His soft mustache would tickle him, and Slade would let out a huff of laughter before groaning and thrusting harder into Wintergreen’s hand.
Wintergreen’s hand… calloused and wrinkled. Perfectly experienced for him.
“There you are,” Billy would say after he would stiffen in his hand. Because how could Slade ever stay limp for Wintergreen? “Fuck, always so big…”
Slade groaned brokenly and continued to hump against the fabric— no. The palm of his love’s hand. Wintergreen’s hands could be coarse. Maybe he was working with tools today. Slade doesn’t care how rough they felt, because his dearly loyal friend was taking care of him after a stressful day full of adrenaline. Slade would take care of him after this too, of course. He would get down on his knees and look him in the eye as he deep-throated him. Wintergreen would curse under his breath and throw his head back. His fingers would thread through Slade’s shaggy hair and pull gently.
Because Wintergreen was here.
Here…
His cock was fully hard and throbbing now, he could smell Wintergreen all around him.
“Look at you, throbbing… You did so well today.”
“You’re proud of me?” Slade desperately panted out.
“Of course I am,” Wintergreen pumped his fist faster, and despite his wet palm, Slade felt an odd sense of chaffing. He hissed in mild pain. “You know I’ll never leave you Slade.”
“You should’ve,” Slade blurted out, clenching his eye shut tighter. He groaned shakily, that painful heat rising in his stomach. “God,” he choked out, thrusting without abandon. “God, you should’ve.”
Wintergreen’s grip on his shoulder went tighter, his warmth enveloped him from behind despite the chilling and howling winds outside. “I’ll always love you, Slade.”
Heat burst behind his eye lids and Slade cried out, a shaking mess. He practically sobbed as he messily thrusted a few more times into that rough material, his seed shooting out onto it. (Slade ruined it, tainted it. The scent will be gone after this.) He stilled against the wall, panting heavily as his arousal quickly faded and the cold emptiness of the cabin drifted back into his bloodstream.
He couldn’t open his eye. He wouldn’t. At least like this, he could lie to himself.