Archive of Our Own

Something wakes him—a sound, a touch, his name hissed in his ear by the man who gave it to him, and suddenly Sledge is aware of himself as he's learned never to be. He can feel himself half-buried in the stinking muck of their hole, stuck to the sloping wall by the sucking drag of mud gluing itself to his clothes. He can feel Snafu's first two fingers tracing the flattened circle of his mouth, calluses catching at the splits in the corners. His eyelashes flutter, clumped together by sweat and dirt, while Snafu's fingers vibrate against his skin, over and back in a loop. He opens his eyes, and Snafu is looking back at him. Nothing moves, no air, no water, no sound, nothing but the feel of Snafu's fingers at the bow of Sledge's mouth, tapping lightly. And maybe it's gravity, maybe the mud he fell asleep in gives way, but Sledge's mouth opens and Snafu's fingers slide in.

They slide in and rest on his tongue; they taste awful--mud and blood and things Sledge can't think about. They feel too big to be fingers, and too fragile to be anything else. Snafu's thumb is petting the corner of his lips and his other fingers tremble against Sledge's cheek. Sledge's right arm holds his legs to his chest; he feels his nails, already split to the quick, break the weave of his dungarees. He's used to boiling on these islands, used to freezing that sweat into ice at night, but now he’s cold and hot all at once, jazzed on something he can't pin down.

Snafu is a raggedy, thin figure against the smoke and moonlit sky, curled above him as if Sledge were kneeling. His fingers are warm, heavy in Sledge's mouth, just...lying there. He's staring down, the weight of his eyes grown strange all over again, like to kill them all because Snafu is supposed to be on third watch, waiting to wake Sledge for the fourth, not— no one's—no one's touched him; not for long and never like this—

Sledge makes a sound, breaks night silence with a whimper. He can feel blood rush over his cheeks like a bad sunburn, and Snafu's head wobbles on his neck. He pulls his fingers as if to draw them back out, and Sledge's tongue curls around them, just...he doesn't know why--something from when he was a baby maybe, something that says suck. His lips close over Snafu's knuckles, slick with his own spit, and Snafu freezes, watching him. His hard thumb is petting the corner of Sledge's mouth, right where he's starting to drool, and Sledge can't move.

He looks at Snafu, shuddering to life when Snafu's hand pushes forward, sinks those fingers back into Sledge's mouth, and it feels new, feels close in a way that Sledge can't figure out, has never felt in his life. They are surrounded by their fellows, Burgie and Hamm and, fuck, even God damn Cathy of all people, asleep in the muck close by, and the whole fucking Corps on watch as well, but it's nothing to this feeling, it's nothing to the thought that Snafu is staring at him like the whole world has finished going to hell, and they're the only two poor revenants left. He sucks again, harder, and finds his rhythm in it, the press of Snafu's fingers a boon and a bruise all at once. Those long, twitchy fingers that never know rest move against his tongue, knuckles rubbing up against the ridges of Sledge's mouth, careful of Sledge's teeth.

Sledge starts to shiver and can't stop, restless in his own skin. He peers up, angling his head and trying to see the gleam in Snafu's eyes. If he can just—can just see Snafu, he’ll know what this is. Sledge’s cock strains against his flies, the way it hasn't in months, maybe years by now. Snafu's breath is coming deep and fast, and Sledge's own is whistling through his nose. If someone wakes up, if someone sees will they know what's going on? Will they explain it to him, where the comfort is coming from, the feeling like Snafu's fingers in his mouth are the only things keeping Sledge from flying right off into oblivion?

Snafu is thin as a scythe above him, dark and muddy, and his fingers taste of Snafu's skin and Sledge's spit. They part, and the tip of Sledge's tongue pokes into the hollow between fore and middle finger; the taste of mud, of iron, ash, and salt bursts like over-ripe fruit in his mouth. Snafu's fingers press down on his tongue, thumb and free fingers clamping against Sledge's jaw, and Sledge swallows deeply, convulsively.

Snafu’s body curls over, helmet almost touching Sledge’s back as he shakes, muttering nonsense that Sledge prays no one else can hear, because he can't pull away to make Snafu shut up. His heartbeat feels like it’s threatening to skip, blood lurching through his veins, racing against icy tendrils of want and confusion, of need for more burning through him like a coal fire. His muscles misfire in rolling waves, shaking his arms and legs and ordering his hips to move in ways that would send him tumbling down into the shitty water at the bottom of their hole. He knows enough now to figure if they’re caught then they are worse than the dead lining the kill ground above their heads. It's such a dim belief, though, one more fear piled onto a surfeit, that he can't bring himself to care. He swallows again and again, sinking their combined taste as far down as it will go until Snafu is boneless above him, slumping into the mud with a sigh, and his fingers are safe in Sledge's mouth, that hard thumb back to softly petting his skin.

There are rifles firing in the distance, but that’s not surprising. Five little pinpricks ignite beneath Sledge’s fingernails as he relaxes his hold on his curled legs.

Sledge huffs, and rests his head against the mud wall of their hole. He lets the cold muck seep into his skin, sticking him in place. Snafu's fingers slide free, gleaming wetly in the moonlight, and fall to Sledge's front. They grip onto his shirt and pull, twisting into the fabric until threads tear and Sledge is panting in the space created between them, breathing in mildew and decay and the unwashed sweat of Snafu's skin.

He sees Snafu's eyes, that sly, mad-dog focus, and then the harsh cut of his cheekbones. Tremors rock beneath Sledge's skin, but he meets that gaze, refuses to look away, and Snafu's face softens. He lets go, still wet fingers draw up Sledge's neck to his chin and then press into the swollen heat of Sledge's lips one more time. Sledge licks out, catches their broken tips as they withdraw. Snafu's fingers swirl against his cheek, trail up to the corner of his eye, and across his forehead. He loops down, pattern repeating far past when Sledge closes his eyes again, on and on until Sledge's breath matches their light, fairy tale drag, until he breathes in and out and the world disappears. Until Snafu's whispered, "Sledgehammer," wakes him for fourth watch.