Chapter Text
Carwood had never thought himself particularly handsome. He’d been rather scrawny as a kid, mostly invisible during teenhood, and he considered himself along the lines of a plain jane. Since fifteen, he had worked in factories alongside helping his mother run the Lipton boardinghouse. That resulted in a firm build up of muscle by the time he reached twenty, and he wondered if that’s what had made his now ex-wife Elizabeth turn her head for the first time.
The day Carwood first saw Ron across the green training field back at Toccoa, he’d never thought he’d seen a person so unbelievably breathtaking. Despite the cookie-cutter model of each American soldier on base, Ron stood out among the rest.
On that day, his hair was slicked back with wax, perfectly combed and cut, and he strode with the common confidence of a fresh officer. He resembled the illustrations on magazine covers, his hair almost black and smooth, pale skin; a Greek statue carved from marble.
Carwood knew Ron thought differently when it came to beauty though. It was after their first time, in the final days of their stay in Haguenau, that Ron had told him as much.
“You’re beautiful,” Ron had murmured as they laid facing opposite each other, the duvet creating a cocoon of warmth. He slid a hand down Carwood’s chest, looking up only to be met with a confused frown.
“Stop it,” Carwood chided, looking away embarrassed.
“No.” Ron's fingers entangled with the hair at Carwood’s nape. His hair had been growing out then, and Ron later told him that he was disappointed when it returned to regulation length during their rest at Mourmelon. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated.
Carwood brought two hands to cover his reddening face. “Stop it. You can’t say that,” he said, voice muffled behind his hands.
“Why not?” Ron tried to pry them away, peeling back his fingers.
“Because—!”
Carwood couldn’t think of any justification to continue, and upon realising he was done speaking, Ron poked his bare shoulder and demanded why again.
Removing his hands, his eyes flicked down at the mattress. “Because you don’t… you don’t say that kind of stuff to men.”
A deep frown carved itself onto Ron’s face.
“Yes you do,” he said firmly, almost an angry bark. Then softer, Ron added, “Hasn’t anyone ever called you beautiful, Carwood?”
He shook his head. Ron had pulled his face closer to his own to gently press his lips to his temple, his eyebrow, his nose, his cheek, murmuring you’re beautiful between each kiss, again and again.
Now, Carwood gazed over at Ron, thinking much the same.
Ron leaned on the balcony of their hotel room with one elbow, idly smoking a cigarette. He seemed immersed in thought, a light furrow in his brow and eyes somewhat blank as he stared out into the night sky.
Carwood tilted his head as he stared at Ron from across the room, wondering when everything in his life had changed. Lying on the double bed, perched up by his elbow and surrounded by blankets, there was a strange tranquil in simply observing the person you loved.
Curls unfurled over Ron’s forehead, his skin, despite the cool night air, was still flushed a hot pink, both from their love making and the shared bottle of champagne purloined from the party downstairs. Not to mention, Ron was still shirtless, and although his trousers were on, they remained unbuttoned, sitting snug on his hips.
The noise of the men celebrating, singing, drinking could be heard floating up to the balcony doors. Liquor bottles were shot with hand guns and local women squealed as they engaged in joyful, drunken dances with GIs. Carwood closed his eyes to listen to the world enjoy peacetime in Europe.
When the noise suddenly muffled, Carwood opened his eyes to see that Ron had shut the balcony doors, now striding back over to their bed.
“I told them not to use glass bottles for shooting practice,” he huffed, slumping on the edge of the mattress. He half faced Carwood, running a hand through his hair to push it back into its usual side part. “You think I should go offer them a cigarette?”
Carwood rolled his eyes at the glint in his eye. Ron was well aware of the rumours about him. In fact, he used them to his advantage around the men and joked about them with Carwood.
“The war's over, maybe cut them some slack,” he said with a smile. “They’ve earned the right to shoot glass bottles if they want to.”
Ron leaned over the bed, hovering above Carwood with his hands on either side of his face. He was only inches away, yet this close, Carwood could pick out the specs of emerald in his wide green eyes.
“Is this insubordination I hear?” Ron dipped down to brush their noses together. “Disagreeing with your superior?”
“Shut up.” Carwood laughed, wrapping an arm around Ron’s shoulders to pull him down into a kiss. They rolled around in the pile of blankets and pillows, breathy laughs leaving their lips whenever their mouths disconnected.
Ron now laid on his back, a redness on his cheeks as he stared up at Carwood with soft eyes. He was about to kiss him again, when Ron uttered, “About our conversation the other day…”
A few days ago, they had stayed up all night talking in their billet back in Berchtesgaden. Sat on the floor between two single beds, an abandoned card game, and the room doused in orange candlelight. Carwood had begun to nod off when Ron blurted out, “I’m staying in the army.”
Carwood knew that their time together was coming to a close. Hell, the whole war was. But the sharp blow of reality to their happy fantasy was unwelcome all the same.
“I’m not,” he replied. They both knew what this meant.
Ron nodded like he already knew Carwood’s answer and toyed with the frayed stitching of his inseam. He wasn’t looking at Carwood.
“Is this the part where I say ‘thank you for everything’? And that I’ll ‘keep in touch’?”
“This is the part where you tell me what you really want,” Carwood said after a minute.
Ron looked at him, staring openly for a while. Then he opened his mouth, took a long hard breath and let his desire spill.
“I want you,” he whispered. “In Boston with me, and when I come home, I can kiss you stupid because I’ve missed you so much. I want to wash dishes with you and bicker over what groceries to buy, and make love to you in the safety of our own apartment. I want you even in old age, when we’re both spoiled and spent and spend our Sundays doing the crossword.” Ron clenched his jaw. “But most importantly, Carwood, I want you to want me too.”
Carwood’s heart swelled, almost bursting. They had not said ‘I love you’ to each other yet, but they did not need to; it was declared right there. Ron gasped at the speed that Carwood’s hands took his face and his lips pressed to his own. After a sealing kiss, Carwood rested his forehead against his, wishing he could fuse them together as he felt the warmth and spark of their unique connection.
“I do,” he murmured in the small space between them. “Christ, Ron, I want everything—everything you just said,” he’d breathed out against his lips. “Of course I want you too.”
But despite their shared desires for a future, a long time apart was still imminent, avoidable. Unlike the overseas romances of other comrades, they could not get married nor immediately start their new life after the war with the support of society.
Carwood would be shipped home first, and Ron would return later after further occupational duties before he was stationed somewhere else stateside for a while. The looming presence of it all made Carwood sick.
In the plush hotel room, Carwood continued to encourage Ron with a voice as soft as a feathered touch.
“Yeah?”
“Well. I have something for you,” Ron announced.
Carwood paused. Ron seemed to approach gestures of emotional weight either very bluntly or very cryptic. Today it was the latter.
“Oh? What is it?”
As Ron begun to sit up, Carwood rolled off of him, watching as he dug around in his pant pocket. Ron reached out his fist. It was clamped shut and whatever he was holding must have been small enough to fully hide in his palm. Carwood sat beside him, trying hard to tamper down his giddy curiosity.
Ron flipped his hand over and opened his fist. “For you.”
Carwood picked up the lighter, a beautiful silver zippo. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the intricate carvings and details as he flicked open the lid to light it. A raw, golden flame soared bright, bleeding into a navy where the eyelet was.
In the dim light, their faces were painted with a soft, yellow glow until Carwood flicked it shut. Feeling the smooth shine under his fingers, he realised that this lighter already belonged to someone.
“This is your lighter.”
Ron nodded. “I want you to have it.”
“What?” Carwood frowned. “Why?”
Ron had used the same lighter since stealing it off a dead soldier in Normandy. It had been used to light the cursed cigarettes given to the POWs before Ron infamously shot them all. Had been used to light the second cigarette Carwood had ever had in his life during the living hell of Bastogne. It was part of his character, Carwood supposed.
Ron took a deep breath through his nose. “Because we still have a while to go, Carwood. And for the months when we’re not by each other, I want you to have something of mine.”
“Ron…” he started.
“Corny, I know,” Ron interjected.
“No. No, this—” he looked down at the gift in his palm, “Thank you. I promise to treat it with great care.”
Ron smiled, wrapping Carwood’s fingers around the lighter. “I wouldn't expect anything less from you.”
—
In the closing days of Easy Company’s time in Europe, Ron and Carwood spent their days close, committing as much as possible about one another to memory.
The port of Marseille paled in comparison to their summer spent in Austria. Then again, most places now would.
Carwood could still see the vast green fields and the crystal-clear lake bordered by tall, snowy mountains if he closed his eyes. He could smell the sweet pollen in the air and hear Ron’s loud, boyish laughter as they played in the water.
Ron had looked angelic that day. His grown out hair curled around his ears, green eyes alight with life. The show of smooth, tanned skin over toned muscle as Ron refused to wear anything when he swam was a welcome sight too.
At the time, they had found a small tucked away corner of the world. A place just for them. When Ron came up from the lake to lay on the shore in all his natural beauty, drying off in the warm summer sun, Carwood gazed at the man before him. His eyes were closed, therefore not noticing when Carwood moved to situate himself between his legs with a grin on his face. He’d kissed his inner thighs the way the sun kissed the rest of him, taking him in his mouth and working him to completion right there on the shoreline.
Carwood smiled to himself at the memory. No, nothing would ever come close to his time spent in Austria.
“You seem chipper this morning,” Ron observed as he pushed lumps of oatmeal around his plate with his fork.
The scent of pollen lingered in Carwood’s nose and the echo of laughter clung to his ears. Carwood hummed in response.
Ron paused his playing, peering up at Carwood through his long lashes. They sat opposite each other as they ate their breakfast.
An old village hall, surprisingly still intact, had been converted into a temporary mess hall for American soldiers stopping by in France before being shipped home. Multiple long tables and chairs were set up in the empty space, a small kitchen made out of the back room where soldiers could walk through to dump slop on their plates.
“Reminiscing already, I guess.”
“About what?” Ron asked.
“Austria.” Carwood looked at him.
Ron smiled down at his food, knowing that Carwood’s answer really meant you.
“Not even on the damn boat yet and you’re missing it already.”
Missing me.
“With all due respect, Captain, shut up and eat your breakfast,” Carwood said, pointing to Ron’s food with his spoon like an exasperated parent.
“I’d rather eat powdered eggs than this shit,” he said as he forked a clump of oats. He made a face of disgust and then pushed away his plate.
Seemingly done with breakfast, Ron broke out his crushed carton of Luckies from his breast pocket.
“Join me?” He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, jerking his head towards the door.
Carwood didn't need to think twice. Abandoning their plates, they strolled out the door and hoped the cooks would come up with something more edible for lunch.
They wandered about the harbour, smoked and chatted about everything unimportant. Eventually, a silence settled over them and they just basked in each other's presence knowing that soon they wouldn't be able to so easily do such a thing.
—
The night before Carwood was due to leave for America, Ron was quieter than usual. He noticed how he was wound up like a tight spring, walking around with his shoulders hunched.
As Carwood made his way back to their housing, he remembered Ron’s snap in the afternoon when a friendly sergeant had been trying to make conversation outside a supply tent. Ron had silently lurked behind Carwood like a suspicious guard dog the whole time, only barking at the sergeant when he’d asked him, “So, when do you ship out?”
As Carwood entered their shared room, he saw Ron hunched over on a wooden chair, scrubbing furiously at his black boots with polish.
“Hey,” Carwood greeted, locking the door behind himself.
Ron looked up upon his arrival, continuing to buff the toe of his boot held still between his knees. The dirty, worn cloth stained his fingers black with polish.
“Hey," Ron answered in a dry, clipped tone, before looking down at the boot again.
Ron in a mood was something he never liked to deal with. Despite Ron’s usual mature disposition, if something annoyed him, he made no doubt in reverting to a more childish, petty version of himself. Carwood eventually learned that it was best to tackle the situation head on.
“All right, what’s bothering you?” he asked as he sat down on the end of the bed, facing him.
“You leave tomorrow. Am I not allowed to be upset at that?” He rubbed the cloth against his boot with harsher strokes.
Carwood huffed at Ron’s attitude. “I didn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
Ron was silent. His buffing only got more aggressive, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the cloth.
“Ron.”
Ron ignored him, but even with his fringe over his eyes, Carwood could tell he was frowning.
“Ron. Hey.” Carwood slipped down to his knees before him, meeting his pained expression.
He reached for the shining boot between Ron’s knees, wiggling it out of the tight grip to place it on the floor beside them. With nothing to polish, Ron scrunched the cloth in his fists.
“I don’t want you to go,” Ron said through gritted teeth.
Carwood kissed his knee over the fabric of his trousers. “I know,” he murmured, resting his chin on Ron’s thigh. “I don’t want to leave you either.”
They were quiet for a while, stewing in their shared melancholy. Carwood turned his head to look up at Ron, reaching up a hand to tuck a falling curl behind his ear.
“Come to bed with me. You look tired.”
As he began to get up, Ron grabbed his wrist, finally meeting his eyes. They were red-rimmed, and despite living rather luxuriously for the last few months, he still looked so exhausted. Ron seemed reluctant for the fact that the sooner he slept, the sooner Carwood would be leaving.
“Come on,” he encouraged, pulling Ron towards their bed by the sleeve of his jacket.
Standing in front of him, he let his fingers find the buttons of Ron’s shirt, taking his time to undo them one by one. It would be a while before he could undress Ron again. When Ron’s shirt fell open, Carwood slid it and his jacket off his shoulders in one smooth motion, hanging both garments on the bed post. His hands went to Ron’s belt, and Ron was completely still, watching as Carwood took his clothes off. Unlike how this ritual usually went, there was no mass heat or starving sexual need to their actions. It was a simple undress.
Ron stepped out of his pants, now down to his underwear and socks and moved to unbutton Carwood’s own shirt. He pulled it off his shoulders, splaying his palms flat over Carwood’s belly. Leaning forward, Ron pressed his forehead to his sternum, and breathed in everything Carwood.
He snaked his arms around Ron’s waist, feeling the soft skin and tight muscles of his lower back. They breathed as one in that moment, hearts beating and chests rising in unison, until eventually Carwood unzipped his pants, and he manoeuvred them onto the mattress. As the bed was a single, they were pressed up close, not that either of them minded, with Carwood on his back and Ron curled around his side.
Ron’s head lay on his chest, their legs intertwined, and Carwood played with the thick hair at the back of his head.
“Write to me when you get home,” Ron said.
“I will.” Carwood stroked his fingers over the warm skin of Ron’s upper arm, feeling the muscle of it built up by war. He felt a small raised line and ran his finger over it. “Scar?”
“Yes. Normandy.”
Carwood wondered how he could’ve missed it. He thought he knew every space, crevice, rise and fall of Ron’s body. At the new discovery, he was hit with the need to make sure that there was no part of Ron that he did not know. That he could commit him so vividly to memory, that perhaps he could cope until he saw Ron again in their unmapped future.
“Any others?”
“You’ve seen me naked, you know them all.”
“Missed that one,” Carwood noted, feeling the invisible line on his bicep again.
It didn’t matter if Ron brought up an injury or scar that he already knew of, he needed to remember them all.
“I got a piece of shrapnel in my shoulder. Bastogne.”
Carwood knew of the scar Ron referred to. A jagged red line on the very top of his shoulder.
“A tree near me exploded during a shelling. Sent shards of bark flying everywhere and one hit me,” Ron further explained.
“What about this one?” Carwood asked as he rubbed the pad of his finger over Ron's right ass cheek, feeling the small, circular bump of puckered scar tissue through the underwear. He’d kissed it one time during sex.
Ron laughed. “You know that story. Shot in the ass.”
“When though?”
“Recon mission in Holland. Some Dog boys found me lying on the riverbank the next day. I didn’t see much point in crawling back.”
For a brief moment, Carwood wondered what would’ve happened if the boys from Dog Company had never stumbled over Ron by the riverbank. If he’d even be here, in Ron’s arms, dreaming of a new life.
Ron trailed his fingers over Carwood’s bare chest, running a fingertip down to his bellybutton.
“What about you?” Ron asked.
He sighed and pulled Ron closer to him.
“Carentan was the most fruitful,” he joked. “Got my face, wrist and thigh in one.”
“Shrapnel from an 88.”
“Yes,” Carwood said. “How many times have I told you this?”
“I like hearing about your bravery,” Ron countered and kissed his chest. He moved his hand up to the side of Carwood’s neck, the backs of his fingers light as he touched the three brackets of scar tissue there. “I was there for that one,” Ron continued as he traced the red marks. “Shrapnel in Foy.”
Carwood nodded.
He rolled over Carwood, his arms on either side of his head as he swung his leg over his lap to bracket his thighs. Carwood’s hands went to hold Ron’s hips when he leaned down to kiss at the scars on his neck.
“Ron…” Carwood warned, but it was hopeless. He was always hopeless in the face of Ron, and it didn’t matter about the late hour, because there was never a time that he didn’t want him either.
“Please,” Ron whispered into the junction of Carwood’s neck and shoulder.
“Yes,” Carwood murmured into his hair, kissing his temple. His hands slipped past the waistband of Ron’s skivvies, groping at his ass. His breath grew laboured in his ear as he began to rock his hips back and fourth, downwards on the growing bulge in Carwood’s underwear.
Ron kissed along his collarbone, wetly sucking a purple mark where no one else but Carwood would be able to see.
Ron kissed down his chest, mouthing at all the expanse of skin before him, playfully biting at his hipbone. Carwood gasped when Ron pushed down his underwear, took him in hand and pulled at him with rough strokes, the way he liked it.
To Carwood’s dismay, Ron did not put him in his mouth or anywhere near his lips, but instead leaned down even further to kiss at the star of scar tissue on his inner thigh. Carwood trembled at the sensitivity of the wet warmth and the coarse scrape of stubble on his soft skin. He spread his legs wider when Ron pressed the flat of his tongue to it, a breathy moan escaping when he finally took his cock into the hot wetness of his mouth.
Carwood entangled his fingers into the wavy mess of Ron’s hair and simply held on as he licked and sucked, lewd sounds filling the room. He bit his lip in an attempt to stifle his moans, well aware of the other men billeted in the building.
Carwood twisted at his hair, pulling a muffled groan from him. Soon, he tugged Ron off, afraid to finish too early, and they kissed full of tongue and teeth as he started to work Ron open.
They made love twice during the night. Carwood took Ron and Ron took Carwood. Through fervent kisses and gentle caresses they hoped to memorise the taste and smell and feel of one another. The warmth of another body and the salty taste of sweat.
—
Come morning, Carwood awoke first. One arm lay dead asleep under Ron’s weight, so he used the other to check the time on his watch from the bedside table.
Just over an hour until he had to leave.
He sighed as he sunk back into the mattress, turning his head over to where Ron slept.
For all that Ron was a killer, a boogeyman and bloody Captain Speirs, Carwood gazed at the peaceful man beside him, wondering how no one had ever seen through his facade to the simple boy underneath.
The side of Ron’s face was squashed against Carwood’s arm and his pink lips were slightly parted, the smallest hint of teeth behind them. Ron had long, dark eyelashes and they fanned over his cheeks like a sleeping beauty. The stress and effects of the last few years that usually aged Ron’s face, made him frown and looked rugged even, were gone.
Sometimes, Carwood forgot how young they really were. Looking at Ron, it was so obvious now. In the silence of their room, the last place that would be called theirs for a while, Carwood watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, only smiling fondly when he realised drool pooled in the corner of Ron’s mouth.
The minutes ticked by until Carwood could no longer stave off getting ready. Allowing himself one last glance, he ran the backs of his knuckles along his stubbled jaw.
“Ron,” he whispered. At no response, he smoothed his thumb under Ron’s bottom lip, taking a hold of his chin to plant a chaste kiss to his mouth. “It’s morning.”
Ron let out a low hum and curled further into Carwood’s side. Suddenly, he stilled.
“What time is it?”
“A little after six,” Carwood sighed. He felt the harshness of life return to Ron’s body. “I need to get ready now.”
Both too solemn to talk, they dressed in silence. Before Carwood left, Ron stopped him at the door. He stood opposite him, running his palms over the fabric of Carwood’s dress uniform, flattening any creases or straightening his insignia even though it was all pretty much perfect already. He stroked along the beautiful cut of Carwood’s broad shoulders, then rested his hands on his upper arms.
Carwood looked at Ron, who was already watching him, and there was a moment of pause, a plethora of thoughts and feelings passed between them.
He wrapped his arms around Ron to bring him into a tight hug. Ron’s hands fisted in the back of his uniform and he hid his face in Carwood’s neck. He breathed in Ron’s scent, holding him closer if possible.
Ron broke away to capture Carwood’s lips in a kiss. He kissed him passionately, firmly, almost on the side of too rough, as if preserving as much of their love as he could. Pecking him on the mouth one last time, a kiss for the road, Ron pulled back and then clapped him on the shoulder as if he really was just some war buddy.
“I’ll walk you to the harbour.” Ron moved to open the door, and Carwood knew that that was their goodbye.
When they arrived, the harbour was overflowing with soldiers. Army green was everywhere, a collective sea of colour. Before boarding, he turned to Ron.
“It was a pleasure to serve with you, Captain,” Carwood said as he reached out his hand.
Ron stared at it. “Likewise, Lieutenant.” He shook his hand and Carwood smiled at him, hoping to commute everything he couldn’t say aloud.
“I hope to hear from you soon, sir.”
Ron nodded once, stiff and stilted, and he pulled at the corner of his mouth. A loud foghorn blasted from a docking ship and Carwood turned his head towards the sound. He hoisted his duffel bag higher up his shoulder, looking at Ron once last time before he was swallowed by the wave of soldiers.
When on the troop ship, Carwood raced to get to the open deck. The wind was cooler up there, and he leaned over the railing to try and spot Ron in the mass of people. It seemed futile for a moment, Ron’s face blurring with the rest of them, but then Carwood saw him. Stood still, unlike the constant bustle of movement around him, staring at the boat.
As it left the harbour, Ron only grew smaller, until Carwood could not make out anyone at all.
Returning to the cramped room of bunk beds, Carwood found one empty, flopping down onto the thin mattress, the metal frame underneath squeaking at his weight. There was noise everywhere, men shouting or playing, a great cacophony of non-stop sound for the next few days.
Carwood closed his eyes, wishing to be anywhere else. He did not know when Ron would return to the states, and he did not know where he would be stationed next. Their time apart was unspecified and it carved a pit of doubt in his belly that perhaps they would never meet up again at all. That thought began to fester and soon Carwood was aching with uncertainty.
Ron promised he would write. Carwood had given him his home address and Ron had promised. But what was a promise in the midst of war? Between two soldiers who were inevitably returning to reality? Carwood bit his lip, realising the only thing he could do was hope.