Twenty-Two
Arseny
I wake up before dawn, which is normal. What isn’t normal is the fact that my mouth still tingles. That is not acceptable, and not anything I’m willing to look at directly in the cold light of morning.
I get out of bed, dress and remove every trace of last night from my face and my body, the way you wipe blood off a knife before anyone sees it. Standard maintenance, efficient and necessary. If anyone asked how I slept, I could say ‘fine’ in six languages, and nobody would hear the lie.
I should feel triumphant. I won. I got what I wanted.
I pulled him into a broom closet, and he broke.
Snapped like a bowstring and came apart in my mouth.
Except I’ve never had someone look at me like that while they fell apart.
The look of something I don’t touch if I want to keep breathing.
So, I bury it under professionalism so thick it could be concrete. That’s the job. That’s survival.
I don’t look for him at all, I absolutely do not.
Fine... I do. I’m helping one of my sergeants with equipment checks when he walks onto the field and stands with Niko.
He doesn’t look at me, and I know it’s better that way.
Except it stings more than I thought it would.
If he wants professional distance, I will give him distance so clean it will slice his nerves open.
I nod at all the right times, keeping my face neutral, but I feel him everywhere. Every time his feet hit the ground, every time he shifts his weight, and every single time he avoids looking in my direction.
I don’t chase; let him stew and suffer under all of the self-control he wraps around himself like barbed wire. He can choose to crawl back. Or not. Either way, I'm not bending.
For a moment, he sits on the concrete block with one of his men, laughing at something, and I know I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t. It still feels like being stabbed with a blunt utensil anyway.
Last night, I had him pressed against a wall; this morning, he avoids looking at me like I’m the ghost of his bad decisions. I force my eyes away. If he wants distance, he gets distance. My pride says, ‘good. Let him miss me. Let him burn.’ Another body part says something much less polite.
I skip the mess hall completely. It’s not because of him. Fine, fuck. It’s absolutely because of him. I don’t want to see him sit with Niko again, laugh at something and look relieved that I’m not there.
I heat some leftover soup in the little kettle setup in one of the storage rooms and eat it standing up. The pride tastes like metal and bitterness today.
Good. Keeps the spine straight.
I see him before he sees me in the narrow hallway. File in his hands, head down like he’s thinking too hard, as usual. He looks up, and we both stop dead in our tracks. Every nerve in my body lights up like a fuse line, but my face stays bored. “Lance Corporal.”
“Sergeant.” His voice betrays him; it’s rough and breathy, and he’s not as composed as he pretends to be. “Excuse me,” he mumbles. We step sideways to pass, and his arm brushes mine. It’s a spark straight to my insides. I don’t stop, turn around, or look back.
If he wants what he got last night, he can come to me. I refuse to be the man who chases someone who can’t decide whether he wants my mouth or a firing squad. I have pride, limits, and I’ve survived by never wanting anything more than the person in front of me temporarily.
I will not break that rule for him.
Later that evening, I make myself busy with requisitions, inventory, reports, and pointless tasks that keep my hands moving while my brain refuses to shut up.
Every time I stop, I feel his hand in my hair, holding me still in the dark.
Every time I blink, I see the look on his face as he realises he wants to kiss me more than he wants to breathe.
I lean on the desk and laugh under my breath.
Mostly at myself. “What the fuck are you doing, Arseny?” I ask myself the question, but I don’t answer it.
Because the answer is — wanting something dangerous enough to ruin us both.
And that is unacceptable. So, instead, I choose distance, aloofness and silence.
If he wants me — really wants me, not just the heat, adrenaline, or the thrill of breaking rules then he has to choose it. I won’t take the risk for him.
I close the door to the empty barracks and stand there for a long moment, my forehead against the metal, breathing slowly.
I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at myself.
I should’ve stopped last night sooner and walked away the moment he touched me.
I should’ve known he’d wake up drowning in fear and pretend it didn’t happen.
Instead, I let him touch me, and I let myself want him.
Stupid.
Well, I’m done. He pulled away today and avoided me. He acted like I was a danger, and he was discipline incarnate. If he wants distance. Fine. Fuck him. I’ll give him Antarctica.
If he wants more, he can find me, drag me into a room and slam me into a wall like he keeps fantasising. I’ll let him. But only if he chooses it. I will not beg. I won’t risk my life or my brother’s career for a man who runs from his own shadow.
My pride is the only thing I have ever owned outright, and I refuse to lay it at his feet. Not unless he asks for it with his hands on me and his mouth on my cock.
Until then?
He can suffer in silence the same way I am.
Fair is fair.