Chapter 31 - Melvin
They held the unit awards ceremony just after chow that next week beneath a shade net strung between two connex boxes.
The company gathered with dusty boots and rolled sleeves, heat pressing down through the netting.
The air carried a quiet weight of attention.
Melvin stood in formation, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
Captain Baxter stepped up with a folder tucked under one arm, calm as ever. “These citations aren’t just paper,” he said. “They represent what it means to act with courage under pressure. These Soldiers didn’t wait for orders to do the right thing. They just did it.”
He read through the names until his voice changed. “First Lieutenant Melvin Hayes. Distinguished Service Cross. Purple Heart.”
For a fraction of a second, the words didn’t register. His feet moved anyway.
He stepped forward, shook Baxter’s hand, accepted the boxes, and nodded once.
No smile. Just control.
He returned to his place in line without looking at anyone directly.
“First Lieutenant Mac Carter. Distinguished Service Cross.”
Melvin didn’t turn fully, but he saw Mac move past him from the corner of his eye, shoulders squared, stride measured.
Baxter handed him the award. “Your calm under fire made the difference.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mac replied.
The formation broke soon after, soldiers drifting back toward evening routines under the fading heat.
Lucero found them later that evening outside the TOC. His arm was still in a sling, his side wrapped tight beneath his PT uniform, but he stood straight like he refused to bend under anything.
“I got cleared for transport,” he said. “Heading to Landstuhl. Then stateside for rehab.”
“That’s good,” Melvin said.
Lucero shifted awkwardly. “The way you moved that day… it mattered.”
Melvin gave a faint smile. “Just did the job.”
Lucero reached into his pocket and held out the laminated card. Arabic phrases and call signs, tape lining the edges.
“Carter gave you that before the convoy, right?”
Melvin nodded.
“I didn’t get it then,” Lucero said. “But after… when you pressed it to my chest like it was the only thing keeping me here, I did.”
He extended the card again. “This belongs with you.”
Melvin took it carefully, running his thumb along the edge.
“It still works,” he said quietly.
Mac glanced at the card, then at him. “Kind of like us.”
Melvin held Mac’s eyes a second longer than necessary.
Lucero smiled faintly. “Hope I get to serve under officers like you again.”
“You will,” Melvin said.
Lucero gave them a final nod before heading back across the compound.
By the time evening settled over the base and the dust cooled off the gravel lots, Melvin found himself outside Mac’s quarters.
When he stepped inside, the awards were still unopened on the desk. The Distinguished Service Cross sat in its velvet box.
Mac picked it up once, turned it slightly, then set it back down.
“You alright?” Melvin asked.
Mac kept looking at the box. “It’s strange.”
“How so?”
“The medal doesn’t weigh much. But the moment that earned it still does.”
Melvin crossed the room and sat beside him. He pulled the laminated card from his pocket and set it on the desk.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
“That thing saved a life,” Mac said.
“It did.”
Mac nodded slowly. “You think something has one purpose… and it ends up meaning something else.”
Melvin’s voice softened. “Thank you for being there.”
Mac looked at him. “Always.”
They sat with that until the base noise outside reclaimed the edges of the room.
Morning came early, like it always did on deployment.
In the motor pool the next day, Monroe handed over the rotation log.
“Heard about the Cross,” he said. “About time people got it right.”
Mac nodded once.
Later someone updated the morale board outside the comms shack. The names were typed in bold, nothing flashy, just official.
Melvin noticed the way people held eye contact a little longer.
By nightfall the base had settled into its usual rhythm again. The hallway lights dimmed for night rotation.
Melvin sat on the edge of his bunk. Across from him Mac leaned back in the desk chair, one boot still hanging on his foot, toe scuffing the concrete.
Neither of them turned on the light.
Mac stood, kicked his remaining boot off, crossed the room, and sat beside him. Their shoulders touched. His hand found Melvin’s and held it, firm and undeniably present.
They sat like that for a while.
Melvin exhaled slowly. “You ever get the feeling that if we stay here tonight we’re just going to keep thinking about convoys and casualty reports?”
Mac tilted his head. “That usually happens on a combat deployment.”
Melvin shot him a look.
Mac’s mouth curved.
Melvin glanced toward the window. “I could use a few hours somewhere that isn’t Iraq.”
Mac stood and grabbed his jacket. “Might be time to go on our little adventure again.”
Melvin raised an eyebrow. “To the bar?”
Mac shrugged. “Unless you’ve got a better supernatural dive hidden somewhere on base.”
Melvin snorted as he stood. “I can’t wait to see who’s at the bar tonight.”
Mac opened the door. “And whether they’re real.”
They crossed the quiet compound together. The guard shack sat dark near the edge of the perimeter road.
Melvin pushed the door open. The air inside shifted immediately. Mac closed the door behind them, the latch clicking softly. The room hummed faintly as Mac ran his fingers along the worn runes.
“You sure about this tonight?” Mac asked.
“Yeah,” Melvin said. “I just want to feel normal for a little while.”
Mac pressed his palm to the wood.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then the air behind the wall shimmered until a doorway stood where the wall had been.
The smell changed first. Oak smoke. Old whiskey. Citrus.
The bar.
Mac glanced over his shoulder. “After you.”
Melvin stepped through.
The bar was warm and dim. Lantern light glowed against dark wood walls. Two women Melvin guessed were witches argued softly over a card game. A werebear nursed a beer at the far end.
The bartender looked up.
“Evening, Lieutenant.”
“Evening.”
Mac stepped through behind him and the portal closed.
For a moment it felt like the war had stopped at the door.
They took a table near the back. Mac ordered whiskey for both of them. Melvin wrapped his fingers around the glass.
Mac watched him. “You look like someone just pulled you out of a firefight.”
“Give me a minute.”
Melvin took a sip. The whiskey burned down his throat in the best possible way.
The bartender nodded toward the glass. “Enchanted. You’ll relax, but you won’t get drunk.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. “Convenient.”
“Professional,” the bartender said.
Melvin took another sip. The tension in his shoulders eased.
Mac’s hand rested on the table between them. Not reaching. Just there.
They sat with it for a moment.
“I don’t want tonight to be about the war,” Melvin said.
“It isn’t.” Mac stood and held out his hand. “Come upstairs.”
Melvin didn’t argue.
The room above the bar was dim and quiet, the lantern light low against the walls. The door shut behind them with a soft click.
Mac pulled his shirt over his head without ceremony.
Mac stood there, letting him look. The scars were there, the pale, puckered line on his ribs from Fallujah, the smaller, jagged one on his shoulder. But so was the strength, the defined planes of his chest, the dark trail of hair that disappeared into his jeans.
Melvin’s hands left Mac’s back. They came to rest on his hips, thumbs brushing the sharp crest of bone. Then they slid up, over the tense ridges of his abdomen, tracing the path of that dark hair up to his sternum.
Mac watched him, his pupils blown wide, his own breathing shallow. When Melvin’s thumbs brushed over his nipples, a shudder went through him, sharp and involuntary. A quiet, punched-out sound escaped his throat.
That sound undid something in Melvin. He leaned forward, closing the small distance, and pressed his mouth to the center of Mac’s chest. He felt the frantic beat of Mac’s heart against his lips.
He breathed in, and the scent of him: soap, sweat, and something uniquely, essentially Mac, flooded his senses.
“Mel,” he whispered, the name a ragged thing.
Melvin looked up. The raw need in Mac’s face was a physical force. He reached for the button of Mac’s trousers. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled. The fabric was stiff. Mac covered Melvin’s hand with his own, stilling him. “Let me,” he said, his voice low.
He made quick work of his own belt and button, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room.
He pushed the trousers and briefs down his hips in one motion, stepping out of them without breaking eye contact.
He stood before Melvin, completely bare, utterly exposed.
There was no bravado in it. Only a profound and terrifying offering.
Melvin’s gaze traveled down, and his throat went tight. Mac was fully, thickly erect, the evidence of his want undeniable.
“Your turn,” Mac said, the words barely more than air.
Melvin nodded, a short, sharp movement. He pulled his own shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his watch. He tossed it aside, his eyes never leaving Mac’s. He untied and toed off his boots, shoved his trousers and briefs down, and kicked them away.
They stood a foot apart, naked in the dim light. The space between them hummed.
Mac reached out first. His hand, calloused and warm, cupped the side of Melvin’s neck, his thumb stroking the line of his jaw. “Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.
Melvin stepped into him. Skin met skin from chest to thigh. The contact was electric, a shock of pure sensation that made them both gasp. He buried his face in the curve of Mac’s neck, breathing him in, drowning in him.