After (10 page)

“Not ready for what?”

“I've never...I'm not ready to...”

“Don't worry. I'm not going to fuck you.” Diego was just lying there, panting under him. “All right?” Evan asked.

“All right.”

Evan brushed his lips over Diego's. Teased him a little with his tongue. Then he reached between them, ran his touch over the hard length he'd felt pressed to his belly since they'd started kissing.

“But you're ready for something, aren't you?”

Diego didn't answer. But when Evan curved his fingers and rubbed him a little over his shorts, Diego groaned and flexed up into that touch. He shuddered, thrashed, almost, when Evan kissed his nipples, and when Evan got Diego's shorts down and kissed that hot, hard cock, Diego groaned out loud, so loud Evan clamped his hand over his friend's, his lover's mouth, afraid someone would hear them over the racket of the storm.

After.

“You've done that before.”

Evan answered, “Yeah.”

“With... Here?”

“No. Not since I joined up.” He nuzzled into Diego's neck, kissing, smelling him.

“In my head, though, I've done it to you about a thousand times.”

“Me too,” Diego said after a while. “But I'm not...”

“You're not ready. That's fine.” Evan kissed Diego's cheek, to reassure. “You've never been with a guy?”

“No.”

“But you've known.”

“I don't know,” Diego said, whispering like Evan. “I mean, I've thought about it with you. A lot. For a long time, now. But I never did before.”

“Seriously?”

“I don't know. Sometimes, thinking back, I think I just didn't let myself.”

“You know we can't let on. It doesn't matter, the official line.”

“No. You're right,” Diego whispered.

It was understood among all the soldiers—if not when they signed up, then by the end of week one of boot camp—that the official policy of the U.S. Army permitted, and to some degrees protected the existence and practice of all sexual orientations, but the reality was that no one dared admit openly that they were gay, that the fresh recruits who were suspected of being homos were brutally convinced of their fellow soldiers'

disapproval, and the few who went limping and bleeding to their C.O.s were usually laughed at until they gave up on any hope of getting justice, if they were lucky, and sometimes convinced a little more, if they weren't. No reason to think Major Smith, who'd taken command of the few straggling survivors from the various divisions that had occupied the base before the dying, would be a different story.

For another hour or so they cuddled and kissed and whispered and touched.

Then Evan slipped away, back to his own bed.

* * * *

Kosinski would hardly meet his eyes. Smith did these meetings with everyone.

But he had a bad feeling about Kosinski.

“How's it coming along, with the south field?” Smith asked him. You had to start with these banal questions. Duty shifts. Mess rations.

“Fine, sir.”

“From Riggs' report, seems like work's ahead of schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your crew, everyone pulling their weight?” He could say “his weight,” now. Now that all the soldiers were men. Now that all the women were dead.

“Yes, sir.” There was no pride, no reluctant hint of complaint in his voice. Every answer came out like he hoped there wouldn't be another question.

“You know, Kosinski, it's been awful for everyone since the dying.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I can see. Things have been harder for some than for others.”

Respectful silence.

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine, sir.”

“And the barracks?” Fuck it. He was desperate. None of these guys were going to come crying to him.

Kosinski's gaze slipped away.

“Any problems?”

“Problems, sir?”

“Any trouble you'd like to report?”

“No, sir.”

“Off the record?”

“No, sir.”

Hell. He was shit at this.

“Fine, Kosinski. You're dismissed.”

The private rose from his chair and saluted, looking like he was about to wet himself he was so anxious to get out of there. But as Kosinski turned and went toward the door, on impulse Smith went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. Smith's gut went tight as the kid hunched against the door, his hands coming up on reflex to guard his face.

“Christ, Kosinski,” Smith said, trying to make his voice soothing, but knowing he was probably failing, “what did you think I was going to do to you?”

Kosinski gave an unconvincing little laugh.

“Nothing, sir. You just startled me.”

He straightened up and turned around, but he wouldn't look up from the floor.

And he was shaking.

“Look, kid,” Smith said, trying to catch Kosinski's evasive eye, “I know the drill.

You're part of a team. You don't snitch on the guys in your unit. A lot of C.O.s, you tell them someone's shirking, they'll make you feel like a crybaby who needs their mommy to fix their problems. You tell them other things are going on, and you're likely to get a lot worse. But my way of looking at things is this. You're part of a team. If the other guys are making your life hell, they're the ones who need an attitude adjustment.”

Kosinski just kept on staring at his boots.

“Kid, you've gotta tell me. It's not going to end until you do.”

Kosinski looked up, his green eyes red and wet, his pale skin all blotchy.

“Tell you what, sir.” It was no question. It was a flat statement: “I'm not telling you anything.”

* * * *

During the day it was tough. Evan and Diego never did anything, no matter how sure they were of being alone. Never even called each other by their first names. Evan would be next to Diego at mess, or turning over the soil on the south lawn where they were preparing a field to plant corn, or in the latrine, showering or brushing his teeth, and he'd feel this urge to touch his hand or kiss him under his ear, where his blood pulsed. Cold panic would trickle through his body at the image of doing those things, a weird little fear like he might forget himself, forget that he had to wait until they were alone in the dark, even to whisper, “I love you.”

But night after night they switched off the lights and got into their own beds, always waiting twenty or thirty minutes before one of them would pad over to the other's bed and slip under the covers and into the other's open arms. Between kisses and caresses they whispered their long-hidden affection, confessing to each other the moments that had made them fall in love, little by little.

Evan took it slow with Diego. It was hard, after going without for more than two years, furtively getting off in the latrine or under the covers after lights out. But it was good, too. How his want tortured him now that he'd tasted Diego's mouth, tasted his skin, his cock, his come. Now that he'd felt Diego's naked chest against his own, felt Diego's arms around him. Now that they were lovers, and it was just a matter of time, of patience. Not some impossible fantasy for jacking off, for staving off nightmares.

Their second night together, Evan stroked up and down Diego's naked arms, his smooth, hairless side, his hard, defined chest, loving the promising pain of his hard-on when he felt Diego's nipples stiffen under his fingertips, when he felt Diego's rigid cock flex and twitch under his touch. For a while he stroked him over his shorts, using a feathery touch at first, then teasing Diego, gripping the girth of his hard-on, giving his balls a gentle tug, loving how he'd go rigid all over, then twitch, panting, eventually trying to thrust into his hand.

Even though he wanted to draw it out, to tease Diego, it was over in a couple minutes, Diego clinging to him like he was drowning, panting hard, little sobs coming every few seconds until he caught his breath, then stifled his final groans against Evan's shoulder. For a while Diego lay there in his arms, shuddering a little, now and then, for the first few minutes, before he went lax and still, his breathing quiet and regular again.

The first time Diego really touched him, Evan sucked in his breath hard in surprise. It had been forever since someone else had touched his cock. He lifted his hips so Diego could slide his shorts down, spread his legs so he could fondle his balls.

“Kiss me,” he said, surprised at how his voice wavered.

Still stroking and caressing, Diego kissed him. Just lips, at first, then his tongue teased in and touched his tongue. God, it felt so amazing, being held and kissed and touched. Like heaven. A little bubble of pleasure and happiness that made the hell he lived every day and dreamed every night disappear.

It was a good feeling, warm and safe, Diego's body, naked, pressing down on his. The smooth curve of his ass, the dip of his sleek waist, his broad back, muscles flexing, Evan couldn't touch enough. And Christ, the way their stiff cocks were pressed into each other's bellies, brushing together now and then as they moved.

Even that first night, Diego had been excited, but he was always reserved, always holding back, passive, letting Evan start every kiss, never touching until after Evan had touched. Sometimes allowing more, but never giving more. But tonight Diego was so hot, so eager, writhing over him, his wet, penetrating kisses insistent.

Demanding. Both of them were panting, straining for each other's caresses.

“Diego?” Evan's heart was hammering with need, and now his chest went tight. “I want...” He swallowed. Why was he so fucking nervous? “Do you want to?”

Diego half-groaned, half laughed. “God.” But then, “You mean...”

“Please, Diego. Fuck me. I want you to.”

“Even if...”

“Yes. Just, please . . . “

He'd top Diego when he was ready. He could wait for that, for lots of things. But every nerve, every muscle, every blood vessel in his body was screaming for this, to feel Diego inside of him, to move with him, to milk his lover's next climax from him with his whole body.

“Ever done it before? With a girl, I mean? Like this?”

“No.”

“Here.” Evan lubed up Diego's cock with the cooking oil he'd nicked from supply, stealing the chance to enjoy the feel of that hard length slipping through his grip, slicking his fingertips over his contours. Fuck, he wished they could turn on the light, that he could look at Diego's cock as he touched him. Then he dribbled a puddle of the viscous fluid into Diego's palm, and guided his hand down, between them, down.

“Just get me slick first, here,” he guided one finger between his cheeks, slid it up and back over his hole, “then start with one finger.”

He hoped it wouldn't freak him, fingering his asshole. In some ways, he remembered, that had been stranger, more different, than fucking, the first time he'd been with a guy.

Oh god oh god, Diego's finger pressing, opening him, sliding inside. Evan sighed, groaned, pulled Diego closer. Kissed his cheek. He was scared to say anything. His want was so big, if he screwed it up, if it didn't happen...

“Am I doing it right?” Diego asked in a whisper.

“Fuck. Yes.”

“I'm not hurting you?'

“No, love. No.”

Love. The first. So good to say it, finally. After pretending not to for so long.

Diego pushed into him, slow and gentle, with a second finger, opening him wider, filling him fuller. God he wanted the rest, wanted it all. But wait. Wait. He'd let Diego take his time, do things at his own pace. No rush. Even the wanting, the waiting was so good. So fucking delicious.

“Can I? Now? I mean, do you want me to...”

Evan kissed him, caught his bottom lip between his lips, slid his tongue against Diego's tongue.

“Yes.”

“I can...like this, can't I?” Diego asked, leaning between Evan's legs, bringing his cock against him.

“Yes,” Evan whispered, struggling to keep his desperate need from his voice.

He felt Diego shivering, heard him panting, shallow and fast, as little by little, he sank into him. Wrapping his arms around Diego, pulling him closer, Evan breathed through this piercing, this filling. And then, slow, but coming on with a quivering need that rippled through his whole body, Diego started moving over him.

“God, love, you feel so good inside me,” Evan sighed, meaning it.

* * * *

He was having a damned hard time finding fault with anything, this morning. But the men stank of trouble. Baldwyn and Riggs looked about ready to piss themselves with fear, which with them could only mean they'd done something, and were scared shitless of getting caught. And Lott. Christ, that one gave him the feeling of worms wiggling over his skin, just looking at him. Nothing natural about a grin like that. Not now. Not in this place.

God fucking dammit, why had it taken him so long to notice?

“Kosinski!” Smith called out, but everything in him was already going cold. Cold and heavy. “Kosinski!” he hollered again, in a tone meant to sound like he was berating a truant child. Even to his own ear, though, he sounded scared.

Scanning the men's faces, he could have sworn Riggs went pale, and that Lott's grin got bigger. Then one of the others moved. Narrowing eyes. Sagging body. Then an urgent, combat-ready extension of arm and index finger.

And Vallar shouted, “Sir!”

Smith followed the trajectory of the gesture, and peered up into a fifth-floor window in the building opposite his assembled men. Even after the dying, what he saw made him wonder for a moment if he'd gone mad. Or if, considering the dying, the impossible was now possible, and ghosts were real.

The pale likeness of a human floated—judging by its position relative to the window—three or four feet above the floor. Fading away, into the shadows, then drifting toward the window like it would float through it, its face, like a man's, was twisted.

Ghoulish. Like Munch's “The Scream.”

And then he understood.

He ran, knowing it was pointless, as fast as he could. Crashed through the heavy double doors. Scrambled up the stairs, not even noticing if it was hard or not, taking all those flights at top speed. Pointless, this desperate haste. He'd get there, and he'd be dead. No. Maybe not. Maybe he'd just done it, just then while Smith had been looking at Lott and Baldwyn and Riggs. He'd get there and the kid would be convulsing, but it wouldn't be too late. They'd get him down and Smith would give him mouth-to-mouth while Vallar or one of the others did CPR, and the kid would recover. And then he'd tell him everything. What they'd done to him. Why he'd tried to kill himself.