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Gale stood in the library for a long while, reeling.
He was distinctly aware, he noticed with a quick flash of shame, of a warmth, a slickness in his pants. He felt sticky. It occurred to him that this could be a problem, that he would have to clean them, secretly, would have to scrub out the physical reminder of this moment. Would have to try to forget it.
He extricated Marge’s letter out of his pocket. It was crumpled, turned up at the edges. He stared at it. Something - he didn’t like to think what - had stained the paper, seeping through, distorting the text. He tried to read the words, to picture his home, the image he’d so carefully constructed in his mind. The white on the page, crusted over, was all he could see. The sentiments behind were obfuscated, lost in a haze. Something was flaring white hot in his chest.
He had felt, in the moment - in that shared moment - his brain skittered over it, shy, refusing to replay it - he had felt a moment of perfect clarity. It had retreated, now, as quickly as it had come. He felt like he’d been set adrift. The ground beneath his feet was unsteady.
Gale forced his mind back, tried to face it head on. The picture came to him in flashes, vivid and raw: John, eyes reverent, head moving back forwards and backwards, his - he gritted his teeth, pushed his thoughts forward - his own cock, slipping in and out of an open mouth.
He felt selfish now. That he had leaned so much into his own bodily needs, that he had crossed the boundary, had taken his own pleasure - had almost used John, he realized with shame, had exploited the needs he knew he had, had himself experienced firsthand. Images flashed in his mind - John laying back, eyes closed, his hand over his mouth. He’d wanted to help, initially, and now he felt like he’d failed. It was almost like what he’d wanted had got muddied along the way.
“Please,” he remembered saying, ashamed. If he looked back, now, he still didn’t really know what he’d been asking for. But he’d got - he’d got something. And then he’d gotten - an offer, maybe. He almost wished he’d offered back.
He went back to his bunk. Shucked off his pants, left them in a crumpled heap, shoved them under his mattress. Deliberated. Put Marge’s letter under his pillow. He could hear the men shouting outside.
He was relied on, he realized suddenly. He was a commanding officer. He needed to lead. He was in no position to succumb to confusion, to gray lines, to long deliberations on the state of his own mind. He needed to be solid.
He reverted, almost on purpose, to the easiest explanation. They had both been pent up, in need of release. “It’s only natural,” John had said. There was no other option. He shut down all other possibilities. This was the only way to move forward, to step into a new day.
They stood out in the yard, chatted like they always did. Like everything was normal.
“You never said what was in the letter,” John said.
Gale pulled up short. It was the closest either of them had come to acknowledging out loud their previous encounters. The implication fell between them, heavy. “Huh,” he said.
“Just making conversation,” said John. He rubbed his hands together to fend off the cold. “It’s damn boring round here.”
“Sure,” said Gale. He didn’t elaborate.
John looked at him sideways, eyebrows furrowed. “You alright?”
“Fine.” At his continued stare, he shrugged his shoulders. He desperately tried not to picture the letter, nestled under his pillow, those hollow words, covered in - “Fine, Bucky.”
John reached over, touched him on the shoulder. Gale flinched away, almost involuntarily. “Jeez, Buck, what crawled up your ass today?”
“God, Bucky, nothing. ‘m just thinking.”
John looked at him, forehead narrowed. “It’s just this place,” he said eventually. “It’s just this place, Buck.”
“Yeah,” he said. He had no idea if that was true.
The tension returned. It felt like either of them could explode any minute. He was aware of the men shying away from them, of concerned glances from his bunk mates. He focused on trying to survive, mostly. John stared at the side of his face for a while, like he was trying to figure him out.
Then he started to lash out. Started to goad him, smirk on his face. He’d stand close, mutter in his ear. Asked if he missed Marge. Would throw his arm on his shoulder. Would laugh, humorless, when he flinched back.
The fight was almost expected. It felt like a relief. He punched John in the nose. They wrestled. It was the closest they’d been in days. He tried to ignore how familiar John’s body felt against his. He tried to ignore the low pang in his chest as the bruise spread across John’s nose.
He went to find John, after. He was lying on the bottom bunk, Gale’s own spot, probably for ease of access. Gale had no idea if he was injured beyond the bruise that had spread across his face. He tried not to imagine a mottled chest, anything resembling the state John had been in when he first arrived at the stalag.
The door swung closed behind him. John stared silently at him. He floundered, lost for words. Took a step forward.
“I’m sorry.”
He took another step forward. John’s gaze didn’t move from his face
He sat down beside him, perched on the side of the bunk. “I’m sorry,” he said again, unnecessarily.
“Not your fault,” said John. He was lying worryingly still. “It’s just this - ”
“Don’t say it’s just this place, John, that’s not an excuse,” he said, harshly, fiercely.
John subsided. The sheets rustled as he turned his head away, contemplated the bottom of the bunk above him. “Sure.”
“John,” said Gale. His hand strayed forward, almost with a mind of its own. Slowly, it grazed across his cheek. He lightly touched the bruise forming on the bridge of his nose.
John’s eyes snapped towards him. Gale leant forward.
Almost imperceptibly - Gale probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been so attuned to him, to his movement - his legs parted, creating some space between them. Allowing access. An invitation.
Gale moved forward, until he was leaning over John almost completely. He swung his leg around, moved it into the space John had left. Slotted it between his legs, flush against him.
“Does it hurt?”
“It’s not too bad.”
Gale could feel a distinct hardness forming against his thigh. His fingers settled on the bruise. “You sure?”
He pressed down against it, harder. John hissed. His cock jumped against him. “‘s fine.”
Then - slowly - ever so slowly - John began to move, pushing his hips forward, languidly dragging himself across Gale’s leg. Gale stayed perfectly still. He could feel the full movement of John’s cock as it worked against him.
“That’s good,” he said, throat hoarse.
“Mmm,” said John. He picked up speed, gasping quietly.
He tried to find his voice, to make sense of the vision before him: John, eyes half closed, head tilted back, the taut fabric of his pants rubbing harshly against Gale's leg. His hips juddered ever forward, seeking more contact. Gale could tell he wasn’t quite getting the friction he needed, was getting more ragged, frustrated in his movements.
“What are we doing here, huh?” he managed to ask, voice shot.
John groaned. “Not now, Buck, let me - please - ”
He pushed his hips further forward, further up Gale’s leg. Almost on instinct, Gale pushed his leg back against him, and John ground down in relief. Heat flashed across his body. Emboldened, he moved his leg again, a slow drag against the line of his cock. John groaned again, louder, and quickly tried to muffle it.
The bitten-off sound pulled Gale out of his reverie. The reality of the situation crashed over him.
He reached out blindly, grabbed at John’s hips. Held him down, pushed him into the mattress, stopped him from moving. John let out a low noise, almost a whine. He looked like a wreck, mouth agape, a strand of spit stretching between his lips, hardness jutting out an insistent line under his pants. There was a bead of wetness forming at the head.
Slowly, Gale dragged his leg out from under him. John’s hips twitched upwards, chasing the sensation. Gale firmly pushed him back down. He tried to take stock of the situation.
“What are we doing here?” he repeated.
John pushed forward again, trying to find any form of friction, but was unsuccessful. He hissed in frustration. “Fuck, Buck, what do you want?”
Gale had no idea. He had a sudden shocking image of surging forward, of closing the final gap, of possessing, somehow.
He shook the image off. “Let me help you,” he said instead.
John stared at him, uncomprehending. He pulled his hands back from where he was holding his hips against the mattress. John stayed perfectly still.
It almost felt like he was moving through water. Slowly, he trailed his hand downwards. John’s mouth gaped. He paused for a second, unsure. He could feel the blood pumping in his chest. He reached out, ghosted the crotch of John’s pants. Undid the button. Pulled down the zipper.
John moaned in relief as he finally took him in hand. He was surprisingly heavy, hot under his palm, leaking already.
“Good,” he said, almost to himself, nonsensically. John shuddered under him. He drew him out of his pants, stared. He was almost mesmerized by the sight, by the strangeness of his own hand, the cock under it, the slickness under his palm. Heat coiled in his own stomach.
Tentative, Gale moved his hand. John inhaled, sharp in the quiet of the room, like he’d been punched in the stomach. His eyes were screwed shut.
He traced his hand up and over his cock, experimentally. Moved his hand over the tip, wiped the moisture leaking there, spread it down, easing his hand’s movement. He ached. John groaned.
He upped his pace, to try and escape the quiet intimacy of the movement. It didn’t work. It was almost too much - the sound of his hand against skin, the ragged breaths, the sight of John moving under him, in his hand, in his grasp. He could feel his own cock, unattended, straining, and palmed at it with his free hand.
“Buck,” said John. His chest was heaving. Gale moved his hand faster, tried to emulate how he took his own pleasure despite the odd angle, tried to give the friction he needed. John bucked up, into him. He could feel his own pleasure building.
“Right with you,” he said, lowly. John shuddered under him. He kept moving, fast, relentless.
A low whine escaped John’s throat, raw, painful. “Buck,” he gasped again, and came suddenly, splattering his hand. “Fuck.”
“Good,” Gale said again, seemingly the only word he could say. His hand, working over himself, couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop looking at John, at the white on his own fingertips. He could feel himself throbbing.
A few final strokes, and he tumbled over the edge. It was only when he was recovering, catching his breath, when he was suddenly aware of the warm residue in his pants, that he realized he was in the same situation he’d been in weeks ago, that he regretted it.
John stared up at him. “Christ.”
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how they’d ended up here again. He didn’t know what would happen if he left again without a word. He didn’t know if he could handle it.
He reached behind John’s head, grabbed the letter out from under his pillow. He passed it over.
John took it. His fingers ran over the stains smudging the words, smirked at them. Shamefully, Gale felt himself twitch.
“What am I looking at here?”
“Read it.”
John’s brow furrowed, clearly perplexed by the sudden change in atmosphere. He propped himself up, eyes scanning the page. When he was done, he looked up. “I don’t - ”
Gale swallowed. He could read between the lines. “She’s done with me.”
“Sure, it’s a little clinical, but that doesn’t mean she’s done with you, Buck.” John grinned, slightly wonky. “A catch like you.”
He clenched his jaw. “You don’t know Marge.”
“Yeah, Buck, I guess I don’t.”
Gale sat back. The scene before him was suddenly obscene, shocking. John seemed to realize this, tucked himself back in, tried to make himself presentable.
He sighed heavily, grabbed a toothpick from where they were stashed under his mattress. John tracked its journey as he fiddled with it, stuck it into his mouth.
“I’m pretty sure she thinks I’ve got a sweetheart back in England.”
John scoffed. “That’s unfair, Buck, and you know it. You’ve been a saint.”
Gale took the toothpick out his mouth. Looked John directly in the eye. “Have I?
He spoke quietly. “It’s not the same thing.”
“No.” Gale had no idea if that was true. He sighed heavily. “No, I guess not.”
John cornered him a few days later, pushed him gently above the wall. Shoved a hand down his pants, stroked him to hardness. Laughed breathlessly in his ear as he gasped to an embarrassingly quick completion, head thumping back against the wall, eyes screwed shut.
When Gale finally opened his eyes, he was smiling. “God, Buck, you have no idea what you look like.”
Gale didn’t know what to do with that. He settled with a smirk. “With the speed you’re going, Bucky, I’m gonna need you to start cleaning my pants for me.”
John’s hand ghosted his hip. “Fuck, anything, Buck.”
Gale nodded at him. “Go on, sort yourself out, before you make a fool of yourself.”
John’s face went slack. His hand disappeared down his own pants like it had been shocked into action. Gale leant back, watched almost lazily as his arm pumped up and down.
After he had shuddered through his own orgasm - Gale tried to ignore the twitch his own cock gave at the sight - they stood for a moment, catching their breath. A sudden calm seemed to descend over the room.
John glanced at him sideways. Wiped his hand against his pants. He spoke surprisingly haltingly.
“D’you reckon - ”
“What?”
“Do you think you could kiss me?”
It felt like something had dropped out of the bottom of Gale’s stomach. “What?”
“Nothing.” John winced. He swallowed. Seemed to try again. “It’s just - you don’t have to mean it, I was just wondering - ”
Before his thoughts could catch up with his body, Gale had surged forward. He came in at a slightly odd angle, slightly too hard. John, clearly surprised, didn't move for a single terrifying second. Gale's chest thumped painfully. He was painfully aware of the pressure of John’s mouth against his own. Could feel as John’s lips parted underneath his. Could feel the gasp John emitted in his throat as if it was his own. Something churned in his gut.
He broke away quickly, leaned their foreheads together.
“Sorry,” said John, quietly.
Gale’s lips were tingling. “What did you mean?” He pulled back.
John looked almost shell-shocked, like the words hadn’t registered.
“Huh?”
“What did you mean - what did you mean I didn’t have to mean it?” Gale was struggling to think.
John didn’t respond. There was a horrible silence. Eventually, he looked away. “Buck - ”
Gale spoke slowly. Some terrible realization was dawning. “Did - did you mean it?”
John closed his eyes.
Something deep, melancholic, yawned in his stomach. He had thought, all this time, that they’d understood each other. That they’d been on the same page. Now he knew - he didn’t know what he knew, really, only that this - what they’d been doing - wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. He needed to get out, to get home. To Marge.
“Can we just forget this?” said John. Desperation had seeped into his voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Gale.
He was in a confused funk for days. He didn’t see John around, despite their close quarters, so he was clearly avoiding him. Every one of their encounters flashed before their eyes. “What do you want?” John had asked, eyes boring into him, as he’d borne down on his hips, had pushed him into the mattress. He’d made an unfathomable decision then, had chosen to take his pleasure into his own hands.
Gale didn’t know what he wanted.
He had always assumed this had been a relief for both of them, a way to get a release they couldn’t get otherwise. He couldn't allow himself to think beyond that. That there was anything else behind their encounters - that they had been closer to moments shared between - between sweethearts maybe, or lovers even - was unthinkable.
They hadn’t even kissed, he reasoned, or at least not until John’s insistence. And when he’d asked - he couldn’t remember what he’d assumed in that moment, couldn’t fathom why he’d gone through with it. He’d always liked kissing himself, had found it comforting, had definitely missed it. He’d probably thought that John had missed it himself, had been happy to oblige: but it hadn’t meant anything, couldn’t have meant anything, beyond physical relief.
But then he started imagining it, remembering it, embarrassingly, like an image he couldn’t shake.
He dreamed of crowding John up against a wall, pressing their lips together, firm, insistent. He dreamed of him melting into it, gasping into his mouth - but only for a moment. Because then John’s hands went up to his shoulders, pushed him away. “You don’t get to do that,” he said fiercely, and marched away, to somewhere very far from him, unreachable.
He woke up achingly hard.
He made the effort to talk to John again. He told him he was right for being antsy, for wanting to escape.
“Better to play it safe,” said John. He was subdued. “The hell am I rushing back home for? Other guys get letters. You get letters.” He broke off. The specter of the past hung over them. “To get a letter,” he said, plowing onwards. “You need someone to get it from. Guess I never set that part up right.”
“That's just this place talking,” said Gale, for want of anything to say. “You'll have plenty of time for that when you get out.”
But after, he imagined going home.
Marge had always been his home, his reason to survive. When he pictured her, she was smiling - in a field somewhere, or in a small house, a cottage. A ranch, maybe. With some kind of child, with some kind of vague features. It was an image that had stretched further and further away, had become more and more implausible, secondary to the more and more insistent now. Marge’s picture, placed over his dashboard, had been his promise of some distant and impossible future - an ideal, a dream.
He imagined, now, John going home. John dancing with some faceless woman, kissing her the way he’d kissed him, moving under her the way he moved under him. He felt desolate somehow, sick to his stomach.
He didn’t have time to contemplate it, though, because then they were ordered to march, and everything else left his mind.
After what felt like interminable hours of marching, they rested, exhausted, huddling in the cold. The men lay on each other in twos, threes, to try and retain some semblance of warmth.
“Rest here,” said John, quietly. “Don’t be a martyr, Buck.”
He was too tired, too cold, to argue. He nodded, and settled down in front of him. John moved, cautious, inviting. Slowly, he settled, so his back was flush against John’s chest. He could feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric.
The room was filled with the quiet of uncomfortable slumbering. John’s nose was cold against his ear, breath ghosting over his face in warm gasps. For the first time in what felt like months, they were close without his body betraying him. He was calm. He relaxed back. Vaguely he was aware this was the last time they might be here together, the last time they’d ever get this moment, the calm before the storm.
He turned until they were cheek to cheek. John’s eyes slowly opened. He moved forward, silently, slowly, until they were nose to nose. Gently, he brushed their lips together. John inhaled softly.
He was too tired to contemplate it, really. To ask himself what it all meant. But in that moment he felt comforted. He felt safe.