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They start up in September.
Actually, Chris is surprised that they haven't come around sooner. It's the moving around seems to hold them at bay for a bit- it's the change in environment, the unfamiliar schedule that throws them off- but then they're back again, always back, and Piers is waking up screaming at two in the morning, causing the neighbors to curse and complain and causing Chris to roll out from under the warm covers of his own bed, taking the familiar route through the hallway to Piers' room, shaking his shoulder, prying the knife that he keeps under his pillow out of his grip, stroking the back of his neck, taking hold of his wrists, helping him stand. Whispering soft comforts in his ear- c'mon, babe- and leading him to Chris's room, Chris's bed, tucking him in next to him with a chuckle and ago to sleep, you pain-in-the-ass.
But don't go getting get any ideas.
They live together so people make the mistake all the time. Half of them appraising the two with soft, understanding glances, the other half shooting them disgusted stares. Both of them saying oh, so it's like that, like they're in on some secret that the rest of the world isn't.
Chris is always the one to set them straight. Nope. Not like that. At all. We're friends. Friends. Did you catch that? Because I can repeat it for you if you'd like.
Chris is scary looking, six foot one and a ripped 216 pounds, and no one ever asks him to repeat it.
They're comrades, blood brothers- no, not "partners", not in that sense of the word, anyway. So what if Chris knows that Piers has an unhealthy infatuation with caramel lattes, and so what if Piers knows that when Chris gets pissed, that all he really needs is a beer? It's what friends are for, to look out for each other- and yeah, whenever Piers has a nightmare, Chris lets him crawl under the covers next to him, lets him put his arms around him, lets him press his nose up against his neck- but it doesn't mean anything, or whatever.
That'd be weird, anyhow. Piers is small, smooth-skinned, well-dressed, with neat, styled hair and big, thick-rimmed black glasses that are always going crooked on the bridge of his nose. He's quiet but opinionated. He loves coffee and steak, but never together. He reads constantly. And he's everything that Chris is not.
Chris is big. His skin is bridled with shrapnel scars and he's a stained sweatshirt and torn jeans type of guy, with hair shorn clumsily and feet that are always too big to find shoes that'll fit right. He doesn't have an opinion on much. He'll eat anything. He reads at the pace of a sixth-grader.
He compares himself to the sniper constantly. It's not that Piers is perfect or anything, because he's got plenty of faults. The nightmares, for one, and the PTSD habits: the pacing, the shaking hands, the nervous tapping of his right foot. It's the fact that wrapped up in one person, his flaws make him flawless. He's perfectly mutilated. He's beautifully human. He's the saddest thing Chris has ever seen, and it's bewitching.
You know, in a normal, guy-type of way.
And anyway- Piers is 26 and Chris is 39- so yeah, too weird. He's too old, Piers is too young.
Of course, things like that don't matter when the sniper is yelling himself hoarse in the middle of the night, something along the lines of on your right, on your right, on your fucking right- can't you see him, Chris, don't you see him, he's right fucking there, shoot him, you fucker, fuck, Chris, he's gonna fucking shoot you if you don't fucking shoot him, Chris, please.
Chris stands over his twitching, sobbing body, a year and a half of practice on his side, of doing this for nights at a time, on the field and off. Hey, babe, he croaks, still groggy, wiping sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. Jesus Christ, again? It's the same dream, the one it always is, where Piers can't get a clear shot and Chris is smack in the line of an enemy sniper's rifle.
Wake up, says Chris patiently, touching his arm, giving it a few jerks back and forth. C'mon, babe. Wake up, now.
He stops the knife halfway up like he always does, his fingers tight around Piers' fingers- it's just me- and Piers gasps and shudders and stares as Chris takes the knife away and sets it on the side table.
He helps him to his feet, his muscled arm settled around Piers' thin waist. C'mon, babe. Bedtime.
He's on your right, Piers says, half-delerious.
I got him, Chris assures him.
You got him?
In the head, babe. Right between the eyes.
Piers smiles. Brains, he tells Chris. There'll be brains on the back wall.
Yup, Chris agrees. Brains all over. Headshot. 20 points. Hoo-ah, soldier.
You got him, Piers says again. That's good. I was worried.
When they make it to Chris's room he pulls the heavy quilts up over the sniper's frame- you always forget how the temperature drops at night. Chicago gets kinda cold this time of year, remember?Then shifting up against him, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly when he feels Piers' arms encircle his chest, Piers' face nestle in against the crook of his neck and shoulder, cheeks still a little damp from the tears drawn out of his nightmare.
He's on your right, Piers mumbles.
Headshot, babe, Chris reminds him, and Piers doesn't have nightmares, sleeping next to Chris.
During the day Piers doesn't talk much. Not the way he had in Iraq. Most times he just sits in the chair by the window and looks out it, sitting there for hours, watching traffic go by. He doesn't talk. He doesn't eat. He doesn't even give one glance to a cup of coffee, not when he gets in one of his funks. All Chris can do is wait for it to pass, listening to the cars honk and listening to the sound of Piers' silence.
But man, he'd been a helluva chatty kid back out in that desert they'd been stationed in- always asking questions. Questions about Chris's family, Chris's friends, Chris's girlfriend. Chris's family- he'd told Piers about Dad, Mom, Claire. Chris's friends- he'd told Piers about Finn, Leon, Sherry.
Chris's girlfriend...well, it'd taken him a little longer to explain that.
Jill got religious, he'd said at last. Found God while I was away, apparently- got religious and went off to Africa with some church. She called it a 'mission', I called it bullshit. Then, poof- I'm a single man.
Great, Piers had said. And then had blushed, shaking his head, making his glasses go crooked. I didn't mean it like that.
Course you didn't, Chris had said, fingers reaching up to straighten Piers' lens's. I believe you- because they're friends, comrades, blood-brothers- the two of them, with one who brings Piers caramel lattes and the other who digs through the back of the fridge to get Chris that last Miller Light and, yeah, sometimes Chris scoots right next to Piers during scary movies, Piers' head tucked up against Chris's shoulder and Chris's arm draped over Piers' chest- but they only do that during the scary ones, and only when there's zombies.
Chris doesn't do zombies.
It's October, one month later, and Piers is waking up like that every night, now, and pacing more often with his foot tapping against the ground wherever he goes, whenever he's awake, tap-tap-tapping over the floor while he stares out the window, fingers drumming silently against his thigh, and Chris is worried. I don't need a therapist, the sniper mutters when he tries to convince him to go. I can take care of myself.
Yeah, Chris says, okay. Sure.
He's not surprised when he comes home from working one of his part-time jobs to find Piers passed out on the floor, thick black glasses askew, a bottle of pills next to him and a suicide note on the table. He's not surprised, and he doesn't panic. He just scoops him up, puts him in the backseat of his rusty pickup, and drives to the hospital. And at the hospital they put him in the ICU and stick him with all sorts of needles and then wait, not really sure if he'll wake up.
He does. And when he realizes that he's alive, he starts to cry, and Chris sits on the edge of his bed and holds him.
He never reads the suicide note. Instead he just throws it away, afraid of what it says.
Things get better from then on, and October turns into November and stays for a while, little bits of snow trickling down from the sky on occasion in preparation for winter. Piers asks if he can sleep in Chris's bed and Chris says sure. Piers asks if Chris can stay at home instead of working that third part-time job and Chris says sure. Piers asks if Chris would fuck him and Chris stops and opens his mouth and closes it and then looks at him and says what? and then says no.
It's not a trust issue. It's not an issue of commitment. And it's not the fact that Piers is a guy, because Chris has slept with guys before. He doesn't know what it is, to be honest. Maybe he's nervous that he'll lose him.
Or- and this is really what it is, isn't it- maybe it's not that he's afraid of losing him, but of having him. The last person he had was Jill, and that was ages ago. It's about time he found someone- he just never expected it to be Piers.
And how could he? Piers is flawless, Piers is perfect, Piers is mutilated and beautiful and Chris doesn't know how he could stand to taint something like that, doesn't know how he could do it.
It was never about fucking him, anyway.
Piers keeps on asking him, though, like he won't take no for an answer, and secretly it's getting to Chris, the way he keeps at it. In December Piers has stopped having nightmares, and Chris has stopped playing the friends card.
But...don't go getting any ideas.
Christmas comes and goes, and instead of going to the parties they'd promised to be at they sit on the couch and play Black Ops II, Piers stiff and concentrated, Chris loose and grinning.
On your right, Piers warns.
Headshot, Chris crows.
They turn on the Christmas radio and Chris sings loud and out-of-key while Piers scowls that trademark scowl that Chris is always teasing him about. Bah-humbug, Chris says, leaning forward on one arm and grinning, and Piers grabs his collar and presses his forehead against Chris's, breathless and heart stuttering and eyes lit up with that stupid, stupid, hope.
Chris, he begins, voice quiet, and Chris already knows what he's going to ask but Chris can't even meet his gaze. And Piers exhales lightly and moves back and lets go of him.
Sorry, says the sniper.
No you're not, says Chris.
Then he turns up the radio and puts his hands on Piers' waist and they dance to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, nice and slow, drifting around the one-floor apartment, Piers' fingers firm on the back of Chris's neck and head pressed against Chris's chest.
January approaches, and Piers keeps asking him, and Chris keeps faltering. One day it's no, the next it's I don't know. And Piers doesn't pace anymore, and the foot tapping is almost gone.
Then comes New Years.
3, says the announcer. 2, 1.
Happy New Year.
The ball drops and Piers looks over at Chris. Chris, he says, in that tone, with the stupid hope in his eyes, and Chris already knows what he's gonna ask.
Yeah, he answers. Not no or I don't know but yeah, and the look in Piers' eyes when he says it, that one little syllables, makes him feel so good that he doesn't even have room to feel guilty, not even when Piers snags his shirt and pulls him in.
Kissing Piers isn't like kissing Jill. Jill had been controlling, pinning Chris against the wall, body hot and hands in his hair.
In contrast, Piers is timid, unsure, skin cool against Chris's. He takes everything careful and slow, glasses bumping against Chris's face, sitting on Chris's lap on the couch, and Chris is pretty sure that he likes it better Piers' way.
When he wakes up in the morning Piers laughs for the first time in five months, and it's the most incredible thing Chris has ever heard, lying there with their head sharing the same pillow, listening to Piers laugh.
But nothing's forever.
Someone said that to him, once. He doesn't remember who. Maybe it was one of the guys in Iraq, maybe it was someone here, spoken in passing. It doesn't really matter, who said it- more of why than anything.
Nothing's forever. And Chris, of all people, should've known that.
He doesn't see it coming, not like he had before. But when he unlocks the door on a rainy, cloud-covered night in April, he knows the house is too quiet for normal.
Piers doesn't use pills, this time- probably because Chris flushed everything but a couple of aspirin down the toilet after the first incident. And he doesn't do it bloody, cutting himself or shooting himself in the head- no, that's too messy, and he must've thought ahead, about how Chris would be the one to clean it all up.
He ties his bedsheets together, instead, and hangs himself from the ceiling.
The first thing Chris does is cut him down. The second thing Chris does is call 911. And the third thing Chris does, after he's thanked the paramedic and hung up the phone, is panic.
He's got priorities, just like anybody.
There's a pulse and so Chris knows it's not entirely hopeless. The sheets were soft and thick around and so his neck isn't broken, just bruised, and he couldn't have been hanging there long before Chris came in- maybe just a minute or two, strangling himself slowly, suffocating, letting it hurt, and Chris gets angry. Why the hell do you suck at this so much? he asks Piers. Either kill yourself or don't, you fucker, I don't care, just don't make me find you-
He doesn't mean it and he spends the next five minutes apologizing, bent over the sniper's body. He says Piers' name over and over again, holds his hand while the ambulance screams towards their flat. He yells at him again. Cries a little. And then the paramedics are strapping the sniper down and enclosing his neck in one of those plastic things and telling Chris to follow behind them in his own car while they get him to the hospital.
Piers cries when he wakes up this time, too.
It's natural, the doctor tells Chris, for this pattern to occur in recent veterans.
There's nothing natural about hanging yourself, Chris tells the doctor, and adds piss off for good measure.
Chris doesn't know how long Piers'll be good. He'll be smiling one day, whispering sweet nothings in Chris's ear, fingers pushing through his badly-cut hair, then silent and dead-eyed the next.
But he'll figure it out, if it's the last thing he does. Soldiers don't give up- he doesn't, at least. And until then, he'll take the nightmares, and the pacing, and the depression, and he'll love every fucking bit of it.
Because Piers is flawless. Still, and always.
On your right, Piers yelps, body trembling against Chris's at two in the morning. On your right, Chris-
Chris puts his arms around the sniper. Get him, Piers.
Tears well up from under closed eyelids. Can't get a clear shot, Piers wails.
Yes you can. C'mon, babe, focus.
Can't get a clear shot-
Piers. Just shoot him.
Can't-
Focus, babe.
Piers takes a breath. Then lets it out.
Put your finger on the trigger, says Chris. And shoot him.
There's a pause.
Headshot, says Piers.
Chris kisses his earlobe. 20 points, he says. Hoo-ah, soldier.