Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To say it was a hot night would be an understatement. The New Mexico heat was nothing short of sweltering. It was so still, bordering on quiet. You could practically hear the heat as it enveloped you, but that may have just been the cicadas.

Soldier, or, that's what people called him. Jane was his name. It was too civilian for him now, left a vaguely acidic milky taste in his mouth. Though, that could have been his teeth.

He was having a go at the heavy bag. His hands hitting hard against the thick fabric. They chaffed and bits of skin started pulling away from itself. Splitting and leaving a dirty singeing sensation inside of the meat that is his flesh. Red blood seemed to glow from his knuckles. So he went a little hard today? So what. He's the Soldier. He is no civilian. Such things don't matter to him.

His hands, carefully wrapped in white gauze run over the inside of his helmet. He smiles, something that would look mischievous to anyone but him, as he finds what he was looking for.

A picture of his best friend, the Red teams Demoman. Though he has yet to fully grasp the concept of 'Scotland' (he's still skeptical on whether or not it's real, it sounds made up honestly), the Demolitions expert of the opposite team had been quick friends with him.

He couldn't help but smile looking at it. It was just a normal picture, probably the same that Mrs. Pauling had for the other man's file. It was special to Soldier though. The smile on Demo's face, frozen forever in time on such a tangible thing. He couldn't help but run his hand over it. Burning. Festering fire in his heart. His thumb sweeping over the lips in the photo. His own pressing against hot flesh. Nothing more than a heated fantasy. It was stupid, dumb.

Soldier is not homosexual, or queer, or a faggot. He's none of those things and he knows those things. Men in the army aren't those things. There's no gay soldiers, he's sure of it. Such an ugly civilian idea, lowly for him even. He had heard of it. Of sodomy. Of the ugly diseases they brought. The disease on society that they were. That isn't him. He's far from such and he'd fight you over it. Just try him.

His father's words rung in his ears, as if the man was sitting next to him. Screaming at him like he was a child again. Telling him being gay is unnatural, immoral, how real men don't do that. He's a real man. He's sure of it.

And yet the ugly fire persisted in its torment, engulfing his chest. The picture was viewed as irreverently as any other art piece. It was art, because it had Demo's face on it. It bore his image with such simple beauty. He was bursting into flames. He would burn for his thoughts. He would burn for sure. He sticks the picture back into his helmet.

'That's enough.' He nearly tells himself out loud. He had to keep himself in check. Everyone can see so much of him even if he can't see himself. They just know. They know his transgressions he's sure. The way they seem to peer just completely through him. Are the eyes truly the window into the soul? Can they really just see everything of him?

He lays down. 'Thats enough', he thinks again. It's enough. He just needs to sleep. He's getting ahead of himself. Queerness is a civilian issue, for hippy men too scared of being men. He's a real man. He's not scared of his dick. He's not gay. There's nothing to see in him. It's not even an issue, not really.

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They say to go to sleep is just to stall death, but only in sleep doe he truly live. In his dreams, he sees his deepest desire. A house, a decorated uniform a beautiful hus- no, a wife. A beautiful wife with a black cap on his- no. Pretty dark hair, strong features but well and kind. Wearing red and kissing him. Her beard pricking him.

Pulling away to see the Demoman's face. Smiling. His eye looking at him.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He breathed in labored pants on a fast track to hyperventilation. Tears prick at his eyes. He couldn't think like that he just couldn't. He just can't okay?! It's unnatural! It's unseemly.

It's not him he isn't that. Whatever parasite that is eating at the man at him must be executed. It will tear him from himself. He's not that. He's not gay, he's not anything except the Soldier. He is no civilian. He is a soldier. A real man. Strong and serving.

The perfect picture of obedience and strength. He's perfect. Practically made for service. Made to fight and die on ground zero. As it lay ahead of him.

A snake in his brain. Wrapped around his head. In his ear. It whispers to him in blasphemous hisses. 'If you are such a solider why did they reject you from the army Jane?' it asked. The ghostly feeling of it's tongue, a phantom licking at his ear, made him shiver.

It's true. He had done right though, yes. He had still fought the Nazis. He had still protected democracy. He had still served for the beautiful land he stood on.

Demo knew that. Demo understood. He understood everything. He made everything easier. His smile eased a pain long inside of him. Fed something, the soft animal within him. It had cowered so long and yet the Demo, of another team at that, had coaxed it out.

He never looked at him in fear. He never called him stupid. Everything was better with Demo he was sure of it.

'Thats enough' he thinks, deciding to go back to bed to prevent the fire from burning brightly within him once more. He'll find a way to tame it one day, probably, surely.

He's a real man.

He's a soldier.

Chapter Text

Sunday's are the best days of the week. The one day that the mercenaries have off. The only day Demo and Soldier can spend time with each other. They talk quietly on the phone, deep in the night, but he has to be careful. Who would hear?

"Demo!" He smiled wide upon seeing his best friend, probably his only friend. Everyone on his team thought him to be stupid. A blabbering idiot with minced meat for brains. Scrambled in his head like old lady Sugarman. He heard their whispers. He knew they thought him to be delusional.

"Aye lad! Why'd don't you come over and share some Scrumpy with me!" The Demo called him over. His eye bright as it could be. Sparking. His smile so sweet. So special. It should be in a museum somewhere, probably. Painted by Leonardo Raphael or whatever his name was. Demo reminded him of the dashing figure of the Arrow Collar man, from the magazines in his childhood. Regal faces that are just so...

A shame licks at his fingers, at his stomach, at his head. His limbs tingle slightly, his stomach hurting. He shakes it out of his system. Or tries to at least.

Soldier embraces the Demo. He wants to stay there, with the warmth against him. With the second heartbeat. A feeling so good that only for a second he thought 'how can this be bad?' He quickly smashed such thoughts to bits.

He let go of the other man, a quick panic inside of him causing him to practically rip away from Demos touch. What if Demo knew? What if the hug was too long? What if he had in some way misstepped?

He felt suddenly quite ill, a rolling wave of nausea washing over him. He grabbed the bottle of Scrumpy, emptying it quickly. He was no alcoholic, mind you. Barely even felt the urge to wet his whistle in such a way, but in that moment he had to dowse the flames threatening to choke him with its smoke. It was poison. Like the chemical warfare he had seen. Choking on the gasses as they scorched his throat.

Demo couldn't see, hopefully. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to loose the other man's presence. It would be like loosing a lover. No no. Not a lover. No. That's not how people work. That's not how men work. Not real men. He was above this. Just a childish habit, just a childish yearning, just a childish want. He's a man now and he's over that.

To loose Demo would be like loosing a family member. Like loosing a brother. That's what he tells himself. Thats his story and he's sticking to it. You can't change his mind and he won't hear it. He's no queer and he can tell you that just fine with his fist.

Then, what was it that he felt when he saw a sheer drunken blush over the Demo's face? He can't face it. He just can't.

Soon enough they've both gotten to a point that walking in a straight line was just a dream. Leaning on each other for support, they try to go to their spot. A little hide out. A small piece of heaven. Sliced from the Ether and placed on our mortal plane just for them.

For little Jane and his little friend.

They find it, an abandoned part of the Blu headquarters. There had been a failed experiment there at one point, and nobody had made much of a move to change anything about it afterwards. It wasn't anything particularly special, it had previously been a storage unit anyways. Nobody cared. They snuck into a hole that had been blown in the wall, just big enough for the two of them.

It had two chairs, a lamp, and a heater for the cool nights.

Demo.

Wait.

Demo?

Just Demo?

No name?

Well, Soldier can't talk, he hadn't told Demo his name either. Jane was a stupid name though, a girl's name. Not anything worth bragging about. Not anything worth sharing. It just wasn't.

So he said nothing of it.

Chapter Text

He couldn't think lustful thoughts when he looked at Ms. Pauling, despite how much Scout seemed to. He couldn't get off to pin ups of pretty women with eggshell skin and coal black hair.

He had seen the men, when he was young, in uniform. Veterans of the Great War in Europe. Well, back then it was the great war. The war to end all wars.

He admired them, the decorated soldiers. They had fought and won against the enemy, the Germans. They had protected the country. The beautiful land of the United States.

He had also seen his father talk of obscene things in those places. Magazines made by women with no men, who liked other women like... Like women liked men! It had confused his child brain.

That had been some of his first memories regarding fairies, well, then he had heard homophile. It sounded like soiled milk. It tasted like garbage in his mouth, it seemed so off. Maybe it was it's nature. Maybe it was how it made him feel.

He had friends in school, some closer than others. One closer than he should have been. He remembers the night he had been first kissed. His father had beaten him for it, how his father found out he never quite knew. He remembered the swift hand of justice, or so he thought, coming down on his curled up form.

He had tried to join the war when he was a youth, this one was worse than the great war, so he heard. He was technically not in the infantry, as he was rejected by the military for his mental condition. They had called him a schizoid. That wasn't true, he was just as smart and strapping as any of the other young men. He was just as American. He had the blood of the heartland inside him, didn't he?

In uniform nobody can tell who is who. It was easy enough to avoid checks. He was in the army, in his own way. He was in the trenches all the same as the others. The bombs going off and the smog and the gas choking the men around him.

He wasn't told when the war ended, at that point he had made his way away from the army. Rouging Austria. He had killed a few there, but nobody had to know that for a time.

Then he looked at Demo, the Scotsman, and he craved his hands holding his face. To feel him near him. Not even in a sexual way. Just deep in his bones he wanted to feel their hearts thumping together in unison. Right next to each other, and to have their bones laid to rest holding each other. When the time came, of course.

Is love selfish only when it is queer? Pauling and Scout didn't have to hide. Spy had no problem in his conquest. Then why was Soldiers evil? He knew it was. It was bad. It was unnatural. He wished it wasn't.

He wished there was a future where Demo and him could sit on a porch, growing old, smoking a pipe together. Where nobody would bat an eye at them.

How unrealistic. How awful.

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He remember being pushed down into the ground as a little kid. Bitting at his nails. Pulling at his mother's dress in the supermarket when he wanted an apple. The world before the war had rave ages his eyes, his heart, his brain, his being. Splitting at the atomic level not unlike the fission that causes such fear people.

Not that any of that mattered now. He is still in a war. How was it any better?

If anything it's more haunting because he sees him.

Him.

Demo.

Blood soaked clothing. It makes him try to grasp his weapon tighter. His heart clenched.

He walked slowly. Nobody was around. The gasping form of his friend laid before him, clutching his side. He knows he'd come back. They all do. That's how this war had persisted so long.

Now it mean't more. He hadn't known Demo the way he knows him now. He could blow him up early before but now he's dropping to his knees searching for a first aid kit on his belt, cursing at himself. Wrong war.

He can hear pained breaths. Hurried whispers. He feels like he's been submerged. Nothing matters. He can't perceive the world around him with any stark clarity even if he wanted to. He can't move his hands or feet or any part of him even if he tried. He was there again, in the trenches. It wasn't the same as the Great War, so he had heard. They still used them though.

He saw his friends, well, acquaintances, clasping their dog tags without half of their faces. Slumped over walls. Smelling foul and flies buzzing around. Rot sour and disgusting.

Something comes over him, almost mechanical. Pressing the palm of his hand firmly against the gash, the other hand firmly grasping his knife and cutting at a section of his undershirt. It's a odd off yellow, though it had once been white. He places it under his palm and applies pressure again. He has to stop the bleeding. He doesn't care if Demo will come back he doesn't care. He has to save him he has to save him he has to save him he has to save him. He doesn't care if he'll come back if he does he has to stop the bleeding he just has to he has to and he could never explain why even with a gun pressed to his forehead.

"Ach' lad what're ya doing?" The Demo asks, finally aware enough to realize there are two hands pressed against the gash in his side.

"I am saving you." Soldier says plainly, blunt almost.

He thought it was fairly obvious.

Demo moves his hand from his wound. It drifts to Soilders wrist. Holding onto it. Just to feel the other man there. Cutting through the intensity of the pain. Soldier thinks passively that the only thing keeping Demo sane is the Scrumpy. The pain would be tenfold without it

"Yer team will see ya lad, you'll be in trouble."

Soldier just shook his head. This was important to him nothing could change that but a bullet to his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He couldn't save Demo. God he tried.

The death rattle was the worst.

Then was the red hot popping feeling and his body slumped over.

He had been shot by the enemy sniper. Why hadn't he shot sooner? Probably wasting time with a Scout.

Demo came back, from the respawn machine. They went out for drinks that night. He had had the time of his life but he couldn't forget what had happened. His hands soaked with the crimson life force of the other man.

He almost wanted to ask if Demo could pull up his shirt to see if there'd been any scarring. Probably not, there never was. There was an importance to him, for some reason.

They sat a little closer now.

Sometimes their knees touched.

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There is a horrible burning beneath Soldiers skin. Demo and him had gone out on their usual excursion. Then, the most impossible thing happened. Demo put his hand on Soldiers back. Not the worst, not in a scale of amount of contact. Not in a scale of duration. There was a underlying intimacy that frightened him. He could feel the others palm against the area between his shoulders, and it nearly shook him to his core.

He looks at Soldier. For the faintest second Jane felt as though the man's single, dark eye, was peering deep into his soul. It was ripping away at the layers. A bloody hand feel in his chest cavity. Soldier felt the strongest urge to shut his eyes and turn away.

He couldn't though, even if he tried.

"M' names Tavish." 'Tavish' said suddenly.

Soldier nearly feels his insides being ground into minced meat.

"My name is Jane" Jane said.

'Tavish' looks away. Jane can then break free from his hold. Well, the hold his eye had on him. The hand probably isn't leaving all that soon.

It is the most terrifyingly intimate thing to happen to him. What is worse, that he thinks he liked it? Or that he secretly wanted more?

He feels as though his mind is splitting, spitting complex kaleidescope patterns of emotions from his spit skull. It is complete and utter insanity and it is all in his own head. Demo, just smiles at him.

How saccharine.

It's almost overwhelming. He could feel his eyes becoming misty. It's almost too much. His hands run over his pants in tight circles on his thighs. Nervous habit. He tried to break it as a kid, his mother thought it to be a bad look for a family.

When he broke away from them, the habit came back full force. It was just another part of him now.

The hand moves.

Falls on top of his own.

The arrow collar man next to him seems almost evil now.

No, no he can't do this now. This isn't how it works.

He shakes his hand free of Demo's hold.

He blinks back heavy tears.

The moment is gone.

He gets up, grabs his helmet, and walks out of the bar. Why did it hurt to walk away? He is a soldier, he shouldn't be scared. Scared of the enemy, scared of death, scared of anything!

Yet, when he lays in his bed, holding his picture of Tavish, he can't stop himself from hoping. Hoping the nightmare can come back.

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'The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.' Sun Tzu said that.

So how does he handle the enemy of himself? It's not Dem- Tavish's fault. He knows that well and clear enough. He's sure of it. He just, they, they just had a friend moment. Just something between people, between two men. Nothing strange of it.

It makes him sickly, thinking about it. Was it because it was so incredibly scary for him? The way... The way he.... The way.... The way Tavish smiled at him it... It had him... His thoughts.... Jumbled..... He.... No...

His mind goes thick with smoke and fog as he tries to remember. To formulate any thoughts around it. Maybe he'll see Medic about it. The doctor isn't... Sane, necessarily, but he's smart so he probably understands it all much better than Jane does.

He doesn't understand what's going on with him. He feels sick. He feels nauseous. He doesn't want to eat as much anymore. He's, he's just a guy. He's, he's mortal and, this, it's.

It's so confusing for him. It's as if he was a teenager again, trying to navigate something completely and utterly new to him. He's a man now, he's older, he should know better. Despite that, he's left himself spiraling. He feels so alien in his own self. What would the rest of the team think? Maybe the doctor would get it, just on basis of his insanity.

What would... What would Tavish think of him? If he saw him like this? In this state of being.

Jane knows, he, he'd be disappointed. He'd be disgusted with him. He knows it, he just does.

He can't, he can't he can't he can't.

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The doctors office smells something sickly and sterile. It makes Jane's head spin. Cots line the walls in the north-west section. A curtain is pulled over the area, hiding whatever may be behind them from preying eyes. He knows behind the curtain lies none cots, four on one side five on the other, each sectioned out with their own curtains. Portioning the space, and allowing for a walkway large enough for Medic to walk in.

To the north-east there's a door, to Medics private quarters. Beside it is a large countertop, with books and papers stacked in neat piles, sorted out in their own ways. Above it is a cabinet of various things, mostly pills and other jars of medicinal importance. To the east lies an operating table, with another near parallel to it. A curtain lies in front of the western operating table, though nobody lay on it. Doves coo pleasantly, flying freely about when they see fit. Jane knows there's most likely a cage for them in the doctors room, but how there isn't a hygiene issue with feathers and excrement? Jane couldn't tell you.

The BLU Medic walks in swiftly. His glasses are pristine, his eyes a cold icy blue, and not a hair is out of place. He's holding a few papers, but they stay still as if sacred to even flap around should a swift wind we're to come through. Or a mad dash to make them fly. He's somewhat spooky, In his cold hard demeanor. From stories Tavish had told him, the BLU Medic is nothing like the RED one. Some doves fly up for a second, just from surprise. They quickly calm down again. Those cold eyes turn to Jane, once the other man had placed down what ever records he had recovered.

"Soldier, I saw you had an appointment set up." The other man says plainly. His accent was less strong than the other medic, and he didn't seem fond of using much german either. It didn't rub Jane the wrong way, he didn't like Germans anyway. Though, it did bear questions about the doctors upbringing. Or his trip to America?

"Yes sir" Jane says quickly. "I have been having issues having to do with my brain. It is affecting my ability to eat and think properly, as well as causing insomnia." He has learned the hard way that the doctor was quite no nonsense, and would rather you share your nature of meeting him upon greeting. As well as keeping it concise. He'd rather not spend time in the beginning trying to figure out what 'feeling greeby' meant (courtesy of Scout).

"Your brain, Soldier?" The Medic asks. The question feels like cold water down Jane's spine. He stands just a little straighter, if even possible.

"Yes sir, the brain." Jane affirms.

"Sit down, Soldier. I will be back with you shortly." Medic says, motioning to the westward operation table. By the time Jane is sitting down, the doctor had gone through the doors into his office. Possibly to review his records? Or plausible diagnosis?

Jane can almost hear the clock ticking. His fingers tap his thigh in a unknown rhythm. Under his helmet, his eyebrows knit together. He hasn't felt fear or worry for a while, but he can feel it now. He can feel it like frost in his lungs, freezing his diagram.

Finally, Medic re-enters the sterile room. He pulls a chair away from his workspace. His posture is perfect as he sits. His cold blue eyes skim over some papers one more time before he places them on the medical cart.

"You say the issues are in your brain? Have you sustained any trauma to that region, outside of or usual battles?" The doctor asks. "Remove the hat, I'll need to check for any external injuries. Especially on your head."

Jane doesn't doubt that the cold eyes of the doctor could see any injuries even with the helmet on, the way he seems to just look through things. Jane places his helmet on the examination table, to his left.

Medic checks his eyes, cognitive ability, reflexes, all the normal things. Jane is only lucky that he doesn't have to get any shots. Needles are unnecessarily nauseating.

"So Soldier, you don't seem to have sustained any brain damage. You tested how you normally do for everything I did. My best guess is that you've conflated brain and mental. Have you experienced high stress as if late?" Medic asks as he walks his tools over to his work space, to sanitize them later.

"I have had a strange encounter." Jane clamors. Medic raises a brow at that.

Sweat collects on his brow. His heart hammers in his chest. He can hear it even, although is ears had been damaged from his profession... Standing too close to artillery... He thinks of the hand and...

"I believe I may have homosexuality, doctor." He says, just a little quieter.

The words just come out, he tries to cover it up, maybe, but before he can get a word out, he's met by a icy rage from the other man.

Medic slams his hands down, "I do not care what those dimwits say!" The doctor near yells, going into a rant. "Those people who make the DMS are dolts! They haven't got a clue about people like that I tell you! They don't even do research, I say! If they did that wouldn't have wormed in as a part of sociopathy!" The Medic paces around the room, his rage palpable. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I read it!" His accent gets just a bit stronger "I would strangle the man who wrote the blasted thing if I could!"

After about twenty minutes of ranting, Medic comes down from his rage induced high. "What I mean to say is, you've got no reason to be in my office at this time. I do not care what the simpletons at the APA say, I will not diagnose Homosexuality as some sort of mental disease! It is simply not that! It's because they've invested to much thought into that frightful being Freud, I tell you. I do not care who gets you aroused, Soldier, nobody on this blasted team does. Go find a nice man and do what you like with him. I have another appointment in twenty minutes."

Jane understands he's been dismissed, and leaves feeling like is head is filled with air.

Chapter Text

Jane's head is filled with air. His mouth with cotton. Gummy, words won't fit right. He walks like his arms and legs have been replaced with lead attachments.

He felt inhuman, walking back to his room. He fell onto his bed. He couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion, or irritation, or some other emotion much to complex for his brain. He dug out the picture of Tavish, looking at it. He remembers, faintly, saying it was nothing special really.

It was perfect.

It ripples, and crumples slightly with the force he's gripping it with. Medic had denounced everything his family had instilled in him from a young age. He can't right the sins of the past, not that easy. A different sensation bloomed in his chest. Like the light from between the clouds, which looks like an angel descending to the dirt. Doubt. Not to his feelings, or who he was. Doubt to his father's words. For the fear. Perhaps he was wrong.

He slips the photo of Tavish into his pocket, and hauls himself up off his bed. He knows what he has to do, but he's not sure if he's strong enough to do it. To talk to Tavish again. They hadn't spoken for maybe a week now. Not an eternity for many, but when his hushed voice came through the receiver every night in the past? It felt longer. It just did.

Though his bones felt as if they were made of tungsten, he attempted to walk with purpose. The walk from his room to the payphone felt torturous. He feels sticky. He feels pale and partially dead. Despite all his excuses, which run through his mind like trains, he places his hand over the numbers. Slowly, he punches in the number he had memorized.

Ringing. Ringing. The sound makes his nerves spike. His feet taps against the ground, until he's going down heavy footed like a cow.

Click

"Hello?" A groggy voice comes through. Scottish and handsome and everything he'd hoped it would be. His hands are clammy, and he's got half a mind to run away.

"Tavish?" His voice comes out smaller than he means for it to. Weaker. His free hand is shaking, not in a tremors way. No, the way you do when you've found yourself doing something that feels a bit to big for you. Flipping around on his wrist limply.

"Jane!" He can hear the pleasant surprise in Tavish's voice. The underlying excitement. The pang of... Something he refuses to acknowledge at the moment. He's trying to accept himself, but it's a slow process. Of not a snail crawl.

"Lad, I thought you hated me! Oh, we have to meet up for drinks! I miss you, s' been too long!" The RED rambles, it brings a small smile to Jane's face. He wants that, so much. He wants to be near him. He wants to be close, and this time, not run away.

"That sounds good." Jane leans against the wall. He'd be content just to hear the other man's breathing for an hour. He's sure his fondness translated into his voice.

He listens to Tavish ramble for an hour, his smile never slipping for a second. Eventually they have to stop talking, sleep is important. His head pounds slightly but he's a bit to chipper to care. He feels the guilt, nagging in his brain. It's smaller now, though.

Maybe there is hope.

Chapter Text

Jane's hands were sweaty.

His teammates had seen it, certainly. The drop in his performance. Nervousness ate at his insides. He'd seen Tavish on the field, since then, since the call. Despite all protest in his mind, he couldn't bring himself to shoot at the other man. Sure, at times there was a Pyro next to him, and Jane had to shoot the bumbling maniac. If the residual blast got Tavish, it burned a hole in his intestines, but it couldn't be thoroughly avoided. If he never killed one person on the other team for the rest of all time (or until his contract ended which... Could be until the end of time. He hadn't read it over very well.) someone would surely take notice. It would also be detrimental to the team.

Sure, Tavish wasn't the scariest guy on the battlefield. He wasn't a hulking heavy with a large machine gun ready to make your insides outsides, but the biggest mistake you could make was underestimate the demolition expert. Jane could speak from experience to how unpleasant it could be to be at the wrong end of those sticky bombs. On top of that, besides being a drunk, Tavish wasn't an idiot. He may seem like that, if you were the type to judge people based off of accents or clarity of speech. However, the other man's ability to strategize had Jane growing a small admiration for him even before they had become friends proper.

His hands shook a little as he tried his best to zip up his jacket. He'd taken it off to take a shower (not necessarily a rarity for the man, but some may argue two in a day was mildy excessive. Especially when taken fourteen minutes away from each other.) but it was almost time. Almost his normal meet up time with Tavish. To drink together.

A part at him wanted to call the whole thing off. He'd tried his best to quell the thing, but it had the voice of an angel. It was also quite a bit stronger than he had hoped. Currently it was trying it's very best to convince him to stand Tavish up. To never go drinking with the other man again, and possibly pick up his spade and dig a pretty hole. Maybe bury himself inside after that, just die there in the dirt. It wasn't like his rational mind was totally on board with it either. His animal urges were abhorrent, and defied biology.

It was sickening. The thought of being with Tavish like that, but he also yearned for it inhumanly. He'd been taught stories of gods when he had grown up. Romantic tales, where pretty women had been turned into flowers, or wind, or some other natural process. Just so that the god could immortalize the girl in some way. So he could continue to feel her presence. He hadn't understood it then, but he thinks he does now.

Panic welled in him as bile rose in his throat. He might vomit. He'd never considered that this encounter wouldn't lead to revealing his feelings. That he'd be exposed in some way. Tavish could just see it, he was sure. Smell it off him like a bloodhound. Jane shivered. How could going drinking with a friend have him more worked up than some battles he'd taken on in the thralls of war? Psyche was an odd thing, he supposes, and best left to medic.

The walk the their usual spot felt even harder than the walk to the payphone he'd taken earlier. Which, to be honest the distance was longer. Maybe it was a brain thing. The events held a similar weight. His most treasured relationship held in the balance. Fear bubbled in his chest, and he fought the need to vomit. Fought, but ultimately lost the battle. On the bright side, he couldn't vomit anymore because there was nothing to do so with! Though, he wasn't sure if dry heaving was any better.

Eventually he made it to the pub and saw him.
Pretty as a picture. Playful smile on a handsome face. Fingers clutched around the neck of a bottle, bringing it to his lips, and gulping it down. Jane watched the steady rise and fall of the other man's throat, bobbing. Uncomfortable heat in his cheeks. Jane steeled himself before jumping out of the frying pan and into the flames.

"Tavish!" He attempted a cheerful greeting. Between his voice that sounded like two sheets of sandpaper rubbing together, and his nervousness, it came out somehow rough, meek, and timid. It's times like these were he wonders if it wasn't just his destiny to die in the war. He'd died before, well, kind of. He always went to respawn after. The feeling of being dead was like being very drunk, or maybe asleep. It was certainly better than this.

The other man smiled wide at him. His face blooming into that of near pure joy. "Jane!" His voice was loud, somehow louder than the usual hubbub of the pub. As a result there was three seconds of silence before everyone fell back into rhythm.

Tavish's hand claps Jane's back. The BLU fights back his urge to flinch, hard. He was going to be brave this time, he said to himself, but he couldn't help the slight grimace that came to his face. If Tavish had seen it, or recognized his discomfort, he didn't say anything.

Maybe, this was going to be harder than Jane thought. Though he's sure he'll make it through, he has to.

Chapter Text

Jane can feel his hands perspiring. He runs them over his jeans as he looks at Tavish. The way he smiles. The way he laughs. It has Jane feeling nervous. Vulnerable.

Jane sneaks a few looks over at Tavish. "I'm sorry." He says. His voice cracks, just a little.

It's all he can say without bursting into tears.

"It's okay, lad." Tavish says, the RED smiling at Jane. "I saw the way you've been sitting there, tight as a bow string. I'm just happy you're here"

Jane almost cries, but keeps it down. Just enough for the bartender to float over to them. The pair downs a few beers, which loosens the muscles in Janes shoulders. It makes his laugh more genuine. It makes him smile a little more. The tension rolling of of him in waves with every downed bottle. It's frightening, and exhilarating at the same time.

Despite Jane's original reservations, the night begins to get exciting. Fun, even. He's slow at first. Tavish has to coax the BLU from his chair. His efforts a mix between physical pulling and verbal encouragement. Eventually, he gets the other man out of his chair.

Jane is worried, but goes along. His hesitation doesn't last long though. Tavish makes him feel free, makes him feel hopeful. He manages to shush the voice in the back of his head a little. To block out the clear and siren-like screams of his parents. He feels, just once, like his actions are his own. Like he has full control, and agency.

Tavish ends up hooking his arm around Jane's back as the pair floats around the bar. Turning from the pool table to the dance floor. They try looking at the art on the walls, but they both lack the focus to actually analyze any part of it.

They dance a little, while the terrible band plays a song that's just a little out of tune. Legs kicking out. Accidentally stepping on toes. Their faces close, breathing into each other. It's barely coordinate, but they laugh.

Tavish grabs his hand and pulls Jane out of the bar. The barkeep barks something at them but they're too tunnel minded to care. Their entire worlds had shrunk down to each other.

The night air was cool, and lovely. Soothing the burning skin in the men's arms. The lights of the stars shine bright and powerfully in the sky, against the ink-black backdrop. The moon shown in the middle like a flower in bespectacled concrete.

The ambient sounds of crickets, wind, and dessert birds surrounded the men as they walked to the BLU base. They walk to the abandoned part together. They crept in, barely quiet. Their little enclave had slowly accumulated dust. It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the feeling between them.

They sit down, next to each other, in their chairs. Scooting closer overtime.

"Demo-" Jane starts speaking, before being interrupted by Tavish.

"Janey, lad, please. Call me Tavish." The Cyclops smiles at Jane.

"Tavish I- I don't know how to tell you this." Jane spits out. He's trying, he really is. "I- I have feelings. Bad feelings, I used to think. Medic told me though, that it's not anything bad." He tries to rationalize, begining to rant a little. Slowly loosing Tavish.

"I just, I- I think I'm a homosexual." Jane says. It has a lot of conviction. A lot of feeling.

Tavish just smiles at him, nodding.

"I- I think I love you." Jane admits. He presses his hands to his face. His face hidden.

He feels warm hands pull away his hands from his face.

Tavish looks at him, with a smile.

Still holding his hands, he presses a kiss to Jane's lips.

"Was that okay?" Tavish asks.

"It was perfect." Is all Jane can say.

-----------------------------

Scottie was biking through the suburbs. His face freckled and round. He bikes passed houses, all the same. Except for one.

Like a piece of furniture, one has two old men who sit on the porch together. Their hands clapped together as they barely speak, but seem to communicate nonetheless.

One smokes a pipe.

The other has a eye patch.

Scottie smiles at them and waves.

"Hello sirs!" He says.

"Call me Tavish!" The one with the eye patch calls, a wild smile on his face, even despite the wrinkled flesh on his face.

The other simply nods, and waves.

Both of their wedding rings, glinting in the sun.