The thing was, after the gut-wrenching debacle that was breakfast this morning, and then finding what was left of Jenkins, after—Evans shuddered, blood surging in his veins and that hollow roar in his ears. Images from the morning flashed across his vision. Christie running and running and Jesus-fuck not putting his damn mask on when who the fuck knew what was in the air outside—after all that there was no going back. All Evans wanted was someone to hold him. Christie by preference, because he was there, warm, alive, and so damn sweet he made Evans teeth hurt. He seemed so into it, his body pushing up, stomach taut, thighs flexing, every muscle saying yes, yes, yes right up until the final moment. Maybe his head was full of silence and the smell of burning flesh too. Maybe it didn't matter when the second he pushed away, Christie cut Evans’ heart out and tossed that poor organ into an emotional blender the likes of which Evans hadn't seen in—oh, fuck-ever.
Yeah. Christie pushed so hard he fell right the fuck out of their little five-ton bench-seat love nest. Cool fingers of air whispered in, trying to pluck away the thick scent of barbecue a la Jenkins that was just stuck in the hairs of Evans nose or something. Christie made a little sound. He’d said no before, and stop, but while he panted those words his tongue had seemed to dance in Evans mouth and oh Christ, Evans needed more of that slick heat and more of that take me away make it stop make it stop, make it stop. So Christie had to be saying what he thought he should and not what he really meant, right? Except as he stared up from the hard packed sand of the ground next to his five-ton truck, his face stark white, mouth pulled tight at the corners.
Then, right when Evans was pretty sure he couldn’t possibly feel a centimeter smaller or else he’d just disappear from this desert island night, fade right out of being, maybe, right fucking then Christie looked down at his open pants, made that same half muffled whining noise, and stuffed his cock into his pants. The light from the street light at the edge of the motorpool fell across his face. Evans had a perfect view of Christie’s rapid flush, his over-bright eyes, and the way his muscles coiled tightly under his fatigues.
“Collins, wait a minute. You’re really hammered man… let me help you back to the tent at least, so you don’t get in trouble with the MP’s or run into Sergeant Tarans while you’re all fucked up. The old man’s already pissed enough at you.”
Christie didn't speak though. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted off in the direction of their platoon’s tents. Evans could have caught him, but the look on Christie’s face, like he was some helpless damn victim staring into the bleak eyes of a serial killer. Well, that knocked the wind out of him, and cut his hamstrings for good measure. He was still sitting there two and a half hours later, listening to the empty roar in his head. The MP’s who rousted him out of the truck finally were guys he’d played volleyball with once or twice during downtime. He didn't know if that was why they let him go with a warning, or if maybe his face was still showing the signs of the monster lurking under his skin, but whatever the reason, he was grateful.