- Jun 13, 2017
- 380
- Gender
- Male
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Posting Status
- Irregularly
Bastian wasn’t very good at sleeping, particularly now, but nights spent with Cazimir were tended to be safe. They were good. With another human by his side, it was much easier to get to sleep, and the dreams hadn’t bothered him most of those nights.
Tonight he isn’t so lucky.
He wakes up smelling the war. The smoke of mortars, the sweet tang of blood, the arid desert air. They were in the rubble of a collapsed building, him and the other four, back against a pockmarked wall. He doesn’t remember their objective, but Sergeant Garcia turns a corner to face another building. One room is caved in, furniture strewn about, the rest is intact.
Has he been here before?
The building smells like old cigarettes. He steps in something wet, doesn’t look down. It is suddenly cold. Sanderson hums something behind him, a tune he didn’t recognise. They scope out the first floor, then Garcia leads the way to the second floor. It is darker in the stairwell. A photo of some smallish children with a broken frame is ok the floor. Thompson steps on it, and he doesn’t say anything, but it made a sound.
It made a sound.
He knew this. He knew this building. He knew. This was where
This was where Jamie Garcia and Bryan Collins died.
Everything plays out in slow motion.. He knows he is shouting but that he doesn’t hear. Instead, he hears the crack of the bullets before he sees them, watches the lurch of Collins’s body, the spray of the blood. Then Garcia crumples, just like that, no words, no sounds. He runs to Collins, remembers that Thompson and Marion has started shooting but doesn’t hear- doesn’t see them at all.
“Bryan?” he hears himself say.
Collins is staring at the roof. There is blood on his teeth, a pulsing vein in his forehead. He is missing part of his jaw and a lot of his chest.
“Bryan? Hey, man. Look at me. You’re gonna be okay. Hey, look at me. Look at me!”
Bastian woke up, then, in Cazimir’s bed. Something felt heavy in his chest, his vision swimming and struggling to adjust to the darkness. The tangle of sheets around them suddenly felt overwhelming. The scent of blood filled his lungs, though he knew that nobody had been bleeding, and his stomach lurched.
He was lucky to make it to the bathroom before he vomited.
@EmiRose
Tonight he isn’t so lucky.
He wakes up smelling the war. The smoke of mortars, the sweet tang of blood, the arid desert air. They were in the rubble of a collapsed building, him and the other four, back against a pockmarked wall. He doesn’t remember their objective, but Sergeant Garcia turns a corner to face another building. One room is caved in, furniture strewn about, the rest is intact.
Has he been here before?
The building smells like old cigarettes. He steps in something wet, doesn’t look down. It is suddenly cold. Sanderson hums something behind him, a tune he didn’t recognise. They scope out the first floor, then Garcia leads the way to the second floor. It is darker in the stairwell. A photo of some smallish children with a broken frame is ok the floor. Thompson steps on it, and he doesn’t say anything, but it made a sound.
It made a sound.
He knew this. He knew this building. He knew. This was where
This was where Jamie Garcia and Bryan Collins died.
Everything plays out in slow motion.. He knows he is shouting but that he doesn’t hear. Instead, he hears the crack of the bullets before he sees them, watches the lurch of Collins’s body, the spray of the blood. Then Garcia crumples, just like that, no words, no sounds. He runs to Collins, remembers that Thompson and Marion has started shooting but doesn’t hear- doesn’t see them at all.
“Bryan?” he hears himself say.
Collins is staring at the roof. There is blood on his teeth, a pulsing vein in his forehead. He is missing part of his jaw and a lot of his chest.
“Bryan? Hey, man. Look at me. You’re gonna be okay. Hey, look at me. Look at me!”
Bastian woke up, then, in Cazimir’s bed. Something felt heavy in his chest, his vision swimming and struggling to adjust to the darkness. The tangle of sheets around them suddenly felt overwhelming. The scent of blood filled his lungs, though he knew that nobody had been bleeding, and his stomach lurched.
He was lucky to make it to the bathroom before he vomited.
@EmiRose
It was a tendency of Cazimir's to have the urge to sleep with his hands wrapped around something, whether it was a pillow or a person. He had been doing it ever since childhood, and had never grown out of it. Cazimir wasn't afraid of physical affection, he was a strong enough person to not develop feelings based on just that, and he hadn't encountered a partner thus far who shunned it. Bastian seemed no different, or at least he hadn't expressed he was uncomfortable. And so Cazimir tended to have at least one arm wrapped around the man, if he happened to sleep over after one of their...sessions.