At War

||33. The Thirty-Third||

Sunday, XXXX

Today, we go. It should be scary but it is not. Yesterday, after I wrote to you, I went upstairs to go to bed, but Unni came with me. It was quiet and we sat together for a long time, his hand at my elbow, his head under my chin, tucked together like two children afraid of the dark. He may have pressed his hand too hard against my chest. I may have looked to long at his moon- drenched complexion, at his long lashes, at the darkness of his eyes, and the plump curve of his lips. I may have wondered how sweet his pale skin could be. I may have even leant forward to brush it, and he might have turned his head to meet my lips.

So many things might have happened. And they did. We were quiet. So quiet the place could have been a graveyard and we would not know. We had nothing other than a pot of Vaseline. But then, we were going to live one more day anyway. In the daylight, it seems surreal, but I remember kissing his lips, swirling my tongue in. I remember him nipping at my neck, tracing my collarbones, tonguing the line of my clavicle. I remember so much. I remember him being slow, steady, and calm, his palms warm and grounding, and his dog tags pressing against me – cool and hard and so different from the rest of him. Maybe we tore out a few buttons out of haste. Maybe. He did that part anyway. And afterwards, I remember the doughy texture of his chest under my hands, the rickety bed punishing against my back, the feel of wet lips against my own, and of wet fingers inside me. I would tell you, but for the life of my I cannot find words to describe the rise, the arching crescendo, the fullness, and rightness, and warmth, like a lock finding its key, the river finding the sea, the Earth finding the rain. I think something died in me, and then, was reborn. I remember him taking me apart like I would with my rifle, and then putting me back together, all gentle fingers, and dexterous hands. I do not know how this happened. It seems surreal, like there was nothing building up to it. But I will not complain. Not when he held me so dear, like I was important, like I was not one of those many officers and soldiers he worked with, like I mattered. They say, in those trashy novels you often read, that things sometimes just feel right. I may have scorned it then, called it a load of bull, but I will not do that again. There is some measure of truth in them, it seems. For that is how I felt, Unni hovering above me, so tender, so sweet, so kind and beautiful, like Apollo and Zeus put together, like some male version of Aphrodite and Artemis and Hera mingled into one. Afterwards, when we were satiated and done, and I was certain no night could ever compare to this, he lay beside me, cradling me in his arms, soft, and happy despite the impending doom, and he nuzzled into my neck and murmured three words I would forever hold close to my heart. In the fragile silence, he whispered to me, "I love you."

Perhaps it was the dark, or the magical moonshadows dancing across our humble, dingy quarters, or the fact that the man beside me looked at me like I could do no wrong. I blurted out about you, of the fact that I loved him dearly, but that I loved you too, and in the grand scheme of things, I would not be able to choose, in spite of one being unrequited. But I must have done something truly right in some distant past life, for he laughed, rumbling and soothing and low (that laugh!) and murmured, "I know."

I will admit, I was apprehensive. Scratch that, I was terrified. But he smiled – and it was like the Sun shone at night and we held day with the antipodes – and wrapped his arms tighter around me and said, "You have a heart big enough to love both of us.""

Unafraid of death,

The Soldier.

                                                                            ~~~~~OOO~~~~~

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain.

For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon