Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter 13

"I swear, we were all hanging by a bile thread." Rivers glanced at Samuel through the vanity mirror in his room, a white half-beard of Palmolive on his face. "Staff Sergeant Morris barges into the tent, and we all know that evil gleam in his eyes." The razor glided along his cheek, leaving behind a strip of silky skin. "He goes, 'Who's up for a game of football?'"

"Fuck!" Samuel's word came through a chuckle that Rivers mirrored.

"Yes, fuck is right. We know that's not an offer. Staff Sergeant knows about the party and he'll make us pay. No way around it. So we drag our dehydrated, hungover asses outside where it's almost ninety degrees and the desert is blinding. I swear, it was like the rise of the dead." Another perfect line of shaving cream came off his jaw and dissolved under the running tap. "No need to say, that football pitch soon turned into a minefield of vomit patches, except nobody had the energy to avoid them."

"Oh, dude!" Samuel covered his mouth with his hand. "Fine. You have the worst hungover story."

Rivers grinned through the mirror, sparking a cute satisfaction. "Finally, I beat you at something." The child in him shone through his gleaming eyes that sent Samuel's heart thumping.

"Took you long enough."

Rivers raised a hand, flipping him off as he cleared another patch.

Samuel scoffed, leaning against the mattress. The taut sheets folded in perfect, sharp angles at the edges, as usual, leaving the blanket crease free, except for the folds around Samuel's thighs. Not a speck of dust stained the surfaces, and any ornaments or personal items fit with precision in their dedicated space. Samuel was tidy, but Rivers was like Mary Poppins on steroids. Where did he find the time to work, prepare for the next duty, fool around with Leah, indulge in other friendships, and clean? After a full day of training, Samuel had barely any energy left to lie to himself. But he would always make time for Rivers. Because although Rivers triggered his addiction, like the best drugs, he also erased most of his misery—talking to him came easy, and even the silence between them now held no heaviness.

"Who is this?" Samuel hinted at the boombox where an angry guy screamed about Cambodia.

"Dead Kennedys."

Samuel's deadpan stare was a loud reply.

"You've never heard of them?" Rivers looked at him through the mirror, patting his face dry.

"No."

A deep frown brought River's brows together. He turned around, facing him directly. "They're like one of the defining punk bands of the eighties."
Samuel shook his head. Punk wasn't his cup of tea.

"Pearls for pigs." Rivers tossed the wet towel in the sink and crouched to unplug the now cold iron. As he wrapped the cord around the base, his eyes flicked up. "So what do you listen to other than Nirvana?"

The question was as innocent as it was dangerous. Some tastes were too feminine for real men. Certain artists passed the wrong message. That had been an important point for Dr. O. and Samuel's preferences were carefully curated.

He shrugged. "Oasis. Blur are cool, too."

Rivers nodded. "True."

"Radiohead have some great tracks."

"I see you're into the British scene." Rivers leaned against his desk, his bulging arms crossed over his chest.

"I never thought of it. But I'm a lyrics guy; I guess the Brits know how to speak to me."

Rivers stared at him, zooming in as if the words were muted and he tried to read lips. Snapping his fingers, he awoke them from the silence. "Then I think you'll like this." In a stride, he reached the stereo and put an end to the rage coming from the speakers. He slid a cassette from the pile near the boombox and pressed play.