An hour later after Simmons had finally managed to get the younger man quiet—begged him to be quiet because… well, how the hell could I have explained to Sarge?—they sat, cards in their hands. Rather, in Grif’s case, his cards in his left hand, trying his best to spread through them with his thumb, hazels eyes flicking dubiously up to the man sitting by his side.

            “…Got any threes?”

            “Go fish,” Simmons leaned back in his chair. He waited for a few seconds and then sighed in annoyance and reached to the pile on the rumpled sheets next to Grif’s bad thigh. He kept the card faced away from him, learned it rather after the rampant accusations of cheating that had accompanied the first draw of the game. The cyborg slipped the red-backed card in the middle of his opponent’s rapidly expanding selection.

            He tried to pretend he didn’t notice when his fingers brushed just barely against Grif’s.

            “Got any sevens?” Simmons muttered after clearing his throat, the back of his neck burning.

            “Fuck.” Grif glared at him from underneath sun-streaked bangs and held the fan of cards to his mouth.

            And the cyborg could not stop his eyebrows from shooting up in sudden shock. The Hawaiian’s lips closed over the corner of one of the red cards, the two shades complementing and contrasting strikingly at the same time. White teeth soon opposed the two as Grif bit down to ensure the card would make it through its journey to the other man’s hand. But Simmons didn’t move.

            After several long moments the maroon private became aware of the impatient scowl attempting to bore its way through his forehead. For the second time his neck flared, as if screaming. He reached out his metallic fingers, not trusting the trembling of his real arm to stop long enough to retrieve his card. When Grif’s attention refocused to his own collection Simmons let his fingers rub over the moist corner.

            He slowly raised his eyes, held fast in place when he realized that two hazel orbs were staring at him in nothing short of disgusted confusion.

            And he had never been so happy for their pink-armored rookie, even if his action was to finish Simmons’ earlier attempt of separating the door from its hinges—with his foot.

            He pointed a finger at them. “YOU!”

            “WAH!” The older man found himself slipping from his seat, cards twirling through the air while Grif managed to smack his elbow off the steel framing of the bedpost behind him. As soon as the two readjusted themselves they cast their own fingers in the other’s direction, expressions blank.

            “Simmons!” Donut placed his hands firmly on his hips. “We need to talk. Now, you peeping Tom!”

            “B-but, Grif—…” He turned to look at the wounded man who had pulled the sheets over him. To add to the effect a loud yawn emitted from the stretched, white fabric.

            “Man, I’m so fucking tired.”

            “Oh, you bitch.”

            “NOW, SIMMONS!” Donut led the way out of the room. The maroon Spartan groaned and followed grudgingly. Fucking ran too loud… Only a matter of time before he confronted me about it. …Should’ve been later, not sooner.

            He followed the younger man into the kitchen, halting near the entrance even as his teammate stalked, paced, stomped near the fridge.

            “So how long have you been spying on us?” Accusing emerald eyes settled on the nervous soldier.

            “Donut, I swear to God that was the first time. I didn’t even mean to! I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble or something.”

            “I caught you, Simmons! There’s no point in lying to me,” the eyes softened, almost melted, into worry. “Y-you didn’t tell Sarge, did you?”

            “Wh-what? No, of course I didn’t,” Simmons stuttered, clenching his fists.

            “So, what then? You just like watching?” Donut cocked his head to the side, fret replaced by curiosity.

            “N-no! I told you, it was an accident!”

            “You’ve had five accidents?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simmons lowered his voice, face warm. “It was that one time.”

            “You shouldn’t spy on people! I don’t spy on you and Grif!”

            “What the hell?!”

            Donut, meanwhile, had stalked to the table and was leaning forward, palms pressed against the surface. “You guys are always running off without me.”

            “Yeah,” Simmons agreed. “That’s because we don’t like you. I’m not a freak who—…” The older man clamped his jaw shut, eyes wide. “D-Donut, I didn’t mean…” Too late…

            The smaller private’s eyes welled up immediately, backed by a green blaze of stinging fury. “I’m a freak because I’m in love with Caboose?”

            “You know I didn’t mean it.”

            “Yeah,” Donut whispered, passing by him briskly. “You did.” He stopped just outside the hallway, his voice low and completely detached from its normal upbeat nature. “Even Grif took the news better than you, Simmons.” His smile was discomforting. “I didn’t expect that.”

            Simmons stared at the five empty water bottles placed in front of him. He lowered his chin to the table, closed one oceanic eye and peered through the distorted material and watched as it changed the room around him. How much longer am I going to sit here feeling guilty? And why am I feeling guilty?

            “Grif’s fault,” he mumbled, rising to his feet and exiting the kitchen. He stared at movement of the floor as he walked back towards his room, almost running into the door he could have sworn was knocked down before. He opened it warily and poked his head inside.

            Jesus Christ, you think I’d be done with surprises by now.

            Grif sat, on the floor, wounded leg stretched out before him with the able one bent up close to his heart. His right arm lay limply at his side, his left hand working feverishly, a wet rag in his grasp. Somehow the Hawaiian had managed to get a small tub of water into their room during Simmons’ absence. His non-dominant hand worked with the cloth clumsily, scrawling suds over his skin.

            When he dipped the rag back into the sloshing water Simmons was closing the door behind him. The bathing man looked up, hair wet and plastered to his forehead. Rivulets slid down the slopes of his face, falling off in droplets onto his lap and the floor. In the light the cyborg was able to differentiate between the dry, unwashed areas and gleaming moisture of cleansed skin. Only I would use the word differentiate when talking about his body. Well, I mean, thinking—never mind.

            “What are you doing?”

            Grif arched a brow. “Really, Simmons? It isn’t obvious?”

            “No, it is obvious, asshole,” the older soldier snarled. “I’m wondering why the hell you’re doing it on our bedroom floor.”

            The sitting soldier shrugged his good shoulder, obviously not energized enough to contribute to the fight. “Doc came in here and wanted to wash me. I said I’d go to the showers. Long story short I fell on my ass and didn’t want him touching me with a sponge.” Grif looked up at him through dusty brown lashes. “Can you blame me?”

            Not when you look at me like—Note to self: Kill Donut. “On our floor?”

            “Whatever,” Grif sighed. “I’m done. Want to take the water out?”

            Simmons sighed as well, aggravated at having been demoted to the younger man’s personal slave. He crossed the room and kneeled next to him, watching as the slick private produced a towel, from where Simmons had no clue, and began an inept attempt at drying himself. He tried to ignore it, and reached for the basin, freezing immediately as his arm slipped against the wet skin of Grif’s.

            And he couldn’t help it, his hands were gripping the edge of the tub, his metallic appendage curling the side and molding it as a sign of his frustration. His eyes flicked over Grif’s body frantically and he could only wonder what the HELL is wrong with me. His gaze settled on the way the light gleamed off the Hawaiian’s collarbone, instantly dipping down to where the tanned skin gave way to a patch of pale, seemingly white against the darker color. Down to where that’s me over his chest. To where that’s my flesh molding with his. His neck burned at his mind’s lewd innuendo.

            His fingers brushed down the edge of the paleness, startling the younger soldier enough to drop the towel.

            “What’re you--?” The question died on his lips as he swung his eyes up to his friend’s face.

            Several moments of silence passed before Simmons returned the gaze, eyes dilated, almost shielding any trace of the blue iris. Before Grif could react a strong, a hot hand was flying up and wrapping, digging, squeezing itself around his throat. And Simmons was pleased when the younger man tensed but remained where he was seated.

            The wounded soldier pursed his lips together in anger, good fist shaking from something else. But it was never Simmons’ intent to hurt him, immobilize him, yes. He moved his hand up, odd sensations running through his fingers at the contact of Grif’s moist flesh. He gripped the strong jaw line in front of him, rage boiling up when the head within his grasp turned away.

            He forced his fingers up into the soft area of skin under his jaw hard enough to bruise, earning a strangled breath from between Grif’s lips as he wrenched his face back. And then his hand was moving back, was tangling in Grif’s hair that was still wet and felt so good against his skin. And he was wrapping his fingers in it, pushing his skull forward, practically dragging the entire mismatched torso with it.

            And he was kissing him, biting into Grif’s bottom lip when he didn’t respond, relishing the blood that panged against his tongue. It has to be this way, there’s too much pride between us… I have to bully him. Why do I have to do anything?! And Grif’s mouth was open, nostrils flaring but somehow Simmons knew he was responding. And he devoured him.

            Breath was exchanged through ragged panting, hands slid over tight bodies, Grif’s hand curling into the shirt at his shoulder, his own moving to the back of the orange marine’s damp neck to keep them connected. And Simmons groaned because it felt so damn good, like nothing he’d ever experienced before and it should bother him but all he wanted to do was—It was enough for Grif who yanked away, as if he were woken from a spell by the almost inaudible sound.

            And the two marines gazed at each other, eyes dark and shielded. Grif’s cracked first, revealing bewildered repulsion. And as he tried to move his head back Simmons tried to move him forward, urgent to crush their mouths back together. Urgent to prove Donut right? When did this happen?

            Grif snarled, literally snarled and jerked his head back, startling the older man with the sudden movement. Simmons let him go and flinched as the blonde-brown head bounced off the cement wall behind him.

            And even as Grif crumpled in pain Simmons was standing, tub of dirty, used water in his hands. He muttered something, exactly what he wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew was that he had to get away, knew he couldn’t look into those hazel depths again… couldn’twouldnt let himself see how revolted the Hawaiian had been. He left without shutting the door behind him, retreating further into the base.