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"Don't ask, don't tell." It isn't just an euphemism for gays in the military – it's something that encompasses the entirety of the military and something you learn quickly.
"That blood! How did it get there?"
No one asks. No one tells.
"That bruise! Was it from training drills? Did you get into a fight?
No one asks. No one tells.
"Where were you last night?"
"Don't ask."
An answer you learn to whisper fervently in the dark, its words conveying more pleading than the flippant, dismissive tone of your voice. "I can't tell you," are the follow up words that you don't say.
So when the trucker offers you a ride, "no strings attached," out of the "kindness of his heart," you don't' ask him the real price hidden in the silence. It's a dark bar, and it isn't as though you implored him to take you – he offered. And who knows – if you'd hitched, maybe he would have been the one to pick you up anyway.
Of course, hitching wouldn't entail you asking if there's room to crash in the truck's bunk space when the bastards at the inn down the block won't answer their phones or come to the desk after you've rung the bell more times than you can count. (Fuck this. Who do they think they are?). Hitching might've avoided that awkward moment where he tells you it's a tight fit, but yes, there's room . (What bout of stupid bravery caused you to swallow your pride and ask in the first place?)
You're a soldier – you've been in tighter places; worse conditions. And it's consensual this time, isn't it? This sharing of tight space s and being close enough to smell the scent of him woven into the cloth of the t-shirt and shorts he's wearing. This sharing of body heat that makes the already-stale smell of the truck thicker.
There's a tension that creeps across your shoulders and back when he shifts and tosses an arm casually about you, but it makes for more space and eventually you relax. It's too hot and you hate it, but there's also some kind of warm comfort underneath it – something you've never known. A comfort you've always envied, longed for. You close your eyes, press back against him, and let out he breath you didn't realize you were holding.
Somehow, sleep still evades you.
And when you feel his fingers tracing soft patterns against the thin cotton of your shirt, you realize that it eludes him too. You're familiar with where this is heading if you don't stop him now, but you don't. Isn't his desire a small price to pay for a free ride? For a stranger's generosity that will bring you closer to accomplishing this sacred mission of yours? And in the end, is it really all that unwelcome? Closeness – something you're unfamiliar with back home, but you can't lie your way out of the substitutions you've encountered since enlisting, whether sought out, stumbled upon, or accepted without verbal question.
You're a soldier. You're obedient. You don't question things.
Don't ask, don't tell.
He takes your lack of protest as unspoken acquiescence and moves forward, pressing his lips to the juncture between neck and shoulder and you shudder involuntarily and suck in a breath. His lips, still pressed into your flesh twist into a smile, something dark and victorious. You can't see the way it creeps into his eyes, but you feel it in the urgency of his mouth, the way his hands grip you – your side, your hip, your wrist, the palpable shift in the air.
And when you're on your back, looking up into the intense, chaotic pool of his eyes, watching them clear from a tumult of thought into a single-minded purpose, you don't balk. This is the threshold – the point of no return, and dive over it, knowingly as his mouth descends upon flesh as quickly as his hands can expose it, hungry and insistent.
You arch up, vocalize quietly, shift and finally remove clothing to accommodate – to hasten an impatient process that, once initiated, can’t progress fast enough, can’t feel intensely enough, can’t hurt enough. First hands, then lips, then tongue, then teeth, grazing, and then clamping down, just this side of drawing blood and you feel something well up inside of you – a shout that you shove down and a wave of pleasure that quickly drowns out the vestigial traces of pain. You’ll feel it in the morning, but for now, it’s just an unimportant nagging. Nothing more than the easily squelched sound of your body’s protest. Your mother’s distaste, your father’s disapproval and then, nothing. No recognition at all. The difference between your body’s reaction and your parents is that your body can be swayed, gratified, made to pay attention in ways they never could, even if your mind is only half here, firing off things you couldn’t follow right now even if you cared enough to try.
He doesn’t ask permission – it’s so far past that point – just grabs your ankles, spreading your legs and bending them back at the knees. Somewhere in all the pleasure, in all of the mental distraction and disoriented impatience, he’s already worked past the worst of it, stretched and prepped you. You don’t remember the cold touch of the lubricant or the sharp pain of the first stretches – only exquisite pleasure and a missing chunk of time somewhere . You feel half cheated for just an instant, and then the hands gripping your knees tighten, bringing you back to the present.
There’s a moment now, of suspended time while he positions himself, brow furrowed, body tense, and then there is a moment of exploding, exquisite pain, followed by a rush of pleasure so intense that you bite down on your lip and turn your face to one side, reaching for the pillow, burying your face in it to stifle the cry that your throat cannot contain. You taste blood in your mouth, feel him deep inside of you, and you’re drowning in conflicting sensation – your brain feels like it will overload, and stops trying to focus.
Hard, rough and fast – there’s no pretense here, none of the careful song and dance you’re familiar with with women. Only the impatient thrusts of a man lost to primal instincts. You’re more familiar with this feeling than you’d care to admit to anyone; more accustomed to this position than you want to admit.
It’s over sooner than it should be, a fleeting tick of disappointment replaced almost instantly by a heavy, sated lethargy. He grins down at you like a contented cat – the only warning before he pulls out, the emptiness and relaxing of muscle sending a final shiver through you.
He says nothing, sliding over to the side a bit, most of the left side of his body still atop you as he settles in, making himself comfortable.
There is a long moment of silence as you stare up into the darkness, alternating between that pressing need to get home, (get to Joshua) and thinking of nothing at all.
You don’t remember falling asleep but when you wake, he’s already up, dressed and seated in the driver’s seat, the cab vibrating from motion. He hears you moving around, pulling on clothing, boots, and stretching, your shoulder letting loose a loud pop as you reach your arms high overhead.
“You sleep like the dead!” he calls back, laughter in his voice.
“That’s funny,” you mumble back, brow furrowed. “I don’t really feel like I slept at all…”
“What’s that, soldier?” he calls back to you, reaching behind him to pull the curtain back, giving you clearance to climb forward and slide into the passenger seat.
“Nothing,” you murmur, suppressing a yawn. “I just don’t feel like I got much rest, somehow.”
“It’s a long road yet,” he offers, raising his chin in the direction of the long expanse laid out before you. The businesses on the sides of the road have long since receded, giving way to spotted residences and a few expanses of open field. “There’s a stop up ahead, about 20 miles,” he continues, glancing over at you. “You interested in a coffee?”
Your smile is fleeting, but genuine. “If it’s not too much trouble, that’d be great,” you reply, looking over at him. He hasn’t bothered turning the heater on in the truck – he’s got a vest and flannel on, same as last night when you met him at the bar. His hat is tossed up on the dash beside him, his short hair rumpled, eyes looking tired, despite the cheerful quality of his voice. There’s something else there – something deeper than just physical exhaustion. Something deeper – something maybe only a soldier would recognize. Maybe this man has seen combat and maybe he hasn’t – maybe his generosity stems from having been in your shoes and maybe it doesn’t, but he’s seen something, that much is true. He’s seen something that’s left him scarred in ways that you can’t ignore. And he knows where Silent Hill is… You shake your head, pushing the tourist stories and the lore back, shifting your gaze to stare out the window.
He’s seen something, but if he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. You don’t ask.
He never tells you.