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Ashes on Dave’s lips, gunshots left him deaf. Echoing, screaming.
Skin touch hot, clothes burning where they stick to neglected wounds and bloody trails. Shoves every medic that tries to stop him with animal snarls, mindless of whatever reprimand will come of it later.
Single-minded in his goals, all but leaping out of the helicopter before they touch down. Knows like he knows his own soul, questionable though it is, where his mind guides him. Smoke sticking to his tongue, his teeth.
Foul, senseless spiels at the back of near-deaf ears.
A door opens from his boot-tip alone, the bed empty for its target. Who sits by the window, smoking and clearly having refused all medical assistance himself. Red in white, ash and grit on tan. Dressed in scars, black briefs and little more. Whirls on Snake the minute that door snaps shut with an affirmative click.
Meet in the middle, they do. All gripping hands, snarls and pulls. Snake’s nose knocks into a tear in cheek, Fox’s teeth snag his own sooty streaked chin and bites.
Rope burns flay gently beneath Snake’s own explorative hands, grunts when his back hits the wall with enough force to rock the steel, spine cracking definitively in it’s air. Heat, sweat, tugging hands find Fox’s hair and pull, yank, force the mouth to his own. Only a tiny, tentative little taste before he shoves, twists.
Not fast enough, never goddamned fast enough.
Not fast enough to save him. Before.
Before-
Not fast enough to stop the knee from twisting, the hand from grasping. The monumental thud to the floor that rattles and surges, cracks and burns bones.
Wordless, the cry that filters through the room, Snake only half-conscious of the fact that it comes from his own mouth, born of a scarred, calloused hand against his throat. It squeezes, constricts, shoves him back to the floor anew.
Is he really expected to stay put? To take the blows Fox delivers with teeth, tongue and hands? There’s an ache in his chest not from pain, nor concern. A strange, captivating sorrow wrapping itself viper like about an empty space. But with everything he wants right in front of him, breathing, alive-he’s remiss to what it might be.
“You and your thinking.” Same scratchy, deep voice he’s so intimately familiar with, hips straddling his own, knife carelessly slicing down the side of his fatigues. “Stop doing that so much, it’ll hurt you.”
“Fox-“ Lightning quick, it’s cut off by his own bandana being balled up and shoved between his own teeth, forced to breathe around it’s gritty, soaked texture while Fox takes almost no care in shredding his fatigues to ribbons. Only skill keeps him from ghosting against skin.
Destruction in paradise, like he can burn the outfit with the memories, heedless and helpless to Fox’s obvious, evident desires.
“I’m alive. Care only for that.”
Strange, distant words, Snake can scarcely think around the screams and echoes in his head, in the burning pulse beneath dry, exhausted eyes. Evident of oncoming migraine and the suddenness of wet, thick length between his own thighs.
Unable to speak, to question, burden of Fox’s own manipulations, there’s nothing save for the blood and grime to work the way. It’s friction and ache, burn and tear. It hurts but that doesn’t matter because it’s present and seeking and maybe Fox has added saliva and maybe he hasn’t. There’s slick and foggy, swimming grey-red above his own face.
Doesn’t know when Fox discarded his own briefs, doesn’t know when those thrusts between his thighs became so much more insistent. Snake hardly registers his own arousal through the dizzying ache, brain echo gunshots and Fox’s animal growls.
It’s not unlike fighting, but it is. Isn’t painful, but it is. Snake’s so dizzy, so thrown off balance, that even when Fox comes between his thighs, it feels distant, but good enough to make him groan deeply around the mouthful of soggy bandana. Taste of blood only making his eyes widen, darken. Allows himself to be flipped over to his barely conscious hands and knees.
To the hands opening him, coating him in saliva and blood and not much else. Two fingers insistent, at once, present. Deep. Searching.
Cold metal floor, colder brain for how Fox won’t talk, speak, or acknowledge. As though he’s made to take, to feel. To know.
Spits the bandana out because there’s no way Fox is hard again, but sore, slack jaw only gets it half-way, so his words are jumbled, slightly muffled.
“Wasn’t me who came, Snake.” To the answering questions Snake realized he barely voiced, but his head shake, his confused stuttering, seemed to clarify all the same.
Was it not?
But it had been Fox between his thighs.
A hand smacks him there for good measure, he jolts, yelps. Is shoved back to unforgiving cement and properly breached with that undeniable hardness.
Nothing makes sense, not a single thing. Has he been drugged too?
So much, so little, Fox pushes, bites, grips. Snake gets a hand behind himself, finds hipbone and yanks Fox forward, rocks back against him and needs, needs. Wants. Desires.
If he’d lost him.
If he’d let him go.
If he’d died-
“Stop fucking thinking, rookie!” Was that a slap? Dave’s head rears a bit with it, jerks and spasms and he clenches on reflex because of it. There’s so much he’s thinking, feeling. He can’t help it. Fox feels inscrutable now even as he rocks himself deep, the burn up his spine, through his ass. Snake can scarcely catch his breath around it all. And yet, even though it all, Snake can acknowledge how much his voice wavers, cracks.
Wobbles.
Fox’s voice wobbles.
He tries to turn-and can’t. Just seeks his hand back again and finds one of those gnarled, scarred ones, tugs until it’s around his stomach and wishes he could put any kind of name to the screaming fire in his brain.
Pressure, pain, sensation.
You didn’t die.
Not like that, not there. Not outside their own terms. Each grave waits for them, happy to bring them to hell when the times right but that time had not been now and he shoves back with all the strength he can muster.
Accepts him deeper, harder, stronger. Feels the hand he holds finally spread out along his own stomach, hold.
Cling.
Wordless, formless, soundless. He ruts and pulses and Snake does what he can to take, accept. Feel.
They moan in boneless, aching unison when he comes, when Fox jerks and shivers and rocks himself in and in. Deeper. More.
It scorches Snake’s insides, leaves sticky trails that make him quiver. Palming hand refusing to leave his stomach, shredded clothes and soaked bandana blurring haze along the metal floor they sink to. Fox lets him roll over, onto his side, lets him curl boneless and breathless into his chest.
His kiss.
His arms.
Blood pounds his ears, heart racing and skittering in chest even though he should be relaxing now. Even though he should be coming back to baseline.
Instead, he kicks a knee into the shredded pile, and tries to clear his throat.
“Rookie.” Strained, a little pained, “Just. Lay with me, okay?”
Strange, oddly broken request, he curls in tighter over the roaring in his ears.
“Ok, Fox.”
Ok.
But in the back of his mind, Snake thinks.
‘Rookie’ might need an update.