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The moment Hawkeye has Mulcahy backed up against the wall inside the chaplain's tent, he can feel how fast the man's breathing against him. He's clearly still not used to this. Not all that surprising, really, if he's been wrestling his own lack of awareness of his own nature rather than clear and obvious temptation for all these years. But as Hawk leans to peek through the window and make sure no one's coming, Mulcahy's shaky hands find the front of his bathrobe and grips it into white-knuckling fists as though this is the one point of contact that'll hold him together.
"It's okay," Hawk whispers, a faint bitter flavor on his tongue. He can't look at the ethereal priest. He can't touch his skin. He can't kiss him. There's barbed wire strewn beneath Mulcahy's skull, laced through neural pathways, around lobes. His very own personal crown of thorns, tucked right under the surface. "It's all right, I promise. Hey, hey." When Mulcahy buries his face in Hawk's shoulder, he fights every urge inside of him to break the unspoken rules and kiss his head, but memories of the last time he'd tried and how Mulcahy flinched away left scars that are still swollen red. "It's good. Right?"
"Hawkeye," Mulcahy breathes back, the tickle of hot air melting his neck, dripping desire down his spine. "Please, I-I... Yes, yes, please."
It's the best he's going to get today. Hawkeye bites his bottom lip as he slips his hand between them, palms over Mulcahy's cock trapped beneath his fatigues. It's got to hurt him when Hawk works him over like this, he's sure of it, but the muffled groans against his robe's fabric suggest otherwise. Maybe he's still just so sensitive that anything is good. From what little Hawkeye's gotten out of him, he can barely manage to touch himself without guilt ravaging his soul.
There are days where Hawkeye wants to swim all the way back to some Catholic school where little Johnny Mulcahy was taught to fear any sense of joy, pleasure, experience, delight, and give a dozen nuns a piece of his mind. If they love a man who overturned tables and chased people with a whip so much, then they'd adore Hawkeye Pierce.
But today is different. Today's the other kind of day, the one where Hawkeye wants to make Mulcahy feel so tenderly held and loved on that he forgets the sound of his own name. He forgets whatever they fucking did to him. He forgets everything but Hawkeye.
As Hawk gently grinds the heel of his palm along Mulcahy's hardness, the groans shift into such lovely musical moans that he's almost certain no one else has ever gotten to hear. He drinks them up, his heart racing, his eyes gazing unseeingly through the window. "That's it... C'mon, d'you know how good you're doing?"
A sweet whimper hums against him like silk on skin.
What he wouldn't give to drop to his knees and put his mouth on him instead, really make him see stars. It's not fair that he's had his face fucked and his brain wiped clean a thousand times over and he can't even use what he learned on the very man he's so hungry for. Hungry to hold. To fall asleep with.
Getting too deep here, fella.
When he starts to pick up speed, press a little firmer, something shifts him, and it takes him a moment to realize what it was. Mulcahy's moving his hips, grinding against his palm, and it's so shocking that Hawk freezes in place. Mulcahy huffs, pulls his bathrobe harder, bucks forward one more time before he starts to lean away, but Hawk pushes him firmer against the wall, keeps him there. "No, no, that's good," he coaxes, keeping his voice low and sweet. It takes a long second, but with a shaky breath against him, Mulcahy begins moving once more. Participating. Chasing his pleasure.
It's the first time he's joined in, and it nearly makes Hawkeye dizzy with how the blood rushes straight south.
They work together, Hawkeye providing just enough pressure, Mulcahy providing the pace and the angle, and though he knows he's flirting with danger, he can't stop himself from cupping the back of Mulcahy's head. Like he found a button, the moans pick up in astonishing volume, and Hawk squeezes his eyes shut, takes a chance on faith alone that no one's going to suddenly head this way and need this man who should belong to everyone more than he belongs to Hawkeye, who Hawk is going to have all the same.
And when Mulcahy breaks, his voice cracks on a raw, "Hawkeye—" and nothing could stop him from pulling him tight against his chest, holding him close.
There is no heaven and yet Hawkeye suddenly understands why there are people who believe in it, because it's difficult to imagine this sense of flying and hope and pure delight being something that one rarely gets to receive. He grins, nuzzles Mulcahy's hair. "God. Perfect. That was so good. Hey, how, how are you?"
Sometimes Mulcahy needs to cry. Sometimes he needs to pull away. Very rarely, he'll strike a coy joke, the kind that make Hawkeye burst out laughing from sheer relief. But this time, Mulcahy tips his head up to meet his eyes, takes a deep breath, then bobs up and presses his mouth to Hawkeye's chin.
They pause. Stare. Mulcahy clears his throat. "I-I don't think I aimed that quite where I—"
Hawkeye cups his face in both hands and crushes him into the wall with a breathless kiss, and God help him, but Mulcahy holds him right back.