FIC: Sad Songs to Keep Me Awake (1/5; Jonas Band of Brothers; Joe/Nick, Nick/Nixon)
Title: Sad Songs to Keep Me Awake (1/5)
Fandom: Band of Brothers/Jonas Brothers RPF
Rating: NC-17 for sexytimes
Pairings: Joe Jonas/Nick Jonas, Nick Jonas/Lewis Nixon (in this chapter)
WARNINGS: Incest. Underage (16 years old). Older dude/younger dude. Explicit sexual content. That's just this chapter. Oh god, you guys.
Length: 7900 words (in this chapter)
Disclaimer: This is obviously incredibly fictional -- characterization of the JoBros is based mostly on my imagination, and the portrayal of the veterans is based on the miniseries, not the real people (no grandpas were harmed in the making of this fic).
Summary: The Jonas Brothers go to sexy war.
AN: This isn't my fault. The Jonas Brothers made a video set in WWII, so it could happen to anyone. Visuals to help you out: Joe, Nick, Joe and Nick. fodian gets the credit/blame for the initial idea, and then miss_bennie and irishmizzy EXTREMELY EXTREMELY brainstormed this with me. The fic is dedicated to them. Also, it's super long, so I'll be posting it in parts all week.
**
When Joe gets back to their foxhole, arms wrapped around himself to keep warm, Nick's shivering next to Malark, snow coming down in his curly hair, white and unmelting against the dark brown. Joe picks up Nick's helmet and puts it back on his head. "Idiot," he says. "You lose like all your body heat out of your head."
"The metal's cold," Nick says, but he leaves the helmet on. He's still shivering. Joe sits down next to him so their arms overlap, bodies pressed up against each other, hoping some warmth will seep through. When Domingus comes around with the disgusting scraps they have for meals now, Joe slips Nick half of his when nobody's looking. Nick's mouth twists a little bit, but he eats it. Joe gnaws on what might be supposed to be toast and ignores his stomach growling.
Joe shouldn't have talked Nick into joining up with him, even if going off to Europe without Nicky was about the lamest thing he could think of. Not wanting to be bored isn't a good reason to talk your kid brother into lying about his age and his diabetes to join the paratroops, so the two of you can end up as replacements, surrounded and holding the line in foxholes in the middle of the coldest winter Belgium's seen in fifty years or whatever. At Christmas. Kid's sixteen, he should be home with their mother, going to high school, not out here getting shot at. Plus, right now supplies are so short he's not even getting enough to eat and Joe thinks he's giving himself an ulcer worrying about Nick's blood sugar all the time. Joe's an idiot. He's always known this, but it's a lot clearer lately.
"Jonas," Doc Roe's voice says behind them, and Joe turns to look, his shoulder moving against Nick's. Nick's still shivering, though, and he doesn't move. "Nah," Doc says, when Joe's the only one who looks. "I mean, little Jonas."
Nick blinks, and then turns, real slow. "Yeah?" Nick says.
"How's that leg?"
Nick had taken some shrapnel right below his right knee, but that was a couple weeks back and it's mostly healed up by now. So he gives Roe a weird look, which is understandable. Joe thought he'd told Roe to be more subtle than that. "Fine," Nick says slowly. "A little stiff."
"Good," Roe says, and slides a look over at Joe before focusing on Nick again. "You feeling okay otherwise?"
"Yes," Nick says, but his eyes have narrowed a little.
"Good," Roe says. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"
"Sure," Nick says, and Roe wanders off. Nick's narrowed eyes turn to Joe.
Joe wasn't supposed to tell anybody about the diabetes, is the thing. But Joe doesn't care how mad Nick is, if something happened, Doc Roe needs to know about it. Because what if Joe gets shot in the head or something and then nobody knows and nobody's looking out for him?
"Joe," Nick says, in a low, calm, terrifying voice. Malarkey glances over.
"Yeah?" Joe says, trying to act innocent. Nick can't exactly yell at him in front of all the guys anyway, not if he wants his secret kept.
Nick looks over at Malarkey, who's still looking between the two of them, and then sighs. "We'll talk later," Nick says, and goes back to his watery stew.
Luz comes up and sprawls on the other side of Joe, landing half on top of him so Joe suddenly has warm bodies on both sides. "Hey Jonas," Luz says. "Guess what I got?"
"A social disease?" Joe says.
"Oh, he's a comedian," Luz says, and fumbles in the pocket of his jacket. Everybody else around is talking, not paying any attention to them, so they don't see when Luz presses a chocolate bar into Joe's palm. "Shhh," Luz says, and winks at him.
Joe's got a stash of candy bars, for times when Nick needs emergency sugar. Luz doesn't know that's why he needs them, just thinks Joe has a sweet tooth, but he keeps him supplied anyway. And Joe pays him back. Well, sometimes.
**
By nightfall, Joe's in their foxhole, peering out at the line, head under the tarp that's their ceiling. It's pitch black, just the occasional spark of gunfire, and so he jumps a little bit when Nick slides into the foxhole so fast it's like he's just letting himself fall. Nick laughs when he sees Joe jump.
"Nervous, Joseph?" he says.
"Here's some advice," Joe says. "Don't make fun of a guy holding a gun."
Nick rolls his eyes at him, but he's smiling. Joe doesn't see that much anymore. It feels good, feels like home.
Joe sits back against the wall of their hole, wedging his shoulder blade behind Nick's so their body heat doesn't go to waste.
"Lip told me we shouldn't be in the same hole," Nick says. "In case we get hit. Because of our parents."
Joe looks at him. Nick shrugs.
"Yeah, well," Joe says, and leans into Nick more heavily.
"Yeah," Nick says, and slumps down so his head is almost resting on Joe's shoulder, his nose in Joe's jacket. It's freezing out, the dirt hard underneath them.
Joe closes his eyes, thinking about trying to sleep, listening to Nick's deep even breaths. He's been hearing those breaths his whole life, it feels like, always Nick in the next bunk bed, as long as he can remember. Kevin was the oldest, had his own room, so it was just him and Nick, him falling asleep to Nick's breathing. The only difference is that now he can see Nick's breath in this frigid air.
"I told you not to tell anyone," Nick says, so quiet it almost doesn't register.
Joe's getting sleepy, so it takes him a minute to remember what Nick's talking about. "It's just Doc Roe," Joe says, when he finally does.
Nick breathes in once, twice. "I told you not to tell anyone," he says again.
Joe should feel bad, because he promised Nick he wouldn't tell and he usually keeps promises. But he doesn't feel bad at all, really. "Well, too late," Joe says. Because it is, first of all.
"Joe," Nick says.
"I won't tell anyone else, Nicky," Joe says. "Don't worry."
"Promise?" Nick says.
"I promise," Joe says.
"You better," Nick says, his voice thick with sleep, and Joe closes his eyes again, rests his hand on Nick's chest and tries to get comfortable.
**
It's hard to sleep through the night when it's this cold. Joe wakes up again while it's still dark, feels Nick moving around just a little bit. Nick's breathing is a little harsh, coming ragged, and it takes Joe a minute and the sound of skin sliding over skin for him to realize what Nick's doing. But he's moved before he realizes it, like an idiot, showing Nick he's awake. Nick freezes.
Joe opens his eyes to see Nick looking mortified. Joe still feels sleepy, a little out of it, like everything that's happening is a dream.
"Um," Nick says. "Sorry. I. Um."
"Oh, you jack off," Joe says through a yawn, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm so shocked."
Nick laughs a little, but nervous, embarrassed. Joe's still half on top of him, arm stretched across his chest.
"Well, geez, finish up," Joe says, and then when Nick doesn't move, he reaches down himself. It seems like it makes sense at the time. They share everything else -- food and sleep and foxholes, so much that it's like Nick's body is his body. After all, Joe keeps track of Nick's blood sugar, keeps an eye on if he's losing too much weight, or acting weird and out of it, like something's wrong. Joe was the one who noticed Nick had diabetes in the first place, when Nick took off his shirt to go swimming and he looked like a skeleton. Joe just pays attention, knows the span of Nick's arms and legs, the weight of them, the width of his chest and how it fits in this hole in the ground. So it makes sense that when Nick wouldn't finish himself off, Joe would step in.
When Joe touches him, Nick inhales sharply, bites off a little noise. "Joe," he says. "What are you -- oh God."
"Good?" Joe says, and when Nick nods too quickly, Joe starts stroking his hand up and down Nick's cock, firm, the way he jerks himself off. Nick's hips buck up into Joe's hand, and Joe slides his thumb over the tip to listen to Nick gasp. It doesn't take long before Nick's coming all over his hand, making a noise far in the back of his throat.
"Oh God," Nick says, and then he's using his extra pair of socks to wipe Joe's hand off. His hands are shaking.
"Okay?" Joe says. He's still sleepy, feeling like he's in a dream. The air is frigid and the end of his nose is cold, and Nick's zipping himself back up.
"Um," Nick says. "Yeah. Um. Thanks?"
"Sure thing," Joe says, and leans his head down on Nick's shoulder. Nick's still breathing a little hard. "What time is it?" Joe says muzzily. He can tell he's half gone. So goddamn tired, never really asleep and never really awake in this cold.
"It's two in the morning," Nick says. Joe hears Nick's voice through his chest, hollow and deeper.
"Oh," Joe says, Nick's body warm under his cheek. He's already mostly asleep.
"Joe?" Nick says. He sounds young, far away and unsure of himself.
Joe can barely make his brain register it. "Yeah," he thinks he manages to say, but he's asleep before he hears Nick answer.
**
When Joe wakes up, Nick's gone already, but Joe doesn't worry about it too much. He goes to take a leak and find himself some breakfast, and he's standing next to Buck in the chow line when they hear gunfire a little ways away. Everyone tries not to look. You hear gunfire all the time, it's not exactly unusual, but it still makes Joe tense up. Next to him, Buck mutters, "Fuck," under his breath. Lipton gives Buck a sharp look.
Doc Roe starts edging off in the direction of the noise, and then when they hear the screams of "Medic!" he takes off running. Joe automatically looks around for Nick, but doesn't see him anywhere. Oh fuck, he thinks, as his heart rate starts to pick up. "You seen Nick?" he asks Bill Guarnere, who's just come walking up from the opposite direction. Guarnere usually doesn't have a lot of time for Joe, treats him like the dumb kid replacement he is, but at that he stops and looks at Joe like he's seeing him for once.
"No," Bill says after a second. "Sorry."
It feels like ages before the gunfire dies down and Doc Roe gets back with the injured guy. It's not Nick, it’s Garcia, but Nick comes trailing behind the stretcher Garcia's on, blood all over the front of his fatigues, the tight look on his face he gets when he's trying not to cry. Garcia's one of his buddies.
"You okay?" Joe says, grabbing Nick's shoulder.
"Yeah," Nick says. "Not my blood." But then he pulls himself free and keeps following the litter, helping them lift Garcia onto the front of a jeep.
After that, it seems like Nick's avoiding Joe for the rest of the day, constantly finding things he has to go do elsewhere when Joe comes up to him. Finally Joe gets fed up and settles down to watch the line without worrying too much about what Nick's doing.
Luz settles down next to him, sliding into the foxhole like the snow drifting in it doesn't bother him. "Where's your other half?" he asks, grinning crookedly. His dark eyes are bright like always, the stubble thick on his cheeks making him look older.
Joe shrugs.
Luz looks at him steadily. "Don't worry," he says after a second. "He'll snap out of it."
"Yeah," Joe says, adjusting the rifle in his hands.
"You want a cigarette?" Luz asks, sticking one in his mouth and holding another one out. "Don't tell the other guys I got some."
Joe's never really smoked before, but his hands are shaking and he's worrying himself to death over Nick, so he takes the cigarette out of Luz's hand. Luz grins and lights it for him, the lighter taking a couple of tries to catch. Joe breathes in and immediately chokes, has to try to pretend he's not coughing. His eyes start to water.
Luz laughs and claps him on the back. "All right, kid," he says, and starts giving Joe tips on how to breathe.
**
It’s two days after Garcia got evac'd out, and Nick still hasn't snapped out of it. He's getting more and more distant, sitting and staring into space like he's in a fog worse than the literal fog they're actually in. Joe keeps making him eat, because he's worried that his blood sugar's out of whack on top of everything, that it's making everything worse. He notices Lip keeping an eye on Nick too, bringing him the crap that passes for coffee, talking to him about football.
Finally Joe can't take it anymore, knows he has to get Nick off the line somehow. He goes and finds Captain Winters in his tent, making coffee in his helmet.
"Captain Winters?" Joe says, taking his helmet off and running a hand through his hair. Liebgott cut it into a mohawk a few months back, so it's still short on the sides but growing back in.
"Joe," Winters says, looking surprised. He smiles a little through his shivering, his pale skin even paler in the cold. He's maybe the only guy Joe's seen today who still manages to be clean shaven even in the Ardennes, and he's holding his hand out toward the sterno can's flame. "What's up?" Winters asks.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," Joe says. "But it's my brother."
"Ah," Winters says, like he's noticed Nick's been a little out of it lately. Of course he has -- Winters notices everything.
"I'm worried about him," Joe says. "He's barely said anything for two days, and . . . I just think maybe if he got back from the line for a little bit, he'd . . . ."
Winters interrupts him before he can finish. "Not a problem," he says. "I'll take care of it."
The rush of relief Joe feels is stronger than anything. "Thank you, sir," he says. He starts to leave, but then turns back. "Um, don't tell him that I asked you."
Winters smiles a little. "Don't worry," he says. "It's taken care of."
And by the next day, Nick's working as Winters's runner, back off the line, with no idea that Joe was the one who set it up. Joe'd like to kiss Winters on the mouth, but he settles for grabbing Luz and giving him a big moist one instead. Luz rolls his eyes, and his cheeks flush under his five-day beard.
**
Dear Nick,
My unit just arrived at ............ ....... ……. …….. in the ........ ... ..... ..... ..... ...... and I swear, it's .... ..... .... ..... ........ a freaking jungle ..... ....... ....... . The humidity is terrible. It's wreaking havoc on my hair. I should've gone to the European theater with you guys, the Pacific is the worst. I really don't see why you guys had to join the paratroops, you knew I was afraid of heights.
Whatever. How's Europe? Is the food any better? I swear we're eating WWI surplus over here. ........ .............. ......... ........... .......... .......... ............ ...... ...... ....... ........... ............... .............. ........... .......... ....... ...... ......... ..... ...... .. ........ I hate it! Hope things are better where you are. Miss you lots.
Love, Kevin
**
Nick doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, but it's a big relief to be off the line. Winters has him running errands, and all the gun fire is far enough away it might as well be another war, just thunder in the distance. His shoulders have relaxed for the first time in days -- he hadn't realized how tense he was until he got away from it.
He worries about Joe, of course, but Joe'll be fine. Joe's a survivor. He'll be better off not hovering over Nick, anyway -- he needs to get over it, because Nick can take care of himself, sixteen or not. He's a soldier.
It even feels warmer, off the line, though Nick knows it's not since he can still barely even feel his feet. He runs his errands briskly, scuffing his boots through the snow, moving fast to keep warm. When the snow started falling, he'd had a snowball fight with Garcia and Hoobler, but by this point the novelty has worn off so much that if he never sees snow again it'll be too soon.
He comes back from division with some paperwork from Colonel Sink, the folder held tightly between his half-frozen fingers. When he gets to battalion CP, Captain Winters and Captain Nixon are both bent over a map on the table in the tent, arguing about the latest intelligence. Nick takes off his helmet and hovers in the doorway, waiting for them to finish talking, but before they do Winters looks up and sees him.
"Nick," he says, waving him over.
"Colonel Sink sent this over, sir," Nick says, handing Winters the papers.
"Thanks," Winters says, and sits down to start looking through them. Captain Nixon leans on the stone ledge around the tent, and looks Nick up and down.
"This your new runner?" he asks Winters.
Winters glances up for a second. "Yep," he says, before going back to the paperwork. He takes a glove off to start signing one paper.
"A little young, isn't he?" Nixon says. "They sending us grammar school kids now?"
Winters just grunts. Nick feels nervous - nobody's supposed to know that he's underage. When Nixon looks at Nick and raises his eyebrow, questioning, Nick says, "I'm eighteen, sir."
Nixon laughs. "Right," he says. "I bet." He looks at Winters again, who's ignoring him and reading one of the reports. When Winters doesn't respond, Nixon says to Nick, like he's making slightly aggressive small talk, "So how'd you get this plumb assignment?"
"Uh, Captain Winters picked me, sir," Nick says. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other.
Nixon gets an odd look on his face, and looks hard at Winters. "He did, huh?"
"Yes, sir," Nick says.
Nixon looks back at him, glance lingering, looking him up and down. "Hmm," he says.
Nick isn't quite sure what that means, but Winters seems to understand. He rolls his eyes. "Lay off, would you, Nix?" he says, signing another paper.
Nixon shrugs and pulls out a flask, taking a swig from it casually. "You want some?" he asks, holding it out to Nick. Nick isn't quite sure whether he should drink some or not - he's never really had alcohol before. Their family doesn't drink.
Winters rolls his eyes again. "Cut it out," he says, signing the last paper and standing up again. "Okay, Jonas, thanks," he says. "Run this back to Colonel Sink."
"Yes, sir," Nick says, and salutes.
Nixon smirks. "And hey, while you're at it," he says. "Get me a bacon sandwich, will you? I'm starving."
"Uh, yes, sir," Nick says.
Nixon laughs. "All right, get out of here," he says, waving him away, and Nick trots off, wondering where he can find a bacon sandwich.
Behind him, he hears Nixon laughing, and Winters saying something in an annoyed tone. But Nick's already far enough away he can't really make out the words.
**
Three hours later, all he's managed to track down is a ham sandwich, and that’s probably generous terminology for a thin piece of ham all alone between two stale pieces of bread, but at least it's something. He’s getting a little frantic, thinking of what Captain Nixon might say when he comes back without what he asked for, but at this stage it’s pretty safe to say that there’s no bacon to be had in the entire town of Bastogne, and Nick doesn’t know what else he could do. So he finally gives up, takes a deep breath, and goes to find Captain Nixon, who, as seems to be usual, is shivering in Captain Winters's tent. When Nick steps into the makeshift shelter, Winters and Nixon both look at him.
"I couldn't find any bacon," Nick starts apologetically, holding out the ham sandwich. "So it's ham. Sorry, sir." He's prepared for Nixon get annoyed with him, but instead Nixon laughs delightedly and reaches over to ruffle Nick's hair, fingers crooking through the curls.
"I love this kid," he says to Winters, grinning away and grabbing the sandwich. "Can we keep him, Dad, can we?" Still grinning, he takes a big bite of sandwich and with his mouth full says, "I promise to take him for walks."
Winters looks annoyed. "Nix," he says. "Don't send my runner out for bacon."
"What?" Nixon says. "It's his job."
"No," Winters says. "It's not, and anyway, you know there’s no supplies coming into Bastogne."
"And anyway," Nixon says, talking over him, "I was kidding."
"Sorry," Nick says to Winters.
Winters only glances at him. "It's not your fault," he says, and goes back to glaring at Nixon, who rolls his eyes.
Nick feels awkward, caught in the middle, and can still feel the echo of Nixon's warm hand against his scalp. "Um, do you need anything else, sir?" he asks Winters.
Winters finally looks at him and smiles a little, letting him know that he's not the one in trouble. "No, private," he says. "You're dismissed."
Nixon grins at him, a secret grin between the two of them, and lifts his half-eaten sandwich in a kind of salute. Nick smiles. He's liking Captain Nixon in spite of himself.
**
The next morning, Winters comes by Nick's foxhole with some messages he needs to get back to division, and sits down on the edge of it, feet dangling in, to show Nick what they all are. Once Winters finishes explaining who needs to get what papers, and what Nick needs to get responses on, he says, "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Nick says.
"Oh, and Nick?" Winters says, smiling a little bit. "Out of curiosity, how old are you really?"
Nick's stomach sinks. "Um. I'm eighteen, sir."
"I'm not going to bust you," Winters says. "You're what? Seventeen? Sixteen?"
He's looking at Nick in that fatherly way he has, so without quite meaning to, Nick mutters, "Sixteen."
Winters nods and Nick can feel his face going hot. "Lied about your age to join up with your brother?"
"Yeah," Nick says.
Winters smiles again. "That was brave," he says, and gets up, brushing the snow off his trousers. "I'll see if I can find you a ride into Bastogne," he says, and then he's striding off into the fog.
**
The ride ends up being with Captain Nixon, who has to go see division about the latest patrols, and Nick sits in the front seat waiting to go as Nixon talks to Winters about some last minute details. There's a wounded guy in the back, groaning on a stretcher with Doc Roe crouching beside him.
Roe claps Nick on the back when he looks up from the bandage and sees him. "How's the knee?" he asks. Roe always remembers exactly what's wrong with everybody, even though Nick's pretty sure that in this case knee is code for diabetes.
"Fine," Nick says. "How's everything up at the line? My brother?"
Roe's mouth tightens, a half-amused irritation. "Running around doing anything anyone dares him to," he says. "He's lucky he hasn't lost an arm. Yet."
Nick tries not to smile. That's Joe, all right. Sounds like Joe’s not so worried since Nick got off the line. That's good.
Captain Nixon says one last thing to Winters and swings himself into the driver's seat, turning the key so the engine roars to life. He grins at Nick and shouts over the engine, "How're you doing, champ?"
"Good," Nick yells back, and Nixon puts the jeep in gear, so they bump off towards Bastogne.
In town, Nick finds Sink and delivers his messages, gets the replies he needs. Once he's done with that, he starts going around to see if he can drum up any more blankets or other supplies, like Winters asked. There's not a lot to be had, though -- Bastogne is a little shocking, more rubble than town with wounded everywhere, so it takes all Nick's powers of persuasion to get anyone to give him anything. It takes him so long, running around looking for stuff, that it's already getting dark by the time he's exhausted most of his options and is figuring he should head back. It's the day after the shortest day of the year. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve Day.
The blankets in his arms are stacked so high he can't see over them, has to stare at the ground underneath his feet to make sure he's not about to trip over anything, with occasional glances around the sides of the stacks to make sure he's heading the right direction. He goes down the main street, towards division, hoping he'll see somebody in a jeep about to head back to the line, but nobody much is around. And then he manages to walk right into a soldier in the middle of the street, not seeing the feet approaching him until it was too late. He drops the stack of blankets and mutters, "Shit," then blushes that he swore. "Sorry," he says to the guy he bumped into.
"Hey, it's you!" says a familiar voice. It's Captain Nixon, smelling faintly of liquor and cigarette smoke, grown-up smells, soldier smells.
Nick blushes even more. "Sorry, sir. I should've been looking where I was going."
"Doesn't look like you could see," Nixon says, and bends down to help Nick pick the blankets up. "These for Easy?"
"Yes, sir. For Captain Winters, sir." It occurs to Nick that he could maybe get a ride back to the front line with Nixon. "Are you going back to the line now?"
"Nah," Nixon says. "It's getting dark. Light discipline. Nobody's going back to the line."
"Oh," says Nick, his stomach sinking. Crap. What does he do now?
Nixon's looking at him, his eyes bright and amused. "Don't panic, sport," he says. "You can crash with me and go back to the line in the morning."
Nick isn't sure. "Um, Captain Winters . . . ."
"Don't worry about Captain Winters," Nixon says. "I'll radio him. Come on." And with that, Nixon tucks half the blankets under one arm and heads off down the street, clearly expecting Nick to follow him. Nick hurries to grab the rest of the blankets and then has to jog to keep up with Nixon’s long steps.
Captain Nixon is sleeping on the floor of a half bombed-out house, the roof only three-quarters on so it keeps out most of the snow but not the cold.
"Welcome to paradise," Nixon says. "Throw your stuff wherever." He drops the blankets in a corner. Nick puts his down carefully next to Nixon's. "All right," Nixon says, and ruffles Nick's hair, like he can't quite help himself. "Let's go see about the radio. And what passes for dinner around here."
**
After dinner, Nixon says, "And now we go searching for alcohol. You're a runner, you have to know how to scrounge." Nick feels a little dubious about that, and Nixon must catch his look, because he says, "Don't worry, I'll teach you."
"Thanks, sir," Nick says. "That's very big of you." By this time, he's figured out that Nixon likes you better if you're a little sardonic.
Nixon laughs, like he's a little delighted despite himself. He's been doing that a lot around Nick. And then Nixon leads him on a merry chase around Bastogne, which involves first picking through the rubble of what used to be a wine shop; second, choosing random houses based on degree of destruction and estimated class standing, then breaking into them and looking through the cupboards; and third, sweet-talking a couple of nurses. That last one doesn't get them any liquor, but Nick doesn't really think that's why Nixon was doing it anyway.
"All right," Nixon says, when they have a couple of bottles of some whiskey called Vat 69, and a bottle of wine. "That should do us." He hands the wine to Nick, but hangs onto the Vat 69 himself.
Back at the house, he sets the whiskey on a mostly intact table. "Motherfucking Bastogne," Nixon mutters, blowing on his bare hands to try to warm them up. "My balls are as cold as a witch's tit."
Nick laughs a little, nervously. He hears a lot of things in the army, but he's still not quite used to it. His parents would be pretty appalled.
"You even remember being warm?" Nixon says, looking at Nick. Nick shakes his head. "Yeah, me neither," Nixon says. "Have a seat."
As Nick sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall, Nixon starts pouring whiskey into the cup from his mess kit. "You like whiskey?" Nixon asks.
Nick hesitates for a second, not wanting to let on that he's never had anything more than a couple sips of beer. And that he didn't even really like that.
Nixon smiles a little bit. "Don't know? Hey, give it a shot, where's your cup?" Nick hands it over, and Nixon fills it up, handing it back to him. "Well, cheers," Nixon says, clinking their metal cups together, and Nick takes a sip. It feels like it burns all the way down, and he immediately starts coughing.
Nixon can't stop laughing. When Nick finally gets it together, face hot from choking, he smiles sheepishly at Nixon.
"You kill me, kiddo," Nixon says, sprawling beside Nick, his long legs splayed. He drinks his whiskey easily, like it might as well be water.
Nick sips more cautiously this time. It's the worst stuff he's ever tasted, but he wants Nixon to like him, and it's probably time he grew up anyway, so he keeps drinking it. By his third drink, he can barely even taste it anymore. And by the fourth, he and Nixon are singing "People Will Say We're In Love" at the top of their lungs, Nick doing the harmony the way he always does with Joe and Kevin. He's really missed singing, ever since they got out here to this godforsaken tundra where there is no joy and singing's not allowed. He feels woozy, dizzy in this excellent way, like everything's funny and wonderful, even sitting and freezing in a half-bombed out house. Nixon's draped an arm over Nick's shoulders, and when they come to the end of the song ("People will say we're in love!"), Nixon plants a wet sloppy kiss on Nick's cheek with a loud mwuh sound. His thick stubble scrapes at Nick's face -- unlike practically everybody else in the unit at this point, Nick has hardly any beard growing out at all. It's a little embarrassing.
"Hey," Nick says, and wipes the spit off his cheek, but he feels himself go hot in the face, again. He seems to be doing that a lot around Captain Nixon.
Nixon laughs, and glances over at him in the moonlight. "You're the blushingest kid I've ever seen, you know that?" he says, and pulls Nick into a headlock.
"Hey, get off," Nick says, shoving at him, the routine familiar from his older brothers, wrestling when you kind of just want to touch someone. Nixon laughs and then they're tussling, Nixon half landing on top of him and trying to grab his wrists, Nick squirming underneath him, Nixon's long body pressed on top of Nick's. It feels good in the cold, warm bodies pressed together, and the fuzzy light-headed feeling that Nick got from the booze just heightens everything. Nixon manages to pin him with his body, noogeying Nick as Nick laughs and tries to push him off.
"Quit it," Nick says, but he doesn't want him to, and the heady mix of being off the line and being safe and being drunk -- is he drunk? He thinks he's drunk -- and being with this tall grown-up who seems to like him, it's just all adding up to something heating up low in Nick's stomach. He squirms underneath Nixon again, and then's alarmed to feel himself getting a little hard. Oh God, what's that about?
Nixon doesn't seem to notice, though, or if he does he doesn't mind. He's still grinning that grin, like Nick's the best thing he's seen in a long time, and he's all scruff and that one eyebrow always higher than the other, like there's a permanent private joke between him and the universe. He makes Nick feel shy, the way he looks at Nick. And now he's looking at Nick's mouth, so Nick's not altogether totally surprised when Nixon kisses him.
Except that he's surprised. Nixon's mouth is hot and wet against Nick’s, and his stubble scrapes. Nick's stomach drops, that low hot feeling suddenly all he can think about as it surges, and he doesn't know what to do, so in surprise his mouth just falls open, which must be right because then Nixon's tongue is sliding into Nick's mouth, moving slow. Someone makes a little groany noise, and it takes Nick a second to realize it's him. Nixon laughs against his mouth and presses forward. Nick can't catch his breath.
He's so hard it almost hurts, and Nixon's pressing against him, hard too, and it's all so intense Nick can't even process what's happening. Nixon's tongue slides over his, and finally Nick gets up the courage to move his tongue too, press back against Nix's. He feels Nix smile, and then Nixon rolls his hips against Nick and Nick jerks against him like his body can't help itself. He feels like he's going to explode.
Nixon finally pulls back, rolling off Nick so he's lying beside him. Nick feels like the floor is tilting under his back, like he can't get his balance, all off kilter without Nixon pushing him back against the floor, holding him steady. The cold air comes rushing against his front, and he still wants to be kissing Nixon, and he says, "Hey," without quite meaning to. It comes out soft and a little indignant, like Kevin just borrowed his best guitar without asking.
Nixon groans and throws an arm over his eyes. "God, why do I do these things?" he mutters at the ceiling.
Nick can see that Nixon's still hard, straining against his fly. So Nixon didn't stop kissing him because he doesn't want him, and Nick knows that he wants -- something. He doesn't even know what he wants. Well, Nixon, touching him. But. Yeah, the details are fuzzy, and he's so dizzy that when he puts his head up to look at Nixon he feels like the universe is spinning around him.
"Don't stop," Nick somehow says, even though his voice comes out quiet and small again, and he manages to crawl over so he's half on top of Nixon now, moving to kiss him again. But he doesn't -- well, he's only kissed one person, really, a girl from his church youth group. And that wasn't -- they just pressed their lips together for, like, a second, which was all he thought a kiss was. Not this, all tongues and wet heat, this pressing forward that makes him want things he doesn't even know about. So he wants to kiss Nixon again, really kiss him, but he's not sure how to do it so he sort of presses his lips against Nixon's, kissing Nix's lower lip, but he's too nervous to try the tongue thing, so he just does the peck thing like with the girl, and when he pulls back, Nix laughs. But not in the delighted way he usually does around Nick -- in a way where he sounds like he hates himself a little.
"That's what I mean," Nixon says. "Have you ever even kissed anybody before?"
"Yes," Nick says, feeling a little indignant, even though he was just thinking basically the same thing.
"A man?" Nixon says.
Oh God, a man, not a boy, for some reason that question makes Nick even harder. He wants to pretend he has, so Nixon thinks he's grown-up, thinks he's okay and knows what he's doing. But he can't quite bring himself to lie about it, especially when it's so obvious he hasn't. And the truth is, besides that one kiss, he hasn't really done anything else at all either. Except messing around with Joe a little bit, but that's just kid stuff, like playing doctor or whatever. It's nothing.
"Well, no," Nick says.
Captain Nixon pulls his arm down off his eyes and looks at Nick. He doesn't seem as drunk as Nick is, but Nick's not sure if that's because Nixon's always a little drunk, so this isn't that different, or if it just takes a lot more alcohol to get Nixon drunk than it does Nick. Maybe both, though it probably doesn't matter. Nick, though, Nick is druuuuuunk. It feels fantastic, everything feels fantastic, except for how Nixon isn’t kissing him right now. He needs to be kissing him.
"I don't know if I want to end up drinking hemlock," Nixon says.
Nick blinks at him. The only light in the room is from the moonlight coming through the windows and the hole in the ceiling, so Nixon's all washed out, shades of gray and black. "What?" Nick says.
"Corrupting the youth," Nixon says. Nick still doesn't get it. "Socrates," Nixon clarifies.
"Uh, okay," Nick says. He has no idea what Nix is talking about, and he’s too busy wishing Nixon would kiss him again to really worry about it. Though he did get the part about corrupting youth. "I'm eighteen," Nick says.
Nixon looks dubious. "Right," he says.
Nick rolls his eyes and crawls further onto Nixon's body, so they're pressed chest to chest, hip to hip. Nick kisses Nixon's neck, the stubble harsh against his cheek. "God," Nixon groans, and then he's pulling Nick's face up to kiss him again, and rolling them over so he's on top, grinding their erections together. Nick thinks this is the best thing that's ever happened to him, that it's so good he's not sure his body can really take it, all this feeling.
Then Nixon moves a hand down to Nick's crotch, grips his cock through the fabric of his pants, and it’s even more, so much that Nick feels like he’s going to fly apart. Nick makes a noise he's never heard himself make before. Oh God, it feels amazing. Nixon fiddles with Nick's fly, opening it up as he slides down Nick's body.
Nick doesn't know what Nix's going to do -- he figures maybe he'll jerk him off like Joe did that one time, but then Nixon's between Nick's legs, and he's putting his mouth on Nick's cock, and oh holy God -- oh God -- Nick can't believe this feeling was out there all along but he'd never felt it. His hips go to buck into Nixon's hot mouth, but Nix puts his big hands out to hold them down. He twists his tongue around the head and Nick almost can't stand it, thrashes around a little bit, arching his back. Oh, he's going to come so soon, all that wet hot suction around him, like nothing he ever even imagined, and his hand in Nixon's thick black hair, Nixon's mouth red and stretched around him. Nixon's dark eyes glance up at him with that funny delighted look again, and oh God. Nick has to close his eyes, he can't even stand it, he's on sensory overload.
Nixon moves his head up and down, working his tongue around and his hand on Nick’s hip, and oh God, oh God. "I'm gonna -- oh God," Nick says in a weird rough voice, trying to tell Nix to get off before he comes, but Nixon waves him away and when Nick comes Nixon just sucks harder, swallowing it down.
Nick feels like a rag doll, boneless and limp, unable to move. He tries to catch his breath as Nixon wipes his mouth and crawls back up Nick's body, lying with one arm thrown over Nick's chest. "Oh my God," Nick says.
Nixon laughs. But he sounds a little tired, now, maybe a little sad.
Nick feels like he should return the favor, so he reaches down for Nixon, tentatively runs his hand over Nixon's fly. Nix groans, closing his eyes, and Nick watches him, his face changing expression as Nick moves his hand. Nick's the one doing that, making Nixon feel things, making him make that slightly desperate face. Nick undoes Nixon's fly and reaches for his cock, gripping it tentatively and running his hand up and down.
Nix moans again. "God, Nick," he says. Nick thinks it's the first time he's called Nick by his name instead of calling him kid or champ or sport. Nick wasn’t even really sure Nix knew his name, and he feels something deep in his chest, like something breaking open.
Nick moves his hand again, but isn't sure he's doing it right. "Sorry," he says. "I don't really know what I'm doing."
Nixon starts to say something, but then has to clear his throat. "You're good," he says, his voice still a little rough. "Just -- a little harder." And he puts his hand over Nick's to show him, guiding Nick's hand up and down. Nick feels all wrapped up in Nixon, Nix's big hand engulfing his, their legs all tangled together, and he starts to move more confidently, stroking Nixon's cock the way he does his own and watching Nix's face, the contortions it makes, listening to the little desperate noises Nixon makes as he bucks up into Nick's hand. When he makes Nixon come, it feels like the day he got his jump wings, like he's just done something amazing.
**
Nick wakes up to Captain Nixon prodding at him with his toe. The light coming in through the window is that pale washed out foggy light that's come to mean the Ardennes to him, and Nick's first thought, on seeing Nixon's scruffy face, is about how much he likes him. His whole body feels alert, taut, stomach churning with that excitement from last night only more so. He feels like he's smiling like an idiot.
His second thought is that his head is killing him and that his mouth tastes terrible and that he actually wants to die a little bit. He sits up and the headache just gets worse, plus now he feels like he's going to throw up. He groans and presses against his forehead with the butt of his hand.
Nixon laughs. "How you feeling, sport?" he says. Nick groans again, and Nixon hands him a canteen. "Drink some water, you'll feel better," he says.
Nick isn't really feeling that much better by the time they're ready to go back to the line, though. Nixon looks at his green face in the passenger seat and seems a little nervous. "You okay?" he says.
Nick just nods. He doesn't quite feel up to talking, even to Nixon.
"Oh God," Nixon mutters, more to himself than anything. "Dick's going to kill me."
The ride back to the line, bouncing back and forth on the army jeep's lack of suspension, is one of the worst experiences of Nick's life. At one point, Nix has to stop the jeep so Nick can throw up. The only good thing about it is that Nixon rubs his back as he does, his hand warm on the back of Nick's neck. Nick feels a little burst of happiness under the nausea, even more so when Nixon makes him drink more water, looking at him like he's really concerned. Not that the water seems to be doing anything except giving him something to throw up, but still. It's nice.
"Hey, do me a favor," Nixon yells over the roar of the engine, as they get closer to the line. "Don't say anything to Captain Winters about being hungover, all right?"
Nick nods. He wouldn't have anyway, since he's a little embarrassed.
Back at CP, Winters is just strolling up to his tent after walking the line, rifle in hand. When he sees Nick and Nixon walking towards him, he smiles, but as he gets closer the smile fades a little bit and he looks hard at Nick.
Unfortunately at that moment, Nick's stomach rebels, and he throws up what little's left in it into a snow bank. It's mostly just water. He doesn't even feel better afterwards.
When he straightens up again, Winters is looking at him, concerned. "You okay?" he says.
Nick nods, swallowing and breathing through his nose, willing himself to look okay.
"Yeah, he's just a little under the weather," Nix says. He hands Winters the papers that Nick was bringing back from division, clearly trying to distract him.
"I got some blankets too, sir," Nick adds. His voice sounds rough from all the vomiting, and he clears his throat. "They're in the jeep."
Winters looks at him steadily again, and after a second nods. All the steady looks are making Nick blush a little, feeling like his parents are about to find out that he snuck out last night or something, like Winters is somehow going to intuit that he and Nixon . . . well. Nick glances at Nixon, willing him to save the situation. And oh, he likes Nixon so much, his easy smile, how he doesn't seem to care too much about anything, how he can always take care of things.
When Nick looks back at Winters, though, Winters is looking between the two of them with a carefully neutral expression, watchful, distant. Shoot. He couldn't really tell that Nick and Nixon did anything . . . right? He’s not telepathic.
"Nick, maybe you should go lie down for a bit," Winters says to Nick, though he’s looking evenly at Nixon. "You look terrible."
"Yes, sir," Nick says.
Beside him, Nick can see Nixon shifting his weight, clearly uncomfortable under Winters’s steady gaze. After a long moment of looking, Winters nods and says formally, "Captain Nixon," and walks off towards his tent, looking at the paperwork.
When Nick glances at Nixon, he looks stricken. "Shit," he mutters under his breath, and without a second look at Nick, goes after Winters. Nick hears him calling, "Dick! Hey Dick, wait up."
Feeling left all alone, Nick makes his way back to his foxhole to lie down and feel like he wants to die in peace.
The next morning, Winters sends him back to the line.
**
To Part Two.
Fandom: Band of Brothers/Jonas Brothers RPF
Rating: NC-17 for sexytimes
Pairings: Joe Jonas/Nick Jonas, Nick Jonas/Lewis Nixon (in this chapter)
WARNINGS: Incest. Underage (16 years old). Older dude/younger dude. Explicit sexual content. That's just this chapter. Oh god, you guys.
Length: 7900 words (in this chapter)
Disclaimer: This is obviously incredibly fictional -- characterization of the JoBros is based mostly on my imagination, and the portrayal of the veterans is based on the miniseries, not the real people (no grandpas were harmed in the making of this fic).
Summary: The Jonas Brothers go to sexy war.
AN: This isn't my fault. The Jonas Brothers made a video set in WWII, so it could happen to anyone. Visuals to help you out: Joe, Nick, Joe and Nick. fodian gets the credit/blame for the initial idea, and then miss_bennie and irishmizzy EXTREMELY EXTREMELY brainstormed this with me. The fic is dedicated to them. Also, it's super long, so I'll be posting it in parts all week.
**
When Joe gets back to their foxhole, arms wrapped around himself to keep warm, Nick's shivering next to Malark, snow coming down in his curly hair, white and unmelting against the dark brown. Joe picks up Nick's helmet and puts it back on his head. "Idiot," he says. "You lose like all your body heat out of your head."
"The metal's cold," Nick says, but he leaves the helmet on. He's still shivering. Joe sits down next to him so their arms overlap, bodies pressed up against each other, hoping some warmth will seep through. When Domingus comes around with the disgusting scraps they have for meals now, Joe slips Nick half of his when nobody's looking. Nick's mouth twists a little bit, but he eats it. Joe gnaws on what might be supposed to be toast and ignores his stomach growling.
Joe shouldn't have talked Nick into joining up with him, even if going off to Europe without Nicky was about the lamest thing he could think of. Not wanting to be bored isn't a good reason to talk your kid brother into lying about his age and his diabetes to join the paratroops, so the two of you can end up as replacements, surrounded and holding the line in foxholes in the middle of the coldest winter Belgium's seen in fifty years or whatever. At Christmas. Kid's sixteen, he should be home with their mother, going to high school, not out here getting shot at. Plus, right now supplies are so short he's not even getting enough to eat and Joe thinks he's giving himself an ulcer worrying about Nick's blood sugar all the time. Joe's an idiot. He's always known this, but it's a lot clearer lately.
"Jonas," Doc Roe's voice says behind them, and Joe turns to look, his shoulder moving against Nick's. Nick's still shivering, though, and he doesn't move. "Nah," Doc says, when Joe's the only one who looks. "I mean, little Jonas."
Nick blinks, and then turns, real slow. "Yeah?" Nick says.
"How's that leg?"
Nick had taken some shrapnel right below his right knee, but that was a couple weeks back and it's mostly healed up by now. So he gives Roe a weird look, which is understandable. Joe thought he'd told Roe to be more subtle than that. "Fine," Nick says slowly. "A little stiff."
"Good," Roe says, and slides a look over at Joe before focusing on Nick again. "You feeling okay otherwise?"
"Yes," Nick says, but his eyes have narrowed a little.
"Good," Roe says. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"
"Sure," Nick says, and Roe wanders off. Nick's narrowed eyes turn to Joe.
Joe wasn't supposed to tell anybody about the diabetes, is the thing. But Joe doesn't care how mad Nick is, if something happened, Doc Roe needs to know about it. Because what if Joe gets shot in the head or something and then nobody knows and nobody's looking out for him?
"Joe," Nick says, in a low, calm, terrifying voice. Malarkey glances over.
"Yeah?" Joe says, trying to act innocent. Nick can't exactly yell at him in front of all the guys anyway, not if he wants his secret kept.
Nick looks over at Malarkey, who's still looking between the two of them, and then sighs. "We'll talk later," Nick says, and goes back to his watery stew.
Luz comes up and sprawls on the other side of Joe, landing half on top of him so Joe suddenly has warm bodies on both sides. "Hey Jonas," Luz says. "Guess what I got?"
"A social disease?" Joe says.
"Oh, he's a comedian," Luz says, and fumbles in the pocket of his jacket. Everybody else around is talking, not paying any attention to them, so they don't see when Luz presses a chocolate bar into Joe's palm. "Shhh," Luz says, and winks at him.
Joe's got a stash of candy bars, for times when Nick needs emergency sugar. Luz doesn't know that's why he needs them, just thinks Joe has a sweet tooth, but he keeps him supplied anyway. And Joe pays him back. Well, sometimes.
**
By nightfall, Joe's in their foxhole, peering out at the line, head under the tarp that's their ceiling. It's pitch black, just the occasional spark of gunfire, and so he jumps a little bit when Nick slides into the foxhole so fast it's like he's just letting himself fall. Nick laughs when he sees Joe jump.
"Nervous, Joseph?" he says.
"Here's some advice," Joe says. "Don't make fun of a guy holding a gun."
Nick rolls his eyes at him, but he's smiling. Joe doesn't see that much anymore. It feels good, feels like home.
Joe sits back against the wall of their hole, wedging his shoulder blade behind Nick's so their body heat doesn't go to waste.
"Lip told me we shouldn't be in the same hole," Nick says. "In case we get hit. Because of our parents."
Joe looks at him. Nick shrugs.
"Yeah, well," Joe says, and leans into Nick more heavily.
"Yeah," Nick says, and slumps down so his head is almost resting on Joe's shoulder, his nose in Joe's jacket. It's freezing out, the dirt hard underneath them.
Joe closes his eyes, thinking about trying to sleep, listening to Nick's deep even breaths. He's been hearing those breaths his whole life, it feels like, always Nick in the next bunk bed, as long as he can remember. Kevin was the oldest, had his own room, so it was just him and Nick, him falling asleep to Nick's breathing. The only difference is that now he can see Nick's breath in this frigid air.
"I told you not to tell anyone," Nick says, so quiet it almost doesn't register.
Joe's getting sleepy, so it takes him a minute to remember what Nick's talking about. "It's just Doc Roe," Joe says, when he finally does.
Nick breathes in once, twice. "I told you not to tell anyone," he says again.
Joe should feel bad, because he promised Nick he wouldn't tell and he usually keeps promises. But he doesn't feel bad at all, really. "Well, too late," Joe says. Because it is, first of all.
"Joe," Nick says.
"I won't tell anyone else, Nicky," Joe says. "Don't worry."
"Promise?" Nick says.
"I promise," Joe says.
"You better," Nick says, his voice thick with sleep, and Joe closes his eyes again, rests his hand on Nick's chest and tries to get comfortable.
**
It's hard to sleep through the night when it's this cold. Joe wakes up again while it's still dark, feels Nick moving around just a little bit. Nick's breathing is a little harsh, coming ragged, and it takes Joe a minute and the sound of skin sliding over skin for him to realize what Nick's doing. But he's moved before he realizes it, like an idiot, showing Nick he's awake. Nick freezes.
Joe opens his eyes to see Nick looking mortified. Joe still feels sleepy, a little out of it, like everything that's happening is a dream.
"Um," Nick says. "Sorry. I. Um."
"Oh, you jack off," Joe says through a yawn, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm so shocked."
Nick laughs a little, but nervous, embarrassed. Joe's still half on top of him, arm stretched across his chest.
"Well, geez, finish up," Joe says, and then when Nick doesn't move, he reaches down himself. It seems like it makes sense at the time. They share everything else -- food and sleep and foxholes, so much that it's like Nick's body is his body. After all, Joe keeps track of Nick's blood sugar, keeps an eye on if he's losing too much weight, or acting weird and out of it, like something's wrong. Joe was the one who noticed Nick had diabetes in the first place, when Nick took off his shirt to go swimming and he looked like a skeleton. Joe just pays attention, knows the span of Nick's arms and legs, the weight of them, the width of his chest and how it fits in this hole in the ground. So it makes sense that when Nick wouldn't finish himself off, Joe would step in.
When Joe touches him, Nick inhales sharply, bites off a little noise. "Joe," he says. "What are you -- oh God."
"Good?" Joe says, and when Nick nods too quickly, Joe starts stroking his hand up and down Nick's cock, firm, the way he jerks himself off. Nick's hips buck up into Joe's hand, and Joe slides his thumb over the tip to listen to Nick gasp. It doesn't take long before Nick's coming all over his hand, making a noise far in the back of his throat.
"Oh God," Nick says, and then he's using his extra pair of socks to wipe Joe's hand off. His hands are shaking.
"Okay?" Joe says. He's still sleepy, feeling like he's in a dream. The air is frigid and the end of his nose is cold, and Nick's zipping himself back up.
"Um," Nick says. "Yeah. Um. Thanks?"
"Sure thing," Joe says, and leans his head down on Nick's shoulder. Nick's still breathing a little hard. "What time is it?" Joe says muzzily. He can tell he's half gone. So goddamn tired, never really asleep and never really awake in this cold.
"It's two in the morning," Nick says. Joe hears Nick's voice through his chest, hollow and deeper.
"Oh," Joe says, Nick's body warm under his cheek. He's already mostly asleep.
"Joe?" Nick says. He sounds young, far away and unsure of himself.
Joe can barely make his brain register it. "Yeah," he thinks he manages to say, but he's asleep before he hears Nick answer.
**
When Joe wakes up, Nick's gone already, but Joe doesn't worry about it too much. He goes to take a leak and find himself some breakfast, and he's standing next to Buck in the chow line when they hear gunfire a little ways away. Everyone tries not to look. You hear gunfire all the time, it's not exactly unusual, but it still makes Joe tense up. Next to him, Buck mutters, "Fuck," under his breath. Lipton gives Buck a sharp look.
Doc Roe starts edging off in the direction of the noise, and then when they hear the screams of "Medic!" he takes off running. Joe automatically looks around for Nick, but doesn't see him anywhere. Oh fuck, he thinks, as his heart rate starts to pick up. "You seen Nick?" he asks Bill Guarnere, who's just come walking up from the opposite direction. Guarnere usually doesn't have a lot of time for Joe, treats him like the dumb kid replacement he is, but at that he stops and looks at Joe like he's seeing him for once.
"No," Bill says after a second. "Sorry."
It feels like ages before the gunfire dies down and Doc Roe gets back with the injured guy. It's not Nick, it’s Garcia, but Nick comes trailing behind the stretcher Garcia's on, blood all over the front of his fatigues, the tight look on his face he gets when he's trying not to cry. Garcia's one of his buddies.
"You okay?" Joe says, grabbing Nick's shoulder.
"Yeah," Nick says. "Not my blood." But then he pulls himself free and keeps following the litter, helping them lift Garcia onto the front of a jeep.
After that, it seems like Nick's avoiding Joe for the rest of the day, constantly finding things he has to go do elsewhere when Joe comes up to him. Finally Joe gets fed up and settles down to watch the line without worrying too much about what Nick's doing.
Luz settles down next to him, sliding into the foxhole like the snow drifting in it doesn't bother him. "Where's your other half?" he asks, grinning crookedly. His dark eyes are bright like always, the stubble thick on his cheeks making him look older.
Joe shrugs.
Luz looks at him steadily. "Don't worry," he says after a second. "He'll snap out of it."
"Yeah," Joe says, adjusting the rifle in his hands.
"You want a cigarette?" Luz asks, sticking one in his mouth and holding another one out. "Don't tell the other guys I got some."
Joe's never really smoked before, but his hands are shaking and he's worrying himself to death over Nick, so he takes the cigarette out of Luz's hand. Luz grins and lights it for him, the lighter taking a couple of tries to catch. Joe breathes in and immediately chokes, has to try to pretend he's not coughing. His eyes start to water.
Luz laughs and claps him on the back. "All right, kid," he says, and starts giving Joe tips on how to breathe.
**
It’s two days after Garcia got evac'd out, and Nick still hasn't snapped out of it. He's getting more and more distant, sitting and staring into space like he's in a fog worse than the literal fog they're actually in. Joe keeps making him eat, because he's worried that his blood sugar's out of whack on top of everything, that it's making everything worse. He notices Lip keeping an eye on Nick too, bringing him the crap that passes for coffee, talking to him about football.
Finally Joe can't take it anymore, knows he has to get Nick off the line somehow. He goes and finds Captain Winters in his tent, making coffee in his helmet.
"Captain Winters?" Joe says, taking his helmet off and running a hand through his hair. Liebgott cut it into a mohawk a few months back, so it's still short on the sides but growing back in.
"Joe," Winters says, looking surprised. He smiles a little through his shivering, his pale skin even paler in the cold. He's maybe the only guy Joe's seen today who still manages to be clean shaven even in the Ardennes, and he's holding his hand out toward the sterno can's flame. "What's up?" Winters asks.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," Joe says. "But it's my brother."
"Ah," Winters says, like he's noticed Nick's been a little out of it lately. Of course he has -- Winters notices everything.
"I'm worried about him," Joe says. "He's barely said anything for two days, and . . . I just think maybe if he got back from the line for a little bit, he'd . . . ."
Winters interrupts him before he can finish. "Not a problem," he says. "I'll take care of it."
The rush of relief Joe feels is stronger than anything. "Thank you, sir," he says. He starts to leave, but then turns back. "Um, don't tell him that I asked you."
Winters smiles a little. "Don't worry," he says. "It's taken care of."
And by the next day, Nick's working as Winters's runner, back off the line, with no idea that Joe was the one who set it up. Joe'd like to kiss Winters on the mouth, but he settles for grabbing Luz and giving him a big moist one instead. Luz rolls his eyes, and his cheeks flush under his five-day beard.
**
Dear Nick,
My unit just arrived at ............ ....... ……. …….. in the ........ ... ..... ..... ..... ...... and I swear, it's .... ..... .... ..... ........ a freaking jungle ..... ....... ....... . The humidity is terrible. It's wreaking havoc on my hair. I should've gone to the European theater with you guys, the Pacific is the worst. I really don't see why you guys had to join the paratroops, you knew I was afraid of heights.
Whatever. How's Europe? Is the food any better? I swear we're eating WWI surplus over here. ........ .............. ......... ........... .......... .......... ............ ...... ...... ....... ........... ............... .............. ........... .......... ....... ...... ......... ..... ...... .. ........ I hate it! Hope things are better where you are. Miss you lots.
Love, Kevin
**
Nick doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, but it's a big relief to be off the line. Winters has him running errands, and all the gun fire is far enough away it might as well be another war, just thunder in the distance. His shoulders have relaxed for the first time in days -- he hadn't realized how tense he was until he got away from it.
He worries about Joe, of course, but Joe'll be fine. Joe's a survivor. He'll be better off not hovering over Nick, anyway -- he needs to get over it, because Nick can take care of himself, sixteen or not. He's a soldier.
It even feels warmer, off the line, though Nick knows it's not since he can still barely even feel his feet. He runs his errands briskly, scuffing his boots through the snow, moving fast to keep warm. When the snow started falling, he'd had a snowball fight with Garcia and Hoobler, but by this point the novelty has worn off so much that if he never sees snow again it'll be too soon.
He comes back from division with some paperwork from Colonel Sink, the folder held tightly between his half-frozen fingers. When he gets to battalion CP, Captain Winters and Captain Nixon are both bent over a map on the table in the tent, arguing about the latest intelligence. Nick takes off his helmet and hovers in the doorway, waiting for them to finish talking, but before they do Winters looks up and sees him.
"Nick," he says, waving him over.
"Colonel Sink sent this over, sir," Nick says, handing Winters the papers.
"Thanks," Winters says, and sits down to start looking through them. Captain Nixon leans on the stone ledge around the tent, and looks Nick up and down.
"This your new runner?" he asks Winters.
Winters glances up for a second. "Yep," he says, before going back to the paperwork. He takes a glove off to start signing one paper.
"A little young, isn't he?" Nixon says. "They sending us grammar school kids now?"
Winters just grunts. Nick feels nervous - nobody's supposed to know that he's underage. When Nixon looks at Nick and raises his eyebrow, questioning, Nick says, "I'm eighteen, sir."
Nixon laughs. "Right," he says. "I bet." He looks at Winters again, who's ignoring him and reading one of the reports. When Winters doesn't respond, Nixon says to Nick, like he's making slightly aggressive small talk, "So how'd you get this plumb assignment?"
"Uh, Captain Winters picked me, sir," Nick says. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other.
Nixon gets an odd look on his face, and looks hard at Winters. "He did, huh?"
"Yes, sir," Nick says.
Nixon looks back at him, glance lingering, looking him up and down. "Hmm," he says.
Nick isn't quite sure what that means, but Winters seems to understand. He rolls his eyes. "Lay off, would you, Nix?" he says, signing another paper.
Nixon shrugs and pulls out a flask, taking a swig from it casually. "You want some?" he asks, holding it out to Nick. Nick isn't quite sure whether he should drink some or not - he's never really had alcohol before. Their family doesn't drink.
Winters rolls his eyes again. "Cut it out," he says, signing the last paper and standing up again. "Okay, Jonas, thanks," he says. "Run this back to Colonel Sink."
"Yes, sir," Nick says, and salutes.
Nixon smirks. "And hey, while you're at it," he says. "Get me a bacon sandwich, will you? I'm starving."
"Uh, yes, sir," Nick says.
Nixon laughs. "All right, get out of here," he says, waving him away, and Nick trots off, wondering where he can find a bacon sandwich.
Behind him, he hears Nixon laughing, and Winters saying something in an annoyed tone. But Nick's already far enough away he can't really make out the words.
**
Three hours later, all he's managed to track down is a ham sandwich, and that’s probably generous terminology for a thin piece of ham all alone between two stale pieces of bread, but at least it's something. He’s getting a little frantic, thinking of what Captain Nixon might say when he comes back without what he asked for, but at this stage it’s pretty safe to say that there’s no bacon to be had in the entire town of Bastogne, and Nick doesn’t know what else he could do. So he finally gives up, takes a deep breath, and goes to find Captain Nixon, who, as seems to be usual, is shivering in Captain Winters's tent. When Nick steps into the makeshift shelter, Winters and Nixon both look at him.
"I couldn't find any bacon," Nick starts apologetically, holding out the ham sandwich. "So it's ham. Sorry, sir." He's prepared for Nixon get annoyed with him, but instead Nixon laughs delightedly and reaches over to ruffle Nick's hair, fingers crooking through the curls.
"I love this kid," he says to Winters, grinning away and grabbing the sandwich. "Can we keep him, Dad, can we?" Still grinning, he takes a big bite of sandwich and with his mouth full says, "I promise to take him for walks."
Winters looks annoyed. "Nix," he says. "Don't send my runner out for bacon."
"What?" Nixon says. "It's his job."
"No," Winters says. "It's not, and anyway, you know there’s no supplies coming into Bastogne."
"And anyway," Nixon says, talking over him, "I was kidding."
"Sorry," Nick says to Winters.
Winters only glances at him. "It's not your fault," he says, and goes back to glaring at Nixon, who rolls his eyes.
Nick feels awkward, caught in the middle, and can still feel the echo of Nixon's warm hand against his scalp. "Um, do you need anything else, sir?" he asks Winters.
Winters finally looks at him and smiles a little, letting him know that he's not the one in trouble. "No, private," he says. "You're dismissed."
Nixon grins at him, a secret grin between the two of them, and lifts his half-eaten sandwich in a kind of salute. Nick smiles. He's liking Captain Nixon in spite of himself.
**
The next morning, Winters comes by Nick's foxhole with some messages he needs to get back to division, and sits down on the edge of it, feet dangling in, to show Nick what they all are. Once Winters finishes explaining who needs to get what papers, and what Nick needs to get responses on, he says, "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Nick says.
"Oh, and Nick?" Winters says, smiling a little bit. "Out of curiosity, how old are you really?"
Nick's stomach sinks. "Um. I'm eighteen, sir."
"I'm not going to bust you," Winters says. "You're what? Seventeen? Sixteen?"
He's looking at Nick in that fatherly way he has, so without quite meaning to, Nick mutters, "Sixteen."
Winters nods and Nick can feel his face going hot. "Lied about your age to join up with your brother?"
"Yeah," Nick says.
Winters smiles again. "That was brave," he says, and gets up, brushing the snow off his trousers. "I'll see if I can find you a ride into Bastogne," he says, and then he's striding off into the fog.
**
The ride ends up being with Captain Nixon, who has to go see division about the latest patrols, and Nick sits in the front seat waiting to go as Nixon talks to Winters about some last minute details. There's a wounded guy in the back, groaning on a stretcher with Doc Roe crouching beside him.
Roe claps Nick on the back when he looks up from the bandage and sees him. "How's the knee?" he asks. Roe always remembers exactly what's wrong with everybody, even though Nick's pretty sure that in this case knee is code for diabetes.
"Fine," Nick says. "How's everything up at the line? My brother?"
Roe's mouth tightens, a half-amused irritation. "Running around doing anything anyone dares him to," he says. "He's lucky he hasn't lost an arm. Yet."
Nick tries not to smile. That's Joe, all right. Sounds like Joe’s not so worried since Nick got off the line. That's good.
Captain Nixon says one last thing to Winters and swings himself into the driver's seat, turning the key so the engine roars to life. He grins at Nick and shouts over the engine, "How're you doing, champ?"
"Good," Nick yells back, and Nixon puts the jeep in gear, so they bump off towards Bastogne.
In town, Nick finds Sink and delivers his messages, gets the replies he needs. Once he's done with that, he starts going around to see if he can drum up any more blankets or other supplies, like Winters asked. There's not a lot to be had, though -- Bastogne is a little shocking, more rubble than town with wounded everywhere, so it takes all Nick's powers of persuasion to get anyone to give him anything. It takes him so long, running around looking for stuff, that it's already getting dark by the time he's exhausted most of his options and is figuring he should head back. It's the day after the shortest day of the year. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve Day.
The blankets in his arms are stacked so high he can't see over them, has to stare at the ground underneath his feet to make sure he's not about to trip over anything, with occasional glances around the sides of the stacks to make sure he's heading the right direction. He goes down the main street, towards division, hoping he'll see somebody in a jeep about to head back to the line, but nobody much is around. And then he manages to walk right into a soldier in the middle of the street, not seeing the feet approaching him until it was too late. He drops the stack of blankets and mutters, "Shit," then blushes that he swore. "Sorry," he says to the guy he bumped into.
"Hey, it's you!" says a familiar voice. It's Captain Nixon, smelling faintly of liquor and cigarette smoke, grown-up smells, soldier smells.
Nick blushes even more. "Sorry, sir. I should've been looking where I was going."
"Doesn't look like you could see," Nixon says, and bends down to help Nick pick the blankets up. "These for Easy?"
"Yes, sir. For Captain Winters, sir." It occurs to Nick that he could maybe get a ride back to the front line with Nixon. "Are you going back to the line now?"
"Nah," Nixon says. "It's getting dark. Light discipline. Nobody's going back to the line."
"Oh," says Nick, his stomach sinking. Crap. What does he do now?
Nixon's looking at him, his eyes bright and amused. "Don't panic, sport," he says. "You can crash with me and go back to the line in the morning."
Nick isn't sure. "Um, Captain Winters . . . ."
"Don't worry about Captain Winters," Nixon says. "I'll radio him. Come on." And with that, Nixon tucks half the blankets under one arm and heads off down the street, clearly expecting Nick to follow him. Nick hurries to grab the rest of the blankets and then has to jog to keep up with Nixon’s long steps.
Captain Nixon is sleeping on the floor of a half bombed-out house, the roof only three-quarters on so it keeps out most of the snow but not the cold.
"Welcome to paradise," Nixon says. "Throw your stuff wherever." He drops the blankets in a corner. Nick puts his down carefully next to Nixon's. "All right," Nixon says, and ruffles Nick's hair, like he can't quite help himself. "Let's go see about the radio. And what passes for dinner around here."
**
After dinner, Nixon says, "And now we go searching for alcohol. You're a runner, you have to know how to scrounge." Nick feels a little dubious about that, and Nixon must catch his look, because he says, "Don't worry, I'll teach you."
"Thanks, sir," Nick says. "That's very big of you." By this time, he's figured out that Nixon likes you better if you're a little sardonic.
Nixon laughs, like he's a little delighted despite himself. He's been doing that a lot around Nick. And then Nixon leads him on a merry chase around Bastogne, which involves first picking through the rubble of what used to be a wine shop; second, choosing random houses based on degree of destruction and estimated class standing, then breaking into them and looking through the cupboards; and third, sweet-talking a couple of nurses. That last one doesn't get them any liquor, but Nick doesn't really think that's why Nixon was doing it anyway.
"All right," Nixon says, when they have a couple of bottles of some whiskey called Vat 69, and a bottle of wine. "That should do us." He hands the wine to Nick, but hangs onto the Vat 69 himself.
Back at the house, he sets the whiskey on a mostly intact table. "Motherfucking Bastogne," Nixon mutters, blowing on his bare hands to try to warm them up. "My balls are as cold as a witch's tit."
Nick laughs a little, nervously. He hears a lot of things in the army, but he's still not quite used to it. His parents would be pretty appalled.
"You even remember being warm?" Nixon says, looking at Nick. Nick shakes his head. "Yeah, me neither," Nixon says. "Have a seat."
As Nick sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall, Nixon starts pouring whiskey into the cup from his mess kit. "You like whiskey?" Nixon asks.
Nick hesitates for a second, not wanting to let on that he's never had anything more than a couple sips of beer. And that he didn't even really like that.
Nixon smiles a little bit. "Don't know? Hey, give it a shot, where's your cup?" Nick hands it over, and Nixon fills it up, handing it back to him. "Well, cheers," Nixon says, clinking their metal cups together, and Nick takes a sip. It feels like it burns all the way down, and he immediately starts coughing.
Nixon can't stop laughing. When Nick finally gets it together, face hot from choking, he smiles sheepishly at Nixon.
"You kill me, kiddo," Nixon says, sprawling beside Nick, his long legs splayed. He drinks his whiskey easily, like it might as well be water.
Nick sips more cautiously this time. It's the worst stuff he's ever tasted, but he wants Nixon to like him, and it's probably time he grew up anyway, so he keeps drinking it. By his third drink, he can barely even taste it anymore. And by the fourth, he and Nixon are singing "People Will Say We're In Love" at the top of their lungs, Nick doing the harmony the way he always does with Joe and Kevin. He's really missed singing, ever since they got out here to this godforsaken tundra where there is no joy and singing's not allowed. He feels woozy, dizzy in this excellent way, like everything's funny and wonderful, even sitting and freezing in a half-bombed out house. Nixon's draped an arm over Nick's shoulders, and when they come to the end of the song ("People will say we're in love!"), Nixon plants a wet sloppy kiss on Nick's cheek with a loud mwuh sound. His thick stubble scrapes at Nick's face -- unlike practically everybody else in the unit at this point, Nick has hardly any beard growing out at all. It's a little embarrassing.
"Hey," Nick says, and wipes the spit off his cheek, but he feels himself go hot in the face, again. He seems to be doing that a lot around Captain Nixon.
Nixon laughs, and glances over at him in the moonlight. "You're the blushingest kid I've ever seen, you know that?" he says, and pulls Nick into a headlock.
"Hey, get off," Nick says, shoving at him, the routine familiar from his older brothers, wrestling when you kind of just want to touch someone. Nixon laughs and then they're tussling, Nixon half landing on top of him and trying to grab his wrists, Nick squirming underneath him, Nixon's long body pressed on top of Nick's. It feels good in the cold, warm bodies pressed together, and the fuzzy light-headed feeling that Nick got from the booze just heightens everything. Nixon manages to pin him with his body, noogeying Nick as Nick laughs and tries to push him off.
"Quit it," Nick says, but he doesn't want him to, and the heady mix of being off the line and being safe and being drunk -- is he drunk? He thinks he's drunk -- and being with this tall grown-up who seems to like him, it's just all adding up to something heating up low in Nick's stomach. He squirms underneath Nixon again, and then's alarmed to feel himself getting a little hard. Oh God, what's that about?
Nixon doesn't seem to notice, though, or if he does he doesn't mind. He's still grinning that grin, like Nick's the best thing he's seen in a long time, and he's all scruff and that one eyebrow always higher than the other, like there's a permanent private joke between him and the universe. He makes Nick feel shy, the way he looks at Nick. And now he's looking at Nick's mouth, so Nick's not altogether totally surprised when Nixon kisses him.
Except that he's surprised. Nixon's mouth is hot and wet against Nick’s, and his stubble scrapes. Nick's stomach drops, that low hot feeling suddenly all he can think about as it surges, and he doesn't know what to do, so in surprise his mouth just falls open, which must be right because then Nixon's tongue is sliding into Nick's mouth, moving slow. Someone makes a little groany noise, and it takes Nick a second to realize it's him. Nixon laughs against his mouth and presses forward. Nick can't catch his breath.
He's so hard it almost hurts, and Nixon's pressing against him, hard too, and it's all so intense Nick can't even process what's happening. Nixon's tongue slides over his, and finally Nick gets up the courage to move his tongue too, press back against Nix's. He feels Nix smile, and then Nixon rolls his hips against Nick and Nick jerks against him like his body can't help itself. He feels like he's going to explode.
Nixon finally pulls back, rolling off Nick so he's lying beside him. Nick feels like the floor is tilting under his back, like he can't get his balance, all off kilter without Nixon pushing him back against the floor, holding him steady. The cold air comes rushing against his front, and he still wants to be kissing Nixon, and he says, "Hey," without quite meaning to. It comes out soft and a little indignant, like Kevin just borrowed his best guitar without asking.
Nixon groans and throws an arm over his eyes. "God, why do I do these things?" he mutters at the ceiling.
Nick can see that Nixon's still hard, straining against his fly. So Nixon didn't stop kissing him because he doesn't want him, and Nick knows that he wants -- something. He doesn't even know what he wants. Well, Nixon, touching him. But. Yeah, the details are fuzzy, and he's so dizzy that when he puts his head up to look at Nixon he feels like the universe is spinning around him.
"Don't stop," Nick somehow says, even though his voice comes out quiet and small again, and he manages to crawl over so he's half on top of Nixon now, moving to kiss him again. But he doesn't -- well, he's only kissed one person, really, a girl from his church youth group. And that wasn't -- they just pressed their lips together for, like, a second, which was all he thought a kiss was. Not this, all tongues and wet heat, this pressing forward that makes him want things he doesn't even know about. So he wants to kiss Nixon again, really kiss him, but he's not sure how to do it so he sort of presses his lips against Nixon's, kissing Nix's lower lip, but he's too nervous to try the tongue thing, so he just does the peck thing like with the girl, and when he pulls back, Nix laughs. But not in the delighted way he usually does around Nick -- in a way where he sounds like he hates himself a little.
"That's what I mean," Nixon says. "Have you ever even kissed anybody before?"
"Yes," Nick says, feeling a little indignant, even though he was just thinking basically the same thing.
"A man?" Nixon says.
Oh God, a man, not a boy, for some reason that question makes Nick even harder. He wants to pretend he has, so Nixon thinks he's grown-up, thinks he's okay and knows what he's doing. But he can't quite bring himself to lie about it, especially when it's so obvious he hasn't. And the truth is, besides that one kiss, he hasn't really done anything else at all either. Except messing around with Joe a little bit, but that's just kid stuff, like playing doctor or whatever. It's nothing.
"Well, no," Nick says.
Captain Nixon pulls his arm down off his eyes and looks at Nick. He doesn't seem as drunk as Nick is, but Nick's not sure if that's because Nixon's always a little drunk, so this isn't that different, or if it just takes a lot more alcohol to get Nixon drunk than it does Nick. Maybe both, though it probably doesn't matter. Nick, though, Nick is druuuuuunk. It feels fantastic, everything feels fantastic, except for how Nixon isn’t kissing him right now. He needs to be kissing him.
"I don't know if I want to end up drinking hemlock," Nixon says.
Nick blinks at him. The only light in the room is from the moonlight coming through the windows and the hole in the ceiling, so Nixon's all washed out, shades of gray and black. "What?" Nick says.
"Corrupting the youth," Nixon says. Nick still doesn't get it. "Socrates," Nixon clarifies.
"Uh, okay," Nick says. He has no idea what Nix is talking about, and he’s too busy wishing Nixon would kiss him again to really worry about it. Though he did get the part about corrupting youth. "I'm eighteen," Nick says.
Nixon looks dubious. "Right," he says.
Nick rolls his eyes and crawls further onto Nixon's body, so they're pressed chest to chest, hip to hip. Nick kisses Nixon's neck, the stubble harsh against his cheek. "God," Nixon groans, and then he's pulling Nick's face up to kiss him again, and rolling them over so he's on top, grinding their erections together. Nick thinks this is the best thing that's ever happened to him, that it's so good he's not sure his body can really take it, all this feeling.
Then Nixon moves a hand down to Nick's crotch, grips his cock through the fabric of his pants, and it’s even more, so much that Nick feels like he’s going to fly apart. Nick makes a noise he's never heard himself make before. Oh God, it feels amazing. Nixon fiddles with Nick's fly, opening it up as he slides down Nick's body.
Nick doesn't know what Nix's going to do -- he figures maybe he'll jerk him off like Joe did that one time, but then Nixon's between Nick's legs, and he's putting his mouth on Nick's cock, and oh holy God -- oh God -- Nick can't believe this feeling was out there all along but he'd never felt it. His hips go to buck into Nixon's hot mouth, but Nix puts his big hands out to hold them down. He twists his tongue around the head and Nick almost can't stand it, thrashes around a little bit, arching his back. Oh, he's going to come so soon, all that wet hot suction around him, like nothing he ever even imagined, and his hand in Nixon's thick black hair, Nixon's mouth red and stretched around him. Nixon's dark eyes glance up at him with that funny delighted look again, and oh God. Nick has to close his eyes, he can't even stand it, he's on sensory overload.
Nixon moves his head up and down, working his tongue around and his hand on Nick’s hip, and oh God, oh God. "I'm gonna -- oh God," Nick says in a weird rough voice, trying to tell Nix to get off before he comes, but Nixon waves him away and when Nick comes Nixon just sucks harder, swallowing it down.
Nick feels like a rag doll, boneless and limp, unable to move. He tries to catch his breath as Nixon wipes his mouth and crawls back up Nick's body, lying with one arm thrown over Nick's chest. "Oh my God," Nick says.
Nixon laughs. But he sounds a little tired, now, maybe a little sad.
Nick feels like he should return the favor, so he reaches down for Nixon, tentatively runs his hand over Nixon's fly. Nix groans, closing his eyes, and Nick watches him, his face changing expression as Nick moves his hand. Nick's the one doing that, making Nixon feel things, making him make that slightly desperate face. Nick undoes Nixon's fly and reaches for his cock, gripping it tentatively and running his hand up and down.
Nix moans again. "God, Nick," he says. Nick thinks it's the first time he's called Nick by his name instead of calling him kid or champ or sport. Nick wasn’t even really sure Nix knew his name, and he feels something deep in his chest, like something breaking open.
Nick moves his hand again, but isn't sure he's doing it right. "Sorry," he says. "I don't really know what I'm doing."
Nixon starts to say something, but then has to clear his throat. "You're good," he says, his voice still a little rough. "Just -- a little harder." And he puts his hand over Nick's to show him, guiding Nick's hand up and down. Nick feels all wrapped up in Nixon, Nix's big hand engulfing his, their legs all tangled together, and he starts to move more confidently, stroking Nixon's cock the way he does his own and watching Nix's face, the contortions it makes, listening to the little desperate noises Nixon makes as he bucks up into Nick's hand. When he makes Nixon come, it feels like the day he got his jump wings, like he's just done something amazing.
**
Nick wakes up to Captain Nixon prodding at him with his toe. The light coming in through the window is that pale washed out foggy light that's come to mean the Ardennes to him, and Nick's first thought, on seeing Nixon's scruffy face, is about how much he likes him. His whole body feels alert, taut, stomach churning with that excitement from last night only more so. He feels like he's smiling like an idiot.
His second thought is that his head is killing him and that his mouth tastes terrible and that he actually wants to die a little bit. He sits up and the headache just gets worse, plus now he feels like he's going to throw up. He groans and presses against his forehead with the butt of his hand.
Nixon laughs. "How you feeling, sport?" he says. Nick groans again, and Nixon hands him a canteen. "Drink some water, you'll feel better," he says.
Nick isn't really feeling that much better by the time they're ready to go back to the line, though. Nixon looks at his green face in the passenger seat and seems a little nervous. "You okay?" he says.
Nick just nods. He doesn't quite feel up to talking, even to Nixon.
"Oh God," Nixon mutters, more to himself than anything. "Dick's going to kill me."
The ride back to the line, bouncing back and forth on the army jeep's lack of suspension, is one of the worst experiences of Nick's life. At one point, Nix has to stop the jeep so Nick can throw up. The only good thing about it is that Nixon rubs his back as he does, his hand warm on the back of Nick's neck. Nick feels a little burst of happiness under the nausea, even more so when Nixon makes him drink more water, looking at him like he's really concerned. Not that the water seems to be doing anything except giving him something to throw up, but still. It's nice.
"Hey, do me a favor," Nixon yells over the roar of the engine, as they get closer to the line. "Don't say anything to Captain Winters about being hungover, all right?"
Nick nods. He wouldn't have anyway, since he's a little embarrassed.
Back at CP, Winters is just strolling up to his tent after walking the line, rifle in hand. When he sees Nick and Nixon walking towards him, he smiles, but as he gets closer the smile fades a little bit and he looks hard at Nick.
Unfortunately at that moment, Nick's stomach rebels, and he throws up what little's left in it into a snow bank. It's mostly just water. He doesn't even feel better afterwards.
When he straightens up again, Winters is looking at him, concerned. "You okay?" he says.
Nick nods, swallowing and breathing through his nose, willing himself to look okay.
"Yeah, he's just a little under the weather," Nix says. He hands Winters the papers that Nick was bringing back from division, clearly trying to distract him.
"I got some blankets too, sir," Nick adds. His voice sounds rough from all the vomiting, and he clears his throat. "They're in the jeep."
Winters looks at him steadily again, and after a second nods. All the steady looks are making Nick blush a little, feeling like his parents are about to find out that he snuck out last night or something, like Winters is somehow going to intuit that he and Nixon . . . well. Nick glances at Nixon, willing him to save the situation. And oh, he likes Nixon so much, his easy smile, how he doesn't seem to care too much about anything, how he can always take care of things.
When Nick looks back at Winters, though, Winters is looking between the two of them with a carefully neutral expression, watchful, distant. Shoot. He couldn't really tell that Nick and Nixon did anything . . . right? He’s not telepathic.
"Nick, maybe you should go lie down for a bit," Winters says to Nick, though he’s looking evenly at Nixon. "You look terrible."
"Yes, sir," Nick says.
Beside him, Nick can see Nixon shifting his weight, clearly uncomfortable under Winters’s steady gaze. After a long moment of looking, Winters nods and says formally, "Captain Nixon," and walks off towards his tent, looking at the paperwork.
When Nick glances at Nixon, he looks stricken. "Shit," he mutters under his breath, and without a second look at Nick, goes after Winters. Nick hears him calling, "Dick! Hey Dick, wait up."
Feeling left all alone, Nick makes his way back to his foxhole to lie down and feel like he wants to die in peace.
The next morning, Winters sends him back to the line.
**
To Part Two.