::shrugs::
Meet me.
It was two words, scrawled hastily in Cam’s careless handwriting on the back of a tattered receipt from the PX, but it made Grant’s hands shake as he read it. Grains of Iraqi sand traced over his trembling skin, tumbling out of the folds of the note as Grant stood and stared and reread the words over and over and shook.
Meet me.
He couldn’t mean it. Cam must have gone out of his mind with the heat, gotten sunstroke or shell shock or jock rot or something. But there it was. Two simple words. And Grant had never denied his lover anything.
* * *
Grant was nervous as he waited in the dusty parking lot just outside the half-abandoned army base. Cam’s plane had had to land half a county away due to engine trouble, and instead of bringing in a new one, the army had decided to truck the returning troops to the nearest convenient mid-point. He shuffled his feet in the dirt, watching the yellow grains, so like desert sand, coat the dull black shine of his battered Docs. He’d dressed down today, not wanting to embarrass his boyfriend in front of his unit. He’d taken out his piercings and flattened most of the spikes in his hair. The tattoos were hidden under layers of sensible, normal denim and flannel, and his leather jacket had stayed in the car. His make up - the black eyeliner and lipstick - sat untouched on the bathroom counter, and it had taken him three hours last night to get all vestiges of the dark polish stripped from his nails.
Keep it low key, he told himself over and over, squinting into the sun for any sign of a dust cloud big enough to conceal a convoy of army trucks. A handshake, a manly hug, just a ‘Hey, how are ya, what the fuck have you been doing?’ Don’t embarrass him. Don’t start crying. For fuck’s sake, don’t start crying.
He wasn’t alone in the car park, other families gathering and parking haphazardly in the unmarked lot. Children ran around screeching, excited that their fathers were coming home. Wives and mothers stood or sat in their cars, pensive and silent, bottom lips chewed beyond endurance as they worried about who would be returning home to them this time and just what another tour of duty had wrought on the minds, bodies, and souls of their husbands and sons.
And boyfriends.
The wait seemed interminable, but finally puffs of yellow began rising on the horizon and the people in the parking lot stirred with excitement. Slowly, but inexorably, the rumbling trucks lumbered closer, the roar of their diesel engines drowning out the rising hum of anticipatory voices.
And then they were there, lurching to a halt, brakes groaning in protest, deeper, masculine voices echoing tiredly from the interior of the cargo decks. And Cam, smile broader and face more weathered than ever, emerging from the dark depths of one, throwing his duffle down to the ground in front of him, his leanly muscled body twisting as he leapt agilely after them. Grant’s heart stopped beating and his voice caught as a hard lump in his throat. He’d been scared this time, as the fighting got worse and messages from Cam got further and far between, scared that this time his lover wouldn’t come back to him. But Cam had, and here he was, his face a bit older, a bit more weathered, his eyes a little more haunted, a new scar running up the edge of his jaw, placed just right for Grant to lick when they made love. Cam spotted Grant then and his face lit up with joy and his grin broadened. He paused, briefly, to rummage in his duffle bag, pulling out a battered, bright red heart shaped box. Some of his mates saw it and began nudging each other, grinning as they sought out their own loved ones, a few looking around to see who the lucky lady was.
Only Cam was striding towards Grant, and Grant’s outstretched hand, ready for the requisite masculine handshake was a flimsy barrier as Cam reached him and pulled him into an inescapable embrace and took his mouth in a passionate kiss that spoke of months of longing and fear. Grant could smell the desert heat still lingering on his lover, feel the burn from that sun-browned skin, imagined that the dust and dirt sliding between them was that same-self Iraqi sand that had fallen out of Cam’s note, even though Grant knew that Customs would have purged every single mote of foreign soil from Cam’s person. But none of that mattered, because Cam was here, with him, kissing him, bodies pressing close, mutters of shock and surprise barely heard in the background over the pounding of blood in Grant’s head. Cam let him go just barely before he passed out from lack of air, pulling back and presenting him with the tattered red heart and an apologetic shrug. “It was all I could find at the air base.” As if Grant cared. What mattered was Cam had gone to the trouble of finding him a box of chocolates and carting it halfway around the world to give to him in front of . . .
Wait.
Grant squinted up at his lover. The man had gone mad. Must have. Cam’s arms were still around him, holding him close and refusing to let him escape, and Grant’s fingers couldn’t help but brush fondly over the nameplate on Cam’s fatigues. Even if his voice was a bit strained and snippy. “What are you doing, Cam?” He whispered urgently.
Cam kissed him again, not letting him get away for even a second. His grin became even wider. “I don’t care,” he whispered back. “It’s over, Grant, truly over. You heard what the president said. The official orders came through last week. Don’t ask, don’t tell - it’s gone. We don’t have to hide anymore.”
Confusion flashed through Grant’s mind. He’d heard the president, sure - the military’s policy of don’t ask, don’t tell regarding gay servicemen and women was gone. You could be out and as loud and proud as you liked. But that didn’t mean it was wise. Or safe. They couldn’t kick you out for it anymore, but you’d still kiss any chance of career advancement goodbye. And nothing could stop the unseen hazing that not even the president could ban. Grant decided that Cam must have boiled his brain during his long months in the desert sun, and he gazed up at his lover’s beaming face in concern. Cam just grasped Grant’s hand in his own and began tenderly kissing the finger tips.
“I don’t care,” he repeated. “I’m done. I’m home for good. Honourable discharge, military pension and all the benefits and they can’t take them away just because the sweetest lips God ever made are on your face.” Cam kissed him again for good measure, and Grant felt his knees turn to jelly and start to fail on him. But Cam was there, catching him, holding him up, supporting him . . . and it was over. Cam was home, and safe, and wasn’t going back, and they could . . .
Suddenly, tears streaming down his face - fuck not starting to cry - Grant flung his arms around Cam’s neck and began kissing him back enthusiastically. Cam seemed to have no problem with that and returned the favour with full force. The now completely ruined box of chocolates dropped, forgotten, to the ground between them.
“Come on, baby,” Cam whispered when they pulled apart. His forehead pressed tightly against Grant’s own. “Lets go home.”
Grant nodded, heart too full to squeeze out actual words of agreement. As one they turned, arms around each other’s waists, and headed towards Grant’s car.
“What’s with the flannel?” Cam smiled, tweaking the red plaid fabric of Grant’s shirt. Grant just shrugged and pulled the layers of shirts and t-shirt over his head to reveal a battered black wife beater, and the full back tattoo that he’d finally had completed just after Cam left for Iraq.
Cam stopped and raked an admiring, heated gaze up and down Grant’s skin. “Nice. Very nice.”
Grant swallowed. He knew what that look meant. Knew that after Cam finished fucking him through the mattress, every inch of the new tattoo would be examined. By Cam’s tongue. Grant shivered despite the heat, and started hurrying Cam along towards the car.
It was two words, scrawled hastily in Cam’s careless handwriting on the back of a tattered receipt from the PX, but it made Grant’s hands shake as he read it. Grains of Iraqi sand traced over his trembling skin, tumbling out of the folds of the note as Grant stood and stared and reread the words over and over and shook.
Meet me.
He couldn’t mean it. Cam must have gone out of his mind with the heat, gotten sunstroke or shell shock or jock rot or something. But there it was. Two simple words. And Grant had never denied his lover anything.
* * *
Grant was nervous as he waited in the dusty parking lot just outside the half-abandoned army base. Cam’s plane had had to land half a county away due to engine trouble, and instead of bringing in a new one, the army had decided to truck the returning troops to the nearest convenient mid-point. He shuffled his feet in the dirt, watching the yellow grains, so like desert sand, coat the dull black shine of his battered Docs. He’d dressed down today, not wanting to embarrass his boyfriend in front of his unit. He’d taken out his piercings and flattened most of the spikes in his hair. The tattoos were hidden under layers of sensible, normal denim and flannel, and his leather jacket had stayed in the car. His make up - the black eyeliner and lipstick - sat untouched on the bathroom counter, and it had taken him three hours last night to get all vestiges of the dark polish stripped from his nails.
Keep it low key, he told himself over and over, squinting into the sun for any sign of a dust cloud big enough to conceal a convoy of army trucks. A handshake, a manly hug, just a ‘Hey, how are ya, what the fuck have you been doing?’ Don’t embarrass him. Don’t start crying. For fuck’s sake, don’t start crying.
He wasn’t alone in the car park, other families gathering and parking haphazardly in the unmarked lot. Children ran around screeching, excited that their fathers were coming home. Wives and mothers stood or sat in their cars, pensive and silent, bottom lips chewed beyond endurance as they worried about who would be returning home to them this time and just what another tour of duty had wrought on the minds, bodies, and souls of their husbands and sons.
And boyfriends.
The wait seemed interminable, but finally puffs of yellow began rising on the horizon and the people in the parking lot stirred with excitement. Slowly, but inexorably, the rumbling trucks lumbered closer, the roar of their diesel engines drowning out the rising hum of anticipatory voices.
And then they were there, lurching to a halt, brakes groaning in protest, deeper, masculine voices echoing tiredly from the interior of the cargo decks. And Cam, smile broader and face more weathered than ever, emerging from the dark depths of one, throwing his duffle down to the ground in front of him, his leanly muscled body twisting as he leapt agilely after them. Grant’s heart stopped beating and his voice caught as a hard lump in his throat. He’d been scared this time, as the fighting got worse and messages from Cam got further and far between, scared that this time his lover wouldn’t come back to him. But Cam had, and here he was, his face a bit older, a bit more weathered, his eyes a little more haunted, a new scar running up the edge of his jaw, placed just right for Grant to lick when they made love. Cam spotted Grant then and his face lit up with joy and his grin broadened. He paused, briefly, to rummage in his duffle bag, pulling out a battered, bright red heart shaped box. Some of his mates saw it and began nudging each other, grinning as they sought out their own loved ones, a few looking around to see who the lucky lady was.
Only Cam was striding towards Grant, and Grant’s outstretched hand, ready for the requisite masculine handshake was a flimsy barrier as Cam reached him and pulled him into an inescapable embrace and took his mouth in a passionate kiss that spoke of months of longing and fear. Grant could smell the desert heat still lingering on his lover, feel the burn from that sun-browned skin, imagined that the dust and dirt sliding between them was that same-self Iraqi sand that had fallen out of Cam’s note, even though Grant knew that Customs would have purged every single mote of foreign soil from Cam’s person. But none of that mattered, because Cam was here, with him, kissing him, bodies pressing close, mutters of shock and surprise barely heard in the background over the pounding of blood in Grant’s head. Cam let him go just barely before he passed out from lack of air, pulling back and presenting him with the tattered red heart and an apologetic shrug. “It was all I could find at the air base.” As if Grant cared. What mattered was Cam had gone to the trouble of finding him a box of chocolates and carting it halfway around the world to give to him in front of . . .
Wait.
Grant squinted up at his lover. The man had gone mad. Must have. Cam’s arms were still around him, holding him close and refusing to let him escape, and Grant’s fingers couldn’t help but brush fondly over the nameplate on Cam’s fatigues. Even if his voice was a bit strained and snippy. “What are you doing, Cam?” He whispered urgently.
Cam kissed him again, not letting him get away for even a second. His grin became even wider. “I don’t care,” he whispered back. “It’s over, Grant, truly over. You heard what the president said. The official orders came through last week. Don’t ask, don’t tell - it’s gone. We don’t have to hide anymore.”
Confusion flashed through Grant’s mind. He’d heard the president, sure - the military’s policy of don’t ask, don’t tell regarding gay servicemen and women was gone. You could be out and as loud and proud as you liked. But that didn’t mean it was wise. Or safe. They couldn’t kick you out for it anymore, but you’d still kiss any chance of career advancement goodbye. And nothing could stop the unseen hazing that not even the president could ban. Grant decided that Cam must have boiled his brain during his long months in the desert sun, and he gazed up at his lover’s beaming face in concern. Cam just grasped Grant’s hand in his own and began tenderly kissing the finger tips.
“I don’t care,” he repeated. “I’m done. I’m home for good. Honourable discharge, military pension and all the benefits and they can’t take them away just because the sweetest lips God ever made are on your face.” Cam kissed him again for good measure, and Grant felt his knees turn to jelly and start to fail on him. But Cam was there, catching him, holding him up, supporting him . . . and it was over. Cam was home, and safe, and wasn’t going back, and they could . . .
Suddenly, tears streaming down his face - fuck not starting to cry - Grant flung his arms around Cam’s neck and began kissing him back enthusiastically. Cam seemed to have no problem with that and returned the favour with full force. The now completely ruined box of chocolates dropped, forgotten, to the ground between them.
“Come on, baby,” Cam whispered when they pulled apart. His forehead pressed tightly against Grant’s own. “Lets go home.”
Grant nodded, heart too full to squeeze out actual words of agreement. As one they turned, arms around each other’s waists, and headed towards Grant’s car.
“What’s with the flannel?” Cam smiled, tweaking the red plaid fabric of Grant’s shirt. Grant just shrugged and pulled the layers of shirts and t-shirt over his head to reveal a battered black wife beater, and the full back tattoo that he’d finally had completed just after Cam left for Iraq.
Cam stopped and raked an admiring, heated gaze up and down Grant’s skin. “Nice. Very nice.”
Grant swallowed. He knew what that look meant. Knew that after Cam finished fucking him through the mattress, every inch of the new tattoo would be examined. By Cam’s tongue. Grant shivered despite the heat, and started hurrying Cam along towards the car.