fog of war (ii)
word count: 1,217
Posada hardly ever scowls at him. He insists that it’s because he does his job and doesn’t get into trouble. Teixeira, a city kid, makes fun of him.
“It’s cause he likes you,” Teixeira insists at dinner. The man’s eyes track the colonel’s back, waiting for him to come over towards them. “Otherwise he would find something to be mad at you over. He’d just make something up. He gets on Swish for his shoes being untied and his buttons not all facing the right way. If he wanted to get mad at you he’d probably just say your nose is too bent.”
“I fell out of a tree,” replies Andy, rubbing his nose self-consciously.
“Nothing’s wrong with the kid’s nose,” says Posada, as he sits down next to Andy, his eyes slightly narrowed, “Unless you think so, Mark.”
“Not at all, sir,” replies Teixeira, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. “It’s an absolutely gorgeous nose.”
“I think so too,” replies Posada, and Andy becomes very, very interested in his dinner.
* * *
One evening Posada goes through a flask and a half of whiskey. It’s a cold night, and Andy has his arms folded over his chest and his jacket on and even then he can still feel himself shivering. Posada’s placed his jacket to his side but he wraps his flesh arm around Andy’s broad shoulders and pulls him close.
“Sir--” Andy says, though it’s hard to deny the surge of warmth he gets from the body pressed to his side.
“Call me Sado,” Posada replies, voice quiet. His shoulders are uncharacteristically hunched, and his face is pressed into Andy’s broad bicep. It’s an unusually vulnerable moment, and Andy feels this rush of odd warmth that Posada would ever let him see him like this. Then, even softer: “Mike used to.”
* * *
He’s standing in front of Posada's makeshift dwelling staring out into the horizon. At his side, Posada has just come from a meeting with some higher-ups and is still wearing his formal coat. The dusk gleams in his dark eyes, looks good against his various medals, and his lean shoulders. Maybe they’ll have a drink inside, maybe not, but right now they’re just standing here looking at the setting sun and listening to the ever-present sound of Posada’s arm.
“We gonna get out of here anytime soon, sir?” Andy asks, quietly. His knuckles brush the back Posada’s flesh hand, one of those little touches they share. It’s not unusual to have Posada’s fingers brush his thigh or them sitting close enough that their hips touch or having Posada’s boot nudging his ankle. It’s just the way they are. It’s hard, after all, to have much of anything out here in this shithole front of a war that never ends. A little contact makes Andy ache less for something more normal.
Posada touches his shoulder, squeezes it, and barks a wry laugh that means No fucking way.
“There’s an offensive next week. Us, them,” he cocks his head towards the river, “Seven or eight other camps. Moving forward. Got some ground to take or else.”
“Or else what?” Pettitte asks.
Posada looks at him for a very long time. He smiles as much as Posada ever smiles - this amused flash in his eyes - and doesn’t say anything. He reaches up with his mechanical hand and draws the clinking joints through his short hair. His flesh hand reaches, just touches Andy’s shoulder.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, “Can’t wait to get out of this jacket.”
As the highest-ranking officer staying at the camp, Posada has a couch, a table, something vaguely resembling living quarters. He isn’t stuck in the barracks like most of them. So Andy, by association, spends a lot of time here, just being with him, listening to him mutter plans to himself, eat and drink with him when they don’t go down to the cafeteria.
He sits in the chair he always sits in and Posada throws off his formal jacket onto the couch and pours himself more whiskey. Posada sits where he always sits, across from Andy, so they can look at each other. Posada’s attractive. Not in a traditional way, but something about him just calls out to Andy, something in his eyes or the strength in his shoulders or the permanent hard line of his lips.
“Once, when I --” Andy begins, because this is what they do. They sit around and Andy just talks about his life, falling out of trees and raising crops and his proud mother and his strong father. He talks about his siblings. He talks about what he’s going to do when the war is over. He talks about his antics as a kid and his inspiration to come here.
But Posada fixes him with a look that quiets him. Posada takes one enormous gulp of whiskey and matches eyes with him. Andy could drown in those eyes.
“I’m sure you already know I was born in a tent city - a slum. Every year, the army guys would come around and they would tell us we could join the army for free when we were fifteen and they had water and food and we wouldn’t have to steal for food and the roofs didn’t leak so when I was twelve I joined the army.”
Posada takes another gulp of whiskey and refills. He stares through the liquid.
“I was an army man. I’ve always been an army man. I suppose I have sibling and parents but I don’t, really. I have superiors and underlings and you.”
“Me?” Andy says.
“All my stories,” he repeats, like he’s said over and over again, “are about war or people who aren’t around anymore.”
Andy looks at the table, at the hanging maps on the wall behind Posada, at the man’s two-day stubble.
“You remember them,” he pushes, gently, big eyes trying to meet Posada’s. Posada won’t look at him.
“Tomorrow Derek -” General Derek Jeter, Posada means, his gaze directed towards his mechanical palm - “Will be here. We’ll be mobilizing next week. We need to move forward. Everything we can take is being taken. Everything we can’t take is being burnt to the ground.”
“What happens if we lose?” Andy asks.
Posada lifts his glass, but Andy puts his hand over the rim, his lips pursed together determinedly.
There’s a long silence.
“We’re not going to need anything we would have left behind if we lose.”
Andy pulls his hand away from the mouth of the glass and looks at the designs on the tabletop, trying to keep his breathing even. The air is unusually thick and uncomfortable, and it’s odd because normally being in Posada’s cabin is freeing, like it’s miles away from what’s going to be and has been an on-off battlefield for years now. Normally being in Posada’s cabin is a little like being home.
Right now all he can hear is the sound of men shouting and weapons clanging and the inevitable song of battle in his heartbeat.
In front of him, Posada quietly downs the full contents of his glass and looks at him with the haunted army-man’s eyes Andy never realized he had.
< previous next >
Posada hardly ever scowls at him. He insists that it’s because he does his job and doesn’t get into trouble. Teixeira, a city kid, makes fun of him.
“It’s cause he likes you,” Teixeira insists at dinner. The man’s eyes track the colonel’s back, waiting for him to come over towards them. “Otherwise he would find something to be mad at you over. He’d just make something up. He gets on Swish for his shoes being untied and his buttons not all facing the right way. If he wanted to get mad at you he’d probably just say your nose is too bent.”
“I fell out of a tree,” replies Andy, rubbing his nose self-consciously.
“Nothing’s wrong with the kid’s nose,” says Posada, as he sits down next to Andy, his eyes slightly narrowed, “Unless you think so, Mark.”
“Not at all, sir,” replies Teixeira, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. “It’s an absolutely gorgeous nose.”
“I think so too,” replies Posada, and Andy becomes very, very interested in his dinner.
* * *
One evening Posada goes through a flask and a half of whiskey. It’s a cold night, and Andy has his arms folded over his chest and his jacket on and even then he can still feel himself shivering. Posada’s placed his jacket to his side but he wraps his flesh arm around Andy’s broad shoulders and pulls him close.
“Sir--” Andy says, though it’s hard to deny the surge of warmth he gets from the body pressed to his side.
“Call me Sado,” Posada replies, voice quiet. His shoulders are uncharacteristically hunched, and his face is pressed into Andy’s broad bicep. It’s an unusually vulnerable moment, and Andy feels this rush of odd warmth that Posada would ever let him see him like this. Then, even softer: “Mike used to.”
* * *
He’s standing in front of Posada's makeshift dwelling staring out into the horizon. At his side, Posada has just come from a meeting with some higher-ups and is still wearing his formal coat. The dusk gleams in his dark eyes, looks good against his various medals, and his lean shoulders. Maybe they’ll have a drink inside, maybe not, but right now they’re just standing here looking at the setting sun and listening to the ever-present sound of Posada’s arm.
“We gonna get out of here anytime soon, sir?” Andy asks, quietly. His knuckles brush the back Posada’s flesh hand, one of those little touches they share. It’s not unusual to have Posada’s fingers brush his thigh or them sitting close enough that their hips touch or having Posada’s boot nudging his ankle. It’s just the way they are. It’s hard, after all, to have much of anything out here in this shithole front of a war that never ends. A little contact makes Andy ache less for something more normal.
Posada touches his shoulder, squeezes it, and barks a wry laugh that means No fucking way.
“There’s an offensive next week. Us, them,” he cocks his head towards the river, “Seven or eight other camps. Moving forward. Got some ground to take or else.”
“Or else what?” Pettitte asks.
Posada looks at him for a very long time. He smiles as much as Posada ever smiles - this amused flash in his eyes - and doesn’t say anything. He reaches up with his mechanical hand and draws the clinking joints through his short hair. His flesh hand reaches, just touches Andy’s shoulder.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, “Can’t wait to get out of this jacket.”
As the highest-ranking officer staying at the camp, Posada has a couch, a table, something vaguely resembling living quarters. He isn’t stuck in the barracks like most of them. So Andy, by association, spends a lot of time here, just being with him, listening to him mutter plans to himself, eat and drink with him when they don’t go down to the cafeteria.
He sits in the chair he always sits in and Posada throws off his formal jacket onto the couch and pours himself more whiskey. Posada sits where he always sits, across from Andy, so they can look at each other. Posada’s attractive. Not in a traditional way, but something about him just calls out to Andy, something in his eyes or the strength in his shoulders or the permanent hard line of his lips.
“Once, when I --” Andy begins, because this is what they do. They sit around and Andy just talks about his life, falling out of trees and raising crops and his proud mother and his strong father. He talks about his siblings. He talks about what he’s going to do when the war is over. He talks about his antics as a kid and his inspiration to come here.
But Posada fixes him with a look that quiets him. Posada takes one enormous gulp of whiskey and matches eyes with him. Andy could drown in those eyes.
“I’m sure you already know I was born in a tent city - a slum. Every year, the army guys would come around and they would tell us we could join the army for free when we were fifteen and they had water and food and we wouldn’t have to steal for food and the roofs didn’t leak so when I was twelve I joined the army.”
Posada takes another gulp of whiskey and refills. He stares through the liquid.
“I was an army man. I’ve always been an army man. I suppose I have sibling and parents but I don’t, really. I have superiors and underlings and you.”
“Me?” Andy says.
“All my stories,” he repeats, like he’s said over and over again, “are about war or people who aren’t around anymore.”
Andy looks at the table, at the hanging maps on the wall behind Posada, at the man’s two-day stubble.
“You remember them,” he pushes, gently, big eyes trying to meet Posada’s. Posada won’t look at him.
“Tomorrow Derek -” General Derek Jeter, Posada means, his gaze directed towards his mechanical palm - “Will be here. We’ll be mobilizing next week. We need to move forward. Everything we can take is being taken. Everything we can’t take is being burnt to the ground.”
“What happens if we lose?” Andy asks.
Posada lifts his glass, but Andy puts his hand over the rim, his lips pursed together determinedly.
There’s a long silence.
“We’re not going to need anything we would have left behind if we lose.”
Andy pulls his hand away from the mouth of the glass and looks at the designs on the tabletop, trying to keep his breathing even. The air is unusually thick and uncomfortable, and it’s odd because normally being in Posada’s cabin is freeing, like it’s miles away from what’s going to be and has been an on-off battlefield for years now. Normally being in Posada’s cabin is a little like being home.
Right now all he can hear is the sound of men shouting and weapons clanging and the inevitable song of battle in his heartbeat.
In front of him, Posada quietly downs the full contents of his glass and looks at him with the haunted army-man’s eyes Andy never realized he had.
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