Fic: Dear Goodbye | Part 2: All the King's Men | popslash | justin/nick, justin/chris | adult
Dear Goodbye
Part 2: All the King's Men
In the eleventh grade Justin took an anatomy class. It was the sort of class where you spent all your time in the lab dissecting dead cats because supposedly, cats were the closest thing to people the biology department could get approved, even at TAMS. But one day they got to go over to the medical school and observe the med students working on cadavers. Justin could see everything inside the man they were working on-organs and bones and ligaments and bits he couldn't even name but should probably know anyway. Later, they were supposed to write a paper comparing cat anatomy to human anatomy and talk about their evolutionary similarity and all Justin could think was, that's not what people are made of.
In Iraq it was easy to see what people were made of, and it had nothing to do with the parts involved. Skin, blood, tissue, muscles-none of that made up a person. Justin wasn't sure he really believed in God or the soul or anything like that because it was damn hard to believe in some fucking higher power when you were rolling through another sand dust town shooting suicide bombers in the road and waiting for the next land mine to take out half the brigade. So Justin maybe wasn't religious in that manner, but he'd seen the insides of people too many times to believe that the parts were what made them.
Nick didn't believe in God so much either because, "fuck, would God ever fucking sanction a woman like my mother?" but he knew what Justin meant all the same. "It's like this. Sometimes, you know, when you're like waiting for the bus or something, and someone walks by and they're wearing a certain perfume and you're suddenly six years old again and your grandma is pulling you through Kmart going, 'You can have one toy, but nothing over ten bucks.' It's like memories, but it's all wrapped up in some experience or some person and it just hits you, you know?"
Justin took a pull off the bottle they were sharing and looked at Nick in the dark, the curve of Nick's jaw and his square-knuckled hands wrapped loosely around his M16. "It's like sensory memory," Justin said, passing the bottle over. "Like you might not remember what color someone's eyes were or a single fucking conversation you ever had with them, but you remember the, the feel of them, or something. How they are, I mean."
Nick nodded and was quiet after that. In the darkness, his eyes looked black and Justin couldn't remember what color they really were. It didn't matter.
The first time they fucked it was nothing special, nothing really memorable because they had about ten minutes alone in a bathroom the night they took over one of Saddam's palaces. And it was a fucking nice bathroom so there was that, but mostly it was rough and quick and Justin kept his eyes closed because he didn't want to see himself in the mirror getting fucked, it was just too weird. Later, though, when they both had leave time, they hitched a ride on a transport to Dubai and spent three days in bed. Nick said, "I heard there's awesome gambling and nightlife and shit there," and Justin agreed to go because what else could he really do with three days' leave? Couldn't go home, couldn't even leave the region, really, and spending the days fucking Nick seemed as good as anything else.
He wasn't in love with Nick, not then, but he knew that first time that it was something important he should remember, even if it wasn't love. It wasn't even the real first time because that was in the bathroom and it didn't really count, just like all those times he messed around with girls in high school and all the guys he met at clubs-they didn't count unless Justin wanted it to count, was his theory, and he didn't want it to count with Nick until Dubai. He didn't need to memorize it until Dubai.
Justin can still remember the exact texture of Nick's skin, the cool smoothness of his inner thigh and the way he tasted: slightly sweet, like somehow nothing they saw or did or felt in the desert could touch him. He remembers the weight of Nick's body pressing against his back and his teeth sliding sharp along the back of Justin's neck. He remembers the way Nick felt from the inside, hot and slick and shuddering around him. He remembers the way Nick smelled, that cool, spicy scent even when they'd been washing from buckets for days and he should smell fucking disgusting, but Nick never did. Nick was this shining, golden thing and Justin can remember so much about him-the feel of him, really, that sensory memory that can snatch Justin from a crowded bar in Austin and fling him right back to the desert in a single fucking instant.
That's the way sensory memory works. Different people and places and experiences all caught up in a snatch of music or the smell of a stranger's aftershave as they walk by on the street. JC is all mixed up in Justin's mom's old house in Hyde Park when they'd first moved from Millington, the heat of sun-warmed floorboards beneath his feet and the sticky sweet taste of lemonade with too much sugar, because JC never liked anything to be even a little bit sour. His mom is the smell of lemon Pledge and always something baking in the oven; sunlight and yellow curtains and the fall of curls against her neck.
Nick doesn't have the bits and pieces anymore-blood, skin, heart, liver, whatever-but Justin still knows the feel of him. He can't fucking forget.
*
Kirkpatrick says, "So I guess you're pretty fucked up about this thing," and looks at Justin with his one good eye. Justin passes him the joint and leans back against the porch rail, the bare grain of the wood rough against his elbows, digging in a line across his back.
"I guess you could see it that way," Justin says. Kirkpatrick leans back in the porch swing, takes a long hit from the joint and sighs, swaying back and forth in the dim orange glow of the street light. Back and forth until he's a sort of hazy blur and Justin can let his eyes unfocus and his head lean back, so he doesn't even have to look. He doesn't need to see this.
"Well, you seem pretty fucked up, kid. The suck'll do that to a man, and you weren't even hardly a man."
They never talked much before, in the desert. It was mostly missions and towns and hajis and civs; training and water and poker and fucking where they could. It wasn't like they had long conversations about deep and meaningful shit; it wasn't like Justin ever felt like he knew anything significant about Kirkpatrick except what it felt like to be fucked by him and the occasional word of advice. Justin thinks Kirkpatrick was always the most un-fucking-patriotic guy in the entire battalion. He was hard and full of shit and never knew when he'd taken a joke too fucking far, and Justin worshiped him anyway, because he was Kirkpatrick.
Even so, they never had what Justin would call real conversations, and he's not real sure what's expected of him now. He's sure as hell not going to open up and tell his whole fucking sob story so Kirkpatrick can shrug and say, "That's life in the suck, kid. Shit happens." It feels too important to say out loud, even to the one guy who might just fucking understand.
"So, what's up with the fucking hippies?" Kirkpatrick says, handing the joint back with a grin. "I mean, not that I'm complaining because that weed is fucking fantastic, but since when does Captain America hang out with like, fucking socialist vegetarian fags and shit?"
"You're a fag," Justin says, pulling the last hit off the joint, all hot burn in his throat and lungs.
"Never said otherwise. But I ain't no vegetarian, and that there makes all the difference."
Justin snuffs the joint between his fingers and shrugs. "I've known JC since I was a kid. When they sent me back for this evaluation and hearing shit, I got a choice of staying in barracks on base or not. I chose not. At least I can get laid here if I want."
"Yeah, I bet you're hooking up all the time," Kirkpatrick snorts. "So this reservist you shot-"
"I'm not gonna fucking talk about it, okay? You're not my commanding officer anymore, and I have a shrink for this shit, so shut the fuck up."
Kirkpatrick raises his eyebrow. "So you were fucking him."
"It wasn't like that," Justin says, and closes his eyes. Kirkpatrick smells the same as he always did, but cleaner, and with the hot breeze against his skin and the pot fuzzing his brain like a radio between stations, Justin can almost pretend he's back there with the sweat and the sand and the knowledge that he's doing something good. "I wish I could go back," Justin says after a long moment of silence.
"Getting myself blown up was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me," Kirkpatrick says. "I got disability for life, I can do whatever the fuck I want. I got freedom, man, and what did the Corps ever give you? A fucking invasion of a country that had nothing to do with our war, three years of shitting in the sand and being slowly cooked to death and risking your life every fucking day for what-so they could send you home for doing your fucking job? So they could take away your rights and your-who you are and turn you into a-Jesus H. Christ, you're like a fucking machine, Timberlake. I don't even know who you are anymore."
Justin opens his eyes and stares up at the sky, the orange haze of the city lights fading the stars into dim pinpricks and Justin remembers sentry duty on the road outside Fallujah, staring up at the sky and seeing every damn thing because it was so clear and black and pure. Nick said, "I don't want to go home. It's not like I like it here because who fucking would, but. I don't want to go home. I don't know how I could stand it."
Justin knew what Nick meant, because Justin felt the same way. He didn't know who he'd be without the heat and the sand and his M16 warm in his hands. He's just supposed to be Justin now and that doesn't seem like it could ever be enough. Justin isn't sure he wants it to be, either.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Kirkpatrick says. "We got a gig in San Antonio and then we're headed to Nashville. But, fuck it. I know you won't call me, but you fucking should, okay."
Justin looks at Kirkpatrick now and shrugs. There's nothing he can say.
*
Nick had a wish list of a thousand tiny ways he wanted the world to be different and Justin even agreed with some of them.
"Everyone should have a chance, at least," Nick would say, peering through his scope into the darkness beyond the watch tower. "Isn't that what all this is about in the first place?"
Nick's list was long but there were only a few big ticket items. He wished he'd done better in high school, tried harder, not had to work thirty hours a week to help with the rent. He wished he could've gone to college and he wished he'd spent more time with his sisters and brother. He wished he knew them even a little bit and he wished his mom weren't such a cold bitch and his dad weren't such a useless fuck up.
"I wish I'd met you before." Nick added that to the list their last night in Dubai, when Justin was half asleep in the pale blue-grey of the pre-dawn and could pretend he hadn't heard.
Justin didn't believe in wishes. He didn't believe in things that couldn't be helped or changed and he hated the futility behind the very idea of it all. But the morning after they got back to the base from Dubai, McLean handed them each a sealed envelope and said, "Good news, boys! Uncle Sam decided to extend our tour of this fine establishment, which means we get to stay in the suck for six more glorious months."
Nick said, "I'm a reservist, I'm not even supposed to be here." Justin still didn't believe in wishes, but he wished things would be easier on Nick, or maybe that Nick would be able to deal with shit better. He didn't wish Nick was more like him because then he wouldn't be Nick, but Justin wished he could take away that look in Nick's eyes, too, because desperation made him ugly and it twisted Nick's face until he didn't even look like himself anymore.
They met out behind the repair trucks, the same spot Justin used to meet Kirkpatrick and that felt like forever ago, but it was maybe only a year, tops. A year and a bit in the desert, Justin couldn't ever count past the current mission and it was a bad idea to try, anyway, and Nick said, "I wish we knew each other in the real world."
Justin wanted to say, "This is the real world." Justin didn't know what could be more real than this; Kirkpatrick always said there was nothing outside the suck once you were in it, and that's the way Justin lived, like nothing else existed. It was how he got through and came out okay on the other end. Never lose sight of the mission, one day at a time, welcome to the suck and make yourself at home. Nick wasn't like that though, and Justin didn't know how he stood it. Maybe he didn't. Maybe that was Nick's problem.
Justin didn't say any of that though. "Me too," he said, and wrapped his fingers in a tight circle around Nick's wrist.
"It's not like I want to go home. I mean, fuck it. I guess here's better than that. But I liked knowing there would be an end, you know? Sometimes it feels like we're gonna be here forever. I just wish things were different, is all. If we met in the real world, we could-fuck. I don't know. We could be fucking normal and go on dates and not have to fly to another country just to get laid in an actual bed."
Justin played along, because it was important for Nick to have this fantasy of the real world, he thought. Justin got through by not looking outside it, and Nick got through by forcing himself outside it. It was just the way Nick was, and Justin didn't try to change things that couldn't be helped. "What would we be in the real world?" Justin said instead. "I was going to be an engineer before I got recruited. I wanted to build bridges and sky scrapers and shit."
Nick said, "Oh, I'd probably be working some shitty job like I did before. But I'd be fucking a rich engineer, so." Justin kissed his grin and didn't think about how sad it was that even Nick's fantasy of the real world was sort of shitty, and in the end, that's why Justin didn't believe in wishes.
Now though, Justin sort of understands what Nick was always going on about, because Justin wishes things now, too. He wishes things hadn't gone to shit so spectacularly in Fallujah; he wishes things had been different for Nick and that Justin could've done something to make them different. It wasn't the ending he wanted to write when he still thought he could control any small piece of what they did and how they did it. Anticipate, Kirkpatrick always said, and Justin wishes he could've.
Justin wishes things were different, but they're not, and he has to live in this reality instead.
*
What it all came down to in the end was batteries. Fucking batteries and that's it, because no batteries meant no night vision and no night vision meant not seeing an obvious fucking ambush, much less being able to tell who the fuck you were shooting at in the first place. No batteries meant an increased risk of friendly fire, and it was all bullshit anyway because they were in a secured area.
"No worries," Bossman said, "this is a secured area," except Justin was pretty sure nothing about Iraq could ever be considered fucking secure, even if they stayed a hundred years.
It might not have even been him. Justin knows logically, he understands that it might not have even been him because of the night vision thing and the no batteries thing and the only time anyone could see was when gunfire lit the place up, which really wasn't a good way to go about setting up a strategic defense. So it might not have even been him, but Justin knew with that certain sense of clarity you get when just know something to be true in your guts-that's how he knew it was him. He took the blame for it, anyway.
The first thing Justin figured out about Fallujah was that it was a fucking cesspool and the scariest place he'd ever been. They were always getting sent back there and Kirkpatrick used to say, "Look around, kids. Look at what we created. Isn't democracy beautiful?" It was worse than Sadr City and Basrah combined, and after two years of constant attack from all sides, it wasn't so much a city anymore as a pile of rubble and bodies and a few determined fuckers who couldn't let go. It might've been a beautiful place once. The only thing left now was one mosque and a lot of torn up buildings and broken glass, but this was the mission and Justin tried never to question the mission. Nick would say that wasn't his job, and Nick would be right. That never made Justin feel better about it, though.
Justin believed in freedom. He believed that they were there to liberate Iraq and bring peace and democracy and all that, but Fallujah made him think that Kirkpatrick was maybe right about some things, because it was pretty much hell on Earth, from what Justin could see, and no one who lived there seemed to want that to change. In a place where time seemed to stand still and every day was more of the same, Fallujah was like a force of nature, flipping on a daily basis, alternately overrun by insurgents or abandoned for a better strategic position. The mission was simple: take back the city. No air strikes because they'd already fucked that up once, already killed too many civs and this war hung on the balance of that idea-freedom, and the desire for it, which could never be born from a need for revenge.
"You're over thinking it," Nick said, setting his gun aside and moving closer to Justin until he was lying above him in the bed of the supply truck, face pale in the moonlight filtering in through the back flap of the truck, eyes bright and two spots of color staining his cheeks. "We have a job to do, that's all. And we're gonna do it, and it doesn't have to mean shit. It's just another fight in a series of fights and we'll go do it again the next day in the next town."
"You've never been to Fallujah," Justin said. He wanted to say more, about Kirkpatrick and his theories, about how it wasn't just a job because what they did meant something real and tangible. What they did, good or bad or whatever, could change people's lives. It wasn't just a job, Justin wanted to say, but then Nick was kissing him and he couldn't say anything at all.
It was dangerous to do it here, even in the supply truck hidden off the road a klick away from the rest of the battalion, but it wasn't like they really got this opportunity very often and it beat the fuck out of not doing it at all. "You gotta take some fucking chances before you don't have any left," Kirkpatrick used to say, and so it was dangerous but they did it anyway. While they still had their chances.
Pants undone and Nick's mouth against his, licking inside before sliding down, down, sucking kisses along Justin's stomach, breathing hot and wet against the head of Justin's dick before closing his lips around it and sucking gently at first, eyes trained on Justin's face even in the darkness because-
"I like to watch you come," he always said, lips dark and wet, before sliding his mouth back down and sucking hard while his fingers pressed inside, just the tips at first, twisting their way inside in a slow burn until Justin could look down and see Nick staring up at him with hot eyes and that was always enough, Justin always came.
Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled back up Justin's body, kissed him slow and warm, said, "Roll over, okay?" The first slide in was always a little rough because lubed condoms were good but they weren't great, but Nick went slow and Justin liked the way their hands laced together like basket weave, liked the feel of his fingers flexing between Nicks and the slick of sweat between their bodies; the way Nick tasted like warm rain and the wet heat of his mouth at the base of Justin's neck, unreal in contrast to the bone dry air around them. He loved the way Nick said his name when he came, "Oh, Justin," like Justin had just done something special. He loved Nick, was in love with Nick. He closed his eyes and memorized the feel of this because who knew when they'd get another chance, and he didn't say it out loud. It wasn't something they needed to talk about.
Twenty-four hours later, Operation Phantom Fury was a success, and Nick was dead before they even got to Fallujah. Forty-eight hours after that, Justin was on a plane back to the States on a cargo flight with ninety-six coffins.
*
JC is the type of person who doesn't have cable and only watches home improvement shows on PBS. On Sundays he listens to NPR on the front porch with the parlor window above the old-fashioned stereo open, a cup of tea held carefully in his hands as he drifts back and forth on the porch swing. Sometimes Justin sits with him, but coffee and not tea because if Justin's going to drink something hot when it's already ninety-million degrees outside, it'd better damn well have caffeine in it, at the very least.
Justin doesn't like to say these things out loud, but Sunday radio is the only time when he can just sit there with an old friend and drift back to how he was before all this. Pre-war Justin, pre-Kirkpatrick and pre-Nick, when he still thought calculus was the hardest thing he'd ever do and he'd come home from school on holidays and help his mom roll out the dough for the Christmas pastries. It's okay, on Sundays, to just be for a little while, and not need more.
The Sunday after seeing Kirkpatrick is hard. It's harder to get into the right frame of mind, to enjoy the moment and JC's calming presence and the soothing tones of the voices on the radio. Justin hardly ever listens to the stories they're telling, because that's not really the point, for him at least. There's a rhythm to it, a knowledge that each week will bring more of the same. JC will close his eyes and sip at his tea and only ever manage to drink half of it. The radio will crackle a little with static because it really is an old stereo that JC bought from a yard sale a few years back and it has a record player attached, so Justin knows it must be pretty old. The coffee will be hot and sweet in his mouth, and JC will say, "You're going to get cancer and die" when Justin dumps three packets of Sweet 'N Low in his cup. JC only uses honey or other natural sweeteners and he only eats organic, pesticide-free food. The sun will always be out no matter what time of year because that's the way Texas is, and this is how Sundays are, too.
But this Sunday feels different, like Justin has lost the rhythm and he's not really sure how to get back to it. The voices on the radio sound slightly grating to his ears and JC's presence makes him feel restless, like he's waiting for the questions to start and he doesn't understand why JC hasn't asked about Kirkpatrick yet. Justin can't stop thinking about him. He can't stop thinking about Kirkpatrick on stage, singing with a fucking band like all those years in the Corps were for nothing because now he can start his real fucking career as a rock star or whatever. Justin's world has felt upside down ever since, and he doesn't know how to set it right. He doesn't even know if he should be trying.
The voice on the radio says, "Our program today in three acts. In the first, the story of a soldier home from Iraq, only to be imprisoned by--"
"I'll shut it off," JC says, planting his feet firmly on the worn floorboards of the porch to stop the swing's sway and sliding out of his seat. "I'm sorry, I didn't check what they were-it'll be fine, we can listen to something else and-"
"Sit down, C," Justin says. JC looks at him in confusion and Justin shrugs. "Lots of people went to Iraq. You can't protect me from all of them."
JC look unsure but says, "Okay," and nods firmly, sits back down and takes a sip of tea. They listen.
The story is pretty fucking typical: young man goes off to war all proud as shit to serve his country; young man sees terrible things, shoots people; young man returns to civilian life, feels lost and incomplete and paranoid without an M16 in his hands; young man does some tragic fucking shit, beats up his girlfriend, alienates his family, what-the-fuck-ever; young man's life is ruined forever because he went to war incomplete and came back broken.
Justin listens to the story and thinks, it's the same shit he's heard about a hundred other guys. It's the same shit he went through, is going through, and he's not fucking special and he's not fucking exceptional at all. He's just like everyone else-a statistic for the radio voices to drone on about, another story for politicians to repeat in stump speeches and town hall meetings.
When he first got back from Iraq, that first month back was the worst thirty days of Justin's life. He thinks it must've been like what heroin addicts go through when they detox, only no one and especially not JC could keep Justin in one place until it wore off, or however it goes with detox, sweating and puking and shitting it out of your system. Probably it wasn't a good metaphor but that's what it felt like to Justin-sitting on his bed at night, hands clenching and unclenching against his thighs to stop the tremors until he couldn't take it and he had to get out, leave, go somewhere and do something. He got drunk and picked fights with frat boys on Sixth Street, or else he went to Rain or Oil Can Harry's and tried to get laid, but for a long time all he could see was ninety-six coffins with American flags on top and American boys inside and that wasn't exactly erection-inducing imagery right there. To say he was conflicted is the biggest fucking understatement he could make, but he never hurt anyone too badly or more than they deserved, Justin thinks, except for maybe JC who had to watch it all and JC who had to say, "Who are you even trying to be right now?" before Justin really decided that he had to stop.
So it was horrible and painful and bad, but he didn't fuck anything up too much to be fixed and in the end, it's totally fucking typical.
This, more than anything Justin's been told since he got back from the desert, makes him feel-not good, exactly, but somehow better than what he was before. He takes a sip of coffee and enjoys the sweetness on his tongue, the strong smell of JC's spicy tea in the hot breeze and JC's hand covering his for a brief moment, warm and dry and soft.
JC says, "You're not like that, Justin. You should know that. Just-you're not."
"No," Justin says, looking out over the railing at Mrs. Perkins unloading her groceries from the back of her car, at the old guy next door to her power-washing his driveway with a cigarette in one hand, t-shirt barely covering his beer belly. It's surreal, Justin thinks, that people just carry on like this, when McLean and Fatone and Richardson are probably still over there with all the king's horses and all the king's men, trying to put Fallujah back together again. It's completely fucking surreal. Justin looks over at JC and shrugs. "I'm exactly like that."
*
Justin says, "So, I'm calling you," and Kirkpatrick laughs and says, "Do you even know why?"
He's calling because JC left him a book on the kitchen table yesterday morning. Justin started to read it while he was eating breakfast because it was either that or struggle with the antenna to pick something up on the television, by which time his food would be cold anyway, so he started to read the book and then he just kept reading it. He didn't do anything of the things he usually does. He didn't go to the shooting range and he didn't do his conditioning. He moved to the front room with the deep, red corduroy couch that Lance helped JC pick out last month and Justin secretly likes even though he has to pretend to hate it because it's Lance. He moved to the couch and kept reading. He ate lunch at the kitchen table with the book in front of him, and by the time JC came home from work with take out from Java Noodles, Justin was on the last chapter.
"Oh," JC said, "I didn't mean you had to read it all at once."
Justin didn't say anything, just kept reading while JC got out plates and unpacked cartons. He finished the last paragraph and stared at the page for a moment before shutting the book and flinging it across the room where it hit the metal grate shielding the mouth of the fireplace and bounced to the floor.
On the phone with Kirkpatrick now, Justin says, "I read a book. The Road. Have you heard of it?"
"Oh," Kirkpatrick says. "Yeah, fuck. The one about the apocalypse and the guy and his kid."
"And the road."
"What did you think?" Kirkpatrick asks. He sounds like he's not sure he really wants to know. Justin's going to tell him anyway, though.
"I think we never killed kids, okay? We never fucking killed kids or ate babies or whatever the fuck they were doing at the end."
"It's a fucking metaphor, Timberlake. Calm the fuck down. No one's eating babies."
"We never metaphorically killed kids either, okay? That was not the mission. That was not the purpose and-"
"You don't have to fucking tell me what the mission was. I was there a fuck of a lot longer than you. I lost my fucking eye to the mission, okay, so don't call me up just to yell at me because you read a book and you think you suddenly understand shit now."
Justin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in, out, and again. This isn't like before, he thinks; it's not like with Nick and it's not even like with the Kirkpatrick Justin thought he knew. Before, he maybe disagreed with some of the shit Kirkpatrick said but underneath it all he always knew that they were the same even if they had different internal motivations. And later, with Nick, the things Justin remembered most about Kirkpatrick were his words and his eyes; the way everything he said stuck and his eyes went dark and somehow that meant he was speaking the truth. Like a touchstone. A compass, and maybe you're gonna be the one that saves me.
And now everything's different again, suddenly, just when Justin was starting to think he had a handle on shit, he was making progress and getting it and all that, suddenly now it's like he's right back at the beginning, right back where he started six months ago when the suck spit him back out, sitting in his bedroom clenching his trembling hands into fists and trying not to break anything. He opens his hands and stares at his fingers, long and slim and elegant with clean cuticles and nails cut precision-short. Nick had clumsy hands, square and a little ugly because he was always biting his nails and ripping off bits of skin around the edges, Justin thinks, and takes another breath.
"I don't. I don't think that," Justin says finally.
"My LT in Afghanistan, he used to say, 'Welcome to the suck, boys. No one gets out of here alive.' And you know, we all thought he was being a smartass, trying to scare us or whatever. But now I think that was just a metaphor, too. Because it is like being on the road. And there's a part of you that has to die if you're gonna find your way out."
"The kid made it out at the end, though," Justin says. "Mission accomplished, he made it out alive."
"Yeah, well." Kirkpatrick laughs a little. "The kid never ate any babies."
"I thought it was just a metaphor."
"It's a book, Justin," Kirkpatrick says, and Justin thinks it's maybe the first time he's ever heard Kirkpatrick say his name. He didn't realize Kirkpatrick really knew his first name, before, but he says it now like he's always been saying it, like it comes naturally and that's just how it is. Justin can't remember what Kirkpatrick's first name is or if he ever knew it. "It's just a book, and it doesn't have to mean shit."
"But it could if we want it to," Justin says, and that seems right.
*
Links: Part 1: Stay Frosty | Part 3: Semper Fidelis | artwork by semijocund | Fanmix: A Fine Dusting of Sand | Index: Dear Goodbye
Part 2: All the King's Men
In the eleventh grade Justin took an anatomy class. It was the sort of class where you spent all your time in the lab dissecting dead cats because supposedly, cats were the closest thing to people the biology department could get approved, even at TAMS. But one day they got to go over to the medical school and observe the med students working on cadavers. Justin could see everything inside the man they were working on-organs and bones and ligaments and bits he couldn't even name but should probably know anyway. Later, they were supposed to write a paper comparing cat anatomy to human anatomy and talk about their evolutionary similarity and all Justin could think was, that's not what people are made of.
In Iraq it was easy to see what people were made of, and it had nothing to do with the parts involved. Skin, blood, tissue, muscles-none of that made up a person. Justin wasn't sure he really believed in God or the soul or anything like that because it was damn hard to believe in some fucking higher power when you were rolling through another sand dust town shooting suicide bombers in the road and waiting for the next land mine to take out half the brigade. So Justin maybe wasn't religious in that manner, but he'd seen the insides of people too many times to believe that the parts were what made them.
Nick didn't believe in God so much either because, "fuck, would God ever fucking sanction a woman like my mother?" but he knew what Justin meant all the same. "It's like this. Sometimes, you know, when you're like waiting for the bus or something, and someone walks by and they're wearing a certain perfume and you're suddenly six years old again and your grandma is pulling you through Kmart going, 'You can have one toy, but nothing over ten bucks.' It's like memories, but it's all wrapped up in some experience or some person and it just hits you, you know?"
Justin took a pull off the bottle they were sharing and looked at Nick in the dark, the curve of Nick's jaw and his square-knuckled hands wrapped loosely around his M16. "It's like sensory memory," Justin said, passing the bottle over. "Like you might not remember what color someone's eyes were or a single fucking conversation you ever had with them, but you remember the, the feel of them, or something. How they are, I mean."
Nick nodded and was quiet after that. In the darkness, his eyes looked black and Justin couldn't remember what color they really were. It didn't matter.
The first time they fucked it was nothing special, nothing really memorable because they had about ten minutes alone in a bathroom the night they took over one of Saddam's palaces. And it was a fucking nice bathroom so there was that, but mostly it was rough and quick and Justin kept his eyes closed because he didn't want to see himself in the mirror getting fucked, it was just too weird. Later, though, when they both had leave time, they hitched a ride on a transport to Dubai and spent three days in bed. Nick said, "I heard there's awesome gambling and nightlife and shit there," and Justin agreed to go because what else could he really do with three days' leave? Couldn't go home, couldn't even leave the region, really, and spending the days fucking Nick seemed as good as anything else.
He wasn't in love with Nick, not then, but he knew that first time that it was something important he should remember, even if it wasn't love. It wasn't even the real first time because that was in the bathroom and it didn't really count, just like all those times he messed around with girls in high school and all the guys he met at clubs-they didn't count unless Justin wanted it to count, was his theory, and he didn't want it to count with Nick until Dubai. He didn't need to memorize it until Dubai.
Justin can still remember the exact texture of Nick's skin, the cool smoothness of his inner thigh and the way he tasted: slightly sweet, like somehow nothing they saw or did or felt in the desert could touch him. He remembers the weight of Nick's body pressing against his back and his teeth sliding sharp along the back of Justin's neck. He remembers the way Nick felt from the inside, hot and slick and shuddering around him. He remembers the way Nick smelled, that cool, spicy scent even when they'd been washing from buckets for days and he should smell fucking disgusting, but Nick never did. Nick was this shining, golden thing and Justin can remember so much about him-the feel of him, really, that sensory memory that can snatch Justin from a crowded bar in Austin and fling him right back to the desert in a single fucking instant.
That's the way sensory memory works. Different people and places and experiences all caught up in a snatch of music or the smell of a stranger's aftershave as they walk by on the street. JC is all mixed up in Justin's mom's old house in Hyde Park when they'd first moved from Millington, the heat of sun-warmed floorboards beneath his feet and the sticky sweet taste of lemonade with too much sugar, because JC never liked anything to be even a little bit sour. His mom is the smell of lemon Pledge and always something baking in the oven; sunlight and yellow curtains and the fall of curls against her neck.
Nick doesn't have the bits and pieces anymore-blood, skin, heart, liver, whatever-but Justin still knows the feel of him. He can't fucking forget.
*
Kirkpatrick says, "So I guess you're pretty fucked up about this thing," and looks at Justin with his one good eye. Justin passes him the joint and leans back against the porch rail, the bare grain of the wood rough against his elbows, digging in a line across his back.
"I guess you could see it that way," Justin says. Kirkpatrick leans back in the porch swing, takes a long hit from the joint and sighs, swaying back and forth in the dim orange glow of the street light. Back and forth until he's a sort of hazy blur and Justin can let his eyes unfocus and his head lean back, so he doesn't even have to look. He doesn't need to see this.
"Well, you seem pretty fucked up, kid. The suck'll do that to a man, and you weren't even hardly a man."
They never talked much before, in the desert. It was mostly missions and towns and hajis and civs; training and water and poker and fucking where they could. It wasn't like they had long conversations about deep and meaningful shit; it wasn't like Justin ever felt like he knew anything significant about Kirkpatrick except what it felt like to be fucked by him and the occasional word of advice. Justin thinks Kirkpatrick was always the most un-fucking-patriotic guy in the entire battalion. He was hard and full of shit and never knew when he'd taken a joke too fucking far, and Justin worshiped him anyway, because he was Kirkpatrick.
Even so, they never had what Justin would call real conversations, and he's not real sure what's expected of him now. He's sure as hell not going to open up and tell his whole fucking sob story so Kirkpatrick can shrug and say, "That's life in the suck, kid. Shit happens." It feels too important to say out loud, even to the one guy who might just fucking understand.
"So, what's up with the fucking hippies?" Kirkpatrick says, handing the joint back with a grin. "I mean, not that I'm complaining because that weed is fucking fantastic, but since when does Captain America hang out with like, fucking socialist vegetarian fags and shit?"
"You're a fag," Justin says, pulling the last hit off the joint, all hot burn in his throat and lungs.
"Never said otherwise. But I ain't no vegetarian, and that there makes all the difference."
Justin snuffs the joint between his fingers and shrugs. "I've known JC since I was a kid. When they sent me back for this evaluation and hearing shit, I got a choice of staying in barracks on base or not. I chose not. At least I can get laid here if I want."
"Yeah, I bet you're hooking up all the time," Kirkpatrick snorts. "So this reservist you shot-"
"I'm not gonna fucking talk about it, okay? You're not my commanding officer anymore, and I have a shrink for this shit, so shut the fuck up."
Kirkpatrick raises his eyebrow. "So you were fucking him."
"It wasn't like that," Justin says, and closes his eyes. Kirkpatrick smells the same as he always did, but cleaner, and with the hot breeze against his skin and the pot fuzzing his brain like a radio between stations, Justin can almost pretend he's back there with the sweat and the sand and the knowledge that he's doing something good. "I wish I could go back," Justin says after a long moment of silence.
"Getting myself blown up was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me," Kirkpatrick says. "I got disability for life, I can do whatever the fuck I want. I got freedom, man, and what did the Corps ever give you? A fucking invasion of a country that had nothing to do with our war, three years of shitting in the sand and being slowly cooked to death and risking your life every fucking day for what-so they could send you home for doing your fucking job? So they could take away your rights and your-who you are and turn you into a-Jesus H. Christ, you're like a fucking machine, Timberlake. I don't even know who you are anymore."
Justin opens his eyes and stares up at the sky, the orange haze of the city lights fading the stars into dim pinpricks and Justin remembers sentry duty on the road outside Fallujah, staring up at the sky and seeing every damn thing because it was so clear and black and pure. Nick said, "I don't want to go home. It's not like I like it here because who fucking would, but. I don't want to go home. I don't know how I could stand it."
Justin knew what Nick meant, because Justin felt the same way. He didn't know who he'd be without the heat and the sand and his M16 warm in his hands. He's just supposed to be Justin now and that doesn't seem like it could ever be enough. Justin isn't sure he wants it to be, either.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Kirkpatrick says. "We got a gig in San Antonio and then we're headed to Nashville. But, fuck it. I know you won't call me, but you fucking should, okay."
Justin looks at Kirkpatrick now and shrugs. There's nothing he can say.
*
Nick had a wish list of a thousand tiny ways he wanted the world to be different and Justin even agreed with some of them.
"Everyone should have a chance, at least," Nick would say, peering through his scope into the darkness beyond the watch tower. "Isn't that what all this is about in the first place?"
Nick's list was long but there were only a few big ticket items. He wished he'd done better in high school, tried harder, not had to work thirty hours a week to help with the rent. He wished he could've gone to college and he wished he'd spent more time with his sisters and brother. He wished he knew them even a little bit and he wished his mom weren't such a cold bitch and his dad weren't such a useless fuck up.
"I wish I'd met you before." Nick added that to the list their last night in Dubai, when Justin was half asleep in the pale blue-grey of the pre-dawn and could pretend he hadn't heard.
Justin didn't believe in wishes. He didn't believe in things that couldn't be helped or changed and he hated the futility behind the very idea of it all. But the morning after they got back to the base from Dubai, McLean handed them each a sealed envelope and said, "Good news, boys! Uncle Sam decided to extend our tour of this fine establishment, which means we get to stay in the suck for six more glorious months."
Nick said, "I'm a reservist, I'm not even supposed to be here." Justin still didn't believe in wishes, but he wished things would be easier on Nick, or maybe that Nick would be able to deal with shit better. He didn't wish Nick was more like him because then he wouldn't be Nick, but Justin wished he could take away that look in Nick's eyes, too, because desperation made him ugly and it twisted Nick's face until he didn't even look like himself anymore.
They met out behind the repair trucks, the same spot Justin used to meet Kirkpatrick and that felt like forever ago, but it was maybe only a year, tops. A year and a bit in the desert, Justin couldn't ever count past the current mission and it was a bad idea to try, anyway, and Nick said, "I wish we knew each other in the real world."
Justin wanted to say, "This is the real world." Justin didn't know what could be more real than this; Kirkpatrick always said there was nothing outside the suck once you were in it, and that's the way Justin lived, like nothing else existed. It was how he got through and came out okay on the other end. Never lose sight of the mission, one day at a time, welcome to the suck and make yourself at home. Nick wasn't like that though, and Justin didn't know how he stood it. Maybe he didn't. Maybe that was Nick's problem.
Justin didn't say any of that though. "Me too," he said, and wrapped his fingers in a tight circle around Nick's wrist.
"It's not like I want to go home. I mean, fuck it. I guess here's better than that. But I liked knowing there would be an end, you know? Sometimes it feels like we're gonna be here forever. I just wish things were different, is all. If we met in the real world, we could-fuck. I don't know. We could be fucking normal and go on dates and not have to fly to another country just to get laid in an actual bed."
Justin played along, because it was important for Nick to have this fantasy of the real world, he thought. Justin got through by not looking outside it, and Nick got through by forcing himself outside it. It was just the way Nick was, and Justin didn't try to change things that couldn't be helped. "What would we be in the real world?" Justin said instead. "I was going to be an engineer before I got recruited. I wanted to build bridges and sky scrapers and shit."
Nick said, "Oh, I'd probably be working some shitty job like I did before. But I'd be fucking a rich engineer, so." Justin kissed his grin and didn't think about how sad it was that even Nick's fantasy of the real world was sort of shitty, and in the end, that's why Justin didn't believe in wishes.
Now though, Justin sort of understands what Nick was always going on about, because Justin wishes things now, too. He wishes things hadn't gone to shit so spectacularly in Fallujah; he wishes things had been different for Nick and that Justin could've done something to make them different. It wasn't the ending he wanted to write when he still thought he could control any small piece of what they did and how they did it. Anticipate, Kirkpatrick always said, and Justin wishes he could've.
Justin wishes things were different, but they're not, and he has to live in this reality instead.
*
What it all came down to in the end was batteries. Fucking batteries and that's it, because no batteries meant no night vision and no night vision meant not seeing an obvious fucking ambush, much less being able to tell who the fuck you were shooting at in the first place. No batteries meant an increased risk of friendly fire, and it was all bullshit anyway because they were in a secured area.
"No worries," Bossman said, "this is a secured area," except Justin was pretty sure nothing about Iraq could ever be considered fucking secure, even if they stayed a hundred years.
It might not have even been him. Justin knows logically, he understands that it might not have even been him because of the night vision thing and the no batteries thing and the only time anyone could see was when gunfire lit the place up, which really wasn't a good way to go about setting up a strategic defense. So it might not have even been him, but Justin knew with that certain sense of clarity you get when just know something to be true in your guts-that's how he knew it was him. He took the blame for it, anyway.
The first thing Justin figured out about Fallujah was that it was a fucking cesspool and the scariest place he'd ever been. They were always getting sent back there and Kirkpatrick used to say, "Look around, kids. Look at what we created. Isn't democracy beautiful?" It was worse than Sadr City and Basrah combined, and after two years of constant attack from all sides, it wasn't so much a city anymore as a pile of rubble and bodies and a few determined fuckers who couldn't let go. It might've been a beautiful place once. The only thing left now was one mosque and a lot of torn up buildings and broken glass, but this was the mission and Justin tried never to question the mission. Nick would say that wasn't his job, and Nick would be right. That never made Justin feel better about it, though.
Justin believed in freedom. He believed that they were there to liberate Iraq and bring peace and democracy and all that, but Fallujah made him think that Kirkpatrick was maybe right about some things, because it was pretty much hell on Earth, from what Justin could see, and no one who lived there seemed to want that to change. In a place where time seemed to stand still and every day was more of the same, Fallujah was like a force of nature, flipping on a daily basis, alternately overrun by insurgents or abandoned for a better strategic position. The mission was simple: take back the city. No air strikes because they'd already fucked that up once, already killed too many civs and this war hung on the balance of that idea-freedom, and the desire for it, which could never be born from a need for revenge.
"You're over thinking it," Nick said, setting his gun aside and moving closer to Justin until he was lying above him in the bed of the supply truck, face pale in the moonlight filtering in through the back flap of the truck, eyes bright and two spots of color staining his cheeks. "We have a job to do, that's all. And we're gonna do it, and it doesn't have to mean shit. It's just another fight in a series of fights and we'll go do it again the next day in the next town."
"You've never been to Fallujah," Justin said. He wanted to say more, about Kirkpatrick and his theories, about how it wasn't just a job because what they did meant something real and tangible. What they did, good or bad or whatever, could change people's lives. It wasn't just a job, Justin wanted to say, but then Nick was kissing him and he couldn't say anything at all.
It was dangerous to do it here, even in the supply truck hidden off the road a klick away from the rest of the battalion, but it wasn't like they really got this opportunity very often and it beat the fuck out of not doing it at all. "You gotta take some fucking chances before you don't have any left," Kirkpatrick used to say, and so it was dangerous but they did it anyway. While they still had their chances.
Pants undone and Nick's mouth against his, licking inside before sliding down, down, sucking kisses along Justin's stomach, breathing hot and wet against the head of Justin's dick before closing his lips around it and sucking gently at first, eyes trained on Justin's face even in the darkness because-
"I like to watch you come," he always said, lips dark and wet, before sliding his mouth back down and sucking hard while his fingers pressed inside, just the tips at first, twisting their way inside in a slow burn until Justin could look down and see Nick staring up at him with hot eyes and that was always enough, Justin always came.
Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled back up Justin's body, kissed him slow and warm, said, "Roll over, okay?" The first slide in was always a little rough because lubed condoms were good but they weren't great, but Nick went slow and Justin liked the way their hands laced together like basket weave, liked the feel of his fingers flexing between Nicks and the slick of sweat between their bodies; the way Nick tasted like warm rain and the wet heat of his mouth at the base of Justin's neck, unreal in contrast to the bone dry air around them. He loved the way Nick said his name when he came, "Oh, Justin," like Justin had just done something special. He loved Nick, was in love with Nick. He closed his eyes and memorized the feel of this because who knew when they'd get another chance, and he didn't say it out loud. It wasn't something they needed to talk about.
Twenty-four hours later, Operation Phantom Fury was a success, and Nick was dead before they even got to Fallujah. Forty-eight hours after that, Justin was on a plane back to the States on a cargo flight with ninety-six coffins.
*
JC is the type of person who doesn't have cable and only watches home improvement shows on PBS. On Sundays he listens to NPR on the front porch with the parlor window above the old-fashioned stereo open, a cup of tea held carefully in his hands as he drifts back and forth on the porch swing. Sometimes Justin sits with him, but coffee and not tea because if Justin's going to drink something hot when it's already ninety-million degrees outside, it'd better damn well have caffeine in it, at the very least.
Justin doesn't like to say these things out loud, but Sunday radio is the only time when he can just sit there with an old friend and drift back to how he was before all this. Pre-war Justin, pre-Kirkpatrick and pre-Nick, when he still thought calculus was the hardest thing he'd ever do and he'd come home from school on holidays and help his mom roll out the dough for the Christmas pastries. It's okay, on Sundays, to just be for a little while, and not need more.
The Sunday after seeing Kirkpatrick is hard. It's harder to get into the right frame of mind, to enjoy the moment and JC's calming presence and the soothing tones of the voices on the radio. Justin hardly ever listens to the stories they're telling, because that's not really the point, for him at least. There's a rhythm to it, a knowledge that each week will bring more of the same. JC will close his eyes and sip at his tea and only ever manage to drink half of it. The radio will crackle a little with static because it really is an old stereo that JC bought from a yard sale a few years back and it has a record player attached, so Justin knows it must be pretty old. The coffee will be hot and sweet in his mouth, and JC will say, "You're going to get cancer and die" when Justin dumps three packets of Sweet 'N Low in his cup. JC only uses honey or other natural sweeteners and he only eats organic, pesticide-free food. The sun will always be out no matter what time of year because that's the way Texas is, and this is how Sundays are, too.
But this Sunday feels different, like Justin has lost the rhythm and he's not really sure how to get back to it. The voices on the radio sound slightly grating to his ears and JC's presence makes him feel restless, like he's waiting for the questions to start and he doesn't understand why JC hasn't asked about Kirkpatrick yet. Justin can't stop thinking about him. He can't stop thinking about Kirkpatrick on stage, singing with a fucking band like all those years in the Corps were for nothing because now he can start his real fucking career as a rock star or whatever. Justin's world has felt upside down ever since, and he doesn't know how to set it right. He doesn't even know if he should be trying.
The voice on the radio says, "Our program today in three acts. In the first, the story of a soldier home from Iraq, only to be imprisoned by--"
"I'll shut it off," JC says, planting his feet firmly on the worn floorboards of the porch to stop the swing's sway and sliding out of his seat. "I'm sorry, I didn't check what they were-it'll be fine, we can listen to something else and-"
"Sit down, C," Justin says. JC looks at him in confusion and Justin shrugs. "Lots of people went to Iraq. You can't protect me from all of them."
JC look unsure but says, "Okay," and nods firmly, sits back down and takes a sip of tea. They listen.
The story is pretty fucking typical: young man goes off to war all proud as shit to serve his country; young man sees terrible things, shoots people; young man returns to civilian life, feels lost and incomplete and paranoid without an M16 in his hands; young man does some tragic fucking shit, beats up his girlfriend, alienates his family, what-the-fuck-ever; young man's life is ruined forever because he went to war incomplete and came back broken.
Justin listens to the story and thinks, it's the same shit he's heard about a hundred other guys. It's the same shit he went through, is going through, and he's not fucking special and he's not fucking exceptional at all. He's just like everyone else-a statistic for the radio voices to drone on about, another story for politicians to repeat in stump speeches and town hall meetings.
When he first got back from Iraq, that first month back was the worst thirty days of Justin's life. He thinks it must've been like what heroin addicts go through when they detox, only no one and especially not JC could keep Justin in one place until it wore off, or however it goes with detox, sweating and puking and shitting it out of your system. Probably it wasn't a good metaphor but that's what it felt like to Justin-sitting on his bed at night, hands clenching and unclenching against his thighs to stop the tremors until he couldn't take it and he had to get out, leave, go somewhere and do something. He got drunk and picked fights with frat boys on Sixth Street, or else he went to Rain or Oil Can Harry's and tried to get laid, but for a long time all he could see was ninety-six coffins with American flags on top and American boys inside and that wasn't exactly erection-inducing imagery right there. To say he was conflicted is the biggest fucking understatement he could make, but he never hurt anyone too badly or more than they deserved, Justin thinks, except for maybe JC who had to watch it all and JC who had to say, "Who are you even trying to be right now?" before Justin really decided that he had to stop.
So it was horrible and painful and bad, but he didn't fuck anything up too much to be fixed and in the end, it's totally fucking typical.
This, more than anything Justin's been told since he got back from the desert, makes him feel-not good, exactly, but somehow better than what he was before. He takes a sip of coffee and enjoys the sweetness on his tongue, the strong smell of JC's spicy tea in the hot breeze and JC's hand covering his for a brief moment, warm and dry and soft.
JC says, "You're not like that, Justin. You should know that. Just-you're not."
"No," Justin says, looking out over the railing at Mrs. Perkins unloading her groceries from the back of her car, at the old guy next door to her power-washing his driveway with a cigarette in one hand, t-shirt barely covering his beer belly. It's surreal, Justin thinks, that people just carry on like this, when McLean and Fatone and Richardson are probably still over there with all the king's horses and all the king's men, trying to put Fallujah back together again. It's completely fucking surreal. Justin looks over at JC and shrugs. "I'm exactly like that."
*
Justin says, "So, I'm calling you," and Kirkpatrick laughs and says, "Do you even know why?"
He's calling because JC left him a book on the kitchen table yesterday morning. Justin started to read it while he was eating breakfast because it was either that or struggle with the antenna to pick something up on the television, by which time his food would be cold anyway, so he started to read the book and then he just kept reading it. He didn't do anything of the things he usually does. He didn't go to the shooting range and he didn't do his conditioning. He moved to the front room with the deep, red corduroy couch that Lance helped JC pick out last month and Justin secretly likes even though he has to pretend to hate it because it's Lance. He moved to the couch and kept reading. He ate lunch at the kitchen table with the book in front of him, and by the time JC came home from work with take out from Java Noodles, Justin was on the last chapter.
"Oh," JC said, "I didn't mean you had to read it all at once."
Justin didn't say anything, just kept reading while JC got out plates and unpacked cartons. He finished the last paragraph and stared at the page for a moment before shutting the book and flinging it across the room where it hit the metal grate shielding the mouth of the fireplace and bounced to the floor.
On the phone with Kirkpatrick now, Justin says, "I read a book. The Road. Have you heard of it?"
"Oh," Kirkpatrick says. "Yeah, fuck. The one about the apocalypse and the guy and his kid."
"And the road."
"What did you think?" Kirkpatrick asks. He sounds like he's not sure he really wants to know. Justin's going to tell him anyway, though.
"I think we never killed kids, okay? We never fucking killed kids or ate babies or whatever the fuck they were doing at the end."
"It's a fucking metaphor, Timberlake. Calm the fuck down. No one's eating babies."
"We never metaphorically killed kids either, okay? That was not the mission. That was not the purpose and-"
"You don't have to fucking tell me what the mission was. I was there a fuck of a lot longer than you. I lost my fucking eye to the mission, okay, so don't call me up just to yell at me because you read a book and you think you suddenly understand shit now."
Justin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in, out, and again. This isn't like before, he thinks; it's not like with Nick and it's not even like with the Kirkpatrick Justin thought he knew. Before, he maybe disagreed with some of the shit Kirkpatrick said but underneath it all he always knew that they were the same even if they had different internal motivations. And later, with Nick, the things Justin remembered most about Kirkpatrick were his words and his eyes; the way everything he said stuck and his eyes went dark and somehow that meant he was speaking the truth. Like a touchstone. A compass, and maybe you're gonna be the one that saves me.
And now everything's different again, suddenly, just when Justin was starting to think he had a handle on shit, he was making progress and getting it and all that, suddenly now it's like he's right back at the beginning, right back where he started six months ago when the suck spit him back out, sitting in his bedroom clenching his trembling hands into fists and trying not to break anything. He opens his hands and stares at his fingers, long and slim and elegant with clean cuticles and nails cut precision-short. Nick had clumsy hands, square and a little ugly because he was always biting his nails and ripping off bits of skin around the edges, Justin thinks, and takes another breath.
"I don't. I don't think that," Justin says finally.
"My LT in Afghanistan, he used to say, 'Welcome to the suck, boys. No one gets out of here alive.' And you know, we all thought he was being a smartass, trying to scare us or whatever. But now I think that was just a metaphor, too. Because it is like being on the road. And there's a part of you that has to die if you're gonna find your way out."
"The kid made it out at the end, though," Justin says. "Mission accomplished, he made it out alive."
"Yeah, well." Kirkpatrick laughs a little. "The kid never ate any babies."
"I thought it was just a metaphor."
"It's a book, Justin," Kirkpatrick says, and Justin thinks it's maybe the first time he's ever heard Kirkpatrick say his name. He didn't realize Kirkpatrick really knew his first name, before, but he says it now like he's always been saying it, like it comes naturally and that's just how it is. Justin can't remember what Kirkpatrick's first name is or if he ever knew it. "It's just a book, and it doesn't have to mean shit."
"But it could if we want it to," Justin says, and that seems right.
*
Links: Part 1: Stay Frosty | Part 3: Semper Fidelis | artwork by semijocund | Fanmix: A Fine Dusting of Sand | Index: Dear Goodbye