Alcoholic though he may be, it's unusual for Lew to find himself genuinely drunk these days; in fact, alcoholism generally precludes it, as it takes quite a lot more of the stuff to get him properly sloshed than your average man. It had been his birthday, though, and Harry had insisted, jumping around like a little boozy imp, and hell, like Lew
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NIX!
It's that same old nightmare, the retreat from a failed Market-Garden, the one where I relive the moment of Nix getting shot. Except this time, as it sometimes happens in my nightmare, the bullet leaves much more than a mark on his forehead and two holes in his helmet. It finds its target, and I'm left watching in horror as my best friend is thrown backwards to the ground. His name tears from my throat, and I hurtle myself toward him only to find vacant eyes as I fall to the ground next to him and look down at his face.
It's not a new dream, and yet it seems different this time. Before, there was always an awareness in the back of my mind that it's just a nightmare. And yet this time, it seems so real and so vivid that I start to believe it's actually happening. I'm actually watching Nix die, and there's nothing I can do about it.
As I cry out in the dream, I'm suddenly jerked awake, and I can't be sure I didn't actually yell in my sleep. I sit bolt upright, vaguely aware that I'm sweating, and the only thing I can think is that I have to make sure Nix is okay. I can't do anything else, can't even think of going back to sleep, before I do that. It only takes a moment from sitting up for me to decide this, and without a second thought I'm out of bed and flinging the door open that connects our rooms.
The dream is still so real in my mind that for a split second I actually see the blood on Nix, for one terrifying heartbeat he's in his uniform with his helmet fallen to the side and his face covered in blood. Then I blink and it's gone, it's just Nix and he's fine and all I can do is stand there, clad only in pajama pants and taking heaving breaths like I've just run a sprint.
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"'Sokay. C'mere," he drowsily slurs, awake but still hazy with dreaming and not quite aware of himself.
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"It...it was a dream," I say, my throat slightly scratchy, and I wonder if I did indeed yell out in my sleep. "Market Garden - when you - but you were dead, it wasn't just the helmet - and it was so goddamn real."
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"I'm right here," he repeats, voice stronger, and places his free hand reassuringly against the back of Dick's neck. "You're not silly, I probably would have done the same thing."
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"Fuck it," he says in a heated whisper mostly to himself, and just goes ahead and does it: Kisses Dick on the lips, and if it goes as poorly as Lew's sure it will, he'll blame the alcohol or he'll blame being sleepy, but there's a part of him sure as he's been of anything in his life that if he squanders this opportunity he'll always regret it.
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This is nothing like that.
I'm normally so careful with everything, controlled and logical, but I don't even have to think about this. Kissing him back seems as natural as breathing, and I don't stop to contemplate the meaning behind that. Nix's lips are warm, and I swear my heartbeat can be heard as my hand curls around the first part of him I reach, which turns out to be his arm.
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The beliefs I was raised with tell me this is wrong. But now, now that I'm here in this moment, I can't for the life of me figure out how something that feels so natural and so thrilling could be wrong. And I still can't quite believe it's really happening.
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"Guess that cat's out of the bag," he says, wry and vaguely self-deprecating, using humor as a shield for whatever disappointment might come next.
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Mostly, though, I just want him to do that again.
"Looks that way," I reply, and my gaze keeps dropping to his lips. I wonder if I look silly, or overly flustered. "I'm - not sure what to do now." I don't know that I've ever said that to anyone in my life.
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