The first time the RED Sniper's lips touched the BLU Spy's, he wanted it to last forever.
They were on snow; ice cold and slippery, getting their bodies damp and uncomfortable, but at that moment and time it felt perfect. Their bodies were emitting enough warmth to settle both of them, and to be honest Sniper did not want to let go to look for a more practical place to make love in. There was no time to look around, and they only had so much for themselves.
The Sniper remembers smooth skin that shivered the moment it was exposed to the winter air, remembers how it looked- so flushed, so pale- upon the ice. The smell of expensive perfume had filled his nose as he kissed every place he could get to, his hands restless and fumbling, his lips lingering nowhere.
The Spy made such lovely noises. If he closes his eyes right now and gives himself a moment to reminisce, Sniper can hear the soft, guttural sounds the Spy had made all those years ago. And he does. It brings back a sort of melancholy ache to his old heart, though at the same time it soothes his yearning. It has been so long, after all.
It had taken a little convincing to have the balaclava off, but in the end the Spy had complied. And what a beautiful face it was hidden underneath! Sniper could almost feel the sharp cheekbones in his fingers as he recalled caressing them, and each strand of that brushed back ebony hair, already messy in his hands, soft as feathers. The Sniper remembers chuckling, you look a damn beaut, why the bloody hell do you keep that face under that annoying mask, and he remembers just as well the Spy replying oh, monsieur, this face is only meant for your eyes to see.
The Sniper may not realize it in his old, wizened state, but he had never kissed anyone so fiercely in all his life.
The Spy's mouth tasted like nicotine, probably because of all that damned sticks he smoked, but unlike any other fag the Sniper had, there was a special taste to the one Spy preferred. Sniper never tried it, but he could tell it was more of oregano mixed with nicotine, and it somehow suited the Spy just fine. Something spicy is perfect, after all, for a saucy French man.
But that wasn't all. Sniper may be too old to remember, but he had tasted so many different things- different little things that made them all distinctively Spy's. There was wine, and expensive cheese, and perhaps a little of minty breath freshener. All this assaulted the Sniper's tongue, and he delved into it, committing every single thing to his mind.
The fat lot of good that did him. As the Sniper sits, now old and gray with nothing else to do with his afternoon that he reminisces instead, he realizes that it is the little things that make him ache so much.
He continues nonetheless.
They had made love slowly at first, not because they were first-timers, but because it was their first time to do it together. Sniper was aware of the many people Spy had probably been to bed with, and he has had a few himself. Companionship with the same several men tends to grow on you after quite a while, and sometimes it helps not being picky.
But that was their first time together, and maybe it was a little unrehearsed and the ground was too cold and what if their teams see-
They took their time.
And luckily they did, too, because it was also their last.
The Sniper shudders at that thought, and he raises his ancient hands- the very same hands used to the feel of holding his trusty rifle, used to the prospect of killing people- to tighten the blanket on his shoulders.
It is a cold day, and somebody should really shut that window.
He thinks of the warmth of the enemy Spy's hands as they wandered up and down his own rugged body, riddled with scars. I got this from the first giant cat I've killed, and that was from the bear from that one time in America- it was all very inane, now that Sniper is aware of it, but at that time the Spy had smiled up to him and said, my, aren't you the battle-hardened soldat? And Sniper had leant down to kiss that smile from his face, eager to know what the simple upturn of lips felt like against his own.
It must have been very uncomfortable for the Spy, bare as he was on snow, with only his suit and jacket protecting his back from the sharp cold, but the Sniper had made sure to keep him as warm as possible with his body, and surely the warmth arousal gave them both helped immensely. Naturally, one thing led to another, and before he knew it they were having sex on the cold ground, hidden behind just a couple of wooden boxes right nearby the solitary control point their two teams fought over- and although it was ceasefire, there were still the looming presence of both bases. Nevertheless, they had carried on, and up to the final moment Sniper's vision was only filled with Spy, Spy, Spy- how he arched his back into his touch, how his skin flushed an adorable, light pink, how his eyes would reduce to slits at one moment and widen at the next, a sharp blue that stood out from the rest of his sharp features; and there were the sounds of him, the taste of him, the feel of him everywhere, that Sniper will always remember.
What came after made him shiver in fear, even up to this very day. Not one of them saw it coming, but they should have. As they were tidying up and coming down from their sexual high, the RED Soldier had come along and was shouting his head off. The Sniper had done everything, said everything, to sway his enraged teammate into letting the BLU Spy go, but he had not expected the other RED to pull out his shotgun and shoot at the retreating Spy.
There was too much blood, and there was no respawn. It was ceasefire.
The Sniper remembers his RED uniform being covered in the BLU Spy's life (and he had thought, isn't this ironic? You bleed the color of your enemy), and a little while later by the RED Soldier's, too.
It wasn't enough to bring him back.
It is almost funny how quickly it had ended. If only Sniper had the audacity to laugh right now, but it's been all these years and perhaps it is time for him to try again.
"Grandpa, read me a story."
He looks down at his knees. There is a little boy, eyes bright with innocence and the hope that his grandfather would read him his book for the nth time this week, looking up at him.
"Just one more time, you little tyke." The Sniper says, gesturing for his grandchild to hand him the said book- The Frog Prince, now who the hell read that kind of shit- and the child does so, climbing onto his lap immediately after.
Outside it continues to snow. And as Sniper- named Richard, because he hasn't been called by his job title for a long time now- begins to read the story he almost knows by heart, he allows himself to smile.
He wants this moment of peace to last forever.