Ask Eugene Sledge what he thinks love is: he'd have told you it was walking in a field with your best friend who's about to be shipped off to a war where he could possibly die, and suddenly wanting the urge to kiss him. So you do it. For hours and hours, laying in the grass, tangled up in the feelings that have spilled from your chest and his and collided in a tangent beauty, and gosh dang if it isn't amazing.

He'd have told you that love was that empty feeling in the pit of your stomach once he's gone. A desperate knot of longing and loneliness that festers and spreads as the days wear on - each one passing as drearily as the previous. Days so long and tedious you can hardly keep track, only looking forward to the letter in the mail scrawled out in his chicken-scratch handwriting confirming that he's still alive, thank God.

Love was a smack in the face and a kiss on the cheek.

Love was a tackle from your war-hardened sweetheart.

Love was a moment of clarity on the beach where you realize he's changed, and you still can't decide whether or not you like it, but you accept it, because, well, you love him.

Love was sneaking off to catch up in private. Memorizing every inch of skin on each other, every sensitive spot, every birth mark, freckle, scar. Love was gentle and kind, slow and painful in the best kind of way. Love was that moment when you're right there together and you repeat over and over, "I love you, I love you." Love was him guiding you through it all. Love was selflessness; it was him putting you before himself.

Love was abandonment. Leaving without a goodbye. Love was a knot of longing and loneliness. A kiss on the cheek, a smack in the face.

Go ahead, ask Eugene Sledge what love is. Back then, he thought he knew. How stupid he had been.

"Whatcha gonna do in ya' stocking feet when the fucking Japs bust through the line?"

A blood-boiling, searing feeling way down in his chest roared to life, clawing and biting at Eugene. It was like absolutely nothing he'd ever felt before. It was raw, animal. It snarled and hissed and spat, tingled and licked until his whole body was an open flame.

In a matter of seconds, he'd gone feral. Staring into Snafu's eyes, he saw a mirror of what he was feeling. He looked down, breathless. His eyes landed on the other man's lips.

The beast screamed excitedly. Look back up.

Snafu's own eyes were doing some searching of their own, and they lingered. Lingered right on Eugene's mouth. Lingered and pierced right into his chest, baiting the beast. It shouted it's gibberish, howled out it's fiery tune. Sucked all the air out of the atmosphere. Left him dizzy, reeling.

Snafu backed away.

Images - dirty, sweaty, pounding, crying out "Snafu!", scratching, biting, kicking, begging please, please, please - flooded his mind, body, loins, soul. The beast's doing, he whooped and hollered and lit Eugene aflame with the thoughts.

Sid. Sid - gentle, quiet moans, soft touches, whispered kisses, slow, steady, loving, love - fought to be seen. His face stretched across Eugene's mind, his smile, his eyes, his mouth.

The beast disappeared.

The war made ignoring feelings easy.

He could pretend.

The beast didn't exist.

They could joke around, become buddies.

He didn't want Snafu.

Snafu didn't want him.

It was easy to pretend.

They fucked in the woods just a few months later.

Sexual tension spilling out into heated touches, angry thrusts, painful kisses. Hard, fast, rough. Pain, pleasure. The beasts had taken over their bodies, turned them inside out, upside down.

They fucking exploded-

in every thrust,

every groan,

every, "Fuck you, Eugene, you ain't thinking of him, are you?"

Snafu had found his notes.

every, "Please, please, faster."

every bump and grind of their bodies,

every obscenity that spewed from their mouths, the lyrical vomit.

It all blew apart, fell together. Pieces intertwining, getting lost, new puzzles forming.

It was art in it's purest form. It was primal. It was unadulterated lust.

It wasn't love, Eugene convinced himself.

His heart thought otherwise. Teamed up with the beast.

They turned against him.

He did think of Sid, but not until after it was over.

Not until machine gun fires flew all around him,

the world exploded under his feet,

the center of the earth painted the ground,

intermingling with the rivers of scarlet red,

only then did he think of Sid.

The thought hurt him more than any physical wound could.

It's not love, Eugene thinks to the empty chair across from him.

It's not love, he thinks to the whole goddamn train.

It's not love, he thinks to his heart, who's demanding otherwise.

Eugene knew love, and that wasn't it.

Eugene thought he knew love.

Wished he did.

Wished he'd realized sooner.

Oops.

Sid's gentle again. Eugene hates it.

He urges for more, but Sid refuses.

I'm not a piece of fuckin' glass, he snarls. I won't break.

He needs it. Needs more. Needs everything. Needs for the beast to come out again.

Needs for Sid to be the one.

Needs for his heart to truly believe it.

Needs faster, harder, Snafu.

Needs everything he can't have.

"I love you!" Sid cries out, speeding up.

Eugene clings to him tighter,

embeds his nails into the other man's skin.

Can't bring himself to say the words back.

No matter how hard he tries.