A/N: You know what I like to do? I like to hate myself for choosing to write things. And here we go. I just…I don't know why I do the things I do. Ugh. This is a multi-part emotional fic thing that I dreamed up for some ungodly reason and it would not go away. It wasn't going to pan out the way it did, but well…there we go. The color thing was an accident, but then I went with it so…yeah. I hope you enjoy! Reviews are appreciated.

All color meanings are taken from: www dot color- wheel - pro dotcom slash color-meaning dot html.

This is done purely for fun; I mean absolutely no offense by any of it! I hope no one is offended. I have nothing but the utmost respect for these men.

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"Red is the color of fire and blood, so it is associated with energy, war, danger, strength, power, determination as well as passion, desire, and love. Red is a very emotionally intense color. It enhances human metabolism, increases respiration rate, and raises blood pressure. In heraldry, red is used to indicate courage. Red is widely used to indicate danger. This color is also commonly associated with energy." – Color Meaning

The party was in full swing when Eugene Sledge stepped through the door, but he didn't quite feel like joining in.

Men in military uniforms swung women in beautiful dresses across the dance floor at the masquerade dance. The flimsy masks on their faces did little to conceal their identities, and he caught sight of his friend Sid and Sid's fiancé, Mary twirling about with smiles on their faces.

Something inside Eugene's gut twisted painfully as he watched his friend.

None of this felt right.

Every time someone in a uniform danced or stepped by him, Eugene could only narrow his eyes in silence. There they were, dancing, drinking, enjoying themselves. What right did they have to do that, when so many other men never got the opportunity?

What made all of them special?

Or him, for that matter?

Eugene watched the dancers for a few more moments, before he slid out the front door with a quiet sound of disgust. He passed couples who were laughing and talking, having a grand time at the party that he'd only come to because of Sidney. Eugene didn't stop for any of them, didn't spare them a glance as he walked into the cool night air, eager to escape the sights and the sounds of the partygoers and their elation.

He found himself leaning against a railing beside some steps, fiddling with his pipe as the sounds of the party faded away to a soft, muffled thrum.

The quiet was comforting, and so was the isolation. He didn't want to be around people; he didn't think he could handle that right now. He had a million questions rolling through his mind, questions he might never get the answer to.

Why him? Here he was, perfectly fine and intact after going through hell, trying to enjoy himself, to have a little fun. Why did he get to live his life and all those other men didn't? What was fair about that?

What was the point of the whole fucked up war to begin with?

Eugene sucked in a sharp breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as nightmares and memories danced behind his eyelids as surely as the partygoers danced behind the doors of the house.

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat beside him made him jump, and his eyes shot open, body tensing as a woman he was unfamiliar with stood nervously in front of him, holding out a glass of what appeared to be punch.

"Hello," she greeted, and he could tell by her accent that she wasn't from around these parts; there was no lilting Southern drawl, no coyness in her speech that he was so used to hearing from the pretty Southern women who lived in Mobile. If he had to guess, he'd say she was from somewhere out West. But maybe that was just him generalizing plain spoken folks.

"Hello," he greeted back, quietly wishing she would leave him alone. He looked from her face to the punch in her hand, and slowly reached out to take it; his time in the Pacific hadn't erased all of his good Southern manners and it would be rude to refuse her gesture. "Thank you."

"No problem."

She sipped her own drink, but didn't offer anything more, and he quietly waited for her to continue the conversation. But the silence between them stretched on as she stood, one arm folded under the other, glass held gingerly between pale fingers, until Eugene couldn't take it anymore.

"Did you…need somethin' from me?"

The woman looked startled by his question, and inclined her head towards him to fix him with a curious look. "Oh, no. Not at all. Were you expecting me to?"

"Well, usually when a girl brings a guy a drink, they expect something in return. Conversation, a name…?" He raised an eyebrow meaningfully, and she laughed gently; the laugh reminded him of something far away and forgotten, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"Sorry about that. I don't want anything from you, really. I just saw you slip out, and I thought you looked a little lonely. I noticed you didn't have a drink." She shrugged. "So I brought you one. If you like, I can take it back inside?" Her smile was brittle as she held out a hand, as if daring him to place his cup back in it.

"No, sorry," he informed her, holding it out of reach. "It's mine now. You can never have it back." They fell into another silence, and Gene swirled the punch around in his glass pensively. This was odd; was this what it was like to talk to women before the war? He didn't think he could remember.

"You were a soldier, weren't you?"

Her quiet question made him jump, and he fixed her with a narrow-eyed look, wondering what game she was playing with him. "Maybe."

"It's fine," she replied. "You don't have to tell me. But the way you look…the way you stand. Your face. You were a soldier."

"What about the way I stand? What about my face?" he demanded, reaching a hand up to gently touch his own cheek as though it was the face of a stranger. Maybe it was, he decided.

"I've seen that look on a lot of men," the woman told him, moving carefully, cautiously, as she leaned against the opposite railing. "A lot of men in a lot of different places. You always look like you're seeing something that isn't there." She nodded towards the way he was standing, shoulders tense, fingers clenched around his cup. "And your stance; you look like you're expecting something to happen."

"Maybe I am," Eugene admitted, and the second the words were out, he wondered why he'd said them out loud.

"Nothing will happen to you over here, soldier. You're home and you're safe."

Her words didn't instill a lot of confidence in Eugene. And what did she know, anyway? She'd never understand the sorts of things he'd seen, the things he'd done. She was another ignorant, flippant girl who couldn't possibly begin to know what war really was. He was reminded of the woman at the college, of her careless, stupid words, and he felt annoyance bubble up in his chest. "You don't know shit," he responded, surprised at how calm and even his voice was. "Beggin' your pardon."

"Oh, I've heard that before too," the woman said, smiling despite the venom in his words. "But I know a little bit."

"I doubt that; you should go inside and find some nice solider to dance with and leave me the hell alone. I don't feel like talkin' to someone who wants to play games with me."

She seemed genuinely surprised. "What makes you think I'm playing a game with you? If you think I'm lying, then maybe you should think again. I don't claim to know what you did, or where you were, but I can imagine the kinds of things you see when you close your eyes at night. I see them too sometimes." She caught the anger that flashed across his face. "Did you think you were the only one who served in the war?"

Eugene blinked; the idea that this woman had also seen war honestly hadn't occurred to him. War wasn't for women; it wasn't for men, either.

It was for the damned.

"I served in the Nurse Corps in Europe at an evacuation hospital. I'm certain that it doesn't compare to what you did and saw but…Well, we've all got a little darkness inside us now that we'd like to pretend isn't there." She pushed away from the rail she was leaning against and smiled again, though Eugene noted that her smile was more reserved, a little pinched and strained. "Here; let me have your punch." She reached out with gentle fingers and pried the glass from his hands; he didn't even try to stop her, staring at her as if she was some sort of strange revelation. "It clearly isn't strong enough for you right now. But do me a favor? Try to have a little fun and relax; you've earned it, even if you don't think you have. Good night."

Nodding, she turned and started up the stairs, and Eugene saw Sidney step out of the door of the house in front of her, his eyes searching until they landed on him.

"Good night," he called quietly. Before she pressed through the mob of people, she canted her head and flashed him a playful wink, melting away into the crowd.

Sidney jogged up, carrying two glasses of punch. "I saw you makin' a break for it," he called, handing Eugene a glass. "I thought you could use some punch that was properly spiked."

"Thank you," Eugene nodded, absently accepting his drink. His eyes strayed back to where the woman had disappeared, listening to Sidney talk with only half of his attention.

Like him, she hadn't been wearing her uniform either, he realized, eyes dropping down to the crimson liquid swirling in his cup.

She'd been wearing a red dress.