The BSAA paid well, and so it happened that Chris spent well. He drank well, forgot well. Couldn't keep count of the number of drinks or days after the first month, and it didn't really matter at that point. At least he couldn't remember his men's faces or names.
Except for one.
Face, that is. The one with the stupid and somehow fitting scarf thing. Or shamegh, is what the younger man had insisted it be called. Chris scoffed disdainfully at the memory and the fact that he remembered the insignificant detail. When asked what functionality the scarf could possibly hold, the man simply responded that there was none. It was more of a statement.
Chris had to admit that it suited him somehow. Made him look preppy, maybe even a little gay. Chris never judged, nor was he prejudiced or intolerant if any of his men happened to swing that way. It was more of an observation. At times, Chris wondered, though.
The fact remained that the young sniper's face, neck bundled with the checkered garment, would not leave Chris' head. Moments during his nightly (or daily) treks into the depths of dim and dank bars, that man's face was all he would remember. Not even a name. Just the voluptuous pair of lips, and angular cheekbones.
Being one of the captain's few thoughts, Chris became fixated with the man's face. He'd see people on stools next to him, see their faces, and sometimes, they'd be blank. No eyes, nose, mouth; just a beige sheet of skin. He'd flee the bar with a startled yelp, occasional bartender or helper tailing him for pay.
The scarf with the interesting pattern the soldier wore led Chris to purchase one at a flea market in a decent part of the city. He tried to wear it himself, but eventually surmised that it was more annoying to get on right than it was purposeful. He kept it anyway.
When his drunken stupor was kinder and when his groin warranted attention, he'd manage enough sense to stumble into a bathroom stall and rub one out, only thinking of the soldier's face.
Chris began frequenting a particular bar, one with male bartenders (he had discovered barmaids were more sentimental and wouldn't allow him to drink his consciousness away). Along with the generous supply of alcohol, he'd get a generous amount of stares from a few of the men that would also frequent the bar. He paid them little attention however, and when one of them tried to advance on him, they'd earned a broken nose.
One cold and drunken night, when the need overtook him, Chris shambled into the familiar tiled bathroom with the dark brown wooden stalls. It smelled, but it wasn't the worst of where he'd been. As he opened the stall door to step inside, a hand was placed on his shoulder. Chris turned around angrily, about to sock whoever the hell was interrupting, but stopped.
He didn't recognize the man, but he looked strikingly similar to the scarf-wearing preppy boy from his memories. Maybe a little shorter, and his hair was a dark blond, and not the light brown of Scarf-guy's.
"What?!" he blurted, confused.
The man quirked his eyebrow and stared down at Chris' pants. This one was bold.
Chris would protest, and practically snuff anyone who'd try to come onto him, but he was just so horny. Horny from having that damn soldier's mug in his mind for the past two and a half hours, imagining all the things he'd do to that pretty face. He'd never consider the possibility of doing anything with a guy until he began thinking about Scarf-guy in less than soldierly ways (and positions). Needless to say, horny and drunk were a bad combination. So Chris relented.
He yanked the stranger who looked like Scarf-guy into the stall, and closed the door. The man was on his knees in seconds, scrabbling at Chris' belt buckle and zipper. When Chris' girth finally sprang free, he stopped the man before he get his mouth around it.
"Put this on," Chris all but slurred as he held out the scarf he had bought to the man. The man looked at it for a second before swiping it and tying it around his eyes. Chris growled discontentedly. "No…!"
He wasn't even sure the guy spoke English.
He untied it from around the man's head and placed it around the man's neck.
"Yeah…" he mumbled, and urged the man's face forward, nearing his aching dick. The man gratefully sunk down on Chris, the little spike in his hair occasionally tickling Chris' stomach.
Chris couldn't stop watching and couldn't stop moaning. He was already dizzy, partly from whatever he'd been drinking, and the rest from the wetness of the stranger's mouth. It had been so long since…he could barely remember anything past Scarf-guy. Something starting with B and S… bullshit? No… AA? Nope.
It was something important, but right at that moment, the man's tongue flared at the tip of his leaking cock, teasing it, and Chris gasped. The guy was good. Probably did this kind of thing a lot.
He brutally gripped the man's hair as he thrust into his mouth, and the man took most of him. Chris couldn't look at him anymore. It wasn't close enough. It wasn't the same. He closed his eyes. He was so damn close…just needed…
He pictured the soldier. The cute, rare smile on his fuckable lips… the seemingly useless, yet attractive scarf, the spike of brown hair. And Chris could almost hear his voice. Slightly rough and sandy, but determined and youthful.
"Captain!"
And with that, Chris was cumming into the stranger's mouth as realization briefly hit him.
"Fuck, Piers…!"
Chris remembered why now. He remembered just why the soldier's face was the only one he could picture. Why Piers' face was seared into his brain.
Chris opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw the man finishing his business below. He unwrapped the scarf which had a few stray droplets of come on it. The man got up with a lewd satisfied smirk, like a cat that had just gotten milk.
Chris only frowned, waiting until the man left and the bathroom door closed before cleaning himself up. He felt like crap. It had been good, but at the same time, he felt guilty. Like he had betrayed someone. Maybe Piers. Maybe himself.
But he had no idea if Piers was alright. Or if he'd want to see the captain after that mission. Or if he was, y'know, interested.
That was the least of Chris' worries.
They had been the only two to survive. He'd been trying to forget, and would likely go back to doing just that. He didn't want to remember. Not the horrible deaths of his men.
Maybe just Piers. He just wanted to remember the good. He wouldn't go back, wouldn't want to face Piers after that. The star-struck sniper would be so disappointed. Why bother?
Chris left the bathroom feeling worse than before he entered and ordered another round. His memory was already getting hazy as he sat on the barstool. While he could remember, he decided he'd best do this Piers guy a favor and stay away from him, out of his life.
Too bad Piers wouldn't be leaving his head anytime soon. Maybe it was a good thing, Chris thought. He didn't mind the guilty pleasure he felt when he thought it either.