There come a certain point at which a soldier breaks down. No man is a machine. No man can continue fighting back forever, but just because a man doesn't fight back, doesn't mean he can't. The wad of disregarded money was a spit on Piers' dignity, that up until this point despite letting Chris do what he had, was yet intact. It was obvious while they were together he remembered bits of his partner. The slurred and misused 'man that never misses a shot,' and the way he handled him in general didn't ever fault. Deep purpling bruises were forming everywhere, and the torn flesh on his face was starting to swell even in the cold of Edonia, not to mention the burning of the exposed tissue on his forearms. His hips, thighs, not to mention the throbbing pain from the inside out of being completely ruined by Chris. His body was abused and battered. In any other circumstance he would have been content to stay collapsed there to let the pain subside. The crumpled up bills fluttered off him and rolled onto the ground and it caused the younger man to push back all the pain and degradation he had experienced to battle back. Despite the fluids and shit in that alleyway, he braced a shoulder against the brick wall, the one that had already claimed rights to the skin of his forearms and face, the blood dripping slowly and coagulating on the flesh of his arms as he wrenched himself off the ground, pushing with his outer foot to get some leverage as he forced himself to stand up against it. Disregard filth and dirt fell back to the ground as he replaced stained clothes to his bloodied knees and lower body, cum still clinging to his legs and now coating the inside of his jeans. The throbbing of his lower body was just another thing to push away, and it ached passed the point of numbness. Fastening the button in place, he kept his eyes trained on Chris with precision, noting how long it took to hit the sidewalk. His voice ripped through the silence as boots thumped onto sidewalk, "Chris!"
It was a clear rarity when Piers used his captain's name. Even while he was intimate with him the sniper rarely dropped the formality, but he needed to hear it, watch it sting him into tensing. The man he knew, the man he cared about wouldn't have done that. It cheapened everything that had happened before it. The only times they had ever done this had always been when Chris was a mess. They were caught between hell, world they fought for, and breaking down entirely from the loss of their team mates. They both should have been dead and it seemed like a haze had come over them. It had been the passion to be alive that brought on the so called quick fuck in the alley the time before; the idea that they should both be dead and yet they were the only ones to walk out of those missions alive. They were soldiers, there was no time for caressing, love, or the like, and honestly he was never sure Chris felt those things at all. Just the raw need that drove them to each other to prove they were still alive despite all the undead and newly deceased. It was clear that the captain needed more than this now, and even in the state he was in, he was more than keen to grant it to him.
"Turn around!" The young man's voice was hoarse, a rasp of the tenor it use to be from the abuse it had taken over being choked out through the vice grip on his throat. Even talking caused him to cough, clenching his jaw to fight the pain that refused to subside. A hand slid up as he stumbled to his feet to cover his lips with the back of it, bracing the other dirtied hand against the wall behind him before shoving off it and forcing himself to his full height, glaring at the silhouette of his once commanding officer. "Turn around before I make you Redfield."
"Oh really?" Stopping mid-stride, there was a bitter humorlessness to Chris' voice, barely a whisper as he peered back over his burly shoulder to face him, eying coldly the man who had just played the whore for him. "You're in over your head Nivans." He would have moved on without even thinking back on him until he found the sniper's side arm trained on him with amazing technique, unwavering. Where the hell had he gotten that from? It caused the man to reactionary reach down to where his own would have been by natural instinct, facing him completely on the draw before he realized there wasn't a weapon to be had. Confusion made his head reel from both booze and exertion, finally his eyes honing in on the customized 9-0-9 tucked in Piers' grip, lips curled in a sneer. "That's mine."
"Damn right it is." At least his captain remembered that much. He'd left the hospital without it six months ago and Piers hadn't let it go since. Pangs of hatred seeped into Piers expression, stepping with measured accuracy over the uneven cracks in the cement. He didn't hate Chris, he could never. This man was the one he had always hoped he could be someday. That pushed him to the brink and made everyone around him better for it, but he hated what such a noble man had let himself become. Years of training and learned dexterity managed him about the garbage underfoot, towards Chris like the marksman he was, never dropping his gaze or conviction. He had never lacked for conviction and now he needed it more than he needed anything else. He couldn't lose his nerve, not here.
How could he remember the gun, but not remember Piers? "Come and get it." His body was aching, numbness from adrenaline wearing into pure agonizing pain and he knew all too well how little more his body could take. There was the challenge in his voice though, and the bitterness in Chris' countenance was twisting in defiance while he watched through narrowed almost onyx eyes as he stepped closer. He would either have to put up the fight or let Chris walk away forever. The only upper hand he had here was that Chris was drunk. He had been completely beaten down, and moving his legs at all lanced pain up his spine with each step causing him to grimace and grit his teeth. Not to mention the precision he was forcing into himself. Piers was a soldier, 'it hurts, but I can take it.' He stopped roughly six feet from his captain, the fists at his sides clenching and unclenching at the sight of the muzzle so near his face.
Telling himself to shut it out, he holstering the weapon under the lip of his jeans, the cold metal along the small of his back making him wince. He had no time for Chris' bullshit though and pushed away the tingling running up his vertebra. Lust laced but vehemently glowering hazel eyes transfixed on their target, cocking his head carefully to the side as he cracked his knuckle, making a silent curse at himself for what he was about to do. Chris didn't hesitate. The definition of fool's errand flashed at the forefront of the youth's brain, knowing that when sober, a fist fight with Chris Redfield was about as brilliant a move as wrestling an enraged rhinoceros. But Chris wasn't sober, and Piers had determination. He knew how little he had left to do this with, maybe only three or four minutes before his adrenaline and sheer willpower would be won over by fatigue. He cursed under his breath the lack of tactical gear and the constraints of jeans over fatigues, but this was a battle of willpower, not range of motion, though it would have been nice to have both. Chris' steps were misjudged and balance uncoordinated, but his strength and hatred knew exactly how to move him. The thud of boots on cement, gravel stirring underfoot and tiny crushed aluminum cans clinking.
Nothing slows down when you fight a man. Step by step training, experience, adrenaline, nothing can stop the speed at which a trained killer comes at you. The world does a lateral spin and suddenly you can either move or you freeze. When Chris had come and recruited Piers he knew the kid could shoot. He was the best sniper the BSAA had ever seen, but when it came to hand to hand combat, Chris immediately got to work. You couldn't get into the BSAA or SOU without first having the training for it, and those who did were already significantly skilled. It was why they were the best. The younger man's family was all military and he knew all the basics and had the obvious natural talent. But Chris wanted him as his partner, so he trained Piers rigorously. Like his life depended on it. It had. When you ran out of bullets in the field you are fucked unless you can counter a thing that weighs easily three times your own mass. Pain and fortitude had everything to do with it. How much pain a man could take and drive through and at that same time hit your target. It was kill or kill and be killed. There was no room for failure. Training with Chris Redfield was an honor. He trained him to anticipate, to be the back up to a world class pointman. Piers had his back no matter what happened in the field and Chris never once doubted if his partner would come through for him because he knew full well that rather than lose, Piers would sooner sacrifice himself than let his captain fall. He knew every tip of his hip, jerk of his leg, or flex of his bicep that signaled how the older soldier would shift because he had failed to notice them and been knocked out in training more than once learning them. Chris was a battle torn warrior who had been in a fair share of brawls and short handed fights, he had the experience and luck of muscle memory. Piers' had the lightning fast reflexes of youth though, and eyes that caught ever detail or ripple in muscle that told him in advance just what he needed to do. It took a few steps to bring down an enemy, but it only took one to lose.
Dropping to a side step that Piers locked into, Chris felt a solid shoulder greet his chest, tipping his balance just the slightest to bring a right cross that threatened to collide with that all too pretty face. It could have ruined a man, but in this instance; Piers caught it with two dexterous hands, one covering his knuckles and the other encircling his wrist. If he hadn't been drunk Piers would never have managed to flip him, but momentum was on his side. A thud bounced off the broken down brick and back to them as it echoed off the alley walls, Chris' back arching against the concrete beneath him, unable to fight the coughing spasm that took him from impact, bile creeping up in his throat. Piers collapsed a scraped knee onto his captain's ribcage, vomit choking out Chris' throat and onto the ground beside him as he sputtered, everything fuzzy from the combination of booze, impact, and Piers' weight leaned on his gut.
Everything happening in an instant, a flicker of time. All Chris saw apart from the blur of a full moon was Piers, hovering there over him in a sheen of sweat as he faded out. "I'm taking you back captain."