August, 1963

In the year since Erik had moved in, Charles had lost bits of himself in the relationship. Erik was bigger and stronger; he chose what they ate, and how clean the apartment was. His intensity and damage set the tone for their days together. Charles, with his easygoing nature, had yielded to Erik's expectations, perhaps more than he should have.

Charles had been nervous about calling Dr. Swann the morning after Erik's dam broke because he would have to confess that he'd let Erik hurt him, even after all of Dr. Swann's warnings.

Dr. Swann had just sighed. "It happens more than you'd think. I'm not sure anyone has ever paid attention to that warning."

"It didn't seem like there were any good options," Charles had explained, "I couldn't let him leave." Charles had already thought it through a thousand times during that sleepless night and kept coming to the same decision.

Dr. Swann didn't press the question, but told Charles to get out of there until he could assess Erik's mental state. Charles had taken the risk to stay for breakfast so he could tell Erik to call Dr. Swann.

Charles' next phone call was at 1:00 p.m., after Dr. Swann had talked to Erik. Dr. Swann hadn't told him much about what Erik said, other than that he'd made a full confession, but then he turned the conversation back on Charles. "Why do you want him to stay, Charles? Why aren't you kicking him out today?"

Charles twisted the metal cord of the pay phone around his hand. "The good times are so good, Dr. Swann." He knew he shouldn't embarrass the man by talking about his relationship with Erik, but he couldn't stop himself. He talked about Erik's Christmas gift, the Celtic games, his cooking, reading together, the chess games, just the friendship in general. He left out how good the sex could be because that really would cross a line with Dr. Swann. Charles didn't realize he'd talked so long until the recorded voice on the phone told him to deposit another dime.

After putting another dime in the phone he said, "just a minute," to Dr. Swann and opened the door of the phone booth to speak to the woman who was standing right outside, pointing at her watch and glaring at Charles. "There's another phone booth on the next block," Charles said, pointing. Then he shut the door before she could scold him for talking so long.

"Sorry, I'm back now."

Dr. Swann blew out one of those long sighs that meant Charles had confounded him again. Dr. Swann sighed a lot. "The good news is that was the right answer. The bad news is that it's going to be harder to stay together than to leave."

"Beg pardon? I gave the right answer? What's the wrong answer?"

"Anything to do with pity. If I get a spouse who's staying with her soldier because she feels sorry for him, wants to rescue him, thinks he can't cope without her, those are the doomed relationships, even though they stay together. But if you're willing to hold him accountable rather than feel sorry for him, you've got a decent chance."

Charles held onto that. He was scared, because Dr. Swann said it would be hard, but he wanted to try again with Erik, as long as Sergeant Lehnsherr stopped coming around.

When Charles had called Dr. Swann back a few hours later, Dr. Swann described Erik's idea of writing letters about the people and events that caused him guilt. Charles found himself nodding at the rightness of the idea. Erik could write; he'd always been able to get vivid bits of his life down on paper. For the first time that day, Charles felt genuine hope. Their relationship had begun in letters; maybe now letters could heal that relationship.

The two months since Erik's breakdown had been good for Charles. He stepped back from insisting Erik let him help, and waited to see if Erik could help himself. This gave Charles some space again; room to realize that he needed to matter as much as Erik did. Without discussing it, the two of them shifted from lovers to roommates. Charles didn't miss the sex as much as he might have thought, given how tumultuous his feelings were towards Erik right now. He did miss the affection, but he wasn't sure he could ask for hugs without agreeing to sex too, and he wasn't ready for that.

These past two months had also revealed a new Erik, a more pensive and thoughtful version. Charles wanted predictability, not the heady highs followed by a slough of despair. This version of Erik, who wrote letters and grieved honestly rather than pushing life's pain away, seemed more steady and trustworthy. The good times this summer had seemed more believable, solid and ordinary good times instead of euphoric and unsustainable. Charles also didn't make the mistake of thinking the hard times were behind them.

Erik's efforts were pulling a new emotion from Charles, and he wasn't sure what label to put on it. He already loved Erik, still loved him, even as the distance between them remained. Perhaps it was respect. It was easy to admire someone who was physically strong and brave, but facing your emotional demons and acknowledging the damage you'd done without making excuses added respect to that admiration. Besides, Erik was heartbreakingly beautiful when tears spilled down his cheeks no matter how fast he blinked. Seeing how hard Erik was trying gave Charles patience with the areas in which Erik wasn't moving fast enough to suit Charles. He wanted to talk more, but Erik's idea of emotional bonding seemed to be exercising together.

"Do you want to come to the YMCA today?" Erik asked him one Saturday.

No, I would rather stay here and have you bare your soul and let me comfort you. "Sure," was what Charles said out loud.

At the gym, they changed into t-shirts and shorts and strapped on boxing gloves after a brief warmup. Erik told Charles to lead off. "Come on, see if you can get past my guard," Erik prodded him, gloves up.

Charles tried a few tentative swings, that Erik blocked easily. "You're not even trying, Charles! Move! Keep your elbows down, lead with your shoulder."

Charles tried again.

"Watch your feet, Charles!"

Charles got sick of Erik shouting instructions at him. Erik put his gloves down, presumably to come show Charles something, and Charles hit him in the ribs. Erik was instantly in stance again, yelling at him to do it again. Charles did it again, and then something took over and he was punching at Erik as hard as he could, left and right, leading from the shoulder the way Erik had taught him and putting the full weight of his body behind it. Damn, it felt good to beat up on Erik.

After several more swings, Charles realized Erik wasn't hitting back, and was barely making any effort to block the punches. Charles had backed him up to the ropes of the practice ring. "Are you patronizing me, Erik! Are you? Why aren't you defending yourself?" Charles shouted at him.

Erik bounced off the ropes and took a light swing at him that Charles blocked easily. "I think both of us are going to feel a hell of a lot better if you beat the shit out of me."

After considering turning down the offer for less than a millisecond, Charles cut loose with every bit of anger he still felt at Erik. Not just about how Erik had treated him the night Mitch died, but for every time he'd gotten tense walking home because he didn't know if Erik would be there or Sergeant Lehnsherr, every time Erik had yelled at him, every time Erik didn't apologize for yelling at him, every bit of worry Charles had ever felt for Erik that turned out to be useless, and especially every single time Erik had shut him out. Charles hadn't realized how much anger he'd bottled up over this past year until he had a chance to let it all out.

He was grunting with the blows, snarling out phrases like, "why not?" and "you selfish bastard" and "don't you ever!" His shoulders ached, his core muscles so tightly clenched that his stomach hurt as he beat Erik as hard as he could. He confined his blows mostly to Erik's torso, but for the final blow, Charles put all his force behind an uppercut and hit Erik on the jaw so hard that he dropped to his knees, gasping.

Charles stopped at that point, conscious that a few people had gathered to watch. He was breathing hard from the exercise, sweat dripping into his eyes.

Erik slowly got back to his feet, spit out the mouthpiece, pulled off the boxing gloves and bent over with his hands on his knees. "That was a match."

Charles stepped close to him and hissed out, "you selfish bastard." Then he pulled off his gloves and left the ring, grabbing a towel to mop the sweat from his head and neck. There was some ragged applause from the spectators.

In the locker room, Charles stripped out of his sweaty clothes and went to shower. He already had the water running when he realized he'd taken his shirt off without considering the scars on his back. And so what? If someone wanted to say something, he'd punch them out. No one said anything. Charles was mildly disappointed he didn't have an excuse to hit someone else. He felt like a barbarian. It felt good.

Leaving Erik to come home when he was ready, Charles headed home. Once he got there, he wished he'd stayed at the YMCA and gone swimming or lifted weights. He was too tense to just sit down. Charles needed something physical to do. Is this what Erik felt like all the time? No wonder he exercised so much.

Charles was down on his knees scrubbing baseboards when the door opened and Erik came in.

"What the hell?" Erik said in greeting.

"Nervous energy," Charles clipped out.

Erik grunted and left him alone.

After scrubbing his way down the hall and through the kitchen, the baseboard disappeared behind the armchair in the living room. Charles dropped the rag back into the bucket and sat on the floor, leaning his head back against the wall. He'd burned through all the nervous energy, and he felt scraped out clean. Empty, he felt empty. Even the anger at Erik's behavior the night that Mitch died was gone. Charles hadn't realized it would ever go away. Its absence was like dumping a rock out of his shoe - the relief from the constant pain felt like pleasure. Sweet, sweet relief.

Head tipped back against the wall, Charles started to cry silently. Tears leaked down his cheeks and he didn't brush them away.

At some point, he realized Erik was in the room. He opened his eyes. Erik was sitting on the ottoman, watching him cry. Charles made no effort to stop crying or minimize what he was feeling. If Erik didn't like it, he could leave the room. Then Charles noticed he was holding a letter.

Erik held it out. "You don't have to read this one out loud. I've had it for weeks now."

Charles took the letter from him and wiped his eyes on his shirt.

My Dear Charles,

You will always be my dear Charles, and I will always be sorry for the way I've treated you. I shut you out; I scared you and hurt you; I've been angry at you when you've done nothing but care about a damaged soldier more than I wanted you to. I won't make any excuses. I should have handled things differently, and I will always regret my proud, selfish stupidity and the pain it caused you, the man I love more than anyone else on this earth.

I wish I could do more. What can I do for you, my dear Charles? The pain you must still feel because of my actions haunts me. I've had nightmares about you too - I see you hurting and know I caused it. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, if you'll let me.

I love you. I miss you.

All my love,

Erik

Charles did read the letter out loud, pausing to wipe his eyes on his shirt again a few times. He didn't give it back to Erik when he finished reading. "I'm not letting you burn this one."

Erik nodded.

"I'll let you know what you can do. Thank you for offering." Charles wanted to think things through, worried that he would ruin Erik's offer if he said too much at once.

Charles started thinking of small, specific things he wanted from Erik. Some of their old patterns were starting to come back, with less intensity, but they were still there. Charles had taken off his shoes and socks by the couch the other night, leaving them on the floor while he read a book. Erik hadn't yelled about it, but he had given Charles a sharp look, and Charles had hurried to clean them up before Erik could get mad.

Charles set up a test for Erik. He was working on a new approach for teaching New York history to his third graders in the fall. It involved visual aids that Charles was making out of posterboard, construction paper and cardboard, along with a lot of markers, glue and scissors. He had the project spread out over the kitchen table one evening, working on it late into the night after Erik went to bed. Instead of cleaning it up when he knew he would work on it again tomorrow, he left it all over the table when he went to bed.

When Charles woke up and got out of bed the next day, close to lunch time, he could sense Erik's agitation at the mess. Charles made himself some toast and tea and plopped down in the armchair in the living room to eat it, since there wasn't any room at the table. He set the teacup on the end table without a coaster. Erik watched toast crumbs fall on the floor, and Charles could feel Erik's tension level rising.

Charles licked strawberry jam off his fingers, then wiped them on the upholstery. "Can I ask you a question?"

"What?" Erik snapped, looking at the kitchen table.

"Why do you yell at me about messes? I mean, I know you're a neat freak and all, but why don't you just politely ask me to move something that's in your way rather than expecting me to never leave anything out of place? What's the big deal about dirty socks?" Charles kept his tone casual, though his heart was pounding. As ridiculous as it was, Erik's response to a question about dirty socks was going to have an impact on the future of their relationship.

"It's a mess," Erik said flatly, as if that explained anything at all.

Charles stubbornly decided to match Erik's irritation. "Reach down deep into that rigidly folded soul of yours, and come up with an explanation about why you think it's all right to yell at me over something as stupid as dirty socks. Why do my feelings matter less to you than a tidy apartment, Erik? I feel like I'm living in a hospital room. I pay rent too, you know. I shouldn't be afraid you're going to yell at me if I don't see the point in cleaning up a project I'm going to be working on again the next day."

That took Erik aback; Charles could see the surprise in Erik's expression. Erik got up and paced. Charles had noticed how often Erik tried to deal with emotions through physical activity, so he let him pace while he thought through the question. Erik eventually dropped back down onto the couch and put his head in his hands, yanking on his hair. "Private Snyder."

"What?" Charles asked. Was Erik deliberately being cryptic?

"Private Snyder. I couldn't get him to put anything away. Do you know how dangerous that is? If you don't have your gun cleaned and your ammo ready, you can't defend yourself, and you can't defend the other guys who might have to depend on you for cover fire, either. That damn kid couldn't even keep track of his canteen. He forgot it once when we were out on patrol. I had to lend him mine. You better believe I let him have holy hell about the fact that I was thirsty because he was too shit-stupid to put his canteen away. He couldn't find his knife, he couldn't find his helmet. Everyone had to make up for Private Snyder and try to keep track of his shit for him. He could have gotten someone killed, Charles. Not putting everything away as soon as you're finished with it, not double checking forty times that everything is where it needs to be, it could get someone killed. Every time I turned around, I had to be yelling at him for something else, just to get him to realize that it wasn't just his life he was risking. That damn stupid kid!"

Charles let the rant fade for a few minutes before he replied. "I understand that caused you a lot of stress. But here in this apartment, no one is going to die if I've left markers and posterboard all over the table."

Erik was pacing again.

"Did Private Snyder leave his dirty socks out too?"

"Damn kid," Erik muttered. "He got foot rot because he wouldn't take care of his socks. That humidity, the mud, all of it, Charles. If you don't take care of your socks, you can get gangrene and lose toes. Dirty socks are the dumbest way to cripple yourself."

Huh, Charles had not expected that there would actually be a reason that Erik got so worked up about dirty socks. "Did Private Snyder survive?"

"Yeah, surprisingly he did. For a dumbass, he was a lucky bastard."

"Did he ever get anyone else killed?"

Erik thought about it. "No. That used to make me crazier, actually. Sometimes I wanted something bad to happen, just so he'd learn his lesson. Not like have anyone die, but just enough to scare the shit out of him so he'd shape up a bit."

"So instead you yelled at him to scare the shit out of him," Charles pointed out.

"Yeah."

Charles took his toast plate and tea cup back to the kitchen and set them in the sink. Then he went back out to the living room, dusting crumbs off his hands onto the floor. "I want you to write a letter to Private Snyder today. Tell him how badly he frustrated you, and whatever else you want to say to him. Then you get to accept the fact that I live here too, Erik, and I'm not a neat freak. I'm going to leave books facedown on the arm of the couch to hold my place. Sometimes I will leave my socks on the floor. If a school project is going to take me a couple of days to finish, I don't want to clean it up every night. If I have left a mess that's in your way, you will ask me politely to clean it up, and you will say 'please' when you ask me, and then you will say 'thank you' once I've finished. And I don't want you complaining about messes that aren't in your way." Charles pointed at the couch. "You only ever sit on that side of the couch, so if I leave a book, or a cardigan or anything else on the other side, you don't get to gripe at me about it. You understand all that?"

Looking a bit astonished, Erik nodded.

"Good," Charles said. Then he sat down at the table and worked on a posterboard map.

Charles was a little bit surprised when Erik did as he was told. After dinner (Charles shifted some of his school supplies to make room on the table for plates, but the mess was still there and Erik didn't say anything), Erik handed Charles a letter to read aloud.

Dear Private Snyder,

You total dumbass. You gave me gray hair, and I was only twenty-four years old when the Army inflicted you on me. I don't know how you didn't fail the draft for stupidity. It wasn't just that you were a slob, it's that you were stupid too. Some days I was glad you couldn't find your ammo because I wasn't sure you knew which end of the gun was the business end. I caught you asking your buddy to show you how to break down your rifle to clean it, and I wanted to find your basic training sergeant and rip him to pieces for sending you out into the field so unprepared. He should have failed you out of combat and sent you to a desk. Why didn't it matter to you that you could get someone else killed? That's the part I could never understand. If you wanted to let yourself die from idiocy, that was one thing, but why didn't you care enough about your buddies to shape up a bit?

You know what else pisses me off? I've let my anger at you affect a relationship with one of the kindest, most decent people I've ever met. He may be a bit sloppy from time to time, but he genuinely cares about everyone around him. He wouldn't have done what you did. He would have been careful because he knew his friends' lives depended on it. I'm really sorry for every time I yelled at him when I was mad at you.

I'm glad you survived, Private Snyder, because if you had died, I would have been pretty sure you deserved it, and I'd rather honestly grieve for the people who died than be bitter enough to think you got what you deserved.

I still think you're a dumbass.

Sergeant Lehnsherr

Charles pressed his lips together when he finished reading the letter. He wasn't sure it was appropriate to laugh. The apology to him in the middle was touching, but mostly he was picturing big, rough, perfectionist Sergeant Lehnsherr being stymied by a bumbling idiot and finding quite a bit of humor in it. He cleared his throat. "Are you going to burn this one?"

Erik lit a fire, accepted the letter from Charles, crumpled it up into a ball and pitched it into the fireplace. "May the ashes contaminate your dehydrated potatoes."

At that, Charles couldn't hold back the laughter.

After a minute, Erik joined in. Then he started telling Private Snyder stories, complete with re-enactments. Charles laughed until he cried, not just at the fact that Erik could do a devastatingly funny imitation of Private Snyder's cluelessness, but at the release of tension from having confronted Erik and having it turn out so well. Erik eventually cracked himself up too, and the two of them laughed together about Vietnam.

Moira was coming over for tea one afternoon and Erik was tidying up, getting a bit grouchy about the bits and pieces of stuff Charles left all over the apartment. Instead of scurrying to clean up, Charles chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second and then said, "Are you having a Private Snyder moment, Erik?"

To Erik's credit, he laughed. Then he looked at Charles' book on the arm of the couch and shrugged. "Moira isn't going to care if you've left your book out. But would you please clean up your socks?"

Charles fished half a dozen socks out from under the couch, and Erik said, "Thank you."

The next day, Charles washed the dishes after dinner and decided he was going to ask about hugs. Going without hugs was like trying to give up strawberries. It was possible, but why would anyone want to live like that?

Erik was already on the couch with his newspaper. Charles had the new Hardy Boys book to read. Ostensibly, he previewed them before adding them to his classroom library. The truth was that Charles really liked Hardy Boys mysteries on their own account. He picked up his book and approached Erik, suddenly all nervous flutters. Erik was wearing a tank top and shorts, his forehead glistening with sweat. They had the windows open and the fan going, but that didn't do much to alleviate the late summer heat.

"Could I sit by you?" Charles asked.

Erik flipped the newspaper down to look at him, surprised, but with a delighted smile already curving the corners of his mouth.

"Just sit by you, Erik, nothing else. You know what I'm saying?" Charles could feel himself blushing.

"I know what you're saying," Erik replied, "come sit down."

Charles was already barefoot, so he tucked his feet up on the couch and leaned against Erik's shoulder. It felt so right to be pressed up against Erik's shoulder again. "I just don't want you to think I'm a tease, or anything."

"I won't think that. I'm just glad you're leaning on me again."

Erik's tone was light, and Charles relaxed. He opened his book to see what Frank and Joe Hardy were up to this time.

Dusk eventually started to fall, and Charles looked up when the light got too dim for reading. Two hours must have passed. "Are you still reading the newspaper?"

"Mmm, yeah. Third time now," Erik replied.

"What?"

"I'm not moving as long as you're sitting there," Erik clarified.

"Erik!"

Erik laughed and folded up his newspaper. Charles got off the couch and Erik stood up.

"Hugs are okay," Charles said, smiling shyly.

"Good," Erik said, and enveloped him in a hug.

He'd missed Erik, missed those long arms around him, the hard planes of his chest, the scruff on his cheek scraping against Charles' forehead, the masculine smell of him. He stayed in Erik's arms for a few long minutes before stepping back. Erik let go, one hand brushing his cheek with a fond smile that Charles returned. This summer had been like getting to know Erik all over again, complete with the excitement of a first embrace and the promise of more to come.

"Let's get the chess board set up."

"Yes."

There was a new frisson of energy about playing chess tonight. It seemed every time they caught each other's eye, they had to smile. Erik leaned over the chess board every time Charles moved a piece, so Charles started running a finger along Erik's jawline after every move. Erik caught his hand when Charles went to take Erik's rook and then laughed when Charles moved the chess piece with his other hand instead. The lighthearted flirting was exactly what Charles needed.

Living with Erik was fun again.

Charles was pleased with the progress he'd made in being more assertive with Erik. He wondered if what he had now was good enough, or if he should ask Erik to talk to him more about his inner life. Erik had talked to him about Private Snyder, and had even come up with another humorous story or two in the days since then. He still read letters, though they had dropped down to once or twice a week. Things were much better than they had ever been, and Charles stewed about whether or not to push for more involvement or silently hope Erik would get there on his own.

He had read letters about Iggulden and Macaulay's deaths; they'd died in the same artillery barrage, and Erik felt he should have found better shelter. He read a letter about Simpson's death when Erik had to choose which wounded man to drag back to a medic first, and he'd put a tourniquet on Simpson while Erik saved Caspar instead, and the tourniquet had come loose, leaving Simpson to bleed out before Erik could get back to him. He even read the letter about Mitch, who died at the steel factory. Erik blamed himself because his hand had spasmed and he couldn't grab Mitch's boot well enough to trip him.

It was clear to Charles that the guilt that governed everything Sergeant Lehnsherr did was based on fear - fear that he hadn't been good enough to save everyone, fear that every terrible thing that had happened was all his fault. His heart ached to see how scared this big, strong man was. Charles wanted to talk about the fear itself, not just in the stories, but inside Erik. Because Charles could see that what Erik was struggling with was the limitations of his own basic humanity. No one could have done what Erik thought he should have done. Erik was never going to find peace until he accepted that he wasn't a superhero - he couldn't bend bullets out of their path or send Vietcong soldiers flying with the force of his mind.

Sergeant Lehnsherr was holding himself to a standard that no human could meet, and that constant failure tormented him. In the months since Erik's dam had broken, Charles had gotten to know Sergeant Lehnsherr a little better, now that he wasn't constantly yelling at him. There were days when Charles thought he might be falling in love with Sergeant Lehnsherr too, that over-sized, emotionally strangled, perfectionist lout in Army boots. It was funny how you could admire or fear someone for their strengths, but you never really fell in love until you saw their vulnerabilities. Sergeant Lehnsherr needed a good hug, that's what he needed. Also a swift kick in the butt.

Charles had plenty of time to think all these frustrating thoughts, because Erik had spent most of the day sitting on the couch, staring at the wall.