A/N: Here's the early update, guys~! c:

The rhythmic thump of electronic music beat in tune with the stirring headache that hammered away against the sniper's skull. Piers attempted to avert his attention from the too-loud noise with another thrown back drink. The liquid left a burn down the length of his throat, and the flavor made him cringe in distaste. He shook his head in a hard movement to clear away the uncomfortable feeling that the liquor had left behind, and hazel eyes lowered to the now empty shot glass he placed over the table top with a deep frown. He lost count of the amount he'd already had, even as he craved for more. Funny how easily it changed Chris into a monster, while all it did for Piers was make him want to be sick with a blurred vision and sluggish movements. Being the stubborn fool that he was, Piers refused to stop until he could clear his head; until he could finally be rid of the haunting images that tormented his bleeding heart. That, or until he passed out. Maybe even died from alcohol poisoning, but he wagered they'd have kicked him out long before that one. It didn't stop him from hoping, though.

He was torn; angry after the argument, an anger he wasn't sure who it was more directed at - Chris, who sent him on his merry way, or himself for getting so damn caught up in everything in the first place. For giving in so easily like a weak-willed brat.

Through the span of it all, at the very heart, there was an overwhelming sense of hurt. For what he may have ruined, for all that he likely lost.

More liquid was splashed into the barriers of his glass, swishing against the clear walls as it was filled nearly to the brim. Piers threw his head back to empty the contents with all the rest, and only then bothered to lift his gaze with half-lidded eyes.

It wasn't really his scene, never had been; obnoxious sounds blaring from speakers, making his ears throb as sweaty masses crowded themselves onto the dance floor in swaying motions. Most of the time Piers hardly even drank - alcohol left a bitter, unpleasant feel along his tongue that on its own nearly made him vomit with each swallow. He hated the thought of an unclear mind, of a distorted vision and lack of control - all things that could hinder even a well trained soldier. Yet as it were, it was the easiest thing he could do to wash away the recent events, even if it was only temporary. Before, Piers never had much reason to turn to the bottle; it had always been Chris that made such decisions.

Once again left with another reminder of his Captain, the thought alone made the ace scoff, a clear indication that he had yet to have his fill of drinks.

Piers managed to down two more before an unfamiliar presence seated itself across from him, uninvited and most certainly unwelcome. He didn't come there to talk, to share stories that were his own and no one else's. He voiced such thoughts with a simple, "'M not looking for comp'ny," Piers swallowed hard as the words left his throat, more slurred than intended but no where near as incoherent as they likely should have been.

A snort resounded at that, "Kid, company seems to be exactly what you need." The gruff voice responded with clarity, much more sober than the sniper, and only then did Piers take the time to actually offer a decent glance toward the stranger. He could tell he was tall despite him sitting down, with a pleasant amount of bulk in all the right places - no where near the powerful frame that was Chris, but still appealing nonetheless. Dark hair in shades of black was left rather unkempt, spiked in odd angles, but it suited the guy - as did the light traces of facial hair flecked along his chiseled jawline. Another reminder of his Captain, even though the colors didn't exactly match.

The ace narrowed his gaze, "How would you know what I need?" His tone had come out more firmly, forcing back some of the slur that threatened to pour itself loose again.

Blue eyes glimmered in partial amusement, as though the answer was blatantly obvious and the sniper was simply too wasted to realize it. "Everyone here is running from something," The man leaned forward with his arms folded to rest them on the table as his voice lowered, "But not all of them belong. People like you," He motioned with his head, and Piers felt his brow furrow. "You've got problems that a stiff drink won't fix, no matter how many of them you chug down."

Perhaps it was the influence of the bottle, but the voice seemed to deepen and gain a familiar husky tone along the edges that had Piers giving another rough shake of his head to clear the thought. "I still don't see how any of this involves you," He eyed the other man, distrustful of his intentions.

The stranger grinned, and for a brief moment, just as it had been with the sound of his voice, Piers could have sworn he caught another a glimpse of his Captain. Just what he needed - he was seeing things, now.

"I have an alternative. A better way to block out the past. Something I think we can both profit from."

Piers wasn't sure whether it was a side effect of the alcohol, or his own pathetic desperation to let go that caused his mind to take a full turn, where his distrust was brushed aside and his interest was suddenly piqued.

Minutes later, as Piers stumbled out the back door only to find himself shoved into the nearest alley wall with a heated mouth dancing over his own, the reason why ceased to matter.

The sniper groaned at the feel of a hardened body pressed tight against him, setting his skin on fire beneath his clothing as familiarity flared within him. While hazel eyes were squeezed shut, he could imagine the fingers digging at his scalp, edging his head backwards so his features faced the sky, belonged to someone else. He could almost believe that the warm mouth which descended from his own to mark along the plain of his throat with rough, sloppy kisses and tickling facial hair was from a different man, one he could willingly surrender himself to in many more ways than one.

The stranger had given no identity, no title or reference to something that Piers could label him with, so his mind supplied him with the only name he had ever truly wanted to moan out in ecstasy; Chris. Gone was the pale skin, replaced by muscular tan in his mind's eye. No more did he think about black hair or blue eyes, but familiar brown and a deep, commanding voice that set his nerves on fire.

Piers bit his tongue to hold back further noise, focusing instead on the lips of his Captain as they sucked furiously along his throat, enveloping his Adam's apple within their heat while calloused hands tore his jacket from his shoulders. He barely heard the ruffle from the fabric being tossed aside over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding excitedly in his ears. Next had been the shirt; Chris had momentarily pulled him far enough away from the wall to lift it over his head, only to twist his arms inside the fabric until they were firmly kept behind him, where the shirt was wound awkwardly along his wrists to trap them there.

The sniper voiced no complaints as his back met the wall a second time, the surface felt much more cool to the touch against his bared skin and rough enough to scrape if he thrashed too hard. A knee was lifted to dig into his groin, pressing teasingly at the growing bulge hidden away in the confines of his fatigues. Piers hissed sharply as he ground down against it, feeling the firm limb brush hard against his clothed cock. A deep chuckle reverberated against his neck, and Piers nearly shuddered at the feel as his companion's heated tongue swept over his flesh, lowering its path down to latch onto a nipple.

Piers gasped, lips parted to release unsteady breaths between them as Chris sucked hard until the pink flesh hardened into a firm bulb. The knee against his cock brushed itself into him harder, coaxing a low groan from the back of his throat while his nipple was released from the skilled oral cavity and traded for the other. His muscles tensed, straining softly against the light binding of his own shirt as his hips moved on their own accord, his body humping against the leg that teased him.

"Fuck," A deep voice growled against his flesh, "You're perfect." His mind filtered the sound, twisted it until it was familiar. Until it was what he really needed, what he hungered to hear.

Piers nearly found himself whining as the leg pulled itself away, only to find himself being spun around so fast his head began to whirl even from behind closed lids. He was slammed back into the surface of the wall, bare chest pressed hard to the stone that scraped carelessly at his flesh. It only served to drive him on further, deeper down the path of madness his mind had taken a liking to.

Chris pressed himself tight to the sniper's back, clothed cock hard and prodding against the bubbled ass as powerful hips rotated into him. Piers bit his lip to cut off the sound of a mewl that slid loose, and he pushed himself back toward the heat of the larger man who gave another hungry growl in response.

"Horny little fuck," The voice breathed into his ear, tone thick with lust. "Gonna make you feel real good." Another hard thrust of his hips pushed the sniper tighter against the wall, where olive skin began to tear against the brick. Piers groaned, allowing his tongue to slither free from dried, parted lips to lick at them as the voice continued. "Give you a reason to come back for more."

"Yeah," The sniper uttered between uneven breaths, spurring the stranger - no, he corrected himself, Chris; his Chris - on. It was the only thought that made everything normal, it was what helped it all to be okay. "Do what you want." His ass nudged backward for the second time into the hips that were already flush against his own, seeking for more, willing things to progress further.

In response, a hand found its way between himself and the wall to squeeze at the growing bulge in his pants, stroking him through it. Strong hips guided themselves again into his own, simultaneously putting more pressure against his groin and the cheeks of his ass. Piers attempted to squirm in need for more friction and for the barriers of clothing to be removed, but he was trapped too firmly with the brick wall in front of him and rock solid body at his back driving him on. "Knew this is what you needed," The voice was back in his ear again as the pressure on his ass lifted, only to be replaced by a firm smack of a palm against a clothed cheek, hard enough to make the sniper jerk into the wall. It set afire the ache from the cigarette burn that was still fresh, still painful, yet with it came a sharp shrill from the ace, who wanted to be hurt, abused. He wanted to feel alive again in a way that only Chris could make him.

Piers heaved, body tense and thirsting for more even as the second hit and equally strong jerk into the brick deepened the scrapes along his skin further and further each time. The hand that stroked him through his fatigues tightened their hold, and Piers felt his hips buck in response. He jerked into the palm that held him, a desperate request from his body for more. His cock was already engorged; hard and throbbing, pleading to be touched and sated as precum oozed from his tip, wetting the garments it was confined within.

"Making me ache just watching you, kid. Shit, you got a body just begging to be claimed."

Only by Chris - always, always Chris.

The thought alone made Piers breathe the name, "Chris..."

"Chris, eh?"

Piers swallowed, and closed eyes tightened themselves further. "Captain, sir."

"Heh. I can work with that," Teeth clamped down over the flesh of the sniper's bared shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark that bled. Bled like his broken flesh against the rough brick that sent tendrils of pain lacing along his front. Like his torn anal ring, still throbbing since the first time Chris ever-

"Going to make you mine," Piers heard the sound with more clarity than he'd allowed himself - the real sound as the illusion he built with his darkest desire flushed itself away into mush and reality sunk around him in its place at full force.

Not right, not right. His mind told him. Not Chris.

Hazel eyes snapped open, and with a sudden jolt Piers sent his head flying back into the stranger's. The man staggered away from him with a snarl, confused and angered all the same as the sniper twisted his wrists in an attempt to get them loose. The fabric refused to fall away with ease beneath his sloppy, uncoordinated movements, so he settled on strength alone that tore the shirt to tatters and freed his limbs. Piers swung around to face the stranger who held a hand at his nose, now clearly broken.

"You little shit! Goddamn cocktease!" The man seethed, eyes narrowed with his free palm balled into a fist.

Piers took one step forward, body tensed and ready, prepared after seeing the quickly growing aggression etched into the stranger's features. "I didn't ask for this!"

Black eyebrows lifted, almost hidden away under equally dark locks that fell over the man's pale forehead. "Yeah? Well, you were sure as hell willing a minute ago when you were humping my hand like a desperate whore!" He pointed a shaking, accusing finger toward Piers.

The sniper's jaw tensed, "We're done here." It was final. He was mentally assaulting himself with how willingly he'd given in at first.

Fuck, what would Chris say?

Or would it even matter to the S.O.U. Captain, after their heated argument? Piers didn't want their previous fight to be the last conversation they ever shared. He didn't want it to be the end of a partnership, a friendship, or whatever the hell they were after all the shit they'd been through together.

The stranger pulled his hand away from his nose to eye the blood that had spilled from it and tainted his skin. He bared his teeth like a wild animal ready to pounce, "Nah, I don't think so, kid."

He was a hell of a lot faster than he looked, Piers noted too late as a fist swung itself in his direction. The sniper's head snapped to the side as knuckles slammed hard into his cheek, nearly knocking him right off his feet. The collision put his head in a whirl and he staggered in a half circle with a palm thrown out to the wall, latched onto it for support. The amount of drinks he downed hindered his perception, lowered his reflexes; it made his movements much less accurate than they ever should have been.

Hands that had previously been the cause of arousal now burned with violent intent as one clutched at his arm to pull it away from the wall and behind his back, while the other pressed between his shoulder blades to push him against the hard surface. Olive skin grazed across the brick yet again, much more roughly than all the times prior, digging sharply into his flesh and tearing at it. "I'm not done with you," The voice was back in his ear; hard and rough and threatening, forceful and demanding. Piers grunted from his position, cheek held tight to the wall. Images of Chris flickered briefly in his mind's eye, but it wasn't the same. It could never be the same, not with this man - this thing, this monster, who had yet to down enough liquor to feel its hindrance. It was clear, now. He was a predator, lurking around for the perfect chance to sink his teeth in a fine meal.

But Piers had no intention of feeding him. Not any more, not as he came to his senses.

The ace's free arm was thrown back, where his elbow jabbed into his opponent's temple and knocked him off guard, making his grip weaken as he lurched from the sudden flash of pain. Piers pushed back with all his weight, enough to make the man stumble and give the sniper enough room to pull loose. Piers swung around with a lifted foot, barely maintaining his balance as he roundhoused with all the combined speed and strength he could muster in his current state, and he was fortunate that it was enough.

The stranger dropped to the floor with an outraged roar, and Piers swayed to keep himself from toppling over too. With yet another rough shake of the head to clear its spinning, the sniper only seemed to make it worse as he stormed forward to clutch at the man's jacket and drag him back to his feet, repaying him in kind for the abuse by throwing him into the nearest wall. His grip didn't waver, fingers still tightened around leather as their eyes met.

Piers was sure his lip had split after the first punch, he could feel it now as blood dribbled down the length of his chin but he paid it no heed. The other guy wasn't in such a decent condition either, with a bleeding temple and bruising cheek.

"You should have walked," Piers warned as one hand released its hold to rear back, prepared to strike.

But the stranger reached out with his own to clasp over the enclosed palm as it went to swing, "And you should have stayed," He retorted as his leg lifted, bent so the knee would ram into the sniper's stomach.

Reflexively, Piers bent at his midsection as the air was knocked out of him. It was a moment of weakness, one that left him utterly exposed as fingers curled through his hair and the knee lifted again, this time toward his face. He was yanked back by the hand at his scalp, forced to stand upright as a wave of agony swam over him. A leg kicked out, knocking his own out from under him to send him crashing onto his back with an outcry.

With his head swimming under his still drunken haze, and now joined by the pain of a fist fight, Piers hardly managed to open his eyes before his opponent was on him again, straddling his waist while his fists began to pound away at younger features where they made lights dance before the sniper's vision.

Three hits, six - Piers lost track by the time he was coughing up blood. He was a soldier, not a damn punching bag to be beaten on and left for dead in some alley after a now non-consensual sexual encounter. He was stronger than this, better; yet perhaps, just perhaps, there had been a part of him that believed he deserved the abuse. After everything that happened with Chris, after everything that had gotten so fucked up, so quick - maybe pain was a better drug than alcohol. It was hard to force sleep, but unconsciousness could come with ease if one were to step on all the right buttons.

Another hit, and Piers was choking. Too much liquid stained the inside of his throat, clogging up his airway to make breathing difficult. Red seemed to be the color of the day as his vision blurred and the punches stopped.

A rough growl emanated from above, "We coulda had a helluva night, kid. Now look at you. You're damaged goods."

A hand clasped against the side of Piers' cheek, and he winced from the pressure on the abused flesh. Hazel eyes fluttered, blurred from the blows almost as much as the drinks. He could hardly make out the shadow of the man as he loomed over him, but hands were on him before he knew it. They twisted him, turned him over onto his stomach, then left to dance along his spine.

Get up. Piers could hear his own mind screaming at him. You're a soldier, start acting like one. Don't let him touch you.

A gob of blood hacked itself up the length of his throat to join the rest that spilled down his chin, where it painted the hard concrete beneath him.

Red. Blood, passion, anger, fury. A color with so many meanings, all so accurate with the pounding mess that was Piers' brain. The new angle made it slightly easier to breathe, to suck in lungfuls of air through the blood hacking its way up his throat. Scarlet coated teeth grit themselves as he forced his body into action; to move, to react.

A leg threw itself backward bent at the knee, allowing a boot clad foot to slam hard into the body above him and make the stranger jerk off balance. Piers shoved himself upward, arms lifting his weight high enough to knock the man the rest of the way, free of the sniper's waist and toward the side.

Adrenaline and determination blended well together as they pumped through the sniper's veins, fueling his movements. Piers sprung up, feet jerked under him to push his body into a stand. His breathing hitched and his heart beat a raging storm in the pit of his ears while his muscles ached, their use still hindered by all the consumption of alcohol. But he was on his feet again, aware enough now to no longer lay down and take it.

Beside him, the man clambered around, prepared to rise and meet him, but a fist to the side of the head knocked the assailant back against a dumpster.

With a still-throbbing heart and dulled aches in his bones, a single deft hand enclosed itself around the male's throat. Piers pulled the stranger's head away from the metal, only to slam it back against the surface with a reverberating bang. There was a howl in response to the abuse, and it was met by another fist that collided with bruising skin. Fingers tightened over neck muscles and the man croaked at the pressure, not amused by the suddenly turned tables. Hands rose to claw at the air, to claw at his wrist, but the ace held firm and hard.

Piers spat a mouthful of blood to the side that gathered itself again, and hazel resettled back onto the stranger who continued to claw at his wrist, seeking for a release. "You might not want to target someone with a military background, next time." The corners of his lips twitched slightly, somewhere oddly conflicting; between an angered scowl and the smugness of a smirk. "Doesn't matter how wasted they are."

The ace pulled at the man, and another collision with the dumpster had his head exploding with pain as the grip around his throat eased. Colors dotted along his fluttering vision, and he hardly noticed when Piers backed away into a stand until a foot slammed into his stomach and made him wheeze. He huffed, body curling in on itself as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

It all seemed fair enough, now. Karma was quite the bitch. There was no telling how many other people the bastard tried to take advantage of.

The sniper felt his brow furrow as plump lips dropped into a frown, disgusted by the direction things had taken to, and the unpleasantness of the condition he was left in. Piers lifted a hand to wipe at the crimson that trailed along the outside of his own oral cavity, only to hiss when more insisted on replacing it moments later. Long legs staggered back, still uneasy in their balance, especially as his body began to gradually ease down from its adrenaline fueled haze.

He was hardly in any good shape, and options were limited. Piers held no desire to be carted off to some hospital room, where he'd likely get stuck staying for the rest of the night. Yet, his own home was too far away to safely walk to in his current state, as someone who'd just been in an ugly fight while still utterly intoxicated. He'd walked there, so he couldn't at least settle down in the seat of his car until the world stopped spinning. Of course, he also had to go and throw his cell out in the hours prior, so calling anyone without finding a pay phone would be next to impossible. The only person who might have lived close enough for him to reach by foot, was...

Piers swallowed, tasting iron.

He wasn't that desperate. No, he was a soldier. He'd traveled longer distances with greater injuries. Maybe home wasn't so unreachable, after all.

The sniper stumbled forward, decision made. He headed toward the direction of his house, opposite to that of the Captain who'd thrown him out like some rabid dog. He didn't need to be treated like a damn child who needed the attention of his mother, he could make it. He could take care of himself, he had for years long before he ever joined the B.S.A.A.

But damn it if there wasn't a nagging at the back of his stubborn head that told him it was the wrong idea. That after everything that just happened, Chris was the one person he needed to see.