Ain't Dead Yet - Sledge/Snafu (Oneshot)
Title: Ain't Dead Yet
Author: skylilies
Pairing: Sledge/Snafu
Fandom: The Pacific
Word Count: 1450
Genre: angst/romance
Rating: pg-13 (cussing)
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, just my interpretations of them. Based on fictionalized representations, no disrespect is intended.
Teaser: Snafu says the sunshine is burning the top layer of his eyeballs into dust, the scenario he describes laid out in excruciating detail while Eugene tries to keep his eyes on the road.
Notes: This is augustbird's fault, and the longest fic i've written in quite a while (WHICH IS NOT THAT LONG BUT I AM LENGTH IMPAIRED). inspiration taken from san bernardino by the mountain goats.
Snafu says the sunshine is burning the top layer of his eyeballs into dust, the scenario he describes laid out in excruciating detail while Eugene tries to keep his eyes on the road. He says he’s going to go blind from the glare, and when Eugene asks, ‘so why don’t you close your eyes?’ he just glances at him like he’s crazy. To Eugene, the red sun rising from the horizon reminds him of Jap flags, the kind torn ragged around the edges with old blood spattered rusty around the red center.
Snafu already threw up once this morning, just leaned out the side of the car with his door open while Eugene was driving and vomited onto the pavement, while Eugene said “what the-” and hit on the brake. He’d just wiped his mouth and said, “won’t dare soil your pretty little automobile,” which had Eugene glancing nervously at the seat and hoping he’d survive this without his car coming back in shambles.
Snafu has both eyes on the road now, squinting against the horizon - still staring down the sun like it’s game ready for hunting. He’s completely still, and Eugene keeps glancing from the road to his face and back again, until finally Snafu turns to him and says, “I ain’t gonna disappear, Sledgehammer.” He keeps his eyes on Eugene for a pace after he says it, intense in the same way he stared into the sun, and Eugene clenches harder at the steering wheel. He doesn’t reply.
They pass the state sign at noon and two hotels by three, and then Snafu lights up and starts blowing smoke in Eugene’s direction. He pulls off the road and gets the pipe out of his pocket, raises it up to Snafu and says, “cheers.” While he lights it, Snafu appraises him again, eyes hooded behind his smoke and dirty fingers. “Ah thought you dun’ smoke, Sledgehammer,” he says, slow and easy, like he’s really forgotten.
Eugene quirks a smile at him around the pipe and says, “I guess things change. My family hates it, my mother always has something to say about the smell and my father, well, my father would like me to be in the best health.”
“Ah,” Snafu replies, dragging the one syllable out into a full declaration. “Your father the doctor.”
Eugene nods, and gestures to the car. “He bought me this. Back when I was just a kid. Sid and I used to drive it all over Mobile.”
Snafu regards him with quiet eyes, and then flicks the cigarette onto the car floor. His work boots go down heavy on it, and he turns back to the road and says, “Best keep driving, Sledge. Gonna be here all week if you slow down now.”
The motel is old fashioned and gaudy, with a large ornate mirror in the hallway and peeling wallpaper that makes Eugene think of his only visit with his mother’s mother when he was just a little boy. She had gnarled fingers and her couch had smelled like wine, and she patted him on the head and called Edward her favorite. The woman who checks them in has coffee stains on her blouse, and she gives them one room without a second glance.
In the mirror in the hallway, Eugene looks thin and stretched too tall, his skin pallid and Snafu’s gaze burning blue past his shoulder. Snafu had lost interest in conversation a little past sundown, and had taken to clicking Eugene’s lighter on and off, on and off, click click, until Eugene was grinding his teeth to keep from smacking him. The little motel had loomed like a sign from heaven on the horizon fifteen minutes later.
In their room, the little bathroom has a claw-footed bathtub, and when Eugene glances back Snafu is sitting on the bed against the far wall, smoking another cigarette and looking for all the world like he’s gazing out a window that doesn’t exist. Eugene leaves the door open while he fills the tub, and places the lighter, the pipe, and the unworn bible his father had given him when he came back on the nightstand. “Gonna bathe,” he says to Snafu, who grunts in response.
When Eugene tries to open the door after his bath, his push meets resistance. Snafu is sitting against the door, his back propped up against the wood, and as he leans forward to let Eugene squeeze through he regards him like this is completely normal behavior. Eugene just steps around him and says, “You think I was going to die in there?” and when Snafu doesn’t give him a response, he stops and looks down at him. “What the fuck, Snafu,” he says. “I was just taking a bath.”
Snafu shrugs, the movement too slow and lazy, and Eugene feels his spine prickle with annoyance he can’t place. He’s about to turn and walk away when Snafu grabs him by the ankle, the momentum of his turn making him fall to his feet in an automatic barrel roll. “Jesus Christ!” he snaps, and glares up at Snafu - a moment of distress crosses his face before he breaks into a grin and says, “Jeez, Sledgehammer, when you get so clumsy?”
“You pulled me down!” Eugene replies, and rolls onto his stomach, pushing himself up into a crouch. There’s something natural about being close to the ground with Snafu at his side, and he relaxes against the wall, feet splayed out in front of him and almost touching the side of Snafu’s. Snafu pulls a carton out of his pants - his supply is endless - and then lights his cigarette with a lighter etched with ‘M.S’ on the base. Eugene hardly ever thinks of Snafu as Shelton, and never as Merriell, a name too proper for the man who wields a knife with ease and sits, shirtless and covered in grime, on any dirty surface like he’s king of the world.
Eugene looks at Snafu's feet covered in calluses, his work boots abandoned on the floor, and Eugene’s own feet next to his, kept tough from walking barefoot in the woods. “I listen to birds.” Snafu’s head snaps up and he regards Eugene like he‘s really gone Asiatic on him. His mouth is opening but Eugene keeps talking, “I came back and there was nothing. I wanted to do nothing.” His hands sit useless, idle in his lap. “And every morning, right before the sun would come up, the bluebirds would start up their singing and I would hear their song and,” he turns his palms upward. “I wouldn’t die.”
Snafu carefully puts the cigarette out and sets the lighter on the floor with a light ‘clink.’ He presses up onto his knees and leans in toward Eugene, his movement languid and hesitant. When he gets up close he puts a palm against Eugene’s thigh, and then he says, slowly, “We ain’t dead yet, Sledgehammer.” There are mortars falling around them, flares lighting up the sky and all that damn mud sinking into every tear in Sledge’s clothes, Snafu’s weight warm and solid at his side and his hand hot on Sledge’s leg as he clutches hard enough to bruise in a moment of weakness. Someone is screaming at them, for them, and instinct kicks in when Sledge is up and running, heavy equipment in his arms and Snafu a pace behind him, always right behind him.
In the motel room his breathing goes shallow, Snafu’s pupils dilated as he looks straight at Eugene. “Goddamit,” Eugene swears, and grabs Snafu by the shoulder. “I thought we were going to die.” In his head, he thinks of words he’s only said once: I’ve never been so scared in my life. “We ain’t dead yet,” Snafu repeats, and leans in and presses a kiss against Eugene’s mouth.
Eugene fights back, on the edge of tears, his teeth clashing against Snafu’s as he surges forward and digs his fingers more firmly into Snafu’s shoulder, his other hand resting in a fist against his chest. Snafu presses in between his knees, his hand an anchor against Eugene’s thigh and his mouth parted against Eugene’s angry response. They press and pull and somehow Eugene ends up with his fingers tangled in Snafu’s shirt and blood on his lip and the taste of Snafu lingering on his tongue, and when he licks the corner of his mouth he recognizes the tinge of salt and iron.
Snafu hasn’t moved away, his hand still a heavy weight on Eugene’s leg. “Ain’t nothin’ left for us, Sledge,” he says. “Ain’t nothin’ left for us but this.”
And Eugene dips his head onto Snafu’s shoulder and cries.
Author: skylilies
Pairing: Sledge/Snafu
Fandom: The Pacific
Word Count: 1450
Genre: angst/romance
Rating: pg-13 (cussing)
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, just my interpretations of them. Based on fictionalized representations, no disrespect is intended.
Teaser: Snafu says the sunshine is burning the top layer of his eyeballs into dust, the scenario he describes laid out in excruciating detail while Eugene tries to keep his eyes on the road.
Notes: This is augustbird's fault, and the longest fic i've written in quite a while (WHICH IS NOT THAT LONG BUT I AM LENGTH IMPAIRED). inspiration taken from san bernardino by the mountain goats.
Snafu says the sunshine is burning the top layer of his eyeballs into dust, the scenario he describes laid out in excruciating detail while Eugene tries to keep his eyes on the road. He says he’s going to go blind from the glare, and when Eugene asks, ‘so why don’t you close your eyes?’ he just glances at him like he’s crazy. To Eugene, the red sun rising from the horizon reminds him of Jap flags, the kind torn ragged around the edges with old blood spattered rusty around the red center.
Snafu already threw up once this morning, just leaned out the side of the car with his door open while Eugene was driving and vomited onto the pavement, while Eugene said “what the-” and hit on the brake. He’d just wiped his mouth and said, “won’t dare soil your pretty little automobile,” which had Eugene glancing nervously at the seat and hoping he’d survive this without his car coming back in shambles.
Snafu has both eyes on the road now, squinting against the horizon - still staring down the sun like it’s game ready for hunting. He’s completely still, and Eugene keeps glancing from the road to his face and back again, until finally Snafu turns to him and says, “I ain’t gonna disappear, Sledgehammer.” He keeps his eyes on Eugene for a pace after he says it, intense in the same way he stared into the sun, and Eugene clenches harder at the steering wheel. He doesn’t reply.
They pass the state sign at noon and two hotels by three, and then Snafu lights up and starts blowing smoke in Eugene’s direction. He pulls off the road and gets the pipe out of his pocket, raises it up to Snafu and says, “cheers.” While he lights it, Snafu appraises him again, eyes hooded behind his smoke and dirty fingers. “Ah thought you dun’ smoke, Sledgehammer,” he says, slow and easy, like he’s really forgotten.
Eugene quirks a smile at him around the pipe and says, “I guess things change. My family hates it, my mother always has something to say about the smell and my father, well, my father would like me to be in the best health.”
“Ah,” Snafu replies, dragging the one syllable out into a full declaration. “Your father the doctor.”
Eugene nods, and gestures to the car. “He bought me this. Back when I was just a kid. Sid and I used to drive it all over Mobile.”
Snafu regards him with quiet eyes, and then flicks the cigarette onto the car floor. His work boots go down heavy on it, and he turns back to the road and says, “Best keep driving, Sledge. Gonna be here all week if you slow down now.”
The motel is old fashioned and gaudy, with a large ornate mirror in the hallway and peeling wallpaper that makes Eugene think of his only visit with his mother’s mother when he was just a little boy. She had gnarled fingers and her couch had smelled like wine, and she patted him on the head and called Edward her favorite. The woman who checks them in has coffee stains on her blouse, and she gives them one room without a second glance.
In the mirror in the hallway, Eugene looks thin and stretched too tall, his skin pallid and Snafu’s gaze burning blue past his shoulder. Snafu had lost interest in conversation a little past sundown, and had taken to clicking Eugene’s lighter on and off, on and off, click click, until Eugene was grinding his teeth to keep from smacking him. The little motel had loomed like a sign from heaven on the horizon fifteen minutes later.
In their room, the little bathroom has a claw-footed bathtub, and when Eugene glances back Snafu is sitting on the bed against the far wall, smoking another cigarette and looking for all the world like he’s gazing out a window that doesn’t exist. Eugene leaves the door open while he fills the tub, and places the lighter, the pipe, and the unworn bible his father had given him when he came back on the nightstand. “Gonna bathe,” he says to Snafu, who grunts in response.
When Eugene tries to open the door after his bath, his push meets resistance. Snafu is sitting against the door, his back propped up against the wood, and as he leans forward to let Eugene squeeze through he regards him like this is completely normal behavior. Eugene just steps around him and says, “You think I was going to die in there?” and when Snafu doesn’t give him a response, he stops and looks down at him. “What the fuck, Snafu,” he says. “I was just taking a bath.”
Snafu shrugs, the movement too slow and lazy, and Eugene feels his spine prickle with annoyance he can’t place. He’s about to turn and walk away when Snafu grabs him by the ankle, the momentum of his turn making him fall to his feet in an automatic barrel roll. “Jesus Christ!” he snaps, and glares up at Snafu - a moment of distress crosses his face before he breaks into a grin and says, “Jeez, Sledgehammer, when you get so clumsy?”
“You pulled me down!” Eugene replies, and rolls onto his stomach, pushing himself up into a crouch. There’s something natural about being close to the ground with Snafu at his side, and he relaxes against the wall, feet splayed out in front of him and almost touching the side of Snafu’s. Snafu pulls a carton out of his pants - his supply is endless - and then lights his cigarette with a lighter etched with ‘M.S’ on the base. Eugene hardly ever thinks of Snafu as Shelton, and never as Merriell, a name too proper for the man who wields a knife with ease and sits, shirtless and covered in grime, on any dirty surface like he’s king of the world.
Eugene looks at Snafu's feet covered in calluses, his work boots abandoned on the floor, and Eugene’s own feet next to his, kept tough from walking barefoot in the woods. “I listen to birds.” Snafu’s head snaps up and he regards Eugene like he‘s really gone Asiatic on him. His mouth is opening but Eugene keeps talking, “I came back and there was nothing. I wanted to do nothing.” His hands sit useless, idle in his lap. “And every morning, right before the sun would come up, the bluebirds would start up their singing and I would hear their song and,” he turns his palms upward. “I wouldn’t die.”
Snafu carefully puts the cigarette out and sets the lighter on the floor with a light ‘clink.’ He presses up onto his knees and leans in toward Eugene, his movement languid and hesitant. When he gets up close he puts a palm against Eugene’s thigh, and then he says, slowly, “We ain’t dead yet, Sledgehammer.” There are mortars falling around them, flares lighting up the sky and all that damn mud sinking into every tear in Sledge’s clothes, Snafu’s weight warm and solid at his side and his hand hot on Sledge’s leg as he clutches hard enough to bruise in a moment of weakness. Someone is screaming at them, for them, and instinct kicks in when Sledge is up and running, heavy equipment in his arms and Snafu a pace behind him, always right behind him.
In the motel room his breathing goes shallow, Snafu’s pupils dilated as he looks straight at Eugene. “Goddamit,” Eugene swears, and grabs Snafu by the shoulder. “I thought we were going to die.” In his head, he thinks of words he’s only said once: I’ve never been so scared in my life. “We ain’t dead yet,” Snafu repeats, and leans in and presses a kiss against Eugene’s mouth.
Eugene fights back, on the edge of tears, his teeth clashing against Snafu’s as he surges forward and digs his fingers more firmly into Snafu’s shoulder, his other hand resting in a fist against his chest. Snafu presses in between his knees, his hand an anchor against Eugene’s thigh and his mouth parted against Eugene’s angry response. They press and pull and somehow Eugene ends up with his fingers tangled in Snafu’s shirt and blood on his lip and the taste of Snafu lingering on his tongue, and when he licks the corner of his mouth he recognizes the tinge of salt and iron.
Snafu hasn’t moved away, his hand still a heavy weight on Eugene’s leg. “Ain’t nothin’ left for us, Sledge,” he says. “Ain’t nothin’ left for us but this.”
And Eugene dips his head onto Snafu’s shoulder and cries.