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body div#devskin0 hr { }

  Wendell on one plane, Michael on the other. Divided by separate courtyards, conjoined by a sandy walkway of just a few feet.
  Michael surveyed the buildings around him, alert and stern and silent. He held his rifle at his chest.
  They’d been fighting the previous night; Michael, convinced of some strange foresight, Wendell unsettled by the prospect.
  They faced opposite directions - one north, one south, both annoyed and avoiding turning their gazes. They saw only sand and the clay structures that rose from its dunes.
  But meeting eyes was inevitable; they knew that. Michael decided to turn first, maybe earlier than he’d originally planned to.
  And he saw the face in the window, the protruding scope of a Kalashnikov.
  His heart stopped.
    Wendell heard Michael call his name, turned, felt the breath fly from his lungs as he was barrelled over into the dust. Michael’s bullet hit the sniper square in the forehead; the sniper’s bullet hit Michael square in the jaw.
    They collapsed. There was blood in the window frame above them, blood in the sand below them.
    “Fuck,” Wendell breathed, clambering off his back and to his sergeant’s side. “Fuck, fuck, Michael, hold on -”
    The wound gaped, a weeping red flower in the side of Michael’s chin. He was heaving, gargling and croaking unintelligibly - the sound made Wendell sick.
    “W-Wen-”
    “Stop, stop it,” Wendell breathed, placing one hand over the bullet hole to cease his companion’s attempts to speak, and the other beneath his head. “Stay real still, Mike. It’ll be alright. We’ll call in, have you Medevaced, they’ll -” damn it, he had to look away. Tears were running down Michael’s cheeks, and he looked afraid, and the image was disturbing. “They’ll fix you right up.”
      The other members of the squadron had heard the shots, and they began to stumble closer. Wendell ignored their approaching footsteps.
    “Hey, come on -” Wendell continued, watching as tremors slowly began to rock Michael’s body. “Don’t you worry, buddy. I’m here. It’s okay. You ain’t gonna -”
    He couldn’t say it.
    “W-W-”
    “H-hush up. Please don’t try to talk, Mike.”
    “A-ah-h -”
    Wendell swallowed, realized now that the squadron had gathered in a fearful circle around them. No one made any move to help, and Wendell knew why.
    “What… what are you trying to say, bud?” He heard his voice crack.
    “Ah-” Michael coughed, and blood spurted onto his jacket, ran down the sides of his mouth. “A-ah-”
    More tremors. For another moment, Michael would try once more to form words, halted again and again by the trembling of his offset, bleeding jaw. He’d close his eyes tightly for a moment as tears flooded out, then open them once more, and - he just couldn’t manage it.
    “Okay. Okay. J-just - you can show me, can’t you? Come on now, it’s alright.”
    “Ah-” Michael stopped himself this time. He jerked his chin in something of a nod, furrowed his brow up at Wendell.
    “Yeah?”
    Michael beat a fist once against his chest, then moved it, shaking, up against Wendell’s. Then again - the fist touched Michael’s chest before resting on Wendell’s; a strange and stilted gesture.
    Wendell shook his head and held the fist tightly in his. “I don’t…” he just kept shaking his head, over and over and more and more weakly as Michael resumed the motion with his other arm. “I don’t understand, Mike, I…”
    For a second, the two were quiet, but for Michael’s raspy breaths. They looked each other up and down, one crying out of what might have been lost control in the brain or what might have been raw emotion, the other fiercely holding back frightened sobs.
    Michael’s hand moved up again, and Wendell flinched in preparation for another meaningless, heart-wrenching movement.
    But there was nothing - just a trembling hand on his cheek.
    Wendell looked down, Michael looked up.
    With the very last of his energy, Michael pulled Wendell down to his face and kissed him, intensely and desperately.
    Wendell froze; he hated this, the taste of blood seeping into his mouth, the connotations. But he did not dare pull away. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched Michael’s fingers in his until, finally, Michael’s mouth stopped moving. When Wendell pulled away, he saw shut eyes, stained with tears but no longer crying, peaceful, somewhere near satisfied.
    Then there were hands on his shoulders, so many hands. Wendell was furiously embarrassed, too much so to comprehend the weight of what he’d just experienced; he said nothing as the two halves of the squadron pulled he and Michael in opposite directions.

***

  It was almost dark out now - the desert night freezing, wind battering Wendell’s bare shoulders.
  “You should come inside,” a soft voice said. Wendell turned: it was Corporal Morrows, the Sergeant’s closest confidante besides he.
  Wendell turned back to face the setting sun. He heard Morrows sigh, and the larger man finally sat down on the stoop beside him. Wendell peered over tentatively, and was shaken by the sight of tears streaking the corporal’s dark-skinned cheeks.
  “I know that must’ve been, uh - confusing for you,” Morrows murmured, voice shaky. “Clearly he’d run out of options.”
  Wendell clenched his eyes shut, hugged his knees tight beneath his chin. “I know,” he whispered.
  There was a pause.
  “He was in love with you.”
  Wendell placed his hands over his ears, then ran them through his hair. “I know.” He could barely breathe. “I know, I know, I know.” He let out an infuriated snarl, covered his face, pressed his nails into his forehead. He hated this. He hated Corporal Morrows. He hated Michael.
  “I’m so - I’m so furious with him,” Wendell exhaled. Morrows looked offended.
“You’re mad at him for this?” he hissed. “For having feelings for you?”
  “Yes!” Wendell stood now, kicking up a dust cloud in his wake. The tears crept ever closer to the corners of his eyes; he pressed his thumbs furiously against his lids. “Yes, yes, I’m fucking mad at him for having feelings for me!”
    He couldn’t help himself; he began to weep. “Why did it have to be me?”
  Corporal Morrows opened his mouth to retort, but -
  “Why couldn’t I have loved him back?”
  Wendell’s voice had become quiet, almost silent, as he wiped uselessly at his soaked cheeks. He hated himself; he cursed his violent father and his ignorant mother, cursed the socialization they’d sired him into, the fact that he couldn’t even have explored his sexuality if he’d wanted to. And he cursed the fact that, even if he’d been able to experiment, there would be no change: Wendell was straight, and for the first time, he despised that about himself.
  “Why couldn’t he have fallen for someone wh-who - who wasn’t such a fucking idiot?”
  Morrows held his hand out to take Wendell’s, and he pulled the younger man back down onto the stoop. There, Wendell crumpled under Morrows’ hand, placed delicately on his shoulder; he sobbed and salivated into his quaking hands, hated himself, hated himself.
  “I wanted it to be me,” Corporal Morrows murmured. Wendell’s head shot up, still wet with tears but now frozen in shock.
  “You - you loved him?”
  Morrows offered Wendell a sad smile. “You have to admit, he’s difficult to dislike.”
     The corporal’s face fell mournfully, and he looked away. “But I knew I didn’t have a chance. All I could ever do was pray you’d come to your senses and feel the same, for his sake.”
  Wendell was wrecked; he felt his heart shattering within his chest. He wished he’d kissed him harder. He wished he’d touched him, told him he loved him, something. Something to make those last few seconds… real.
  “I don’t want him to be dead,” Wendell whimpered, gnawing on his knuckles. “I-I - he was my best friend. He was my hero. I need him. I can’t do this without him; what are we supposed to do?”
  He turned to Morrows, eyes desperate and terrified.
  “What are we going to do without Michael?”
  Morrows met Wendell’s gaze; he opened his arms, and Wendell fell into them, crying like a lost child, shaking and heaving.
  “I don’t know,” the corporal whispered into Wendell’s red hair. “I don’t know anymore.”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

  Wendell on one plane, Michael on the other. Divided by separate courtyards, conjoined by a sandy walkway of just a few feet.
  Michael surveyed the buildings around him, alert and stern and silent. He held his rifle at his chest.
  They’d been fighting the previous night; Michael, convinced of some strange foresight, Wendell unsettled by the prospect.
  They faced opposite directions - one north, one south, both annoyed and avoiding turning their gazes. They saw only sand and the clay structures that rose from its dunes.
  But meeting eyes was inevitable; they knew that. Michael decided to turn first, maybe earlier than he’d originally planned to.
  And he saw the face in the window, the protruding scope of a Kalashnikov.
  His heart stopped.
    Wendell heard Michael call his name, turned, felt the breath fly from his lungs as he was barrelled over into the dust. Michael’s bullet hit the sniper square in the forehead; the sniper’s bullet hit Michael square in the jaw.
    They collapsed. There was blood in the window frame above them, blood in the sand below them.
    “Fuck,” Wendell breathed, clambering off his back and to his sergeant’s side. “Fuck, fuck, Michael, hold on -”
    The wound gaped, a weeping red flower in the side of Michael’s chin. He was heaving, gargling and croaking unintelligibly - the sound made Wendell sick.
    “W-Wen-”
    “Stop, stop it,” Wendell breathed, placing one hand over the bullet hole to cease his companion’s attempts to speak, and the other beneath his head. “Stay real still, Mike. It’ll be alright. We’ll call in, have you Medevaced, they’ll -” damn it, he had to look away. Tears were running down Michael’s cheeks, and he looked afraid, and the image was disturbing. “They’ll fix you right up.”
      The other members of the squadron had heard the shots, and they began to stumble closer. Wendell ignored their approaching footsteps.
    “Hey, come on -” Wendell continued, watching as tremors slowly began to rock Michael’s body. “Don’t you worry, buddy. I’m here. It’s okay. You ain’t gonna -”
    He couldn’t say it.
    “W-W-”
    “H-hush up. Please don’t try to talk, Mike.”
    “A-ah-h -”
    Wendell swallowed, realized now that the squadron had gathered in a fearful circle around them. No one made any move to help, and Wendell knew why.
    “What… what are you trying to say, bud?” He heard his voice crack.
    “Ah-” Michael coughed, and blood spurted onto his jacket, ran down the sides of his mouth. “A-ah-”
    More tremors. For another moment, Michael would try once more to form words, halted again and again by the trembling of his offset, bleeding jaw. He’d close his eyes tightly for a moment as tears flooded out, then open them once more, and - he just couldn’t manage it.
    “Okay. Okay. J-just - you can show me, can’t you? Come on now, it’s alright.”
    “Ah-” Michael stopped himself this time. He jerked his chin in something of a nod, furrowed his brow up at Wendell.
    “Yeah?”
    Michael beat a fist once against his chest, then moved it, shaking, up against Wendell’s. Then again - the fist touched Michael’s chest before resting on Wendell’s; a strange and stilted gesture.
    Wendell shook his head and held the fist tightly in his. “I don’t…” he just kept shaking his head, over and over and more and more weakly as Michael resumed the motion with his other arm. “I don’t understand, Mike, I…”
    For a second, the two were quiet, but for Michael’s raspy breaths. They looked each other up and down, one crying out of what might have been lost control in the brain or what might have been raw emotion, the other fiercely holding back frightened sobs.
    Michael’s hand moved up again, and Wendell flinched in preparation for another meaningless, heart-wrenching movement.
    But there was nothing - just a trembling hand on his cheek.
    Wendell looked down, Michael looked up.
    With the very last of his energy, Michael pulled Wendell down to his face and kissed him, intensely and desperately.
    Wendell froze; he hated this, the taste of blood seeping into his mouth, the connotations. But he did not dare pull away. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched Michael’s fingers in his until, finally, Michael’s mouth stopped moving. When Wendell pulled away, he saw shut eyes, stained with tears but no longer crying, peaceful, somewhere near satisfied.
    Then there were hands on his shoulders, so many hands. Wendell was furiously embarrassed, too much so to comprehend the weight of what he’d just experienced; he said nothing as the two halves of the squadron pulled he and Michael in opposite directions.

***

  It was almost dark out now - the desert night freezing, wind battering Wendell’s bare shoulders.
  “You should come inside,” a soft voice said. Wendell turned: it was Corporal Morrows, the Sergeant’s closest confidante besides he.
  Wendell turned back to face the setting sun. He heard Morrows sigh, and the larger man finally sat down on the stoop beside him. Wendell peered over tentatively, and was shaken by the sight of tears streaking the corporal’s dark-skinned cheeks.
  “I know that must’ve been, uh - confusing for you,” Morrows murmured, voice shaky. “Clearly he’d run out of options.”
  Wendell clenched his eyes shut, hugged his knees tight beneath his chin. “I know,” he whispered.
  There was a pause.
  “He was in love with you.”
  Wendell placed his hands over his ears, then ran them through his hair. “I know.” He could barely breathe. “I know, I know, I know.” He let out an infuriated snarl, covered his face, pressed his nails into his forehead. He hated this. He hated Corporal Morrows. He hated Michael.
  “I’m so - I’m so furious with him,” Wendell exhaled. Morrows looked offended.
“You’re mad at him for this?” he hissed. “For having feelings for you?”
  “Yes!” Wendell stood now, kicking up a dust cloud in his wake. The tears crept ever closer to the corners of his eyes; he pressed his thumbs furiously against his lids. “Yes, yes, I’m fucking mad at him for having feelings for me!”
    He couldn’t help himself; he began to weep. “Why did it have to be me?”
  Corporal Morrows opened his mouth to retort, but -
  “Why couldn’t I have loved him back?”
  Wendell’s voice had become quiet, almost silent, as he wiped uselessly at his soaked cheeks. He hated himself; he cursed his violent father and his ignorant mother, cursed the socialization they’d sired him into, the fact that he couldn’t even have explored his sexuality if he’d wanted to. And he cursed the fact that, even if he’d been able to experiment, there would be no change: Wendell was straight, and for the first time, he despised that about himself.
  “Why couldn’t he have fallen for someone wh-who - who wasn’t such a fucking idiot?”
  Morrows held his hand out to take Wendell’s, and he pulled the younger man back down onto the stoop. There, Wendell crumpled under Morrows’ hand, placed delicately on his shoulder; he sobbed and salivated into his quaking hands, hated himself, hated himself.
  “I wanted it to be me,” Corporal Morrows murmured. Wendell’s head shot up, still wet with tears but now frozen in shock.
  “You - you loved him?”
  Morrows offered Wendell a sad smile. “You have to admit, he’s difficult to dislike.”
     The corporal’s face fell mournfully, and he looked away. “But I knew I didn’t have a chance. All I could ever do was pray you’d come to your senses and feel the same, for his sake.”
  Wendell was wrecked; he felt his heart shattering within his chest. He wished he’d kissed him harder. He wished he’d touched him, told him he loved him, something. Something to make those last few seconds… real.
  “I don’t want him to be dead,” Wendell whimpered, gnawing on his knuckles. “I-I - he was my best friend. He was my hero. I need him. I can’t do this without him; what are we supposed to do?”
  He turned to Morrows, eyes desperate and terrified.
  “What are we going to do without Michael?”
  Morrows met Wendell’s gaze; he opened his arms, and Wendell fell into them, crying like a lost child, shaking and heaving.
  “I don’t know,” the corporal whispered into Wendell’s red hair. “I don’t know anymore.”