Always lonely. He’s always lonely, and it’s always catching up to him at the strangest times. Like now, wine-drunk on the roof of the barracks, cold bottle of something sweet and sparkling he’d gotten cheap at the liquor store down the avenue hanging loose between two fingers. Maybe not drunk, not yet. Just tipsy enough to feel the heat blossom in his ears and the base of his skull.
“‘Cause it doesn’t, it’s not, why does he even bother showing up if he’s just going to be a fucking bitch the whole time?” Wolffe drawls, spilling half his tequila on the counter before he manages to get it in his mouth. “Fuck, that’s terrible.”
Cody snorts. “‘S called ‘bottom shelf’ for a reason, dumbass.”
Fox’s ears and eyes might be on fire. He struggles to focus on a scratch on the counter through the blur of hot tears. He turns a few sentences over in his head, then settles on, “I’m still here, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Wolffe assures him. “We’re all very aware of you moping over there.”
Fox tried to make conversation. They didn’t seem particularly interested in what he had to say. He contemplates the bottom of his glass and tries to swallow. It hurts. The swallowing, that is. And his head and legs. Mostly the swallowing, though.
He takes another drink. It’s strawberry, he thinks. Still sweet when he licks it from his lips. Bright.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Wolffe sneers. “Maybe some Senator’s boots to lick?”
Probably. There’s work he should be doing right now. He likes it better when his head’s spinning, though, and it’s nice to hear Wolffe and Cody’s voices, even if the circumstances are, well. What they are.
“Leave off, Wolffe,” Cody chides. Then, “He’s probably licking something else of theirs, anyway.”
Fox floats a little. Nothing feels like anything but static. He can’t help but poke at the things that hurt.
He’s getting very tired. He takes another drink.
“Fox?”
“Hey, Hemlock.”
“Hey. Wanna come back inside? It’s cold up here.”
Fox rolls his eyes and takes another drink. “It’s cold inside, too.”
There’s the scuff of boots on the duracrete and the soft scatter of pebbles. Hemlock comes right up behind him. Fox shivers. “Not hardly as much.”
“Tch.”
“Come inside. Medic’s orders.”
“No. Fuck you.”
Fox hopes Hemlock can see the disdain with which he’s wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. A few feet away, Thorn is openly laughing at him. The blanket is warm, though. His face is, too. He thinks he might be flushed. He presses his fingers to his cheek and startles at how cold they are.
Thorn laughs again, bright and loud. “C’mere, Fox,” he demands, patting the open space next to him. Someone, maybe Thorn or maybe Hemlock or maybe Stone, who’s passed out with his arms wrapped around a pillow, dragged their mattresses and pillows and blankets into the middle of the officers’ barracks and piled them into some sort of nest. It’s ridiculously soft. “You’re so fucking drunk.”
“Mm-mm.”
“Yeah.”
Fox shakes his head. He’s glad for all the cushions, because he falls backwards right after. “Nope. ‘M drinking water.” He shows Thorn his water pouch.
Thorn laughs again because he’s a bastard. “You certainly are, Foxy. Come here.”
It’s now that Hemlock reenters the room. “Fox, listen to Thorn. Drink the rest of the water and go the fuck to sleep.”
Fox bristles and opens his mouth to say something, but Thorn beats him to it.
“You, too, Hemlock,” he says. “Both of you come over here and sleep. Me and Stone are lonely.”
“‘Stone and I,’” Hemlock grumbles.
Grammar police, Fox thinks, and giggles so suddenly he almost spits his water out.
“Okay,” Hemlock says. “That’s enough hydration for you,” and then the water pouch is gone from Fox’s hands and he’s being pushed in Thorn’s general direction. “Go to sleep, Commander.”
Thorn’s hands are warm on his arms and Stone’s warm pressed against his leg and he falls face-first into Thorn’s chest with a grunt. It’s nice. He rubs his cheek against Thorn’s hoodie. Soft. Cody used to have a sweater this soft. Fox wonders if he still has it.
Oh.
“Thorn?”
“Yeah, Fox?”
“Cody and Wolffe don’t love me.” Fox exhales sharply. “Anymore.”
Thorn pulls him closer. “I’m so sorry, Fox.”
Oh. Now he’s made Thorn feel bad for him. Can’t he do anything without begging for attention, letting everyone know how sad poor Fox is all the time? “I’s okay,” he reassures Thorn. “It’s my fault.”
“Fox–”
He’s not sure what Thorn’s going to say, but whatever it is is cut off by Hemlock’s soft, “Fuck,” and then the heat of another body at his back. Hemlock, joining the pile, pressing Fox deeper into the pillows and further into Stone and Thorn. Stone snuffles and reaches sleepily for another blanket. Thorn shifts to a more horizontal position.
“No more feelings for tonight,” Hemlock says into the back of Fox’s neck. “Medic’s orders.”
Fox feels a little sandwiched, maybe a little crushed between Hemlock and Thorn. Stone is snoring. His ears are still burning. It’s fine. It’s all fine.
He falls asleep.