[ it's so much like the night that changed his life at twenty-one years old, a rosy evening seeping fast into darkness where all he wanted was a cigarette and a fight, that he should have easily guessed that all the pieces would shift again. all those years ago, he'd trotted down to the yard, silver cigarette case in hand, minding his own fucking business, cocooned by carpathian mountains under a fiery sky — and then lieutenant ash colchester had stormed in to tell embry about all the things he wasn't doing that he should have been. ash, the man dropped into this world to lead armies and broker peace between nations and capsize embry's heart right in his chest.
there's no regret for dying as a pockmarked shield defending ash's secrets. the more interesting embry is to danny johnson, then perhaps the less of his attention he'll waste on ash. he certainly couldn't have him turning toward greer. he just didn't expect — christ — swimming in abilene's drugs and whatever danny had shot through his system felt so surreal, like living the same memory twice, until he realized they wanted two different things. abilene wanted a kid, and danny just wanted him dead, and embry's job was damage control. he had to give them both.
he doesn't recognize the part of the manor he crawls out of, straight out of the earth they'd buried him in, dressed in a fine suit presently streaked with dirt, gasping for air that he can't seem to get enough of because the memory of the knife's kiss along his throat feels dead fucking real right now. his dirt-stained fingers claw at his crisp collar, fumbling with his tie until the knot loosens, tracing the raised scar tissue across his throat. a permanent gift from danny. from the fog of his mind comes the knowledge that he'll have more, right at the center of his chest, but that's all that gets through, a wash of hatred cresting over him that erases all else.
he doesn't even remember ash, his anchor, his entire heart, the man who saved him again and again and again, not just in the war but every day by giving him a reason to live. the darkness bleeds the pinks and violets from the sky, the warmth gone, the night air like broken glass against his clammy skin. he presses his forehead to the grass, still hyperventilating as if his throat is still split open by danny's blade, his fingers digging into the dirt as if trying to find something, anything, to draw him back to this world. ]
( ash is a man, as ever, of routines. it was a habit born in the military and out of necessity — strict wake up times, daily inspections, rendezvous planned down to the second. failure could always be a hair out of reach, so ash became disciplined like a tiny dictator of his one man country, regimented to a fault. if one didn't know what he fucks like, a monk-like existence would almost feel apt to name — nothing in excess, everything in moderation, never taking too much pleasure in any one thing. at least not since —
his mornings used to be easy: little sleep, morning prayer, a run, a shower. he skips the prayer nowadays, his faith a cold, dead thing in his chest. when jenny died he clung to his religion like a piece of driftwood, necessary to stay afloat — but he can't forgive his god the crime of permitting embry to die, at least right now, so his prayers don't go anywhere. instead, he remembers a new memory with embry every morning, and digs his thumb into the bruise of it until he's more happy it happened than sad he's gone. today, it's a memory after they served their second tour in a brief lull of the war efforts — ash begged, actually begged, during their rallying attempts at solidifying his political career, to take thanksgiving off and have it with his mother. privately, he just wanted to introduce embry to his family. watch him charm his mother and his sister, watch him curl up on the floor like a lazy house cat after helping with the dishes, stomach full and smile bright, winning a game of poker against ash and kay for stale halloween candy. he remembers fucking embry on his childhood bed slow, romantic, a hand clapped over his mouth, hating every thrust out because it took ash away from him. he remembers telling his mom when he left, mama, i love him, you know. and althea had said, obviously. i didn't raise a fool.
he pushes against the sore spot. mama, i love him. embry taking up space in his childhood, missouri home. embry throwing him a football, tackling him in the mismatched autumn leaves on a too cold afternoon. embry smelling like the years old shampoo he used to wear in highschool, curls wet, nose pink, pretending not to blush. he remembers the only thing he wanted for christmas that year, was to do this all again next november, and a hundred novembers after that. i didn't raise a fool. he presses, presses, presses.
by the time he makes it to embry's grave, it's a bruise and not a laceration. it's still dark out — ash doesn't like to visit with an audience. he has a copy of the land by vita sackville-west tucked under his arm that he's been reading to embry, and a cassette player full of viennese waltz music which he won't play, but insists on bringing anyway. he has a ring on his finger, the ring, which he wears specifically to torture himself. in any case, he's brought up short, his gym shoes crunching the grass with finality when he tries to make sense of what he's seeing. embry's grave, torn asunder. the dirt unpacked. and — a body — )
What the fuck? Embry! ( fuck sackville-west. everything drops to the ground as ash races up like the shot from a bullet, on his knees in the ground beside him immediately. ) What the fuck. ( he flips embry over, trying to see — what happened, why it happened, why he's here, how he can help. he's supposed to be levelheaded under duress, but his hands are shaking, tearing open embry's clothes, looking for some button on him that says press here to fix me. ) What the fuck? Embry — fucking — damn it, God damn it. ( heart hammering, eyes soaked, ash realizes he's not helping, that he doesn't know how to help, that something is obviously wrong with embry and he needs to fix it, fix it, fix it right the fuck now. choking out, ) Embry, please, baby.
[ the manhandling is familiar. he doesn't fight it, which rings a faint alarm bell in the back of his mind that maybe something is wrong with him, but he's too busy choking down gasping breaths, letting ash-danny-abilene paw open his blazer and dress shirt to reveal the scar bisecting him from chest to abdomen, neatly intentional. everything tastes like grass and fucking grave dirt — everything that doesn't taste like the memory of blood, that is, and for a sharp moment he's nauseous as fuck, rolling to his side on instinct so he doesn't drown in his own vomit and die again in thirty seconds flat.
he rolls right into someone's knee, and then he's hauled into a lap like he's a rag doll and not a man over six feet tall that does his calisthenics faithfully. a forest scent overwhelms him, green and gold and the first clean thing he's felt since crawling out of his grave. ]
Ash. [ it's barely a sound, a scraped, syllabic noise against the sandpaper of his gashed out throat. he swallows, dry. ] You're here.
[ it shouldn't come as a surprise. a life without ash colchester is the life that embry fears most. that's when he'll know he's fucked up in the worst way, fucked up beyond the point of forgiveness. he hasn't reached that point yet, but sometimes he thinks he's toeing the line, when he has to say no when all he wants is to say yes, when he's forced to break ash's heart and hope to god he won't leave him for it.
jesus fuck, he wishes ash hadn't pulled his clothes open. he's shivering like it's below zero, his lungs having caught up that he can breathe again but his body still convinced that he's buried in the cold dirt instead of safe in the balmy night air. he buries his face into ash's warm throat and fights the staggering urge to pull away, the hazy chapel ceiling floating behind his eyes. ]
It was Danny. [ does he know? he has to know. he has no idea what happened after everything went dark. ] It was Danny, he — I thought you asked for me in the chapel, some — some shit like that, but he — I'm sorry, Ash, I'm so fucking sorry. I kept —
[ kept going back to him, and even now, he's itching to find him, itching to make things even worse in a way he knows he manifestly should not, but everything in his mind feels detached, fatalistic in a way that he's tried to keep together and now is blown open by the act of — how good it felt to die. ]
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— and on the third day, etc.
there's no regret for dying as a pockmarked shield defending ash's secrets. the more interesting embry is to danny johnson, then perhaps the less of his attention he'll waste on ash. he certainly couldn't have him turning toward greer. he just didn't expect — christ — swimming in abilene's drugs and whatever danny had shot through his system felt so surreal, like living the same memory twice, until he realized they wanted two different things. abilene wanted a kid, and danny just wanted him dead, and embry's job was damage control. he had to give them both.
he doesn't recognize the part of the manor he crawls out of, straight out of the earth they'd buried him in, dressed in a fine suit presently streaked with dirt, gasping for air that he can't seem to get enough of because the memory of the knife's kiss along his throat feels dead fucking real right now. his dirt-stained fingers claw at his crisp collar, fumbling with his tie until the knot loosens, tracing the raised scar tissue across his throat. a permanent gift from danny. from the fog of his mind comes the knowledge that he'll have more, right at the center of his chest, but that's all that gets through, a wash of hatred cresting over him that erases all else.
he doesn't even remember ash, his anchor, his entire heart, the man who saved him again and again and again, not just in the war but every day by giving him a reason to live. the darkness bleeds the pinks and violets from the sky, the warmth gone, the night air like broken glass against his clammy skin. he presses his forehead to the grass, still hyperventilating as if his throat is still split open by danny's blade, his fingers digging into the dirt as if trying to find something, anything, to draw him back to this world. ]
no subject
his mornings used to be easy: little sleep, morning prayer, a run, a shower. he skips the prayer nowadays, his faith a cold, dead thing in his chest. when jenny died he clung to his religion like a piece of driftwood, necessary to stay afloat — but he can't forgive his god the crime of permitting embry to die, at least right now, so his prayers don't go anywhere. instead, he remembers a new memory with embry every morning, and digs his thumb into the bruise of it until he's more happy it happened than sad he's gone. today, it's a memory after they served their second tour in a brief lull of the war efforts — ash begged, actually begged, during their rallying attempts at solidifying his political career, to take thanksgiving off and have it with his mother. privately, he just wanted to introduce embry to his family. watch him charm his mother and his sister, watch him curl up on the floor like a lazy house cat after helping with the dishes, stomach full and smile bright, winning a game of poker against ash and kay for stale halloween candy. he remembers fucking embry on his childhood bed slow, romantic, a hand clapped over his mouth, hating every thrust out because it took ash away from him. he remembers telling his mom when he left, mama, i love him, you know. and althea had said, obviously. i didn't raise a fool.
he pushes against the sore spot. mama, i love him. embry taking up space in his childhood, missouri home. embry throwing him a football, tackling him in the mismatched autumn leaves on a too cold afternoon. embry smelling like the years old shampoo he used to wear in highschool, curls wet, nose pink, pretending not to blush. he remembers the only thing he wanted for christmas that year, was to do this all again next november, and a hundred novembers after that. i didn't raise a fool. he presses, presses, presses.
by the time he makes it to embry's grave, it's a bruise and not a laceration. it's still dark out — ash doesn't like to visit with an audience. he has a copy of the land by vita sackville-west tucked under his arm that he's been reading to embry, and a cassette player full of viennese waltz music which he won't play, but insists on bringing anyway. he has a ring on his finger, the ring, which he wears specifically to torture himself. in any case, he's brought up short, his gym shoes crunching the grass with finality when he tries to make sense of what he's seeing. embry's grave, torn asunder. the dirt unpacked. and — a body — )
What the fuck? Embry! ( fuck sackville-west. everything drops to the ground as ash races up like the shot from a bullet, on his knees in the ground beside him immediately. ) What the fuck. ( he flips embry over, trying to see — what happened, why it happened, why he's here, how he can help. he's supposed to be levelheaded under duress, but his hands are shaking, tearing open embry's clothes, looking for some button on him that says press here to fix me. ) What the fuck? Embry — fucking — damn it, God damn it. ( heart hammering, eyes soaked, ash realizes he's not helping, that he doesn't know how to help, that something is obviously wrong with embry and he needs to fix it, fix it, fix it right the fuck now. choking out, ) Embry, please, baby.
no subject
he rolls right into someone's knee, and then he's hauled into a lap like he's a rag doll and not a man over six feet tall that does his calisthenics faithfully. a forest scent overwhelms him, green and gold and the first clean thing he's felt since crawling out of his grave. ]
Ash. [ it's barely a sound, a scraped, syllabic noise against the sandpaper of his gashed out throat. he swallows, dry. ] You're here.
[ it shouldn't come as a surprise. a life without ash colchester is the life that embry fears most. that's when he'll know he's fucked up in the worst way, fucked up beyond the point of forgiveness. he hasn't reached that point yet, but sometimes he thinks he's toeing the line, when he has to say no when all he wants is to say yes, when he's forced to break ash's heart and hope to god he won't leave him for it.
jesus fuck, he wishes ash hadn't pulled his clothes open. he's shivering like it's below zero, his lungs having caught up that he can breathe again but his body still convinced that he's buried in the cold dirt instead of safe in the balmy night air. he buries his face into ash's warm throat and fights the staggering urge to pull away, the hazy chapel ceiling floating behind his eyes. ]
It was Danny. [ does he know? he has to know. he has no idea what happened after everything went dark. ] It was Danny, he — I thought you asked for me in the chapel, some — some shit like that, but he — I'm sorry, Ash, I'm so fucking sorry. I kept —
[ kept going back to him, and even now, he's itching to find him, itching to make things even worse in a way he knows he manifestly should not, but everything in his mind feels detached, fatalistic in a way that he's tried to keep together and now is blown open by the act of — how good it felt to die. ]