Chapter Text
Piers had never really been a person who felt sadness. He was known for being hot-headed, and his temper was often enough that most people around him kept their distance from him, but wanting to cry? He didn't think he'd cried since his mother had died when he was young.
Until now.
Granted, his eyes shimmered with tears he refused to let fall as he stared blankly at the Lieutenant who had given him the news.
"I see." Another thing Piers wasn't known for was being stoic. He'd often been described by people as an open book, where he was calm and collected and maybe okay to approach, or his temper was getting the better of him and he'd rip heads off if someone wasn't careful. "Thank you, sir."
He stumbled through the army base, hating the numbness that was quickly overwhelming him. He was supposed to be running drills, but the Lieutenant had pulled him aside before the stand-in instructor could even finish introducing himself.
The disillusionment he'd been struggling with for the past few months returned, and for the longest moment, he considered leaving the Army altogether.
But even if he were to leave now, where did he go? He had nowhere left. The last of his family was gone, and so was his home. He could continue with his military career, but what difference would it make when he didn't even know what the point of it all was anymore; even if he threw his life away, what was he dying for? What greater good could he achieve at the cost of his own life?
From what he'd just been told, his father hadn't died for any greater good, nor had his grandfather or great-grandfather - they'd just… died needlessly.
Piers wasn't sure he wanted that for himself. He'd always known the risks of enlisting, and he thought he'd been prepared if the day his father never came home ever arrived.
But the tears in his eyes suggested otherwise, and the lack of direction consuming him felt so overwhelming while the news of his father's death hadn't quite sunk in just yet.
"Nivans?"
He looked up at his name. It was the stand-in instructor, looking at him with something Piers couldn't decipher, but still thought was extremely out of place in such an intense career.
"What's wrong?" The man's eyes looked like they'd seen far too much, but despite that, there was a softness to his voice.
Piers ducked his head. "Nothing, Sir. I'm ready to run drills."
The man regarded him curiously. He looked like there was more he wanted to say. But instead, he only nodded. "Alright. Five laps, Nivans. Don't be slow."
Piers obeyed every drill he was given. But the emptiness kept growing, and somehow, he felt so far away from reality, he wondered if that was what people meant when they spoke of out-of-body experiences.
***
Piers didn't drink often, but he went out regularly enough that he had a fake I.D for situations like this.
He cradled the bottle of whiskey closely. There was a buzz in his head, but it wasn't enough to block out the news he'd received that day. He didn't think the grief had hit him just yet, and if he was already feeling so numb, he didn't know if he was ready to deal with it head-on just yet.
He dropped his forehead into his palm and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Maybe if he were to get blackout drunk, the grief could pass over him without really touching him.
"You know, it's not a good look when the military is using fake I.Ds to go out drinking."
Piers cracked his eyelid open at the voice he was sure he'd heard somewhere before. He frowned at the spiky brown hair he recognised from earlier that day; the stand-in instructor who'd been running their drills. On a normal day, he would have bristled and snapped. But now, all he could do was drop himself onto the table and mutter. "Who said I have a fake I.D…?"
"Your enrolment forms that I had the pleasure of looking over before taking your team out," the man said. "You're eighteen, Nivans. Surely you have better things to do with your life than wasting it in a bar."
Piers snorted. He waved the whiskey bottle around absentmindedly. "Right now, I don't even know what I'm doing with my life, Sir."
"We're not on base anymore. Just call me Chris." The man's - Chris's - tone had softened. "What's the matter?"
Piers sighed. He'd never been one to talk about his feelings, but the influence of alcohol, no matter how little he'd drank up to this point, was tempting. "Just… What's the point of it all? All the training, being told we're doing this for the greater good… Then you go out and get killed, and nothing's changed. What's the point?"
Chris touched the small of Piers's back gently. "Did you lose someone today, Nivans?"
Piers raised the bottle to his lips and gulped the rest of the whiskey down. He nodded. "My father. Killed by an antipersonnel mine. And for what? His death changed nothing. He accomplished nothing of what he was sent out to do. People are still going to die. The only thing that changed was now I'm alone."
"What about your mother?" Chris never removed his hand from Piers's back, and Piers didn't know why it was so comforting .
"Dead." Piers raised his hand for the waitress's attention. He frowned when Chris grabbed it and lowered it as he addressed the waitress instead.
"Just a bottle of water and two glasses, please," Chris requested. He turned back to Piers. "If you're going to drink, at least do it safely."
Piers squeezed his eyes shut tight and turned away. "What if I don't want to?"
"Then it looks like I'm going to be here for a while." Chris finally pulled his hand away. He was quiet for a few moments before he murmured, "Sometimes, in our line of work, you don't feel like you've made a difference. Not to your career, to the civilians affected… Sometimes not even to yourself. And sometimes… Before you can make a difference, your life is cut short. I've seen it, over and over and over again, so many times, when I close my eyes at night, sometimes it's all I see."
Piers scrunched his nose up.
Chris rubbed the back of his neck as he took a moment to find the right words. "But… If we all thought to ourselves that we'll never make a difference, there will be nobody to fight. The bad guys will win, because nobody will try to stop them. It's the people, like your father, who go out there and give their lives for something they truly believe in, who make a difference every day, even if nobody sees it. Because if there is nobody to fight for us, we've already lost. His sacrifice is what keeps us from losing. I'm just sorry it means you've lost him."
Piers felt a hot tear roll down his cheek. He shrugged, and true to his nature, he did his best to be nonchalant. "Not your fault. Don't be sorry. I knew the risks. I just thought I was prepared."
"Nobody's ever prepared, no matter how much they tell themselves otherwise." Chris dragged his hand through his hair. "I lost my parents when I was young. My sister and I were orphans. I understand it's hard. But you've at least got the barracks to stay in; you will not be alone and -"
Piers laughed bitterly. More tears followed the first, until he was crying shamefully. He shook his head. "Some dipshit burnt our barracks down trying to have a sneaky smoke, Sir. I don't even have that to go back to."
Chris was silent for so long, Piers thought he'd gotten sick of him. But finally, he murmured, "From one homeless orphan to another… I do have a spare room at my place. My sister uses it when she visits, but if you need it, just until you get back on your feet… I wouldn't say no to the company."
Realistically, Piers knew he should decline the offer. He knew how dangerous it was to enter the home of a stranger - especially one as big and powerful as this man appeared to be.
"Besides," Chris continued, "I'm not home that much these days, anyway. I'm a busy man with how hard the B.S.A.A. runs me around. You'd have the apartment to yourself most of the time."
Piers cracked open an eyelid he hadn't even realised he'd closed. "You're B.S.A.A…?"
"Yeah." Chris extended his hand to Piers. "Chris Redfield."
"The man who fought B.O.W.s before we even knew they were B.O.W.s." Piers wiped hastily at his eyes, because if this was the Chris Redfield, he didn't want to be so pathetic in his company.
"The one and only." Chris flashed a charming grin. "But really, Nivans. If you need somewhere to stay, I know where you come from, and I'm happy to help you."
"What were you doing training us ?" Piers whispered. "We're… Your talent is wasted on us."
"My talent is not wasted on anyone if it means they get better and survive, " Chris promised. "Anyway, I don't want to be in the field forever. I'd much rather train the new recruits instead; why not fill in where I could and hope I've saved a life in the future?"
Piers felt fresh tears escape, because if Chris Redfield had offered him a roof over his head, he knew there was no one he could be safer with.
He nodded. He bit into his lip so tightly, a droplet of blood rolled down his chin. "Yeah… Yeah, I'll take that room if it's still on the table."
Chris smiled. He thanked the waitress for the water bottle and glasses as she placed them on the table. "Good. Just drink some water for me first, Nivans. The last thing you need is a hangover in the morning."
Piers obeyed, because he'd been searching for some greater purpose for so long now, and Chris…
What Chris did to keep the world safe was everything and more Piers wished he could do, but could never be half the man Chris was.