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The rumble of an f-15, a screeching beast of machinery humming beneath his hands as he struggles to keep it under control. The screaming of various alarms as a robotic voice begs him to pull up. Smoke, blurring his vision and obscuring everything around him.
Dread, as he realizes there was no way out for him from under the elevator.
At least there was Trigger, the knowledge he was skilled enough to make it out. That his f-22 was still fighting, and there would be no death taking his soul today. Maybe the same could not be said for him, but if it was true for Trigger, how could he mourn?
The shaking of the jet's frame, his staticky comms, Trigger’s voice; quiet but pleading for any other way. His own, resigned to a bloody fate so long as his wingman doesn’t meet the same. Why was this the one moment he felt no fear?
Fire, engulfing him as the f-15 rams into the ground- he had tried to glide down, but the damage was too extensive- it's crumpled frame bending around him, pinning him down. Its metal quickly rises in temperature, branding his skin.
He thinks he might have screamed, he doesn’t know, can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.
A lie. He can hear one thing.
Trigger’s voice, faint behind the roaring of fire, but present nonetheless. Calling;
Count.
Count.
Count!
His voice rises in urgency, progressively calling louder and louder. It sounds like it’s on top of him, weighing down on him in the same way crushed metal and glass rained upon him, embers falling like snow around him. But Trigger was insistent, always getting what he wanted. Count would reign hell to give Trigger whatever he wanted.
Count!
Desperate.
Count!
Screaming.
He can’t breathe. There’s no oxygen in what little remains of a cockpit, the fire stealing it to keep itself alive. He’s panting, begging for anything left of life to hold onto. He feels like he’s slipping, falling into an infinite nothingness.
“Count!”
Falling.
He gasps, eyes opening to pitch black. He can’t see anything around him, but he feels the lingering flames licking at his skin. Something’s touching him, something hot, he’s still in the fire.
“Hey! Hey, Count, hey.” Trigger’s voice is rough, but not in the way it was over comms. Why wasn’t there static? Why was Trigger so clear? He still can’t see, yet his eyes search wildly.
“Count, hey. Talk to me, Count.”
Trigger.
Trigger; his love, he’s right next to him. Can he not feel the heat, why wasn’t Trigger burning alongside him?
“Trigger.”
Weak, trembling.
“I’m here. I’m at your wing, alright? I’m here.”
His eyes shut tightly; he focuses on breathing. It’s impossible to set a steady rhythm, his lungs hurt, he feels like he’s drowning.
“ Trig.”
Sobbing.
The fire wraps its arms around him, burning hot against his skin, but he grasps onto it, desperately seeking the warmth of it.
“I’m here, Count.” The fire whispers, “I’m not leaving.”
“ Fuck… ”
There’s a chuckle next to his ear as the fire holds him to its chest, but it’s scared and weak. His own hands grasp at its back, bunching fabric in between his fists and not letting go. He buries his face into the neck in front of him, gasping breaths tearing from his lungs.
The fire smells of sea salt and himself- sandalwood and spices that rubbed off on it’s skin. The smell of ocean water, waves lapping at the shore;
Cold.
The ringing in his ears goes quiet, his tears slow in their descent. He feels skin touching his own, quiet murmurs next to his head.
“It’s me, love.”
The fire burns the last of its embers, and dies.
Hands run circles around his back, holding him close. There’s the salted scent of Trigger’s cologne, and the faint smell of mint fanning from his breath. His skin is warm and cold at the same time, a stark difference running from his chest to the tips of his fingers. He can hear his lover’s breathing, feels the rise and fall of his chest.
Exhaustion comes to him all at once, his sagging body trembling in Trigger’s hold. It wasn’t real. No fire ate away at his flesh, and while his jet had laid in ruins at the bottom of the space elevator, there was no death that followed after it.
His body aches, chills running along his back trailing after Trigger’s cold hands. They dance across his sweat soaked skin in wide arcs, drawing incomprehensible shapes into the flesh. His hot breath fans across Trigger’s neck, but the other man doesn’t seem to mind it.
“Can you talk to me?” Trigger whispers, still focusing on the lines being drawn onto his back. It’s reassuring, to not have all the focus directed on him too soon. Trigger knows this, experience in multiple forms.
“I… I don’t…” Count stutters on his words, hands clenching slightly around the fabric in his hands, before giving up. He sighs, and lets go of Trigger’s loose shirt, hands falling limply behind his wingman’s back.
One of Trigger’s hands rises, fingers dancing along the skin of his neck to comb through blonde strands of hair and skim along the back of his skull. “It’s alright.” He whispers, gentle movements drifting across his skin. “Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?”
The question instantly has him tensing, the thought of returning to that place sending a jolt of panic coursing down his spine. “No- no.” He replies quickly, voice weak and pleading. He doesn’t want- he can’t go back there, underneath that wretched spire.
“Alright,” Trigger murmurs against his clammy skin, frowning. “How about we move, then?” He suggests, already pulling away slowly. His fingers skim along Count’s skin where they pull away from him, but at the same time a gentle pressure spikes from each pad as Trigger pulls him along.
Count follows willingly- he’d always follow Trigger, he would be lost without him- rising from the messy sheets and setting his bare feet against the cold floor. He feels the chill, out of the blankets, with sweat cooling against his skin; the small points of contact between him and Trigger are the only places he feels warm.
Trigger leads them from their quiet bedroom, a steady presence ahead of Count as he guides the two of them down the hallway of their condo. There’s a soft light coming from the end, where their living room and kitchen resides, and he’s almost forgotten why there was a glow in the first place by the time they reached the hall’s end.
In the corner of their living room stands a small, ornate Christmas tree covered head to toe in string lights and various unmatched ornaments. He huffs a weak laugh at the shoddy thing, but his heart clenched at the sight of it.
He had hassled Trigger into setting up a tree the second thanksgiving was done, and his wingman rolled his eyes and laughed, but relented. They had little room for anything big- didn’t need anything big, really- so the tree was little and just barely fit the space made where they were forced to move one of the couches.
Neither of them apparently had an eye for decoration, either, judging by the mess of colored ornaments adorning the thing.
But it was theirs, something they had created- instead of destroyed- in the short amount of time that had passed since the war ended. And it was one of the first times he had felt genuinely happy since.
Trigger moves him to the couch, and he sits without further prompting. He sits and stares at the little tree, and he knows happiness cannot last forever for men like them.
Trigger kneels in front of him, the only thing that could tear his gaze from the tree, and rests his hands on Count’s thighs, thumbs sweeping across the fabric of his sleep clothes gently.
“I’m gonna make us some drinks, if that’s alright?” Trigger asks gently, like he’s trying to console Count, or warn him of something.
He frowns and nods his head, turning back at the only source of light in the room as Trigger stands, hands lingering for a moment longer, before his lover sighs and makes for the kitchen.
Count realizes then, that it wasn’t an overly cautious thing to do- to ask Count if he could leave- because his skin crawls the second Trigger is out of sight. His throat becomes tight and his hands twitch as he brings them in front of him, fidgeting and cracking his knuckles.
Trigger was right behind him, he could hear him in the kitchen, moving mugs and pouring liquid, all he had to do was turn around. But he couldn’t, because he was nothing if not a coward.
He hears the microwave slam- try as Trigger might to open and close it quietly, the damn thing always sticks- and the faint humming as it runs. Tea, then? He may not be able to sleep for the rest of the night, but he doubts Trigger would be making coffee. And as much as he craves a good drink, he prays Trigger isn’t microwaving alcohol.
Focusing on the sounds instead of his own thoughts, he waits for the sound of the microwave door opening again- Trigger can't stand the sound of it beeping, he always opens it before the timer stops- and mugs being set back on the counter.
It’s indistinct after that, noises he can't quite place. He hears what he thinks is a bag opening, something being dropped into the mugs, but nothing he can distinguish. But it distracts him, and that’s all he needs.
He hears metal clinking against ceramic- a spoon mixing whatever Trigger’s decided to make- and then silence. He almost works up the courage to turn, but Trigger beats him before he has to.
The other man rounds the end of the couch to stand in front of Count again, this time holding two mugs in his slender hands. He takes one, feeling the warmth quickly spread to his hands. Smelling the concoction, he’s caught off guard when the scent of chocolate greets him.
“Is this…?” He starts curiously, gazing into the mug before turning to Trigger, who smiles gently at him.
“Hot chocolate.” Trigger finishes, looking awfully proud of himself.
Count didn’t even know they had it, or when the last time he drank any was. He might have mentioned it once in front of Trigger, but knowing him the other man probably went out and bought it the next day.
His chest aches as he looks back at the mug, raising it to his mouth and taking a sip. The liquid is hot, but he relishes in the burn of it going down his throat, it feels real.
Trigger tucks his legs up underneath himself beside him, holding his own mug in his lap. He watches Count carefully, mirth mixed with concern dancing in his eyes.
The drink reminds him of so many things at once: the holidays at home with his family, fighting nothing but the cold, old movies he remembers every line of, music his mother used to hum as they huddled near the fireplace. He shudders, staring at the drink, before setting it on the coffee table in front of them and leaning back into the couch, closing his eyes.
His wingman frowns, setting his own drink down with a quiet clink, before leaning forward to settle against Count’s side. Trigger is silent for a moment as he has his own turn staring at the tree, before he closes his eyes and rests his head against Count’s shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it now?” Trigger asks gently, breaking the sullen silence. His hand moves to grasp Count’s own, pulling the limb into his lap and tracing the lines of his palm.
Count sighs, tilting his head blindly to land atop Trigger’s. His fingers twitch in the others hold, holding back from grasping Trigger’s hand. He lets his wingman trace the curves instead.
“Do I have to?” He replies quietly, voice taking on a ragged note. Images burn behind his eyes- the coast, the tunnel, a wide open room he knows will be his grave. He opens his eyes again to avoid the nightmare. “It’s always the same.”
Trigger frowns, squeezing Count’s arm in reassurance. “Doesn’t mean you can't.” He argues softly, exhaustion in his tone. His fingers run up and down the line of his arm gently, trying for reassurance. “It’ll help, Count.”
The man in question sighs again, a shaky thing that leads to his whole body growing anxious and tense. “It’s the elevator.” He mutters harshly. “It’s always the fucking elevator.” Count’s hands clench in his lap, knuckles turning white as his breathing shakes throughout his chest.
Trigger leans forward, hands running up Count’s arm until one of his hands grazes over his wrist and forces itself in between Count’s clenched fist, watching his wingman’s hand hesitantly open to allow his fingers to interlock with his own. “Yeah?” Trigger murmurs back, turning his head to glance at Count over his shoulder.
His hand twitches in Trigger’s hold, his brows furrowing as he meets his lover's gaze. It takes a moment of staring into Trigger’s expectant but gentle face that he sighs, head rolling back to land against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah.” He repeats, anger dissipating, being replaced with an all too familiar boneless exhaustion. His hand clenches again, but it seeks comfort instead of escape now.
“I… it was just me, this time.” Count admits finally, making an unpleasant face at the memories. “You were there, but you were flying. That was all that mattered to me.”
Trigger’s hand clenches back, and he doesn’t have to look to know his leader is frowning in displeasure. He’s always hated it when Count talks like that, like his life means nothing compared to Trigger’s.
“The landing failed, and I… I could feel it, all of it. The impact, the metal… the fire. I was choking, burning to death, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He can’t bear to look at Trigger, the dejection that surely made itself at home on his face.
“It wasn’t real.” Trigger mutters, leaning back on the couch to mimic Count’s position, still gazing up at him. “You made it out, because you’re a good fucking pilot.” Their conjoined hands move passionately as Trigger stressed the second part of the sentence. He can feel the burning stare fall on his chin.
“It felt real.” Count’s voice shakes, phantom flames licking his skin, an unsteady breath escaping his chest. “It was… It hurt, Trig. Everything hurt so badly.”
Trigger sighs feebly, closing his eyes momentarily. His wingman raises their joined hands to place his lips against the back of Count’s hand, kissing the skin for a moment before simply keeping their limbs there. He speaks against the skin slowly, strong, calloused hand encapsulating Count’s own. “I don’t… understand these things, Count. I- foolishly- never expected I’d experience them. I never expected any of this.” He knows he’s talking of them, their unlikely alliance that led to nights in bed, that led to nights like these. “But it gets better. I know it has to, because we’ve got each other and we’re not going anywhere.
“ Both of us survived the elevator, Count. I’ll do anything and everything possible to remind you of that until it sticks.” Trigger squeezes their hands, placing one last lingering kiss against the skin before they fall into Trigger’s lap once again. His lover shuffles on the small space of the couch to push himself further into Count’s side, tucking his head beneath his chin.
Count sighs, a wetness in both his eyes and his breath leaves him unsteady, taking a moment before he tilts his head to land on top of Trigger’s. The light of the tree reflects a soft glow onto Trigger’s brown hair, across his cheeks and down the front of his chest to where their hands lay clasped together in his wingman’s lap. He closes his eyes at the sight, dedicating it to his memory.
“I don’t know how I went on so long without you.” Count murmurs quietly, a mere whisper granted in the midnight hours of their little home. Trigger jostles beneath him with a small huff of laughter, another squeeze of their hands.
“It’s a wonder, really.” He teases softly, met with Count’s chest shaking beneath him in a light chuckle.
The blond sighs, lighter and a little less burdened than before, opening his eyes which fall upon their scrappy tree. He leans forward, careful to not mess with Trigger’s position too much, and grabs his mug to bring it back into his lap. It’s still warm, and its heat runs up his arm, warding away the chill of the night. He brings it up to his lips again and melts at the taste, childish in its familiarity but too comforting to care.
Holding it in his lap again, Trigger’s hand shakes free of his own, touch lingering for a moment before his thin hand reaches for the mug. He watches amusedly as the smaller pilot takes the cup from his hand and raises it to his own lips, drinking from Count’s mug before giving it back.
“Brat.” Count huffs, watching Trigger raise a hand to wipe at his mouth, a smile left in its wake. He smiles back regardless of the stolen cocoa- setting the mug onto the table before Trigger can take more- and pulls his wingman closer, the smaller man straddling his lap, to kiss him softly on the lips.
Trigger’s hands find their place, holding Count’s jaw gently and staring into his eyes, contentment evident in his gaze. Count’s arms wrap around Trigger’s back, looking up at his lover with the same sappy adoration. Trigger places another chaste kiss on his lips, before placing his forehead against Count’s.
The room is silent besides the quiet ambiance of humming lights and air conditioning, the shuffling of their clothes and mingling of their breaths. Trigger is haloed in the decorative lights, outlining him in an angelic glow. No amount of reverence or worship would ever be enough for the man above him.
“I love you.” He utters quietly, watching those hazel eyes squint in pleasure, a lightness to his gaze.
Trigger hums happily, like the content purr of a cat, and murmurs back “I love you, too.” Trigger’s hands run along his jaw, tracing a path down his neck to his shoulders and back up, running soft fingertips along Count’s cheeks, skimming along the sensitive spot below his ear, settling once again at the jut of his jaw.
Count shuts his eyes, leaning into the sensation. His breaths come evenly for the first time that night, as his lover perches in his lap and mutters his love against his skin. His head falls to lay on Trigger’s shoulder, arms wrapping around the smaller man even tighter. Trigger’s hand cups around the back of his head, holding it and letting his other hand run through the blonde hair lazily.
“Hey, Trig?” Count breathes into Trigger’s neck, near asleep against his lover’s shoulder.
“Hmm?” Trigger hums questioningly.
“Merry Christmas.”
He can feel Trigger’s smile, bright and wide, and his wingman kisses the skin of his cheek. “Merry Christmas.” He replies, in the same, quiet delight.
The weight in Count’s chest lessens.