MetaDeprivation - 5. MetaPrompts 570: Flag (MW8)

“And where’s your leatherneck protection detail?” he asked, only half-jokingly, finishing off his sandwich with a speed that betrayed anyone with a military past.

“Downstairs.”

“Come in,” Chris’ face fell in disappointment, but he opened the door nonetheless.

He looked good. As dangerous and uncomfortable a deployment to the sandbox was, his tanned skin, his sharp features thanks to proper nutrition, daily physical training, and lack of unwholesome activities, became the Major. The fact he was indeed concerned about Colt’s men downstairs was slightly less becoming an officer.

“Thank you.”

“I’m surprised they don’t keep you on a leash.” Despite all the efforts by the Army Major to be irreverent, there was a hint of pain in his deep voice.

Colt made a dismissive movement with his hand as if indicating: ‘Been there. Done that. Prefer electric shock collars,’ before he actually said: “Welcome home, Chris. I’m really glad you came back safely.”

“Are you?” the Major answered sharply. He handed a bottle of water to his guest while putting on an ARMY sweatshirt. He might look tasty in his white undershirt with his dog tags on top, but he also knew Colt was a hopeless ‘Military Identification Tags Chaser,’ and he didn’t want to get in trouble with half of the USMC – or any of the other beasts who surrounded Colt as if he was the most precious treasure on this planet.

Colt didn’t rise to the challenge. He sensed the Major was at a crossroad of his lonely Army life. “I am, really.” He surveyed the apartment: clean, sparsely furnished, a stack of mail sitting on a little desk next to a slightly outdated computer. A wooden map of the States stained with the pattern of the Stars and Stripes.

The only odd element was the ghastly-yellow couch; he was pretty sure one of Fink’s ‘exes’ had been the purchaser of that. In a moment of bitchiness, he couldn’t help himself picturing the scene of an effeminate man with limp wrists as the obnoxiously dismissive customer in that furniture store. He wondered where that thought came from? Jealousy? Pity? Pride? A wrong sense of belonging? The fact his inert homophobia would never leave him irrespective how much love he had found?

Chris tore him out of his childish thoughts, asking the important questions: “And your Captain?”

“Still over there. Hopefully back in two months, but you know … you never know.”

Fink nodded. “I’m sure you didn’t just come here to tell me your thanks, so what do you want?” His voice sounded harsh.

Colt bit his lip. Fink’s lilac eyes were stunning as they had been all those years, but a hint of sadness and bitterness had crept in. “Do you remember when we met in the Shangri-La?”

“Yep. You were showing off your harem.”

“Was I?” Colt asked without even thinking about it.

“I might not be as smart as you, Mr. Consultant, but I know when a man shows off his trophy … ‘partners’ …” The ‘partners’ came out despisingly.

“Stop there, Chris,” Colt spoke up.

“This is my apartment, here I speak as I want … you can give orders to your pretty boys!”

“’Pretty boys?’” Colt repeated. This was not going as he had planned. And he hated when things didn’t go as planned. His OCD might have receded to a large extent; but in such cases, it threatened to raise its ugly well-ordered head.

“What do you want, Colt? I don’t need your pity.”

Colt put his bottle down and stepped into the Major’s personal space. “I wanted to know whether you meant what you asked a year ago …”

Fink’s pink lips quivered. His facial muscles performed an odd dance, going through a range of emotions from desire, curiosity to hurt pride.

“I see,” Colt whispered. He might be bad at reading people, especially as he couldn’t smell their emotions like in his wolves, but that reaction had been clear. Chris’ question had been a consequence of drunkenness not of his feelings for him. Dumb. He hadn’t really meant it. A pain long forgotten filled his body. “Anyway. I’m really happy you’re back safe.” He turned around and whispered sincerely: “Take care of yourself, Chris.”

“Wait!” The Major was fast, blocking the door.

“What?”

“Can we try?”

“’Try?’ What?” Colt repeated in confusion.

“I wanna make sure your marine protection detail doesn’t use me for machine gun targeting practice.” The joke fell flat.

Colt smiled timidly, his fingers reaching for that healthily farmer-tanned neck “They won’t,” he promised, not mentioning how his wolves would kill an unwanted suitor.

And then his lips touched Chris’ nearly chastely. Nearly.

Maybe the pain would go away one day. Even the pain he had experienced on school busses with Trent.

“In what universe is it possible that we get some stinking army ass into this house?” Prime shook his head in jocular disbelief.

“Don’t forget, Prime, in the ‘real’ world, I outrank all of you,” Chris responded with a laugh.

“Sure,” Gavin answered with a big smile. “Just because you’re the first human our Meta wants to fuck doesn’t mean you outrank us, Lt. Col. (US Army)!”

Chris rolled his lilac eyes. Checking again there wasn’t a single ‘chain’ on his formal uniform before he squared his shoulders to state kind of solemnly: “So I guess this is something like a ‘commitment ceremony?’”

“Well, given that you cannot turn into a wolf like your brother-husbands, we had to find a different way for you to swear your oath to our Meta,” Brian explained; despite his sincerity, he was obviously enjoying his Mormon-inspired terminology.

“With four dress blues guys waiting for me to screw up?” Chris continued to tease counting the ‘offenders’ with his gloved right hand.

“Yep, and four more wolves who’d have you for breakfast in a heartbeat,” Sam responded proudly. He wore a formal jacket for the occasion, but the T-shirt underneath said: ‘Who cares about the sun? Guns out!’

“I know.” Chris’ eyes glided over the eight men in the room, four marines in their formal dress blues, Brian in his killer PR suit, Warren in his formal police uniform, and Bradley and Sam in their tailored jackets. “I guess I won’t get out of wearing plastic while I’m here?”

“Nope, you don’t have a wolf to control you, so you’re screwed. Enjoy it,” Brian continued with little sympathy. “He’s coming.”

“I’m going to die when he puts this on me …” Chris whispered; but was reassured to feel Sam’s strong hand on his shoulder.

---

He calmed down when he felt Sam’s strong hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” the dark-haired wolf whispered.

Colt nodded. The sun. The white stones. The gunshots. The ceremony. The grass. The priest. The crying. The flag-folding. The casket.

“Sure you don’t want to leave?” Sam asked again, his voice full of worry.

Colt shook his head with determination. This was the least he could do.

“Something upset you,” Sam insisted as if the moment wasn’t tough enough to be upset.

Colt swallowed, subtly taking Sam’s big paw into his small hand. Prime, Gavin, CE, Isaac, and Warren, all in their formal uniforms, stood closer to the grieving family, Brian and Bradley were at home making sure ShadowLands was safe, so it was up to Sam to be Colt’s comfort at the official funeral of Lt. Col. Fink, KIA somewhere in the sandbox. “I just felt I should have done something I didn’t do.”

“You couldn’t have saved him.” Sam understood.

“But I could have made the last years better. It’s not fair that he was punished for one stupid decision during a frat party.”

Sam nodded, gently squeezing the small hand. “Maybe in a different world.”

And when Colt threw soil onto the casket in the grave, he spoke to the dead soldier: ‘Maybe indeed. – Not in this world, not in the world I saw.’ He put a Starship Troopers book next to flowers and wreaths. ‘But maybe in another world. Maybe in that other world, we’re together. I would very much like that.’

And Colt attributed it to the stress of the day that he heard somebody answer: ‘Ja też.’