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Sledge is angry. Jesus Christ, he's so goddamn angry it feels like his insides are going to boil over with the heat of his rage. It's not hard to feel like he's losing his mind, there's too much adrenaline piled on top of too many hormones, and they're all all crying out to him hysterically stay alive stay alive stay alive.
He falls into his hole at night, dug out in the pouring rain until his hands are numb and his body aches from it and his cock is harder than he ever thought possible, straining against his dungarees, telling him in no uncertain terms that yes, he is alive, and something needs to be done about it right that second. Semi-circle fingernail indents line his palms and pretty soon they're going bleed. Gunfire sounds in the distance and Sledge can't even find it in himself to feel the shock anymore, his body wound so tight that when he snaps the entire would is going to feel it, the ground is going to tremble all the way back to Mobile.
And Snafu just seems to take it all in stride, barely even blinking as another five of their men are ploughed down by enemy fire. Sledge fucking hates him for that, for his total desensitisation, the way he just lights another smoke with steady hands and smiles at them like Santa himself just landed a sleigh nearby and they're all about to get gifts.
Digging the heel of his hand into his crotch does nothing to relieve the pressure, Sledge can feel his heart beating too fast, too hard, and the sensation of precome slicking the head of his dick doesn't help at all, it just makes him harder, more frustrated. He closes his eyes and imagines what he'd do with privacy, what he'd do with ten spare minutes and a palmful of his own spit. It used to be slow, firm strokes at midnight, quiet gasps against the back of his hand as he imagined the soft curves of girlish hips, the swell of breasts, maybe the barely-there floral scent of hair falling loosely over slender shoulders. Now he digs his fingers into his thighs and can't think of anything but the smell of musky sweat and dirt, the sound of masculine grunts and the heat of too-warm bodies pressed impossibly close.
And maybe it is the final sign of a lost cause when he can't stand it any more and slams Snafu up against some fucking shack in the middle of god-knows-where and suddenly realises he has no idea what to do. Just stands there like an idiot and breathes in the godawful smell of a man who hasn't washed for days but has smoked his weight in cigarettes to somehow try and compensate. Stomach muscles clench and his cock jumps at the undertone of musk, but it's fleeting and replaced by the overwhelming dirtiness he's reluctantly getting used to.
“I want,” he says, but his brain refuses to supply anything further so he just inhales, tries to make himself not want anything else, anything more than the gentle scrape of calloused fingers as they brush over his cheek.
Snafu stares at him, that usual, vacant stare which is neither acceptance or denial but successfully enrages Sledge enough to make him curse under his breath. The easy, elongated drawl that follows makes the universe slide edgeways, as if Snafu saying, “Sledge, I think you need some sleep,” is the most arousing thing in the world and all the blood in his body rushes suddenly to his dick. He doesn't want to sleep, he wants desperately to pin Snafu to the ground and rut against him until he comes, or his brain explodes, whichever happens the fastest.
The measured voice of reason, “Shouldn't do this here,” is like a slap in the face but Sledge shouldn't have expected anything different. Stinging eyes and the desperate pulsing of his cock make him feel both wrecked and helpless, choking on apologies as they try and force their way out of his throat. The firm-fingered grip around his wrist is unexpected, dragging him sideways, in through a hole at the side of hut.
“Haven't got long,” Snafu whispers, and Sledge wants to say who cares, who gives a shit if they find us, but his thoughts are swallowed up in the whimper that spills from Snafu's parted lips, the realisation that without even thinking he's palming the other man's cock through far too many layers of clothing.
And maybe the air is poisoned, because Sledge is finding it hard to get air, removing his hand and trying to get as close to Snafu as possible, letting himself be pulled down onto the ground. Then there's just the hardness of earth and the scratch of roofing straw underneath as Sledge takes Snafu's wrists in his hand and pins them to the ground, over his head. He licks at Snafu's mouth, takes the pout of his bottom lip in between his teeth and bites. He can't help himself and no one's going to notice another crack on a private's lip, another blue-mottled bruise on his already ruined skin. And he knows there will be bruises, knows because if he grips any tighter Snafu's wrists might actually snap, brittle bones crushed to dust just from the weight of how goddamn frustrated he is.
Hooking one booted foot over Sledge's thigh, Snafu brings them closer, allowing Sledge's free hand access to the curve of his ass which he grabs onto for dear life, leveraging them closer still. Air huffing from his mouth, Snafu manages to say, “Fuck, fuck,” and Sledge has never been much for swearing, but from Snafu's mouth it sounds like poetry and his whole body sings at the sound of it. Somewhere in the awkward tangle of limbs they've become they set a rhythm, a grinding push and pull which creates a kind of friction that Sledge doesn't think he's ever considered being possible before now. Snafu bucks his hips, jaw slack as he pants endless half-words that Sledge can't make sense of, all he knows is if they're interrupted before he can finish he will probably shoot whoever it is that finds them, dead on the spot, no regrets. There are white stars of light dancing in his vision and his lungs burn from heaving, grinding down between Snafu's thighs and wincing at the occasional rough catch of fabric. Heat unfurls somewhere near his spine and he can't stop himself from thrusting forward, leaning down and taking Snafu's mouth, tonguing the ridges of his palate then dragging saliva-slick lips across the line of his jaw. “God, come,” Sledge gasps, pulling at Snafu's earlobe with his teeth and grinning at the full-body shudder it elicits, Snafu's lips moving soundlessly in time with the sudden erratic cant of his hips. Sledge thrusts harder, Jesus Christ, and it almost hurts but he can't bring himself to care, the barely-there feel of Snafu's muscles twitching and his breathless gasps sending him over the edge. He bites down on Snafu's shoulder, gets a mouthful of gore-stained dungarees for his trouble and rides out his orgasm as quietly as possible, cock pulsing at the way Snafu leg wraps tighter around him and pulls down hard, a final jolt of friction that makes Sledge see red.
Afterward, flexing his wrists Snafu looks bewildered, maybe a little crazed as he surges forward and presses their lips together, licking at the inside of Sledge's mouth like there's something there to be tasted. “Yeah,” he says, pulling back and looking at Sledge with sleepy eyes, like that means anything at all, and Sledge is grateful for the grime on his face, thick enough to hide the flush on his cheeks when Burgin stumbles into the room and gives them orders to move.