the twins, ray and simon, sit behind him bickering like normal and he lazily throws a hand back to hit whatever one he can reach upside the head. “shut up, c’mon. FOCUS.” it falls on deaf ears and he rolls his eyes, turning to look at his second in command with raised eyebrows. “any word?” the slightly shorter blonde shakes his head in response and the air crackles with apprehension as the men in the back settle down. “shit.” their radios aren’t working and he hits one on his open palm, knee bouncing tightly, foot tapping an unsteady rhythm on the floorboard of the tank. dropping it out of reach, ambrose narrows his eyes, glowering ahead through the dirt-covered windshield. “fuck this, we’re retreating. we’re getting the hell out of here, there’s no way i’m going in deaf and blind.” he clears his throat, waits for anyone to disagree with him, but they never do.
they’re only a minute into backing up, thick tangible silence between the four, when gunfire hits the side of the tank. ambrose stills– knows what it means– before a guttural roar pushes its way past his lips and he slams down on the brake, going to turn. the high-pitched keening sound of an explosive soars by and he grabs the dash above him, turning to stare at his men, all as pale-faced and white-knuckled as him, that he’s led to death along side him. he barely has time to choke out an apology before the crash, so fucking loud that the air turns into static and he clutches at his ears, trying to hold onto anything he can to prepare for what he knows is most likely his demise.
ten minutes later feel like seconds as he blinks awake, hands scrambling, pawing at the desert sand beneath his already gritty nails. “no.” it’s a pathetic whimper, wipes his face on his jacket sleeve and clenches his teeth as he crawls towards the wreckage that he knows in his heart was his own teams. there’s bullets swinging past him, patches of land exploding near him, but he tones it all out. continues on his death mission to look for a familiar face. wincing at every drag, hands burning, ambrose clutches at the face-down bodies around him, desperately flipping them over to get a closer look at them. none are the ones he’s looking for.
it takes a few more panicky seconds before he sees one of the twins, a mere nineteen year old, and he curses himself for never being able to tell the damn two apart now. turns out to be ray, clutching at the cross around his wrist and gasping for air as he stares blankly above him. ambrose lets out a gust of breath, knocked straight out of him, and leans over the younger boy. “hey, hey, buddy. don’t–” the other coughs wetly and ambrose rolls him onto his side precariously, shaking his head. “no, no, no, c’mon. breathe, damn it.” his hands tremble as he tries to steady the other as his body racks with coughs, choking and sputtering on his own blood that’s now coating ambrose’s clothing, his hands. “ray, i won’t let you die.”
he’s crying, doesn’t even realize it until after the kid takes his last breath and he goes to raise a hand to cover his eyes. he ignores his wet cheeks and attempts to gather himself, can feel shock setting in already. pushes it away purposely, digs in his comrades pockets and pulls out the pictures he knows are in there. the family he’d heard tons of stories about, that simon was apart of. ( probably dead. ) slips them under ray’s fingers that are still clutching the necklace and stands up wobbily.
it’s the pain in his leg that wakes him up, gasping like a drowning man, chest heaving. ambrose knows that he’s probably been yelling for last few minutes and curses his god damn mind, runs his fingers roughly through his hair then his hands down his face. can’t take this every night sober dreaming shit, reckons he’s either got to become night owl or drink a bit more heavily. above all he hopes he hasn’t waken his roommate. his hands feel off balance, weird, and he looks down to see the bandages have been torn off in his sleep. his breath quickens and he fumbles for the knife under his pillow, stalks his way into the bathroom.
the rational part of his brain tells him that there’s no one there, no one out to get him. but he can’t get the worried faces of his team out there– his responsibilities, the deaths on his hands– or the blood pouring rivers out of ray’s mouth as he choked to death. the silence at dinner that night, the scars on his burned hands. he clutches the sink counter and shakes his head harshly, wants to knock it all out of his memory. raises his hands to tug sharply on his hair, a sharp “fuck” and he’s on the floor, on his knees like the begging, damned man that he is. needs his bandages, needs his friends, needs his mom, needs his– can’t breathe– i’ll kill you all, motherfuckers– simon– other languages around him, training, sweat, dirt, grime, blood, blood, blood.
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
titsay
pixelskylines
origamiaround
