As the arranged date of his meeting with Harper draws closer, Matt finds himself becoming more and more restless. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like a false deadline; like he’s walking underwater. It’s nagging at the back of his mind. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like he owes Harper anything. Does he? Then he remembers that Harper is probably going to bring up their conversation at the end of the tour and he has to distract himself before he gets that empty feeling in his stomach.
A few days before their reunion (he refuses to even think of it as anything resembling a date) his mom suddenly announces that she’s going to be hosting a lunch for all her writing-club friends. It’ll be on the same day that he’s supposed to be meeting with Harper, but somehow he still gets roped into helping his mom cook. He wonders for a moment if she actually believes that he only worked in the kitchens during his time in Iraq but is immediately corrected when she hauls out her recipe folder. It’s stuffed to bursting with bits and pieces torn from magazines, hastily printed webpages, glossy pamphlets and delicate scraps of paper covered in his grandmother’s shaky handwriting. Matt’s heart sinks.
“Mama, it’s only the five of you…” He says, eyeing the folder apprehensively as his mom rifles through it. She seems to be gearing toward a three-course banquet.
“I know, but this is my chance to one-up Lindsay!” She replies, handing him a cookie recipe and waving him into the kitchen. Matt sighs. His mom and her best friend are fiercely competitive women, and spend much of their time trying to outdo one another in various activities.
“Besides, it’ll take your mind off your hot date tomorrow.” She grins.
“Mom!” Matt chokes. “We’re not- he isn’t- it’s not a date, okay?! We’re just meeting up to- to talk, and... yeah.” He adds carefully, realising too late that he maybe paused in the wrong place. His mom nods sagely, but winks.
“As long as you’re home by morning after your… talk.” She snickers and Matt wants to die, right there in the kitchen. His mom laughs, nudging him out of the way. He goes willingly but she grabs him before he can properly escape.
“Uh uh. You’re helping me cook whether you like it or not.” She cackles, and Matt has no choice but to resign himself to a whole day of being trapped in the kitchen with his imp of a mother.
~~~~~~~
He somehow manages to wake himself up on time the next day, having accidentally fallen into a routine of sleepless nights and late mornings. He doesn’t use his alarm clock anymore. It got switched off, batteries removed, and tucked away in a drawer the day he got home. After the war, he’d figured he deserved to sleep in every day for the rest of his life, and was so far making good on that decision.
He goes through his daily routine, feeling oddly disconnected the whole time, and finally ends up pacing in front of his mirror. Since enlisting, the cargos-and-boots look has grown on him. He doesn’t usually care what people think, but he really doesn’t want Harper to continue to affiliate him with the army, which is stupid because he was there with him and he can’t help it, he’s nervous and he’s meeting up with a guy who knows his dirty secrets, and today might be the day where Matt has to actually tell him to his face how he feels and if it goes wrong it might get ugly and-
He forces himself to take a deep breath. It’s only Harper. He should be relieved, actually. He’s (probably) not going to want to make small talk, and even if he does it’ll be about something relevant to them both. Something that won’t have Matt doing his best to not look bored or irritated. It’s only Harper, he reassures himself again. Nothing to worry about. Yeah right.
He considers asking if he can borrow his mom’s car, but he knows better than anyone that he’s still looking over his shoulder, still ready to fight at a moment’s notice, still operating with a lit fuse. Driving is probably not a good idea. Especially when he’s already antsy. So he catches the bus instead. It’s a fair journey and he spends it alternating between tapping his foot out of rhythm, glancing around at the other passengers (trying to be inconspicuous about it), and checking and re-checking his pockets. I must look like I’m on something, he thinks wryly as he makes accidental eye contact with a middle-aged man a few seats down. The man immediately looks away, but he eyes Matt warily every few minutes. I’m sorry, he wants to say. I’m not fixing to mug you - it’s just that I’ve come back from a fucking war and I can’t seem to adjust to the real world again. It’s not you, it’s me. But he knows he can’t say those things, so he tries not to look in the man’s direction again.
He finally makes his way to the café where he and Harper agreed to meet, grateful to be off the bus. He’s early. Twenty minutes early, actually. The next bus would’ve only left in an hour, and he’d have been rudely late. He picks a table next to the window and near to the door. Unfortunately, that means that everyone who enters walks past him. He can only imagine how shady he looks, flinching every time somebody walks in. By the time Harper arrives, Matt’s already had two coffees in a futile bid to quell his nerves and he’s fidgeting in his seat. Harper gives him a smile and sits opposite him. He opens his mouth but Matt beats him to it.
“Been a while, huh?” He says, unconsciously tapping on the tabletop. Harper nods, taking him in.
“You look agitated.” He replies in his even, measured manner. Matt doesn’t know what to say to that. He is agitated, but he shouldn’t be. So he makes a noncommittal noise, shrugs and looks away. He hears Harper let out a small breath. He jumps embarrassingly hard when the Sergeant touches his fingers.
“It’s okay, y’know.” He says softly, leaning in. Matt shrugs again. He isn’t sure what Harper’s getting at, doesn’t want to push and find out. But he’s itchingly curious at the same time.
“The shakes go away, and you eventually learn to sleep again.” Harper continues. “There’s no shame in looking for help, Ocre. I should know.” It takes Matt a second to realise what he’s talking about. He almost laughs when it clicks. Almost. He’s had two coffees in the space of fifteen minutes, on top of being wired with apprehension. Of course Harper thinks he’s neurotic.
“I’m- uh, I’m okay.” He answers belatedly. “But thanks anyway.” Harper gives him a long, searching look. Matt does his best to meet his gaze, but it’s intense and he can’t hold it for long. Caffeine is a treacherous bitch.
“Good. But if you’re ever not, you can call me, okay?” Harper says, then mercifully changes the subject. Matt manages to stumble through the conversation, but eventually Harper cottons on. He puts his cup down and leans back in his chair. The air between them thickens. Matt’s pulse speeds up even more. He’s probably gonna have a heart attack in a minute. Definitely.
“Come on a date with me, Ocre.” Harper says unexpectedly. Matt hits a wall and goes blank. His heart is hammering like a cartoon woodpecker and he feels lightheaded.
“I- what- a date?” He asks shakily. “Like, a real date or- or just for lunch?”
“It can be for lunch if you want, but I’d rather take you to dinner.” Harper replies smoothly, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Uh…” Nice, Matt. Real articulate. This guy thinks you’re smart, remember? Harper sighs. He reaches forward, almost-but-not-quite touching his hand again.
“Look, I’ve had weeks to think about this. I don’t know if you were tryna tell me, in Baghdad, that you’re- y’know... yeah.” He continues slowly, carefully picking his words. Maybe he thinks Matt’s gonna bolt if he says it outright. Maybe he’s right. “I’ve toured with a couple of different teams, and it’s normal to think about them every now and then after you come home, but Ocre… I’ve missed you, man.”
Matt doesn’t know how to react. He’s spent the last few days bracing himself for not only rejection, but for the shitstorm that would likely go with it. Because soldiers aren’t gay. Harper seems to understand.
“I get it, y’know. A lotta boys pretty much only enlist because the girls back home throw themselves at a man in uniform, so a guy looking for another guy...” He murmurs, shaking his head. So you can read minds, Matt thinks, just a little sardonically. He looks down at his lap, trying to get his thoughts back together. The caffeine-adrenaline cocktail in his system is probably not helping.
“Ocre…?” Harper prompts gently, and damn if he doesn’t look a little insecure. “D’you wanna go on a date sometime?”
“Yeah.” Matt answers, finally. “Yeah, I’d like that…” He smiles shyly, half to Harper and half to himself. Across the table, Harper lets out a breath. He seems relieved.
“Good. Gimme your address so I can pick you up on... Friday?” He grins. Matt’s own smile broadens as they work out the details. He guesses he got all worked up for nothing. The adrenaline is starting to dissipate. Another coffee is in order, it seems.
a meet-cute scenario for our bois because why the hell not!!! (matt/harper, college au, rated g.)
It all happens very fast, because the moment the guy actually reaches out and actually puts his arm around Matt’s waist, there’s a blur, somebody brushing past him, the heavy scraping of a bar stool, a surprised, “What the—” and a very decided, “Get the fuck out of here, man!” Cursing, stunned silence for a few seconds, then the conversations resuming, and the space next to him blissfully empty.
“Made me spill my beer, too,” someone says, close but not that close, and then, “You okay?” Matt figures he has to look up at some point (just a guess, really), so he might as well do it now. When he does, he comes face to face with a young man, early twenties he’d say, licking beer off the back off his hand and frowning at him in concern.
“I’ve watched you steadily inch away from that guy for the last twenty minutes or so,” he says by way of explanation. “Thought you would actually slide off the bar stool any moment now.”
“Y-yeah,” Matt says, a little shaken and incredibly grateful. “Thanks, yeah?”
“No problem,” the man says. He hesitates for a moment, looking Matt over, and whatever he sees makes him add, “Next time something like that happens, you find me and tell them you’re with me, all right? Or better yet, just come over.”
Matt is stunned for a solid amount of seconds. “That’s...” he starts eventually, not quite knowing what to say. “Thank you.”
The man smiles. He has a pleasant, open face and short blond hair and Matt thinks he can see the outline of dog tags through his t-shirt. Definitely a certain type of army physique, he notes. A local accent too, if he had to guess. “I’m James, by the way,” the young man says, and offers Matt his hand.
Matt takes it, saying his own name in turn.
He’s having trouble coming up with what else to say while definitely wanting to say something when James asks, “You don’t come out here often, do you?” He keeps his distance even with how crowded the place is and Matt appreciates it, although he’s not uncomfortable in the least.
“What gave me away?” replies Matt, smiling sheepishly, and James grins.
If it had been up to Matt, he would have never come here in the first place, really. To his misfortune (although Matt starts to re-evaluate that the longer James stands there), his dear mother decided to involve herself in his personal matters. She’s held off on any judgement during his first semester, but Matt’s continuous evasion of any social life well into the second finally spurred her into action. The college social experience, according to her, should be about more than staying in your dorm drawing and pushing the opening hours of various campus libraries.
“You should go out,” she’d said earlier that night on the phone, not for the first time either. “Have fun,” she’d added, to which Matt had replied, “I am having fun, mom,” at which she’d sighed and didn’t say anything for a couple of very long, very pointed seconds, at the end of which Matt grudgingly said, “Fine,” and then, “I have to go now,” and, “I love you.”
He then googled “student night life kansas city,” figuring he might as well get it over with, hyped himself up for a good one and a half hours and ended up in a pub not far off campus that had a slightly wacky taste in interior decor and famously cheap grilled cheese sandwiches. He told himself he’d stay for one (1) hour and had just been served his drink when some sleazy dude invited himself right into Matt’s personal space, clearly undeterred by his lack of interest or reciprocation of any kind. Matt had made it through twenty torturous minutes of spectacularly bad come-ons when James, bless him, finally came to his rescue.
“There’s been a consensus that I’m a hermit, apparently,” Matt adds, a little bashful and wisely leaving out the mom part.
James keeps smiling at him, warm and genuine and making Matt feel slightly nervous, albeit definitely in a pleasant way this time. “How about I get you a drink, then?” James says. “And just so you know, I do take no for an answer,” he adds, and winks.
Matt’s stomach does a little flip. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” he says before he can think better of it.
The corner of James’ mouth quirks up. There’s a glint in his eyes as he takes one last swig from his bottle, and Matt feels his cheeks redden. Maybe that was too forward. Probably he made a fool of himself. Definitely what he should have done was just go to a fucking library and—
“Come on then,” James says, setting his bottle down, and motioning for Matt to follow, and Matt does, his heart beat picking up a notch, the music loud and pleasant in his ears.
Maybe, he thinks as he’s weaving through the crowd after James, just maybe, his mother wasn’t so wrong after all.
Following his return to the States, Matt would like to say he was productive. Would like to say that he found a job, connected with old friends again, and started looking at apartments so he could finally move out of his mom’s house. In reality, he put in an application for college - after haphazardly picking a degree - and then lay around doing nothing. For six weeks.
He knows he needs to get his shit back together, but how the hell are you supposed to do that when some of it’s still in some godforsaken war camp on the other side of the world? His mom is worried about him, and usually that would be enough to guilt him into getting off his ass. But now it just gets under his skin. He’s been to war - literally. If he was only a boy before he left, he definitely isn’t anymore.
Part of him is uncomfortably aware that he’s being unreasonable. Of course his mom’s worried. Her baby just survived hell on earth - the same hell she lost her husband to. She doesn’t want to lose him, too. But still. Matt doesn’t appreciate the coddling. She was an army wife, so she of all people should know to leave him be.
The first thing he bought when he finally had his feet back on familiar ground was an armful of the most American fast-food he could think of. Later that evening, with his system flooded with relief and his belly full, he’d seriously considered ditching the whole college idea in favour of aimless travel. He’d wanted to buy a car and just roam the country until he’d seen everything there was to see. But his mom had - luckily - had the foresight to shut him out of his bank account before he got home. No better way of making your kid stick to the plan than not giving them any other options, he’d thought moodily, but he knows she was right. He still wants to travel around the States, but he reasons that he can do that after he’s graduated and got a good job.
He wants to be a veterinarian, although it was kind of a snap-decision. Besides, it’ll be a better reason to call himself a vet than going to war is. Will ever be. His time there was… useless. A waste of resources; of life… He doesn’t want to think about it.
He’s been having this recurring nightmare ever since he got home. He’s standing out in the desert - somewhere familiar, but he can never place exactly where. He always looks around, trying to remember, and when he turns back Chutsky’s walking toward him. There’s blood on his helmet and smeared all over his face. His gun is in his hands, but the trigger is missing. He gets close. Close enough for Matt to see how glassy and vacant his eyes are. He looks ragged and disoriented. He’s a shell of himself; all the life in him gone. Sometimes he just stands there, with a sad, longing look on his face, but sometimes he talks directly to Matt.
“Why didn’t you help me?”
“Why didn’t you try to stop me?”
“I had a family…”
It’s infinitely worse when he speaks, because Matt can never answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He’d been too busy covering his own ass to worry about anyone else’s, and his teammate had died for it. Chutsky always looks at him like he’s waiting for a response, but when he seems to realise that Matt isn’t going to reply, he turns away with a lonelier expression than before. He breaks into a sprint, gets a few steps away, and gets gunned down. He hits the dirt exactly like he did in Baqubah. The shot echoes in Matt’s head even after he’s sat up in bed, drenched in an icy sweat. It’s his fault that Chutsky’s dead. His fault, and there’s nothing Sergeant Harper can say that will change his mind.
He often wonders how Harper’s doing. The Sergeant’s a career soldier, so for him this is probably just an intermission before the next tour. Matt doesn’t envy him, but he does miss him. He wonders if Harper ever reconciled with his fiancée (Anne? Andrea?). He doesn’t like to think about that either.
Matt had discovered his sexuality in ninth grade. It had not been a particularly fun experience; he’d immediately told his best friend at the time, but the friend hadn’t taken it well. He was never mean about it, and never told anyone else (which Matt was, admittedly, grateful for) but there had been a weird tension between them ever since. Eventually, they drifted apart and didn’t really speak to each other again. In eleventh grade, Matt had his first - and last - boyfriend. Once they’d moved past the excitement of a new relationship, the whole thing had been disappointingly average. It had ended quietly. There were no hard feelings, but they were never friends. All in all, Matt isn’t proud of his attractions and tries to keep them under wraps as best he can. He’d been doing a pretty damn good job of it, too - until he’d met Sergeant Harper.
It hadn’t been some Romeo and Juliet, love-at-first-sight bullshit. There were plenty of good-looking men around, and statistically speaking some of them should’ve been gay, but something about Harper fascinated Matt.
It could’ve been anything, really. Even after fifteen months in Iraq, living practically on top of one another, Matt still couldn’t say he knew much about him for certain, besides what he knew as a soldier. Harper was fair, he knew when to pull rank and when to let things slide, he did his best to keep his team safe, and he showed a sensitivity that most of the other blokes had lost long ago. The only thing Matt didn’t like was that he never stepped in when Burton, Enzo and Chutsky’s teasing had gotten nasty. Harper had a “fight your own battles” attitude, which was all well and good, but sounded frustratingly like his middle school teachers. And so Matt did his best to ignore them, but it was hard not to feel alone when he noticed Harper watching and never intervening.
He also had this weird ability to know what Matt was thinking. After he’d broken his hand, Harper had asked how it happened. The question was casual, innocent, but Matt couldn’t quite force himself to make eye contact as he answered. The sergeant wasn’t an idiot. No way he bought the story, even if he never really mentioned it again. The rational part of Matt knew he couldn’t actually read minds, but still. He’d tried not to take any chances.
He knows he’d been in hot water by the time he finally left. He thinks back on their conversation in Baqubah, after the mission that was supposed to be quick and painless and ended up being a total shitshow, when he finally came clean and told Harper everything. Why he’d broken his own hand, how it’d happened, why he’d even signed up in the first place. Harper had nodded - he hadn’t brushed him off or told him to suck it up like the others would’ve, and Matt couldn’t tell him how much he appreciated it. Harper seemed to understand. But Matt thinks he’d confessed more than he’d meant to, even without explicitly saying it. Harper had given him a long, searching look before going back to his cigarette. Matt can’t stop thinking about it.
They were never exactly close, but did Harper suddenly seem to hold him at arm’s length? Was it because he’d known more than he was letting on, was it because he was still in shock over that ill-fated raid, or was it all in Matt’s head? Had he projected a little too much, desperately hoping for reciprocation and terrified of rejection?
He sighs, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. The paper stars he stuck up in sixth grade are still there, hanging from their fine white threads in a loose cloud. He thinks the original idea had been to cover his entire ceiling in them, make it look like a galaxy. He can’t quite remember. What would his twelve-year-old self think of him now? He’d dreamed of working at NASA. If he searches, he’ll probably find all the drawings and plans to build cool space tech that he made when he was a kid. The thought makes him smile, but it’s heartbreakingly bittersweet. Poor little Matt; lost his dad at six, lost his best friend at fifteen, and now losing himself at twenty-two.
His mom knocks gently on the door, tactfully waiting for invitation to enter. She’s holding the home phone. She looks a little sad, but quietly knowing.
“It’s for you, hun.” She says, holding it out for him. Matt accepts it and she gives him a small, tired smile.
“Don’t keep him waiting too long, he seems sweet.” She adds, shutting the door again as she leaves. Matt brings the phone to his ear. He doesn’t know who would be calling him, nor does he really care. It’s probably one of his few high school friends, making a token attempt to reconnect. He’s not expecting to hear Harper’s voice.
“Hey Ocre. How’s it feel to be home?”
Matt nearly drops the phone. He sits heavily on the edge of his bed.
“I- uh, good, sir. It’s good to be home.” Even to his own ears the words sound hollow. He sits up a little straighter, subconsciously falling back into the familiarity of addressing a senior officer. Over the line, Harper laughs softly.
“Yeah, it takes a little while to get used to the fact that nobody’s trying to kill you anymore.” He says. There’s a few moments of awkward silence, in which Matt can’t think of anything to say. Harper makes a sound like he’s clearing his throat.
“Are you still in the area?” He asks carefully. The question takes Matt by surprise. He fumbles his anwer, suddenly self-conscious about still living with his mom.
“Good. There’s some stuff we never got to talk about back there.” Harper continues steadily. Matt’s heart skips a beat and his blood runs inexplicably cold. No, no, no, no. What happened in Baqubah was going to stay in Baqubah, including their little ‘chat’.
“Ocre? You still there?”
“Uh…”
“When are you free?”Harper prompts. Never, Matt wants to say.
“Whenever.” Is what he actually says. He cringes as soon as the word has left his mouth. God, he sounds like a teenager with a crush! He hopes Harper doesn’t notice. But of course, no such luck.
“Damn, you’re that excited to see me again, huh?” Harper teases, laughing again. It sounds more genuine this time. Matt opens his mouth to snark back, but realises there’s nothing he can say that will let him win. They arrange a time and place to meet, and when they hang up he feels lighter than he has in weeks. He lies back on his bed, looking up at his stars again.
He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or agitated that he’s gonna see Harper again. He’d left Baqubah with the sense of absolute certainty that if he never saw or thought of the guys again he’d be able to forget what he’d seen and done. But on the other hand, Harper may well be the only other person in the world who knows exactly how he feels. It’s confusing, and Matt’s getting another headache.
He isn’t sure when he dozes off, but for the first time since he got home, he doesn’t have his regular nightmare. It’s not a peaceful sleep, but he doesn’t wake up with the shakes so he counts it as a success.
Matt and Harper decide to spend the day inside because it’s raining, or about to, anyway, great, billowing clouds closing in on the city from the east. Matt loves slow days like these, Harper off work, no classes for him to attend to, no looming deadlines, no rush to be anywhere but here. A quiet, familiar intimacy unfurling: bare feet on hardwood floors and rumpled t-shirts, unhurried kisses, the leisured flow of time itself. Matt cannot wait for the rain to pour, is itching for it, really; Harper just smiles and shakes his head when he sees him at the window for the umpteenth time, just looking up. “Harper, come on, you’ve got to smell it,” Matt says and motions for Harper to come over, and Harper obliges, even though to him rain is just rain is rain is rain. Matt leaps off the couch the moment the thunder finally unleashes; the lightning cuts across the sky and Matt counts one two three four five until another roll of thunder breaks. Matt’s always liked the rain but since Iraq it’s different; something about how indiscriminate it is, how soothing to the earth beneath it; how you can always count on it to fall again.
Harper wraps a blanket around him, presses a cup of tea into his palms, a kiss against his shoulder; Matt says, “Stay here with me,” and Harper does.
Inspired by Ao3 user @perpetualskies’s beautiful fic, “Alternately Terrific”~
As usual, click for the higher quality version (and maybe turn your screen brightness up a little bit because my god, has tumblr scrubbed this of the detail)
