|The Final Hour
Author: SuperSixOne PM
And the gunfire is now so loud in my ears as a medic tries to push you away, but there you remain, your blue eyes darkening, your kind expression fierce. [slash][possible continuation]Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Romance - Words: 975 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-27-07 - id: 2311021
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Warnings: This deals with content some may not feel comfortable, specifically slash. Consider yourself warned.
Notes: I just wrote this in the span of a couple hours, and I shall apologize ahead of time for any mistakes caught for the insomnia's killin' me. Enjoy.
Heaven lies beside us in the form of a wooden cross, and Hell will not take us in.
Over a sparking control panel, through a quarter-inch thick plate of glass,
We see golden thread playing at the clouds in a sky of bruising blue.
And that cracked canopy will be shattering above us soon,
But we are calm, and the mounting gunfire is not so loud.
We, the lieutenants; we, the pilots fighting a war we cannot understand.
Feel this is our final glorious hour on this dusty plane of existence,
That what happens here today writes the headlines tomorrow.
And your finger strokes my cheek to coax me into consciousness,
But my rifle is already loaded, and I am ready for the fight.
What follows the splintering canopy glass raining down,
Is lost in the plunking sound of rounds piercing metal hull.
A swift kick to the cockpit latch, and we spill out onto the ground.
And refuge is found behind chipped pillars and walls on Haifa Street,
But muzzle flashes emit from our weapons like broken camera bulbs.
Our love explodes to the symphony of rocket grating twisted steel.
You are cursing furiously while I look into the flames in despair,
For in that fighter jet lays our ticket to freedom, and urgent response.
And there are armored humvees skidding down the oily asphalt thirty minutes later,
But I am then hit, and you are frozen in place when my body jerks at impact.
Don't stop, I try to mutter, but the hot blood slips beneath my fingers.
Keep firing, you idiot, I gasp, but you throw your rifle down.
You throw your rifle down as the soldiers fly in to cover our crash site.
And the gunfire is now so loud in my ears as a medic tries to push you away,
But there you remain, your blue eyes darkening, your kind expression fierce.
There is a moment between the three of us—you, me, and that medic.
Everything fades away into this realm of incoherent white noise.
The medic says, Lieutenant, looks like you're gonna make it just fine.
And you grin, that beautiful smile shaded by the visor of your Protec helmet,
But there is a haunting quality in your shadowing eyes, and I fall into the dark.
For all the long evening we have shared beneath a single burning florescent tube,
Playing cards into the early hours because Jean left you for the last time,
The air sticky in the open garage of your neat southern home.
And it was so simple to love your light, to make you grin when the rain fell too hard,
But to love your very soul was something you gave to me that late night two years back.
For the second time in January and Jean was on a plane for California.
California sunshine and your heart lay broken on South Carolina tile,
To the sounds of pattering rain and soft eleven o'clock news.
And I did not know until April, when you came in without a wedding band,
But your determination had been strong, your pain hidden so well from me.
In the bullpen, there was no woman's picture on my desk that week,
No purpling bites donning my collarbone, no scratches on my back.
You stood before me a changed man, free and light.
And you told me then, words steady and sincere, and I looked deeply,
But saw no mistruths in your tales as we walked across the tarmac.
Silky cigarette smoke and spilled drink perfumed the bar we frequented.
Cat calls from adulterous soldiers rang in my ears as Cheryl strutted past.
Her crimson-painted fingers flitted through my shorn hair, shocking me.
And you were watching it all through weary blue eyes,
But I was watching you too, sighing as you fell into you bottle.
This was what I did not understand, what I could not bring myself to understand.
Why did you, how in God's name could you, how fucking dare you…fall for me.
Fiery tears slid down my cheeks as you buried your face in your arms.
And I lost it then, grabbed you by your dog tags, and waited for something,
But nothing came, so I kissed you; it was raining and I kissed you.
Many things followed that furious embrace before your bedroom door;
A bootlace tripping me to the floor, a bout of laughter pleasurably smothered.
Three honest words I uttered into the dark, grinning as you hushed me with another kiss.
And this is what it all comes down to; you thinking I am dying,
But—Jesus fucking Christ—I am alive, looking up at an armored truck's roof slant.
We are tomorrow's national news, you and me and the gnarled corpse on Haifa Street,
Words spilling from a blonde broadcaster's mouth, keys punching in sentence fragments.
Yes, we are tomorrow's headlines and the military's first leniency to date.
And a photographer captures the picture of the century, of us in a moment.
But we will not know until we are in a new fighter, soaring over Baghdad.
In that photograph, I am long gone, having fallen into that medicated darkness.
In that moment, you are at my side as soldiers lift me into that humvee.
In that second, your lips are pressed against mine in a prohibited kiss.
And every day, mighty kings fall to this candid shot of recklessness.
But we are not kings, and we, the lieutenants, have survived our final hour.