Title: In New Orleans
Pairing: Snafu/Eugene (it's gettin' there)
Disclaimer: I don't own ANYTHING but the words. And oh jeez, I mean no disrespect to the real men. I can't stress that enough.
Warnings: Maybe for the ending of the Pacific but not that much really. Oh and I whipped this up real fast and I'm crazy rusty, so I really do apologize for any and all mistakes in grammar, spelling, or anything else. I'm also really sorry if it's out of character and for the uber short length. And to anyone who wanted me to continue I'm so sorry it took such a ridiculously long time to come up with such a tiny pitiful piece.
Summary: What truly remains once the war is over.
"Thah streets ah Nah'lans aint a place fo' a pretty Alabama boy like yo'self. So I suggest ya hurry along to thah train Sledgehamma." The taunt spilled forward, tasting of acrid vomit. It was desperate, frantic, despairing. It was the final struggle of a man who was far too tired of doing just such. It had taken all Merriell had to not awaken Eugene, to not say goodbye, to not beg him to come, to not take from the person Gene could become, when the all the memories of war and Snafu, faded into sleepless nights.
Yet the hold on his arm only tightened, as dark eyes searched for something that Snafu could not name. He didn't know what to do for this person, for this was not Sledge but Gene, and what one needed was so completely foreign from that of the other, but forever touching at the seems of distant seas. That was what allowed Eugene to endure, and what left Merriell trapped in the debris of the war. Merriel was Snafu, while Sledge was only a part of Eugene, a fragment of a whole, a remnant that could one day be forgotten. Merriell could no more leave Snafu then his own marred flesh.
There was a long pause of consuming silence and entire calamity and then Eugene let go, "This is as good of a stop as any." It was all he said, and he disembarked and waited next to Snafu.
Grey eyes focused on the train, and remained thus as the dim lights faded as the screeching engine careened into the murk of the platform. He tore his vision away and hesitantly peered to his side. Eugene was still there. And as they locked eyes a realization came into a sharp instantaneous clarity, this was Okinawa or Peleliu, this was a train station in New Orleans. There were no screams, no blood and dirt, no stench, no iron in the air, yet in New Orleans Eugene remained.