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mash_slashTitle: Nowhere.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mijmeraar
Rating: 13+
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye.
Summary: They're just two men, somewhere, some place.
Disclaimer: MASH has episodes and seasons and a lot of subtext. The rest is only my musings.
Notes: This is strange, in that half-asleep-just-finished-watching-'Deluge'-kind-of-way. So, definitely, all comments and criticisms are welcome. Hope you like it. Short. Unbeta'd.
---
On a not so very special day, when the war was yesterday’s news, two men met accidentally on purpose, in a place that looked like any old place. There was alcohol without the tang, and stories without the blood, but Korea still lived on around them.
And every same day, when mothers took their children to school, fathers sold house insurance, and the new, enlightened generation protested otherwise – the same two men sat in the same old places and caught up on the years they had missed.
There had been days, weeks, years; there had been new discoveries, old discoveries and melted dreams. They had drunk through each one, only now they did it together.
“Where’s that man that left, with a cheesy grin and a bold goodbye?” one asks, one night (one scotch too many).
“He’s still there, he never left. You just can’t see him.”
“And you’re not happy?” and they’re asking questions that don’t have real answers, they’re asking questions they can’t ask themselves; that doesn’t exist any more.
“Happy? You’re happy?”
“I smile.”
“They don’t give you a medal for that though, do they?”
They’re just two men, shooting the breeze, talking about the good old days when men shot each other up and killed their brothers. Except that was yesterday, they saw it on the news; and they imagine their surgical robes splattered with virgin blood, and remember muffled jokes to take the edge off.
Then the next time they’re some place else, a spot on a map; they’re making love, coarse and rough and relentless and they’re bruising each other. They’re trying to pull away that time, long ago, but it’s all they are and all they ever will be.
“Do you remember- ”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t finished.”
“I remember all of it.”
They both smoke tobacco, or stronger, when they can. They both drink at Ten A.M and eat take away when there is no food in the fridge. There’s never any food in the fridge. And their families exist, somewhere, in another layer; their families probably think they’re dead.
Maybe they are dead. Maybe they lost the living when they found the war.
They’re in a place, somewhere, and it’s just the two of them and nothing much else. A chair, a bed, a dirty sock here and there. There are empty bottles and tubes and yeast and they had planned on making a home brew. But it just sits, abandoned in the corner, like the rest of their dreams.
They don’t really know where they are, they barely recognize the place. A little girl comes to the door selling cookies and they decide to buy them all. One says it’s to stay alive and the other insists it’s to give life. Because there’s no pointing keeping something you don’t know how to use.
“Do you ever think - ”
“No.”
“But-”
“That’s where all the problems start.”
They will stay in the same place until they die. They know it, they always knew it; they don’t care. They will make love, always, because then they can give each other something, anything; a flicker of new.
And it’s all so sad, this truth.
But truth is all they have.
Author:
mijmeraarRating: 13+
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye.
Summary: They're just two men, somewhere, some place.
Disclaimer: MASH has episodes and seasons and a lot of subtext. The rest is only my musings.
Notes: This is strange, in that half-asleep-just-finished-watching-'Deluge'-kind-of-way. So, definitely, all comments and criticisms are welcome. Hope you like it. Short. Unbeta'd.
---
On a not so very special day, when the war was yesterday’s news, two men met accidentally on purpose, in a place that looked like any old place. There was alcohol without the tang, and stories without the blood, but Korea still lived on around them.
And every same day, when mothers took their children to school, fathers sold house insurance, and the new, enlightened generation protested otherwise – the same two men sat in the same old places and caught up on the years they had missed.
There had been days, weeks, years; there had been new discoveries, old discoveries and melted dreams. They had drunk through each one, only now they did it together.
“Where’s that man that left, with a cheesy grin and a bold goodbye?” one asks, one night (one scotch too many).
“He’s still there, he never left. You just can’t see him.”
“And you’re not happy?” and they’re asking questions that don’t have real answers, they’re asking questions they can’t ask themselves; that doesn’t exist any more.
“Happy? You’re happy?”
“I smile.”
“They don’t give you a medal for that though, do they?”
They’re just two men, shooting the breeze, talking about the good old days when men shot each other up and killed their brothers. Except that was yesterday, they saw it on the news; and they imagine their surgical robes splattered with virgin blood, and remember muffled jokes to take the edge off.
Then the next time they’re some place else, a spot on a map; they’re making love, coarse and rough and relentless and they’re bruising each other. They’re trying to pull away that time, long ago, but it’s all they are and all they ever will be.
“Do you remember- ”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t finished.”
“I remember all of it.”
They both smoke tobacco, or stronger, when they can. They both drink at Ten A.M and eat take away when there is no food in the fridge. There’s never any food in the fridge. And their families exist, somewhere, in another layer; their families probably think they’re dead.
Maybe they are dead. Maybe they lost the living when they found the war.
They’re in a place, somewhere, and it’s just the two of them and nothing much else. A chair, a bed, a dirty sock here and there. There are empty bottles and tubes and yeast and they had planned on making a home brew. But it just sits, abandoned in the corner, like the rest of their dreams.
They don’t really know where they are, they barely recognize the place. A little girl comes to the door selling cookies and they decide to buy them all. One says it’s to stay alive and the other insists it’s to give life. Because there’s no pointing keeping something you don’t know how to use.
“Do you ever think - ”
“No.”
“But-”
“That’s where all the problems start.”
They will stay in the same place until they die. They know it, they always knew it; they don’t care. They will make love, always, because then they can give each other something, anything; a flicker of new.
And it’s all so sad, this truth.
But truth is all they have.
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