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It's the last night in Austria. Easy Company is saying goodbye and so is he, still out there with the others, celebrating. Celebrating meant drinking. Not just for him. But about him you worry. He just looked at you, while the others asked you to stay. He hadn't. Because he knew that you'd decline.
Just like you don't ask him to stop drinking. Well, sometimes you do, but not in those words. Most of the time not with words at all. It won't stop him. You know that. Not in the long run. But sometimes he'll put the bottle away for the evening. You wonder if tonight will be one of those nights. You wonder if you'll see him at all tonight.
You get out of your boots, your uniform. You are not especially tired, but you know you'll have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow. You think that Nix would probably see this as one more reason to drink tonight. You smile. Not that he needed any reason to drink. Your smile fades, and you push the thought from your mind.
You cannot stop him. You cannot change him. You never tried. But you can't help worrying. You neatly fold your uniform and put it on a chair. You switch off the light and go to bed. You've shared this bed with him since you're in Austria. There are enough beds now, but... You remember the first night after Bastogne. You don't know what you dreamed. You can't even remember that it made you scream, but it must have, because suddenly you were awake and Nix was at your side and that man can sleep through anything. You shared the bed for the rest of that night. The next day you moved to a different location, a different house, a different bed. A double bed, which you shared without ever discussing or even mentioning it.
You turn to the empty side of the bed and try to prepare yourself for the fact that he won't come to share it tonight. Or any other night. You haven't told him yet that you'll accept his offer. You wonder what it will be like, when you work for him. When he's your boss and friend and not... whatever it is that you are now. You can't think of an adequate word to describe what war does to men and the relationships it creates. You know you'll never share your bed with him again.
There is something in the back of your mind when you think about that, scratching on the surface. It doesn't matter. You know you'll be able to sleep without him. You have, when he was out on a mission without you. And the only thing keeping you from sleep then was worry about him. Worry that something might happen to him that doesn't merely involve too much alcohol.
You wonder what kind of day today is. Drinking isn't always the same for Nix. Sometimes it's just recreational. He's playful then, sometimes offers you the bottle with a grin. And then you'll smile at him, because you know that he knows that you won't take it and he'll still roll his eyes or shake his head. He'll often take one last gulp, drinking to you with another grin and then he'll put the bottle away for the night. And sometimes there's nothing playful about it. Sometimes there's just defeat, and you'll offer to listen or put a hand on his shoulder, but you know in those nights he's not likely to stop. And you don't press him. Because you know.
You know, but you still wish you could do something. Something to ease the pain that you see in his eyes in those nights. But you cannot comfort him, because even though you know, you cannot understand. You've learned that early on in this war. There was fear and anger in every one of them, but for no one was it exactly the same. You have gotten very good at understanding your men's fears, but not this man's, not Nix'.
What makes it worse is not just that it's Nix, but that you have the feeling that you should understand him. He looks at you with a quiet desperation, a plea for help, sometimes. But whatever it is that he needs, that he thinks you can give him is just beyond your grasp. So you let it go and you know he won't stop drinking in those nights. You know, but you cannot understand. And it is nothing you ask him, because you know he won't answer.
You turn around in bed, but you are still very aware that he's not there with you. This is the last night you'll share like this. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe the night before has been the last night and this is a night where Nix is too drunk for too long to come to bed at all. You don't know why you even think about this. Why you can't stop thinking about it. And there's that scratching in the back of your mind again.
You should really try to sleep. It's quiet in your room. You only hear the steady ticking of the alarm clock and your own breathing, if you really listen. Nix' sleep is as quiet as it is deep. Sometimes you catch your breath and listen, just to make sure he's not... he's still alive. You know that he is, but there is this irrational fear that he could be gone. You remember how he was shot on that dike in Holland. You haven't been so afraid before or since in this war, or any time at all in your life. You've seen brave men die. Friends. You've killed men. Boys not old enough to drink. But when you think of the horrors of war, you inevitably think of that feeling first, that feeling, when you thought you had lost him.
You don't understand, why it affected you so much, still affects you so much, that even the thought makes you shiver. But then again you never stopped to really think about it. During the horrible things that you've heard and seen in the last years, you've developed a good feeling for when not to think about something. And this is one of the things. It's enough to know it's there. It's not as if you can deny it. But you don't have to understand it. Because understanding would mean... there's that scratching in the back of your mind again. You really should go to sleep.
You lie awake for awhile managing not to think—about him. Was that a noise outside? Is he coming after all? You listen, but you know there's nothing. Nothing but the wish to fall asleep next to Nix one last time. To feel his presence and the knowledge that you'd only have to reach out to touch him to make sure...
You get out of bed to stop this train of thought or any thought. You go to the window and look into the black. The lake is a dark surface mirroring the moon. You could go out for a midnight swim. But you know that you won't, because that's not the kind of thing you do. It's the kind of thing Nix would do.
You don't understand yourself tonight. But if you're honest, you often don't understand yourself, when it comes to Nix. Why did you become friends in the first place, two people who at first glance couldn't be more different? Why can't you stop worrying about him, in a way unlike you worry about your other men? Why can you sometimes not even stop thinking about him? And why do you feel you should try? You look out of the window again. The moon illuminates the landscape just enough to make out trees and the mountains. But it all still looks quite black. When this brings his face to your mind, you just let it happen. His dark hair and eyebrows and eyes.
You smile, because this is all right. It's not thinking. It's not trying to understand. It's just feeling. A warmth that has nothing to do with temperature and a peace that has nothing to do with politics. It's not about him at all, nothing so specific, nothing you could or would want to put into words. You won't let it be more than that.
There is a noise again, and this time it isn't wishful thinking.
"Care for a drink?" you hear his voice and the light goes on. And you turn around smiling, but when you see his face, your smile freezes. There is no playfulness in him tonight. This is different. And as if to prove you right, he takes a big swig out of the bottle. Not a last one, definitely not.
You don't quite know what to do. You can't help thinking that you have to do something, that he wants you to do something, but you just don't know what.
"Nix," you say. Nothing else.
And he looks at you and drinks without taking his eyes of you. He's upset. He's in pain. And there's something in his look that you're so close to understanding. But not close enough.
"Come to bed," you say, although it sounds almost like a question. You take a breath and say it again with more power in your voice, not as unsure as you feel. "Come to bed, Lew."
But he doesn't relent and looks at you with too much emotion and opens his mouth, and you think that this will be when he finally explains what you should have understood all along. And the thought fills you with excitement and fear, but then he doesn't say a word. Instead he deflates. He sits down and the anger seeps out of him. He looks away and takes another gulp.
You go towards him. You stand next to him, waiting for him to look at you, but he doesn't, so you put your hand on his shoulder, and slowly he looks up, and you see that not all emotion has left him. There's still pain and that something that you can't quite decypher. Something that makes you want to reach out and put your arms around him. But you don't do that.
Instead you kneel down and start undoing his boots.
"Dick?"
You look up, but he doesn't say anything else, just looks at you with his dark eyes as if he's searching for an answer. But you can't give it to him, because you don't even know the question. Eventually he looks away again and takes another gulp from the bottle. You continue removing his boots. When you're done, he gets out of the chair, taking the bottle with him. You stand up, watching if he'll need any assistance, but he makes it to his side of the bed, managing to switch off the light in the process. He starts getting out of his clothes and you look away.
You go towards the window. You hear him lie down and go for the bottle again. You wonder if you wouldn't have preferred if he hadn't come tonight after all. No. As bad as it is, it's still better than not having that last night with him. You can hear him put the bottle down. It's probably empty by now. You wonder if he'll get up to get another one. But he doesn't. Instead you hear a soft thumping and when you turn towards him, you see he's patting the sheets next to him, indicating for you to join him.
This gesture makes your heart soar, and the scratching in your mind is back, but you ignore it without thinking. You're not quite sure if this is it for tonight, the sign that he's had enough to drink and is finally at whatever amount of peace it affords him. You go to join him in bed and to watch his face, because then you'll know, but he turns away before you can make out his features in the darkness.
You can sense his tenseness. It pains you that you don't know how to help him. Because even if you didn't understand, you used to know if there was anything you could do. You watch his back and finally slip a hand on his shoulder. This is not what you'd normally do, but this is not a normal night. It's your last night together, and you just know that you cannot not try anything in your power. You try to expect that he'll move away from your touch. You're prepared to remove your hand at the slightest hint that this is unwelcome, but he doesn't move at all. Instead he takes your hand, pulls it around him, cradling it in his own against his chest.
You move closer because of this, but also because now you know that this is what he needs. You settle behind him spooning your body against his. You feel his body relax against yours. You wonder if that was always what he would have needed. You move your head below his against his shoulder. You don't think about what you're doing, you just follow your instincts now.
He moves your hand upwards to his face and suddenly you feel... surely he's not. You hold your breath and for a few seconds neither of you moves, but then you feel his lips on another fingertip and you know that he's kissing them. One by one. And instead of tensing up and moving away, like something tells you you should, you move closer to him, your face in that little space between his head and the pillow and your mouth is almost against his neck. Almost, because you are not kissing him. No, you wouldn't think of that.
Suddenly that scratching in the back of your mind is so loud that you can almost hear it. And then your mouth suddenly is on his neck. Just an accident. Just... and then your index finger is in his mouth and your whole body feels him at every place where you are connected and wants more and you don't think, can't think, because thinking would mean...
And then he turns around and looks at you and you don't have to think to know and understand, because the look on his face tells you everything, you never understood about him. And about yourself.
His lips are on yours then, and you move your arms around him, your fingers into his black hair and put your whole body, your whole being into this kiss, because, yes, you are kissing him and he is kissing you and you don't have to think about it. You don't think at all.
Because finally you understand.