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blood-mocha-latte · 5 months

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Drabble request: Hildane Greek AU (achilles*nudgenudgewinkwink*)

linh my darling i stared at this long and hard and nearly died writing it but it is here. it is rather ambivalent and could be paralleling greek mythology, or it could be greek mythology. it’s up to the reader to decide ;)

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“Would you run now?”

Andy paused, his hands still warmed and oil-slick at Eddie's back, knotted from stress and ache. After a moment he continued on, digging the heels of his hands into muscle, gathering up a soft noise of relief in his palms.

“What do you mean?” He asked, straightening from where he sat, either knee bracketing Eddie’s hips, to find the bottle of oil once more. Eddie laid on his stomach, cheek pressed to his forearms, eyes closed. He hummed, soft and gentle, as Andy pressed into the divots of his shoulders.

“I mean,” He said, and his words curved kindly around his accent. “Would you try to run away from this, if you knew what it was?”

This and it, Andy knew, wasn’t him or Eddie. Or him and Eddie. This was the war. This was their dead boys, their broken boys, their rusting spears and swords against a stone fortress.

Andy dipped down and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Eddie’s neck, thinking.

“No.” He admitted, gentle. He never really tried to run, at all, when the war had started. But he supposed that the nature of both the separate entities of life and survival reared their own heads in the form of a beast. He swallowed, and his chest felt heavy with it. “No, I wouldn’t run.”

Eddie stretched out, lithe, against the sheet that he laid on. Nothing more than a scrappy bit of cut canvas, it provided the closest thing that either of them had to a bed and kept the dirt and sand and mud tamped down.

The tent was a luxury, an ingenious rarity afforded to them only by their boys as a gift, and accepted by Andy only because of Eddie.

He worried about Eddie, perhaps more than he had any right to. Eddie began to move to roll over, all gold and curls, and Andy got off of his back, leaning to sit back, legs crossed under him, resting on his palms.

He was helpless to do anything but watch as Eddie sat up with a hum, rolling his bare shoulders and letting his neck arc in a gentle circle. He was helpless to lean forward and press his lips to Eddie’s pulse point, his jugular, down to his collarbones.

Eddie huffed a gentle laugh at that, his hand rising to cradle the back of Andy’s head, a half-embrace as Andy kissed the hinge of his jaw.

“You sure you don’t belong to Aphrodite, Skip?” Eddie asked him, lips to Andy’s forehead and lightly amused, and Andy pressed a final kiss to the skin over his heart before pulling back, Eddie’s fingers laced together against the nape of his neck.

“I’m sure.” Andy murmured, pressing his forehead to Eddie’s and breathing around the gentle, overwhelming sense of wholeness that embraced him fully; embraced him whenever he looked at Eddie. Looked at him, thought of him, knew of him.

It hit him sometimes. All at once, like a spearhead against armor. What he was willing to do for this man. What he was willing to kill, to hurt, to maim. The fear of losing Eddie Jones was a heavy, bitter layer against his tongue and heart that was a thousand times deeper and more primal than the fear Andy held of dying himself.

(And Gods, if he must die, let him die after Andy so that he never has to live in a world where his love’s smile wasn’t the entire sun.)

It was a selfish thought, and one that brought him back to himself, as sober as a thousand branches, a billion oceans. Eddie noticed, of course, as his fingers moved to cradle Andy’s jaw, to tilt up his face and press a questioning kiss to the jut of his cheekbone.

Do you ache? It seemed to ask, and Andy caught Eddie’s fingers with his own hand, opening it from its half-curled fist like the petals of a flower to press a kiss to the center of his palm, an almost absent gesture that calmed him.

“I’m alright.” Andy said softly, and his admission seemed to curl at the edges, like the fine paper of a letter. It wasn’t a lie, truly, because Andy could not ache.

Never physically, and, when with Eddie, never in his chest. Metal shattered upon him, and it was the sword that was broken so long as what he loved and protected above all remained safe.

The joke, of course, being that Eddie would need his protection at all.

A boy brighter than the sun, a boy that’s the child of it.

“Do you feel better?” He asked, careful and warm, and Eddie just hummed, pressed parted lips to Andy’s own before pulling away entirely, rising to his feet with a soft exhale.

“You could be a healer.” He said, arching his arms above his head in a lodge stretch, curls falling away from his face as his eyes seemed to glow in the light of a hidden moon. It made Andy almost smile, a graceless curve of his lips.

“To you, maybe.” He said, and hoped almost desperately for it to be true. That he could hold the man in front of him together with bloody hands so that he’d never break, so that he’d be as impervious as Andy himself.

The tent was small, and Eddie rose only to put away the oil, to check the security of the blessed tent, hiding them, protecting them in the most simple way it could from others eyes, from the war that saved and for no true cause that deserved the life that moved around him, within him.

“You’re thinking so loudly, a deaf man could hear you.” Eddie said softly, padding the short distance back to Andy and kneeling, arms wrapping around Andy’s chest, face going to the crux of his neck. Andy leaned back into him, let himself close his eyes.

“Only ever of you.” He promised, a gentle breath. Eddie hummed, and it felt like a laugh where his lips pressed to the skin of Andy’s shoulder. He smelled of oil, of sweat and dirt. Andy almost wished to fall back into him entirely.

“The boy of war belongs to the goddess Aphrodite.” Eddie teased him, a murmur against the shell of his ear. Andy huffed, almost a laugh, turning his head to kiss Eddie once more.

“Don’t tell war that.” He said lightly, as Eddie traced soft shapes along his bare skin. “That’s how it will fell me.”

#rie writes #i kind of adore this ngl i had fun writing it #the pacific #andy haldane #andrew ack ack haldane #eddie hillbilly jones #eddie jones #hilldane #andyeddie #hbo war

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blood-mocha-latte · 7 months

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damp - hilldane drabble

for an anonymous ask || request an edit/drabble || i… don’t know what this is. i call it ‘rie accidentally projects a lot onto two characters simultaneously and accidentally makes herself cry’ and also 'rie needs to stop obsessing about keaton st james poems before they Consume her'

9 LINES ABOUT EITHER ROMANCE OR DEATH

The damp, damp dark seemed to find Andy always wanting, always in a limbo between humanity and something else. Something more, something less. A change, but never one big or small enough to be important.

Eddie sat by him, carving a stick with his knife, warm at Andy’s shoulder.

“Ya ever think love stories will be told about people like us?” He asked. Andy shrugged. He knew the answer that Eddie believed. The same one most men like them believed. A story that ain’t ever worth telling. That wasn’t the answer Andy wanted to give.

“Maybe one day.” He said, watching the way the wind shifted through the palm fronds, the men laughing and talking and playing around in the sand and around the camp. “If it’s a good story.”

Eddie snorted. His knife slipped, and he nicked the pad of his thumb. As he held it up to his lips to suck on the cut, he said, “or a tragic one.”

1. It guides our every action.

Andy walked in front of a tank, and didn’t have to turn around to know that Eddie would follow him. Like a soft string that was tethered to his heart with steel, he never had to think too hard about where Eddie would ever be.

He watched as Eddie bent over, pistol loose in his grip, and talked lowly to the army tanker. Andy didn’t need to see him to know how his eyes flashed on certain words, how his lips twisted around others.

Talkin’ and killin’. Sometimes Andy thought it might be the same deadly dance.

The army tanker bowed his head, and Eddie turned on his heel and back to their boys, gripping them by their arms, pulling them to their feet. Dusting them off, helping guide them Away.

Andy wondered if the seraphim of his mothers bible could even hold a candle to Eddie Jones.

He stood in front of the tank until Eddie was done. He watched the treads of the tank, its gun, the crew that he couldn’t see but stared down anyways.

He’d probably let the damn thing crush him, if it would buy Eddie more time, help more of their boys.

2. Do you remember when we rode the train home from the ocean with salt dried in our hair, and yet, somehow, your mouth still tasted so sweet as i kissed you goodnight on your porch? while the dark-winged sedges sang?

“C’mon, just one.”

“No,” Andy laughed, crossing his legs under him to sit in the shallow foxhole with Eddie, who's smile was wide and eyes even brighter. “You're drunk.”

Eddie laughed, and it was warm and free. “Turns out, the more Saki you drink, it does not taste better.” Andy smiled, leaning against loose dirt and feeling the warmth of the setting sun across his face.

“You know, I never would've guessed.” He said dryly. Eddie laughed again. He held the near-empty bottle by its glass neck, and extended it to Andy, shaking it slightly.

“Probably should drink some all the same, though.” He said, and Andy couldn't tell if his pupils swallowed his irises because of the drink or something else. “Just to make sure.”

“Nah.” Andy said lightly, in reference to the Saki. “I've got all the proof I need.”

Eddie smiled and, after looking over his shoulder as if a conspiracy, cheeks flushed red and eyes ink dark, he whispered, loudly, “just one kiss, huh, Skip? ‘M probably drunk enough that it's run off on you.”

Andy watched him seriously, if only for a moment, if only to see the way Eddie leaned against the shallow foxhole again and smiled at him with bitten-red lips and dark, happy eyes.

“Well, you could be stone-cold sober and I could still get drunk off you.” Is what he ended up saying, and Eddie's laugh was warm and bright and it made Andy want to reach for him.

“Hopefully I taste less shitty.” Is what Eddie said back, and drank the rest of the Saki in one go.

3. i dream about you all the time.

Eddie loved, loved, loved Australia, with such a fervor that Andy almost forgot about taking him back home entirely to focus instead on buying them a house Down Under.

They sat in a darker corner of the bar, other marines shouting and singing and drinking and dancing with laughing women.

Eddie sat with light eyes and a whiskey in front of him, running his index finger along the rim of its glass.

“I wonder what it's like in the middle of Australia.” Eddie said thoughtfully, his hand stilling. “I know it's wild, but I'd like to know how.”

Under the table, their knees knocked together, and Andy risked hooking his foot around Eddie's calf, downing the rest of his own drink. “I’d guess somewhat like how the west was, before Lewis and Clark got there.” He said, the whiskey burning down his throat and settling in his chest, curling around his heart.

Eddie hummed, finished off his own drink. “I heard from a woman at a corner shop that they tried to send their own Lewis and Clark out there.” He said. “But nature doesn't want them out there. It's just… meant to be wild. Meant to be sand and dark and stars.”

Andy thought about that, for a moment. About a place that can’t be tamed by man, not really. Not like back home, in Lawrence, or even like their camps along every island the Marine Corps sends them to. Just really, truly wild. Home to no one but itself and those who were there first.

“It sounds nice.” He said.

“Yeah.” Eddie said back.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one go, picked up his and Andy’s empty glasses and tilted them towards the door. Andy huffed, pushing his chair out and standing up.

“Thought I was the one that made orders.” He said dryly. Eddie smiles, small and barely there, the corner of his mouth ticking up and his eyes brilliantly, brilliantly bright.

“Yeah.” He said, slowly. Like a joke. “Don’t get too used to that, Skip.”

4. i’m so constantly hungry sometimes i feel as if i’m nothing but ache

They traded the cigarette back and forth, and it was gone entirely too quickly.

Andy turned to watch Eddie, just out of the corner of his eye, just like he always did, and watched him stub the smoke out against a rock.

“You did what you had to do.” Andy said softly.

The sun, still sleeping along the horizon, wasn't showing herself. In her absence, shadows stretched across Eddie's face, making him seem older. Haggard.

“I know.” He said. His voice was quiet, his voice slightly off. He swayed slightly, where he rested on his knees, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

Andy turned to face him fully. Eddie was close enough that he could reach the hand not covering his eyes easily, tangling their fingers together and linking their pinkies.

“When this is over,” He said, “I'm going to take you to the park just outside my neighborhood, and we can watch the sunset there instead, and not worry about this. About any of this.”

From the way Eddie looked at him, Andy knows he didn't believe him. He still tightened his grip in Andy’s hand.

“Yeah.” He said. His voice was rough, like he'd been crying. He'd given his entrenching tool to Andy – it still had blood and brain matter across the flat edge of it – and wouldn't take it back. They both knew the boys were worried now, about having nightmares. They were having their buddies wake them up every fifteen minutes, so they couldn't fall too deep into it.

Eddie didn't say anything else, but Andy nodded anyway.

“One day,” He said, “I'm going to take you home. And you don't have to believe it, because I do.”

He went back to watching the sunrise, and smiled when he felt Eddie's chapped lips press to his knuckles.

5. every sentence i try to write starts with you and ends with my heart wanting to burst open, less like gates during a flood and more like a peach growing on the vine. so ripe, so ready for the fall.

“I read the book about Huck Finn, once.” Eddie said, one day, while they led their platoon down a water-swollen, muddy crevice. He was quiet, after that, and Andy looked at him sideways, keeping his eyes on his feet and the treacherous path in front of them.

“Yeah?” Andy asked, after a moment, to prompt him. Eddie blinked, like he'd forgotten he'd spoken at all, but nodded after a moment.

“Yeah.” He confirmed. “When I was thirteen. It was hard as all hell to read, it took me almost a year to get through the damn thing. But I read it. Was real proud, too. Gettin’ through that big book like that.”

“Yeah.” Andy said, trying to remember anything about the book. He'd read it, what seemed like ages ago, but trying to remember its contents or words was like trying to recall the face of a long gone childhood friend. No memory, only feelings. “Did you like it?”

Eddie was quiet again.

When he finally spoke, his eyes stayed on the ground, boots sinking four or five inches into the mud with every squelching step. “I did.” He said, vague. “But my daddy—”

He stopped, face doing something complicated, one of his hands twitching on his rifle as if, by habit, to have fingertips ghost along a scar.

Andy half-turned, looking over his shoulder and counting the helmets behind him. He counted them one more time before turning back again. By the time he did so, Eddie’s expression had smoothed back out, eyes ahead.

“He wasn't as proud that I'd read that book as I was.” He said, quietly. “He didn't — I guess he didn't much like what… what Huck Finn was. Or maybe how Tom Sawyer was. I don't know.”

Andy was quiet. He didn't say sorry. He knew Eddie hated that.

“I'll have to read it again sometime.” Is what he said, after a long moment. “So we can talk about it.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh, and Andy, as always, was angry so quickly it made his head hurt.

He imagined a thirteen-year-old Eddie Jones, reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn whenever and wherever he could, a finger tracking the words and his mouth moving silently around them, working steadily through the pages, sentence by sentence.

He imagined the kind of father who couldn't be so goddamn proud of his son for that, who wouldn't be able to see much past his own beliefs, like rotting teeth in a crying child's mouth. He felt, rather guiltily, a wave of gratefulness towards his own father at the thought.

The anger passed as quick as it came. It always did.

“I'd like that.” Eddie said, and Andy tried to remember what they were talking about, in the split second he'd gone somewhere else. “I'd like to talk about Huck Finn with you.”

Andy wished he could let go of his rifle for just a split second, if not to just knock his knuckles against Eddie's.

“I bet I could scrounge one up by next week.” He said instead, just to see Eddie's mouth curl into a smile, and it would have to be enough.

6. i bring up your name any time i eat black raspberry ice cream with someone who isn’t you.

“I'm a shitty writer.” Eddie began out of nowhere, and Andy looked up from where he was trying to clean clotting sand out of his rifle barrel. Eddie wasn't looking at him, his face turned towards the blood-red sun.

“You're not so bad.” Andy said. Eddie wasn't, was the thing, for all he pretended to be illiterate. It made boys with similar experiences, like Snafu Shelton, laugh; and boys like Eugene Sledge, with enough money to drown in, uncomfortable.

It just made Andy smile.

Then again, everything that Eddie did made Andy smile.

“I can't spell for shit.” Eddie said. “You're the only one that can read my handwriting.”

That, at least, was true. Andy shrugged.

“I like rewriting your reports.” He said. Eddie waved a hand, dismissive.

“Whatever.” He said. “The letters are always fucking moving around, that’s their fuckin’ problem.” Andy smiled. He looked back down to his rifle and continued to unclog it. “My point is that I can't write a letter to save my life.”

Andy shrugged again, but kept his eyes focused on the rifle stock. “I can write a letter for you, if you want.” He offered. Eddie snorted.

“Nah.” He said. “I'm just… well, I’m glad that we're together, here. You know? Because if we weren't, I'd want to write you a letter, and then you'd just be wondering who in the hell gave their blind chicken a pencil.”

Andy’s chest felt warm, like there was hot coffee spreading throughout his veins, and he huffed. “Your writing isn't that bad.” He said.

Eddie turned to look back at him, for the first time, and the bright horizon dyed the side of his face a brilliant orange. His lips were twisted into their same ever smile.

“No.” He said. “But I'm glad it doesn't need to get better. I'm glad I have you for that.”

And with that, he went back to watching the sunset and Andy went back to his rifle.

Eddie leaned against him, when it was too dark to do anything but be quiet and sleep. Andy took his hands and pressed his lips to his fingers and thanked God that he was able to translate what they were able to show.

There were no artillery barrages, no death, that night. It felt like God had heard him.

8. do you remember when we went running through the wet city streets late at night, how we glowed rose-pink in the shop-lights. how we held hands and laughed and thought we’d never feel this happy again?

“D’you think he'll be alright?” Andy whispered into the dark, Eddie's curls brushing warmly against his jaw.

Eddie shifted against him, head resting on Andy’s shoulder, and said, “I don't know.”

Andy stared straight ahead. Both of Eddie's hands were tangled with one of his, and he brought his other hand around to run his index finger along the ridges of the others knuckles. “I've never seen it that bad, before.” He murmured.

Eddie sighed. It was weary, and heavy, and Andy closed his eyes to the melody of it and thought of their park, the one that Eddie's never even been to. It only helps somewhat.

“What matters,” Eddie said, slowly, like he was waiting for Andy to really understand what he was saying before he continued, “is that you got him off the line. Better for him, better for the other boys.”

Andy lifted their tangled mess of hands from his lap, resting his forehead against them. Eddie shifted against his shoulder to press a kiss to his jawline.

“Maybe countin’ blankets is like counting sheep.” He said, and Andy leaned further into him. Eddie bore the weight without any effort, but Andy still worried about it being too much. He always worried about it being too much.

That's what causes combat exhaustion. That's what causes men to break apart and start counting things they couldn't see.

“Eddie.” He said, just to say it, against the back of Eddie's hands, to his calloused fingers and warm skin. Eddie's hands tightened around his.

“I know.” Eddie murmured back. “But it's… it's okay. We're… we're right here, you know? Right here together. Here and in the park and wherever else. It’s okay.”

Andy didn't say anything. He just turned his head and buried his face in Eddie's hair, rough with ocean spray and curled with humidity.

9. it consumes us.

As Andy turned around, he almost knew what he was doing. The rational part of him knew that no one would be there, just at his shoulder. Not ever again.

Least, no one he could ever know and love the same.

But the rational part of him died two days ago.

So Andy turned around anyway, maybe wanting to say something over his shoulder to someone that wasn’t there, and between one split second and another that never came, he could almost see Eddie over his shoulder, eyes intent and bright. Could almost feel his hand in his.

#rie writes #hi and welcome to rie doesn’t know a lot about the pacific so she makes shit up to be sad some more #i hope this is ok anon because i sort of took your ask and fucking BOOKED it #anyways i did No research before writing this so everything is either shit i a) made up or b) was in the miniseries #or c) i read it in a fic somewhere i don’t remember #the pacific #hilldane #andyeddie #andrew ack ack haldane #eddie hillbilly jones #hillbilly jones #hbo war

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