his intermittent breathing, the pads of his fingers digging into his palm, clenching his hand into a fist until his knuckles were white. He was running toward you, no, he was rushing. Simon, the first time he'd arrived, he'd rushed to your barracks.

A quick tap on the lock, a click. The way is open. That wood-rotted door opened, letting in the chaos of perversion, the flood that kills you. His hands flicked up, fingertips tingling involuntarily, his cheek finding a nook on your stomach, rubbing against your T-shirt, trying to absorb the warmth that had been forgotten so long ago.

"Hold me. Come on. Pet me, damn it," he didn't even try to hide the need in his voice, succumbing pitifully under your palm like a puppy waiting for its owner's encouragement to come home. You knew. Been the center of jealousy more than once. It was all for nothing. Like him in the trench, taking a drag on his cigar, praying it would help, as he nervously shakes off the ash, tapping anxiously on his cigarette. The translucent haze dances its dance swirling around his face, cheekily going hand in hand with the wind, allowing him to shrug off the weight of the danger of war.

His cheek, swollen from the gushing tears soaking into your clothes with a sponge, pressed a little on your stomach, squirming, with such force it barely staggered your legs a little. His gloves clinging around your sides squeezed, almost to the point of pain, as if wanting to bind here forever. - "You'll never understand me. I...love you. - Afraid to look up at you, he found only one way out: whimper.

Your hand stroked the back of his head, trying to tear off the dirty balaclava, to see his true gut. Along with a negative rumbling groan, he interrupted you, intercepting your hand and pressing his cheek against it, the once warm palm cold beneath his already waxy, tear-salted mask, "Understand... It's your fault. You made me this way."