Game 22

He walked into SwamSwamp, his white surgical garb stained red, and tossed his cap down onto his bunk.

"I can't believe Henry's gone.' Hawkeye said. Trapper grunted.

Hawkeye's hand shook slightly as he poured them both a martini. It had been a hard couple of days and he was going to miss his former C.O. But it had been a relief-tinged sadness, and they all knew why.

"Be careful." Henry had said. Hawkeye had said he would, had hoped he would. He missed him already.

"To Henry Blake," he said, raising his glass, "Finest Friend."

Trapper grinned cheekily, his eyes flickered as he stole something that didn't belong to him from under the nose of its owner. "Finest kind!"

Hawkeye laughed. That thing, that feeling, which they would not speak about, coiled around his lungs. It thickened the air and, barely feet away, it made Trapper down his drink too quickly and splutter.

Frank almost drowned in it when he walked in. It congealed in the back of his throat like bile and manifested itself as a sneer.

"You two do know that you're supposed to salute your commanding officer?"

"I am Frank, you just can't see cuz I'm sitting down." Trapper smirked and Hawkeye looked away.

"Degenerate."

"Yo."

He wasn't going to let them spoil this. Nothing was going to ruin this day for him. For the first time in his life he was being given a genuine opportunity. Frank was somebody now.

"You know, Frank," Hawkeye commented while sniffing the armpits of the shirt he intended to wear after his shower, "you are the only person actually happy Henry went home."

Frank snorted, "Blake was a disgrace to this's 's army! He wouldn't have known a regulation if it bit him in the behind. I'm just glad I'm now in the position to get this outfit into shape. From now on I intend to have everything done by the book"

"Then I assume certain non-regulation activities are out."

That made Frank stop for a moment. Did he still need them, need to be *that * now that he was in charge? He was their C.O. so they'd have to start respecting him. He was important now, in ways that had nothing to do with them. Frank turned his back on them to change out of his scrubs. The problem was that he still didn't expect it to be enough. Not for them and maybe even not for himself. He was never going to escape.

He closed his eyes and let out aw brw breath when he felt hands around his waist and lips at his neck. Nothing was ever going to change. Trapped. He didn't belong to himself any more than since it started. Addicted.

"Good evening, Mr Commanding Officer," Trapper purred into Frank's ear, still making the words sound like a joke, a taunt; an insult.

Hawkeye watched, still. The apprehension from the last few days and that other, unspoken feeling screamed at him to stop this, to put an end to it, for all of them. It was risky. It was wrong. It was too soon.
Instead, he decided to leave.

"I guess I'd better leave you crazy kids alone," he said as he flung his towel across one shoulder and headed for his robe, "And don't worry, I'll make sure to block the door and put out a Do Not Disturb sign. We don't want anyone gate crashing this little celebration."

Frank's eyes followed Hawkeye as he made his way out of the room. He should have been relieved, but instead his body tensed and his throat closed. Because Trapper had stopped too.

"Hawkeye."

No, Frank thought, begged, praying that Hawkeye would just leave. The door became a shoreline that the drowning Frank knew he would never reach. It wasn't meant to be this way. Only, maybe this was how it was meant to be all along.

Hawkeye stopped.

So Frank reached out for him first. It was his own little 'fuck you' to Trapper, to Hawkeye. To himself.

He walked over and placed his hand on Hawkeye's chest. He felt his heart beating, too swiftly. Hawkeye was terrified. Frank jumped on it, feebly holding on to it in an attempt to control something, anything, before once again he was swept away by them both.

Hawkeye was taller than him, even while he stooped, so Frank stood, strained, on tiptoes to kiss him. Hawkeye followed him when he returned to the bunk, to Trapper.

He stripped and was stripped and each time more shivering flesh was exposed. Hawkeye shivered with fear and something, Frank shivered with hate and something and Trr shr shivered with something else entirely. Then there was nothing left and, for a moment, they were simular, imitations of each other. Frank hated that most of all.

Frank stood between them. That had been his place until now and he wasn't giving it up without a fight. Always between them. If he wasn't, they'd have each other. He wouldn't let them.

It would be something, some triumph, at least.

Trapper was already hard, against his back, hungrily groping, baring Frank's flesh. Frank pulled Hawkeyose ose for another kiss, carefully arranging his hands as a barrier between Hawkeye and Trapper. As much as he could, Frank intercepted touches that almost were, redirecting them over his own body. He still couldn't stop them looking at each other. He thought of a way to place more distance between them.

"McIntyre," he whispered, distracting Trapper as one of his hands left their guard and reached for the lubricant. He pressed it into Trapper's hands hoping he would get the message. Moments later he felt it, slimy along his backside, and slicslick intrusion of one of Trapper's fingers

With his mouth still focused on Hawkeye, he made his way down to his knees, bringing Trapper with him. Then he took the head of Hawkeye's cock onto his mouth.
Frank used to the tip of his tongue to trace 'I Hate You' over the sensitive skin there, making Hawkeye moan.

He felt his skin stretching and crackintingtinging the reopened scar as Trapper entered him. Frank concentrated on Hawkeye's cock and Trapper's cock and the pain and the sensation of it all instead of the * knowledge* that they were looking at each other. At least they were too far apart to touch. At least Frank was in between them, where he belonged. Did he really think he could have been anywhere else?

That he could have been anything else?

Frank wrapped his hand around Hawkeye's cock and took more of him in his mouth. Now wasn't the time for playful tricks, but a studious attempt to get it over with as quickly as possible. Behind him Trapper was as silent as usual, with only the guiding hand and invasive cock and it's repeated assault, letting Frank know the other man was still there. Unlike Trapper, Hawkeye never had any trouble letting Frank know what he liked and, aside from the sounds of their bodies, he was the only noise to be heard.

Trapper sped up andnk'nk's hand was moving so fast over Hawkeye's shaft he was occasionally hitting himself in the lips.

Then Trapper came. Frank felt it, he felt it as though Trapper had grown another inch inside him and left part of himself there. It was nothing special; nothing unlike the time Hawkeye had done the same. Nothing special, but Frank's lips curved a little over Hawkeye's cock. He, him, his body had finally made Trapper come. Feeling powerful he returned his attention back to Hawkeye, whose own orgasm felt like an afterthought. A bitter tasting afterthought that Frank swallowed anyway.

He never came, but his erection drooped and flagged, as he lay puddled on the floor. Hawkeye andpperpper sat propped against the bunk.

Frank was too weak to move and too ineffectual to protest when they crept closer and kissed for the first time. It was soft and sweet, loving and tender and all the things that shredded Frank's gut as he pressed against the cold floor.

There was a knock on the door. Rader, who would have usually just walked inside, saidChopChoppers," and left.

It was the last time Frank would touch either of them.
It was the last time they would touch each other.

Half an hour later they learned that Henry Blake had died.

The camp mourned.

Within days Hawkeye was in Tokyo and Trapper was on his way home.

Frank smiled

THE END.

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