There is period accurate homophobic language and mindset in this script but no violence or real aggression. It is fluff first and foremost despite its setting in the 1960s.

This is short, experimental, and written during recovery from a fever. I ask that you approach it with a generous heart.

This is a First Person Narrative, Direct Address script, meaning that it reads more like a memoir or letter to a loved one than an interactive piece. Questioned even sharing it here but someone mentioned that it might fit so I'm trying it out.

Feel free to sing a portion of Que Será if you wish. It is in the public domain.

Script Text:

It feels pertinent, somehow, all these years later to catalogue the three times you ignored me and the once I failed to ignore you in return.

Number four will surprise you, as they say. I still have no idea why they say anything of the sort but there it is.

And here we are.

_

"And she says to me to let it be. Que será, my son, to whatever will be."

Or: Three times you ignore me and the once I fail to ignore you in return.

The first time you ignore me is after an ambush. We are all cleaned up, the five of us, and sitting around the fire to unwind from the high. Jossy in his customary full overalls made from some kind of flannel with the bear ears sewn on like a goddamn teddy bear from a nightmare, as usual. "It reminds me of my wife!" he protests every time we tell him he looks queer. Fair cop to her; the woman can sew.

So there we are, middle of nowhere - you, me, Jossy, Alan, and Fawkes. Bunch of rejects somehow made good and now we do what we can for the war. I've had maybe a few too many swigs from the rum bottle at this point, so when Jossy says he doesn't get why we have to report to Abrahms, I open my big mouth. "Hanson got cut. He was caught screwing Kete from Squad Echo in the laundry room. Wouldn't apologise, apparently."

The whole group goes silent. You were looking at me a minute ago and now you find the ground mighty interesting, so I dig deeper like the fool I am. "You already knew?"

Alan steps in and hands me the bottle again. Says "How did you know?" I tell him Kete told me. "What happened to him? Hanson?" Everyone knew all the woman got in these situations was a hefty dose of shame.

I drink. Wipe my mouth. For some reason, I'm still watching you. "What do you think? The usual: Dismissed with pay. Silence." Then I decide my new hole isn't quite deep enough and address you directly. "You think they should have done something different?"

And this... This is when you ignore me. Really and obviously refuse to look at or talk to me. And I can tell I've gone too far but there's a morbid fascination in me which escapes when I drink and I want to know why you won't meet my eye. Want to push and see what happens.

I realise I'm drunk and being awful now so I finally shift my gaze to the fire. The others are discussing morality law and I haven't been listening. I excuse myself and crawl into my bedroll.

The second time, we are stuck in a tough spot and I manage to get myself shot. You are the only one with a hand free so you reach over to grab the end of the bandage as I fasten it with a busted hand and the other arm hangs uselessly at my side. You're focusing on suppressive fire toward the mess we made of the target position but when your hand rests bunched against my thigh you freeze, just for a moment.

I've never seen you hesitate before so I make a joke to lighten the mood, thinking maybe you're overwhelmed. "I hear it ain't queer if you don't look." And this time there is no smile, no sharp comeback. Your hand shifts until it has left my skin and your mouth is sealed shut as you fire with the other.

The third time you ignore me, it is three years after I was sent home for being a waste of space. My arm works a bit now and I learned to use it to carve wood and machine metal so I keep busy. For some reason, we thought a reunion would be a good idea but I feel sick around Jossy and Fawkes. They're still in the game and part of me hates them for that.

Alan says he's surprised I'm not married, in spite of being an ugly fucker. Fawkes says he isn't. "Always thought you were a faggot." he says, matter-of-factly. Before my ire can drive me to protest, you give a sharp laugh. I turn on you with all of my manly quest for justice by humiliating someone else.

"You're not married either, asshole. Are you?" And I can't bring myself to say the word but you shut up and turn away from me anyway. You spend the rest of the night on Jossy like a limpet and when they leave you ask him if you can doss at his place. You were meant to be staying here, with me. I hate how petulent I feel about this.

Jossy says no. He's sorry but his wife would kill him with his own pyjamas. He climbs into his car and waves cheerfully. Fawkes follows out of the door but I never know where he goes or how he gets anywhere, frankly. Then it's just me and you.

And Alan. Alan makes polite chatter and takes the couch, claiming he still has dreams and needs to be able to pace. I say alright and lead you up the stairs to the small guest room across from my bedroom.

There is none of the usual banter, recipes, and interesting news. You're achingly quiet and I start to feel it in my teeth so as I pat the neat bed ready and fluff already puffed pillows I watch you.

You won't look at me but I have no idea what to do about that so I shake out the duvet. You hover. "Get in. What are you waiting for? Me to tuck you in?" And I could swear that just for a moment your face darkens with blood and disapproval.

And I can't take it anymore.

"What did I do wrong?" I finally ask, gesturing to the bed. "I'm trying to make you feel welcome here. You seem to have some kind of problem with me, ever since the Green, and I want to know what it is."

And you say that isn't true but I tell you I know you. That you can't lie to me. Then at last you tell me I'm right but you'll work through it. "It's been four years since then." I say. You say you know. To give you time.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? It's been four years. I knew you before I could legally drink. You've been a damned good friend and now you want me to wait how long before you'll tell me why you're mad at me?" You're not mad, you say, but I counter that you seem pretty mad. This feels like the end of an era and I am unreasonably not okay with that. "I'm not losing one of my best friends to something I can't fight."

You mutter that it can't be fought. That you've tried and, anyway, my attitude hasn't changed. Always wanting to fight everything. I tell you I don't want fight you and that you could at least look me in the eye, you prick.

I have to all but catch myself when you close the distance and it isn't even that far. When you lean in and tell me to give up on this, to leave you alone because you are a pariah. 'A pansy. A fag. A fucking fairy.'

And this time I think maybe I'll ignore you because if I don't hear it then it didn't happen. The only problem is your face is red from anger and embarrassment and so, so close to mine. It's radiating warmth and the blood under your skin makes your freckles stand out and somehow I had never noticed them before.

So instead of ignoring or kicking you out, I close the distance and press my mouth to the bridge of your nose. And I swear it is intended as a comfort, to soothe that tension I hate seeing in your eyes, but somehow your lips find mine and before I can breathe I'm crushing you under me, hand in your hair like it owes me a debt.

It's only the thought of Alan downstairs which makes me pull back, sober as ice water, and go through every iteration of brushing off my slacks and pretending that didn't just happen.

There's a faint snore from the lounge and I step back, shake my head and ready to run. This time the thing which stops me is the acceptance and sadness in your face as you watch me go. I'm almost at the door and it would be so easy to close it between us but instead I say "See you for breakfast." Something in you seems lighter then but that night I dream of your sadness.

And I never dream anymore. At some point the mess and loathing grew too troublesome and I just... Stopped. Now, though, I dream of you lying on your back in the sun, in your old uniform again. And I can't tell if it is a memory or a dream at first because we are in a familiar cold valley which saw too much sun and it seems that day is burned into my mind. We swam away the stink of our work that day and dried in the bright orange light for the first time in weeks.

In my dream, you are looking at me. You keep looking but it's okay. One of your hands reaches out to me and it scares me but it's so much softer and warmer that my own closes over it with an instinctive comfort. I can feel my pulse quicken.

You ask me to tell you a secret, any secret, and I roll onto my side to study your face better. "I want you." I say at last, and it shocks me to learn that it's true.

When I wake, my arm aches far more than it has a right to and you're eating pancakes downstairs with Alan and my gut twists. I realise that I am in a lot of trouble. Waiting until Alan leaves is a chore.

That night, I follow a short while after you leave for bed to belay suspicion. Alan doesn't seem to notice or care.

I tuck you in this time, and again I speak into your lips and I tell you I'll see you for breakfast. The look you give me is full of fear and I want to ease it but there are footsteps from beneath us and I race out of there with my tail on fire.

That night, I don't wait to dream. My mind takes me back to earlier that once-forgotten day, when you are standing in the ribs-high icy water and washing blood from your arm with your customary ritualistic silence. The water dilutes it and the pale pink liquid runs down the curves and lines of your arm in rivulets, stroking the greased and dusty skin and leaving behind paler streaks. You brush them away with a slow caress of your palm, eyes distant.

I have two entirely separate orgasms with that image in my head before finally sleep saves me and I do not dream.

It has been five days. Every night I tell you it'll be okay, that I'll see you for breakfast. Every morning I am a coward and wait until after nine to join you, knowing Alan will be outside exercising. He accuses me of having turned into a slob and I remove my shirt and tell him to say it to my face. Anything to avoid engaging with you with him around.

That night, I remember the hunger and terror in your eyes when I undressed even that much. God damn me because I lose myself to sleep before I finish doing what I'm doing about that look and I do not dream.

The next day, my landlady appears to collect her rent and clean the place up a bit. "I love you military chaps." she says. "Always so clean." She hasn't met Fossy. She is folding washed tea towels when Alan calls the sliding door, which always jams, a pansy-livered tink'. "Language." Her voice is sharp and motherly and he visibly flinches. "You want to be cruel to folk, you get out me house an' do it on the streets with the other rough 'uns." He bows politely but he is in a stinking mood all day, muttering about fag-lovers and Peter Pansies. I apologise to her when she leaves, and tell her he's only here two more days.

When I appear in your bedroom, it has been almost forty minutes since you retired. I waited for Alan to fall asleep and he is dreaming fitfully about something. "I'm sorry." I say. You have seemed cheerful all day, and you ask me what I have to be sorry for. "Those words. I know everyone uses them but if it hurt you, I'm sorry." You laugh quietly and tell me they should hurt me too. This is the first time it occurrs to me I might have to face this. You pull me in this time and if you hadn't I would have left without it. My head is in shreds.

I don't dream. I don't even fantasise. My miserable brain churns over and over your words and it is midday before I turn up downstairs. You seem positively chipper but it is clear you were concerned. You've kept breakfast warmed for me. Alan calls you a frittering frock.

I take Alan into town the next day, and since I'm there I make a day of it and do the shopping for the month. Part of me doesn't want to return to the house when it is you and I alone. To be forced to face whatever this is.

Alan gets on the train and I am sorry to see him go. He's family in a way only we can understand even if he is pushy and short-tempered. I loiter on the platform and watch the trains the way I did as a kid but eventually I am cold and listless and out of snacks so I drive home and as I lock the door behind me the dread lifts and it is just good to be there again. You make me a salty, overcooked supper with too few vegetables and I eat it all to the last scrap. I hold out until bedtime and I am very proud.

You're undressing when I enter. I watch, marvelling at how something I have seen a thousand times can be so different. You have freckles on your hips, your thighs, your stomach. They make me forget why I was so afraid.

Once you are dressed, you climb into bed and leave enough room for me to sit beside you. I had forgotten how much smaller you are. Most people are but with you... It has significance. I hesitate but your hand rests on my leg and eventually I drop mine over it. My dream was right - it is soft and warm and I curl my own around it. Maybe I held it before, for practical purposes, and my mind held onto that. I tell you as much and you smile.

I had forgotten your smile. It is warm, and quiet, and sincere. It feels like a secret under my lips as I lean in and this time I'm all but over you before I pull back. You tell me to stay in a way which feels like a question and I reply that I should sleep.

I do not sleep. Neither do you. I can hear you across the hallway, tossing and turning in the guest bed. When morning comes, I'm gritty and my legs ache. Nevertheless, I drag myself downstairs and eat breakfast.

The food is going to dry up in that warming drawer, so I put it on a tray and bring it to you. You tell me I didn't have to but your face is drawn and tired and I sit down on the bed and place the tray on your legs. "Eat." So you do, with nervous glances at me as I watch. When you are done, I move it away and look into your eyes. My thumb comes up to wipe some grease from your lip and I have a sudden image of you, washing your arm in the water.

The hairs on my neck and arms stand up as I swallow and do not look away. You ask me what is wrong and I ignore the question. Your worry grows to a faint smile as you notice my state and realise why I have frozen. When your hand rests on my thigh, I release the breath I've been holding and my eyelids slide shut.

You tell me I'm beautiful. I tell you not to be a fool. You tell me I am sweet and I reply that you must be a disillusioned fool. "I've hurt people." So have I, you respond. "I've hurt you." And you just offer that quiet smile again and tell me you can take care of yourself. That sometimes choosing to be vulnerable is a means to an end.

I ask you what the end is, here. You brush your hand higher, tell me the end is a beginning if I'll let it be.

I can't bring myself to say no.

So I let it be.

_

Thank-you for reading my broken, fluffy musings. If you wish to fill this, please tag me or comment here so that I can share your hard work with others and enjoy it myself.

Any gender is fine, since it is written neutrally.

Please stick to the script or, if you want to make a change, message me and we can discuss it.

Wishing you all a good day,

C_TB