Elliot grabbed his clothes from the locker, exhausted from all of it. He pulled on his pants and T-shirt, and headed for the door.
"Shaw," Hale said as Elliot's hand tightened around the handle.
He should walk out and let this be done. But something in Hale's voice made him turn around despite his better judgement.
Hale was still leaning against the lockers, one hand scrubbing over his face, frustration written across every line of his body. Like he hated himself for not knowing what he wanted.
"What?" Elliot asked.
Hale met his eyes. "I’m sorry."
"About what?"
"For being a dick about it. For saying I'm not gay and then—" He gestured vaguely between them. "For doing this anyway. I—I don't know what I'm doing.”
This was the closest Hale had come to actually admitting what this was.
"Then don't," Elliot said. "You don't have to figure it out. We can stop."
“Is that what you want?" Hale's voice came out strained.
Elliot stilled. "What I want doesn't matter."
"Bullshit. Is it?"
The question hung there. He could lie. Should lie. But Hale searched his face with those eyes and?—
"No," Elliot said. "It's not what I want. But maybe you should take some time. Figure this out. No pressure.”
"Yeah?” Hale's shoulders slumped. "That's probably smart."
They stared at each other until Elliot forced himself to move. He picked up his stuff and gave Hale one last look.
"See you around, Hale."
The night air hit him as he stepped outside, cold enough to clear his head.
As he walked back to the barracks, his mind did what it always did: assessed the situation. If Hale said yes, they'd keep doing this. Eventually someone would notice. Eventually they'd get caught.
They'd both be gone.
Technically not because they were both men—the regulations changed years ago, at least on paper. But fraternization during training remained explicitly forbidden, and Elliot knew exactly how it would play out. They'd get written up for breaking protocol, dismissed for "conductunbecoming," and even if the official report never mentioned sexuality, everyone would know. The whispers would follow them. The reputation would stick.
In a culture where trust and unit cohesion meant everything, getting known as the two guys who fucked their way through Selection would destroy any future career in the military.
Not to mention his father. The General would hear about it within hours. And that... Elliot couldn't let himself think about that.
After dinner,they had their first scheduled call home: thirty minutes allocated per person on the base landlines, staggered throughout the evening. Elliot had signed up for the 2130 slot. It was early morning in Lyon, but his aunt had told him last time they spoke that she'd make sure to wake up whenever he called.
The call room had four stations. Small cubicles with desk phones and just enough space between them that conversations didn't completely overlap. Still, voices carried despite the low partitions.
Two guys Elliot didn't know well had already occupied their stations when he walked in. And Hale, sitting at the far station, phone pressed to his ear, was laughing. Easygoing as always.
Elliot took the station in the opposite corner and sat down. He could have called his mother. She'd want to hear from him, would ask all the right questions—was he eating enough, was training going well, was he being safe.
But talking to his mother always meant another performance. He had to reassure her, watch what he said because she'd worry, or worse, mention it to his father. She tried.But years of living with The General had worn her down, made her careful.
His aunt Marguerite was different.
