The church had gone still again, save for the dull creak of old timber and the distant crackle of a fire guttering somewhere beyond the barricaded doors. The air was thick with the residue of gunpowder and ash, and that sour, coppery trace of blood that clung to the walls like mildew. The scent of sanctity—burnt wax, dry stone, the faint ghost of incense—still lingered in the corners, but it was overwhelmed by the living, sweating, breathing press of survival. They hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. Outside, the moans of the dead had quieted, but both men knew better than to believe it meant safety. There was never safety anymore. Only waiting.

Gregoire stood near the altar at first, his posture stiff and guarded, fingers twitching around the empty loop where a musket strap once sat. He wore his uniform like armor even now—creased at the sleeves, frayed near the hem, dust clinging to the dark blue wool—but he looked wrong in it, like a man stuck playing a role long after the stage had collapsed. He had been leaning against one of the pews, knees pulled up, jacket thrown aside to dry near a broken brazier. The candlelight framed his face in muted gold, and even in the cold, he looked warm, open—something Gregoire had always found difficult to look at for too long without his throat tightening.

When Gregoire finally spoke, his voice was rough-edged and hesitant, French syllables dragging like rusted nails over stone. “Je... I need something. Just a little... something.” His brow twitched, and he didn’t meet the other man’s eyes. He seemed embarrassed by the sound of his own voice, and more than that, by what he wasn’t saying.

He turned his head. He waited. Gregoire’s mouth opened, then closed again. The soldier cleared his throat, tried again. “To—relieve. Tension. Just... if you could stay close.”

The way he said it left little room for misinterpretation, but even then, it wasn’t crude. There was no vulgarity in the air, no hunger sharpened by lust. Only heat, and need, and that strange intimacy that crept in between comrades left alive too long after everyone else had died. Gregoire’s hands trembled faintly, and he tried to hide it by adjusting the bagkit at his side. His ears burned red beneath ginger hair, and his eyes were sharp with something fragile just under the surface.

He approached slowly, wordlessly, and watched the way Gregoire’s breath hitched the closer he got. When their bodies were almost touching, Gregoire finally looked up. “You are not laughing?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m not,” he answered, low and even. “You want me to stay?”

Gregoire nodded, almost sheepishly, then muttered something in rapid French, eyes dropping again. When he didn’t respond right away—stunned more by the soft desperation in the man’s tone than the words themselves—Gregoire took a half-step back, clearly ready to take it all back.

But he reached forward before he could retreat, settling a palm against the curve of Gregoire’s waist, grounding him. “You want to touch me?” he asked, not mocking, not indulgent—just direct.

Gregoire nodded again. His hands, calloused and dry from powder and cold, came up hesitantly, fingers hovering near his shirtfront. When he tugged the fabric open, Gregoire exhaled shakily, a red blooming high across his cheekbones. It wasn’t hunger in his eyes—nothing devouring, nothing driven by dominance—but awe. Like the soft curve of bare skin beneath his fingertips was something holy.

He ended up straddling Gregoire’s lap, knees pressing against the hard wooden seat on either side, his shirt hanging loose and open as cold air brushed against damp skin. The sharp scent of wax and woodsmoke mingled with the faint salt of sweat, and Gregoire’s breath was warm against his chest. His mouth was tentative at first, lips grazing skin, eyes flicking up now and again as if to ask for permission without words. And when he guided his head closer, he obeyed—not like a soldier, but like a man desperate for contact, for comfort, for closeness he didn’t know how to ask for.

His mouth latched to one nipple, breath stuttering, and he felt the careful tension in Gregoire’s jaw, the embarrassed press of his tongue, the way one hand rose to rest awkwardly at his side as if unsure what was allowed. The heat of his mouth, the drag of his lips, the uncertain but sincere way he sucked made the moment oddly vulnerable. It wasn’t lewd. It wasn’t frantic. It was need—raw and fragile, wrapped in a shell of shame and longing.

The wooden bench creaked beneath them as he settled further into his lap, hands bracing at Gregoire’s shoulders. His other nipple was rolled gently between Gregoire’s fingers, thumb pressing and twisting, movements cautious at first but slowly learning confidence as he listened to the sound of his breath catch.

“Est-ce que ça fait du bien?” (does it feel good?) Gregoire mumbled against his skin, voice rough, barely intelligible with how close his mouth was to the flesh.