Author's Note:
Lately, I've been reading Snafu/Sledge fanfics like I live on them. And if I'm not reading, I'm watching youtube videos. And if I'm not doing that, I'm listening to music that in my head, revolves around their lovely relationship. In other words, I cannot get this pairing out of my head! And I'm in friggin' love with Rami Malek! Like, hardcore, I wanna marry you and spend the rest of my life making love to you kinda love! Gah. But, on the other hand, Rami belongs to Joe Mazzello. Like, I just can't take them away from each other. Oh, Lord help me, now.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Pacific or any of the characters. The characters in this story are not based off of the real men, only off of the portrayal of them in the mini series. (Which, by the way, so obviously and wonderfully showed their undying bromance.)

He's gripping the burning cigarette as if it's his lifeline, as if it's his salvation and maybe it is. Maybe it's the only thing he's got left. His wide watery eyes follow the smoke, up, up, up, and you feel like he might just follow, might just disappear and everything will be a dream, just a fleeting thought lost in the chaos and encompassing darkness. You find yourself wanting to reach out to make sure he's real, make sure you're real, but you're afraid he'll crumble beneath the bloodstains and the mud and the dirt. You're afraid he'll drift into the air, wearing that smile that isn't quite a smile and god, why does he have to look at you like that?

You divert your eyes from his hollow ones and pretend to examine the forest, pretend to look for an enemy that's already rotting. You feel those grey orbs on you, and you think you might just be dying, because you are already entrapped and he knows it, he's always known it and you want to punch him. You want to make him bleed, want to make sure he's still alive.

"Gene?" He says quietly, willing you with his eyes to turn around.

You don't, though.

"Yeah?" You answer quietly, so quietly, because you don't want him to hear the trembling.

"Jus' makin' sho' you're still awake." You hear shuffling, and soon he's leaning against you, and you want to run. You stiffen like a board and his dead eyes suck the life out of yours, suck everything up until your just dry bones heaving for blood and muscle.

"You okay?" You notice the intricate veins tangled through the whites of his eyeballs, notice the purple bruises stretching beneath his lids down into hollow, grimy cheeks.

"Yeah." It's quick, too quick and his nails are digging into the flesh of your face before you can blink. He's dangerous and your fingers twist around your rifle, twist until the metal merges with your hand and you are simply a weapon, an object of war. His breath wafts over your face and you're engulfed in the stale stench of death and cigarettes. You don't move because it could be fatal and he's grinning like you've told a joke, but his nails are painfully tight.

"Yeah?" He repeats, lips cracked and peeling. A pink tongue slowly wipes along them, leaving a thin sheen of saliva. You swallow hard, and those lips stretch further, as if they are trying to escape.

"Yeah." You say, eyes darting from his lips, to his eyes, to the edge of the forest and back again. His nails etch out the lines on your face; the veins on your neck and you're trembling.

"Yah don' look okay." He breathes against your ear, dragging his hand down your chest to your stomach, to…to-oh, god. Your head falls back against the rock wall and you think you might as well just sink into it, you think you might as well just tell the goddamn truth, but that would be selfish, that would be defeat.

Your eyes glue onto the stars obscured by smoke and he's whispering Sledgehamma' against the side of your mouth, but still, you seek out the pinpoints of light as if they could break through the night into what's left of your soul. His fingers are rubbing and twisting and you force yourself to breathe, just breathe, because honestly, this might just be the end of you.

Your fingers dig into the mud, grasping for something, anything, and he bites the edge of your lip hard, growling as if he's some sort of goddamn animal, and hell, maybe he is. Maybe you are too and that's why you're rutting up into him with a feeling of I'm alive when you both clearly know that you are not. His tongue worms its way in between your teeth and you resist the urge to bite down, resist the urge to press forward, forward, forward until you merge.

He's mapping out your mouth; mapping out the bumps, the crevices, the bite marks. You don't want him to know, don't want him to figure you out, but you have a feeling he already knows because those grey-flecked eyes were made for you, only you, just you, Sledgehamma'.It's a little bit funny, and you're chest is heaving with suppressed laughter and maybe a little something more, but you can't think of that now; can't think with those fingers brushing over exactly the right spots, can't think with that tongue rubbing over open wounds as if to force them to close back up, or maybe rip them apart even more.

"Sledgehamma." He's groaning, leaning into you, trying to seep into your bones and you're trapped against the mud as if you belong there, as if there is nowhere else you should be.

"Sledgehamma." Pressing up against you, sinking into you, dipping into your veins.

His fingertips press down and your body is suddenly jerking up into his, merging, assimilating, integrating. His hand slides up your body to cup your face, turns your cheek so your eyes connect with his, forces you to see, to understand, to become. You lean forward, rest your head against his, gaze for answers, search for questions, examine honesty. He mouths your name against your lips, mouths Eugene…Eugene…Gene…until your certain God gave you that name for a reason. He nips and nibbles your lips until you're sure he's consumed all of you, until you're he's consumed the words you need to say, the words you want to say, the words he already understands.

Slowly, your hands separate themselves from the mud and your fingertips hesitantly press against the hollows beneath his eyes, traveling down to push lightly against his neck. You can feel the blood pumping through his veins, can feel your own pulse racing against his. It just won't fade away. You can feel his heart beat a steady rhythm, speeding up when your fingers twitch, missing a beat when your lips separate from his. You can feel that he is alive; you can feel that he is here, has always been here, will always be here. You are certain, certain because his arms are closed tightly around you, protecting you, claiming you, possessing you. You are certain because his edges fit into your curves, and you can see the moonlight washed over his face, can see the stars reflected in his wide orbs, echoing into your own.

"Snafu." You finally mutter, and he's grinning as if he's won and shit, he probably has. His eyes map out the secrets in yours and god, please don't look away.

Rami!1 I LOVE YOUUU AND SLEDGE LOVES YOU AND YOU LOVE SLEDGE AND I LOVE SLEDGE TOO AND LET ME WATCH YOU TWO LOVE EACH OOOOTHERRJ;LSDHFKJLSHDF ... oh, I can't even.