Request by the lovely AnnLuc and thanks for her patience with me :)

An AU of Glee Project's Cameron Mitchell and Damian McGinty set in Vietnam as soldiers.

Soldier Boy

…twinkle, twinkle little star, can you tell me just how far…

He is Private Cameron Mitchell, sir.

Unquestionable; not out loud. Nowhere but the deepest crackles of his consciousness.

He is his father's son, his greatest achievement.

Always.

(This is the story of the one time he wasn't.)

(It doesn't end happily.)

Private Mitchell is a good soldier because he can follow orders without question or hesitation, and only a little bit of guilt.

Mitchell the Senior is a better soldier—a general—because he feels no guilt at all.

Cameron knows this, knows this is the difference between brilliance and competence, between private and general. His father is someone to aspire to, something to emulate and aim for. To respect, at all times.

(But.)

There are times where Cameron doubts.

There are orders that he executes, flawlessly, the gun never wavering in his hand, that keep him awake at night.

There are some things you never forget.

(Charred bodies twisted like metal wire. Unrecognizable.)

So, yeah. His father is someone to aspire to.

But. Cameron doesn't.

They get some new additions.

He learns their names and eager faces, barely, grudgingly. The fresh ones are always the worst, so full of patriotism and innocence, believing in good guys and bad guys and clearly defined lines.

Cameron hates watching it crushed out of them, the naivety.

(So he doesn't watch. Simple.)

But, there is one that catches his attention.

Mostly because he's young. Too young, maybe, looking barely of age.

It surprises him at first, then it just makes him angry. What is he looking for with his hopeful blue eyes and flushed cheeks? Cameron's been out here a long time and he knows what war can do to a person. What it will do to a person.

It breaks them. Twists them out of shape.

They shouldn't be here. (The boy, he means.)

It's late.

Cameron is smoking again, not because he likes it but because he needs something between his fingers and he's a little too used to the smoke anyway. He's been told it's a disgusting habit but this is war, so.

He's seen worse.

"Got a light?"

He's not sure what surprises him more; the accent or the casual tone.

A soldier, the young one, the one with the blue eyes, gestures toward the end of his unlit cigarette with an apologetic shrug.

"I lost mine," the boy says, "Think it's been snitched."

"Probably."

Cameron turns his back again, his message clear. He does not want company, not now, not from this barely legal man-child, with his friendly banter and innocent questions, with his trust.

The boy stays anyway.

"I'm Damian," he says, stepping forward so that their shoulders brush.

Something inside of his chest knots painfully at the contact. Cameron can't remember the last time he touched someone without blood slick and slippery and caught deep under his fingernails.

Distant, untouchable, his father once told him, and superior.

"I know," Cameron lies.

Besides him, the boy grins.

"No, you didn't," he says, like it's nothing, the disagreeing, "You never learn our names."

Cameron turns toward the boy. Toward Damian.

The red glow of his own cigarette glints at him, reflected in large blue eyes. They're watching him for something, unblinking. Daring him, maybe.

Damian puts the unlit cigarette back in his mouth, lips curved up in a smile.

"So," he says, "Got a light?"

It becomes this thing.

He doesn't mean it too but, fuck, it's not like he said no.

Cameron comes out to smoke, to pass the time and twist his thoughts back into shapes that make it easier to breathe. He exhales so that he doesn't have to look at the stars and wonder who else is looking at it.

(So many people, he's lost so many.)

And before he can finish even half a cigarette, the kid's there, talking away at his side.

He doesn't mind much.

The Irish accent is soothing, surprisingly deep and doesn't grate on the nerves the way it should. Cameron, in weaker moments, might even admit that he enjoys it, these peaceful moments stolen in between exhale and inhale, between heartbeats.

"I miss her, you know?" Damian says, with a puff of smoke.

Cameron hates it when they talk about his mother.

He hates being reminded, sharply, that Damian has a real life out there somewhere, a good one from what he's been told. Two parents and a younger sister who's going to be going to college next year.

"She wants to sing," Damian told him fondly, "Headed for the Broadway, Lindsay is."

Cameron wonders if he's thought about the fact he might not be there to see it.

(He doesn't ask because he knows the answer.)

He lights another one, hiss of fire as soothing as the nicotine.

"Got a girlfriend?" Cameron asks instead, on a whim.

Damian talks a lot about himself, like it's nothing, like he doesn't realize that he's more addicting then the smoking, more soothing. But he's never mentioned a girl.

(He doesn't know the answer, doesn't want to.)

"No," the boy says, voice quiet, "I don't."

A tense silence falls, settling in his lungs heavier than the smoke. He shifts uncomfortably and Damian takes a step back, a step away. It shouldn't hurt the way it does, the loss of body heat pressed against his shoulder.

They're in fucking Vietnam; it's not like it's cold.

Still, Damian leaves with a mumbled excuse, looking at the ground, and Cameron wraps his arms around himself.

It feels like something just broke, but hell if he knows what.

He smokes alone the next night.

Cameron goes to bed early and wakes up, shivering.

Despite himself, he keeps an eye out.

But Damian must have a sixth sense for him because he manages to always be busy, in the middle of something when Cameron goes looking for him. Not that he wants much, or anything.

He's just looking out for the kid, making sure he's doing okay.

They haven't been through much yet, locked in a frustrating holding pattern but Cameron can feel a storm coming, an ache in the rib he broke two years ago, not his last broken bone, certainly not the first, but one of the most painful.

The thing is, Damian's doing fine.

He's always smiling, laughing, joking around with someone.

So, why the fuck is Cameron still watching?

(And why the fuck is he so jealous.)

Macy is his mother's choice, first. His dad's approved, second.

Then, she's Cameron's fiancé.

Not that he means anything when he says that. Three has always been his lucky number anyway. Besides, he wouldn't consider marrying anybody that his parents don't find suitable.

It's simply easier this way. More efficient.

Sometimes, though, he wonders.

It rains.

It rains and rains like the end of the world is coming, sweeping them along like all the poor unfortunate souls who weren't good enough for Noah and his ark. Souls that weren't worth saving.

He feels like a drowned cat on the third day, sputtering and soaked to the bone.

Cameron glares at anyone who comes too close, anyone who dares to smile too brightly or try to lighten the foul mood. He bares his teeth in a tight grimace and they hurry away before he bites.

He tries to go to sleep that night but can't, restless as the rain hammers against the walls of the barracks.

It makes him realize how empty it is, how hollow.

Finally, Cameron tosses the blankets aside and grabs his cigarettes from the table.

"Stupid," he mutters, leaning against the door.

He does it anyway, steps out into the downpour and gasps. Drenched through before he can do much more then think told you so, Cameron takes another step before he reconsiders it. There's a point where a person can't be much wetter, might as well take advantage of the fact.

The cigarettes are already damp when he pulls them from his back pocket.

He pops one in his mouth and the tip sags under the weight of the rain. Knowing it's futile, he fumbles to unbutton the flap of the pocket where he keeps his lighter.

Not that he worries about being stolen from, not him, but it's a comfort thing.

Numb fingers slip when he pulls the lighter out and he fumbles, losing his grip. It slides through his fingers and skitters across the dark ground, splashing.

"Shit," Cameron swears, feeling stupid, "Just, fucking shit."

"Sir?"

Cameron spins around and falls into a defensive crouch, hands going to his gun. It's not there and for a long, terrible moment he knows that he is going to die. He hopes his father isn't too disappointed.

This wasn't the way he wanted to go, wet hair clinging to his forehead and his hands shaking at his empty holster.

"Cameron?" A dark figure asks incredulously, stepping forward through a curtain of rain.

His heart slows, then speeds up again.

"Damian," he says and doesn't recognize his own voice, "I seem to have dropped my lighter."

The other boy grins, cheerful and innocent and wet.

He steps forward, water splashing around their ankles but Cameron hardly notices. They are close enough to count the raindrops on each other's eyelashes, close enough that when he swallows, Damian can surely hear it.

Trembling hands reach into a pocket and the boy withdraws a lighter.

"Gotten a new one have you?" Cameron asks.

(He asks because he needs an answer.)

Damian covers the delicate little flame with a hand that brushes against Cameron's chest. He wonders if the other boy can feel his heart pounding.

"No," Damian says, looking at him, scared and raw and mostly just wet, "I didn't."

"Oh," says Cameron.

And kisses him.