It had been weeks since the night raid, Pheasant's swelling had gone down and he hadn't spoke to his mother in weeks, meanwhile Roach was still not talking to Pheasant-or anyone really for that matter.

Under the shade of the tent that billowed in the dry breeze Riley gathered Alpha Two Zero for the arrival of the post.

The team tore into the brown cardboard boxes while Pheasant hung back, merely observing with a neutral expression.

"What you doing all by your lonesome? Get stuck in," Riley said as he slapped Pheasant's back. The young marine's usual stood to attention straight backed, winning smile and confident stride had shrunk away, receding like the ebb of the tide.

"There's nothing for me there," he said, his quiet words whisked away by the breeze.

Still Riley heard him, "I'm sure there is," he said before he caught Pheasant's eye with a stern look that was still, somehow, filled with empathy, "you had a fall out with someone back home or something?".

"You could say that," Pheasant huffed.

"Follow me," Riley said, he led Pheasant to a quiet corner of the base. "Alright mate, what happened?".

"It's my mum, we don't...," Pheasant paused, afraid to reveal the truth incase in compromised him, "we don't see eye to eye on a particular matter."

"Drop the posh speak, you're saying you two disagree on something, is it small or big?" Riley pried.

"Big. Real fucking big."

"Let's see if she wrote you an apology letter-her letter last week could've been an apology letter as well, and the week before that-except you tore them up before you gave them a chance," Riley suggested, Pheasant wore a stony expression as he nodded and allowed Riley to led him back to the tent, where everyone had opened their post and left the cardboard boxes, that had been torn to pieces like rabid dogs, strewn across the table.

Except for one that stood pristine.

That was Pheasant's one.

Just as he was about to hesitantly pick it apart he heard the familiar Leeds accent ringing in his ears.

"Ay up Pheasant you wouldn't mind keeping this photo of me lass safe?" Briggs asked.

Pheasant turned his attention to the Lioner, seeing his arm was extended high above his head, holding onto a racy photo of his girlfriend in lingerie, as the Lance Corporal held it out of the grabbing, ravenous hands of Harrow and Ghoul.

Pheasant accepted the photo, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket where it would be safe. "Ta mate, I knew I could trust you to keep it safe and, most importantly, not wank over it."

Pheasant's eyes skirted over to his post that he wasn't ready to open. So the man returned his attention to Briggs, "how long have you and your other half been together?".

"Well we were friends with benefits for four months but it got serious just before I deployed," Briggs explained before he smiled apologetically at Pheasant, "I gotta go clean my rifle, chat later."

With no more distractions Pheasant, begrudgingly, opened his cardboard box to find a letter marked with his mother's postcode and a bottle of red velvet cupcake baileys, the second Smith and Harrow saw it they erupted in laughter like a volcano, pointing at it Harrow exclaimed, "what the fuck are you doing with a posh Rupert drink like that?".

"It's one of my favourite drinks," Pheasant defended himself, knowing not to take it so seriously, "I guess I'm secretly a bit of a Rupert."

"Anyone wanna trade?" he asked, not wanting anything from his mother.

"Nah mate you can keep your Rupert drink," Smith bellowed. Pheasant allowed a heavy sigh to escape his lips, lightening the load on his shoulders as he grabbed the bottle and letter, returning to his quarters.

Ignoring his lighter he burned the letter without even opening it, wanting nothing to do with her.

After taking a few swigs of the burning yet sickly sweet drink straight from the bottle he decided to sleep away the day.

Waking up to a dusky grey sky outside his window, still angry over his mother, he decided to vent out his frustration by going boxing since they had to day off to rest and recover from the disastrous night raid.

As he wrapped his hands and shoved the gloves on he began to work with the speed bags. He was interrupted by someone clearing their throat, a deep and guttural noise.

Turning around he saw Soap stood behind him, a light five o'clock shadow of stubble lining his rugged jawline as the Glaswegian shot him a sly smirk.

"Wanna bet I can outdo you with the speed bags?Whoever misses first loses," he stated with arrogance.

Pheasant quirked a mildly amused brow at the attractive young man with a mohawk and sick pack, "and what's in it for me?" he pried.

"I'd I lose I'll give you my MRE pound cake."

"Deal," Pheasant said as they shook on it, "and if I lose I'll give you my MRE sausages and tomato sauce, it's the shit."

"You mean shite crap hat (derogatory term for anyone not in the paras)," Soap quipped.

"You're a long way from home Scot," Pheasant teased, a smile playing across the corners of his lips.

The two quickly descended into their spar, viciously assaulting the speed bags with precision and force.

However they both lost at the same time, and then they descended into an argument before accepting they both lost together.

"Wanna have some of my baileys?" Pheasant asked, desperate to get rid of the liquor.

Soap nodded, Pheasant retrieved his baileys as Soap pulled up a sandbag (took a seat) and they two shared his baileys, looking up at the stars that twinkled in the sky, sparkling like diamonds in a gem encrusted tapestry.

"Funny how we get on even though we're rivals," Soap commented as he stretched, Pheasant noticed his shirt riding up to reveal his dark treasure trail and six pack abs, simultaneously arousing him and turning his scrawny body to shame.

"We might fight but more than that we're brothers, and even though brothers fight the loyalty is always there," Pheasant answered as he tugged the half empty bottle from Soap's calloused hand and took a swig, now both were feeling tipsy, off balance and fuzzy headed with a warmth radiating throughout their bodies. Sloppy and sedated.

Pheasant's drunken gaze lingered on Soap, focused on his rough lips. Pheasant was desperate to feel Soap's lips against his own, their bodies pressed together, exploring one another's anatomy.

He just wanted to forget his mother's cruel words. Forget being gang raped in an alley till Roach saved him. He wanted, he needed, some no strings attached fun. He was desperate. He needed liberation, and Soap was the answer.

And so Pheasant lifted a free hand, skirting his fingers along the scar on Soap's cheek and leaving behind a tantalising touch. Soap was too drunk to react, his head lulling like a newborn. Then Pheasant's hand slowly turned Soap's head so they were gazing into one another's eyes. Soap's were icy steel blue, cool and calm, and Pheasant's were baby blue, soft hearted and sympathy.

And so Pheasant leant in, hoping to find his happily ever after within Soap.