Kris grabbed him, both hands wrapping around David’s face, his head, and pulled him the last inch until their lips met. Their lips were chapped, dry skin catching, and David tasted like bad coffee and Afghanistan’s dust, dust that clung to his mouth and his beard and his skin. But Kris didn’t care. He kissed David like he was trying to bring him back to life, trying to resuscitate his soul. Trying to merge, in some way give David a part of Kris to carry, bury a part of David inside of him. David’s arms wrapped round him, all the way around, encircling him and drawing Kris against David’s
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