Final Fantasy VIII Laguna/Squall damned if we do and damned if we don't
This is the way the world ends. In red fire and black ashes coating everything, muffling the screams of the wounded, the groans of the dying. Sulfur, gunpowder, the stench of burning meat over the iron of spilled blood and hot metal which smells, he's always thought, a bit like sex.
He lost his innocence on a battlefield like this one, oh so many years ago. In a muddy trench of a foxhole, the sky so thick with smoke it might have been night and bodies blown apart not a foot away. Unrecognizable lumps of meat and bone and uniforms staring at him while he bent over his machine gun and let another shell shocked lieutenant jerk him off during an hour of cease fire.
The way he's jerking his son off now, fast and rough through the tight bind of leather. He doesn't take anything off, too dangerous, just unzips the front and delves inside regardless of the bite of steel in his arms and wrist. The pain makes it a little more real.
He's too old for this life, too soft from years living in guarded palace waging war on politicians instead of fellow soldiers. Squall isn't like him. The boy is steel through and through, gunmetal gaze tracking possible threats even with Laguna jacking him expertly into the dirt.
They're probably going to die out here. It's a cruel sort of summitry to take a moment to find something not quite like life in it. The past coming full circle from the father into the son. Even if they live, if they win, they'll never get this chance again. Squall will go back to his Garden the perfect SeeD, and Laguna will go back to Esthar with his dreams and guilt and half honest smiles.
He jerks himself off with his son's spunk slicking his hand, instead of leaning over the boy and riding the angry edge of his belt layers, but only because he wants the bullet that ends him to be from a nameless bastard, and not his own blood.