“Pretty as a picture, Tommy,” Sol says when he shows him his spendings. Teasing or earnest, it makes no difference, for this is the closest to a marine that Armitage will ever be. They have kissed and clipped and frigged each other, and here they lie with flies undone, in their pocket of warmth and light — nestled against Tozer’s side, the heavy smell of sweat is in his nose, and the sharp reek of Tozer’s nature fills the air between them, slick and male. Armitage licks the tallow from the sergeant’s callused fingers, tasting salt-brine, and thanks him for it.