Beautifulburnout:

theprodigalsoldier:

jaxon sighed at tate’s response— it was the one he expected. and feared. it seemed like no one left the war whole. physically, mentally, emotionally. they were all tainted and damaged, and nightmares fucked with sleep and sanity in a very special way. he wished he had an answer for tate. a way to help make them go away, or even ease them slightly. but fuck… he’d been searching for that answer for two years and had come up with very little.  “ hey, man. it’s alright. don’t think i’ve ever met a soldier that didn’t have nightmares. yer not alone there, ” he offered quietly, intimately familiar with feeling weak or broken for struggling like this. fuck, he still felt like that a lot. but it helped… knowing his brothers felt like it too.  “ why aren’t you supposed to be drinkin’? i thought you were all healed up. ”

It was hard to talk about, even with someone like Jaxon who could relate so strongly to what he was going through. That was a big reason Tate kept insisting he didn’t need to see a therapist or go to any support groups. Talking about things had never helped him deal with them anyways. “I know it’ll probably never go away completely ---- I just wish it would get better. I’m fucking tired.” Tate knew he wasn’t the first person to go to war and come back having nightmares about it, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. But when he wakes up at night, alone, in an empty house, it’s hard not to feel isolated. “I am for the most part. Doc just found some problems with my liver when they were doing blood tests. It’s not a big deal.” At least that’s what his doctor had told him, it wouldn’t be a big deal as long as he didn’t drink so often. Which was proving difficult when it was his go-to coping mechanism. 

It was early, even for Tate. But after another night of restless sleep he thought maybe some food would take his mind off things and help him relax a little bit. So he sat at his favorite twenty-four hour diner, pushing the food around on his plate with his fork absentmindedly more than he was actually eating any of it. He had a million things on his mind since he had gotten back home three months ago. Losing his mother, his injury, the end of his career in the marines --- it was all a lot for him to handle in a short amount of time. Rubbing his sleep filled eyes he could hear someone approach him, and just assumed it was his waitress checking in on him for the one hundredth time since he had sat down forty-five minutes ago. “Just another cup of coffee, please.” He muttered.

                         “ Why are you always so pessimistic? “

    —– “ вecaυѕe… тнen, ιт doeѕn’т HURT ѕo                мυcн wнen everyтнιng   F A L L S   A P A R T. “