It doesn't take a lot more. Tom tensing up like that, hot and slick over his fingers, and something about the sheer desperation of it is pleasurable in a sick kind of way. Not a way he thinks he'd miss. But it's here and it's what they have and he comes into Tom's hand, shuddering hard and biting his lip. He can come near silently when he has to, a skill from long years in barracks and what felt like even longer years by dying campfires with the object of his fantasies asleep beside him.

"Fuck," he breathes when he can. He should step back, clean himself up and pick up the canteen, get back as fast as they can. But the closeness isn't something he can pull away from immediately. It's a kind of comfort, however much it hurts.

Absurdly, he feels like apologizing.