This story is as ugly as a well-earned bruise, improbably three-dimensional, and merciless. ...And funny as shit. I could all but feel the sudden drop in the air pressure of that kitchen when Soldier outed them. Or- -no. He didn't OUT them, because he doesn't think of what they did the night before in those terms. The soldier has his own definitions, his own personal bill of rights, collaged together from half-clearly remembered allied speeches, half-forgotten history classes, his own primary-color-splashed internal mental canvas, and the strange alchemy of patriotic faith, courage, and fear of the things he can't comprehend in a way he can process. I wouldn't even count the soldier as queer, at this point. It's like his sexuality is writing itself as he goes along, stretching around the rush of pain and combat-endorphins that he understands, folding AROUND the situations and archetypes that he can't look at head-on yet. And the engineer's no saint, but he's not a monster either. He wants, and he cares, and he's not taking ANY bullshit, but... all his hypotheses are wrong. His perceptions and ways of quantifying the world around him rendered obsolete like the cutting of the Gordian knot, and... Engie's got one hell of a challenge on his hands, and I do believe he likes it.