U CAUGHT ME AT THE PERFECT TIME, ANON, IM TIPSY AND A LIL SLEEPY AND WAS ITCHING TO WRITE SOMETHING STUCKY-RELATED because im obsessed with them right now
Loving a soldier, Harry thinks, is a terrible, awful thing.
Across him, Louis sits, his uniform as proper as it’s ever going to get in the middle of war. He’s got his sniper rifle situated in between his legs, one hand on the barrel of the gun, the other on the handle. His eyes are downcast, but Harry doesn’t need to see them to remember how they look like, to remember the dark, steely blue of them.
Eyes that have seen destruction eyes that have witnessed soldiers–people–bleeding out in this war-torn battlefield, their breaths loud and sticky, laboured in the quiet night air.
Eyes that have seen death itself.
But it’s not like he’s any different–he’s a soldier too, a venerable fighter. Just because he’d been handpicked because of his charm and dimples, dressed up in a colourful uniform; just because he’d delivered speeches in front of people, encouraging them to fight; just because he’d been painted as noble, made to look like the epitome of nationalism, doesn’t mean that he’s not a murderer. He is.
Perhaps even more than a sniper, because without him, people wouldn’t have even thought of fighting. He’s, indirectly, led countless of men to their deaths.
It wasn’t like this. Back then, back when he and Louis were children, innocent and pure, it was much easier to laugh, much easier to breathe. Much easier to love–Louis’ eyes were cerulean then, unexposed to the horrors of war, and Harry found himself watching them silently, admiring the light in his eyes.
Back then, he’d thought the hardest thing he’d ever have to witness was watching Louis go out on dates with girls. Back then, he hadn’t realized how horrible the world could be.
Now, he just wishes that he could have that all back.
It was Louis who got drafted first, the letter arriving innocuously in the mailbox of their shared flat. Harry, because he couldn’t fathom a world without Louis, soon enlisted, and then.
And then. Here they are. Soldiers. Fighters. Murderers.
One of Louis’ fingers taps against the barrel of his gun as they wait quietly in the darkness to get deployed. It’s still, so still, so much that it stretches forever and ever, miles and miles. As if time isn’t moving.
Harry knows better, though.
And loving a soldier is a terrible thing, because when Louis looks up at him, his mouth in a semblance of a smile, all Harry sees is pain and sadness and violence and death, and they look as if they’ve made their home there in his eye sockets, tucked in the space beside his tear ducts and–
Harry used to be adept in chasing all of Louis’ fears away. Fluent in it, even. He’d known exactly what to do when Louis would come home with pain in his eyes, knows how to read the sadness from the set of his shoulders, the flicker of his eyelashes.
But now he can only watch helplessly, as Louis deals with it on his own, simply because he can’t anymore. Not when that same pain and sadness and violence and death is reflected in his own eyes.
The piece in his ear crackles to life, and Harry looks to the rest of his squad, makes a hand gesture. Louis, when Harry looks back, has his gun hoisted up, the perfect soldier.
Harry, in a surreal moment, feels the corners of his mouth quirk up, despite himself. “Ready to follow me into the jaws of death?” He murmurs.
Despite the darkness, Harry sees Louis smile. “Nah,” he answers, and for a second he looks like the boy from Doncaster again, with light eyes and a smile that came easy. “That little boy from Cheshire–I’m following him.”
And Harry has never been particularly religious, has never really prayed before, but war has made believers of them all. He finds himself murmuring Our Fathers and Hail Marys over and over, finds himself pleading that the boy from Doncaster makes it out of his bloodbath alive.
Please, he prays. Even if he never loves me back. Just get him out of this alive.
“On my mark, captain,” the voice in his ear says, and Harry lifts his left hand, raises three fingers. The gun sits in his right, heavy and familiar.
“Three,” he whispers.
“Two.”
“One.”