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Burning flesh. It was a smell he had gotten used to over the years. Bombs going off everywhere around you and gunfire creating sparks in the air, fluttering down to nearby grasses and setting them ablaze. He’d watched enough times to know how they started. Small embers, then campfires, bonfires, and devastation were always the last stage. Gilbert shoved a handful of gold bullets into his pistol, not 100% sure if they had even entered the gun before resetting it. He had no time to think, he had no time to do anything else other than reload and shoot. He could hear the muddy explosions and yells from his commander, screams and gunshots amidst the ringing in his ears. He hadn’t been able to hear properly in days.
“Beilschmidt!” A voice broke through the dull ringing in his ears, his head robotically whipping to the source. It was a man in dirty camouflage, his buzzed, platnium hair peeking out from behind his helmet. He was built like a semi-truck and had blue eyes that could freeze over hell. Sometimes, Gilbert wished he would freeze over this hell. It felt impossible. He missed his own little slice of heaven. Being able to shower, relax, and sleep. His own white hair dirtied easily, and his red eyes weren’t much other than an inconvenience to keep closed. They were cursed with poor sight, something he had to lie about to be accepted into the army. He hated it, shooting at blurry masses of dirt and fire.
“Sir!” He called back in acknowledgment, ducking down below the mounds of earth and sandbags so he could move with minimal resistance. He lodged his gun between his teeth, crouching down and running over to the taller man. He knew what was soon to follow. A command yelled to him over the deafening booms and bangs next to his head. He was never the type to follow orders. Gilbert much preferred to fly high and away from voices of authority.
But he’d take orders everyday over getting punished by that psychopath.
So he opted to shuffle into his belly and drag himself along the floor of the trench, dirtying his uniform with mud. He felt grenades go off above him, the shoot of shrapnel sending dirt onto his helmet and into his eyes.
“Williams is down out there!” Gilbert already knew, he had heard the sentence enough times to know. Without waiting for a command, he ran. He ran like a bat out of hell. Matthew. The name repeated in his mind like a mantra. Matthew. Matthew. Matthew. Gilbert vaulted out of the small ditch they had carved, diving into the dirt with a grunt. He had to be there. He had to save him! He could do it this time, he swore to himself. He wouldn’t fail again. He hauled his body forward on nothing but his forearms, his feet lodging into the dirt behind him for some type of grip. It did nothing. Gunfire rained over his head as he dragged himself through the dirt. It smelled of blood, leaving the taste of copper and sulfur in the back of his throat.
“Matthew!” He screamed, throat raw. It was another thing that had hardly healed over the last few weeks. There was always something to yell. Always someone to receive and yell back. Gilbert swore they fought more amongst each other than they did the enemies. Eventually, he saw him. A bundle of green and beige uniform, muddled with blood and dirt, huddled over near a ditch opening. His helmet had toppled off the bundle's crown, rolling a few feet away and lying limp on its side to reveal the subject's head. It was covered in a mess of blonde hair, the long waves knotting together and clumping with the help of dried blood. Matthew. He almost looked dead. The darkness surrounding him and the faint orange glow of forest fire around them, the falling of ash surrounding the both of them. Gilbert wasn’t sure if it was from the fire, or the souls of their fallen.
Gilbert grabbed Matthew by the back of his blood soaked uniform, dragging him into a small cover ditch and laying him down on the bed of bullet shells and mud. He looked… mutilated. His torso was littered with bullet holes, still gushing blood and staining what was left of his uniform. The rest had been burned away, charred lightly at the edges of his skin and caving down to the bone. He took a moment to breathe in, the scent of burning flesh and ash leaving a foul taste on his tongue and lingering in his throat.
Oh, and his face. Gilbert could hardly look. His skin, which was normally pale and fair, was red with foul internal juices and grey ash. Gilbert desperately looked into his eyes, only to discover that he couldn’t. He could only look at one. On his left side, where an ocean lavender eye was supposed to sit, was a sickly cave of bone and blood.
Gilbert wanted to puke.
He immediately rose to his knees, pressing the heels of his palms into areas not affected by fire, but by bullets. This elicited a choked yell of pain from Matthews throat, even just the contraction of his skin and muscles looking excruciating. But he was alive. He was alive!
“Matthew!” He yelled, trying to stop the thousand mile stare from reaching Matthews eyes. His health was deteriorating, fast.
“Matthew, come on. You gotta stay with me!” Gilbert looked around frantically for something, anything he could use to aid the boy beneath him. That's right. That's all he was. A boy. He was supposed to be at home, chopping wood in the backyard or ruffling his twin brother's hair as they fought in the yard. His glasses were supposed to reflect sunlight and hope, not shards and wiring reflecting dull firelight. He wasn’t supposed to be here. None of them were supposed to be here. So why him? Why Matthew – why would heaven make such a saint look like such a sinner? Why make him become such a sinner? Gilbert hardly felt his own tears welling in his eyes as he looked down at the mangled boy in front of him. He took a morphine shot out of his pocket and stabbed it into Mathews wrist.
“Gil…” Gilbert broke from his trance with a hitch in his breathing, looking down at Matthew. He had just spoken! He knew that voice anywhere, always reminding him of a frail little songbird, singing alone from the comfort of its nest. Frail, he realized, sounded a lot more true now.
“Gilbert, I'm cold…” He whispered voice gargled from the possible blood welling in his throat.
“I know, Matthew. I know it's cold and that you’re in a lot of pain. But you gotta stick with me!” Gilbert's voice was breathy, desperate with purpose. “Please…”
“Gil, listen.” He murmured, his beautiful eyes staring off into the stars above. He had always loved the stars, spending many nights in their barracks just explaining constellations. The stars were covered now, refusing to be seen amidst the shadowing smoke screen.
“You love me, right?” Gilbert froze, it was something they had hidden, falling for each other in such a situation. It was frowned upon, punishable by jail or death. To hear one of them finally speak of their relationship out loud, it caught him off guard.
“Matthew. Of course I do. But what’s that got to do with-” a small voice cut him off.
“Kill me.” Gilbert's blood ran cold.
“What..?” He asked, breathless with disbelief. “Kill you? Do you understand what you’re asking me to do here?” Matthew nodded in response, his breathing stuttering in obvious pain.
“Let me go.” He spoke, voice choked, but firm. “If you love me as… as much as you told me you did on July first, let me go.” Gilbert looked down at Matthew like he had two heads. Let him go..? How could he ever do that? Why would he ever do that? His beautiful, soft-spoken Matthew. His best friend, his partner, the boy he loved. Why would he ever let go of the best thing to happen to him? Matthew spoke again.
“I want to go home, Gilbert.” His voice was light, shaking with pain, and watery with tears. “Take me home. Please Gilbert. Please.” He gulped, eyes breaking from the empty stare into the stars and laying onto Gilbert's frame. “Take me home.”
The sound of gunshots and yelling faded away, the ground melting beneath them and the smell of fire disappearing. Matthew. The name repeated in his head like a mantra. Matthew. Matthew. Matthew. Matthew was in pain. The burns were so severe and the bullets had gone through major organs. He was forcing himself to stay alive. To keep his eyes open for Gilbert's sake. Why? Because he loved him, just as he had loved Matthew. Gilbert's hands were shaking as he looked down into Matthew's eyes, brimming with tears and withheld pain. They had begun to cloud over. He reached down into the dirt, picking up his discarded gun. It was loaded. He lifted a leg to rest over Matthew's hips, allowing him to lean down into Matthew.
He pressed his nose into Matthew's healthy shoulder, breathing in deeply. He couldn’t smell the blood and sulfur anymore, only him. His cologne, his sweat. Only Mathew. HIs tears finally fell against Matthews' skin, suddenly aware of the dog tags around his neck. They were warm, having been pressed against the boy he loved for so long. He hooked his arms under his armpits, one gripping his shoulder like a lifeline as he pressed the gun against Matthew's head with the other. Matthew leaned his head up onto his shoulder, resting his chin against the collarbone. A faint, tender voice broke the silence between them. It was quiet, strained from obvious effort. Gilbert's finger pressed down against the resistance of the trigger.
“I love you, Gilbert.”
BANG!
Gilbert shot up in bed, hand clutching the white cotton of his pajamas. His skin was sticky with freezing sweat, his heart pounding against his ribcage and out into his hands. Hands. He looked down at his hands, now wrinkled with age. Various moles and dots had appeared on the sagging skin, marking it like rings in a tree. It had been 77 years now. 77 years of war, victory, recovering, and living. Living like there was no longer anything to worry about. He was free from the burden of war. But something was missing. Someone.
Matthew.
Gilbert looked over to the slight glint on his lamp. There, silver was glowing with the little moonlight being filtered by the curtains. The moon was with the stars. Matthew loved stars. Is he up there with them, I wonder?
He sighed and reached over with great, lumbering effort to pull the small chain on his lamp. He squinted a bit when his eyes were suddenly attacked by a faint, warm glow. Like the fire. Gilbert reached to the top of the lamp, plucking off a small string of chain with two tags on the loop of it. Gilbert's finger ran over the slightly worn metal. His already poor eyesight withered further with age, but he didn’t need strong sight to know what was imprinted in the metal. He memorized it long ago.
Williams F.
Matthew
4057591730
Xxx Steeles Ave. E