Work Text:
Dear Hoosier,
The words on the otherwise blank page glared at him. Dark against an otherwise crisp, white page, seeming almost foreign after the time he had spent staring at them. Unable to tear his eyes away, pencil still clutched in his hand where he sat. Wheelchair parked by a window, table before him, hot air wafting in from outside. The smells of the island almost strong enough to make him believe he was back in the field. Leaning against a palm tree, sun burning his skin as he tried to keep his eyes focused on a page similar to that which rested before him.
He had spent the war in a lie, and it hadn't been until Peleliu that everything had shattered. His lie had blown away with the falling mortars, and he hadn't been able to keep it up. Not after clawing at another man's leg in panic. Blood staining his hands as words fell from his lips, trying to keep the other man with him. The fear he had felt of losing those close to him hitting him like a brick wall and making him realise all the time he had wasted. All those months of denying that his heart had always known, suddenly crashing down on him as he had watched Hoosier's pained expression.
That moment had stayed with him, even after he had been taken off Peleliu and sent away. Supposed to heal while unaware of the fate of those he had cared for. The letters had become a distraction, just like they had been during his time fighting. Writing letter after letter that he would never send, hiding them in books and drawers to try and forget they existed.
I hope you are well. Here it's warm as always, but no one else seems to mind. They don't seem to realise what heat can do to a man at war, when water is scarce and the jungle thick. Perhaps because here they can hide in barracks and hospital rooms when the sun gets too hot, and water isn't the only beverage available.
His own words on the page felt stiff. Strange. Written in the same tone his letters to his mother had, where he had tried to keep away from the honest truth. He shouldn't have to do that with Hoosier, not when the man had experienced so much with him. He knew what the war was like, but yet Leckie was reluctant to put any of his experiences down on the page. He had always avoided that in anything he had written, and anything that had even come close to describing the scenes that replayed in his dreams night after night, had always been destroyed. Ink or pencil smudged by a spilled glass of water, or paper torn in a strange fit of rage. Each moment of destruction leaving him hollow, eyes stuck on what had once been a whole page meant for a man he doubted he would ever see again.
So he had stayed with general, describing hospital life and how much Pavuvu had changed since they had last set foot on the island. The smell of rotting coconuts was still as heavy in the air as it had been then, but the rows of neat tents had been changed into what Banika had been back then. A place for men to rest and heal while grasping at any news they could get about the war growing more and more distant.
Peleliu had been a bloodbath, spanning months of fighting in muddy hills. The original promise of a four day battle had turned into a lie, and while their losses had been nowhere near what the enemy had had, it had still been worse than it had been supposed to be. But Leckie hadn't been surprised. The officers had always lied until the truth had become too obvious to hide, and he doubted they would end the lies until there was nothing left to lie about. Or until they were all dead, murdered by the lies that kept good men fighting.
Fingers tightened their grip on the pencil as he realised that the thoughts had manifested into words. Sprawled in his own handwriting at the bottom of the page, staring back at him as he shook his head. Trying to disperse the memories flooding back in as he tore the page in half. Lessening the space he had to fill, but still keeping the original half there to finish. Almost feeling guilty for getting distracted, when he also knew Hoosier would never read what he had written. The thought of sending something that might just be returned to him unread was too much for him to bear.
Wherever you are, I hope that you are well, and that it is not as hot as Pavuvu. I would have given anything to enjoy a cool breeze somewhere that is not as unbearable as here. Perhaps one day I will be able to, if I ever get out of here.
There were times where he doubted he would ever leave the islands he had been sent to fight on so long ago. It had been years since he had last seen what he had once called home, and with the passing of time it almost felt as if he would never be allowed to return. Despite his injuries from Peleliu, he was still expecting to be called in to fight again, never expecting to be safe as long as the war still raged.
Iwo Jima had come and gone, the slaughter there having been spoken of in hushed voices by the doctors and nurses. It had been a subject that had been mentioned with pride, but for any man in the hospital that had known enough about war had all been able to guess what the fight must have been like. Harsh and bloody, with countless losses that horrified even the sturdiest of veterans.
Iwo Jima had also brought the death of John Basilone. A man that Leckie had never known personally, but that he had seen and heard enough of through the years to wonder what had made him so great. His deeds had all been commercialised to sell the war to the people back home, but to Leckie nothing about it had felt heroic. Not when he knew of men that had done much the same during the years spent on rotting islands. In the war they were fighting, all men had done something that was worth praising, but only a handful received the recognition they deserved.
Sometimes I envy Basilone. He got to say goodbye before he went, got to see his home and experience an adoring crowd that did not find your war crimes revolting. I doubt any man without a Medal of Honor will ever experience anything like it in this life. The nurses here have all made me convinced of that. Anyone speaking of what they saw out there are always met with a strange kind of disgust. They try not to show it, but anyone with their skull intact is able to see that the disgust is there. Hiding behind a faked smile and calming words. Showing in how their hands slightly shake as they refill a glass of water or fluff a pillow. Suddenly vary of the crippled men they care for, as if they will turn into violent monsters at any second. I hope, wherever you are, that things are better than that. That you are getting what you deserve.
He paused, brow knitted and pencil falling from his fingers as he instead reached for a cigarette. Not trusting his fingers to stay steady with the emotions rising within him. The paragraph had contained more honesty than anything else he had written in a long time, and it had caught him off guard. While the letters had just been stored away, never to be sent to or read by anyone, he had still been vary of putting too much of what was running through his mind into them. Even though they had become therapeutic, helping him somewhat heal, he was still paranoid someone would one day read their contents and judge him for what he had done during the war.
There was still an uncertainty when it came to what would happen to the letters if he was ever returned home. They were nothing he could bring home, and they were also nothing that he could leave behind. Destruction seemed to be the most fitting end, even though the thought of it caused a slight twinge of regret.
I know you will never read this, but I still want you to know I wish you the best life possible. I doubt there will be a future where both of us return home alive, but if that happens to be the case, I am promising you here and now that I will find you. No matter what it takes. Because I have been living in a lie for too long, and it is enough now. I will find you, Bill.
Yours,
Robert
Another sealed letter soon joined a pile of others, unknown to the man who had been writing them that it would be one of the last written on a Pacific island. They would never see America with him, and with time they were almost all forgotten...
December 22nd, 1947
Hoosier had never thought, even in his wildest dreams, that a world without war would have contained Robert Leckie. In his mind, Leckie had always been that person that would slip between his fingers. The one he would mourn the loss of as if the other had died, but one that he would be able to forget with time. Leckie was the man who had a girl back home, who had been supposed to return home to marry and have children. Slowly fading out of Hoosier's life as the years passed. Forgetting his time in the Marines as soon as he was back on home soil, and instead preferring to look forward towards that white picket fence future.
Instead, Leckie had shown up out of nowhere at the end of the war. Catching him off guard and changing whatever future he had had planned for himself. It had all been beyond even his wildest of dreams, and there were still times where he expected Leckie to change his mind. To one day just pack up his typewriter and disappear back to New Jersey. Leaving Hoosier behind for a future with more promising prospects. It hadn't happened yet, but it was still something that sometimes made an appearance in the back of his mind. Especially during the times where the memories from the war came a little too close.
It hadn't happened yet, and Hoosier was thankful for it. Especially thankful as he watched Leckie carefully placing a new record down on the record player. Always treating the thin disks as if they were made of glass, reluctant to even get a single a fingerprint on the dark surface. He would tease Leckie for it, but it was also something he enjoyed watching, knowing it was something that was taking place in an apartment they called their home. A shared space that was all theirs, and that no one would be able to take away from them.
“Hoose?” A voice cut off through his thoughts, forcing his eyes from Leckie across the room to Runner before him. An amused look on the other man's face that made Hoosier take an embarrassed swig from the bottle of beer in his hand. A terrible brand, brought along by Chuckler with the promise that it was the best beer in the country. A claim that Hoosier had already protested multiple times.
“What was that?” Eyes shifted properly to Runner's, eyebrow raising as he tried to put himself back into the moment. Keeping his mind from wandering by focusing on the conversation at hand. “Didn't really catch ya.”
“I said, did Leckie ever give you those letters?” Runner's smile was almost mischievous, showing that it was a topic he had been waiting to bring up. Knowing it was something that would catch Hoosier's attention.
“Wha' letters?” The confusion in his voice was genuine, eyes momentarily diverting to Leckie again as soft jazz tunes started to fill the room. Suddenly almost fearful about Runner's reply.
“The son of a bitch...” Runner paused, smile faltering slightly as he leaned a little closer. Hand coming to rest on Hoosier's shoulder to keep his attention. “He was writin' letters for you for months back on Pavuvu. Hell, he probably was before that too. Had a good collection by the time they sent us back home. I thought he brought them back for you, but it seems like he didn't. Can't believe he didn't at least tell you.” The other man shook his head, eyes shifting across the room to Leckie as well, before moving to Chuckler. “Chuckler and I've been bettin' on what your reaction was to him tellin' you. Seems neither of us are winnin' that bet, huh?”
It took Hoosier a moment before he could respond, eyes following the other man's, catching Leckie's from across the room before he looked away. Momentarily tempted to demand answers in the moment, but quickly fighting that feeling back down. Well aware it wasn't the time, and that there would be time to ask. Even though confusion and fear was quick to make their way into his mind.
“He never told me, no. Thought the only letters he was writing was to his family and Vera.” He shrugged, taking another swig of beer before forcing a smile. Trying his best to disperse of his doubts before Leckie's call to meal came. Knowing answers would come, with time.
–
“Why did ya never tell me about the letters?” The question had been on the tip of his tongue since the moment the door had closed behind Chuckler and Runner. It had been in the back of his mind during the entire night, nudging at him whenever he met Leckie's gaze, but he had waited. Knowing it was nothing he wanted to bring up in front of others. Not when the fear of what Leckie would say was growing stronger the longer time passed.
His fingers were now in the other man's hair, gripping at soft curls as the other man's arm was wrapped around his waist. His question making Leckie's lips pause inches from his own, making Hoosier momentarily regret his words. Knowing he couldn't close that distance until Leckie allowed him to.
“Because...” Leckie's words were soft, careful, as his thumb brushed over Hoosier's hip. Trying his best to keep his breathing steady as he tried to find the right words. Momentarily cursing himself for ever letting Runner know of the recipient of his letters. “Because I was ashamed. What I wrote in those letters was nothing you should ever have to read. It was the words of a man that had spent a war in a lie, and who was only just realising what he wanted if he survived.” He paused, eyes falling as his brow furrowed. A deep breath dragging into his lungs as he tried to keep his voice as steady as his breathing. “I didn't think I would ever survive, though. Or that I would see you again. We didn't know what had happened to you, and I was using those letters as a way of keeping you alive. Because I didn't want to accept that you might have been dead.”
“I'm not dead, though, am I?” A smile curled onto Hoosier's lips, fingers tightening their grip on the other man's hair as he sought out those blue eyes he loved. The same eyes that had taken his breath away the first time he had seen them, all those years ago. “So how 'bout ya tell me those sweet words of yours? 'Cause I want to know what you wrote, no matter how bad it is.”
Leckie couldn't help but release a relieved breath, despite the shame over how much time he had wasted worrying about Hoosier's reaction. Knowing he could have told him months ago, had he known his reaction wouldn't be violent.
“I suppose I could do that. But you will have to promise me you won't laugh. It is not my best writing. “
“I don't believe that for a second. Ya wouldn't have written to me if it had been bad.” Hoosier's smile turned smug as he inched a little closer. Free hand moving to rest against Leckie's bare chest. “Besides, even if it is bad, it'll be a good bedtime story. Will get me to sleep quickly, so that I don't have to suffer your snorrin'.”
“I don't snore. You know that.” A smile made its way to Leckie's lips as he leaned a little closer. Breath hot against Hoosier's lips as he started to speak. Sealing each sentence with a gentle, slow kiss that was almost enough to take Hoosier's breath away, if the words wasn't doing that already. “Dear Hoosier… I love you.”