Archive of Our Own

"You come here too often for it to not be suspicious.”

He was dressed in clean, white, sterile bandages.

Swaths of them were painfully wrapped around his wrist, his waist and his chest, which became necessary after a bomb turned out to contain not gas, but shrapnel instead.

According to the medic tending to him now, he was lucky to survive.

"I can afford to come. You cannot afford to leave.”

The medic frowned.

"Don't put words in my mouth. Every single time, you end up coming here instead of visiting the entrance's med bay."

Despite the pain that pulsed through him at any form of movement, Daisuke couldn't resist the urge to sit upright, to look and to retort, prompting Haru to rest a hand on his back, to support him.

His hand was warm, surprising, especially during this cold winter while in the camp. He might be the warmest person in this tent, even.

"The medicine tents tend to be overcrowded with burly, bloodied men. Here, I can be free of that."

Haru scoffed.

"That's selfish of you. The only people we deal with are dead or dying."

"Is it so selfish of me to want to talk to you?"

A pause.

"Yes. It is."

"Do you hate it?"

Another pause, one that settled into the deft hands that had determinedly disinfected the open gash on Daisuke's forehead mere moments ago.

They stilled, lowered, then reached for more bandages.

The pause lengthened to a settled silence as the disinfectant's scent stung at his eyes.

The tent was quiet.

It was quiet, empty of bodies, all of whom were people who were eventually sent home, the living or the dead.

There were plenty who never made it here and plenty who could not return home, lying on the battlefield as cold, brittle bodies.

Another stretcher entered the room, a few words exchanged with the soldiers who had supported the stretcher, discussing the patient's condition.

He was breathing, Daisuke noted.

Perhaps breathing was not the right word.

They were small, desperate gasps, not unlike newborn thrushes born in the crisp spring, though unlike inquisitive chicks, this boy's chances of living were, even to his untrained eyes, slim.

Haru had averted his eyes from the boy, who seemed barely older than 15.

Yet another impulsive teenager who had lied about his age.

Daisuke looked at the boy. He had to, for no one else would.

His eyes were tightly shut, with thinly veiled tears embellishing his eyelashes trailing down the sides of reddened cheeks and towards his ears. Judging by the sweat beading on his forehead, it was clear that he was in pain despite his unconscious state.

He was muddied, dirty with blood, gunpowder and whatever it was that had caused that deep, festering wound in his abdomen made it all the more a wrenching scene.

It came to Daisuke, that perhaps Haru had looked away out of respect to this boy's honour, or of guilt. He tended to feel guilty about every life he could not save, though that was not of his fault.

"It's depressing."

Daisuke flicked his eyes towards the sound of Haru's voice.

He had started moving again, grabbing what he could to lower the reddening of the boy's cheeks. He likely had a fever. He likely had an infection.

But, Daisuke focussed on Haru.

He wanted to listen.

"We medics are the only people they have now, especially here, where they're waiting to die."

...They've been running low on clean equipment, Daisuke realised quietly.

Supplies were low, hindered because of attacks on the railways that brought the majority of the provisions and medical supplies.

"We have to look at them because no one else can,"

Low on antiseptics.

"To listen to these soldiers when they're in pain,"

Low on anaesthesia.

"Because no one else has the chance to hold their hands,"

He turned his head towards Daisuke.

"But there's nothing else we can do for them to make it any less painful."

Emotion lined Haru's face that pinched the edges of his eyes into a hardened, frustrated, understanding and pressed his lips together in a steely, bittersweet sadness.

"We can't save them."

Daisuke understood that look. He had seen it before, and at its core held a desire for the safety, for the justice and for the peace that he too, wished for.

"Do you know who they call to?"

He knew. Everyone here, commander, soldier and medic alike have watched people die, struggling. The best deaths were quick deaths.

"They don't ask politely. They scream and they call and they cry until their voices run dry. They beg for their mothers, their parents, for anyone to help them, to save them, to hold them down before they get dragged to heaven, or hell, or wherever people go to now that the church has been long-proven to be a hoax ."

Haru set his eyes on the floor. The boy soldier's fever had broken, while he was being moved into the cot beside Daisuke's. 

That was good, though the fever would most likely reemerge in intensity once more.

"They weep until they have no energy left to weep. They pray until they have nothing to pray for. And in the end, despite how hard they fight, they all die quietly."

Haru dipped his head down, cupping his face in his hands.

Daisuke couldn't concentrate on Haru's words.

He mentally apologised to Haru, while watching him, tracing the outline of his neck with his eyes.

It was as pinkened, as vulnerable and exposed as the day they met, sitting across each other in stiff, wooden benches in a cold, dry chapel on the eve of Christmas, the background around them full of noise.

It had caught his eye, what, with the lack of a scarf wrung around that stranger's neck, who wore the same thin coat he was now pulling over the boy in place of a blanket.

They were low on that small warmth, too.

"Even the enemy soldiers. Sometimes they come in here screaming, caught up between their and our guns."

He had grown curious about Haru, when, in the middle of the celebrations of the birth of Christ, he had stomped up, reprimanded the priest for preaching xenophobia and promptly strode out without a care in the world.

Daisuke later sought him out, while he was cleaning snow off a grave.

The conversation from then degraded with Daisuke's...tactlessness, and ended with him heading home, sporting a purpling bruise on his cheek while Haru was beside him, begrudgingly making sure that Daisuke got to safety without being mugged.

From then on, the friendship developed naturally, with less physical fighting and more verbal bantering instead.

He felt a little guilty, for not paying attention to the majority of Haru's words.

As calming as his voice was, Haru tended to repeat the same topics if he were to speak for too long. Daisuke blamed the shape of Haru's neck for looking too appealing.

"They say it's for our country, our homes, our honour, that this is the only way to get justice for what happened."

It was chillier than it was in the chapel, out here in the middle of strange, desolate lands. If Daisuke paid close enough attention, he could see faint puffs of air coming from Haru's mouth, his cheeks reddened, breath warmed by his lungs.

Perhaps it was his imagination, that everything seemed a little warmer.

Perhaps it was the shrapnel, some bits that, in the doctors and nurses' haste, might've been left behind and was poisoning his blood, bit by bit, cell by cell.

"Be careful, Haru." The man in question glared at Daisuke. "Medics may be invaluable in this war, but our commanding officers won't tolerate your words."

Haru grunted, handing Daisuke a cold bowl of soup.

Standard issue, the can of rations tasted terrible but was worth eating, if only to take the edge off of the hunger.

If you were sick in the mind, there was no need for the stomach to be involved. Evidently enough, their world had a...few issues that needed to be addressed before the progression of human governing was possible.

"They can shoot me. I'm tired of seeing everyone–seeing you come back here more and more. At this rate, you'll never leave this place without dying."

Daisuke very much did not want anyone to be shot, Haru specifically. 

He had to distract Haru from this line of thought, if he wished to keep anyone from hearing of this possible rebellion.

"We're fighting for our country. If we don't do this, then what will happen to all of us? To you, to me, and the for rest of your loved ones?"

He didn't mention Suzue. They didn't need to.

She would survive, no matter what.

She was strong, in the way that made you respect her as much as any man.

Daisuke had witnessed her quiet courageous strength more than enough times, as Suzue was once targeted by a serial killer, that of which she chased off when brandishing the bread knife she had hidden inside her purse.

Out of everybody, he was certain that Suzue would stay herself, and she would die as dignified as she was today.

It was this calm courage that made her invaluable on the front lines, tending to the foot soldiers who needed reassuring.

She kept her composure, spoke with ease to the men and her approachable nature made the men place their trust in her hands as easily as it was for cats to climb trees.

"Even so, this isn't justice. This isn't the honour these children signed up for. This isn't what you signed up for."

A regretful noise escaped from Haru's mouth.

"You don't have to tell me that, Daisuke."

Haru reached out, cupping his hands in a pseudo hand embrace.

His hands were warm, when grasping Daisuke's hands, that of which were in quite a state.

Broken fingernails, little scars, sliced here and there, forever covered with a coat of gunpowder. His hands used to be slender and long, as a result of his artistically inclined background.

He wondered when they had changed.

The pre-war Daisuke would be embarrassed about their positions, holding hands in the middle of a war in front of a wounded boy.

But Haru was Haru, and the mid-war Daisuke couldn't care any less if anyone saw.

They needed what comfort they could get.

"These hands aren't for shooting. They're for creating paintings, texts and the black magic that is your penchant for music and your thinly veiled love for it.”

Haru scoffed.

"Now look at me. All I'm doing is patching you up, enough for you to go back into that hellhole again, only for you to get hurt again, and again you come back, and it'll never end. We're torturing you all, I'm torturing you."

"Haru, look at yourself.”

Daisuke grasped Haru’s hands, to get a better position, gripping them firmly yet cautiously. In this regard, their hands were different.

Haru’s hands were bigger, covered in small, blackened scars, injuries caused by the presence of coal dust and oil in the environment that he grew up in.

They were from vastly differing families, with Daisuke’s education as a to-be scholar contrasting greatly with his counterpart’s middle-class, standard schooling.

Being middle-class meant that his family could afford basic necessities, but luxurious items that Daisuke frequently encountered during his childhood such as silk, or exotic sweets were a rarity that Haru had never had the chance to see, let alone touch, before Daisuke tamed him into the friendship they had now.

"You have a talent for creation, too." Daisuke acknowledged.

The positive things about Haru's middle-class upbringing meant that he had learnt small, mundane ways to make life easier for everyone in their town.

"The children love your toys. The grandfathers appreciate your eye for intricate details that they fight for you to fix their watches. The grandmothers enjoy your company as you stitch away at a quilt, and their daughters, our men’s wives, they appreciate your culinary handiwork when it comes to decorating the sugar cookies that you’re so famous for.“

Reminded of the sugar cookies, Haru seemed  reluctantly amused.

“You flatterer. You’re just hoping for the first batch I’ll make when we get home again.”

Daisuke failed to hide a smile behind his hand.

The brightening glint in his eyes told Daisuke that he had been forgiven, as Haru had likely noticed his absentmindedness during his earlier emotional outburst.

Why he did not comment on it, Daisuke did not know.

“When will you accept my proposal?”

Haru pondered for a moment.

Daisuke had first asked him the question, albeit worded differently, back when they were still unfamiliar with each other’s sense of humour.

Haru had immediately gone to the first conclusion in mind, and blushed quite spectacularity at the proposal, before realising that Daisuke was being his typical smug self.

“As your personal chef? Hah!”

It was disappointing. He had not misunderstood this time.

Staying close to Haru, dense as he is, meant that eventually, he would figure out the which meaning that Daisuke truly meant.

It seemed, though, that it would take a little more time to push Haru into understanding what he truly desired.

Daisuke was fine with that.

He had patience and they had time.

Haru kept laughing.

“Never in a hundred years!”

Noticeably far more relaxed now than he was a few moments ago, Haru leaned back and grimaced at the aftertaste of the oily soup.

“This is some bastardly soup. I’ll bet it kills us internally faster than the enemy soldier’s guns.”

Daisuke found it difficult to disagree. The soup was indeed bastardly.

“I miss our home, now that I’m thinking of it. You’re making me miss home even more now, you rotten swindler.“

He didn't correct him, letting Haru complain, and did not feel the need to fuel the conversation.

This was Daisuke's happiness, his place to feel somewhat safe, amongst the zone of war.

Eventually, Haru ran out of things to complain about.

Perhaps more accurately, he ran out of new things to complain about, and decided to go over his old topics once more.

"Hey."

Haru looked up from his soup, mid-sentence during a rant about the negatives of communism and capitalists.

Specifically communism as a whole and capitalists as individuals.

Haru had strange priorities.

"When this is all over, let's go somewhere." Daisuke offered.

Haru hummed in response.

"Isn't being home enough of a reward?"

Daisuke tilted his head in thought, absently gazing at his long abaonded soup on the rickety bedside table.

"The town will get boring eventually"

"I mean. You're not wrong."

"So will we?"

Haru glanced at the fifteen year-old.

He was worried about the boy, something that brought about a creasing in his brow, the turning of his lips, something that the things about Haru that Daisuke picked up on were reacting to.

Daisuke swallowed that dangerous and strangely cobbled together thought down.

The boy's breathing was even, at least.

"Sure, why not. Where?"

And therein lies the issue.

"I was hoping that you would provide the ideas."

Haru hummed in response.

"Then...let's  start small. Somewhere we know."

Somewhere that the two of them both knew, but did not know intimately...

"How about the crossroads on the cliffs, the one beyond the walls?" Suggested Daisuke

"The one that makes no sense? How it points out to sea? That one?"

"Yes, that one. Are there any other crossroads that point to the ocean that I don't know about?"

"No, no, I was just making sure but," Haru grinned cunningly, in that irritatingly cheeky way that he knew frustrated Daisuke. "I didn't know that you wanted directions to the sea!"

Deciding to not continue squabbling like children in front of the heavily wounded child soldier, Daisuke dropped his rebuttal, settling his face into what he hoped was a steady, optimistic determination.

Seeing his change in expression, Haru followed along, dropping his grin a few tics towards a melancholic smile.

Daisuke once again felt infinitely grateful that the lord had blessed Haru with the perfect level of denseness coupled with a reasonable awareness of his peers.

He understood when to drop an issue, and that was what led Daisuke to end up cherishing their friendship beyond all else.

"It's a promise." He stated.

"It's a promise." Haru echoed.

Daisuke will tell him then.

Of what he couldn't deny no longer.

Of his...fondness for the man in front of him.

If he didn’t make it to then, or even to tomorrow, at least the knowledge of Daisuke's confession wouldn't pain Haru as much.

But, he knew that he couldn't stay.

Daisuke got up, to move to the medical bay nearest to the entrance.

There would be a flood of bodies for Haru to work with, and he knew that Haru didn’t quite enjoy his presence around him whilst he was busy.

Though, that was not the truth. Unbeknownst to him, Haru felt embarrassed to have someone else, someone awake, someone who'd speak, seeing the two of them together.

Daisuke turned, to say something, at least.

“Goodbye.”

Haru smiled, a wobbly, unsure yet endearing grin.

“Bye.”

Later that evening, the camp was destroyed.

After a few more weeks, the war had ended.

Daisuke and Suzue returned home.

They were the only ones from their town who did.

Suzue woke to an empty house.

If she had lived alone, this occurrence would be unusual.

However, she lived with her brother, who had a habit of waking early in order to have a morning run, before the sun had even risen.

But…at this time of the day, he could be found in the kitchen.

She stepped out of bed, and went looking for Daisuke.

Suzue was worried for him.

Ever since they had returned from the war, she could see that Haru’s absence had affected him greatly.

He was curt, distant and colder than the seawater in a Norwegian winter, but had still made the effort to greet everyone in their town, albeit more chillier than usual.

She was worried, that he felt guilt at Haru’s death, that maybe he blamed himself, that he should’ve fought harder, that something could’ve been different to lead them all towards a happier outcome.

It wasn’t his fault.

It was with this anxiety churning in her stomach that Suzue studied Daisuke’s room, cold and empty of her brother’s presence.

Indeed, it was the kitchen in which her brother could be located.

She turned towards the kitchen, when something caught her eye.

On his desk, was a letter.

Daisuke stopped writing letters, after Suzue discovered that the majority of the crumpled up papers were addressed to Haru. She had refused to let him seep into his sadness like a soppy teabag any longer, and dragged him to speak with Haru’s family.

They had returned home, later that day, sporting the last cookies that Haru had ever made.

Haru's family had saved it, when they realised that he was never coming home again, but with the distinct Katou kindness that Haru had so desperately tried to hide, they had passed it to the siblings.

It was a gift beyond precious, beyond gold, silver, diamonds and the like, and this generosity that Haru’s family had shown the siblings made their hearts ache.

That night, after most of the servants had gone to bed, Suzue left her own room to make sure that her brother was fine.

He was clenching the cookies with whitening knuckles, with enough force for a few to crumble.

Daisuke still had them, a week after that, hidden away in the wooden box deep in the closet, where he used to oh-so-cleverly stash the chocolate away from her prying hands.

Suzue worried over that, that devotion to, to everything that had happened.

She had heard stories, of soldiers killing themselves out of guilt, out of fear, out of a simple desire to cease their existence and Suzue’ll be damned if she left Daisuke like that.

Comfort was what the younger sibling wanted to provide, but she was ill-prepared to face him.

Desperate war had made her experience terrible, awful things that she never dreamed possible for humans to inflict on one another, but Daisuke was in the front lines.

No doubt he had witnessed more horrendous scenes than she had.

After peeking through his bedroom door that had been left ajar, she had quickly gone back to her room.

Suzue had never seen Daisuke sob like that before.

She approached the letter.

It was of a decent quality paper, not the rough ones that were typically used for letters. Daisuke must've ordered this from the city, if that were the case.

The ink was familiar.

It was the dark, silky ink that dried to a surprisingly bright navy, that Suzue had purchased for Daisuke's birthday last year.

The celebration that year was a little different, with the then-distant Kambes having to accomodate the new influx of friends that they had somehow gathered through the help of Haru's natural charisma with everyone in the town.

Suzue surveyed the letter, carefully  written in her brother’s hand.

 

To Suzue.

 

I'm sor

 

I suspect that Haru is not dead.

He has been written down as MIA.

 

After the camp was bombed, you were busy treating the wounded, so I went to look for him, for a body, for confirmation, or at least have knowledge of his fate.

I couldn’t find his body. I dug under a pile of c

There were others, but there was not one that resembled his.

Naturally, that meant that he wasn't dead.

Why he would have left, I do not know. Was he captured? Was he tortu?

Would he be wishing for his own death, too?

This lack of knowing his condition has, as you've likely witnessed, has led to one too many sleepless nights.

Clutching this hope to my chest, I believe that he is not dead. I hope he

I have to find him.

I must find him, and I want you to know that this isn’t your fault. Please do not blame yourself.

This is something I have to do, simply because I miss him.

It feels strange to say it, after all this time of guilty muteness.

I

Evidently, Haru has become someone very important to me, something which I had never expected if I had been gauging his and mine's relationship based upon  the day we had first met.

I miss him more than I thought I woul

It's strange, to wish for him to be here. 

If it were the other way round, I'm sure that I would not be missed at all. We would miss you, had it been you who had disappeared.

I wonder, had our positions been reversed, if he would stay with you in my absence?

Haru would never leave you like this, not alone, at the very least, and I apologise, as I have shown time and time again to be a terrible brother to you.

I'm sorry

I apologise.

Yo

You'll hear back from us when I find him again.

 

Regards, Daisuke.

 

Suzue lowered the letter back onto the desk

He wouldn’t return.