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The sky was filled with smoke and fire, dust and ash, and for a moment Chuckler is sure he can’t breathe. That the reflex that has been there since birth has abandoned him and left him to his fate. To die on a hill on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that no one back in Illinois has ever heard of.
He can already imagine the letter reaching his mother’s hands as he lays there, blinking tears from his stinging eyes, trying to drag breaths into his lungs and clear ash from his vision. Trying his best to once more imagine his mother’s face, the tears she would shed for him and how she would curse him for wanting to be brave. Her face is blurry, her voice inaudible, and as the pain swells through his body, he lets her drift away. Allowing a pained grunt to leave his lips as he once more attempts to move, to get up and back to the battle that is still raging around him. Despite its closeness, the sounds are distant, muffled as if there is cotton in his ears and he frowns. Moves, fights against the pain keeping him on the ground, and allows a scream to escape. His leg refusing to cooperate, blood coating his hands as he tries to lift it, move it, to use it to get up. Frustration and fear mixing in a painful cocktail that makes him scream again, louder this time. His voice hoarse, dry, his lungs gasping for air that is barely air anymore. It’s ash and dust, fire and smoke, and it’s burning him from the inside, leaving him retching and coughing. Certain he is choking and that he will die in that moment. Without even knowing where he is, or what happened to those he cared for.
“Lew.”
A voice breaks through his panicking thoughts as the burning feeling spreads, flames dancing before his eyes until he is certain his very being is ablaze.
“Lew!”
The voice is stronger the second time, and Chuckler blinks. Tries to clear his eyes and understand what is happening, why the voice is not as muffled as the battle around him. Certain the sounds of exploding mortars and bullets whistling through the air should be drowning out anything else.
“Fuck, Lewis, wake up!”
Suddenly the voice is even clearer, and Chuckler blinks once more, suddenly meeting Runner’s eyes through the smoke. Momentarily confused as he tries to place the other man’s face in the right scene, certain that Runner wasn’t there in the hills of Peleliu with him. That he had been alone, certain everyone else were dead and that someone had just refused to tell him.
“Wilbur?” The other man grimaces at the name, and it’s enough to tell Chuckler he’s right. That the man before him isn’t just a figment of his imagination in a hopeless moment. That he is there.
Cool hands on his clammy face confirms it a second later.
“I’m here, Lew, you’re safe.” The word safe breaks the spell and send the scene crashing down around them, suddenly putting him back in a dim bedroom that he is slowly starting to recognise as he blinks again, finally succeeding in clearing his eyes from tears. “It’s okay, it was just a dream.” The flash of a lighter lights the space between them as Runner lights a cigarette and offers it to him, allowing Chuckler to draw a few deep drags before he speaks again. “It was Peleliu, wasn’t it?” Runner knows what Chuckler’s nightmares contains, knows what haunts him just like Chuckler knows what haunts Runner, and Chuckler is thankful for it. It gives him the option to just nod and not say anything else, aware that Runner won’t press the subject any further.
When they were first reunited in San Diego all those years ago, Chuckler had never thought anyone else would understand. The pain, the hurt, the panic and fear that clung to him was something he had been so certain he was alone with, and that there was something wrong with him for being unable to shake his experiences. The man who had been named Chuckler for his bright demeanour and wide smile had been gone, and he had had no idea of how to return to that version of himself. Back then, he had been certain he would stay the man the war had made him, forever haunted by his experiences and the hole the mortar had torn in his thigh.
But then Runner had appeared.
Chuckler could still remember it, clear as day. How he had been transported to a new ward and left on his own to settle in a corner. Left to stare at the ceiling as the hours passed, unable to do even the barely minimum on his own up until that point.
But then he had heard Runner’s voice. Ringing out across the room, carrying with it his laughter that Chuckler had been so certain he would never hear again. No one had told him what had happened to his friends after Peleliu, and he had long since convinced himself that he had been the only one left alive. So, Runner’s voice had come as a surprise, jolting him awake from a slumber that he had not even realised he had been in.
He had sat up, ignoring the pain tearing through his leg as he tried to move. Forgetting to use his voice to call out as he instead rolled out of bed, completely missing the wheelchair left for him, as he started crawling across the floor. One leg trailing uselessly behind him, while the other tried its best to support his weight as he pulled himself up using another patient’s bedframe. Ignoring the other man’s confusion as he started moving towards the voice echoing towards him, determined to reach it even if it meant losing everything else.
He had been crashing through the ward, surprising both nurses and visitors, while the wounded cheered him on, somehow believing it a spectacle for them to enjoy. But to him, it had been a life and death situation, where he had been certain that if he didn’t reach Runner’s voice, it would disappear again and leave him alone.
Runner’s face as he crashed through a screen and collapsed against a nurse’s cart was one Chuckler would never forget. He had been on the floor as he came to his senses, suddenly realising what he had done and what it meant, while staring up at Runner. Certain he had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life, unable to take his eyes off the other man, even as nurses came and tried to get him back to his bed.
“You make quite the entrance, Chuck. But fuck, am I glad you do.” Runner’s smile had been everything Chuckler needed to smile for the first time in months. Knowing he would never want to stop as long as Runner was there with him.
Once again, Runner was now bringing him back from the horrors of war, settling him back in the real world and reminding him of where they were now. In a small apartment in Chicago, with the war two years in the past.
“I’m sorry, Bud, I’m sorry.” The apology flew across his lips even before he could stop it, and he couldn’t help but smile as another grimace crossed Runner’s face. He had long since told Chuckler to stop apologising for things he had no control over, but Chuckler doubted he would ever lose the habit.
“Don-“Runner attempted to speak, but Chuckler quieted him with a kiss, pressing close as he wrapped an arm around the other man’s smaller frame. Savouring the feeling as his heartbeat started to slow and his lungs drag calmer breaths.
“Don’t apologise, I know.” Relaxing back against the headboard, Chuckler pulled Runner with him, refusing to let go even as the smaller man tried to move away. Wanting nothing more than to keep Runner close, to help keep him grounded, if so only for a moment longer. “It’s a habit you won’t be able to beat out of me, Bud.” Chuckler only grinned as Runner shook his head and snatched the cigarette from his fingers, taking a deep drag before dropping it in their already overflowing ashtray on the bedside table.
“You say that, but I’ll bet otherwise.” Runner showed a toothy grin as he leaned against Chuckler’s torso, giving up the fight to instead snuggle back into bed with the taller man. Chuckler couldn’t help but feel pleased at the small victory, despite knowing Runner rarely refused to stay with him when he had had a bad night. “Ya love me too much, Lewis Juergens.” Chuckler didn’t even attempt to protest as he instead leaned in for another kiss, confirming his feelings with actions rather than words, the way he almost always did. He had never been a man of words, and he doubted even Runner – or Leckie, for that matter – could change that about him.
-
Guadalcanal, 1942
“What’s that?” Chuckler’s words were muffled by the food in his mouth, barely audible to Runner despite that the table between them was only so wide.
“This?” Runner raised his right hand, wiggling the fingers so that the ring on his ring finger gleamed in the sunlight.
“Yeah? You married or somethin’?” Chuckler scooped another mouthful of rice into his mouth, barely even reacting to its strange consistency or taste anymore. “Think you should have told us earlier if that’s the case. Must be juicy details there.” Chuckler winked while grinning wide enough for Runner to see the food in his mouth.
“Close your stupid mouth, Chuckler. You’re getting food everywhere”, Runner grumbled, shaking his head before taking a bite of his own food. Using the time it took him to chew and swallow to think of a good reply to Chuckler’s questions, despite that it was a very straightforward answer. “It’s my family signet ring. My father gave it to me when I turned 18.” Shaking his head, he shot the other man a tired look. “You wear your wedding ring on your left hand, idiot.”
“Really?” Chuckler raised an eyebrow in response, and Runner could sense there was more resting under the surface, but nothing else about it was said. “I should have figured your family was fancy like that. My family never had anything like that.” Shrugging, Chuckler shot off another grin, this time without showing the contents of his entire stomach. Leaving the subject to rest as he focused on his food instead. Leaving Runner to wonder about something he didn’t even know about.
-
“What does it mean?” Runner’s finger followed the words running along Chuckler’s underarm, tracing each letter as if trying to find out its meaning using touch. Das einzige Wahre.
“The only real deal. It’s something my Opa used to say. ‘Du, mein Schatz, ist das einzige Wahre’.” The German falling from Chuckler’s lips was heavy, broken, but the words flowed in a way that made Runner aware that it was something the other man had heard many times in his life. “It means ‘You, my darling, is the only real one’.” Chuckler shrugged, clearly trying to play the tattoo off as something unimportant, even as Runner could see the care gleaming in the other man’s eyes as he spoke of his grandfather. Showing just how important the tattoo was, despite that Runner knew it would be hard to admit pride over something written in German so close to the war. It had only been two years since they had both been discharged, and the hatred of the enemy powers they had fought still lingered in the air.
“So, your family’s German, huh?” Runner tried to keep his voice light, curious, wishing nothing but to know more about the man he was leaning against, whose arms he never wanted to leave again.
“Yeah. Opa’s family moved here when he was a kid, and he married my Oma and had my dad. Not much more to it than that.” Chuckler shrugged again, but the smile tugging at his lips told Runner all he needed to know. “They’d speak German to us, but when they passed, no one else did. My dad never really learned, and my ma wasn’t German. Only know what little my Opa taught me, and I wouldn’t brag about it at all.” Chuckler’s hand moved to grip Runner’s, stopping the fingers tracing the black ink on his arm to instead lace them together with another set. “Those words are all I remember.” There was a sadness in Chuckler’s voice, about a heritage that had been lost and later hidden. He had never mentioned anything about it during the war to any of them, and it had only been until the tattoo appeared that Runner had realised there was more to the man he loved. A history that he had not yet been told.
Perhaps that was what had initially drawn him to Chuckler. The mystery and the man behind the cheerful, caring, reckless façade Chuckler had clung to since their first days in training together. He had been so different from both Hoosier and Leckie, and Runner had at first had a hard time understanding him. They were going to war, leaving comfortable lives behind, and Chuckler acted as if nothing was different.
Runner, on the other hand, had felt that difference so intently. He had had his future lined up before him, running along like a racetrack and he had thought that all he had to do then was to follow the track to the finish line. To success, a good life and everything his father had ever wished for him.
War had put an end to that, and despite the uncertainty and fear that had plagued him from the moment Germany invaded Poland, Runner had felt that it had been his duty to fight when war had turned its attention to his homeland. His father had felt the same and had steered him onto the path, only momentarily disappointed when Runner had chosen the Marines over the Army. Runner had initially just thought it a detour from his original path, but the years away had cemented it into something new and different.
What had brought Chuckler to war, however, had never been clear to him, and now with the knowledge of the other man’s heritage it became even more unclear. There had always been the risk of them fighting Germans, which would have meant fighting people Chuckler might have known had things been different.
“You want to ask, don’t you?” Chuckler’s eyes met his own in the mirror, Runner not even having realised he had been staring at the other while readying himself for the day. It had long since become a habit for them to get ready for work together in the morning, and he barely even noticed Chuckler’s presence anymore. They had fallen into step with another, making everything natural and seamless.
“Ask what?” Runner tried to keep his voice level as he ran his fingers through his war, eyes falling away from the others as if trying to keep Chuckler from seeing the question dancing under the surface.
“You know what I mean.” Chuckler sighed. “Why I joined up with my history.” It was clear to Runner at that moment that Chuckler had always known that question would come the moment someone found out about his family.
“I-“, Runner paused, trying to find the right words as he turned to face Chuckler, hands clasped together, the ring on his finger digging into his skin. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I do, though. I know how this goes.” The look in Chuckler’s eyes told Runner this was not the first time he had explained his decision, and he could only assume he would not be the last. “I have no pride in my Opa’s homeland. I never cared where he came from, and all I wanted in ’41 was to get revenge on those I identified with.” A hand landed on Runner’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen myself as German, Bud. That’s not me, that’s my Opa. Maybe things had been different if he had still been here then, but he also left as a child. He was as American as you and me, despite his name and language.”
Runner felt guilty as he saw the haunted look in Chuckler’s but was soon comforted by the smile he knew and loved. A smile that showed him the words spoken to him was nothing Chuckler had long since come to peace with his past.
“What was his name?” He hadn’t meant to ask, but the smile urged him on.
“Jürgen. Jürgen Jansen.”
-
Guadalcanal, 1942
“Lew!” The name escapes Runner’s lips before he can stop it, the panic surging through his body taking control as he tries to move. To cross the space between them by any means possible, willing to even crawl through fire if that is what he needs to do. Can’t even think of any risks or what could happen to him if he were to follow the only thought running through his mind in that moment. All that matter is Chuckler.
He is suddenly pulled back, kept from entering the sea of fire swelling before him by a hand grabbing his shirt. Pulling him back, clearing his ears and once more dropping him back in the chaos of battle.
“Runner!” His own name is shouted in his face, and momentarily he is not certain who is standing before him, everything shifting and dancing before his eyes as if he’s under water. “Fuck, Runner, snap out of it, we have to go!” Spearmint comes into view as he tried to tug him away from the fire once more, his other hand now thrusting Runner’s rifle into his chest, hard enough to almost knock the air from his lungs.
Runner is not given the time to protest, to turn back and cross the flames now licking his boots and singeing his trousers. He is pulled away by Spearmint’s sheer will of force, the sergeant’s fingers keeping him in a tight grip, showing that he is not leaving Runner behind.
He is tugged into a makeshift foxhole, forced to duck under fallen trees and crawl on all fours until he reaches other men huddled in the dark. None of them look familiar, but with the gloom, it would be a surprise if he even recognised his own shadow.
They were left in there, huddled together as the ground shook, sometimes getting showered with dirt and debris as a shell landed especially close. Prayers were mumbled, men around Runner doing what they could to survive, hoping this time that a shell wouldn’t find a home in their foxhole, and instead take someone else. To spare them and give them another minute, another hour or another day.
All that was on Runner’s mind was Chuckler.
The shell had landed between them, catching them both off guard as it threw them both to the ground. Pushing them away from each other with its force and incinerating the pile of tree trunks between them. Creating the sea that Runner had wanted to cross, but that Spearmint had saved him from.
Chuckler had disappeared somewhere on the other side of it all, only leaving Runner with the echo of a scream that had sent his heart and mind racing. Leaving him only imagining the worst, knowing men had fared much worse than he had when caught in a shell’s blast. All he could hope was that Chuckler had fared as well as he had but doubting that was the case.
“Chuckler’s fine.” Spearmint’s hand clasping his shoulder brought Runner back from his worries, making him blink much in the same way he had when he had been torn away from the fire moments earlier. “He’s a big boy, he can take care of himself.” Runner wanted to protest, to tell him to stop making things up, but he was unable to get a word out. Any attempt just falling flat as he realised that he had nothing to say. That words would not solve anything in that situation.
The minute that shells stopped, Runner was back on his feet, this time escaping any attempt from Spearmint to keep him away from where he wanted to go. Too focused on finding out what had happened to Chuckler to even register anything else around him.
The area was covered in smoke and dust, with ash flying through the air and flames of fire waving at him through it all. Lighting his way as he started to move, crossing fallen trees and debris. Clutching his hand around his rifle until his knuckles turned white, showing off the anxiety that otherwise always stayed underneath the surface, well hidden from view. The worry for Chuckler getting the better of him.
“Chuckler!” His voice was barely audible with his first call, hoarse from the hot, dry air being dragged into his lungs. Making him cough as he stumbled forward, trying to orientate himself back towards where he had last seen Chuckler. Sending away a prayer that he would not find a body.
“Chuckler!” He called out again, louder this time as he broke into a run, ignoring any risk to his own person, only wishing for a reply to his call.
“Chuckler!”
“Runner!” The response almost caught him off guard, despite that he had been hoping to hear it since the second he left the foxhole. It made him aware that what he had been hoping for was true, however unlikely it had felt when he had been left in uncertainty.
Chuckler’s form suddenly appeared in the smoke, momentarily looking larger than it usually did until he got closer, coming into view to show off his dishevelled self. He was covered in soot and parts of his uniform had been torn, showing off torn flesh and fresh blood.
“Are you okay?” For a moment Runner lost all decorum as he threw himself forward, hands running over the visible cuts and scrapes, checking for something – anything – that looked serious enough to warrant a transport out of there. Wishing nothing else than for Chuckler to get out of there, to get somewhere safe.
“I’m fine.” Chuckler’s words didn’t register, Runner’s frantic mind running circles around all the worst-case scenarios. Hands roaming in a way he might otherwise have thought shameless. Touching skin and muscle, making a mental list of what to tell the next corpsman he saw.
“Corpsm- “His call was cut short as Chuckler gripped his hands, stopping them from roaming and catching his attention.
“Bud! I’m fine!” The words took a second to sink in, but they were enough for Runner to relax, immediately recognising the serious tone in Chuckler’s voice. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his body started to subside, and he found himself crashing against the taller man’s chest. He didn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed, and instead leaned into it, not even surprised as Chuckler wrapped his arms around him. Pulling him closer in a way that felt safer than he ever had before.
In that moment, with the sky filled with smoke and fire, dust and ash, Runner knew he had found a person to call home.