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frag and flame shot over your head, your sandbags piled up over the trench spilling onto your shoulder. your clutch on your musket is separated by a layer of sweat. as you look up with prayer in mind, you see the distant trail of a plane. surely a bomber. "and, surely the end" you mutter to yourself. "don't tell me you've lost it because of a small taste of the front line!" wilbur barrels into your area of the trench. "talking to yourself usually happens later".
"Will, please. This is no time for your jokes."
"Sorry -- it's a habit," he smiles wryly, flicking his curls slightly above his left eye. God, he's so cute.
Shut up, brain. God, the bloody trenches of Normandy couldn't distract you from your massive crush on the Brighton boy.
You push the sandbag back, straining with the effort.
The bomber continues to approach, and you close your eyes and inhale, ready to feel the cold embrace of death. At least your final moments are alongside Wilbur, you think.
"Hey, no accepting death just yet, mate. We might be able to make this if we run, really, really, fast." Will grabs your wrist and pulls you along with him. "We need to go as fast as possible, you won't like dying, and we certainly wont like what comes next".
Wilbur spoke with a sense of assurance that scared you. What comes next? How does he know? For a moment you consider staying, planting yourself on the ground and accepting your fate, but something in his words compels you. It's as if the words penetrate your mind, it's less as if you're forced to obey his order, more that you feel desperate to do so.
"Last chance, come on!" and in that moment your decision has been made already. You trail behind him, desperately trying to keep pace as he drags you right through no man's land, deeper into Normandy, past the fighting, and eventually, into Paris.
--15 years later--
"Last chance, come on!" he teases, pulling you down the street.
"Will, you know I don't do anniversaries!"
"well".