Work Text:
In every race, no matter how far the distance, Archy was always going to beat him. Frank had long accepted that. If he crouched when he started, if he stood up, even if he started five bloody metres in front of him, Archy was always going to win.
He was too slow, and so Archy beat him in the race that goes ever on; the one where Death embraces you as a friend and takes you somewhere else, somewhere better than the plains of Gallipoli.
Now, he was left doing the saddest job of them all, going back along the trenches and picking up the letters that the soldiers, his brothers in arms, had left behind. He yanked out all the knives, picked up all the letters, pocketed all the possessions, and walked along the winding trench, alone for the first time in his life.
And the glint of bronze stopped him.
The medal was supposed to be gold, but no-one could afford gold these days, and so bronze would have to do. If he had won that medal, he would have taken it, and the prize money, and never looked back. He wouldn’t be standing here in the trenches of Gallipoli, and instead might still be alive in the next two years’ time.
Frank wasn’t stupid. He knew that a war didn’t just start and end in a matter of months. It was years before there was even something close to a peace talk, and it would be a good few years before he saw the owner of this medal again.
Archy was one of a kind, one of those men that prompted undying loyalty and courage from the moment you first lay eyes on them. And Archy was like that and more, so much so that Frank followed him across the desert because Archy believed that he could find them their way to Perth.
This time Arch, I can’t follow you. Not for a while yet anyway.
Frank tugged out the dagger from the sandbags and let the medal, the stopwatch and two letters tumble out into his hands. One of those letters was addressed to his Uncle, and the other was addressed to him.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, how long he waited before he ripped open the letter. His hands were shaking just as much as he was, and if he was honest with himself, he didn’t know what to expect. Inside this envelope was the last communication he would ever have with Archy Hamilton, and Frank Dunne was terrified out of his mind.
But there was no need to be, because he was dead now, and there was no way he could take back those three simple words that were on the page.
Frank read the letter once, twice, three times, before he began to laugh.
“You idiot,” he whispered, praying to whoever was up there that Archy could hear him now. “I love you too.”