Work Text:
October 1, 1965
Two days past his 18th birthday, Simon Riley was dressed in army green sitting in a booth in a small cafe. He nervously waited for his bus to arrive, despite having two hours left.
A boy walked over, his hair, a decent length, was pulled up into a man-bun with a ribbon bow tied around it. He had muscles, everything to make him look manly but in that moment there, Simon found him a small comfort before he left.
“What can I get’cha?” The boy asked with a wide grin painted across his face as he stared down at the.
Simon gave his order to the boy, a lump forming in his throat. His last day kept repeating in his mind as he grabbed onto his arms as he moved to leave. “Would you mind sitting down with me.. And talking to me? I'm feeling a little low.” His voice was soft and thick with emotions.
The boy felt pity as he watched him before giving a small, tight nod. “I’ll be off in an hour, and I know where we can go.” He said softly as he put a hand on the other boy's shoulder, giving a squeeze.
An hour passed and Simon was standing next to the boy who sat on the railing down at the pier. He had thirty minutes left and he was spending it with a stranger. “I bet you got a girlfriend.” He mumbled, looking the boy over.
“I don't like girls.” The boy mumbled, his eyes drained upon the boy.
“I don't care,” Simon said, moving in front of the boy with a desperate look puncturing his face. I've got no one to send a letter to, do you mind if I send one back here to you?”
Silence passed over the two, the boys staring at the other.
The boy held his hand out. “John MacTavish.” He murmured, his voice in a low pur as Simon placed his hand in his. “Of course you can.”
Simon wrote down the information he’d need to write John, the two talking of their favorite things in the world. Simon liked curry, John liked lamb chops. Simon liked green, John liked blue.
John gave Simon the tightest hug the other boy had ever felt in his life, the two clinging to eachother like they had known one another far longer. John moved his head back, leaning forward to kiss Simon on the cheek.
John watched his new found friend board the bus and leave the town. He stood there longer than he should have. He cried as he stood there.
He made a promise to himself that he would never hold the hand of another guy. He’d wait for Simon, no matter how long it took.
October 23, 1965
Weeks passed of the two exchanging letters. John’s once room filled with posters of bands and men now filled with the letters stables to his wall along with a photo Simon had sent to him in exchange for a photo of John.
John stared at the photo of Simon, it was newer, having had one of his fellow soldiers take it for him. John’s heart twisted and crushed at the way Simon looked so happy in such a terrible predicament. He let his tears fall as he looked at one of the letters hung up. The letter was the most recent one, no longer from the camp in California, he had been moved to Vietnam. The letter from Vietnam read to him;
When it’s gettin’ kinda rough over here I think of that day sittin’ down at the pier and I close my eyes and see your pretty smile. Don't worry, but I won't be able to write for a while.
Waiting for the love of a traveling soldier?
Our Love Will Never End.
John cried. He fell onto his bed, hugging the pillow as he let the tears burst through his eyes as he held onto his own hands.
Never going to hold the hand of another guy, was his promise that he repeated.
November 18, 1965.
The letters had stopped on November 10th, and word had been released that the Peoples’ Army Of Vietnam had attacked the United States Of America.
John cried again. He repeated the promise in his head and repeated the phrase Simon had last said once more. Our Love Will Never End.
November 20, 1965
The football game began with the Lords’ Prayer and the National Anthem. John had agreed to come out to try to let the night erase the pain he felt without the letters from Simon. He hoped for the love of Simon, and himself and the imaginary future he planned out, that Simon was okay.
Next, the announcer stood in the field, the flag still being waved around in circles of a track member running. “Folks, would you bow your heads for a list of local Vietnam veteran dead.” He spoke into the microphone.
John stood under the stands, holding the piccolo in his hands as he paused. The tears fell like a waterfall as the name was read out.
“Simon Riley.”
He held onto the piccolo, eyes closed before letting his body drop down to the floor. A sob ripped from his throat as he held onto the instrument. No one else reacted like he did, no one batted an eye.
John wore his hair up in the bun with the bow that night, his eyes red and tear stained as he made his way to the pier.
John cried, he was never going to hold another guy's hand. Never going to love again. Their love would never end.
Never more to be alone when the letter says a soldier is coming home.