The Picture
Authors Note: Inspired by the back of a book that had a picture of a bunch of guys in army gear on it I saw a while back. I'm not really sure why, but they reminded me of the boys in a way, so I wrote this in math class. I briefly considered submitting this to a contest, but decided that it was basically fanfiction, so it stayed hidden away in my binder- Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own the book that inspired me- I think it was called something like Fallen Angels. Nor do I own the boys, mores the pity. If I did, I would be directing another season, so I obviously don't- don't sue!
It wasn't a very big picture- 8 by 10, sitting lengthwise along on my grandfathers mantle piece. It was one of those things that you never really gave much thought to, because it was always there, and would be long after you were gone. It was of a group of men standing in front of a jungle, decked out in army gear, complete with guns. There were seven of them. Some were smiling, some grinned, some wore no expression at all, and some were sad. There was a certain quality of these men that drew you to them, made you look at them, and at some level, like them.
The blonde in the center was hard, a leader- the other blonde stood beside him, streaks of grey beginning to wind their way through his hair, marking him as the oldest as obviously as their youngest- a black-haired youth barely old enough to shave. Another brunette was giving the youngest a noogie, grinning with an ease that said he did it all the time as the youngest struggled, laughing, free himself. A black man with calm, warm brown eyes stood beside the oldest, smiling too. There was a green-eyed brunette on the blondes other side, standing ever so slightly apart, with a cautious smile and an uneasy stance that said he was unused to such affection and this environment.
Then, back behind the others, was the seventh.
He blended in with the trees, and the others so well, you missed him at first glance, but when you had noticed him, you were somehow drawn to him. His hair was brown, and almost brushed his shoulders, the longest of any of them. His eyes were the colour of the sky on a clear day, and his smile was white against tan skin and a few days worth of bristles. Of all of them, he looked the most comfortable here, on the edge of the jungle.
My grandfather never told me who they were. But from the way he looked at that picture, they were important. I never asked anyone, and they never told me. I wish they had, though.
Just as I wish I had asked.
Reviews are welcome- this piece seems to be a bit different from my others in that I don't go into miniscule detail about the boys, so tell me what you think- I need reviews to feed the muse! (and the search for the muse. They've all shown a remarkable tendency to run of on me when confronted with my crossover addiction or my lack of patience with stories. That's probably why I don't have many long stories up. Huh. Go figure.)