Author's Note ~ Hello! ^_^ Thanks for taking the time to look in
here... This is an Alternate Universe story, set during World
War I, and it's TAITO (surprise, surprise) and KENKERU
(something new for me...). Enjoy, and as always, let me know
what you think.
Warnings: Aside from the SLASH, this is bound to get fluffy and WAFFy at points. And probably some gruesome war scenes. I'll put clearer warnings up in each chapter.
Disclaimer: Would I really be sending letters pleading for more canon slash to Toei and Co. if I already owned all this? The phrase 'fat chance' springs to mind.
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A reviewer wrote: "The only thing that irks me a little is that unless I've forgotten an awfully lot since my history classes, Japan's part during the war was very little significant (at least at the European continent), so if you intended for them to be American/Brittish soldiers, it would have been an idea to have used the dub names instead."
You know, I had the hardest time with this issue. Japan wasn't actually involved in WWI, so your memory is still quite intact! I actually addressed this in my original author's notes, but they got lost in the loophole of my desktop... So, to clarify, this is an AU fic, which means that Taichi et al aren't necessarily Japanese. In this case, they're on the side of the Allies (that is, Britain, France, the US and some minor others), bar a few notable exceptions (but no foreshadowing here! ~_^). And besides, I love the original names so much, I couldn't bear having to write 'Izzy', 'Davis' and 'TK' everywhere. Apologies if this is a problem, but I'm not going to change anything.
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Dedicated to Tita Taishi, who asked for it ^_^
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It is 1917, three years after the outbreak of World War 1, a human atrocity that would claim the lives of over 35 million young men; wiping out an entire generation of talent and potential. In the trenches around the war-torn city of Nancy, on the German border, men live in sub-human conditions; ravaged by hunger, disease and the sporadic bouts of gunfire that are exchanged between the ruthless Central Powers' troops and the Allied Forces. Each day is a struggle to maintain morale. Each hour, the fear of seeing your comrades fall and each moment, the desperate fight to ward off insanity, rage and trench fever. The millions of casualties are all but statistics now. Faceless, nameless ghosts of a cruel era trying to warn us of the power of our own hateful vengeance.
But it is said that, when the spirit is pushed to the furthest boundaries of endurance, only then does its true light shine. And amidst these unforgiving circumstances, in the blood- drenched, hopeless Spring of 1917, two boys are thrown together through chance. Against more than insurmountable odds, they discover values that most do not: courage, trust, faith, strength. Sacrifice. And love.
These are the faces of the Great War. This is their story.
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"Captain Taichi Yagami."
He liked the sound of that. Authoritative, almost noble - if he could be so bold as to assume it. His friends couldn't scoff at that! Holding his head proudly, Taichi let his eyes slip to the silver double-stripe on his shoulder. Oh yes, it sounded good.
"Captain, eh?"
The man who addressed him was the officer in charge of assigning new recruits to the Front: a portly, aged fellow who seemed almost to be drowning amidst the papers bedecking his expansive working table. He rummaged around through what looked, to Taichi's inexperience, a mass of utterly disorganized and chaotic notes. Mesmerized by the rustling, shifting papers, he snapped back to attention at the gruff throat-clearing. Taichi eyed the man mildly, sheepish at his attention lapse.
"General wants you assigned to the western front," the officer informed, pulling a typewriter from underneath the stack. Taichi almost laughed at the magic trick-like action. "Captain Garren's troops are stationed to the south-west of Nancy." The man sighed as he glanced at the paper in his hand. "Poor boy. Barely out of school, and trench fever got him in under three weeks. But I guess he's luckier than some," he confided.
"Luckier, sir?" Taichi asked. He, himself just out of an army college, could imagine no greater humiliation than being pulled out of the fighting by some obscure mental disease. He observed the man threading the sheet into his typing machine.
"Yes, luckier, boy! Now, name?"
"Taichi Yagami."
"Rank?" Then, in the next breath, he answered the query himself. "Yes, captain, I know." There seemed an almost dejected tone in his voice. "Age?"
"Nineteen."
Another sigh, then, "Education?"
"Two years at Oakhurst Military College."
"Can you speak French?"
Taichi narrowed an eye speculatively. "A bit."
"German?"
"No!"
Seemingly satisfied with the answers, the paper was handed to him. Taichi scanned it over, noting the details of when and where he would be stationed. Somewhere in the south of France, that sounded nice. He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Then, turning to the man, he saluted crisply. This was going to be some adventure!
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Not for the first time, Taichi was glad of his station as a soldier in the army. He had considered, under considerable pressure from his parents, the path of military doctor or something equally tame, but his was a spirit not easily subjugated and the prospect of countless hours spent studying did not appeal to his offensive nature. Taichi was a fighter, through and through. And now, rattling along the tertiary roads of the French midlands in a jeep that was both too crowded and had a jarring suspension, he was glad at the fact that he need make this trip only twice.
Maybe only once, his cynical conscience reminded.
Taichi was no coward, nor was he averse to sacrificing his life in performing his patriotic duty. It was one of the risks, pure and simple. One had to learn to live with it, overriding the natural human instinct of flight versus fighting. Training had helped in that respect, and he felt that his two years at college had not been badly spent.
All that time, attending classes and mock-up battles, his mind had been elsewhere: amongst the enemy ranks, flying into combat with nary a chance of survival or heading off, as he was now, to the glorious trenches where men persevered and maintained the country's beliefs and freedoms. It had been his dream. Sitting lectures, the time seemed to be slipping away almost imperceptibly: every day a day less to prove himself on the field. Often, there had been talk of a cessation to the war, of the imminent sweep of the allies to drive off the Central Powers and, just as often, the words had evaporated into abstract meaninglessness. And now, finally, he was where he wanted to be.
Strangely, he had not foreseen the irritable niggling in the base of his stomach, nor the slightly euphoric lightheadedness. He had expected a constant rush of adrenaline: not the mellowness that he was experiencing. All this he pushed aside, buoyed by his eager expectance of arrival. They had been driving for the better part of three hours; from the Poitiers airbase down to Nancy. Luckily, his was one of the shorter commutes. Some, he had been told, would arrive only late morning the following day. Taichi did not envy them the harrowing trip. He knew that his drive was almost at an end when he noticed, far on the horizon, the hazy smoky pollution associated with the trenches. He leant forward eagerly in his seat.
"That's it, isn't it?" he asked breathlessly, addressing nobody in particular.
The driver nodded. "They say it's one of the worst," he warned, incorrectly attesting Taichi's breathlessness to worry.
"Yes! Imagine, only a stone's throw away from the black land!"
"Kid, you have any idea what goes on there?"
Taichi did not shift his gaze from the gruesome view. "Sure. Fighting, bravery, honour."
"Slaughter," the driver interjected. "Hunger, death and disease."
Taichi did not respond. He had heard many prior stories of hellish conditions on the front from those that he dubbed the Doomsayers but he reserved his judgment to such a time as when he had personal experience. And he was to have plenty of that.
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Taichi found himself standing alone, with only his kitbag at his feet, in the midst of a drear and muddy landscape. No trees, not even a shrub was to be seen, for all that it was spring, and the silence seemed to hang like a stuffy blanket. Taichi had expected noise: the industrious chatter of voices, machinery working, the scattering of gunshots; but its complete absence sent his expectations off-kilter. He started to feel the vague premonition that perhaps he was out of place. And topping all this was the fact that he wasn't exactly sure just what was expected of him. Taichi began fidgeting.
"Well, you put your foot in, Yagami. And, sure as hell, there's no getting out of the water now!" he said to the bleak silence. He hadn't expected a response.
"The mud, you should rather say!" a voice proclaimed, having the audacity to break him out of his reverie. Taichi was suddenly on full alert, his hand reaching for his revolver as he spun to face the speaker. He was a red-haired man, in truth more greying than red, of medium build. His expression, traced along the deeply etched lines of worry, was amused. "You're a jumpy one, alright. There's no need for that," he ordered, gesturing absently at Taichi's weapon. The boy found himself obeying automatically.
"Captain Taichi Yagami, reporting for duty," he announced, slipping into formal stance and wondering at the cheesiness of the line. The older man laughed.
"I should hope so, Yagami! You're late as it is, even considering the sloth of the mail carriers nowadays. Garren was down almost three weeks ago."
Taichi shifted a bit. He didn't know what to say and settled for a hesitant, "Sorry?"
"No, no matter." He reached out a hand. "But where are my manners? I'm field marshal Koushiro Izumi." Taichi returned the gesture.
"A pleasure to meet you, sir."
The man laughed again. "Please, around here I go just by Koushiro. You'll learn pretty quickly that formality is worth less than a bucket of straw during combat. Besides, we like to keep our regiment informal, at least amongst our top officers."
"Very well." Taichi realized that he had yet to progress past purely perfunctory phrases and ventured, "Has there been much action in this past of the front lately?" That seemed a reliable, natural question to ask. Koushiro looked at him, askance.
"No more than usual. Why, didn't you get any reports?" Taichi shrugged. "It doesn't matter, frankly. You'll pick it up as you go along. But come," Koushiro proclaimed, "We shouldn't be standing in the open like this. Get your bag and I'll show you to your quarters."
Taichi found himself descending a slope of slippery and badly cut stairs into a rank, dark pit. The tunnel stretched for what seemed like eternity on either side: narrow and foreboding. Koushiro led him to the left, then turned left again down another tight corridor. This led to another trench, this one slightly wider and mostly uncovered. All along its walls were gaping black maws. Taichi's guide walked up to one of them.
"Here you go: luxury suite number seven." Chagrin and irony was heavy in his voice. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back later to show you around." With that, he spun and disappeared down the perplexing maze of tunnels. Taichi, unable to follow and completely lost, was left with nothing to do but enter the unwelcoming room.
The inside was almost pitch dark, echoing with the sounds of movement far away. From what he could make up in the dimness, Taichi distinguished a threadbare table and what looked like a candle. This he lit. Its faint ruddy light didn't do the room a world of favours. The walls were nothing more than steeply cut earth, the floor a mess of mud and mulch. In the far corner stood a bare bed that looked as though it could barely support its own weight and, aside from an empty bottle on the table, there was nothing else in the room.
Taichi felt his dreams and expectations ebb out of him to form a puddle in the mire below. This surely was not his vision of glory and fame! It all seemed like some bad, cruel joke and he half expected Koushiro to appear, laugh it off, and take him away from this abysmal hole. But he didn't.
Taichi placed his bag on the table and warily strode towards the bed, as though expecting it to baulk away from him. Cautiously, he lowered himself to it. It complained, but managed to hold his weight. With a sigh of somewhat relief, he laid himself on the hard wood and glared up at the ceiling. It, like every other wall, was simply hewn ground.
Taichi lay there in complete silence for what felt like hours. The occasional resounding thump would startle him from his sordid daydreams, and once in a while a clod of dirt from the ceiling would dislodge and rain down with a hiss. Taichi felt as though time was bypassing him, leaving him alone and oblivious while it wended its way elsewhere.
An eternity later, a shadow darkened his doorway and the cheery, gruff voice of Koushiro said, "All settled in, Taichi? Come along, I'll show you around and you can meet the troops." Taichi sprang and the chance of being able to leave his claustrophobic lodgings. Koushiro waited for him while Taichi straightened his dishevelled uniform, then passed the younger boy a sheet of paper. "Here, this should help: a map of our position. This here," he added, "Is the support trench. The one we were in before is the reserve trench, where most of our artillery and food is kept and where the soldiers lodge, for the most part. Now, come with me."
Taichi obeyed and found himself walking through another thin connecting ditch. The next trench was somewhat more open and active than the previous two. There he had his first glimpse of life in the dugouts, ordinary men moving to and fro and paying him no heed. "This here is the cover trench," Koushiro explained. "We spend most of our time here, although it can get quite loud during artillery fire." He pointed down another narrow tunnel. "That way there is the firing trench: about as close as you can get to No-man's-land without getting your head blow off!" Koushiro laughed as though that had been a joke, but Taichi failed to see the humour of it.
"No matter," the field marshal said. "Do you have any questions?"
Taichi hesitated. He had a thousand queries running through his head, most of them along the lines of, 'Will I ever get out of here?' but he said nothing, simply shaking his head no. Koushiro clapped him on the back.
"You're not much of a talker, are you? I know that things look bad now, he added in a confidential tone, "But soon you'll stop seeing the grime, and the gunshots won't keep you up at night. It's always hard for the young ones." The last comment was made softly, as though Koushiro was addressing himself. Then his melancholy mood slipped off like a greasy raindrop, and Taichi wondered if he would also acquire such a skill. They were about to continue their tour when a bubbly youth strode up to Koushiro, entirely ignoring Taichi, verily skipping as he went. Tufts of blonde hair stood out from under his undone helmet.
"Sir," the boy said and stood to attention crisply. "We've had some good news from the line! Thirty-seventh of Toulouse broke through to the Enemy trenches and have a crowd of prisoners. They're being interrogated, the runner said, and so we're bound to get some news about the unusual soldier movements!" He delivered his message in a rush, beaming broadly at having the honour to enlighten his commander. Koushiro laughed accedingly and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. He turned to Taichi.
"This, captain, is our young lieutenant Takeru Takaishi."
The boy seemed only then to actually see Taichi. He smiled sheepishly and threw a salute in his direction. "Pardon my manners, sir, but it's so rarely that we get some good news that I couldn't help myself."
Taichi, unsure of proper etiquette, extended a hand to Takeru and shook it. "Captain Taichi Yagami. Oh, and none of this 'sir' business. I'm hardly older than you are!"
This seemed to go down well with Koushiro, who dismissed Takeru with a grateful nod. "Good boy, that one," he commented, "One of the brightest, and never shirks a task!"
Taichi found Takeru's energy refreshing: it was like a small beacon, proving that not all was bad in the trenches. The Koushiro continued on the tour, pointing out various supply rooms and showing Taichi where to store his rifle so that it was easily accessible. "Your revolver stays on your hip at all times," he cautioned in one of his serious spates. "Even when you sleep. Remember, if anything goes wrong, at least you'll have a fighting chance." The bushy haired boy didn't like the way Koushiro said 'fighting chance', nor was he thrilled about the all too real possibility of an attack. Without commenting, he urged the older man to a safer topic: namely, the officers in his regiment.
"Well," Koushiro began, gathering his knowledge, "There is little Iori Hida. Barrel of laughs, if he's in the mood. He isn't the best fighter, being just seventeen." Taichi raised an eyebrow in silent query. Boys weren't allowed on the line unless they were eighteen. "Oh, he just got some forged papers. He probably regrets it now, knowing what trench life is really like, but you have to admire the kid's guts. Jyou Kido is the field doctor," the marshal went on, "And he'll stitch you up before you can call for anaesthetic! Don't let him anywhere near you with that scalpel, if you aren't put under, because that one doesn't hesitate to do his job." He lifted up his arm, pulling up the sleeve to reveal a faint scar. "I got caught on some barbed wire out in the field. It was bleeding, but the cut was shallow. But that Jyou of ours, he got into a regular state and sowed me up in all of twelve seconds. You should have heard me cursing him," Koushiro went on with a chuckle.
Taichi nodded, assimilating all of the information. "And him?" he asked, gesturing at a sullen black-haired youth. The boy hadn't shifted since Taichi had first seen him, nor had his hateful, depressing expression melted. There was a loaded shotgun in his lap, and an empty stare in his eyes. Nobody paid him any heed.
"Him, eh?" Koushiro shook his head sadly. "That is Ken Ichijouji. He's been here longer than any in this company. Three years, almost: he was one of the first to be sent out here. It was sheer skill - and some luck - that let him survive that long out here. If that isn't explanation enough for his manner, then I don't know what is. Paranoid, too. But who can blame him? He's seen more death and madness in those three years that I've seen in my entire life - in all of our lives combined! Excuse his dark silence. He's the best they have. But he never wanted to be promoted! He could have been a general now, sipping tea while we commoners rough it out here. But for some reason he stays, and it's the most tragic and romantic thing that I've ever seen."
Taichi only half-listened. His eyes were drawn magnetically to the boy. Would he end up like that? Or, would he be killed off before he'd had the chance? Taichi couldn't decide which fate was worse, which he'd prefer. Death was one thing; being dead to happiness something different entirely.
"Oh, but let's not dwell on him. He'll be put right once all of this is over. Ken just needs a girl with a soft touch to get him in order. Or a boy!" He added with a laugh, glancing askance at Taichi to see his reaction. The captain shrugged, his mind not on the words. "Let's go in, it's about time for our supper!"
There was a secretive smile on Koushiro's lips as he led Taichi into the main dugout. Takeru was already there, stomping the mud from his boots. Taichi then met Iori and Jyou, taking his place at the table beside the young blonde, absorbing a handful of his radiant joy. At first, the conversation revolved around the recent spate of good news: perfunctory talk about the situation to the south. And then the food came.
Taichi stared at the brown mass on his plate, wondering if he should expect it to wander off of its own accord. He saw the others eating with gusto. And although he was hungry, Taichi didn't think he'd be able to stomach that, whatever it was. He prodded it with a fork. It gurgled. Taichi lost the last smidgeon of his appetite. He had the brief, uncomfortable notion that he was undergoing some sort of initiation, and when he glanced up he noticed that everybody was looking at him.
"Aren't you hungry?" Takeru asked, aghast.
"I would be if this was edible," Taichi answered plaintively, envying the others' oblivion. He picked up one of the vegetables - well, it looked as though it had been a vegetable at some point in its life! - and shoved it into his mouth symbolically. He barely chewed it before swallowing. Koushiro burst out laughing.
"First taste of soldiers' rations? Get used to it, Taichi. You aren't likely to get anything better out here." Then his voice grew secretive. "A shot of whisky usually helps it go down better!" He offered Taichi the alcohol and the captain took a swig. Warmth flowed down into his stomach, but it did little to increase the appeal of the food. He forced down another mouthful before he shoved the plate aside.
"So, Taichi!" Iori said, reclining in his chair. "First day on the bloody front, hey? Not what it's made out to be!"
Taichi smiled at the truth in his statement. "Guess if they told us what it's really like, most guys would sign up for medicine!" This got a laugh all round: cowards were infamous for that choice of studies, hoping that the war would be over before their four compulsory years were done. Jyou looked at him with mock sourness.
"A lot of good it did me!"
The conversation continued in a similar vein for a while, with jokes to lighten the quickly settling dusk. Ken didn't join them, and Taichi felt that it wasn't his place to mention it. At some later point, Takeru sprang abruptly to his feet. He grabbed a full plate from the kitchen alcove and trotted outside, mumbling an excuse. The trio's eyes followed him out, Koushiro with a wistful smile on his face. "That boy should have been called Sunshine! Looks like he's made it his personal mission to take care of our resident cynic."
"Very good care," Iori intoned, lifting his eyebrows. "A little suspicious, if you ask me!"
"None of that, Hida!" Koushiro admonished. "It's good for both of them." This statement put Taichi in mind of the red-haired man's previous comment about Ken's needing somebody to look out for him. "Besides, it's Takeru's watch now. We'd all better get some rest. Taichi, I'll put you in for the morning watch with myself, so that you can learn the ropes before standing to by yourself."
Iori yawned, breaking the silence that followed this announcement. "I'm turning in," he announced.
"Into what?" Jyou muttered, earning himself a swipe aimed at his head. The atmosphere shifted subtly after Iori's departure, and Taichi found himself relaxing in the presence of the elder men.
"Now that we have a moment," Koushiro said pointedly, lowering his voice to draw the boy in. "Taichi, I must admit, morale isn't what it used to be anymore. We've had rumours about some strange patrol movements by the enemy, and we fear an attack at any moment." He brushed his hair back despondently. "We're sitting ducks, waiting for news and orders. You must forgive the men if their manner is clipped. As you can imagine, we've hardly slept, hardly had the chance to relax. Your arrival has given everyone a boost, so please, do not destroy our fragile hope."
Taichi didn't like having that kind of a burden on his shoulders, and he said as much. He hardly felt the scion of encouragement that he had been made out to be.
"It's hard, of course. And do not get disheartened. Just keep what I've said in mind, alright?"
"Certainly."
"Off with you then, to bed, captain!" Koushiro ordered, dispelling the serious atmosphere. "You've a hard day ahead of you!"
That night, Taichi lay on his uncomfortable bed and could not sleep. Every shadow caused his heart to leap, and the scatter of gunfire at some point left his nerves in a wreck. Had those been their guns? Or the enemy's? Whenever shallow sleep descended on him, he was plagued with nightmares of mud and death and cruel men laughing down at him.
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Dawn the next day was the single most beautiful, most anticipated event in Taichi's life. He leapt from the bed, feeling a whole range of muscles complain as he stretched. He felt oddly rejuvenated, afire with adrenaline, but feared that his fatigue would quickly overwhelm him. The mental stress was hanging over him like a thick, oily shadow. Perhaps when he had something to occupy his hands and thoughts, he'd feel better.
His stomach rumbled importunately. Taichi sighed. He was realistic enough not to hope for a decent breakfast, but perhaps the food would seem more palpable in clear daylight. He doubted it. He gathered all of his equipment - he'd kept his uniform on - and pulled on his boots, mindful of the muddy ground. He was just slinging his rifle onto his back when Takeru barrelled in, startling Taichi.
"Sorry," the boy said between his gasps for breath. His cheeks were pink from the cold. "It's time for your watch, Taichi! You must be our good luck charm; last night we didn't have any fire at all!" He beamed up adoringly at Taichi.
"But I heard some shooting!"
"Oh, that!" Takeru dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "That was far north. It can sound close down in the dugouts, but it isn't really. Are you ready? Watching with Koushiro is a privilege!" He continued his uninterrupted monologue as he followed Taichi all the way into the cover trench. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into one of the gaping black maws of the trench. It took the captain only a moment to find Koushiro, who was already waiting for him with a spare helmet in hand. Taichi accepted it gratefully.
Nothing of import happened during that stint. Koushiro was mainly silent, only speaking when he was asked direct question or giving curt instructions. In the thoughtful stillness, Taichi let his mind wander as he gazed across the churned No Man's Land. It looked so innocuous and barren. Beyond the barbed wire, there was nothing other than dull greyish earth; to his relieved disappointment, he was unable to see the enemy's trenches. Not a single shot was fired for those two hours, and afterwards, Koushiro himself was even surprised.
When he was off-duty, there seemed to be too little to do. Taichi felt useless. He'd gone over the supply lists and was about to do it again to relieve his boredom when a sudden ruckus outside alerted his attention. He grabbed his revolver, but the voices seemed rather joyful than offensive. He peered out in surprise, only to see Takeru run past him, spraying mud, and launch himself at a man that Taichi hadn't seen before. They embraced warmly, laughing with unadulterated joy. The elder of the two slid off his helmet. The blonde hair confirmed Taichi's suspicions: they were brothers.
He climbed the steps to make some sense of this visit and found himself intercepted by Koushiro, who seemed ever-present in his moments of confusion. "Taichi, there you are!" he proclaimed. "Come, you must meet Yamato!"
Taichi found himself being led over to the boy, who turned just before they reached him. Taichi had to keep his jaw up consciously: this Yamato was gorgeous! He found it strange to be making that observation, but he couldn't deny it. His eyes roamed over the shapely features and glistening golden hair, a shade deeper that Takeru's. Belatedly, he remembered to stretch out his hand. The boy looked at him askance, masking a smile.
"Captain Taichi Yagami," he forced out, flushing at the edge in his voice. What was his problem? He felt like a bumbling teenager!
"Staff Sergeant Yamato Ishida," the boy answered. His voice, soft and breathy, held an unquestionable vein of authority. He looked barely twenty. "I'm your supply officer, soldier," he added with a twinge of humour. "I'm the one you complain to about the quality of the food and the laziness of your men."
There was scattered laughter at his comment, everybody recalling Taichi's revulsion at the previous night's meal. Taichi felt stupid and had no idea how to respond, simply standing there in silence under the scrutiny of Yamato and the others. He felt heat rising in his cheeks. Luckily, his omniscient saviour Koushiro cleared his throat and bundled the pair inside, down into the main dugout. "Now, Taichi," he ordered, "Don't hold back on the demands! You only get what you ask for!"
Being alone with Yamato was perhaps worse than being outside with the others. Taichi became painfully aware of his every movement as he fumbled for the supply list that he had so recently gone over. He found himself almost irked at the casual way in which the blonde glanced around before settling himself in a chair. He realized, then, that Yamato must know the place much better than he did. "So, Taichi, have you had a chance to go over the stock yet?" he asked, all business, producing a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
"Yeah," Taichi answered, swiping a hand through his disorderly hair and trying to coax it into some semblance of order.
"And?" Yamato stifled a laugh at Taichi's discomfiture.
"Everything seems to be in order. We could use some trench mortars. And I wouldn't have anything against some edible food! The stuff here is gross! You have to knock it unconscious before you can eat it." Yamato laughed, appreciating the sentiment. Taichi felt himself relax exponentially. He found the courage to seat himself opposite the blonde and found that his knees had grown instable. He picked at the lint on his uniform, watching as Yamato made the appropriate markings in his book.
"I'll see what I can do," he was saying, and Taichi was slammed back into reality. He thrust aside the pleasant, if rather fanciful, daydream that involved him, Yamato and a secluded beach and tuned back into the conversation. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Huh?" Taichi asked, surprised by the innocuous question.
"Anything," and here Yamato leaned forward conspiratorially, making the distracted Taichi feel faint. He narrowed his delicious eyes, "Specifically for you?"
Taichi was completely and utterly floored. This impertinent blonde was teasing him! His mind instantly construed a thousand innuendos from the poignant words, and he sat in silence for a long while, reining them in with all of his willpower. When he realized that his silence had stretched to improbable length, he shot a glance at Yamato, who had cocked his head questioningly. There was a slight flush on his pale cheeks and Taichi saw - or imagined that he did - a soft smile ghost across his face. He could not find a sufficient number of brain cells that had not dissolved into a gooey mess to form words, so he simply shook his head.
Yamato nodded understandingly, packed away his belongings and rose from the table. "That will be all, then." His eyes lingered on his for a curious moment, but then they were torn away and their occupant climbed the stairs up and out. Or rather shimmied up, Taichi thought with impudence. What was his problem, he asked himself scoldingly. Were his hormones running rampant again? With a desolate sigh, he let his head fall onto the table with a thump.
A few minutes of composing himself later, Taichi leapt up the crude staircase taking three steps at a time. To his surprise, Yamato was still there, chatting amiably with Koushiro while Takeru looked on, his face almost cracking with the ear-to-ear smile. He kept his distance, observing as the older blonde produced some things from his satchel. One of them he offered to his younger brother, who squeaked joyfully and gave him an awkward hug. The second parcel he offered to Koushiro, its contents apparently needing some lengthy explanation, judging by the enthusiastic gesturing on both sides. The third also went to the field marshal, this time only warranting a secretive wink.
Taichi, feeling like an intruder in a private debate, turned to make his way back to his hovel. He glanced back a moment later. Yamato was hugging Takeru in farewell, whispering into his ear. Then, just as Taichi was about to continue, the sapphire eyes were raised and drifted past his. The brunette felt as though he had been pierced by a thousand arrows. Their eyes locked for a splendid second.
And then the illusion was destroyed as Yamato disentangled himself from his brother. With a final word of greeting, he turned smartly and made his determined way back into the further trenches. Taichi stood and stared after him long after Yamato had vanished.
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Like it? Hate it? Any feedback is welcome! ^_^
Warnings: Aside from the SLASH, this is bound to get fluffy and WAFFy at points. And probably some gruesome war scenes. I'll put clearer warnings up in each chapter.
Disclaimer: Would I really be sending letters pleading for more canon slash to Toei and Co. if I already owned all this? The phrase 'fat chance' springs to mind.
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A reviewer wrote: "The only thing that irks me a little is that unless I've forgotten an awfully lot since my history classes, Japan's part during the war was very little significant (at least at the European continent), so if you intended for them to be American/Brittish soldiers, it would have been an idea to have used the dub names instead."
You know, I had the hardest time with this issue. Japan wasn't actually involved in WWI, so your memory is still quite intact! I actually addressed this in my original author's notes, but they got lost in the loophole of my desktop... So, to clarify, this is an AU fic, which means that Taichi et al aren't necessarily Japanese. In this case, they're on the side of the Allies (that is, Britain, France, the US and some minor others), bar a few notable exceptions (but no foreshadowing here! ~_^). And besides, I love the original names so much, I couldn't bear having to write 'Izzy', 'Davis' and 'TK' everywhere. Apologies if this is a problem, but I'm not going to change anything.
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Dedicated to Tita Taishi, who asked for it ^_^
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It is 1917, three years after the outbreak of World War 1, a human atrocity that would claim the lives of over 35 million young men; wiping out an entire generation of talent and potential. In the trenches around the war-torn city of Nancy, on the German border, men live in sub-human conditions; ravaged by hunger, disease and the sporadic bouts of gunfire that are exchanged between the ruthless Central Powers' troops and the Allied Forces. Each day is a struggle to maintain morale. Each hour, the fear of seeing your comrades fall and each moment, the desperate fight to ward off insanity, rage and trench fever. The millions of casualties are all but statistics now. Faceless, nameless ghosts of a cruel era trying to warn us of the power of our own hateful vengeance.
But it is said that, when the spirit is pushed to the furthest boundaries of endurance, only then does its true light shine. And amidst these unforgiving circumstances, in the blood- drenched, hopeless Spring of 1917, two boys are thrown together through chance. Against more than insurmountable odds, they discover values that most do not: courage, trust, faith, strength. Sacrifice. And love.
These are the faces of the Great War. This is their story.
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"Captain Taichi Yagami."
He liked the sound of that. Authoritative, almost noble - if he could be so bold as to assume it. His friends couldn't scoff at that! Holding his head proudly, Taichi let his eyes slip to the silver double-stripe on his shoulder. Oh yes, it sounded good.
"Captain, eh?"
The man who addressed him was the officer in charge of assigning new recruits to the Front: a portly, aged fellow who seemed almost to be drowning amidst the papers bedecking his expansive working table. He rummaged around through what looked, to Taichi's inexperience, a mass of utterly disorganized and chaotic notes. Mesmerized by the rustling, shifting papers, he snapped back to attention at the gruff throat-clearing. Taichi eyed the man mildly, sheepish at his attention lapse.
"General wants you assigned to the western front," the officer informed, pulling a typewriter from underneath the stack. Taichi almost laughed at the magic trick-like action. "Captain Garren's troops are stationed to the south-west of Nancy." The man sighed as he glanced at the paper in his hand. "Poor boy. Barely out of school, and trench fever got him in under three weeks. But I guess he's luckier than some," he confided.
"Luckier, sir?" Taichi asked. He, himself just out of an army college, could imagine no greater humiliation than being pulled out of the fighting by some obscure mental disease. He observed the man threading the sheet into his typing machine.
"Yes, luckier, boy! Now, name?"
"Taichi Yagami."
"Rank?" Then, in the next breath, he answered the query himself. "Yes, captain, I know." There seemed an almost dejected tone in his voice. "Age?"
"Nineteen."
Another sigh, then, "Education?"
"Two years at Oakhurst Military College."
"Can you speak French?"
Taichi narrowed an eye speculatively. "A bit."
"German?"
"No!"
Seemingly satisfied with the answers, the paper was handed to him. Taichi scanned it over, noting the details of when and where he would be stationed. Somewhere in the south of France, that sounded nice. He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Then, turning to the man, he saluted crisply. This was going to be some adventure!
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Not for the first time, Taichi was glad of his station as a soldier in the army. He had considered, under considerable pressure from his parents, the path of military doctor or something equally tame, but his was a spirit not easily subjugated and the prospect of countless hours spent studying did not appeal to his offensive nature. Taichi was a fighter, through and through. And now, rattling along the tertiary roads of the French midlands in a jeep that was both too crowded and had a jarring suspension, he was glad at the fact that he need make this trip only twice.
Maybe only once, his cynical conscience reminded.
Taichi was no coward, nor was he averse to sacrificing his life in performing his patriotic duty. It was one of the risks, pure and simple. One had to learn to live with it, overriding the natural human instinct of flight versus fighting. Training had helped in that respect, and he felt that his two years at college had not been badly spent.
All that time, attending classes and mock-up battles, his mind had been elsewhere: amongst the enemy ranks, flying into combat with nary a chance of survival or heading off, as he was now, to the glorious trenches where men persevered and maintained the country's beliefs and freedoms. It had been his dream. Sitting lectures, the time seemed to be slipping away almost imperceptibly: every day a day less to prove himself on the field. Often, there had been talk of a cessation to the war, of the imminent sweep of the allies to drive off the Central Powers and, just as often, the words had evaporated into abstract meaninglessness. And now, finally, he was where he wanted to be.
Strangely, he had not foreseen the irritable niggling in the base of his stomach, nor the slightly euphoric lightheadedness. He had expected a constant rush of adrenaline: not the mellowness that he was experiencing. All this he pushed aside, buoyed by his eager expectance of arrival. They had been driving for the better part of three hours; from the Poitiers airbase down to Nancy. Luckily, his was one of the shorter commutes. Some, he had been told, would arrive only late morning the following day. Taichi did not envy them the harrowing trip. He knew that his drive was almost at an end when he noticed, far on the horizon, the hazy smoky pollution associated with the trenches. He leant forward eagerly in his seat.
"That's it, isn't it?" he asked breathlessly, addressing nobody in particular.
The driver nodded. "They say it's one of the worst," he warned, incorrectly attesting Taichi's breathlessness to worry.
"Yes! Imagine, only a stone's throw away from the black land!"
"Kid, you have any idea what goes on there?"
Taichi did not shift his gaze from the gruesome view. "Sure. Fighting, bravery, honour."
"Slaughter," the driver interjected. "Hunger, death and disease."
Taichi did not respond. He had heard many prior stories of hellish conditions on the front from those that he dubbed the Doomsayers but he reserved his judgment to such a time as when he had personal experience. And he was to have plenty of that.
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Taichi found himself standing alone, with only his kitbag at his feet, in the midst of a drear and muddy landscape. No trees, not even a shrub was to be seen, for all that it was spring, and the silence seemed to hang like a stuffy blanket. Taichi had expected noise: the industrious chatter of voices, machinery working, the scattering of gunshots; but its complete absence sent his expectations off-kilter. He started to feel the vague premonition that perhaps he was out of place. And topping all this was the fact that he wasn't exactly sure just what was expected of him. Taichi began fidgeting.
"Well, you put your foot in, Yagami. And, sure as hell, there's no getting out of the water now!" he said to the bleak silence. He hadn't expected a response.
"The mud, you should rather say!" a voice proclaimed, having the audacity to break him out of his reverie. Taichi was suddenly on full alert, his hand reaching for his revolver as he spun to face the speaker. He was a red-haired man, in truth more greying than red, of medium build. His expression, traced along the deeply etched lines of worry, was amused. "You're a jumpy one, alright. There's no need for that," he ordered, gesturing absently at Taichi's weapon. The boy found himself obeying automatically.
"Captain Taichi Yagami, reporting for duty," he announced, slipping into formal stance and wondering at the cheesiness of the line. The older man laughed.
"I should hope so, Yagami! You're late as it is, even considering the sloth of the mail carriers nowadays. Garren was down almost three weeks ago."
Taichi shifted a bit. He didn't know what to say and settled for a hesitant, "Sorry?"
"No, no matter." He reached out a hand. "But where are my manners? I'm field marshal Koushiro Izumi." Taichi returned the gesture.
"A pleasure to meet you, sir."
The man laughed again. "Please, around here I go just by Koushiro. You'll learn pretty quickly that formality is worth less than a bucket of straw during combat. Besides, we like to keep our regiment informal, at least amongst our top officers."
"Very well." Taichi realized that he had yet to progress past purely perfunctory phrases and ventured, "Has there been much action in this past of the front lately?" That seemed a reliable, natural question to ask. Koushiro looked at him, askance.
"No more than usual. Why, didn't you get any reports?" Taichi shrugged. "It doesn't matter, frankly. You'll pick it up as you go along. But come," Koushiro proclaimed, "We shouldn't be standing in the open like this. Get your bag and I'll show you to your quarters."
Taichi found himself descending a slope of slippery and badly cut stairs into a rank, dark pit. The tunnel stretched for what seemed like eternity on either side: narrow and foreboding. Koushiro led him to the left, then turned left again down another tight corridor. This led to another trench, this one slightly wider and mostly uncovered. All along its walls were gaping black maws. Taichi's guide walked up to one of them.
"Here you go: luxury suite number seven." Chagrin and irony was heavy in his voice. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back later to show you around." With that, he spun and disappeared down the perplexing maze of tunnels. Taichi, unable to follow and completely lost, was left with nothing to do but enter the unwelcoming room.
The inside was almost pitch dark, echoing with the sounds of movement far away. From what he could make up in the dimness, Taichi distinguished a threadbare table and what looked like a candle. This he lit. Its faint ruddy light didn't do the room a world of favours. The walls were nothing more than steeply cut earth, the floor a mess of mud and mulch. In the far corner stood a bare bed that looked as though it could barely support its own weight and, aside from an empty bottle on the table, there was nothing else in the room.
Taichi felt his dreams and expectations ebb out of him to form a puddle in the mire below. This surely was not his vision of glory and fame! It all seemed like some bad, cruel joke and he half expected Koushiro to appear, laugh it off, and take him away from this abysmal hole. But he didn't.
Taichi placed his bag on the table and warily strode towards the bed, as though expecting it to baulk away from him. Cautiously, he lowered himself to it. It complained, but managed to hold his weight. With a sigh of somewhat relief, he laid himself on the hard wood and glared up at the ceiling. It, like every other wall, was simply hewn ground.
Taichi lay there in complete silence for what felt like hours. The occasional resounding thump would startle him from his sordid daydreams, and once in a while a clod of dirt from the ceiling would dislodge and rain down with a hiss. Taichi felt as though time was bypassing him, leaving him alone and oblivious while it wended its way elsewhere.
An eternity later, a shadow darkened his doorway and the cheery, gruff voice of Koushiro said, "All settled in, Taichi? Come along, I'll show you around and you can meet the troops." Taichi sprang and the chance of being able to leave his claustrophobic lodgings. Koushiro waited for him while Taichi straightened his dishevelled uniform, then passed the younger boy a sheet of paper. "Here, this should help: a map of our position. This here," he added, "Is the support trench. The one we were in before is the reserve trench, where most of our artillery and food is kept and where the soldiers lodge, for the most part. Now, come with me."
Taichi obeyed and found himself walking through another thin connecting ditch. The next trench was somewhat more open and active than the previous two. There he had his first glimpse of life in the dugouts, ordinary men moving to and fro and paying him no heed. "This here is the cover trench," Koushiro explained. "We spend most of our time here, although it can get quite loud during artillery fire." He pointed down another narrow tunnel. "That way there is the firing trench: about as close as you can get to No-man's-land without getting your head blow off!" Koushiro laughed as though that had been a joke, but Taichi failed to see the humour of it.
"No matter," the field marshal said. "Do you have any questions?"
Taichi hesitated. He had a thousand queries running through his head, most of them along the lines of, 'Will I ever get out of here?' but he said nothing, simply shaking his head no. Koushiro clapped him on the back.
"You're not much of a talker, are you? I know that things look bad now, he added in a confidential tone, "But soon you'll stop seeing the grime, and the gunshots won't keep you up at night. It's always hard for the young ones." The last comment was made softly, as though Koushiro was addressing himself. Then his melancholy mood slipped off like a greasy raindrop, and Taichi wondered if he would also acquire such a skill. They were about to continue their tour when a bubbly youth strode up to Koushiro, entirely ignoring Taichi, verily skipping as he went. Tufts of blonde hair stood out from under his undone helmet.
"Sir," the boy said and stood to attention crisply. "We've had some good news from the line! Thirty-seventh of Toulouse broke through to the Enemy trenches and have a crowd of prisoners. They're being interrogated, the runner said, and so we're bound to get some news about the unusual soldier movements!" He delivered his message in a rush, beaming broadly at having the honour to enlighten his commander. Koushiro laughed accedingly and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. He turned to Taichi.
"This, captain, is our young lieutenant Takeru Takaishi."
The boy seemed only then to actually see Taichi. He smiled sheepishly and threw a salute in his direction. "Pardon my manners, sir, but it's so rarely that we get some good news that I couldn't help myself."
Taichi, unsure of proper etiquette, extended a hand to Takeru and shook it. "Captain Taichi Yagami. Oh, and none of this 'sir' business. I'm hardly older than you are!"
This seemed to go down well with Koushiro, who dismissed Takeru with a grateful nod. "Good boy, that one," he commented, "One of the brightest, and never shirks a task!"
Taichi found Takeru's energy refreshing: it was like a small beacon, proving that not all was bad in the trenches. The Koushiro continued on the tour, pointing out various supply rooms and showing Taichi where to store his rifle so that it was easily accessible. "Your revolver stays on your hip at all times," he cautioned in one of his serious spates. "Even when you sleep. Remember, if anything goes wrong, at least you'll have a fighting chance." The bushy haired boy didn't like the way Koushiro said 'fighting chance', nor was he thrilled about the all too real possibility of an attack. Without commenting, he urged the older man to a safer topic: namely, the officers in his regiment.
"Well," Koushiro began, gathering his knowledge, "There is little Iori Hida. Barrel of laughs, if he's in the mood. He isn't the best fighter, being just seventeen." Taichi raised an eyebrow in silent query. Boys weren't allowed on the line unless they were eighteen. "Oh, he just got some forged papers. He probably regrets it now, knowing what trench life is really like, but you have to admire the kid's guts. Jyou Kido is the field doctor," the marshal went on, "And he'll stitch you up before you can call for anaesthetic! Don't let him anywhere near you with that scalpel, if you aren't put under, because that one doesn't hesitate to do his job." He lifted up his arm, pulling up the sleeve to reveal a faint scar. "I got caught on some barbed wire out in the field. It was bleeding, but the cut was shallow. But that Jyou of ours, he got into a regular state and sowed me up in all of twelve seconds. You should have heard me cursing him," Koushiro went on with a chuckle.
Taichi nodded, assimilating all of the information. "And him?" he asked, gesturing at a sullen black-haired youth. The boy hadn't shifted since Taichi had first seen him, nor had his hateful, depressing expression melted. There was a loaded shotgun in his lap, and an empty stare in his eyes. Nobody paid him any heed.
"Him, eh?" Koushiro shook his head sadly. "That is Ken Ichijouji. He's been here longer than any in this company. Three years, almost: he was one of the first to be sent out here. It was sheer skill - and some luck - that let him survive that long out here. If that isn't explanation enough for his manner, then I don't know what is. Paranoid, too. But who can blame him? He's seen more death and madness in those three years that I've seen in my entire life - in all of our lives combined! Excuse his dark silence. He's the best they have. But he never wanted to be promoted! He could have been a general now, sipping tea while we commoners rough it out here. But for some reason he stays, and it's the most tragic and romantic thing that I've ever seen."
Taichi only half-listened. His eyes were drawn magnetically to the boy. Would he end up like that? Or, would he be killed off before he'd had the chance? Taichi couldn't decide which fate was worse, which he'd prefer. Death was one thing; being dead to happiness something different entirely.
"Oh, but let's not dwell on him. He'll be put right once all of this is over. Ken just needs a girl with a soft touch to get him in order. Or a boy!" He added with a laugh, glancing askance at Taichi to see his reaction. The captain shrugged, his mind not on the words. "Let's go in, it's about time for our supper!"
There was a secretive smile on Koushiro's lips as he led Taichi into the main dugout. Takeru was already there, stomping the mud from his boots. Taichi then met Iori and Jyou, taking his place at the table beside the young blonde, absorbing a handful of his radiant joy. At first, the conversation revolved around the recent spate of good news: perfunctory talk about the situation to the south. And then the food came.
Taichi stared at the brown mass on his plate, wondering if he should expect it to wander off of its own accord. He saw the others eating with gusto. And although he was hungry, Taichi didn't think he'd be able to stomach that, whatever it was. He prodded it with a fork. It gurgled. Taichi lost the last smidgeon of his appetite. He had the brief, uncomfortable notion that he was undergoing some sort of initiation, and when he glanced up he noticed that everybody was looking at him.
"Aren't you hungry?" Takeru asked, aghast.
"I would be if this was edible," Taichi answered plaintively, envying the others' oblivion. He picked up one of the vegetables - well, it looked as though it had been a vegetable at some point in its life! - and shoved it into his mouth symbolically. He barely chewed it before swallowing. Koushiro burst out laughing.
"First taste of soldiers' rations? Get used to it, Taichi. You aren't likely to get anything better out here." Then his voice grew secretive. "A shot of whisky usually helps it go down better!" He offered Taichi the alcohol and the captain took a swig. Warmth flowed down into his stomach, but it did little to increase the appeal of the food. He forced down another mouthful before he shoved the plate aside.
"So, Taichi!" Iori said, reclining in his chair. "First day on the bloody front, hey? Not what it's made out to be!"
Taichi smiled at the truth in his statement. "Guess if they told us what it's really like, most guys would sign up for medicine!" This got a laugh all round: cowards were infamous for that choice of studies, hoping that the war would be over before their four compulsory years were done. Jyou looked at him with mock sourness.
"A lot of good it did me!"
The conversation continued in a similar vein for a while, with jokes to lighten the quickly settling dusk. Ken didn't join them, and Taichi felt that it wasn't his place to mention it. At some later point, Takeru sprang abruptly to his feet. He grabbed a full plate from the kitchen alcove and trotted outside, mumbling an excuse. The trio's eyes followed him out, Koushiro with a wistful smile on his face. "That boy should have been called Sunshine! Looks like he's made it his personal mission to take care of our resident cynic."
"Very good care," Iori intoned, lifting his eyebrows. "A little suspicious, if you ask me!"
"None of that, Hida!" Koushiro admonished. "It's good for both of them." This statement put Taichi in mind of the red-haired man's previous comment about Ken's needing somebody to look out for him. "Besides, it's Takeru's watch now. We'd all better get some rest. Taichi, I'll put you in for the morning watch with myself, so that you can learn the ropes before standing to by yourself."
Iori yawned, breaking the silence that followed this announcement. "I'm turning in," he announced.
"Into what?" Jyou muttered, earning himself a swipe aimed at his head. The atmosphere shifted subtly after Iori's departure, and Taichi found himself relaxing in the presence of the elder men.
"Now that we have a moment," Koushiro said pointedly, lowering his voice to draw the boy in. "Taichi, I must admit, morale isn't what it used to be anymore. We've had rumours about some strange patrol movements by the enemy, and we fear an attack at any moment." He brushed his hair back despondently. "We're sitting ducks, waiting for news and orders. You must forgive the men if their manner is clipped. As you can imagine, we've hardly slept, hardly had the chance to relax. Your arrival has given everyone a boost, so please, do not destroy our fragile hope."
Taichi didn't like having that kind of a burden on his shoulders, and he said as much. He hardly felt the scion of encouragement that he had been made out to be.
"It's hard, of course. And do not get disheartened. Just keep what I've said in mind, alright?"
"Certainly."
"Off with you then, to bed, captain!" Koushiro ordered, dispelling the serious atmosphere. "You've a hard day ahead of you!"
That night, Taichi lay on his uncomfortable bed and could not sleep. Every shadow caused his heart to leap, and the scatter of gunfire at some point left his nerves in a wreck. Had those been their guns? Or the enemy's? Whenever shallow sleep descended on him, he was plagued with nightmares of mud and death and cruel men laughing down at him.
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Dawn the next day was the single most beautiful, most anticipated event in Taichi's life. He leapt from the bed, feeling a whole range of muscles complain as he stretched. He felt oddly rejuvenated, afire with adrenaline, but feared that his fatigue would quickly overwhelm him. The mental stress was hanging over him like a thick, oily shadow. Perhaps when he had something to occupy his hands and thoughts, he'd feel better.
His stomach rumbled importunately. Taichi sighed. He was realistic enough not to hope for a decent breakfast, but perhaps the food would seem more palpable in clear daylight. He doubted it. He gathered all of his equipment - he'd kept his uniform on - and pulled on his boots, mindful of the muddy ground. He was just slinging his rifle onto his back when Takeru barrelled in, startling Taichi.
"Sorry," the boy said between his gasps for breath. His cheeks were pink from the cold. "It's time for your watch, Taichi! You must be our good luck charm; last night we didn't have any fire at all!" He beamed up adoringly at Taichi.
"But I heard some shooting!"
"Oh, that!" Takeru dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "That was far north. It can sound close down in the dugouts, but it isn't really. Are you ready? Watching with Koushiro is a privilege!" He continued his uninterrupted monologue as he followed Taichi all the way into the cover trench. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into one of the gaping black maws of the trench. It took the captain only a moment to find Koushiro, who was already waiting for him with a spare helmet in hand. Taichi accepted it gratefully.
Nothing of import happened during that stint. Koushiro was mainly silent, only speaking when he was asked direct question or giving curt instructions. In the thoughtful stillness, Taichi let his mind wander as he gazed across the churned No Man's Land. It looked so innocuous and barren. Beyond the barbed wire, there was nothing other than dull greyish earth; to his relieved disappointment, he was unable to see the enemy's trenches. Not a single shot was fired for those two hours, and afterwards, Koushiro himself was even surprised.
When he was off-duty, there seemed to be too little to do. Taichi felt useless. He'd gone over the supply lists and was about to do it again to relieve his boredom when a sudden ruckus outside alerted his attention. He grabbed his revolver, but the voices seemed rather joyful than offensive. He peered out in surprise, only to see Takeru run past him, spraying mud, and launch himself at a man that Taichi hadn't seen before. They embraced warmly, laughing with unadulterated joy. The elder of the two slid off his helmet. The blonde hair confirmed Taichi's suspicions: they were brothers.
He climbed the steps to make some sense of this visit and found himself intercepted by Koushiro, who seemed ever-present in his moments of confusion. "Taichi, there you are!" he proclaimed. "Come, you must meet Yamato!"
Taichi found himself being led over to the boy, who turned just before they reached him. Taichi had to keep his jaw up consciously: this Yamato was gorgeous! He found it strange to be making that observation, but he couldn't deny it. His eyes roamed over the shapely features and glistening golden hair, a shade deeper that Takeru's. Belatedly, he remembered to stretch out his hand. The boy looked at him askance, masking a smile.
"Captain Taichi Yagami," he forced out, flushing at the edge in his voice. What was his problem? He felt like a bumbling teenager!
"Staff Sergeant Yamato Ishida," the boy answered. His voice, soft and breathy, held an unquestionable vein of authority. He looked barely twenty. "I'm your supply officer, soldier," he added with a twinge of humour. "I'm the one you complain to about the quality of the food and the laziness of your men."
There was scattered laughter at his comment, everybody recalling Taichi's revulsion at the previous night's meal. Taichi felt stupid and had no idea how to respond, simply standing there in silence under the scrutiny of Yamato and the others. He felt heat rising in his cheeks. Luckily, his omniscient saviour Koushiro cleared his throat and bundled the pair inside, down into the main dugout. "Now, Taichi," he ordered, "Don't hold back on the demands! You only get what you ask for!"
Being alone with Yamato was perhaps worse than being outside with the others. Taichi became painfully aware of his every movement as he fumbled for the supply list that he had so recently gone over. He found himself almost irked at the casual way in which the blonde glanced around before settling himself in a chair. He realized, then, that Yamato must know the place much better than he did. "So, Taichi, have you had a chance to go over the stock yet?" he asked, all business, producing a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
"Yeah," Taichi answered, swiping a hand through his disorderly hair and trying to coax it into some semblance of order.
"And?" Yamato stifled a laugh at Taichi's discomfiture.
"Everything seems to be in order. We could use some trench mortars. And I wouldn't have anything against some edible food! The stuff here is gross! You have to knock it unconscious before you can eat it." Yamato laughed, appreciating the sentiment. Taichi felt himself relax exponentially. He found the courage to seat himself opposite the blonde and found that his knees had grown instable. He picked at the lint on his uniform, watching as Yamato made the appropriate markings in his book.
"I'll see what I can do," he was saying, and Taichi was slammed back into reality. He thrust aside the pleasant, if rather fanciful, daydream that involved him, Yamato and a secluded beach and tuned back into the conversation. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Huh?" Taichi asked, surprised by the innocuous question.
"Anything," and here Yamato leaned forward conspiratorially, making the distracted Taichi feel faint. He narrowed his delicious eyes, "Specifically for you?"
Taichi was completely and utterly floored. This impertinent blonde was teasing him! His mind instantly construed a thousand innuendos from the poignant words, and he sat in silence for a long while, reining them in with all of his willpower. When he realized that his silence had stretched to improbable length, he shot a glance at Yamato, who had cocked his head questioningly. There was a slight flush on his pale cheeks and Taichi saw - or imagined that he did - a soft smile ghost across his face. He could not find a sufficient number of brain cells that had not dissolved into a gooey mess to form words, so he simply shook his head.
Yamato nodded understandingly, packed away his belongings and rose from the table. "That will be all, then." His eyes lingered on his for a curious moment, but then they were torn away and their occupant climbed the stairs up and out. Or rather shimmied up, Taichi thought with impudence. What was his problem, he asked himself scoldingly. Were his hormones running rampant again? With a desolate sigh, he let his head fall onto the table with a thump.
A few minutes of composing himself later, Taichi leapt up the crude staircase taking three steps at a time. To his surprise, Yamato was still there, chatting amiably with Koushiro while Takeru looked on, his face almost cracking with the ear-to-ear smile. He kept his distance, observing as the older blonde produced some things from his satchel. One of them he offered to his younger brother, who squeaked joyfully and gave him an awkward hug. The second parcel he offered to Koushiro, its contents apparently needing some lengthy explanation, judging by the enthusiastic gesturing on both sides. The third also went to the field marshal, this time only warranting a secretive wink.
Taichi, feeling like an intruder in a private debate, turned to make his way back to his hovel. He glanced back a moment later. Yamato was hugging Takeru in farewell, whispering into his ear. Then, just as Taichi was about to continue, the sapphire eyes were raised and drifted past his. The brunette felt as though he had been pierced by a thousand arrows. Their eyes locked for a splendid second.
And then the illusion was destroyed as Yamato disentangled himself from his brother. With a final word of greeting, he turned smartly and made his determined way back into the further trenches. Taichi stood and stared after him long after Yamato had vanished.
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Like it? Hate it? Any feedback is welcome! ^_^