I don’t consider myself brave. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. But, when I see my friends die and know that I am likely to suffer the same fate, I know that I have to try.

Jongin smiled to himself as he traced a fingertip lightly across his last journal entry; the dark ink smudged at his touch, the pressure of each word leaving identical impressions on several pages following. It had been several days since he had last written a letter to Kyungsoo and although Jongin himself was not quite sure why he had stopped, he knew that it was probably for the better.

Kyungsoo had probably come to terms with the fact that his fiancé was never going to come home; his fiancé was never going to survive. Jongin’s brow twisted into a small frown at the thought. Kyungsoo had moved on.

That very idea both hurt Jongin and put his mind at ease. Kyungsoo was his and his only, but Jongin knew that he was not going to survive this war and his love deserved another chance at happiness.

Exhaling quietly, Jongin closed his notebook, tucking it into the pocket of his mottled army shirt. He had only hoped that Kyungsoo would not be too distraught with news of his death. Tilting his head up to the sky, Jongin clasped his hands together, his legs swaying idly from side to side. He had been away from home for quite some time and yet, he still was not accustomed to sitting on sandbags.

“Hyung?” he called softly, not bothering to turn in Joonmyeon’s direction. From behind him, his lieutenant stood in the doorway of their makeshift sandbag bunker watching over the platoon; they played cards inside by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern.

The gravel crunched under Joonmyeon’s boots as he turned in Jongin’s direction. His lieutenant did not need to speak for Jongin to know that the olders attention was on him. Jongin hesitated, unsure of how to phrase his question.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his knuckles slowly turning white. “Dying?”

The gravel shifted from under Joonmyeon’s boots as he closed the gap between himself and Jongin. Taking a seat on an empty sandbag, he turned to face the young solider. “I don’t know,” he replied, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “I’m not dead. That is something you can only find out for yourself.”

Jongin’s brow creased. “Is it quick then?”

“That depends,” Joonmyeon replied.  Reaching out, he touched Jongin’s temple with his index finger gently. “If you are shot here, then you will die immediately. Won’t even feel it. But, say – “ he moved his hand, gesturing to Jongin’s abdomen. “– If you are shot here, you will bleed to death. It will be prolonged and it will be painful.”

“Oh,” said Jongin, twisting his fingers absentmindedly. “Hyung, does it hurt getting shot?”

Joonmyeon remained silent for a long moment, his hand absently moving to his shoulder, the raised, scarred flesh of his bullet wound could still be felt even underneath his thick uniform. It was some time before he regained his train of thought.

“Tell me, Jongin – are you afraid?”

“Yes,” Jongin replied, his voice barely audible. “We all are.”

Joonmyeon exhaled quietly, his hands falling into his lap. Turning his attention to the darkened horizon, his lips pressed together into a thin, thoughtful line.

“Is it dying that you are afraid of?” the lieutenant asked and, to his surprise, Jongin shook his head.

“No,” Jongin whispered. The raucous laughter of his platoon pierced the still night air, the weak light of the kerosene lantern flickering – fading. Jongin took a moment to listen to his platoon, wanting to remember what it was like to be happy and at ease – wanting to remember the sound of laughter.

“It’s the waiting that I’m afraid of. It’s the not knowing what will happen; not knowing who will survive. Not knowing - if we ever do make it back home - if we will ever be whole again.”

Joonmyeon frowned, dragging his fingers through his hair. “You won’t,” he replied. “If you do make it home, you won’t ever be the same.”

The nights were long, the darkness seemed to linger. It was everywhere. Unescapable, unavoidable. With each day that passed, the trek into the mountains drew nearer. With each day that passed, Jongin grew more and more desperate to hear from Kyungsoo.

Just once, Jongin pleaded. Just please let me know that you’re alright. That you’re happy.

It was during breakfast on the eve of their departure when Jongin finally got what he had been hoping for. Mail.

Previously, Jongin would sit in silence as his platoon opened letters sent by their loved ones and read them, first silently, and then out loud. Each time they would receive mail, when it came time for Jongin to read his, he would simply shake his head, his platoon offering him small words of reassurance before returning to their letters – what they treasured above all else.

But this time, everything was different. Jongin had braced himself for the worst; the usual heartbreak that he would feel as he watched his platoon read their letters. So when Joonmyeon handed him a small brown envelope, a smile on his face, Jongin tilted his head to the side in confusion.

“Who would you like me to deliver it to?” he asked politely, trying his hardest not to look at the envelope clutched tightly in the lieutenants hand.

“Nobody,” Joonmyeon replied. “It looks like you finally got your response.”

The breath caught in Jongin’s throat as he took the small envelope from his lieutenant, tracing a fingertip over the familiar, messy writing scrawled across the front of it. His heart began to race, his legs felt as though they wouldn’t be able to support his weight and so Jongin sat down quickly.

Tears stung his eyes as Jongin turned the envelope over to open it, his hands trembling. It was small, much more so than those given to the rest of his platoon, but to Jongin, this was the most precious thing in the world.

Sliding his thumb under the flap of the envelope, Jongin peeled the thick card apart carefully; he wanted to cherish every little detail about the communication from his love – the contents, the hastily scrawled handwriting, even the envelope itself.

Tipping the envelope upright, Jongin watched as a small, white cassette fell into his lap. A small note was wrapped around it, secured by a faded brown elastic band. Unwrapping the band, Jongin smoothed the note out across his knee.

Jongin, the note read. Please listen to my feelings.  - Kyungsoo.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Jongin closed his eyes, his lips twisting upwards into a smile. Kyungsoo had finally received his letters and had replied.

Opening his eyes once more, he glanced at his platoon who watched him closely.

“Does anybody have a cassette player?” he asked, holding the small tape up for them to see. “My sweet Kyungsoo has recorded his feelings to remind me just how much I mean to him.” When they remained silent, Jongin’s brow creased. “Nobody? There isn’t one in the camp?”

Allowing his shoulders to slump, Jongin sighed. “That’s okay,” he supplied in their silence. “I don’t need to listen to a cassette to hear him, his voice, telling me how much he loves me – I can hear his sweet laugh already.” Tapping the side of his temple with his index finger, Jongin tucked the cassette into the pocket of his mottled green shirt.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sehun yawned, leaning casually against the wooden doorframe that lead into the small living room. His button up pajamas were askew, his hair a mess.

Kyungsoo lay curled up on the couch, his gaze fixed firmly onto the off-white walls of Sehun’s tiny apartment and had remained there since the early hours of the morning. He did not move. He did not speak. Only stare.

It had only been a few days since Sehun had convinced him to leave the tiny home he once shared with Jongin and move in with him. ‘It would be easier to forget the past,’ Sehun had told him. ‘It would be easier for you to move on with your life. There is nothing there for you now.’

Sehun was right. He always was. But Kyungsoo was finding it hard to let go of the past. He didn’t know how long it would take for his package to reach the military base, or be re-sent to Jongin’s location. Not knowing whether Jongin had received his package was almost maddening.

“Is this still about Jongin?” Sehun asked with a snort. Crossing the tiny living room, he perched on the edge of the couch and placed a reassuring hand on Kyungsoo’s shoulder. “Forget about him.”

Kyungsoo remained quiet for a long while before finally, he tilted his head upwards to meet Sehun’s gaze. “But, what about the cassette?”

“What about it?”

With a small sigh, Kyungsoo slumped his shoulders. “Has it reached him yet? Has he listened to it? I won’t be at peace with myself until I know that he has heard my feelings.” He paused, his lips pressing together into a thin line. “Do you think that was the right thing to do? I mean, I could have waited until he got back before I told him.”

“Don’t you see?” Sehun asked, withdrawing his hand from Kyungsoo’s shoulder. “Jongin won’t come back.”

“You’ve got to be joking!” Chanyeol bellowed, his bloodshot eyes widened in alarm. From his side, the rest of his platoon voiced their disbelief – loudly – at their lieutenants orders. Meeting Chanyeol’s eye, Joonmyeon shook his head apologetically.

“Unfortunately, I am not,” he said, his voice low. “I am just following orders, just as you will be.”

Jongin’s heart sunk as he listened to Joonmyeon’s message. Drawing in shallow, shaky breaths, he gripped onto his forearm, digging his nails into his flesh praying that he would wake up. That this was not really happening.

They weren’t going to the mountain alone – that much was always known to them. They were to join forces with several other platoons – a small army of a hundred. But their plans had been altered. No longer were they required to take the mountainside in the high country. They were to be sent further south – not by much. A few kilometers as the crow flies.

Their sole purpose was to be a feint. A diversion. They were to attack unexpectedly – to draw the North’s attention – and gunfire – away from the mountainside to allow a second platoon time to capture it.

“That’s murder!” Jongdae hissed. “What are we supposed to do when we run out of ammunition?”

Lieutenant Joonmyeon cast his gaze to the muddy ground. “Use your bayonets,” he said quietly. “Grenades, rocks – anything you can get your hands on.”

Jongin closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. Jongdae was right – it was murder. He knew just as well as any that the amount of men assigned to their platoon would be nowhere near enough to hold the North’s attention for anywhere near enough time it would take to claim the mountainside.

They were to be a diversion.  A feint. A distraction.

Their sole purpose was to die.

The air was heavy with the scent of fog and death; gunfire and the sound of distant explosions pierced the silence. Jongin crept as quietly as he could through the dense forest, his knapsack rustling with each step he took. All around him, members of his platoon followed their lieutenant; hunched over, close to the ground. Just before entering contested territory, they had been told that, if they stayed closer to the ground, they would be more difficult to hit.

“Snipers have been seen close to the route we will be taking,” Joonmyeon told them quietly. “Keep your eyes open and your wits about you. We need to make it through unseen and, with any luck, we will.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately,” Sehun drawled as he stripped their bed of its sheets, throwing them in the hamper. “I’m worried.”

Setting about tucking the fitted sheet over the mattress, he waited until Kyungsoo spoke. When he didn’t, Sehun would shoot concerned glances in Kyungsoo’s direction whilst he changed the bed linens.

“I know,” Kyungsoo said, his voice barely a whisper, after several long moments of silence. “I’m sorry. It’s just – “ he paused, his brow creased in thought. “I was just wondering how long it would take for the cassette to reach Jongin, wherever he is – “

“There’s a very good chance that it will never reach him, Kyungsoo. Just like his letters never reached you.”

Kyungsoo froze. Lifting his head, he watched Sehun fixing the fresh set of bed linen, smoothing out any creases. His heart felt as though it had stopped beating entirely as he rose slowly to his feet.

“How do you know that Jongin’s letters never reached me, Sehun?” he asked, his voice low. “You told me that he had forgotten all about me; that he wouldn’t waste his time writing.”

Turning to face Kyungsoo, his eyes cold, Sehun swore. It was the first time that Kyungsoo had seen him lose his composure.

Ashen faced, Jongin huddled in the steep trench, his platoon spread around him; the soldiers had not but the smallest bit of space to themselves and more often than not, their shoulders would knock together, a wave of pain washing through their bodies.

Their rifles were held upright, the bayonets fastened to the end of the barrel reflected the weak rays of the morning sun. Closing his eyes, Jongin leaned heavily against the asperous wall of the trench – waiting.

Draping a comforting arm over his shoulder, Chanyeol stooped down. “Are you afraid of dying, Jongin?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

“No,” Jongin answered, although he was sure his response was less than convincing. As the day wore on, he was becoming more and more terrified about what lay in wake. “Are you?”

Chanyeol smiled grimly. “Yes,” he replied. “I am.”

Kyungsoo could not contain his anger as he tore the drawers from the dressing table. Throwing them onto the bed, he rifled through the – once neatly folded – clothes, tossing them onto the floor as he searched.

“Where are they?” he snapped, his voice cracking in his hysteria. “Where are Jongin’s letters?”

With his arms folded and face expressionless, Sehun leaned against the door frame, his dark eyes watched Kyungsoo’s every movement.

“And what makes you think I have them?” he drawled, his tone bored. Kyungsoo’s head snapped up and he met Sehun’s cold gaze.

“I am not an idiot,” he replied. “You told me yourself, even if it was a slip of tongue.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sehun’s lips twisted up into a cold smirk. “My apologies,” he said, his tone overcast.  “Please allow me to correct my previous statement: What makes you think that I kept them?”

Sullen faced, lieutenant Joonmyeon paced up and down the trench addressing his men. With his arms behind his back and head held high, he met each soldiers eye as he explained their plan of action.

“We have a small window of opportunity here,” he said, loudly enough that he could be heard by the men on the outskirts of the platoon. “General Lee is certain that the North are unaware of our presence, so we must make our time here count. I have been instructed to divide you into groups; twenty men per group, five in total.”

Extending his hand, Joonmyeon assigned the groups of twenty by the clusters of men closest to each other. With a relieved sigh, Chanyeol flashed Jongin a small, wary smile. ‘We’re together,’ he mouthed. ‘Group five.’

“Now,” Joonmyeon instructed, his hand moving to grab the small silver whistle around his neck. “Group one, move to the base of the trench; the others wait for my instruction.” Gesturing to the battlefield that stretched out above, Joonmyeon turned back to eye his men. “On my whistle, you climb; you run – you fight. You don’t give up. Am I understood?”

“Sir!”

Pushing himself through the cluster of soldiers, Jongin pressed himself against the far wall of the trench, Chanyeol at his side, and waited. Standing on his toes, he could just see Joonmyeon over the heads of the other soldiers raise the tiny silver whistle to his lips and blow into it; three shrill blasts reached his ears.

Immediately, the soldiers in the first group scrambled up the side of the trench only to be met with gunfire. Several soldiers did not manage to climb over the top of the trench before they slunk back down once more, blood soaked and lifeless.

Jongin’s eyes widened in horror. Despite the fear of death that loomed ahead, despite their comrades falling around them, the soldiers from the first group continued to scrabble up and over the rocky wall of the trench, a strangled war cry escaped their lips.

“They’re dying,” Jongin croaked, his throat dry. “Some of them have been shot already and yet … They keep trying.” Shooting a sideways glance towards Chanyeol, Jongin watched the colour drain out of the others face. “Why?” he whispered. “Why do they keep going, even though they’re being shot at?”

“Because they have to,” Chanyeol replied, his voice and heart were breaking.

The crack of gunfire fell silent and, as much as Jongin strained his ears, he could no longer hear the footfalls of his comrades, their shouts or their calls. He felt sick.

Casting an apologetic glance across the second group of soldiers who had shuffled forward to the bloodied rock walls of the trench, Joonmyeon raised his whistle to his lips once more and, after a brief pause, allowing his men one final moment to themselves, he blew into the instrument thrice, its shrill sound cutting through the still of the afternoon.

At once, the second group scrabbled over the high trench wall, some managing to unsling their rifles from their backs before they were met with a barrage of bullets. Jongin watched as one soldier stumbled backwards, clutching his shoulder – wounded – before a loud cry escaped his lips and he started forward once more. Jongin strained to see over the top of the trench; the solider had disappeared – he had fallen.

The solider was Jongin’s friend, Jongdae.

Jongin dropped his gaze, his grip on his rifle tightening.

Just as before, the gunfire ceased and the battlefield lapsed into an eerie silence. It took a lot longer before lieutenant Joonmyeon blew into his whistle, the third wave of men springing forward immediately, their rifles at the ready. But they fell equally as quickly as the two waves before them.

Joonmyeon swore quietly under his breath as the fourth group shuffled forward, their faces pale and eyes wide. “Lieutenant,” a soldier whispered. “Please. This is suicide.“

The lieutenant bowed his head apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “General Lee has ordered – “ he fell silent, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Raising the tiny whistle to his lips once more, Joonmyeon waited for the soldiers to prepare themselves for what was to come. Drawing in a shaky breath, he blew three shrill notes and in an instant, the fourth wave of men scrambled up and over the sanguine trench wall.

Jongin closed his eyes as he waited, the familiar sound of gunfire rose above the war cries of the fourth wave of soldiers. A strong hand gripped onto his shoulder and Jongin looked up; Chanyeol, ghostly white, smiled down at him.

“We’re up next,” he said quietly, taking a shaky step towards the front of the trench.

A small section of it had been leveled out, almost as though it were a shelf, by whoever had constructed it. Tiny items littered its surface; a familiar insignia glittered in the center: the four waves prior had left behind tiny trinkets – items that meant the world to them.

A pearl necklace belonging to a wife; a silken handkerchief; a tiny pocket watch; a family photograph.

Chanyeol’s eyes scanned the tiny rock shelf before he reached into the pocket of his pants, withdrawing a folded letter. Unfurling the paper, he leaned it against the back of the rocky wall, a small photograph was pinned to one corner.

“Who’s that?” Jongin asked, gesturing to the photo; Chanyeol’s arms were wrapped tightly around the waist of another, both smiling happily.

“That’s Baekhyun,” Chanyeol said with a small smile. “Everything I fight for here, I’m doing it for him – I want to make the country a safer place for the one I love the most.”

With a small nod, Jongin ed the pocket of his mottled shirt. In the small space next to Chanyeol’s letter, he placed his notebook and the cassette tape, Kyungsoo’s note still attached with an elastic band.

“That’s a strange place to keep them,” Chanyeol said, brows raised. “Wouldn’t it be uncomfortable?”

With a small smile, Jongin shook his head. “Not at all,” he said simply. “Kyungsoo’s words were next to my heart, right until the end.”

Taking hold of his rifle, Chanyeol drew in a sharp breath. “Don’t say that,” he whispered. “We’ll make it. This isn’t the end.”

Raising a shaky hand, Joonmyeon placed the whistle to his lips.

A shower of bullets fell around Jongin, his heavy boots slipping on the blood soaked ground. Some, missing their mark - some not; agonized cries reached his ears as he ran.

“Stay with me,” Chanyeol called, slowing his pace for him to catch up. “We can only win if we stay together.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Jongin nodded, his eyes firmly fixed on Chanyeol’s back as they wove their way across the bloody battlefield. Bodies of his allies lay scattered across the muddy terrain, their eyes empty. Dozens and dozens – all dead. The waves that had gone before them – all gone. And they, too, were soon to follow.

A loud cry pierced the air as Chanyeol’s legs gave way from under him and he fell – lifeless, dead. A bullet had pierced his heart. 

“Chanyeol!”

Drawing in another sharp breath, Jongin held back the bile that bubbled up his esophagus. He had to keep running. He had to. Raising his rifle, bayonet fastened to the tip of the barrel, he screamed. This was it. He was ready to die.

Jongin’s heart drummed loudly in his chest; it was in perfect euphony with the thunder of gunfire.

Thump, thump.
Boom, boom.
 

Thump, thump.
Boom, boom.


Thump, thu-

Boom.