The Hero

Hello ^^ New member here; never even lurked, so I don't know if I'm doing something wrong; sorry if I do!  Thought I'd share the story I wrote for my writing community's first challenge.  It kind of depressed me, but in the end I think I like it. :) I'd love any comments and criticisms.

Challenge #1 - write a piece inspired by the word 'glorification'.
Title: The Hero
Rating: T+?
Summary: He sees the fine line between obedience and immorality, and knows that he has crossed it.
Word Count: 3,464
Notes?: Mild sex references; and Charlie's language does peak a bit strongly in the middle.  The story's more about the character and not the history, so please ignore any historical inaccuracies for the time being.  I'm only popping it out quickly anyway. :) Charlie and Julian are both English soldiers in France.  Oh - and the injection of the term 's***-faced' out of historical context is deliberate... just so you know I'm not that bad. :P

The cigar hangs from his lips, beautifully graceless in its thickness between those tiny pink lips. He’s poster-boy handsome – note the word ‘boy’, despite it all. Though he’s oddly emotionally mature, it’d feel odd calling him a man. He’s only twenty-three, after all, and could pass for younger. He wears nothing, especially not shame, as he sits and looks out of the window, blankets curled around his shapely calves. There’s a slight bend in both his brow and his right knee; the latter raises from the surface of the stiff, dirty mattress we paid far too many Franks for the night before, and the former gives the clear message that he’s concerned about something even to a mind muddy with a hangover like mine.

It takes effort to sit up, but after a few moments I manage to do so without making my head spin too badly. He doesn’t move until I rub a hand over the top of his arm, and even then he only turns his head and removes the cigar. “How long you been awake?”

I’ve been told before that he’s a great deal less charismatic in the morning, but it’s odd to hear his voice sounding so toneless. “A while.” I shuffle over to lean my head on his shoulder, gaze settling briefly on the crumpled military jacket on the floor, abandoned from the night before, but he doesn’t react; merely puts the cigar back between his lips for a brief drag. Sensing from the slight wrinkle of my nose as he expels the strongly-perfumed breath from that glorious mouth of his that I don’t like the smell of it, he doesn’t offer it to me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, kid.”

I’m not a kid; at least, not by society’s standards. Maybe I am by his, but that’s because he’s only young himself, and four years still feels like a long time to him. I understand this; all the same, I can’t stand the thought of being brushed aside like that. “Well, evidently it’s something for you to worry about.”

He twitches his nose, trying to knit a wooly sentence in body language to pull over my eyes; that he’s fine, that he’s just thinking. “Nah, no’ really.” He isn’t fooling me. He knows he isn’t, so he turns away and takes another drag on his cigaratte, careful to breathe out in the direction of the window, which is slightly ajar. There are a few short beats before he speaks again, but it’s enough to make me anxious that he won’t talk to me again.  “Don’t matter anyway.”

Encouraged by this sign that he’s not entirely opposed to talking about it – whatever it is – I shift my head from one place on his shoulder to another for comfort before I speak, tracing a finger lightly over the scar just below his collarbone on the right-hand side. It’s ugly, and it makes him feel more real. “What’s on your mind?” The hand moves down to his stomach, which, naturally, is slightly rippled from all the training. Of course, I’m a mere mortal; all my hard work at training hasn’t paid off nearly as well as his. He didn’t seem to mind yesterday – it makes me more confident to speak remembering that he didn’t push me away, reviled. “Tell me, Charlie.”

“Look, Jay.” It’s enough that he’s remembered the first letter of my name; my eyes meet his and become suddenly reluctant to break the acquaintance. His irises are dusky brown, and the emotion they can show – and presumably hide – is startling, though it’s generally a soft sort of gaze; not piercing. Maybe that’s why they’ve never made him a general. He blames his social class; I blame his cheeky, devil-may-care smile. He wasn’t born to be an authority figure, though he dealt with the limelight pretty well; or so I thought. “You wouldn’t understand, so I might as well say it don’ matter, right?”

Suddenly he looks so much younger, and the cigar looks wrong in his hand. I sit up and try to take it from him, but he keeps it out of my reach. Power; he’s always had power, if not authority. Attempting it again would truly be a futile venture, so instead I simply try not to look at it poised there between his thumb and forefingers, and move round slightly; my lips brush the pounding patch of skin which conceals his pulse, and I feel him flush. If I can’t get him to talk sober, then I’ll have to drug him up a bit first. “Charlie...”

“Don’ try that with me, okay?” His tone is heavy – he’s only stopping me because he knows he’d give in and submit to my questioning if he let me carry on. “I’ll talk.” A quick glance up at his face reveals an improvement in his mood, which ruffles my pride a little; he’s wearing one of those lopsided, teasy grins of his which, when exhibited, is a fast-track pass to kissing far more many drunk straight boys than he normally might be able to – and a good excuse for them to feed to their friends when either side remembers what they’ve done. Of course they’re not homosexuals; they were just drunk and playing around.

I’m a homosexual, and if it’ll win me just one more kiss from Charlie Blunt then I’ll be more than willing to sing it from the rooftops; even just the one. Even if he’s so promiscuous it won’t mean a thing.

“Good boy,” I tease, dodging his playful kiss only to shuffle into the space he carves for me between his legs and give him one of my own. For a few moments our lips, our tongues – and my heart – dance together until our wandering hands, his on my waist and mine on his face, betray the speed of our pulses and the echoes of yesterday in our blushing minds. As can be expected, it’s Charlie that stops us, a finger on my lips as they struggle to quiver back to meet his.

“Jules.”

“Mm.” I can’t stand being called Jules, but his voice... I can make an exception. My nose bumps against his jaw; the side closest to the window. It’s warm from the sun. “Yes?”

“D’you wanna hear about this... thing, or no’?”

“’Course I do.” I turn and lean my back against his chest, head tilted towards his so that he knows I’m listening. Something tells me he won’t talk otherwise; it’s a side of him I’ve never seen before, and though it’s the other side I fell in lust with, I’m intrigued by this one as I am with him as a whole, though being interested by Charlie in this way is like staring into the sun. Everyone tells you not to do it; tells you that it’s dangerous, that you’ll go blind – but you can’t help it. Curiosity beckons, and it’s so beautiful... “’Course I do. Tell me.”

 He pauses for a while before he speaks again; perhaps his cigar would have helped to calm him down, but as it is it lays forgotten on the windowsill.  He dropped it there as we started kissing, which is of some comfort to me; if I’m more important to him than his cigar, then I must have made some sort of impression. “It’s just... this whole...” he growls in frustration, and it sounds animalistic – masculine – rather than ridiculous, which it could have done. He almost stands up, but changes his mind, a hand on my shoulder to settle me – I don’t dare to think he stopped himself because it was jostling me. Instead, he nods in the direction he wants me to think about. “Those bloody... medals. This brave-old-bean claptrap.”

“What about it?”

“I...” His hot breath falls against my back, and I force myself not to shudder as he turns his head to face out of the window. “I just... I hate it.” The first time I hear it, it shocks me; I turn around to face him. “Stop wriggling,” he says begrudgingly, “or you’ll set me off, and we ‘aven’t the time.” It’s so personal that I do as he tells me, settling on my side against his chest. That soft smile is back on his mouth, and I’m dangerously tempted to reach up and smooth the crease from his lips with my own, shocked as I am.   “What? You look like your little ‘ead’s about to explode.”

“I don’t understand.”

He goes back to being serious again, and his expression is so melancholy that I can’t prevent myself from stroking his face with the back of my hand; my vain attempt at comfort clouds his expression, though, and I can’t escape the feeling that I’ve made it worse. Moments later he solves the puzzle for me. “You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for that bloody nickname.” Private Blunt by name, and they said he was blunt by nature, hence what they called him – Justice Blunt; or sometimes Blunt Justice. It’s common knowledge that Charlie hates being called it, but I always thought he simply didn’t like it. I thought I knew what he meant, but almost cruelly I asked him to clarify anyway with a questioning look. “Oh, you know what I mean. You’d not’ve shagged me if it ‘adn’t been for all that.”

It was true that Charlie’s reputation was far-spread. He was known in many camps; mention his name and not only would you likely see the blushing face of one of his previous conquests, but you’d also see the name command a lot of respect. The reason he was so well-known was simple – he was very talented at this game of war we all were playing. The medals he referred to were bravery awards; reminders for everybody looking at him – when he was clothed, of course, and he looked just as good when he was as when he wasn’t – that he was da Vinci in this art of killing the fascists. It’d be something to be proud of for most of us; hell, so far as we’d known until now, Charlie was proud of it too.

“I don’t know.” My voice sounds doubtful, which makes my statement truthful – I’d have shagged Charlie if he was only another nameless private like me. I’d have shagged him even if the pair of us had been far more shit-faced than we were yesterday; but in this state of mind I know he’ll never believe me if I tell him this. “I don’t know, Charlie.”

“ But I do.” His hand drifts absent-mindedly to the nape of my neck and strokes the hair there. It’s an electrifying feeling; ironic, given when he’s about to say.  “You don’ really care about me, do you? You jus’ got drunk and kissed the Colonel’s golden boy – because he’s the Colonel’s golden boy.” He frowns slightly, and the disappointingly the hand moves away. “You don’ even know who I am, Julian. An’ I don’ know who you are neither.”

I want to correct him – either – but it’s Charlie, so I don’t. Instead, I correct his opinion. “Of course I care about you.”

For what feels like far too long a period of time, there is silence. I watch the clock tick on the wall, and he watches his thoughts as they whirl around him in his mind. Momentarily, I sneak a glance at him. God almighty, he’s beautiful. They say it’s the smile that brightens up his plain face, but I can’t agree. There’s an angel in that jawline, those chiselled cheeks; that dazzling pair of eyes. He catches me looking, and he turns away with a crease in his brow. “Am I upsetting you?”

“No; not you in particular.”

This is a worrying response which my instincts tell me to kiss better, but the light pressure of my lips against his upper chest seems to have no effect whatsoever; instead, I speak as best I can, but it seems this problem is rooted far deeper than his bare skin can reveal. “Tell me, Charlie.”

“It’s everyone.” He rubs a hand over his face, and then startlingly moves that hand down to hold mine, looking at it as if it was something he didn’t see very often; something he really wanted to examine. “It’s... it’s like the only thing I’m good for is... murder.” He spits the final word as if it was a profanity – which to him I suppose it almost is. “Nobody cares about anything else. I’ve got these bastards shaking my ‘and and telling me I’m a real patriot; that I’m England’s finest.” He’s never talked about this before, and now his lips have parted to do so it’s all spilling out without the control he’s always envisioned. He wants to form a reasoned argument, but it’s too passionate a subject for him to harness properly. “So England’s finest is a talented killer.” He scoffs sadly, and I squeeze his hand. He seems to appreciate it, because he actually turns to look at me to finish, a crippling sadness in those pretty eyes. “We’re no better than they are, Jules. No better at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“What are we even fighting for?”

“Charlie, I-“

“We’re fighting ‘cause the Hun’s getting greedy – we’re fighting ‘cause he’s getting violent along with it. But we’re no better, are we? They’re killin’ all them Jews in camps, yeah, but... I’m no fuckin’ better.”

“Don’t talk like this, Charlie; don’t think like this.”

“How else can I think? It’s the truth! Kill one man back home and you’re chucked in the clapper for life – kill ten men here and you’re... you’re a hero.” I’ve never heard more self-disgust in anyone’s voice than I hear in his now, and it forms a crease in the corners of my eyes without my mind’s permission. “An’ I just carry on doing it.”

“We’re soldiers – this is war. We all just have to carry on doing it, love.” He flinches at the accidental term of endearment and it hurts, but I’m more preoccupied with the expression on his face. He disagrees with me just as fundamentally as he does with the war itself, and there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. He’s wonderful in his strong mind, but I can’t bear seeing the sorrow; I shake my head. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“And then what?” he half-whispers. We both know he’ll be hailed as a war hero, paraded down the streets. I know already how it will be; they’ll scream his name, and inside his mind he’ll scream Bastard, bastard! back at them. I can’t bear the thought – he senses I’m about to crumple, and his arms move around me in a rare display of compassion. He understands from my reaction that I understand him, and I realise that in all the world there is no greater gift that I could have given him.

“And then things will get better. Somehow.” I pause, and suddenly I feel I have to say what I think. “Charlie, I-”

“Don’t.”

“But I-”

“Please.”

In truth, I understand his logic. He knows what I want to say, and he knows he’ll never reciprocate – I don’t want to hear it, and he doesn’t want to say it. Instead, he kisses the top of my head and rocks me as I try to calm my unsteady heartbeat, forehead pressed gently against that same, beautiful pulse. God bless Charlie, who doesn’t cry and never will. God bless Charlie Blunt.

---

“God bless Charlie Blunt.”

It isn’t raining, and nobody is wearing a tuxedo. There is no pastor, and no solemn psalm to accompany our ears. His mother and sister aren’t weeping, and his father isn’t standing beside them gravely with his jaw dead-set so that he won’t join them in their grief. Instead the sun shines as if in tribute; the congregation is merely a group of dirty, uniformed men – nay, boys – who shuffle on their feet as if they’ve forgotten how to stand still. There is no black; only his red on the dirty mud floor on which he doesn’t deserve to lie. It matches his eyes, which remain open; I can only stand here in stunned silence and pray that his death was more comfortable than it looks.

I remember his glorious wide smile that invited hope into our minds; I remember a time when those eyes twinkled with life. Now they are matte, like dried paint. His eyes, then, are drier than mine. It’s difficult to hide my emotion as I uncurl his lifeless fingers from the weapon which he held so reluctantly in his last few seconds and throw it aside. The Colonol doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t question my actions as I step back and bow my head. I cannot look at his bullet-wrecked forehead – that which I kissed a mere week ago. I kissed more than that.

I recall his body, sticky-sweet against mine – his playful laughter and cheeky smile which hid the discontent; the depression.

“A true patriot...”

Charlie was never a killer. He was a soldier, and he did as he was told, but God, he was never a killer. Never, never; even when he pulled the trigger, watched the bullet fly hot and fast through the air into someone’s heart and down, down to the ground as he had done mere minutes ago before our very eyes.

“...ready and willing to do as was needed of him...”

He’d known from the beginning that I wasn’t like him; that I’d never run away with anyone else before like this. It was no cause for mockery with him, not like it would have been with the other soldiers, where only the manly-manly seemed to succeed. He was gentle, and kind. Blunt by name, but not by nature; no, never by nature, no matter what they say. Never, never.

“...a real asset to the war effort...”

He was sick inside; sick of the slaughter. He’d asked me what we were fighting for, and he’d answered as the government always would – but that didn’t really answer the question at all. As my mind drifts away from this scene of false testimony and mourning by those who never understood him, I recall his other questions. How else can I think? And then what? Charlie didn’t care about the war. Charlie cared about people, and they’d crushed his tenderness like a flower underfoot – like their godforsaken poppies. And then what? And then what? Oh, Charlie, then is now; so what now? There’s nothing worth fighting for; nothing at all.

I need him here, and I cannot have him.

“He will be sorely missed.”

At last we hear some truth, and I pray that Charlie Blunt heard it and nothing else. You, Charlie; not Blunt Justice. You will be sorely missed – you are sorely missed. The others walk away, and I want to walk away too but I can’t. My feet lead me closer to your body, closer, closer; I’d have given anything to be so close to you again before you passed and now? Seemingly, nothing has changed. I allow myself to sob into your jacket; I pull off the medals that you carried like weights on your heart and cast them aside, like the gun. The Colonel would disapprove, but I have to liberate you; I have to let you go.

I kiss your lips. They’re still warm, and it almost feels like I can reach through to the other side and pull you back, but I don’t think I would if I could. I think you wanted to die, in the end; I think you could no longer bear it. It would be cruel to pull you back; but as I stand back up and regard your body, peaceful as you always wanted to be, for the last time, I wish I could comfort you with the same thought as I comfort myself with; the same thought as I tried to express before.

You felt as though your only gift was death, but you were so much more than that. A kind word for everyone, and every conversation that glorious laugh – you held me close, Charlie,and threw me your smile; and God, I’ve never felt so alive.

The sound of gunfire meets my ears, and suddenly there are shouts around me; they’re telling me to crouch down, down, but I can’t. I don’t want to.  I want to fall, like Charlie.  Like my Charlie did.  And then what? I know what. I turn to face the fire, and I see them coming. I smile, just like he did, as I face war’s real blunt justice. I want to.

I love you, Charlie.