MCR: Peace Which Passeth Understanding [3.2]
Peace Which Passeth Understanding
part 3.2 (part one here - part two here - part three.one here)
(gerard/frank and mikey/pete implied.)
au, based on "the ghost of you" video.
r for GRAPHIC violence, language, sexual situations.
08 August 1944
Jadis, si je me souviens bien, ma vie était un festin où s'ouvraient tous les cœurs, où tous les vins coulaient. Un soir, j'ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux. - Et je l'ai trouvée amère. - Et je l'ai injuriée.
Gerard sat, book open in his lap, struggling to read the thick, unfamiliar French. He worked through each word, bouncing it from his lips to his teeth, as if he could suck out the meaning just from the sounds. With the tip of his right index finger, he followed the lines across the page. The cheap, thin paper felt slightly oily, and the flecks of unprocessed pulp gave it texture. He pressed down harder against the page, as though it might still bear traces of Mikey's hands -- as if he could soak them up, gather the fragments and make something whole again.
Someone laughed. Someone shouted. Gerard gave up, for the fifth time in the last three days. Stupid, to think that after two months as a soldier in this country, he might understand more than a scattered cognate, one word in thirty. He tossed the Rimbaud on top of his rucksack, and looked around at the makeshift camp.
Two weeks of sun had shoved the offensive deep into the gullet of the German lines, but the dry August weather that steadily bore down on them had its casualties, too. Gerard had always thought of French sunlight in picturesque terms from his time at the Art League: Cezanne's sun-cragged views of Mount Sainte-Victoire, the almost inconceivable yellows of Van Gogh's Arles sky, the gradations of buttery light suffusing the visage of Monet's Notre Dame de Paris. He could remember the names, the dates of the paintings, but none of his old awe remained. This unremitting French sun crept up over their left shoulders from the east as they marched. It baked and cracked the earth until the roads split open, until Gerard could imagine just jumping into hell without a bullet or a shell to send him there.
They'd met back up with the rest of the Regiment in Mayenne, two days ago -- Gerard wasn't sure if Trohman had planned that. Certainly it felt like happenstance; Carden had almost shot the C.O. of George Company before someone corrected him. The roads spat up clouds of dust, clinging to their uniforms and the hedgerows and the trees, making it hard to tell friend from foe.
"We should just ask 'em who won the World Series," Carden had grumbled. "Make them prove themselves."
"Do you even know who won the Series last year, jerk?" Bryar's tense, plodding footfalls conveyed his annoyance.
At least three people in formation shouted, "Yankees!"
Carden looked mollified. Bryar had just shook his head. "Fucking idiot."
With the Regiment and Major Armstrong came amenities that seemed like luxuries, after two weeks of constant advance: latrines, dug and maintained; regular sleeping arrangements with their pallet mattresses on level ground. Looking around, Gerard almost felt like a human being.
A crowd began to gather at the mess tables, jostling and joking with the staff there. They straggled into a serpentine line, stretching back toward the senior officers' tents. Gerard ambled over, watching as the mess sargeants ladled out gloppy, burbling mounds of indeterminate food into the men's overturned helmets. He imagined the interplay of scalp sweat and grease, thought it might even be possible to hear the food squelch its way down into the men's stomach. (Gerard had grown familiar with the spatial layout of innards -- he knew where a bullet could rip through a man's abdomen and leave a hole three times wider than its size, knew the color and noxious smell of bile that seeped out of a wound that dragged out death for three, four, six hours. Mikey had been quick. Last week, they had to watch Carter beg for water, for his mother, for death, as his intestines ripened in the heat and his heart refused to stop beating.)
"You cutting the line, Way?" Toro stood at the front of the line, helmet in hand.
"What?" Gerard wiped his jaw.
"Because there's a couple hundred hungry fellas, waiting for their turns at the mush, Sir. And they don't all know you like I do."
Gerard suspected Toro couldn't be truly angry if he tried. "How'd you weasel your way here so fast?"
"Talent," Toro beamed.
Behind him, Cortez rolled his eyes. "He's been standing here since lunch!"
"I guess we could let you in." Toro leaned back. Let free from his helmet, his hair expanded in all directions, in defiance of any logic Gerard could imagine. He winked. "Seein' as you're a good guy and all."
Gerard chuckled. "Thanks, boys. I'm not hungry."
With a whomp, the mess sergeant upended a congealing mound of food into Toro's helmet. "Your loss," Toro shrugged.
"Yeah, right." Gerard shook his head, stepping away.
Today had been a good day, he thought. Gerard had tagged along with the men who went swimming in the Mayenne River. The two ruined bridges sent up jagged shadows down the length of the water, but the last bridge, saved by a suicidal Georgian private in the 90th from German explosives, provided shade and a diving point for Butcher and Conrad's splash competition. (Conrad won, on a technicality.) Gerard had spent the afternoon helping Toro and the Medical Detachment ferry civilians from the local hospital to the Regimental aid station. Someone said they were all getting absentee ballots tomorrow, so they could vote in the election this fall. A good day -- the word was small enough that Gerard could think it without aching. Good.
Gerard saw Saporta, crouched in front of his tent. Unlike everyone else, he hadn't deigned to alter his dress in response to the heat: he wore a black and white checkered scarf around his neck, slung over one shoulder, with a non-regulation leather jacket buttoned halfway up his front. He looked absurd, and Gerard almost laughed.
Until he saw that Saporta was flipping idly through the slender body of the Rimbaud.
"Hey - what the fuck are you doing?"
Saporta started. He shaded his eyes from the sun with a casual hand. "Browsing." He grinned. "How's it, lieutenant?" His long fingers spider-walked over the dull brown cover. "I've been dead for reading material since we came over -- thought I'd take a gander at what you've got."
The ground shivered. Gerard's head swam. Everything went bright, bright white.
When Gerard opened his eyes again, he lay, sprawled out on the cracked ground, panting hard. Frank's face jumped into focus, inches from his own; Gerard could feel the press of Frank's body on top of him. "Gerard!" he said. "Gerard, look at me. Look at me!"
Gerard blinked.
"Gerard," Frank repeated, quieter.
Gerard rubbed his mouth, and saw his hand was smeared with blood. "What happened?" He moved to sit -- Frank eased over.
Saporta was curled on his side a few yards away, his lower lip split at the corner. Blood fell, drop by drop, onto his white scarf. Toro dabbed at him with a cotton swab as Cortez and Conrad looked on, with a small crowd he didn't recognize. They swapped nervous glances, flitting over at Gerard and Frank.
Mikey's book lay face down in the dirt, its pages splayed out, ignoble. Gerard saw Pete's note flutter at one corner, barely held down in the breeze.
Gerard jumped to snatch the paper before it flew away, not looking at any of the gathered men. He folded the note back into the lining of the back cover, and shut the book tightly. There was so much dust. Rocking back onto his heels, he wiped at the cover with frantic strokes. When he raised the spine to his mouth to blow out the collected dirt in the binding, he saw that he'd left a single bloody thumb print below the title.
Frank laid a hand on his shoulder; Gerard knew it was Frank without seeing him. When he looked up, the low sun fanned out around his silhouette, a bright halo that cast Frank's face in darkness.
"It's Mikey's book," Gerard mumbled. "It was Mikey's book." He licked his fingers, and rubbed at the print.
"I know."
Gerard didn't know what else to say. The print refused to fade, stubbornly bright against the dull brown page. He pressed as hard as he could.
"It's fine," Frank said. He crouched, so Gerard could see his face. He looked -- sad, Gerard thought. As though Saporta hadn't deserved to get his face beaten in for touching Mikey's book, as if Gerard didn't have every right to defend what was left of his little brother.
"It's not," Gerard mumbled. It wasn't.
"Come on." Frank helped him stand, walked him back to the stream that traced the edge of their camp. He held the book as Gerard dragged his hands through the fast-flowing water, as Gerard tipped cupped handfuls down the back of his shirt. It was so fucking hot, he thought. The chilly water raised goosebumps all over his body, and they didn't fade when Frank gave him the book back, when he walked him back to his tent. Someone had packed his rucksack again. It sat slumped against the canvas flap, looking almost apologetic.
Gerard slid the book back in, tucked it safely under his spare shirt and trousers. He felt through the rest of his belongings. His blind fingers identified Mikey's Bible and Eliot volumes, Gerard's own sketchbook, just by touch. When he looked up, Frank was gone.
...
14 August 1944
Saint-Maurice-du-Désert fell after five hours, in the lingering moments of early evening. The Sixteenth Regiment rolled through the tiny village's only intersection with their gun barrels still hot. The town's clock, perched above an unscathed bank, read seven thirty-five as Gerard's men paused for breath. He counted: three casualties. DeLeon dead. Seven thirty-five stretched into eight. Gerard watched as stunned residents emerged from the light-less, airless cellars where they'd been hidden, and tried not to think about DeLeon's fiancee in Nevada.
Major Armstrong gave the order, and word trickled down: Fox Company would secure the far outskirts of town; they'd use the church that stood there as a makeshift hospital, sweeping for lingering resistance before Medical moved in.
Too late for DeLeon, and Gerard pushed the thought back from where it had bubbled to the surface.
Trohman sketched the skeleton of a plan. "Allman, you and I'll bring first and third platoons in through the fields around the road-- Way, clear the church. Leave your support staff back, I don't want us losing anyone else over a fucking hole like this."
He raised his voice, bellowing out to the assembled men. "Move it, or lose it, ladies!"
Shadows hung on the trees, planting weird shapes across the road. Gerard marched at the head of his column, with Butcher stationed beside him. His right hand itched over the base of his gun; the scabs from his split knuckles had almost healed. He rubbed them against the metal, and the twinge subsided.
They reached the church, its stone edifice battered but standing. The silence loomed up; nothing stirred in the darkening woods. Gerard signaled for his men to form up into squads. "Watch for mines," he said. "Carden, take the church. Butch, sweep the road -- make sure we're not gonna get surprised on our way out. Everyone else -- " He waved his hand again, and Bryar's men fell in behind.
The evening light obscured the subtle clues of landmines -- dirt packed too well, a shade dryer than the surrounding earth -- as they crept forward. Gerard took every step gingerly, wincing with the imagined explosion that would rend his limbs. Nothing sounded in the quiet, besides the whispering of shifting grass as Bryar and the other dozen men made their way toward the cemetery behind the church.
Several figures crouched against crooked tombstones, their backs back to the approaching troops. Gerard made a motion for his men to stop, cocked his gun over his shoulder. He took three, four, five breaths, waiting for the soldiers to respond. From fifteen paces, Gerard could make out the olive green fabric of German Army tunics.
"Sir."
Gerard swung around, wheeling his rifle with him. Bryar held up his hands, eyes wide. "Sir," he repeated softly. "They're dead."
"What?"
"I think they're all dead."
At that moment, the wind shifted, and they smelled it, almost at once: the acrid, bitter after-odor that hung around with the dead, rising like a wave over the cemetery. Gerard swallowed, forcing bile down, and stood.
"Come on," he said, voice dry.
The first man could have fallen asleep, leaning against the slanted tombstone. His features looked soft, reposed, with a wisp of blond hair peeking from under his cap. A dark stain had seeped through his shirt at the middle, a starburst of blood that his clasped hands tried in vain to cover.
The stench grew worse as they walked on. Entrails littered more than one headstone, slick like fresh sacrifices to the long-entombed dead below the ground. Gerard stumbled over a root; when he glanced down, he saw it was an arm, severed at the shoulder, fingers curled into a fist. A tall stone cross had been sheared in half; at its base, the body of a soldier lay huddled, his face ripped off. Gerard stared at the pulp of bones and flesh that remained for a moment, before he forced himself to look away. Another corpse hung from a tree, thrown up by the force of an artillery shell. His head dangled from a different branch, glassy eyes unseeing.
Gerard heard the jagged, muted noise of someone retching: Crawford, clutching the wrought iron spikes of the gate. Marshall crouched next to him. Even Bryar and Conrad stood, lost.
"Everyone." Gerard barely recognized his own voice. "This site's clear. Let's move out. Bryar, when we get back into town, find Major Armstrong's staff. Someone has to come bury them."
No one moved.
"Bury them where?" Marshall whispered, eyes blank.
Gerard swallowed down another wave of nausea. "Second Platoon!" he barked. "First Squad, clear out! That's an order!"
One by one, the men gathered themselves. Almost like a dog shaking off water, Bryar rolled his shoulders and cleared his expression. He nudged Conrad, and the two of them led the march out of the eerily quiet graveyard.
Bryar met Gerard's eyes as he passed. None of the higher-ranking officers had ever reprimanded Gerard for punching Saporta, and none of his men had mentioned anything to him. Even Frank kept quiet. But Gerard knew they'd been watching him, everyone, tracking his actions against his behavior in Africa, in Italy. Gauging, on an internal scale whose markers Gerard couldn't see, whether he'd lost it.
Bryar didn't betray any of his thoughts with his gaze. But he did nod, just a slight dip of his chin, acknowledging Gerard. Gerard remembered, then, that his promotion from Sergeant to Second Lieutenant had been more a matter of circumstances than merit -- any of the others who'd been with Fox Company since the beginning deserved the extra chevrons on their sleeves.
Gerard nodded back, and waited for the last man -- Crawford, still looking green -- to pass before joining the line.
...
24 August 1944
Frank caught Gerard on his way out of the pond, just as he shook the excess water from his hair.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Gerard yelped. His wet hair slapped the back of his bare neck, and he felt an immediate flush of blood pool to his face. He clutched his towel tighter. "What the hell, Frankie?"
Frank held Gerard's discarded clothes bundled in his arms. "Sorry, sorry." He shoved them at Gerard. "Here. I just - Siska told me you were taking a bath, and I - "
"Turn around."
Frank blinked. "Are you kidding me."
Gerard's blush worsened. "Fuck you."
Around them, dozens of naked men splashed in the pond, reveling in the supply of fresh water that had continued as the Regiment paused near Saint-Maurice. Gerard knew for a fact that Scimeca had taken to bathing twice a day, just for the sheer joy of it. Even the villagers, after eleven days of the Americans' presence, had started to accustom themselves to sporadic bursts of joyful nudity in the local ponds, streams, and fountains.
Gerard stared at Frank, dripping onto the soft grass, until Frank turned. His skin prickled with paranoid goosepimples, and he narrowly resisted from ordering Frank not to peek. No one had managed to hold onto any modesty through the last two years of close quarters, ribald stories and minimal privacy. He pulled his clothes on as quickly as he could, and tried not to think about how much Frank might have seen. They'd all seen one another naked. Nothing had changed.
"You're always sneaking up on me, Iero," he mumbled, fitting each shirt button into its hole with water-wrinkled fingers.
"I like surprises."
Gerard turned. "What is it?" he asked. Beyond Frank, three of the newer recruits cavorted in the shallows.
"I -- wanted to give you a head's up." Frank drew his gaze back, dabbing his lower lip with his tongue. "We're moving out tomorrow."
"How far's the next march?" Gerard ran a hand through his hair, trying to coax the strands down against his head.
Frank shook his head. "Motor convoy."
Gerard whistled. "Fancy."
He folded his damp towel, concentrating on reducing it to the smallest volume possible. Otherwise, it'd mildew his books. His hands kept working as Frank cleared his throat.
"They're taking us to Paris."
"Fuck off." Gerard looked up, fast.
Frank was almost vibrating. His grin stretched wide, across his cheeks, lighting up his eyes and making his entire face shine with manic excitement. Gerard could barely look at him. He laughed, fast and giddy, saying, "There's been Resistance fighting all week - Leclerc's supposed to be in the city today or tomorrow." He laughed again. "I'm not -- they're gonna shift the whole fucking front west, with Patton."
Hope began to flicker in Gerard's chest. "Paris is free?"
Frank nodded, bouncing his weight from foot to foot. "Almost." He pressed his hands to his sides, forcing himself to stay calm; his fingers worked against his trousers seams like the strings of an invisible guitar.
He shook his head, and Gerard knew he was willing himself not to laugh. When he spoke again, his voice trembled. "Gee -- they're saying the war could be finished by Christmas."
Gerard felt his chest go tight, as that flicker of hope roared forth, spreading out to his veins. His head buzzed. "How do you --"
Frank laid a hand on Gerard's arm, lowering his voice. "I heard from someone with Major Armstrong's staff. The convoy's gonna come in tomorrow; no one's supposed to know until they get here." Frank grinned again; Gerard's chest seized harder. "I had to tell you."
Gerard nodded. He couldn't look at Frank's smile again. "Thanks for telling me." He kept his eyes on his feet, and wrangled this wild, searing thrill away from his heart. If he worked hard enough, he could isolate the warmth from Frank's hand, keep it from seeping into his excitement about Paris. He could stop Frank's touch from infecting Gerard's whole body until Gerard had to feel everything.
Frank let go. Gerard counted to five -- when he met Frank's gaze again, Frank's smile had faded. "So, I just thought you'd want to know," Frank said. Each word trailed awkwardly into the next.
"No, that's," Gerard nodded, "that's great news. Thanks, Frankie."
"Yeah." Frank nodded back. "I should -- " he gestured toward the camp. "There's a lotta stuff I still have to get briefed on."
"Right." Gerard couldn't stop nodding.
Frank began to shuffle back, away from Gerard. Gerard's skin felt too small for his water-logged body; his limbs felt too heavy to lift. He gave a half-hearted wave to Frank.
"Oh!" Frank stopped. "Fuck, I almost forgot." He reached a hand into his back pocket. "This is for you." Gerard took the small, thick book from him. "For, ah, helping you. With everything."
"Thanks."
With a helpless smile, Frank turned. Gerard watched him go, wondering why Frank was always walking away from him. Scaring him, then walking away.
Gerard flipped open the book to the title page. Harrap's Shorter French-English Dictionary, First Edition.
Gerard laughed, and his whole body lightened with the sound.
---
...
---
author's notes: 1) big kisses to everyone who's voted for this story in the bandom awards for best fic. i never even expected to be nominated, but i'm flattered and thrilled to be among such good company. go check it out!
2) if you're into awesome au's where gerard is INSANE, i suggest you check out ficbyzee's Weekenders series. girl is mad talented, and i'm amazed at the way her story's turning out.
3) as for the next update - we'll see! keep a look out!
part 3.2 (part one here - part two here - part three.one here)
(gerard/frank and mikey/pete implied.)
au, based on "the ghost of you" video.
r for GRAPHIC violence, language, sexual situations.
08 August 1944
Jadis, si je me souviens bien, ma vie était un festin où s'ouvraient tous les cœurs, où tous les vins coulaient. Un soir, j'ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux. - Et je l'ai trouvée amère. - Et je l'ai injuriée.
Gerard sat, book open in his lap, struggling to read the thick, unfamiliar French. He worked through each word, bouncing it from his lips to his teeth, as if he could suck out the meaning just from the sounds. With the tip of his right index finger, he followed the lines across the page. The cheap, thin paper felt slightly oily, and the flecks of unprocessed pulp gave it texture. He pressed down harder against the page, as though it might still bear traces of Mikey's hands -- as if he could soak them up, gather the fragments and make something whole again.
Someone laughed. Someone shouted. Gerard gave up, for the fifth time in the last three days. Stupid, to think that after two months as a soldier in this country, he might understand more than a scattered cognate, one word in thirty. He tossed the Rimbaud on top of his rucksack, and looked around at the makeshift camp.
Two weeks of sun had shoved the offensive deep into the gullet of the German lines, but the dry August weather that steadily bore down on them had its casualties, too. Gerard had always thought of French sunlight in picturesque terms from his time at the Art League: Cezanne's sun-cragged views of Mount Sainte-Victoire, the almost inconceivable yellows of Van Gogh's Arles sky, the gradations of buttery light suffusing the visage of Monet's Notre Dame de Paris. He could remember the names, the dates of the paintings, but none of his old awe remained. This unremitting French sun crept up over their left shoulders from the east as they marched. It baked and cracked the earth until the roads split open, until Gerard could imagine just jumping into hell without a bullet or a shell to send him there.
They'd met back up with the rest of the Regiment in Mayenne, two days ago -- Gerard wasn't sure if Trohman had planned that. Certainly it felt like happenstance; Carden had almost shot the C.O. of George Company before someone corrected him. The roads spat up clouds of dust, clinging to their uniforms and the hedgerows and the trees, making it hard to tell friend from foe.
"We should just ask 'em who won the World Series," Carden had grumbled. "Make them prove themselves."
"Do you even know who won the Series last year, jerk?" Bryar's tense, plodding footfalls conveyed his annoyance.
At least three people in formation shouted, "Yankees!"
Carden looked mollified. Bryar had just shook his head. "Fucking idiot."
With the Regiment and Major Armstrong came amenities that seemed like luxuries, after two weeks of constant advance: latrines, dug and maintained; regular sleeping arrangements with their pallet mattresses on level ground. Looking around, Gerard almost felt like a human being.
A crowd began to gather at the mess tables, jostling and joking with the staff there. They straggled into a serpentine line, stretching back toward the senior officers' tents. Gerard ambled over, watching as the mess sargeants ladled out gloppy, burbling mounds of indeterminate food into the men's overturned helmets. He imagined the interplay of scalp sweat and grease, thought it might even be possible to hear the food squelch its way down into the men's stomach. (Gerard had grown familiar with the spatial layout of innards -- he knew where a bullet could rip through a man's abdomen and leave a hole three times wider than its size, knew the color and noxious smell of bile that seeped out of a wound that dragged out death for three, four, six hours. Mikey had been quick. Last week, they had to watch Carter beg for water, for his mother, for death, as his intestines ripened in the heat and his heart refused to stop beating.)
"You cutting the line, Way?" Toro stood at the front of the line, helmet in hand.
"What?" Gerard wiped his jaw.
"Because there's a couple hundred hungry fellas, waiting for their turns at the mush, Sir. And they don't all know you like I do."
Gerard suspected Toro couldn't be truly angry if he tried. "How'd you weasel your way here so fast?"
"Talent," Toro beamed.
Behind him, Cortez rolled his eyes. "He's been standing here since lunch!"
"I guess we could let you in." Toro leaned back. Let free from his helmet, his hair expanded in all directions, in defiance of any logic Gerard could imagine. He winked. "Seein' as you're a good guy and all."
Gerard chuckled. "Thanks, boys. I'm not hungry."
With a whomp, the mess sergeant upended a congealing mound of food into Toro's helmet. "Your loss," Toro shrugged.
"Yeah, right." Gerard shook his head, stepping away.
Today had been a good day, he thought. Gerard had tagged along with the men who went swimming in the Mayenne River. The two ruined bridges sent up jagged shadows down the length of the water, but the last bridge, saved by a suicidal Georgian private in the 90th from German explosives, provided shade and a diving point for Butcher and Conrad's splash competition. (Conrad won, on a technicality.) Gerard had spent the afternoon helping Toro and the Medical Detachment ferry civilians from the local hospital to the Regimental aid station. Someone said they were all getting absentee ballots tomorrow, so they could vote in the election this fall. A good day -- the word was small enough that Gerard could think it without aching. Good.
Gerard saw Saporta, crouched in front of his tent. Unlike everyone else, he hadn't deigned to alter his dress in response to the heat: he wore a black and white checkered scarf around his neck, slung over one shoulder, with a non-regulation leather jacket buttoned halfway up his front. He looked absurd, and Gerard almost laughed.
Until he saw that Saporta was flipping idly through the slender body of the Rimbaud.
"Hey - what the fuck are you doing?"
Saporta started. He shaded his eyes from the sun with a casual hand. "Browsing." He grinned. "How's it, lieutenant?" His long fingers spider-walked over the dull brown cover. "I've been dead for reading material since we came over -- thought I'd take a gander at what you've got."
The ground shivered. Gerard's head swam. Everything went bright, bright white.
When Gerard opened his eyes again, he lay, sprawled out on the cracked ground, panting hard. Frank's face jumped into focus, inches from his own; Gerard could feel the press of Frank's body on top of him. "Gerard!" he said. "Gerard, look at me. Look at me!"
Gerard blinked.
"Gerard," Frank repeated, quieter.
Gerard rubbed his mouth, and saw his hand was smeared with blood. "What happened?" He moved to sit -- Frank eased over.
Saporta was curled on his side a few yards away, his lower lip split at the corner. Blood fell, drop by drop, onto his white scarf. Toro dabbed at him with a cotton swab as Cortez and Conrad looked on, with a small crowd he didn't recognize. They swapped nervous glances, flitting over at Gerard and Frank.
Mikey's book lay face down in the dirt, its pages splayed out, ignoble. Gerard saw Pete's note flutter at one corner, barely held down in the breeze.
Gerard jumped to snatch the paper before it flew away, not looking at any of the gathered men. He folded the note back into the lining of the back cover, and shut the book tightly. There was so much dust. Rocking back onto his heels, he wiped at the cover with frantic strokes. When he raised the spine to his mouth to blow out the collected dirt in the binding, he saw that he'd left a single bloody thumb print below the title.
Frank laid a hand on his shoulder; Gerard knew it was Frank without seeing him. When he looked up, the low sun fanned out around his silhouette, a bright halo that cast Frank's face in darkness.
"It's Mikey's book," Gerard mumbled. "It was Mikey's book." He licked his fingers, and rubbed at the print.
"I know."
Gerard didn't know what else to say. The print refused to fade, stubbornly bright against the dull brown page. He pressed as hard as he could.
"It's fine," Frank said. He crouched, so Gerard could see his face. He looked -- sad, Gerard thought. As though Saporta hadn't deserved to get his face beaten in for touching Mikey's book, as if Gerard didn't have every right to defend what was left of his little brother.
"It's not," Gerard mumbled. It wasn't.
"Come on." Frank helped him stand, walked him back to the stream that traced the edge of their camp. He held the book as Gerard dragged his hands through the fast-flowing water, as Gerard tipped cupped handfuls down the back of his shirt. It was so fucking hot, he thought. The chilly water raised goosebumps all over his body, and they didn't fade when Frank gave him the book back, when he walked him back to his tent. Someone had packed his rucksack again. It sat slumped against the canvas flap, looking almost apologetic.
Gerard slid the book back in, tucked it safely under his spare shirt and trousers. He felt through the rest of his belongings. His blind fingers identified Mikey's Bible and Eliot volumes, Gerard's own sketchbook, just by touch. When he looked up, Frank was gone.
...
14 August 1944
Saint-Maurice-du-Désert fell after five hours, in the lingering moments of early evening. The Sixteenth Regiment rolled through the tiny village's only intersection with their gun barrels still hot. The town's clock, perched above an unscathed bank, read seven thirty-five as Gerard's men paused for breath. He counted: three casualties. DeLeon dead. Seven thirty-five stretched into eight. Gerard watched as stunned residents emerged from the light-less, airless cellars where they'd been hidden, and tried not to think about DeLeon's fiancee in Nevada.
Major Armstrong gave the order, and word trickled down: Fox Company would secure the far outskirts of town; they'd use the church that stood there as a makeshift hospital, sweeping for lingering resistance before Medical moved in.
Too late for DeLeon, and Gerard pushed the thought back from where it had bubbled to the surface.
Trohman sketched the skeleton of a plan. "Allman, you and I'll bring first and third platoons in through the fields around the road-- Way, clear the church. Leave your support staff back, I don't want us losing anyone else over a fucking hole like this."
He raised his voice, bellowing out to the assembled men. "Move it, or lose it, ladies!"
Shadows hung on the trees, planting weird shapes across the road. Gerard marched at the head of his column, with Butcher stationed beside him. His right hand itched over the base of his gun; the scabs from his split knuckles had almost healed. He rubbed them against the metal, and the twinge subsided.
They reached the church, its stone edifice battered but standing. The silence loomed up; nothing stirred in the darkening woods. Gerard signaled for his men to form up into squads. "Watch for mines," he said. "Carden, take the church. Butch, sweep the road -- make sure we're not gonna get surprised on our way out. Everyone else -- " He waved his hand again, and Bryar's men fell in behind.
The evening light obscured the subtle clues of landmines -- dirt packed too well, a shade dryer than the surrounding earth -- as they crept forward. Gerard took every step gingerly, wincing with the imagined explosion that would rend his limbs. Nothing sounded in the quiet, besides the whispering of shifting grass as Bryar and the other dozen men made their way toward the cemetery behind the church.
Several figures crouched against crooked tombstones, their backs back to the approaching troops. Gerard made a motion for his men to stop, cocked his gun over his shoulder. He took three, four, five breaths, waiting for the soldiers to respond. From fifteen paces, Gerard could make out the olive green fabric of German Army tunics.
"Sir."
Gerard swung around, wheeling his rifle with him. Bryar held up his hands, eyes wide. "Sir," he repeated softly. "They're dead."
"What?"
"I think they're all dead."
At that moment, the wind shifted, and they smelled it, almost at once: the acrid, bitter after-odor that hung around with the dead, rising like a wave over the cemetery. Gerard swallowed, forcing bile down, and stood.
"Come on," he said, voice dry.
The first man could have fallen asleep, leaning against the slanted tombstone. His features looked soft, reposed, with a wisp of blond hair peeking from under his cap. A dark stain had seeped through his shirt at the middle, a starburst of blood that his clasped hands tried in vain to cover.
The stench grew worse as they walked on. Entrails littered more than one headstone, slick like fresh sacrifices to the long-entombed dead below the ground. Gerard stumbled over a root; when he glanced down, he saw it was an arm, severed at the shoulder, fingers curled into a fist. A tall stone cross had been sheared in half; at its base, the body of a soldier lay huddled, his face ripped off. Gerard stared at the pulp of bones and flesh that remained for a moment, before he forced himself to look away. Another corpse hung from a tree, thrown up by the force of an artillery shell. His head dangled from a different branch, glassy eyes unseeing.
Gerard heard the jagged, muted noise of someone retching: Crawford, clutching the wrought iron spikes of the gate. Marshall crouched next to him. Even Bryar and Conrad stood, lost.
"Everyone." Gerard barely recognized his own voice. "This site's clear. Let's move out. Bryar, when we get back into town, find Major Armstrong's staff. Someone has to come bury them."
No one moved.
"Bury them where?" Marshall whispered, eyes blank.
Gerard swallowed down another wave of nausea. "Second Platoon!" he barked. "First Squad, clear out! That's an order!"
One by one, the men gathered themselves. Almost like a dog shaking off water, Bryar rolled his shoulders and cleared his expression. He nudged Conrad, and the two of them led the march out of the eerily quiet graveyard.
Bryar met Gerard's eyes as he passed. None of the higher-ranking officers had ever reprimanded Gerard for punching Saporta, and none of his men had mentioned anything to him. Even Frank kept quiet. But Gerard knew they'd been watching him, everyone, tracking his actions against his behavior in Africa, in Italy. Gauging, on an internal scale whose markers Gerard couldn't see, whether he'd lost it.
Bryar didn't betray any of his thoughts with his gaze. But he did nod, just a slight dip of his chin, acknowledging Gerard. Gerard remembered, then, that his promotion from Sergeant to Second Lieutenant had been more a matter of circumstances than merit -- any of the others who'd been with Fox Company since the beginning deserved the extra chevrons on their sleeves.
Gerard nodded back, and waited for the last man -- Crawford, still looking green -- to pass before joining the line.
...
24 August 1944
Frank caught Gerard on his way out of the pond, just as he shook the excess water from his hair.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Gerard yelped. His wet hair slapped the back of his bare neck, and he felt an immediate flush of blood pool to his face. He clutched his towel tighter. "What the hell, Frankie?"
Frank held Gerard's discarded clothes bundled in his arms. "Sorry, sorry." He shoved them at Gerard. "Here. I just - Siska told me you were taking a bath, and I - "
"Turn around."
Frank blinked. "Are you kidding me."
Gerard's blush worsened. "Fuck you."
Around them, dozens of naked men splashed in the pond, reveling in the supply of fresh water that had continued as the Regiment paused near Saint-Maurice. Gerard knew for a fact that Scimeca had taken to bathing twice a day, just for the sheer joy of it. Even the villagers, after eleven days of the Americans' presence, had started to accustom themselves to sporadic bursts of joyful nudity in the local ponds, streams, and fountains.
Gerard stared at Frank, dripping onto the soft grass, until Frank turned. His skin prickled with paranoid goosepimples, and he narrowly resisted from ordering Frank not to peek. No one had managed to hold onto any modesty through the last two years of close quarters, ribald stories and minimal privacy. He pulled his clothes on as quickly as he could, and tried not to think about how much Frank might have seen. They'd all seen one another naked. Nothing had changed.
"You're always sneaking up on me, Iero," he mumbled, fitting each shirt button into its hole with water-wrinkled fingers.
"I like surprises."
Gerard turned. "What is it?" he asked. Beyond Frank, three of the newer recruits cavorted in the shallows.
"I -- wanted to give you a head's up." Frank drew his gaze back, dabbing his lower lip with his tongue. "We're moving out tomorrow."
"How far's the next march?" Gerard ran a hand through his hair, trying to coax the strands down against his head.
Frank shook his head. "Motor convoy."
Gerard whistled. "Fancy."
He folded his damp towel, concentrating on reducing it to the smallest volume possible. Otherwise, it'd mildew his books. His hands kept working as Frank cleared his throat.
"They're taking us to Paris."
"Fuck off." Gerard looked up, fast.
Frank was almost vibrating. His grin stretched wide, across his cheeks, lighting up his eyes and making his entire face shine with manic excitement. Gerard could barely look at him. He laughed, fast and giddy, saying, "There's been Resistance fighting all week - Leclerc's supposed to be in the city today or tomorrow." He laughed again. "I'm not -- they're gonna shift the whole fucking front west, with Patton."
Hope began to flicker in Gerard's chest. "Paris is free?"
Frank nodded, bouncing his weight from foot to foot. "Almost." He pressed his hands to his sides, forcing himself to stay calm; his fingers worked against his trousers seams like the strings of an invisible guitar.
He shook his head, and Gerard knew he was willing himself not to laugh. When he spoke again, his voice trembled. "Gee -- they're saying the war could be finished by Christmas."
Gerard felt his chest go tight, as that flicker of hope roared forth, spreading out to his veins. His head buzzed. "How do you --"
Frank laid a hand on Gerard's arm, lowering his voice. "I heard from someone with Major Armstrong's staff. The convoy's gonna come in tomorrow; no one's supposed to know until they get here." Frank grinned again; Gerard's chest seized harder. "I had to tell you."
Gerard nodded. He couldn't look at Frank's smile again. "Thanks for telling me." He kept his eyes on his feet, and wrangled this wild, searing thrill away from his heart. If he worked hard enough, he could isolate the warmth from Frank's hand, keep it from seeping into his excitement about Paris. He could stop Frank's touch from infecting Gerard's whole body until Gerard had to feel everything.
Frank let go. Gerard counted to five -- when he met Frank's gaze again, Frank's smile had faded. "So, I just thought you'd want to know," Frank said. Each word trailed awkwardly into the next.
"No, that's," Gerard nodded, "that's great news. Thanks, Frankie."
"Yeah." Frank nodded back. "I should -- " he gestured toward the camp. "There's a lotta stuff I still have to get briefed on."
"Right." Gerard couldn't stop nodding.
Frank began to shuffle back, away from Gerard. Gerard's skin felt too small for his water-logged body; his limbs felt too heavy to lift. He gave a half-hearted wave to Frank.
"Oh!" Frank stopped. "Fuck, I almost forgot." He reached a hand into his back pocket. "This is for you." Gerard took the small, thick book from him. "For, ah, helping you. With everything."
"Thanks."
With a helpless smile, Frank turned. Gerard watched him go, wondering why Frank was always walking away from him. Scaring him, then walking away.
Gerard flipped open the book to the title page. Harrap's Shorter French-English Dictionary, First Edition.
Gerard laughed, and his whole body lightened with the sound.
---
...
---
author's notes: 1) big kisses to everyone who's voted for this story in the bandom awards for best fic. i never even expected to be nominated, but i'm flattered and thrilled to be among such good company. go check it out!
2) if you're into awesome au's where gerard is INSANE, i suggest you check out ficbyzee's Weekenders series. girl is mad talented, and i'm amazed at the way her story's turning out.
3) as for the next update - we'll see! keep a look out!