FIC: The Cost of War 1
Title: The Cost of War
Pairing: JAEHO. LIKE FREAKING DUH.
Rating: R, may go up to NC-17
Part: 1/?
Warning: AU, war!fic, vulgarities at the moment. I don't want to promise anything just yet.
Summary: It hasn’t been more than eight years ago since the five year struggle for independence was declared over.
A/N: Written for
nyankokira/ Reg (I tried, I tried really hard.) Also, unbeta-ed. Plenty of errors I know but I wrote this at about 3am. So be gentle. I'll go edit if needed later.
It hasn’t been more than eight years ago since the five year struggle for independence was declared over. But what was time to him? The days just melded one into another and before he knew it, a year was over. And another.
And then there was a knock at the gate.
He rarely had visitors nowadays other than the occasional hags who repeatedly tried to introduce their daughters to him. What was it with all these women? What use were all the damn medals and accolades when he was nothing more than a freaking murderer?
“Mister Jung Yunho, I presume?” the teenager, who looked not a day over thirteen.
Letting loose a sigh, Yunho walks to the gate, using the cane as his support. The once virile athletic general was now nothing more than a mere civilian - even so, a poor excuse of a man. He had only one good leg - the other was nothing more than a useless piece of log.
Trying his best to grapple the pen with his shaky hands, he signs the forms the boy patiently hands him, holding back his tears. It’s only been a few months since he’s been able to do anything, let alone write with much help from the physiotherapist Shim Changmin.
Stop looking at my hands damn it. Stop staring. I know I’m fucking useless okay? Damn it. You think I want to be like…like this? Damn you fucking kid. What do you know?
Those words were words he wants to yell at the boy, who was tapping his feet impatiently but Yunho merely smiles before he hands the pen back
Yunho glances at the retreating back of the young man, who was muttering and cursing about his bad luck. Yunho wants to scream, he wants to yell, he wants to tell off the twerp that while the bastard was sucking his mummy’s tits, he was out there in the fucking war field, dealing with human losses and fucking trying to just hang on and not die. He was bloody hell fighting the damn assholes, reclaiming back the motherland.
Damn boy. Damn the army. Damn the world.
What did the bloody snot-faced shit know? Has the kid ever stepped onto the barren fields, not green but red? Yunho doubts the boy has ever smelled the stench of burning flesh; a strong, putrid invasive smell that sticks and hangs in the air. He was sure the boy always had a good night’s sleep - he wasn’t plagued by the screams and moans of dying men, of the thunderous sounds of bombs and guns, of the utter chaotic nightmare that was war - sounds that never cease to continually drone on and on. Or of the unnatural silence that permeated the air after another battle won or lost. The boy wasn’t haunted by the sights of blood and gore - absolutely far horrifying than the gruesome visual spectacles shown on the screens. War - he had fought it and he had won it. And for what, he thinks.
For the sake of protecting the youth of tomorrow? Hah, the youths of today, they could barely be counted on, what more of the future?
Damn boy. Damn the army. Damn the world.
He ambles back to his small house, cane in one hand and parcel in another. He tears open the parcel as soon as he catches his breath, back in the safe confines of his room.
It was a box and it makes him slightly paranoid. He strains his ears, trying to dissent any ticking of a potential bomb but he hears nothing but the beating of his own heart, drumming loudly.
He gingerly unties the box, only to have his hands fail him. The box slips and falls, its contents spilling out onto the cold hardwood floor. Frustrated with himself, he curses his horrible fate. Why was his life so difficult? Was this the price he had to pay to send countless of innocent boys, some barely fourteen to their deaths, well before their time?
He lets loose a bitter self-depreciating laughter that fills the tiny bare room. He crawls and retrieves the few things that were once contained within the box.
A leather-bound book, with yellowed edges and held together by strings is the first thing he reaches out for. The palm sized book is musty with age, with the underlying tones of peppermint and he unravels the red string. He flips it and notes absentmindedly that the handwriting was familiar but he couldn’t place it.
He places it on his bed and crawls on his knees, retrieving a dull faded locket. Fingering it gently, he wonders about the connection with the book, let alone him. Jung Yunho had never once worn anything more than a simple band on his fingers. A band he refuses to part with. So whose was it, this feminine looking locket?
As Yunho stares at the simple plain locket, he notes that within lies a single bullet - something that looked like it came from a 38 calibre gun. It was then that he spies the a starch white envelope - something that stood out from the other relics of the past.
The envelope was sealed but there was no name written on it. Intrigued, Yunho rips the envelope open and out slides a letter and faded sepia toned photographs, three in all. And he stares in shock as he sees his own face staring back at him in the first photograph.
tbc
Pairing: JAEHO. LIKE FREAKING DUH.
Rating: R, may go up to NC-17
Part: 1/?
Warning: AU, war!fic, vulgarities at the moment. I don't want to promise anything just yet.
Summary: It hasn’t been more than eight years ago since the five year struggle for independence was declared over.
A/N: Written for
nyankokira/ Reg (I tried, I tried really hard.) Also, unbeta-ed. Plenty of errors I know but I wrote this at about 3am. So be gentle. I'll go edit if needed later.
It hasn’t been more than eight years ago since the five year struggle for independence was declared over. But what was time to him? The days just melded one into another and before he knew it, a year was over. And another.
And then there was a knock at the gate.
He rarely had visitors nowadays other than the occasional hags who repeatedly tried to introduce their daughters to him. What was it with all these women? What use were all the damn medals and accolades when he was nothing more than a freaking murderer?
“Mister Jung Yunho, I presume?” the teenager, who looked not a day over thirteen.
Letting loose a sigh, Yunho walks to the gate, using the cane as his support. The once virile athletic general was now nothing more than a mere civilian - even so, a poor excuse of a man. He had only one good leg - the other was nothing more than a useless piece of log.
Trying his best to grapple the pen with his shaky hands, he signs the forms the boy patiently hands him, holding back his tears. It’s only been a few months since he’s been able to do anything, let alone write with much help from the physiotherapist Shim Changmin.
Stop looking at my hands damn it. Stop staring. I know I’m fucking useless okay? Damn it. You think I want to be like…like this? Damn you fucking kid. What do you know?
Those words were words he wants to yell at the boy, who was tapping his feet impatiently but Yunho merely smiles before he hands the pen back
Yunho glances at the retreating back of the young man, who was muttering and cursing about his bad luck. Yunho wants to scream, he wants to yell, he wants to tell off the twerp that while the bastard was sucking his mummy’s tits, he was out there in the fucking war field, dealing with human losses and fucking trying to just hang on and not die. He was bloody hell fighting the damn assholes, reclaiming back the motherland.
Damn boy. Damn the army. Damn the world.
What did the bloody snot-faced shit know? Has the kid ever stepped onto the barren fields, not green but red? Yunho doubts the boy has ever smelled the stench of burning flesh; a strong, putrid invasive smell that sticks and hangs in the air. He was sure the boy always had a good night’s sleep - he wasn’t plagued by the screams and moans of dying men, of the thunderous sounds of bombs and guns, of the utter chaotic nightmare that was war - sounds that never cease to continually drone on and on. Or of the unnatural silence that permeated the air after another battle won or lost. The boy wasn’t haunted by the sights of blood and gore - absolutely far horrifying than the gruesome visual spectacles shown on the screens. War - he had fought it and he had won it. And for what, he thinks.
For the sake of protecting the youth of tomorrow? Hah, the youths of today, they could barely be counted on, what more of the future?
Damn boy. Damn the army. Damn the world.
He ambles back to his small house, cane in one hand and parcel in another. He tears open the parcel as soon as he catches his breath, back in the safe confines of his room.
It was a box and it makes him slightly paranoid. He strains his ears, trying to dissent any ticking of a potential bomb but he hears nothing but the beating of his own heart, drumming loudly.
He gingerly unties the box, only to have his hands fail him. The box slips and falls, its contents spilling out onto the cold hardwood floor. Frustrated with himself, he curses his horrible fate. Why was his life so difficult? Was this the price he had to pay to send countless of innocent boys, some barely fourteen to their deaths, well before their time?
He lets loose a bitter self-depreciating laughter that fills the tiny bare room. He crawls and retrieves the few things that were once contained within the box.
A leather-bound book, with yellowed edges and held together by strings is the first thing he reaches out for. The palm sized book is musty with age, with the underlying tones of peppermint and he unravels the red string. He flips it and notes absentmindedly that the handwriting was familiar but he couldn’t place it.
He places it on his bed and crawls on his knees, retrieving a dull faded locket. Fingering it gently, he wonders about the connection with the book, let alone him. Jung Yunho had never once worn anything more than a simple band on his fingers. A band he refuses to part with. So whose was it, this feminine looking locket?
As Yunho stares at the simple plain locket, he notes that within lies a single bullet - something that looked like it came from a 38 calibre gun. It was then that he spies the a starch white envelope - something that stood out from the other relics of the past.
The envelope was sealed but there was no name written on it. Intrigued, Yunho rips the envelope open and out slides a letter and faded sepia toned photographs, three in all. And he stares in shock as he sees his own face staring back at him in the first photograph.
tbc