round 03, challenge two: drabble three
Title: Shoot, Sleep
Fandom and Pairing: Big Bang, TOP-centric
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 200
Summary: “The first step is denial,” the therapist says.
Warnings: War. Implied character death.
When you are eight, chasing other boys around the playground with toy guns is a game. “Pow, pow! You’re dead,” you say, chest stuck out and a cheeky grin drawn all over your innocence and baby fat, and the light still reaches your eyes.
You grow up awkward, and before you’re allowed to learn how to use your new arms and legs, the bombs drop: one into your mailbox (military duty) and one hundreds of miles away (hello, war). Your mother cries as she stuffs caramels into your pockets. You tell her it will be okay, it always is, and march down the brick road in your uniform with a canvas bag and a heart so big it seems to be dancing around you rather than in you.
“It’s Jiyong,” he shouts back over the gunfire. “Seunghyun, right?”
You nod, mud smeared on your face, and roll onto your stomach in the trench. You recognize him as the kid, bright blond and easygoing, who tripped over his gun the first day and fell into a rain puddle; the one who sat beside you in the mess hall and gave you his pudding.
“The first step is denial,” the therapist says.
Fandom and Pairing: Big Bang, TOP-centric
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 200
Summary: “The first step is denial,” the therapist says.
Warnings: War. Implied character death.
When you are eight, chasing other boys around the playground with toy guns is a game. “Pow, pow! You’re dead,” you say, chest stuck out and a cheeky grin drawn all over your innocence and baby fat, and the light still reaches your eyes.
You grow up awkward, and before you’re allowed to learn how to use your new arms and legs, the bombs drop: one into your mailbox (military duty) and one hundreds of miles away (hello, war). Your mother cries as she stuffs caramels into your pockets. You tell her it will be okay, it always is, and march down the brick road in your uniform with a canvas bag and a heart so big it seems to be dancing around you rather than in you.
“It’s Jiyong,” he shouts back over the gunfire. “Seunghyun, right?”
You nod, mud smeared on your face, and roll onto your stomach in the trench. You recognize him as the kid, bright blond and easygoing, who tripped over his gun the first day and fell into a rain puddle; the one who sat beside you in the mess hall and gave you his pudding.
“The first step is denial,” the therapist says.