#they get along well enough. charles is a skilled fighter even if he hates it but he loves to spar with pierre with the blades they make

[hourcat]

👇

[araliyaintheskywithdiamonds]

Dust to Dust - A CrissColfer Fic

Summary: A World War Two AU. Chris goes to fight, and Darren waits for him. 

For the anon who asked for CC in a different decade. I think you wanted something along the lines of some happy hippy 70s fic, so I hope this is okay! I couldn’t help myself!

Word Count: 2431 AO3

*Title from Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars

(Also, set in England.)

January 3, 1940

Neither of them register at the recruitment offices. The boys who do it- the younger ones, at least- do it to impress a girl or to chase the thrill of war. Newly eighteen (some, younger, if they can get away with it), they queue up, eager to serve and earn the pride that comes with it.

Chris pretends he isn’t old enough. He could pass for seventeen, or even less, and the recruitment officers don’t call him out as he passes by the queues. Darren, however, doesn’t need to pretend. He isn’t fit to serve; a blow to the leg from a horse when he was younger shattered his knee cap so severely it was nearly unsalvageable. He walks with a limp, staggered enough to deter the officers.

Neither of them believe in the glory of war. Neither of them want to leave one another. Neither of them think, as telegram after telegram arrive from the front lines, that they want to be the recipient, falling to their knees before they even read the message; already knowing.

***

April 28, 1942

There is a call-up letter in their mailbox addressed, Christopher Paul Colfer. It is Darren who finds it. He wants to hide it, wants to throw it in the flames of the fireplace and watch it burn, letters shrivelling up and turning to incomprehensible dust.

In the end, he leaves it on the kitchen table. Chris has just turned 20 and Darren is kidding himself if he had thought they could ever escape the war.  

***

Chris looks painfully beautiful in the uniform, although he had laughed, and said that the khaki washed him out. Darren had kissed him, and told him otherwise.

He watches as the train leaves and feels like an idiot amongst the crying girlfriends and wives and mothers. He should be there with Chris. He should be protecting him.

Chris hadn’t told Darren that he was scared- not even that he was in the slightest bit apprehensive. But Darren had known better. He had known it in the way Chris’ hands had shaken as they smoothed Darren’s lapel (the most intimate they could be in the light of day, people swarming around them). He had known it in the way Chris’ fingers turned white on the windowsill as he waved goodbye.

He had known in the way, the night before, Chris had clung to him- helpless.

***

August 27 1942

To my dearest D,

                         Libya is so hot that I can hardly stand it. Isn’t it just my luck that I would be sent to the North African Desert? If the Germans don’t kill us, the heatstroke surely will. Not to mention the disease. And the food. And the scorpions.

I’m sorry, I’ve not been out here for even a month and I’m already boring you with my complaints. There’s not much else to talk about, you see. The desert is just that- desert. Sand and shrub as far as the eye can see, tanks (the bloody eyesores) scattered all over the place, and tents to ward off against the night wind and the occasional spray of bullets. Dive bombers if we’re particularly unlucky.

I know I’m scaring you with all of this talk. I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have to worry about me so much, which I know you are.

I keep a photograph of you in my breast pocket. If the others ask, I tell them you’re my brother. I’m quite sure they don’t believe me, (what with my voice, and you looking about as much like me as one of the Indian soldiers), but no one really cares. In fact, I’d be surprised if they did- we’re constantly being lectured against ‘fraternising’, for fear of venereal diseases like gonorrhea and syphilis. No matter how hard they try, the lectures really aren’t doing much against the scores of infected men that keep cropping up.

There, I’ve got you laughing now. Or more likely, wincing.

I really hope you’re well, darling. I won’t torture you anymore with my complaining- you hear enough of that from me at home. Speaking of home, how are things at the farm? Has Charles come down to help you with this season’s crops? I hope he has- you work yourself too hard.

I must get going soon- we’re doing a practice advance today with the Australians. They’re all used to the heat- damn them.

Anyway, goodbye my love. Rest easy and give the dog a cuddle from me. I’ll approve him getting on the bed just this once if it means you’re not sleeping alone at night.

Always yours,

C

***

November 17 1942

My darling D,

                  We had a ghastly sandstorm last night. Thankfully we were all in our tents, but when we woke in the morning, everything was smothered by a layer of dust about three inches thick. I feel terrible for the poor soul who had to guide one of the American fighter planes that landed in the midst of it. I’m sure he must be still shaking the sand out of his ears.

I asked one of the officers about leave. Bad news, sweetheart. I have to serve for at least fifteen months, and even then, most of the time they give me would be spent on the trip there and back. They tell me it’s not worth it, but I would give everything for even an hour with you.

I miss you, D. With every fibre of my being. I don’t feel whole most of the time, and out there, I hardly feel anything at all. I hate it. I am told I am a skilled fighter, but to use that skill to murder? They are still humans, like you and I. They have parents and siblings and husbands and wives and lovers.

We were right. This is all for nothing.  

Yours, with a thousand kisses to make up for the ones I haven’t been able to give you,

C

***

March 22 1943

My beloved D,

                  You are my first thought as I wake, and my last thought as I fall asleep. You are my life in love, and war and death. The knowledge that you are safe, away from this hell, is keeping me sane.

I love you.

Your only,

C

***

May 29, 1943

There hasn’t been a letter in two months. This is the longest Darren has gone without the comfort of fine paper pages between his fingers, coming with them the knowledge that Chris is alive. Not safe, but alive.

At home, in a village which has more sheep than people, an overwhelming sense of helplessness overcomes him. Darren doesn’t have the distraction of the air raids, heart perpetually panicked, things packed and ready to flee. He doesn’t have the sirens and the fire engines and the gas masks hanging off wrists.

He can only sit there as time flows by, as slow and viscous as treacle. Cooper, their sheep dog, knows something is wrong. He props his head up on Darren’s knees, eyes imploring.

“He’s coming back,” Darren assures him. “He’s coming back.”

His voice wavers, and Cooper doesn’t look convinced. Darren feels as if he is going mad. Sleep escapes him, and he does his work on the farm in a trance. The quiet, rolling hills and the cream plaster walls, which had at first, been an escape for the two of them, now feels like a cage. He feels trapped- trapped by his own dead leg, trapped by the farm, trapped by the overwhelming inability to get to Chris.

***

News has come from the North African front that the axis powers have surrendered. Chris was fighting on that front. He should be home soon, if not already.

Darren avoids the telegraph boys, also known as the ‘angels of death’, like the plague. Instead of relief at the knowledge that Chris is no longer in danger, he feels an inexplicable sensation of apprehension. It grows like a tumor in the pit of Darren’s stomach, unfurling and infecting the rest of his body.

He sits at the kitchen table in a daze, staring at Chris’ letters. He counts every I love you like they’re the sherbet sweets that Chris likes so much, letting them melt on his tongue. They taste like kisses.

***

Charles, his brother, is here.

Darren thinks he’s going to go out to the fields, like he always does, in case there’s something that needs doing that Darren can’t. Instead, Charles comes to the table where he sits. In his hand is a letter.

“You got rid of the letterbox,” he says in greeting.

Immediately Darren is up. “What is that?” he asks, eyes drawn to the scrap of paper. His voice shakes minutely. “Chuck- God, please don’t tell me-”

“No! Jesus, Darren, it’s not that,” Charles says, quick to dispel the vague hysteria in Darren’s eyes. “Listen to me- it’s not that.”

Darren expects the tension in his chest to dissolve, but it doesn’t. “Then what? I knocked down the damned letterbox for a reason-”

“-Chris is coming home.”

“...what?”

“Chris is coming home,” Charles repeats carefully.

“Why- why are you saying it like that?”

***

May 31, 1943

The train heaves into the station, sounding as if it may collapse at any moment, wheels screeching to a halt. Darren thinks it sounds rather like a pig before slaughter. Chris had always let Darren take charge of tasks like that- he’d blanch at even the sight of the carcasses at the butcher’s.

The doors slide open, and passengers start to pour out, some of them uniformed. Darren notices, with building unease, that all of them are injured.

He stands there stock-still, as people around him greet their loved ones.

Then, a familiar figure climbs down the steps.

Chris is leaner than Darren remembers. His face is a little scruffier than usual, hair cut choppy, bruises lingering under his lower lashes. His uniform sits tighter around his right arm and right leg, and he walks with a slight, uncertain waver.

But then he looks up- looks right at Darren- and the world is a clear blue.

Suddenly, all Darren knows is the feeling of Chris in his arms; pulling him close, pressing his lips to the sliver of his exposed neck and drinking in the heady, familiar scent of Chris, Chris, Chris. Warm and real and alive.

He doesn’t realise he’s been repeating Chris’ name like a mantra until he hears, “Darren.” The words are soft, and just a little bit admonishing. “People can see us.”

Darren steps back, not letting go of Chris’ shoulders. “I love you,” he says.

Chris’ eyes soften. They are bright in his otherwise weary face. “I love you too.”

***

The spoon clinks against the china teacup rhymically. It is loud and musical in the quiet of their kitchen. Chris uses his left hand to stir the tea, the action unrefined and shaky. He is right-handed.

“Lover,” Darren says quietly. He’s sitting close to Chris, itching to be even closer, to make up for every touch they were deprived of. “What’s wrong?”

Chris doesn’t meet his eye, instead putting the spoon aside slowly. He watches the tea swirl like a whirlpool until it settles into a calm, flat plateau.

“I am so sorry,” he starts quietly, “that I couldn’t write. I’m sorry that I had to worry you. Not knowing where I was- or even whether or not I was alive- must have been torture.”

Darren reaches across the table to cover Chris’ trembling hand. “I never really let myself think about it,” he admits. “In a fit of insanity I even knocked down the letterbox.”

A smile quirks the corner of Chris’ lips. “I saw.”

He takes a breath, and pulls up his right hand, which had been sitting in his lap. “I was shot,” he says, and Darren’s stomach drops onto the kitchen floor. “In my right leg and my right arm. I was lucky- had my arm moved even an inch, the bullet would have gone right through my side and done a whole lot more damage.” The hand holding Darren’s squeezes. “My leg fared alright. I mean, I still can’t move it without wincing, but I’m told it will heal. My arm, not so much. The nerves are apparently so damaged that I most likely won’t be able to regain movement in my right hand.” He looks up at Darren, smiling a little. “It’s quite convenient, I think. I’m of no use if I can’t even do so much as pull a trigger.”

Darren laughs, shortly and wetly.

“I’m back, Dare,” Chris says softly. “They can’t take me out there again. I’m staying right here with you.” He pushes his chair back to make to get up, but Darren is there first, wrapping his arms around Chris’ neck. He clings on tightly, feeling the tears slip down his cheeks. Darren unwittingly slides to his knees, laying his head in Chris’ lap.

“Without you,” he whispers, “I was not whole either.”

Chris’ fingers come up to cradle Darren’s head. “My beloved,” he whispers.

***

April 28, 1949

Darren wakes to a scream. Chris is sitting up beside him, eyes unfocused, breathing in deep, rasping breaths. A thin sheen of sweat lingers over his skin, seeping down his chest and across his shoulders. Darren pushes himself upright immediately, laying a cool hand on the side of Chris’ face.

He turns Chris’ cheek towards him carefully, until the glassiness dissipates and his pupils come into focus. “Love,” Darren calls out softly. “Are you with me?”

Chris swallows, nodding shakily. “Yes.” He brings up his left hand to cover Darren’s. “I’m with you.”

Darren presses a kiss to Chris’ temple, drawing him into his arms. “Do you remember what it was?” he asks quietly.

Shell shock, coined after the Great War, for the men who still had a war raging inside their heads long after the fighting was over. War Neurosis, Battle Fatigue, Combat Stress- new names surfacing for the same, debilitating terror. They all meant the same thing.

“Flashes,” Chris whispers against Darren’s shoulder. “You were there. Your l-leg, it had been blown right off. I had to pick pieces of shrapnel out of your thigh.”

Darren feels vaguely sick. “I’m alright,” he says instead. “We’re both alright.”

After a while, Chris stops trembling. He pulls back, apologetic. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I’ve always told you to wake me, Chris.”

Chris smiles and presses a kiss to Darren’s lips. He smooths the crease between Darren’s eyebrows, albeit shakily. “I’m alright, lover.”

“We’re alright,” Darren repeats.

[fireandgloryrpg]

Congratulations JOSH and welcome back again! We’re so happy to accept your application to play BROCK DAVIS with the faceclaim of CHARLES MELTON in Fire & Glory RPG! We can’t wait to begin roleplaying with you so please remember to look over our checklist!

Original Character Application:

Name: Carson “Brooks” Davis

Age and Birthday: 26 (July 28th, 1992)

Heritage: Son of Mars

ABILITIES:

Superhuman Strength - Being a child of Mars, Brooks natural strength is even greater than other demigods.

Superhuman Speed and Agility

Superhuman Durability

Superhuman Healing

Superhuman Senses

Telumkinesis - Brock is able to transform weapons into a less harmful material, though this power extends to one weapon at a time. This power also helps Brock to learn how to use weapons much faster than other demigods and humans.

Affiliation: Former Legionnaire and Centurion of the 2nd Cohort.

Headcanons:

1st Dispatch - After leaving the legion, Brock wanted to continue his work with helping keep New Rome safe. He spent a few months as a guard for Peacock’s Nesting, The Vesta Residence, a few of the wineries and bars. Brock was able to say with a proud tone that no one had ever broken into the place that had him on guard duty. Once he took some time off of work, he’d become his neighbors first call when something went wrong. The entire hall had Brock’s phone number on speed dial, though people who were smart knew not to challenge Brock Davis. Still today, even when he’s off duty, Brock gets people asking them to walk him home. It became worse once the Greeks arrived, though it’s given him a certain fire. Brock loves waiting for someone to step out of line so he can push them back in.

The Sober Brother - Brock’s rarely drinks and has never smoked tobacco or marijuana. Any mind altering substance is a big no-go for him. He doesn’t care what reports, studies or findings come out about tobacco and weed, Brock thinks anything that clouds your mind is just a distraction from maintaining order. Brock only drinks when he knows he doesn’t have to work the next day, and usually only has enough to get himself tipsy.

Big Brother - Brock spent his last two years in the 2nd Cohort as Centurion, where he received high marks for keeping an orderly group of legionnaires. Most of the people in the 2nd Cohort at the time already knew Brock well and were willing to follow him into battle.

Sporty Sport - Brock loves competition and knows how to have fun. The man never found a favorite sport, but loves any game that involves winners and losers. A surprisingly calm man when it comes to losing, he’ll try a number of times before giving up to turn that failure into a victory. He’s also well aware that there’s no point in trying to save everyone’s lives if they can’t enjoy it. Though he doesn’t often drink, he does know how to party and has visited all of New Rome’s clubs many times. He’s often there on his nights and days off.

Satyr Hater - Brock, like many New Romans have disdain for the Faun species. Like a plague, they sit on their lazy furry bums while Brock’s people do all the work. He finds their kind to be an infestation and thinks nothing different of their Greek counterpart. He finds it disgusting that while ever Roman had to find their way alone, Satyrs help the Greeks like little children.

Frank Zhang - After the glory that Percy Jackson, Hazel Levesque and Frank Zhang brought Camp Jupiter, Brock was quite proud of his half-brother. He felt cheated many times in that period, feeling as though he was the rightful recipient of Mars’ blessings, though put those thoughts aside, as it was more important that New Rome be safe. But when the war with Gaea came, when the Greeks fought them and Frank came out as Praetor, something seemed wrong. Brock believed firmly that he was the wrong man for the job and that Mars had placed his power mistakenly. As much as he wishes for order, he knows Frank Zhang must leave, unless chaos is to rule.

Biography:

Carson “Brock” was born in Olympia, Washington and lived their until it came time for him to find his way to Camp Jupiter. Between the day of his birth and the day he left for camp though, a lot happened to help shape Brock into being the kind of young boy able to make it to Camp Jupiter.

Mars had given one strict rule to Brock’s mother when her pregnancy was nearing it’s end. Olympia, being so close to Alaska was the only place where Mars could offer them protection. The city itself had a protective layer around which dismayed monsters from coming in, though it wasn’t a perfect shield like the one Camp Half-Blood now had. This city was one of the few areas in the country that wasn’t one of the camps yet still offered protection for demigods. Olympia would be a place where Carson could grow up like a regular kid with a little more safety than other demigods. As such, Brock was never meant to leave the city lines until he was ready for his journey. 

Carson though only remained Carson until he was around five years old. The boy had always hated his name, for that it wasn’t strong enough. As soon as he could understand other people, he understood from his mothers high praise that his father was someone not to be trifled with. Seeing how much of a fighter she was, Carson wanted to be exactly like them. He wanted to create a legacy for his family, and the name Carson didn’t seem to fit. His name was, as some might guess taken from the original Pokemon series. His namesake, Brock the gym leader wasn’t the toughest guy, but Carson loved the idea of rock Pokemon, creatures made to be hard like the earth and mountains.

Now Brock, who grew up in Olympia never had a shortage of things to do. His mother didn’t want him to be a brute soldier who just used his hands to settle all his problems, because raising his fist was something he naturally did when any threat came about. It was like he didn’t have a switch on the fight or flight expression. So she took him to museums, art galleries and put him in the best starting school in the area. She would remind him often that everything he would need to protect himself and protect others was in his brain, and that everything he did to help others was an extension and product of how smart you were.

His intellect helped him, but so did his natural strength and senses. When he was eight, he noticed that he could hear things other people couldn’t. His strength was a lot greater than the other kids, even though he wasn’t the most athletic one in his grade. He could pick up someone his size with little effort.

By thirteen, Brock knew that his father was a person like nobody else and that other children wouldn’t understand it. It never bothered him that he didn’t actually know who his dad was, but not because many other children had one parent too. Whenever Brock was able to settle a dispute between two parties or he claimed victory in a contest, he knew that his father was proud of him. He could feel it in a way that didn’t fully make sense to a kid.

And by that age, Brock was ready to leave for something greater. Since he was ten, he’d been telling his mom of strange sightings around the town. Brock would comment on a flock of birds that didn’t look quite right, or he would out right refuse to go into the local donut shop, because it didn’t seem natural that three days ago there was nothing there, not even a plot of land. His mother didn’t seem to notice but she had listened. So when his principal had called him in to reprimand him, for absolutely nothing, Brock could already tell that this wasn’t the person who they were trying to masquerade as. As her mouth watered and she raked her claws along the desk, Brock kicked his chair at her face and ripped the door off it’s hinges and threw that at her too. He made a run for it, going back home only to tell his mom of what he’d experienced. After that, he was off.

With money from his mother, he was able to take bus after bus to the Wolf House, though it wasn’t an easy ride. Many of the stops he got off on were met with prying eyes from both monsters and creeps. Brock had fought off a few men and women bigger than himself on his way to the Wolf House. Enough that he when he met Lupa, the wolf was greeted with a young man marked up with scratches, cuts and bruises. But that nor a talking wolf stopped him from getting to where he was going. Brock passed all of Lupa’s tests, so well in fact she gave him a recommendation herself to be put into the 2nd Cohort when he arrived at Camp Jupiter.

During his time in the 2nd Cohort, Brock made many allies and friends, a few of whom were close enough to call family. He quickly honed his swordsmanship skills and was one of the best when it came to working with a spear. Brock’s powers grew the day he began training at Camp Jupiter. It took him half as long to master the sword compared to the other great warriors there. When he was fourteen, after already spending many months blessing and praising Mars, he was claimed as the gods son. From there, it was practically a cake walk. Once he got through the rigorous exercises and training, fighting came easy. Brock was always ready to grab a weapon and go handle any monster situation that may arise. If there was a fight among his fellow legionnaires, he’d put himself in the middle to try and break the rhythm of chaos. It was to no one’s surprise that he was made Centurion for two years before leaving the Legion.

Leaving wasn’t exactly the plan. But after two wars and with their new Greek allies settling more and more into the city, Brock thought he could protect people better if he was stationed in the city, which led him to being a guard for every big event, every high class social gathering.

Now that there is another war, one he couldn’t stop, Brock is ready to see this war come to an end, before it can get any bloodier. Though it seems at the moment that the only solution would be to destroy the Greeks, less it be the Romans that die.