Sequel: Innocence Maintained ›
Kiss of Life
I Can Feel You Closer
He missed this sort of summer warmth, the kind that could press against your chest and make its presence known. It was like those Wonderland summers that forced you to drink in excess and enjoy life that much more, even when you couldn’t possibly imagine what could be coming in the near future. Nights spent chasing girls through the vineyards, not caring what was going on in the world around you. It was too far away, it couldn’t possibly affect their perfect young lives, not when they were at their height of their potential, able to achieve anything they dreamt. They let the pungent smell of river water fill their lungs, bathed in golden sunlight along the banks and gave themselves to the summer as though they were wild creatures owned only by the moonlight. War was just a theory, a far away echoing of a very real and present danger that could be kept away so long as you were privileged enough to be in the society of learning. Still, war takes its toll on different people in different ways. The heat made Cheshire remember those long forgotten days of summer back home, a place he wished he could go to now.
It was not however the oppressive kind of heat that made your head pound and feel as though it were filled with gallons of water; made it difficult to decipher what was a simple stitch up and what could not be fixed. Cheshire was fastidious and did not like to be informed of what he could and could not do, which proved difficult for his head surgeon to manage. However, the boy was the best they had and when he wanted, or needed to do something, it was typically arranged. And when the commanding officers had informed them that more field medics had been needed, because of the deaths of almost 5 in the last 3 days, Cheshire had demanded a chance to see action. Of course they’d protested, he was needed back at the base, but there was something about Cheshire’s insistence that made them change their minds. He had never been in the field, had been too skilled at the art of stitching up and putting back together that they had stationed him right at the base camp.
He couldn’t keep his mind from wander to the things he’d seen since being stationed here, to the weight of the gun in his hand, going over the things in his medical pack, anything from anticipating the coming strike. He was not accustomed to being confused about his job, about being thrown into a new position but what was worse was that Cheshire didn’t exactly know what he was supposed to be doing. Of course he had volunteered himself up, a learned child among seasoned men who knew what it meant to shoot and kill someone. He had spent so much time worrying about saving everyone that he had forgotten the other side of war, the side that he was trying so hard not to see - the killing. Death was a part of his daily life, but actually physically killing someone had not even crossed his mind. Perhaps a slightly morbid fascination with this war, a part he hadn’t seen had caused him to offer himself up; Cheshire had always been the sort of person that needed some perspective. Or maybe it had been a moment of indecision about his life that had led the boy to this second in time, but more likely it had been the depth of his mortality so guiltily guarded as he was by everyone in the military because of his special talents. Cheshire had never been totally comfortable hidden away in the confines of the base camp, and so, here he was.
It was unlike him - to allow himself to be thrown, head first, heart beating in his throat, into a place with danger in every inch of proximity. It closed in around him and made him feel as though he were by himself, even when he clearly was not alone. Cheshire did walk in the semi-back of the formation however, no one wanted the medic being shot first… He had the potential to be shot, to be killed, and no way of fixing himself, which meant that he would have to depend one of the other doctors back at base. No, he wasn’t going to get shot because that thought alone was going to make him protect himself that much more. Not like Cheshire could really protect himself all that well, he could barely shoot the gun that hung loosely in his hands, so what was he going to do if someone tried to kill him - throw some morphine at them?! But that wasn’t what he was out here to think about, Cheshire was out here to save wounded soldiers, and that needed to be his first objective.
And then the gun fire erupted into one, almost soundless, pounding of air. A bullet whistled in the general direction of the boy’s head and he ducked by way of instinct even though the thing wouldn’t have hit him anyway. He did however, see a boy not much younger than himself get hit in the shoulder, than in the thigh, falling in an almost slow and clearly painful way about seven feet in front of him. Slinging his gun across his back, Cheshire ran towards the boy without even hesitating to think that someone could see him and shoot him as well. There was not a self-preserving bone in his body, apparently there never had been, but it had taken this sort of momentum to bring it to his attention. His thoughts were broken but he managed to focus long enough to get his fumbling body over to the soldier and literally throw him over his shoulder. Now, Cheshire was by no means a large boy; he stood about 5’8” and had a sinewy strength that came with lifting dead bodies for a living. His build was lean and he was hungry so he looked almost starved, but still Cheshire was strong enough to haul the boy a few more feet over to an ally that he thought was unoccupied.
Of course he hadn’t even bothered to look behind them, because Cheshire didn’t always think ahead, and he hadn’t quite done this whole ‘in action’ thing before. He couldn’t be bothered with the others right at this second, although he was aware of their presence. Cheshire was concentrating too hard on staving off the bleeding from the wounded soldier’s thigh, sticking him with a vial of morphine to stop his consistent screams of pain. Looking over at the other boy, Cheshire wondered if he was going to do something, like kill him, or help him, anything really since Cheshire had broken in on whatever heroics had just been ministered to save the girl beside them. Turning to the girl, who was obviously scared, he asked her for a hand, in more a commanding voice than was known to come out of him. He watched her with his boyishly brown eyes, letting his hands do the work they knew so well by themselves. The wounded soldier was still bleeding profusely through the tourniquet Cheshire had applied, and he had run out of bandages - he needed something else. So he opened his own jacket and ripped the bottom of his undershirt off, waiting for the help he had asked for. Hoping in the very back of his mind that the other man with the gun in the ally with him did not intend to shoot him.
It was not however the oppressive kind of heat that made your head pound and feel as though it were filled with gallons of water; made it difficult to decipher what was a simple stitch up and what could not be fixed. Cheshire was fastidious and did not like to be informed of what he could and could not do, which proved difficult for his head surgeon to manage. However, the boy was the best they had and when he wanted, or needed to do something, it was typically arranged. And when the commanding officers had informed them that more field medics had been needed, because of the deaths of almost 5 in the last 3 days, Cheshire had demanded a chance to see action. Of course they’d protested, he was needed back at the base, but there was something about Cheshire’s insistence that made them change their minds. He had never been in the field, had been too skilled at the art of stitching up and putting back together that they had stationed him right at the base camp.
He couldn’t keep his mind from wander to the things he’d seen since being stationed here, to the weight of the gun in his hand, going over the things in his medical pack, anything from anticipating the coming strike. He was not accustomed to being confused about his job, about being thrown into a new position but what was worse was that Cheshire didn’t exactly know what he was supposed to be doing. Of course he had volunteered himself up, a learned child among seasoned men who knew what it meant to shoot and kill someone. He had spent so much time worrying about saving everyone that he had forgotten the other side of war, the side that he was trying so hard not to see - the killing. Death was a part of his daily life, but actually physically killing someone had not even crossed his mind. Perhaps a slightly morbid fascination with this war, a part he hadn’t seen had caused him to offer himself up; Cheshire had always been the sort of person that needed some perspective. Or maybe it had been a moment of indecision about his life that had led the boy to this second in time, but more likely it had been the depth of his mortality so guiltily guarded as he was by everyone in the military because of his special talents. Cheshire had never been totally comfortable hidden away in the confines of the base camp, and so, here he was.
It was unlike him - to allow himself to be thrown, head first, heart beating in his throat, into a place with danger in every inch of proximity. It closed in around him and made him feel as though he were by himself, even when he clearly was not alone. Cheshire did walk in the semi-back of the formation however, no one wanted the medic being shot first… He had the potential to be shot, to be killed, and no way of fixing himself, which meant that he would have to depend one of the other doctors back at base. No, he wasn’t going to get shot because that thought alone was going to make him protect himself that much more. Not like Cheshire could really protect himself all that well, he could barely shoot the gun that hung loosely in his hands, so what was he going to do if someone tried to kill him - throw some morphine at them?! But that wasn’t what he was out here to think about, Cheshire was out here to save wounded soldiers, and that needed to be his first objective.
And then the gun fire erupted into one, almost soundless, pounding of air. A bullet whistled in the general direction of the boy’s head and he ducked by way of instinct even though the thing wouldn’t have hit him anyway. He did however, see a boy not much younger than himself get hit in the shoulder, than in the thigh, falling in an almost slow and clearly painful way about seven feet in front of him. Slinging his gun across his back, Cheshire ran towards the boy without even hesitating to think that someone could see him and shoot him as well. There was not a self-preserving bone in his body, apparently there never had been, but it had taken this sort of momentum to bring it to his attention. His thoughts were broken but he managed to focus long enough to get his fumbling body over to the soldier and literally throw him over his shoulder. Now, Cheshire was by no means a large boy; he stood about 5’8” and had a sinewy strength that came with lifting dead bodies for a living. His build was lean and he was hungry so he looked almost starved, but still Cheshire was strong enough to haul the boy a few more feet over to an ally that he thought was unoccupied.
Of course he hadn’t even bothered to look behind them, because Cheshire didn’t always think ahead, and he hadn’t quite done this whole ‘in action’ thing before. He couldn’t be bothered with the others right at this second, although he was aware of their presence. Cheshire was concentrating too hard on staving off the bleeding from the wounded soldier’s thigh, sticking him with a vial of morphine to stop his consistent screams of pain. Looking over at the other boy, Cheshire wondered if he was going to do something, like kill him, or help him, anything really since Cheshire had broken in on whatever heroics had just been ministered to save the girl beside them. Turning to the girl, who was obviously scared, he asked her for a hand, in more a commanding voice than was known to come out of him. He watched her with his boyishly brown eyes, letting his hands do the work they knew so well by themselves. The wounded soldier was still bleeding profusely through the tourniquet Cheshire had applied, and he had run out of bandages - he needed something else. So he opened his own jacket and ripped the bottom of his undershirt off, waiting for the help he had asked for. Hoping in the very back of his mind that the other man with the gun in the ally with him did not intend to shoot him.