FIC * One year * Original
Mar. 31st, 2012 09:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
renrenren3 posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
literenTitle: One year
Fandom: Original
Characters: OMC/OFC
Words: ~1,200
Rating: PG
Warnings: character death
Summary: He doesn't want her to leave, but she's made up her mind. One year, he keeps repeating himself, just one year. It's not that long.
Beta: none
Notes: Written mission 6.1 ("year") of the COW-T 2 @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
maridichallenge. This is a bit longer than my original submission and hopefully I fixed some of the typos too.
He doesn't want her to leave, but she's made up her mind. One year, he keeps repeating himself, just one year. It's not that long. She promises that she'll write as often as she can. He kisses her goodbye at the train station and she starts to say something, but her words are covered by the whistle of the train.
The first letter arrives on day three. She penned it on the train and posted it in a hurry when she arrived at her destination, the writing is a bit irregular and shows when the train hit a bump in the tracks. He reads it and pretends that she's on the train with her, listening to the other travelers' chatter and watching the familiar countryside fade into something unknown. The letter says the same things that they'd been telling each other at the station and in the past few weeks. I miss you already, she writes. I will count the days. One year, he tells himself, and he watches the calendar.
At first she writes every week, telling him about life at base camp and about the people that she met there. Her words paint a vivid picture of what her life is like now, and it seems so different from anything that he's used to, but he reads each letter over and over and pretends that he's there with her. It makes his life a little less lonely. His own letters are shorter and much more mundane: he's still working the same nine to five job and he still hangs out with the same old friends.
On day thirty-seven she moves south and her letters start being less frequent. They're closer to the enemy lines now, she tells him. She can't give him more details than that because their mail is heavily monitored. Instead she asks him for news of home, of himself, of his cat. He's afraid that the answers will bore her, he doesn't have much to say, but she keeps writing back.
On day sixty-one, it's her birthday. He sends her a birthday card and a photo of himself, waving hi from his front porch. He draws a little speech bubble saying 'I miss you', and then feels silly, but mails it anyway. He gets the reply on day seventy-seven: she tells him that she propped the photo on a rock next to the road and they had dinner together. He smiles when he reads that and asks her if they had fun together. The next letter comes on day ninety-six. Your conversation was a bit limited, but we had lots of fun.
The correspondence slow down even more after that. Some letters go missing entirely, so he starts writing every week, hoping that at least a few of those will reach their destination. Her own mail doesn't fare any better. Sometimes he gets nothing at all in the mail for weeks, then two letters at once. The letters are crumpled and the ink is smudged, as if they've been written in a hurry and then tossed in a jacket's pocket to crumple for a few days.
He tells himself that they smell a bit like her. They don't, they smell like mud and musty paper. It's as if she's on a whole different planet, surrounded by strangers and living a life that he knows nothing about. Sometimes she slips into jargon or mentions names that he doesn't recognize, so much that if it wasn't for the handwriting he could think that the letters had been written by a stranger.
On day one hundred and forty-two he gets a letter in which she tells him that everybody is fine and apologizes if she worried him with her earlier note. He has no idea of what she's talking about, something must have got lost in the mail again, but if he writes asking for more details she probably won't be able to answer.
Instead he tells her about how one of their friends is moving, and about a really good book that he's just finished reading. She asks to set the book aside for her, that she wants to borrow it when she gets home. It's day one hundred and fifty-nine, and it's the first time that she's mentioned coming home. One year, he tells himself.
There's a long, long period without any letters. She's warned him that this might happen, but he's still worried sick and can't sleep at night. He's got to relay on the newspapers for news as to how the war is going, though he doesn't really trust that they know what's really going on, or that they're even telling the truth.
Her next letter, when it comes, is the shortest yet. I miss you, she tells him, and it takes him so much effort not to send back just two words. Me too, he thinks. Me too. Instead he watches the calendar, day two hundred and six, and they're over halfway through.
I miss you too, he writes, and he tells her about home and about their common friends but mostly about himself and how much he misses her. He's never said some of those things to her, and now he wishes desperately that he had. I know, she replies, and it's a constant back and forth of me too and me too.
Despite his love for books, he's never been good with words. It takes him hours to write each letter and he labors over each word. She writes each letter in the spur of the moment, in what little time she can spare, but somehow her simple prose manages to give him all kinds of emotions. I just write what I think, says her letter on day two hundred and fifty-five, but even his thoughts are confused sometimes. There's only one thing he knows for sure. One year, but one year is far too long.
Day two-hundred and ninety-eight is when he tells her that he wanted to propose, right before she left. He wanted to but he never found the courage because he wasn't sure that she wanted to get married at all, because she always said that she didn't want to feel tied down. He stays up all night and writes a dozen different drafts before he ends up with something he's satisfied with. In the end he remembers her words and just writes what he thinks. I think I'd like to marry you. He posts the letter at dawn.
It seems to take forever to get her answer back. He stares at the envelope when it comes in the mail, hands shaky, and he's too nervous to open it. Yes, is the first word, and his heart skips a beat. I never wanted to get married, she writes, but I think I'd like to marry you too. It's day three hundred and fourteen. He looks at the calendar, then reads her letter again. The next day he goes shopping for a ring.
The ring sits in his red velvet box, next to the stack of letters and the book that she wanted to borrow, just under the calendar. He waits, crossing off each day with a red marker as it passes, counting down the days. One year.
She dies on day three hundred and sixty-three.
Fandom: Original
Characters: OMC/OFC
Words: ~1,200
Rating: PG
Warnings: character death
Summary: He doesn't want her to leave, but she's made up her mind. One year, he keeps repeating himself, just one year. It's not that long.
Beta: none
Notes: Written mission 6.1 ("year") of the COW-T 2 @
maridichallenge. This is a bit longer than my original submission and hopefully I fixed some of the typos too.He doesn't want her to leave, but she's made up her mind. One year, he keeps repeating himself, just one year. It's not that long. She promises that she'll write as often as she can. He kisses her goodbye at the train station and she starts to say something, but her words are covered by the whistle of the train.
The first letter arrives on day three. She penned it on the train and posted it in a hurry when she arrived at her destination, the writing is a bit irregular and shows when the train hit a bump in the tracks. He reads it and pretends that she's on the train with her, listening to the other travelers' chatter and watching the familiar countryside fade into something unknown. The letter says the same things that they'd been telling each other at the station and in the past few weeks. I miss you already, she writes. I will count the days. One year, he tells himself, and he watches the calendar.
At first she writes every week, telling him about life at base camp and about the people that she met there. Her words paint a vivid picture of what her life is like now, and it seems so different from anything that he's used to, but he reads each letter over and over and pretends that he's there with her. It makes his life a little less lonely. His own letters are shorter and much more mundane: he's still working the same nine to five job and he still hangs out with the same old friends.
On day thirty-seven she moves south and her letters start being less frequent. They're closer to the enemy lines now, she tells him. She can't give him more details than that because their mail is heavily monitored. Instead she asks him for news of home, of himself, of his cat. He's afraid that the answers will bore her, he doesn't have much to say, but she keeps writing back.
On day sixty-one, it's her birthday. He sends her a birthday card and a photo of himself, waving hi from his front porch. He draws a little speech bubble saying 'I miss you', and then feels silly, but mails it anyway. He gets the reply on day seventy-seven: she tells him that she propped the photo on a rock next to the road and they had dinner together. He smiles when he reads that and asks her if they had fun together. The next letter comes on day ninety-six. Your conversation was a bit limited, but we had lots of fun.
The correspondence slow down even more after that. Some letters go missing entirely, so he starts writing every week, hoping that at least a few of those will reach their destination. Her own mail doesn't fare any better. Sometimes he gets nothing at all in the mail for weeks, then two letters at once. The letters are crumpled and the ink is smudged, as if they've been written in a hurry and then tossed in a jacket's pocket to crumple for a few days.
He tells himself that they smell a bit like her. They don't, they smell like mud and musty paper. It's as if she's on a whole different planet, surrounded by strangers and living a life that he knows nothing about. Sometimes she slips into jargon or mentions names that he doesn't recognize, so much that if it wasn't for the handwriting he could think that the letters had been written by a stranger.
On day one hundred and forty-two he gets a letter in which she tells him that everybody is fine and apologizes if she worried him with her earlier note. He has no idea of what she's talking about, something must have got lost in the mail again, but if he writes asking for more details she probably won't be able to answer.
Instead he tells her about how one of their friends is moving, and about a really good book that he's just finished reading. She asks to set the book aside for her, that she wants to borrow it when she gets home. It's day one hundred and fifty-nine, and it's the first time that she's mentioned coming home. One year, he tells himself.
There's a long, long period without any letters. She's warned him that this might happen, but he's still worried sick and can't sleep at night. He's got to relay on the newspapers for news as to how the war is going, though he doesn't really trust that they know what's really going on, or that they're even telling the truth.
Her next letter, when it comes, is the shortest yet. I miss you, she tells him, and it takes him so much effort not to send back just two words. Me too, he thinks. Me too. Instead he watches the calendar, day two hundred and six, and they're over halfway through.
I miss you too, he writes, and he tells her about home and about their common friends but mostly about himself and how much he misses her. He's never said some of those things to her, and now he wishes desperately that he had. I know, she replies, and it's a constant back and forth of me too and me too.
Despite his love for books, he's never been good with words. It takes him hours to write each letter and he labors over each word. She writes each letter in the spur of the moment, in what little time she can spare, but somehow her simple prose manages to give him all kinds of emotions. I just write what I think, says her letter on day two hundred and fifty-five, but even his thoughts are confused sometimes. There's only one thing he knows for sure. One year, but one year is far too long.
Day two-hundred and ninety-eight is when he tells her that he wanted to propose, right before she left. He wanted to but he never found the courage because he wasn't sure that she wanted to get married at all, because she always said that she didn't want to feel tied down. He stays up all night and writes a dozen different drafts before he ends up with something he's satisfied with. In the end he remembers her words and just writes what he thinks. I think I'd like to marry you. He posts the letter at dawn.
It seems to take forever to get her answer back. He stares at the envelope when it comes in the mail, hands shaky, and he's too nervous to open it. Yes, is the first word, and his heart skips a beat. I never wanted to get married, she writes, but I think I'd like to marry you too. It's day three hundred and fourteen. He looks at the calendar, then reads her letter again. The next day he goes shopping for a ring.
The ring sits in his red velvet box, next to the stack of letters and the book that she wanted to borrow, just under the calendar. He waits, crossing off each day with a red marker as it passes, counting down the days. One year.
She dies on day three hundred and sixty-three.
