Hello, kids. I have come across many Kellic AUs but I've never seen a WW2 one, so I decided it would be a cool idea to write it. I obviously mean no disrespect to anyone who has lost family members in the war and I'm simply writing this for entertainment purposes.
I'm not very good at writing in an old-fashioned style, so I'm going to stick with my own style, and a lot of facts will definitely be incorrect but I'm doing my best, k?
Also, this story probably won't be updated as often as One More Night With You or Designer Hearts because this is more of a side project. I will still put a lot of effort into it though and make the chapters longer than what I would usually write, just to make up for the infrequent future updates.
Obviously there will be some triggering things in this story, as war in itself is a pretty heavy topic.
Enjoy.
_____________
It was that time of year again. That one day during which he could not stop the tears in the night and all he would hear during the day were phantom gunshots. Even getting out of bed was hard: not only from the destructive feeling but also from how much his back hurt. But he was happy.
His joints cracked as if they were made of plastic and the lung problems sometimes even made breathing painful. The vision in his dark eyes had started fading years ago, leaving him with thick-rimmed glasses. But he was happy.
It had been so, so long, but the memories never stopped haunting him. His dreams were always nightmares, slapping the events of the past into his face. He wanted it to end so much. But he was happy.
Michael took a deep breath and cleared his throat, running his hands over his face to rub the sleep from his eyes. The bed next to him was empty, but still warm. Alysha must have woken up not long ago to make breakfast. That woman never gave herself a break and always needed to be up on her feet, doing something. But that was why he loved her so much and looked down at the ring on his finger with a small smile.
His chest felt heavy when he sat up on the bed. It was only the morning and he already felt so down, but he just needed to see them again.
Standing up, Michael leaned down, supporting himself on the bed, and reached into the lowest draw of his nightstand. From there, he retrieved the box, hearing the three items moving around inside. He had to be very careful. Those belongings meant the world to him.
Carefully opening the box, with his always-shaking hands, he stared at the items.
The necklace was dazzling. Its chain was thin with a golden charm in the shape of a heart dangling from the end. It was so precious: not because of the price, which must have been huge, but rather the meaning.
Finally he looked at the other item. A photo. It was small, faded, black and white. A layer of dust had gathered on top of it so, which one swift swipe of his wrinkled hand, Michael got rid of it, revealing the picture.
The simple image brought tears to the man's eyes. It had been so long, but it felt like yesterday. The two men in the picture stood closely with their arms over each other's shoulders, grinning like children. They were so happy when that picture was taken, so ecstatic.
Michael just stared into their elated faces. He was a lot more familiar with one of them over the other but, my god, how he missed them both.
He had sat there, marvelling at the image and the memories which came with it for so long that he did not hear the car pulling up outside or the shouting of excited children or the opening of his bedroom door.
"Hey, dad!"
The voice snapped Michael back to reality. He turned his head to see a tall man walking through with a small kid latched onto his legs and four more slightly older ones making their way in behind him.
"Hey, grandpa!" They greeted and Michael smiled in response.
"Good morning," he replied kindly, not expecting his family to be here.
Michael was taken by surprise and knocked onto his back when his youngest grandchild, 7-year-old Nancy, tackled him into a hug. He huffed out a laugh, realising how strong the girl was for her age. He chuckled, picking her up and pushing himself back into a sitting position with the girl in his lap.
Their family was large. Although Mike and Alysha only decided on one child, their son did not hold back and had five kids of his own running around. Well, a few were not exactly kids anymore. The eldest, Daniel, was at the ripe age of 23 and had a child of his own on the way; due to be born in four months.
"What's this?" Nancy chirped, picking up the picture Michael had set down next to him. The girl giggled to herself, pointing to the man who stood on the left in the image, "Why does that boy have no pants on?"
"It's a long story," Michael replied quietly. Everyone sat on the bed behind the two, all gazing at the image in wonder.
"Who are they?" Jesse, one of the 14-year-old twins asked.
"The one on the left who is only in his underwear is my brother," Michael explained, his British accent clashed with the American ones of everyone else.
"The one I'm named after?" The elderly man's son asked in wonder.
"Yes, Victor."
This was so bizarre to Michael as he had never really talked about this picture to anyone except Alysha. He did not think anyone would be curious enough, and he was always too upset about it. But now that his family was gathered around him, hanging onto every word he said, he felt different.
"And who's the other one?" Questioned Flynn, the other one of the twins.
"His name is Kellin."
"They both look so happy here," pointed out Jessica, the second-to-oldest, "What happened? Can you tell us about them?"
"Tell you about...Vic and Kellin?" He asked, almost in shock, gripping the bedsheets beneath him.
"Yes, please!"
The story of Vic and Kellin, the two bravest men he had ever met, was not something Michael told often. Or ever. It was like a secret of his own that he had kept for years. Was this the time to share it? He felt that the story of Vic and Kellin deserved to be heard, but he was not sure whether he would be able to tell it without breaking down.
Michael decided to take the chance anyway.
"It all started in my small hometown in the centre of Essex, UK..."
***
"Victor, fix your tie. You look like darned delinquent," my mother snapped, but did not even give me a chance to perform the task as she was speedily handling my tie instead, pulling it a bit too tight and making me choke. I guess she realised that I was never very good at it and there was no point in letting me do it.
We were getting ready for an 'important event', as mother would say. The government? They called it a game.
I guess the best way to describe it would be to call it a raffle. It was pretty simple, all men between the ages of 18 and 55 had to meet at the town hall and receive a piece of paper with a number written on it. If your number is picked, you're off to war.
They made it look so simple and easy: you go away, you fight for a bit, then you come back a hero. If only it was really like that. I'd heard plenty of stories from people who went there with high expectations but came back without a leg - or not at all. It wasn't that I did not want to keep my country safe - I just had a lot of things and people to live for. I had my parents, my brother, Michael, friends. I had too much to risk by going there.
In addition, they tried to make it seem fair by supposedly making the chance of getting picked as small as everyone else's but, no matter how much they tried to sugarcoat it, this was in no way fair. If someone did not want to go to war, they should not be forced to. Yet it still happened.
Apparently it was mayhem out on the battlefields and the desperation for more people was beyond high to the point where they literally had to take people against their will. A lot, actually most, men went freely in hopes of becoming proud heroes when they come back. The rest of us, the smart ones, refused to go. This did, however, cause a lot of social consequences.
I saw the way people looked at me. Local women would whisper about how much of a coward I was for not volunteering. They would talk about how I was letting everyone down. How some men were physically unable to go, because of disabilities, yet here I was, perfectly able yet still choosing to stay. I guess I saw where they were coming from. They would certainly think that I was being selfish, which was understandable without hearing my point of view.
Michael had gone off to war; not to fight though, which was a relief. Although he was only 17, the boy had a lot of medical knowledge. He admired our town's doctors and worked with many of them. They taught the kid so many things that he would be qualified enough to become one himself. That was why he volunteered to help with the medical side of things. I was a bit reluctant to watch him go, seeing as the boy was so young, but our family was reassured that he would be safe.
Father had stayed and, although he fit into the age boundaries, his faulty spine was something which prevented him from going. We had no idea what it was but some days the poor man would wake up in so much pain that he could not move. He had seen all of the local doctors but even having Michael so close by to check him out was not really helping. This was yet another reason for me to stay. My family needed me.
I muttered obscenities under my breath as we made out way to the large town hall. Because we were right in the middle of Essex, the 'raffle' for our whole county took place in our town. It was just more convenient this way.
The walk was silent, the only sounds between us were my shallow breathing of the tapping of my mother's heels on the ground. My father did not go to these things, as he had no reason to. For my mother, this was just a formality.
I gazed up at the tall building as soon as we approached it. Usually, it was a place of activities and creativity. Today, and every other month when it happened, this felt like walking to my death. The town hall always served as more of a community centre and, as there was no proper school in the area, this was where I performed my job.
My job was not exactly being a teacher, but I was on my way there. I was more of a teaching assistant for primary education. I had always loved kids and kids loved me back, meaning that I was just given another reason to not leave.
Obviously it was not definite that I would be chosen - actually, the chance was minuscule. I just did not want to risk it. Everything here made me so happy and I did not want to leave it behind just to go and fight.
Mother and I entered the building and, as soon as we did so, I felt a small piece of paper being shoved into my hand. I looked down at it just how I had done every other time.
6509.
We were led through to the main hall and ordered to a row of seats. The place was almost full by the time we got there, as we took quite long to get ready, so mother and I sat down in a hurry. She may have seemed a bit scary, but that was only when she was stressed (like now). She did not want me to leave, as seeing Michael go was already painful enough. I loved her greatly.
I felt her hand reassuringly sneak into mine. This whole raffle thing had happened a few times already and it was no less scary with each time.
Straining my neck, I looked out at the mass of people before me. There were so many familiar faces here and so many alien ones as well. I could not believe that some of the people who I had known for my whole life would be going to war today. And one of those people could be me.
We waited a few more minutes and, by the time the place was full, I took notice of the fact that around 7000 numbers were given out to the men. With each time 100 people were picked. I did the math in my head and figured that there was a 1/70 chance of my number being drawn.
I showed my piece of paper to my mother and, sooner rather than later, it started. The mayor of our town stepped up onto the small stage at the front, his body poking out above all of the heads that stood in the way. My leg bounced up and down in anticipation, creasing the formal trousers that I wore.
The mayor started speaking, telling some meaningless lies about how great joining the fighting was and how, if we were chosen, we would be back by Christmas. I almost scoffed out loud when I heard that.
Next came the actual choosing of the numbers. There was a box which contained them all and it felt so bizarre that something as simple as a box held the future, and maybe even the life, of 100 people in this room.
The numbers started coming.
"2644."
"830."
"5012."
The first, second, third, 23rd, 46th, 78th went by and I counted each one. They were all being called out and the people who held those numbers had to go up to the front. Now on the stage stood 78 scared faces and one emotionless mayor, who carried on reading the numbers.
I was hanging off every word he said, scared to miss anything. But the 79th number he uttered made my stomach drop. It caused my hand to become numb from how hard my mother squeezed. It made my knees go weak and if I was not already sitting I would have fallen.
"6509."
It all felt like a blur and my vision became unclear, but I found myself on the stage with all of the other men. How I got here? I did not know. I was so lost that I guess I was not even registering my own movements. Something I could also not wrap my head around was how I was still able to stand on my own two feet and I was not breaking down crying. Maybe it was the fear of public humiliation.
My ears did not even pick up anything else the mayor said, as my eyes just grazed the sea of faces. They were all staring up at us, mainly with pity but sometimes I spotted a hint of admiration. There were so many people I recognised in the crowd and their eyes were focused on me. I even saw some of the kids that I taught and their expressions held such sadness.
My eyes fell on my mother and she just looked hopeless. I tried to somehow telepathically ask her for help, because I just knew that I could not do this alone. She was not crying but, instead, there was a look of defeat on her face, like she had given up.
And, honestly, so had I.