Work Text:
The Grass is Starting to Grow
by sashaquayum
He goes there every night to say goodbye or hello or something. Actually, he usually doesn’t say anything at all. Just stands there, looking at the murky ground at his feet. Grass is starting to grow. He notices it, night by night, pondering on when it will cover the ground completely until there are no more signs of previous battle. He doesn’t take roses ‘cause John would have hated that – too corny he’d say. Sometimes he takes lilies. John liked lilies, not that he’d ever admit it. He stands there every night on the spot where John, his Johnny, had died in battle. Every night he’s sure he loses a piece of himself. He figures that soon all the pieces will be gone and there’ll be nothing left, but he also figures that this means that he can be with John again. Every night, he swears that when he stares at the mud long enough, he can hear a voice calling out to him Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. When he looks around, there’s nothing. Always nothing. But the voice gets louder each night.
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