There was not a more unpleasant feeling. Mud covered him, and even worse, it was still raining. It was impossible to see more than ten feet in front of him. He was shooting into the wind, essentially. Not much he could do about it though. At least he was alive, and that's what mattered. To say the least though, Francis Amal was not having a good day, and it was about to get a whole lot worse.

"Hey, Duckie," Roscoe chuckled, "Wanna hear a joke?"

The boy beside him seemed too youthful to be knee deep in mud. He was cheerful and his eyes were like sunshine. He was a beauty too good, too pure for war.

"My life is a joke," Francis groaned. He fired another bullet. He didn't hear the ping of metal or a loud cry, so he knew his shot was meaningless.

Roscoe tilted his head. "That's your own opinion. I value your life as I do my own."

He then fired his gun and heard a loud shriek. "However, I do not value the life of whoever I just hit, just as he did not value mine or anyone else he tried to kill."

The two of them ducked down together as the rain of bullets passed over head. Over the loud noises Francis shouted, "You're too good!"

Roscoe smiled proudly. "No I'm not! I'm pathetically average! You're just bad at it!"

Francis rolled his eyes. He peaked out of the trench and started to fire his gun. Roscoe did the same. It was stunning. What a man he was -especially for one who looked like he recently left boyhood?

"I think you're wonderful at it. Just pure talent!" Francis complimented as he patted Roscoe's shoulder.

Roscoe giggled, "I suppose so."

He fired twice more and suggested, "Or it could have been the practice from slinging around hard cow patties with my slingshot when I was younger."

"Could've been," Francis agreed. He nodded his head twice and shot one more time into the dark rain. He was met with a bullet in return, but it did not hit him. He thought he was off the hook.

"That was a close one," Francis remarked. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and nudged Roscoe. "You alright?"

"Fr-Francis..." Roscoe muttered. His brown doe eyes were riddled with fear. "I've been shot."

The hole in the middle of his forehead was oozing blood. Red rain splattered everywhere.

"Roscoe!" Francis shouted as he caught Roscoe's body, which was beginning to go limp.

"I knew I was gonna go sooner or later," Roscoe whispered to him, "Better this than the blue ticket."

Francis shook his head. "No, no, no. You're going to be alright. Medic! I need a medic! Someone please!"

"Let them treat someone else. I'm going to die sooner or later. Best be now. Hold me as I go, Duckie."

Francis put his hand on Roscoe's cheek. "No, no, please hold on. You're my best friend. I can't live without you. Please don't die. Medic! I need a goddamn medic!"

Roscoe smiled at him and whispered, "I'll see you in another life."

The life then left his eyes. They stared up, void of feeling or soul.

"Roscoe! Roscoe please! Roscoe!"

Francis fell to his knees. He cried against Roscoe's chest. "Roscoe..."

"Amel get back to it!" someone shouted. Roscoe's body was pulled out from his arms. He was faced with no choice but to go back to firing his gun. He did not care what he did or did not hit. In fact he had no more care for anything, not even himself. For the rest of the fight he was precarious with himself.

What's the point of living without his best friend? They grew up together. Roscoe lived two houses over. Most of the time they were inseparable. Teachers hated them because they were always trouble together. Roscoe was a typical wild guy, without a dull moment to spare. He exceeded in gym and played on the baseball team in high school. Francis was the polar opposite. He was much more reserved, but didn't hesitate to crack the occasional joke. He went to all of Roscoe's games to cheer him on. The sport seemed interesting, but he wasn't very good with his hands. That is due to his teacher slapping his left hand with a ruler every time he tried to write with it. Outside of school he felt safe to write, so he did, and everything he wrote was wonderful. His way with words left Roscoe in awe. Too bad none of his teachers wanted to pay attention to any of it. It was like Roscoe was the only one who cared. That's why he couldn't live without him.

Francis managed to survive the battle. It was luck, not will. He found himself more lonesome than ever. Part of him died with Roscoe, and he could feel it. He lost his words that night. No more poetry fell from his lips or sprouted from his fingertips. What's a poet without words? What are words without the love of the poet? Lost, and Francis was nothing but lost after Roscoe died.