Private Weekes and his fellow soldiers all sat around the small table drinking crappy beer and playing cards. Private Josh Dun had a cigarette dangling from his lips as he laughed and put his winning hand on the table. Dallon couldn't see how any of them could possibly laugh like that when the world around them was so incredibly messed up.

This wasn't even America's war. It was a fight that the United States could have easily never been involved in and let Vietnam figure their own lives out. But yet here Dallon was, sitting with a bunch of other twenty-something -year-olds facing certain death.

"Hey Weekes, whatcha got?" Private Pete Wentz asked him, smirking as he glanced down at his own cards.

"I'm out." Dallon slid his crappy hand of cards across the table and picking up the gun that was leaning against his chair

It felt heavy in his lap. The idea of firearms scared the young soldier, so ever since he showed up in training, he had focused on knowing the weapon inside and out. His drill sergeant liked him because he of it. Dallon always did what he was told, only with the secret hope it would get him out of war faster.

The one thing they weren't prepared for during training was the insane boredom of sitting around, waiting to die. It felt like all they ever did around this camp was play poker, clean guns, and shine boots. That is what the last three months at their base camp in the Nam jungle had been like.  The regiment Dallon and the friends were the last to not be split when they were sent to war, so at least knew and trusted the other men in his platoon. Even if he didn't trust himself with his own gun.

Brendon hated guns; he hated violence in all its forms. It had become a joke in their apartment that he was a flower child. Though Caroline and Lindsey, the girls they had moved in with to cover up their relationship, thought the boy's passiveness was cute. Brendon would not be cut out for Vietnam; he wouldn't be able to handle the violence that Dallon had seen in just three months of this hell on Earth. Definitely not the internal conflict. Every day was a threat from friendly fire, especially for someone who was a little different. If anyone in the camp found out Dallon's real sexuality, he might "accidentally" get shot, or smothered in his sleep.

"Weekes, you good? This is the third time you've cleaned that gun today." Wentz laughed, as he took all of the items Dun had thrown into the center of the table.

"I think you could learn from Private Weekes, Wentz." Lieutenant Gerard Way came up behind the man, scaring the three other soldiers around the table into cleaning up the card game as fast as possible.

Dallon shared a smirk with his lieutenant as everyone else scrambled to clean their guns. He had always like Lieutenant Way; his personality was quiet yet stern, causing many of the other privates to be terrified of him. The older soldier had never scared him though, probably because Dallon could see right through him. On the outside, he looked tough and weathered, but on the inside, he was just as tired and scared as the fresh-faced soldiers that were sitting around the camp with him. Dallon had become the lieutenants favorite as soon as he arrived in Nam, considering he always did what he was asked to do, how he was told to do it when it needed to be done. Although he secretly only did it with the hopes of escaping the war zone faster.

As Wentz, Dun, and the other man, whose name had slipped Dallon's mind, began cleaning their weapons, Dallon and Lieutenant Way shared a look that was the closest either of them could get to a laugh. The superior gave a slight nod as Dallon finished reassembling his gun before he went to check on the two men guarding the camp, Privates Joseph and Ross.

With nothing left to do, Dallon just stared off into the Vietnamese jungle thinking about his lover back home. He missed sleeping next to him, using Brendon like a teddy bear. The way he snored softly and how is hair tickled his nose. There was nothing he loved more than Brendon. Than how he tried to act tough, but secretly cried when they passed road kill on their travels together. Dallon missed his bear.

All the other guys sitting around the table had fiances and wives, and Wentz even had a kid, but Dallon was confident they weren't stressed in the same way he was. They didn't have to worry about their lovers getting drafted into the same war that they were in. Brendon turned eighteen in two months, and it scared Dallon that on that day he would get his draft letter. As much as he wanted to see his boyfriend, the last place he wanted to see him was in Nam.

"Do you miss your girl, Weekes?" the unnamed soldier asked, causing Dallon to desperately rack his brain for the name.

"Something like that," Dallon muttered, unhappy about being pulled out of his thoughts of his one true love.

It wasn't like Dallon could complain yet; they had all heard the stories about Lieutenant Way's little brother. While Lieutenant Way had enlisted in the war effort and chose to be here, the same didn't go for his little brother that was drafted in on his eighteenth birthday. Although he had tried to have him put in his own corp, the lieutenant's brother, Mikey, was sent to a camp right on the front line. He received a letter two weeks later from his parents that Mikey had been reported MIA and presumed dead after the Viet Cong bombed their camp.

There was no real concern until Brendon got drafted, but he was sure as hell going to be stressed about it until that moment. The soldiers were startled by the sound of boots crunching dry grass, but their hearts fluttered when someone yelled 'mail call.' The other privates abandoned their guns and ran to the clerk that carried a shoulder bag overflowing with letters and small goody packages from their loved ones. The clerk began to list off names; he heard some like 'Dun,' 'Ross,' and 'Way,' but he was just waiting to hear his. He finally called Dallon's name, but it was the last one causing many of the soldiers around him to sigh. The one that groaned the loudest was Private Wentz.

Dallon turned around with his small box of goodies and stack of letters to see his friend was empty-handed. Wentz had left behind a wife and kid when he went to war, but he still received no letters or care packages from either of them. No updates on how she was, no friendly greetings, and definitely nothing like the love letters that many of the other men had received from their significant others. His kid was only a couple months old, and it was apparent how much the soldier missed him.

The taller patted the depressed man on the shoulder before running off and finding a private corner to read the letters he had received. After the first month at sneaking peeks at who Dallon's letters were from, the other men had become suspicious about how the private was more excited to receive letters from a guy than anyone else. To pass it off, Dallon said that Brendon was his half-brother and they had complicated family issues. The whole story included Dallon's dad dying, his mother remarrying, half-brother and abusive step-father. Caroline and Lindsey wrote him letters as well, sometimes using fake names and spraying perfume on the paper to make Dallon seem like he has more than one girl chasing him. They made a whole joke about it back home. Though the soldier didn't care about that as long as he could receive a letter from the man he loved.

He sorted through his letters separating out Brendon's from the ones that had fake girls names on them and reeked of cheap perfume. In totally he had seven letters, almost two per every week since he had last received letters. Each one had a number by the return address to tell Dallon what order to open them in; the box had a number on it as well, but lucky for the desperate soldier it was a one.

Before opening the small package, Dallon examined the corresponding letter. Even just seeing his boyfriend's handwriting caused his eyes to sting, in a world where he rarely got to see his face anything that was a part of him was enough. He looked around before tearing into the envelope, pulling out the paper and just staring at the words before really reading them.

Dear Giraffe Legs,

Three months is too long, the sheets on our bed stopped smelling like you. I got a dog. You always told me not to, and the girls were reluctant, but when you pout enough about the bed being empty Caroline will give into anything. I took a picture with her and it's in the box along with some chocolate and new shirts.

I've been doing fine on my own, and I've sold pretty much all the stories you've sent me to prominent newspapers and magazines. You are pretty popular over here; I heard people on the street talking about the mysterious writer that came out of nowhere. The money is good, and I put away most of it in savings so that we can have a future. Lindsey thinks I should invest it, but I remember the stories of the depression and how much everyone lost. I think I need your expertise on what to do with it, after all, it is your money.

There are more decisions to make, but I can't make them. That was your job. All I used to do was pick a city, and you would figure out how to get there. I know where I wanna go Dallon, but I don't know how to get there. I went to Cleveland last week to sell your story about the jungle cat, and I got lost so many times. I barely know how to use a compass or read a map, but that didn't matter on our trips.

I miss our trips, like the one we took last summer. I miss California and the sand in between my toes and the way the water matched your eyes. I miss Wyoming and Yellowstone, the cabin and the stars. But most of all I miss you. I can't travel like we used to, and although the girls try and keep me company, it's not the same. Because at night they go into their room and they share a bed, and I sleep alone, plagued with the thought of you dying.

Every time I close my eyes I think about everything that is going on over there. You shouldn't be over there. I wish we would've burned that letter as soon as you got it and just started running. We could've gone to Mexico or Canada, or anywhere we wanted to. It wouldn't matter that we would have to run for the rest of our lives because as long as I'm with you, life is good.

Please come home; I can't stand being apart from you. Your leather jacket has been hanging from the bedpost for three months now, and it doesn't smell like the wind anymore. We're drifters. We aren't meant to stay put. We used to just follow the road and go where ever it took us. But we aren't us anymore because you are fighting in a war that is none of our business. Please come home alive. I can't lose you. You are all I have.

Please don't leave me alone.

With so much love,
Brendon

Dallon fought back the tears that threatened to reveal themselves. He didn't want to cry in front of all the other soldiers, especially not after he had spent so much time building up a reputation as the tough guy who didn't have lots of emotions. Putting as much feeling as he could aside, he opened the box to see the little things that Brendon and the girls had sent him. There were things like socks, underwear, and t-shirts all rolled tightly to save space, but the thing that caught Dallon's eye was the bars of chocolate shoved away in the corner. Gently, he pulled out the candy that made his mouth water, being careful not to misshape them too much as they had melted slightly in the heat.

As he went to unwrap one of the bars, he caught sight of Wentz sitting back at the table they were at earlier. He was polishing his boots with slow, sad movements and a focus that was unusual for the man that never liked to do menial tasks. Dallon sighed and knew what he had to do. He put the rest of the letters he would read later in the box before getting up and making his way over to the obviously depressed soldier. He took one of the chocolate bars and dropped it down in front of the man who had become his friend.

"Eat it before it melts." He told him before heading off to the bunks to hide the new letters with the rest of his stuff.

Inside his trunk was a bunch of dirty shirts and socks, and other stuff like boot polish and old letters from his beloved hidden under the fake messages from their roommates. Those counterfeit notes were going to be the death of him, primarily because of the pungent odor of the different cheap perfumes made him want to barf every time he opened up the trunk.

Dallon, not having any self-control, took out Brendon's second letter along with a bar of chocolate and one of the envelopes that bore a random girls name before putting the rest of his stuff in the trunk. He knew the scent of the girl's perfume would cover up the fact that he was hiding in his bunk reading a letter from a man and not some bimbo like everybody thought his favorite letters were from.

The second letters contained stories of the puppy Bredon had adopted and another adventure he tried to do solo and ended up getting lost on the way to New York City to meet with someone about a role in a movie. That's what Brendon wanted to do, be in movies and plays, or anything that involved entertainment. He hadn't gone that deep into it since he and Dallon were always on the road, but anytime there was an audition in the town they were going to, they stopped long enough for him to give it a try. He had only every received minor roles in a couple of films that took him all of three days to complete, but it wasn't like Brendon needed the money, the lifestyle he and Dallon lived never needed a fortune.

Brendon's short note ended with another sappy love message filled with "I love you"s and "I missed you"s that made Dallon nearly break down. He finished off his chocolate bar as he read the letter from the girl's that also included an additional picture to the one that was in the box that included the two girls, Brendon, and an adorable Boston terrier. The letter made him laugh as it was mostly a rant about how Brendon's puppy was a pain and how the younger let the little terrier do whatever she wanted to.

Wentz came and got him for dinner as Dallon stuffed the letters back into his trunk. Dallon cracked up when he noticed the little bit of chocolate that was on the older private's chin. When the shorter man saw that his friend was laughing, he quickly wiped his chin and walked off like he was tough. Vietnam wasn't all bad, considering the friends Dallon had met that he would never have gotten to meet if he weren't drafted. But other than a couple of good people here, it was a hell on Earth. The private was convinced that he had died and this was the consequence he was facing for all his sins. He was dead, and Brendon wasn't here.

Brendon was the only thing that kept him from welcoming the inevitable death that awaited him on the front lines of Nam. If it weren't for the number of letters that he received every week that reminded him of the love he had for the boy, he would have already run head first into the battle for the heck of the story. Brendon kept him alive.