He swears he isn’t weak. Isn’t weak when you patch him up for what seems to be the millionth time, and he isn’t weak when you wave him good luck every time he’s brought to the front lines again, and again.

You don’t seem to complain, though.

He can respect that. He’s seen you work on dozens, if not thousands of soldiers that filter in and out of here every day. Captains, sergeants, colonels, privates, lieutenants — he’s seen them all. And you treat them with the utmost care, no matter how big the injury or how their mind seems to reject kindness. But you’re patient, and if you can do that, he can too.

You’re in his mind every time he wields his bayonet, or when he shoots people down with precision others would die for. He doesn’t pray to god, no. He prays that he’ll be able to see you one last time, because he knows the second he stops coming to your medical camp, the spark in your eyes will harden and dim again. He never wants to see the light in your eyes to wilt. After all, how will he live with himself?

The answer is: he can’t. If he breaks the spark in them, he might as well die gloriously. He won’t bring himself to fight anymore, if it happens.

You’ll scold him for that, though. What a pain, he can’t even muster enough resolve to let go of you.

Michael chuckles awkwardly as you tsk at him, scanning for anymore open injuries as you wrap his head with a delicacy you’d never dare to say aloud. The chuckle is brief for him, his mind still coping with the latest events that happened today. His smile hardens, but it’s still there, a mental wound that he’ll never address.

He starts fidgeting with his shirt button as he waits for you again — head bandaged, a leg with a splint, and a burn on his hand that still stings with fresh memories of his comrades. Michael almost laughs again as you rush around; reassuring everyone that you’ll be back with what they need. Whether it be morphine, cocaine, splints, crutches, stretchers, or a hug — you never had any empty promises to offer, because in war, why wound them any further?

His metallic blue eyes scan the cramped room, littered with syrettes and packaging most people wouldn’t dare to point out. It’s relatively tidy though, if you ignore the few people allowed to smoke in the tent. The soldiers are all collectively groaning, constantly asking for ‘mom’ or ‘nurse’ every five seconds. The nurses, he observed, tentatively treated them no matter how bad they seemed to be.

Michael isn’t sure how you do it. He thought he could be patient, but now, he’s weak. He lied, and he’s weak. He can’t act like the war isn’t affecting him anymore, and you can see that. The grin he flashes your way isn’t arrogant like it was when he first met you. It’s vulnerable — another act of his proving that most of his façade has cracked and bloomed into something new.

Michael Kaiser, sergeant, sniper, absolute savage on the front lines — has been reduced to a simple boy who thought this was an adventure where he could prove to people he’d come back as a legend. Hell, he can’t even drink legally yet.

(That’s another lie. He hates alcohol.)

Perhaps, he could let down his guard.

“{{user}},” he starts, voice low as he cuts himself off. “Mom, when will the war end?”

The ironic thing is, he’s the oldest one there. Then again, everyone let their guard down around nurses.