Letters to nowhere

Lan Xichen never tires of writing letters. He doesn't care if he's sitting in a trench, barely holding a pen, or stealing a few minutes away from death to write down lines that come to him on dirty, yellowed paper. He is scared. Who isn't afraid of war? Even the bravest soldiers, after being under fire for a week or two, begin to fear death. Death is the child of war, killing an army. Lan Xichen isn't afraid of death, but he is afraid that if he dies, Nie Huaisang, who is thin and sickly, will not have the strength to survive in New York's Chinese immigrant district of Brooklyn. Xichen recalled with a smile how cold Huaisang's hands were during their walks by the East River, but how hot his chapped lips were. They met in an orphanage when Huaisang was six and Xichen was eight. Huaisang was often bullied by other boys, but he, thin and awkward, only raised his head with bruises on his face and clenched his small fists. He never gave up, and Lan Xichen initially thought that Huaisang enjoyed getting hit. But then he realised that Huaisang, who was honest and correct in his actions, simply couldn't back down. No, he would stand up to the end, and Lan Xichen often helped him get out of difficult situations, gladly confronting the leaders of his friends' abusers. They realised they were meant to be together when they were sixteen and eighteen years old, respectively. This was when "Nie Huaisang" was branded onto Xichen's wrist with a burning fire. Huaisang didn't have anything on his wrist, but he was two years away from reaching adulthood, so they didn't worry too much about it. Yes, Xichen truly loved Huaisang. It was impossible not to love Huaisang - his thin fingers, narrow shoulders, and impossibly thin frame from malnutrition and frequent illnesses. The other girls sneered at him, but Xichen...Xichen loved him. Every time Nie Huaisang was forced to bed by another bout of cold, every time he suffered a fever of more than one hundred and four degrees and every time he nearly coughed his lungs out, Lan Xichen sat by his side, holding a small hand in his rough working hands. He asked Fate not to let Huaisang go this time. Lan Xichen did not believe in God, but he was prepared to pray to Jesus, Allah, and all other known deities if it meant Huaisang would open his eyes again. This night wouldn't be the last for him. Huaisang was opening his eyes. Lan Xichen was able to dance. In the heart of Brooklyn's streets, the sounds of Benny Goodman's and Cab Calloway's bands could be heard echoing, Mamie Smith's gentle blues notes and Ella Fitzgerald's swinging vocals could be heard. On weekends, he and Huaisang would go dancing. Well, rather, Xichen would dance, twirling another girl in a slow dance, while Huaisang stood in the corner, hunched over and staring at the floor. Huaisang didn't know how to dance. He was waiting for the right partner. Xichen had always been the right partner. The Second World War swept into their lives in a whirlwind of propaganda posters, patriotic films, and the scent of impending separation. Lan Xichen didn't doubt this very separation for a moment: he was twenty-five years old, healthy, young, and strong, and it was only a matter of time before he would be drafted into the army. With a glint in his eyes, Nie Huaisang painted images of selfless soldiers, the American flag flying over Berlin, and defeated Hitler. Xichen studied books on military strategy. Nie Huaisiang would never be drafted, and he wouldn't even be allowed to apply, not with his asthma, allergy to all kinds of flowers, and constant bronchitis and pneumonia. In 1943, a summons arrived. Sergeant Lan Xichen of the 107th Infantry would be leaving for the Italian front at dawn on the fifth of July. Lan Xichen would have been happy to forget about Huaisang's pale face, but he couldn't get this image out of his head. He also remembered very well the bitterness in their kisses and the hopelessness that seemed to be in every movement Huaisang made. It was difficult. Before dawn, Huaisang bumped his head into Xichen's shoulder and promised they would be together soon, all he had to do was go through the commission process again! 'Don’t win the war till I get there', Nie Huaisang whispered through hot, parched lips, squeezing his lover's shoulders tighter. 'Promise me you won’t do anything too stupid before I get back', Lan Xichen barely had time to shout as he hopped onto a train carrying young recruits to a military training camp. 'I can't!' Huaisang yelled after him, trying to run after the train, but immediately suffocating due to asthma. 'I can’t. You’re taking all the stupid with you.' Xichen smiles warmly as he closes the envelope containing the letter to Brooklyn. He never mentions war in his letters, as he doesn't wish to talk about the horrors that haunt him before each attack. Instead, he writes about how the harvest must be in full swing now, and there must be a band, playing Mamie Smith on the streets once again. He asks if Huaisang has found the right partner. Xichen assures him that the war will soon come to an end and that the last battles will be fought. He tells Huaisang that he loves him and that he will return home soon to hug his fragile body and kiss him hard. He misses Huaisang terribly. He knows that A-Sang in Brooklyn is waiting for his return with all his tiny, delicate heart. Huasiang is waiting. But then Lan Xichen is captured.