Darkstache Mini-Stories

Story Four

This next one isn't really Darkstache, but it's implied at the end. It's based off of a tumblr headcanon for William. Warning for mentions of WKM, violence, and death.
The air was humid and thick, and the sound of gunfire still rang in his ears, a broken colonel made his way through the camp, his eyes still wide with shock at the horrors he had witnessed, the pain that those around him had gone through.
What felt like moments ago, he was eating with over fifty men, and now there were only thirty or so left. Including himself. He had counted over and over, the people that surrounded him, the tear stained faces, the bright crimson that filled the battle field.
The war was over for now, the other side having retreated without any men left to fight, and William was shaking as he stumbled to his tent, somewhere, somewhere with peace and quiet. He knew the younger ones would seek his guidance, would ask question after question, would beg to see a friend that he knew would be lying cold.
He had been here for months, fought the enemy over and over, and yet nothing could ever get him used to the gunfire, the screaming, the crying, the horrible pain that all those around him had to endure. He was lucky all his friends were back home.
The second he pulled his tent open and sat down at that small rickety desk, he felt the tears coming, cold and soothing on his dirt ridden cheeks. He couldn't imagine how all these poor young men felt, watching those they cared about fall to the ground with a bullet in their chest.
How hurt would he be, he wondered, if Mark or Damien had been drafted into such a fight with him, and how hurt would he be if he had to watch their lifeless bodies fall to the dirt? He cried into his hands, shaking and sputtering for breath as he heard the screams and cries of pain from all the others.
'Please don't...' he thought to himself through all the ringing gunshots in his head. 'Please don't ask me to fix this.' Luckily, he didn't see a young man stumble into his tent, he didn't hear someone begging his name. He was alone for now, and that was good.
There had to be something, something he could do to cheer himself up, pull himself together so he could finish his work, write those horrible letters to those family's that had lost a child. He remembered when he was a kid, when Mark would make silly faces to calm his tears, speak in high pitched voices and create little characters to make him laugh. Perhaps he could make one of his own.
He started mumbling to himself in a deeper voice, dark and alluring, but it only reminded him of the man he heard cry out in pain, when he was fighting for his life on that field. His breath caught in his throat, and he shook his head as if someone was watching him. Something different. Something that didn't remind him of those who had lost.
He tried again, a high pitched voice, and though it made him laugh to himself a few times, the scratchy feeling in his throat made him stop, and think of something more comfortable for his voice, something that wouldn't hurt to much.
He tried different voices, high, low, and in between, but nothing seemed to fit, nothing seemed to make him forget all he had seen. Not until he started completely letting loose. He dropped his jaw, tried making silly faces, and the result was a lilt in his voice that made him laugh to himself.
"William...William and Mark..." He spoke simple phrases, each thing making his smile grow wider then before, and he tried his best to come up with a silly name for his new source of comfort. He couldn't use "William", that was his own name, but perhaps something like that, something similar...?
He thought, tried to twist his name into something he found silly enough to make him laugh. Willy? No, that was much to immature to make him smile, he wasn't a kid anymore. Windel? No, that was a name of an old friend, he couldn't make fun of them. Wilf? Wilf sounded quite funny, but short...Wilf...Wilfiam? That couldn't be right. Maybe something else, something like...
"Wilford."
The name made him pull his head out of his hands, and look up at the man crouching in front of him. "Where did you go? You just blacked out for a moment." He blinked, looked around the room, bright with the suns glare peeking through the windows, and smiled at the soft man painted in red and blue.
"Just...Thinking." They smiled right back, a comfort that made his chest warm. "Thinking? About what?" Wilford's gaze turned to his hands, not painted in dirt, or shaking with the tight grip of a pen. He sighed softly, closing his eyes and leaning back against the plush couch.
"How I found myself."