No Bravery | dunkirk au

Forces Of Attraction

October 11th, 1943. 

"Aim better kid, come on, you can do it!" - Pietro's voice resounded through the whole back garden as he stared at the two men in front of him, feet firmly planted on the ground, his legs apart and his hands placed on his sturdy hips. 

CLINK! 

The bullet fired by Tommy just barely grazed the tin can that had been strategically placed at over 100 feet from them. Tommy sighed, lowering his Lee-Enfield til the barrel was facing the ground and rolling his left shoulder a couple of times, since it had become sore by keeping the infernal device on it for a prolonged amount of time. 

He was expecting a crude comment from Pietro anytime due to the small unannounced break he had decided to take, and he didn't have to wait long. 

"Really?! Already taking a break?! I want to see you take a break on the battle field when the German dogs are doing everything they can to kill your tiny English ass!" - he roared, his voice coming closer than it had been the previous time: the man had marched to him, his hands joined behind his back, his eyes stern and his mouth pressed in a thin line. Hollow eyes were staring down at him, thanks to the man's greather height, and the sun shining directly above his head made the two cavities where his pupils were supposed to be almost look dark, empty and demonic, casting a very sinister shadow over his occipital bone. 

Tommy only raised his eyes to stare at him, panting a little, his teeth nibbling at the dry skin of his lips that had started to split due to the lack of hydration: he was craving something to drink. After all he hadn't had a single sip of water since he had been woken up without much ado that morning, at the thrilling hour of 5am. The sun wasn't even up in the sky, it was dark and also cold. Still warmer in comparison to the temperatures he was used to when he lived in England, but still cold enough to shock his system and wake him up with a start when Pietro had ripped the covers from his body, his voice thundering over his confused frame, barking about training and whatnot. Of course, in italian, so he couldn't have the privilege to understand what profanities the man was throwing his way. 

"Rifle back on your shoulder, sfaticato!" (slacker). - Pietro shouted right at his face, his stinky breath hitting his nostrils and almost instantly triggering a gag, but Tommy knew better. He gritted his teeth, his lips pressed in a thin line and lifted his rifle over his shoulder again, closing one eye as he focused his gaze on the tin can through the viewfinder. Pietro studied him, eyes slowly running over his stance, how his back was far too rigid, how the kid was too on edge and nervous. He shook his head, placing his left hand between his shoulder blades over the thick material of his uniform. - "Try to relax. Take a deep breath." - he instructed him. Tommy did as told, and Pietro saw his arms visibly relax. - "Don't be on edge. You have to be focused on the target, but not to the point where you get fidgety." - he whispered to him, making sure to spell every word correctly and not mess them up with his thick southern italian accent. - "Be focused on the target but try to relax at the same time." 

It wasn't that cold anymore, now that the sun had made his way into the sky, blazing over the lone figures standing in the back garden. A shine of sweat made his way down Tommy's back, starting at the base of his neck and going down over his right shoulder blade. He felt it all the way down to his boxers' rubber band. A soft warm breeze invested them both, the sound of fallen leaves rustling on the ground, and when Tommy adjusted his position to feel more comfortable he felt one crunching under his boot. 

"Deep breath in while you aim." - Pietro instructed. - "And slow release when you fire. Expect the kickback from the rifle and absorb the impact with your shoulders and your chest, so you won't hit yourself in the face."