1950-1953 : The Rifle Between Us
heyaa !! Here is the alternative ending y'all have been waiting (and begging) for. It takes place during the 6th chapter (when they decide to flee together).
Enjoy !! kiss kiss <3
October 1950 - Republic of Korea
The rain poured heavily on the makeshift barracks, soaking into the earth, turning it into a thick, unrelenting mud. The war had already stripped them of so much - brothers, country, and the innocence of youth. But tonight, something different stirred in the air: a sliver of hope. Jisung tightened his grip on Minho’s wrist as they crouched behind the crates, their breaths barely audible over the sound of distant gunfire. The English soldier had promised to meet them here. He was their only chance.
A shadow moved in the darkness, followed by a low whisper.
“Lee? Han?”
Jisung exhaled in relief. “Here.”
The soldier stepped forward, his uniform drenched, eyes scanning the area. Corporal James Atkinson had been stationed in Korea for months, but he had seen enough to know that war made monsters of good men. When Jisung had approached him about getting Minho out, he had hesitated - but in the end, he couldn’t turn them away.
“You’re lucky I don’t ask too many questions,” Atkinson muttered, tossing them two uniforms. “This should get you through the first checkpoint.”
Minho took his uniform with shaking hands. “Why are you helping us?”
The Englishman hesitated. “I had a mate once. He-” A pause. “I lost him. If I can stop that from happening again…” He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “Come on, we don’t have time.”
They followed Atkinson through the camp, careful to keep their heads down. The plan was desperate, held together by nothing more than whispered promises and the fragile hope of survival.
Jisung and Minho had spent days planning their escape, but the execution still felt like a reckless gamble. Jisung had approached Atkinson weeks earlier, testing the waters with careful words about defection, about starting over, about what options might exist beyond the war. Atkinson had been hesitant, reminding Jisung of the risks - not just for them but for himself. Aiding deserters, especially one from the North, was treasonous.
Still, something had shifted in Atkinson’s expression when he had looked between Jisung and Minho. He had seen something there - desperation, perhaps, or something deeper, something unspoken. And in the end, Atkinson had agreed.
Now, under the cover of darkness, they moved swiftly, their borrowed uniforms blending into the shadows. The checkpoint was their first real obstacle. If they were caught, execution would be the least of their concerns.
Jisung’s heart pounded as they approached the guards. Atkinson stepped forward, speaking in quick, clipped English, explaining that he was escorting two soldiers under orders. The American MP barely glanced at them before waving them through, more focused on his cigarette than on protocol.
They didn’t breathe until they were well past the checkpoint.
From there, it was a long journey south. Atkinson had arranged for them to board a supply truck heading toward Busan, where the British and American forces had more control. It was a grueling trip, each mile stretching unbearably long as they huddled in the back of the truck, their bodies stiff from tension.
At night, when the truck stopped for refueling, Jisung and Minho whispered in hushed voices, barely able to believe they had made it this far.
“What if they catch us before we leave Korea?” Minho asked one night, his voice barely audible over the rumbling of distant artillery.
Jisung didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for Minho’s hand in the darkness, fingers brushing over bruised knuckles. “Then we fight,” he said simply. “But we won’t let them take us.”
Minho exhaled, squeezing Jisung’s hand briefly before pulling away. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he admitted. “I’m afraid of being sent back.”
Jisung didn’t have an answer for that. He was afraid of the same thing.
By the time they reached Busan, the city was a whirlwind of movement - refugees, soldiers, and merchants all colliding in a desperate attempt to survive. Atkinson had one final task before leaving them: securing passage on a ship.
“It won’t be easy,” he warned them as they huddled in a dimly lit alleyway. “Hong Kong is British territory, but they’re not exactly welcoming defectors. You’ll need to lay low when you arrive. I have a contact on the docks - he’ll get you on board.”
Jisung bowed deeply. “We owe you our lives.”
Atkinson shifted uncomfortably. “Just… make it worth something.”
That night, with stolen papers and forged identities, Jisung and Minho slipped onto a British merchant vessel bound for Hong Kong.
They had escaped Korea. But the journey was far from over.
1951 - Hong Kong
Hong Kong was alive in a way war-torn Korea never could be. Neon lights flickered in the humid air, markets bustled with traders, and the scent of saltwater mixed with roasted duck. It felt like another world entirely.
The first weeks in Hong Kong were the hardest. They were free from the war, but not from fear. Every time they stepped outside, Jisung felt exposed, as if someone would recognize them, drag them back to Korea, and punish them for their escape. Minho was worse - he barely spoke, his body tensed every time he heard Korean spoken in the streets. Their small rented room in a boarding house was cramped, but at least it was safe. Jisung tried to find work at the docks, helping unload shipments, but without real papers, he was paid barely enough to survive. Minho kept to himself, spending hours wandering the crowded markets and back alleys, as if trying to convince himself this was real.
One evening, as they ate bowls of rice with cheap pork, Jisung finally spoke. “We can’t live like this forever.”
Minho stirred his rice absently. “I know.”
“I met a man today. He knows a way to get us to England. It’s expensive, but… we could do it.”
Minho looked up then, his eyes searching Jisung’s. “And then what?”
Jisung hesitated. “Then we keep going. We keep surviving.” It wasn’t a promise of happiness, but it was something.
The man who forged their papers was a quiet, calculating type, his Cantonese accent thick as he inspected them. “These will get you through immigration,” he said, handing over two crisp passports. “You’ll need new names.”
Jisung looked at Minho. They had already shed their uniforms, their homeland, their past. What were names compared to that?
The forger tapped a pen against his desk. “Harrison. And…” He looked at Minho. “Leonard. Common enough in England.”
Harrison and Leonard. It didn’t feel real, but what else could they be now?
Two weeks later, with their new names and identities, they stepped onto a ship bound for England.
1955 - London
The room was small, the walls damp from the endless rain, but it was theirs. They shared everything - their meals, their silence, their loneliness. Their lives in London settled into routine. The city, gray and cold, was nothing like Hong Kong, and certainly nothing like Korea. But it gave them anonymity. Jisung found work at a textile factory, while Minho did odd jobs in restaurants, sometimes going days without speaking more than a few words.
Their apartment was small, just two rooms and a kitchen, but it was enough. At night, they listened to the radio in silence, the distance between them feeling heavier than the war had ever been.
Once, after too many drinks at a pub, Jisung almost said something - almost told Minho what had been burning inside him for years. But when he turned, he saw the way Minho sat rigidly, his fingers white-knuckled around his glass. So he swallowed the words and let the silence return.
In public, they were simply roommates. In private, they were something unspoken.
At night, Jisung lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Minho’s breathing. They never touched. Never spoke of what their hearts screamed in the quiet. The war had taught them that love was a battlefield of its own. And this was a war they could not afford to lose.
So they lived. Side by side, but never closer than the world allowed.
1967 - London
The newspapers buzzed with the news: Homosexuality Decriminalized in England and Wales. Jisung read the headline over and over again, his fingers trembling over the ink. It felt impossible.
“Leonard,” he whispered.
Minho Leonard - looked up from his chair, his eyes wary. “What?”
Jisung hesitated. “We don’t have to hide anymore.”
Minho’s expression remained unreadable, but Jisung could see the years of fear battling against the possibility of hope.
Slowly, Jisung crossed the small space between them. For the first time, he reached for Minho’s hand, fingers brushing against fingers.
Minho didn’t pull away.
For the first time in decades, they allowed themselves to breathe. To love. To exist.
Together.
By the time the world began to change, they were no longer young men. They had spent decades hiding, moving through life with quiet restraint. But now, things were different. One evening, Jisung found Minho staring out the window, his hands resting lightly on the sill. The setting sun cast a warm glow over his face, softening the lines that time had carved.
Jisung stepped closer, his heart pounding. “Do you ever regret it?”
Minho didn’t look at him, but his fingers twitched. “Regret what?”
“Staying.”
A long silence stretched between them. Then, Minho finally turned. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but then - he smiled. It was small, barely there, but it was real.
“No,” he said. “Never.”
Jisung reached for his hand, and this time, Minho didn’t let go. Jisung smiled and chuckled as he brought his coffee cup towards his lips. Minho was now thirty-nine and Jisung was thirty-seven, they were grown men, living together in this big old city. The war was over, the law had changed, they could live their love openly but still, the reminiscences from their own repression. Jisung sighed, Minho squeezed his hand tighter.
“Is there anything wrong, Jagiya ?” The oldest asked, his voice soft as he looked up from his newspaper. Jisung shaked his head with a smile.
“We’re oldies now, you know - mostly you, but still.” Minho laughed softly at the youngest’s words. “Don’t you think we could… I mean…” He gently squeezed the other’s hand in his. “Can we say it now?” Minho froze softly, his eyes widening.
“You mean, say it?” Jisung nodded shyly, his hand trembling. Minho smiled and got up, his hands grabbing Jisung’s in a gentle way. “You know we don’t have to say it, except if you really want to.” Jisung nodded, his big brown eyes staring at the dark liquid spinning in his cup. Minho laughed at the avoidance. “Jagiya, look at me.” The youngest directed his gaze towards Minho’s eyes.
“Yes?” Jisung swallowed, he felt like he had made Minho uncomfortable with his demand. “If you don’t feel like it, it’s fine. I know we never went there and it could be awkward. But I thought that with time and the end of the war, plus now it is legal and-” Minho suddenly cut Jisung’s rambling. The sweet feeling of their lips against each other sent a shiver down their spines. Jisung was surprised at first but he soon leaned into the kiss, closing his eyes slowly. Minho awkwardly grabbed Jisung’s cheeks, trying to deepen the kiss. It was gentle, slightly awkward, as if they were two teenagers discovering love and passion.
The kiss had been everything - something that couldn’t be captured in words, something that wasn’t meant to be remembered or even spoken of. It was a fleeting moment that burned between them, the taste of salt, of longing, of years of repressed affection. When they pulled away, neither of them said a word. There was no need for words; the silence between them said more than anything they could have possibly spoken. In that silence, Jisung’s heart raced in ways it never had before, each beat an assault, each breath too shallow. The chaos, the terror, the guilt - it all remained. Nothing changed.
But Minho was different now. His eyes, dark with some unspoken depth, lingered on him, searching as if trying to piece together fragments of something long lost. And in that search, Jisung saw his own fear mirrored back at him. He wanted to say something - apologize, make it right - but the words stuck in his throat, tangled with the weight of what they had just shared. So, he remained silent, staring at Minho as if he were the only thing in the world, knowing full well how absurd it all was. The war had taken so much from them. It had twisted their minds, torn their hearts apart. And even now, with this moment of connection, Jisung couldn’t help but feel like it was a cruel joke. How could they have found something so pure amid so much violence, so much hatred? It felt wrong, unnatural, almost sinful. He could feel the cold fingers of guilt creeping up his spine, digging into the parts of him that longed for freedom, for release. He couldn’t live with this, not like this. He’d been trained to survive, to kill, to bury every trace of softness, and here, in front of him, Minho was a reminder that the parts of himself he had been running from were still there.
"Minho…" Jisung’s voice broke the silence, barely a whisper. But Minho didn’t respond. His gaze never left Jisung’s face, searching him, waiting for something. Jisung didn’t know what he expected - answers, forgiveness, a sign that everything would be okay - but it wasn’t there. It never would be. There was no easy way out. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The distance between them seemed both unbearable and impossible to bridge. Jisung wanted to reach out, to pull Minho back into his arms and pretend that everything would be fine. But he knew better. He knew that nothing would ever be fine again. This war had already stolen too much, and now it had taken even this - a fleeting chance at something beautiful.
Minho shifted, breaking the stillness, but he didn’t step closer. Instead, he exhaled sharply, as if a weight had been lifted, or perhaps it had only been transferred onto him. His voice was rough, like the gravel underfoot, but there was something soft beneath it, too. “We can’t keep doing this, Jisung. Not like this.”
Jisung’s stomach dropped at the words, his chest tightening painfully. He had known this would happen. They couldn’t keep pretending. They couldn’t keep hiding in the spaces between wars, between orders. But the thought of losing him, of never being able to touch him again, it felt like another wound that would never heal.
“Minho…” He tried to say more, but the words failed him again. All that came out was a broken sound, a raw noise that wasn’t even a plea. Minho’s expression softened, and for a moment, it was as though the years of violence and distance had disappeared. They were just two young men, standing in the quiet aftermath of something beautiful, yet too fragile to survive.
“I’m sorry,” Minho whispered, his voice barely audible. “I... I can’t be who you want me to be.”
Jisung wanted to scream at him, to demand why it had to be this way. He wanted to tear the world apart for making them feel like they were wrong, for making them feel like this was a sin. But instead, he closed his eyes, his hand trembling at his side.
“You never were who I wanted you to be, Minho,” Jisung finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You were who you needed to be. And I… I just wanted to be with you.”
Minho’s eyes darkened at the words, and for a moment, Jisung thought he would walk away, but then Minho stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Their breaths were heavy, their faces inches apart, and for the first time, Jisung felt as though he might collapse under the weight of it all. He could feel Minho’s presence as though it were a physical force, pulling him closer, yet keeping him at arm's length.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” Minho muttered, his forehead resting gently against Jisung’s. “But I need to know that you’ll be okay. That we’ll both be okay.”
Jisung didn’t respond. He couldn’t. It wasn’t a promise he could give. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through. His hands clenched at his sides, the need to touch, to pull Minho closer, burning through him. But he couldn’t.
“Minho-” The oldest didn’t let him finish his sentence. He pulled him back - again - into a deep and loving kiss. They both needed it. They knew it. And this time, it felt even more right. They couldn’t pull away even if they wanted to. It was as if a spiritual force was pulling them together.
When Jisung finally pulled away, to catch back his breath, his lips were red and swollen. Minho rested his forehead on his, their eyes closed.
“I don’t know what comes next.” Minho murmured, before continuing. “But what I know is that I want to spend this ‘next’ with you Jisung. We don’t have any reasons to hide anymore, and - no matter how hard it might be to take steps forward - I am deeply willing to take those steps for you, for us.” Jisung looked up at him. His eyes were wet, but a smile was showing at the corner of his lips. With a thumb, Minho wiped a few tears away from Jisung’s round cheeks. “I said no more tears Jisung-i.” They both chuckled.
Jisung then softly rested his head on Minho’s chest. And finally - for the first time in decades - he whispered it : “I love you.” Minho’s chest tightened, and after a bit, he exhaled softly. Without an answer, he softly kissed the top of Jisung’s head, a soft display of affection.
They were finally together. Finally what they had secretly wished to be :
Lovers.
