Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I think hope is the worst thing in the world. I really do. It makes a fool of you while it lasts. And then when it’s gone, it’s like there’s nothing left of you at all…except what you can’t be rid of.

— Marilynne Robinson, Home

(September 1989)

Crisp and correct.

He lifts the shirt from the ironing board and fans it gently through the air to cool it, for just long enough that it won’t scorch his skin as he slips his arms into the sleeves. Standing at the mirror, he watches his own fingers as he works the buttons and adjusts the turned-up collar and gives each cuff a tug. He smooths the shirt tail down beneath the waistband of his sharply-creased pants, and once he’s fastened the square gold buckle on the belt he frowns critically at his reflection, making tiny tucks and shifts until everything is lying just right…except for the belly, of course. No fixing that.

It’s not a problem, per se, hardly noticeable once the jacket’s on, but last Christmas Gabriel had given that belly a pat and laughed. Going soft on me, kiddo? he’d asked, and though it had been meant in good fun, he’d very nearly given Ash a complex about the whole thing. But all that the diet regimen suggested by Father had ultimately accomplished had been to make Ash pass out in the middle of a Drill competition, to the chagrin of his corps and his own lasting shame. He’d been scolded by the ER nurse for ‘practically starving’ himself, and while Ash had found this a little dramatic, he couldn’t pretend to not be relieved when Mother had called off the diet entirely.

And through it all, the belly had remained—as immutable as the Rock of Gibraltar, apparently. Ash’s brows pinch briefly as he regards it in the mirror, but then he dismisses it. No sense ruining his whole day before it’s even really begun.

Next comes the tie, also freshly ironed and hung over the back of the rickety chair that’s always in a corner of the mud room. He knots it with the precision and ease of long practice: another gift from his big brother, who had caught Ash at the age of ten trying on his uniform jacket. Instead of getting upset, Gabriel had sent him to change into a dress shirt and had then taught him how to knot a tie—not one of Ash’s own church ties but the real JROTC tie, heavy and black. Ash had practiced on his brother several times before Gabriel had transferred the tie to Ash’s neck, and after a few fumbling attempts Ash had tied what Gabriel declared to be the perfect tie-tie, a play on words that had delighted Ash endlessly and which he now thinks of every time he performs this little ritual. He remembers beaming up at his brother as Gabriel had fastened the buttons on the jacket, completing Ash’s dress-up…and he also remembers the seriousness on Gabriel’s broad handsome face as he’d leaned close with his strong hands on Ash’s shoulders.

We never smile in uniform, he’d said. A uniform is a big responsibility, and you’ve gotta take it seriously.

Ash had sobered at once. Yes, sir.

Gabriel had laughed at that. That’s a good little soldier. Look at you. You look great, kiddo. Crisp and correct, that’s the ticket.

Ash’s face is very still as he shrugs into the jacket and buttons it with care. He had long ago memorized the guidelines in the handbook and measures several times after every cleaning to be sure each placement is exact: JROTC insignia five-eighths of an inch above the notch on both collars, nameplate (EASTMAN in sharp debossed letters) centered on the flap of the right breast pocket, two neat rows of Achievement Ribbons above the left breast pocket, and most special of all, his rank insignia. At the end of last year he had been promoted to Cadet Staff Sergeant, which isn’t high for a Junior, but he had worked hard to achieve it and is very proud…not least of all because the promotion to an NCO rank had earned him the right to the full Army Green uniform, just like the one he had snuck into Gabriel’s room to try on years and years ago. With luck, he’ll be able to add another stripe to his insignia patch by the end of the year.

There’s no point in fussing too much with his hair just yet, so he ignores that to slip on and tie his well-polished shoes and then regards himself in the long mirror that hangs on the back of the door to the kitchen. He can’t see a thing out of place, and nods with satisfaction.

“Crisp and correct,” he tells himself, and picks up his backpack.

It’s somewhat less dignified to ride his bike to school, but he’d much rather have to fix his hair again when he gets there than endure the bus. He’s a dutiful son and has done very nearly everything his parents have ever asked of him, but on this subject he has put his foot down and will not be budged. Riding the bus had been a twice-daily torture of taunts and jabs and general harassment and he is absolutely done with it, for good. Father had been proud of his resolve; Mother had been nearly tearful with concern—she considers the bus a far safer option than navigating mild suburban traffic on his own—but he had patiently pointed out that the convoluted bus ride is actually almost twice as long as a good brisk pedal on his bike, and exercise is always a good thing, isn’t it?

It’s a small triumph every time he swings his leg over the crossbar.

“Bye, Mother!” he calls toward the kitchen window. Father has always insisted on the more formal manner of address from his sons.

“Have a good day, dear!” his mother calls back. “And be careful on that thing!”

Ash clips his helmet, makes sure his backpack is secure, and looks both ways before zooming off up the street. He likes bicycling: there’s something so satisfying about powering his own transportation, and once he’s out of sight of the house he can really put on speed. It’s not quite four miles to school, and even on very hot or very cold days at least he’s alone, and quiet, and at peace.

School itself is another story.

Captain Franklin A Cutler High School (a ridiculous name, and the equally lengthy acronym of CFACHS has graced the place with the nickname C-Fax, even among the staff) had been named for some obscure officer in the Civil War who’d committed some atrocity or other and had been honored for it in the grand tradition of the American South. The city itself is named Cutler, and there’s a statue of him in the town square—mounted, and the horse is making such a grotesque face that almost every year there’s a petition brought to the City Council to have it changed, but it’s always shot down. Again, in the name of tradition.

Ash locks his bike carefully to the racks outside the eastern entrance of C-Fax and braces himself for another day. There isn’t like a gang of bullies patrolling the place, and his torment on the bus had always been more about opportunity than anything specifically targeted, but Wednesdays can be difficult just because of the uniform. He doesn’t see how JROTC members attending class in uniform once a week is any different from the cheerleaders and football team wearing their uniforms every darn Friday…but he knows all about picking battles and this is one he would definitely lose, so he just tries to keep a low profile on uniform days. Which is a shame, because he really does enjoy wearing it.

He makes it to the bathroom without incident and hurries to the farthest mirror to pull a comb from his pocket and fix his hair, while trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. His hair is very fine and very light; it almost looks bleached, though of course he’d never do any such thing. He combs it carefully across his forehead, ignoring and blessedly ignored by the other boys who come and go…until…

“Hey, can I borrow that?”

Ash blinks, startled. The boy washing his hands at the sink beside him is also in uniform, though with the regalia of a Cadet rather than an officer, and Ash recognizes Antonio Crowley. They’ve never spoken, and haven’t had any normal classes together until this semester—Antonio has joined ROTC for the first time this year, as a Junior—but even aside from that Ash would know this boy on sight just by his shock of thick, slightly curling red hair. Which at the moment could definitely use the ministrations of a comb.

“Oh,” says Ash. “Uh, sure.” And hands it over.

“Thanks!” Quick grin, which flexes cheeks faintly speckled with freckles like a dusting of cinnamon. He leans toward the mirror, tongue between his lips as he pokes the comb at his hair. “Dunno why I bother, it never stays nice.”

Ash unzips the front pouch on his backpack to retrieve his beret. “…Hopefully the attempt will count for something.”

At this the boy pauses his grooming to laugh. With slightly frizzed-out red waves pulled down to his eyebrows, he watches Ash straighten his tie and poke at stray strands of pale hair until everything is nice and neat. “Wow, you’re good at that.”

Ash darts a wary glance at him in the mirror. “At…wearing a uniform?”

“At the whole thing.” Antonio gestures with the comb, a quick down-and-up to encompass all of Ash. “Always look perfect. It’s nice.”

Ash has no idea what to say to this. It’s the kind of comment that from anyone else would usually be followed by a taunt, or at least jeering laughter, but Cadet Crowley does none of that. He just goes back to fixing his hair, humming a tune Ash doesn’t recognize.

The bell rings. “Welp, that’ll have to do!” says Antonio brightly. He hands the comb back to Ash and then, and with a big grin and partially-tamed hair…he salutes. “Thanks, Cadet Staff Sergeant Eastman. See you in fourth!”

And with that, the boy scoops up his backpack and is whistling as he leaves the bathroom.

Ash puts away the comb and takes up his own backpack to hurry to class. There’s no real reason for the encounter to have left him unsettled, but it has. Antonio is handsome and popular, had made the JV basketball team last year even as a new transfer, and is regularly announced as an Honor Roll student: exactly the kind of person who usually ignores Ash completely. Which is what he has done, up till now. And it’s not like there had been anything special about borrowing a comb, but somehow the other boy’s banal friendliness had taken Ash by surprise. Always look perfect—what a silly thing to say, but he had said it with the casual ease of conviction.

It’s a weird way to start the day, is all, and Ash focuses on his classes to return to a sense of normalcy…until fourth period, when a tall lanky figure slouches through the door of the JROTC classroom and snaps to attention facing the officers, who get to enter first and line up at the front of the room.

“At ease, Cadet,” says Captain Tuttle, the highest-ranking officer in their class. But for some unfathomable reason, it’s Ash Antonio’s looking at as he relaxes his salute and grins that quick freckled grin. As anticipated, the combing hadn’t done much to tame that mop of bright hair, but the effect is more charming than sloppy. That look only lasts a second before he turns to saunter back to a desk, but it’s still enough to bring all of the earlier weirdness flooding back and Ash concentrates very hard to keep his face calm and neutral. One by one the Cadets file past to salute, and then the officers get to take the first two rows of desks—though no one sits yet. Ash doesn’t end up anywhere near Antonio, for which he’s grateful.

Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Berryhill is fifty-five but moves like a much older man, shuffling along with a cane and a heavy limp. He’d been drafted into the Korean War, and had subsequently had half of his right leg blown off at the ripe old age of eighteen; another man might have let this sour him (at the very least), but not so Colonel Berryhill. He’s a man of ready laughs and rough humor, and Ash has personally seen him detach his prosthetic leg and throw it at two boys caught tussling in the cafeteria. But best of all he’s neither punitive nor temperamental, and looks after his students the way a sheepdog guards its flock. Anyone poking fun at uniformed JROTC students within earshot of Berryhill is likely to find himself dragged to the office by his ear. (It’s a slow drag, but Berryhill hangs on with grim determination.)

“At ease,” says Berryhill when the class has saluted. They take their seats. “Mornin’, Cadets. Tuttle, are we all correctly uniformed?”

Ryan Tuttle pops to his feet. “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel!”

“Good, good. Take a seat.” Berryhill eases himself down to sit in the big swiveling chair behind his own desk. “Well, Cadets, today’s the big day—Assignment Day.”

They’re too disciplined to cheer outright, but a palpable ripple of excitement runs through the room. Ash sits up a little straighter, hands resting lightly on his desk. Competition season will begin in about six weeks, so they’ll need to begin training as soon as possible. Each Cadet is allowed to sign up for as many of the five teams—Academic, Orienteering, Rifle, Drill, and Athletics—as he wants, though everyone has to sign up for something. Ash is hoping he hasn’t been cut from the Drill team after last spring’s fainting debacle.

“We’ve actually got a nice spread of signups,” Berryhill goes on, shuffling through several papers in a folder, “so good news, everyone gets to do all the things they wanted. …One quick question.” He looks up. “Eastman. Crowley.”

Startled, Ash climbs to his feet to stand at attention beside his desk. The coincidence of this joint recognition with the comb thing earlier makes the whole day feel surreal; what could this possibly be about?

Berryhill gestures between them. “You’re our only two signups for Orienteering. You good to work as a two-man team? No skin off my nose if you’d rather just drop it.”

Oh. Ash has no idea what to say. His mouth works stupidly for a moment. 

“Team of two is fine by me, Colonel,” says Antonio’s voice from somewhere behind him. “If Cadet Staff Sergeant Eastman’s cool with it, that is.”

Ash clears his throat. “Uh. Yes. Yes, sir, that would be…fine.”

“Great.” Berryhill puts away the papers and kicks with his good leg to move himself, chair and all, to the blackboard. “Pay attention, Cadets, because we need to get our rears in gear and some of you will have a pretty loaded schedule. We’ll try it as is for two weeks, and then anyone who finds he’s bitten off more than he can chew can drop one team—as long as he puts that much extra oomph into his other team or teams. Sound good?”

“Yes, Colonel,” barks the entire class in unison.

But Ash can’t muster much attention for the practice schedule. While he takes notes by reflex, he sneaks a glance back and to his left; it just so happens that Antonio is looking his way, and his face lights up like a Christmas tree has been plugged in behind his eyes. You and me, he mouths, and then gives a thumbs-up.

Ash manages a little nod and faces front again. Orienteering, Berryhill is now scrawling on the blackboard. Thursday, 5-7 PM, Blue Fern Wetlands. Which means Ash will be spending two hours a week working closely with Antonio—with only Antonio.

Well, what’s the big deal? he asks himself, scribbling to catch up as Berryhill details the rest of the schedule. Everyone likes him, and he was really nice in the bathroom earlier. And if it’s just the two of us, I won’t get overlooked or shut out. We’ll get to work as a team. Maybe it’ll actually be fun.

After class, Ash lingers at a nearby water fountain. He’s not even completely sure why. But he straightens as Antonio leaves the JROTC room with his backpack dangling from one shoulder…and then Antonio catches sight of him, and waves away a few friends to jog over.

“Hey!” he says. “What are the odds? Comb-mates and teammates!”

Ash can see Antonio’s friends staring—despite Antonio ignoring them, they’ve lingered and are watching this interaction from up the hall. Ash is regretting hanging around. “Um, yes. Should be…”

“…Fun?” supplies Antonio with a tilt of his head. Up close Ash can see that his eyes are bright brown, like a very rich honey. “Sure sounds fun. You and me, running amok all over the wetlands?” He laughs—not because anything is funny, but as though the laughter has been bubbling up in him and can’t be contained. “You ever done Orienteering before?”

Ash keeps his eyes firmly on Antonio’s face, trying to pretend that talking with one of the most popular boys at C-Fax is something he does all the time. “A little, last spring. Berryhill said I’m good at it, so I thought I’d give it another try.”

“Lucky me. Seriously. Oh—” He extends his right hand with another little chuckle. “I know you’re Eastman, but I assume you’ve got a first name?”

The handshake is a silly formality that makes Ash smile, which feels nice. “Asher. But I mostly go by Ash.”

“Ash,” repeats Antonio, returning the smile with extra wattage. “Cool! And I guess we’re even, since I’m Antonio but I mostly go by Tonio.”

He says it in two syllables, like tone-yo, which Ash carefully mimics. “Nice to actually meet you, Tonio.”

“Back atcha. Hey, got lunch plans? Wanna sit with us?” Tonio glances over his shoulder at his waiting friends.

Ash’s careful confidence vanishes like a flower squashed beneath a boot-heel. “Uh, no. Thank you. No. You, uh, enjoy.”

Stupid thing to say, but Tonio doesn’t laugh at him. He gives Ash a companionable little smack on the shoulder and backs away, still grinning. “Some other time, then. See you tomorrow, adventure buddy!”

Ash spends his lunch period as far away from the popular tables as possible, contemplating whether he’s more pleased or mortified by the conversation as a whole. In the end he calls it a draw.

The following afternoon, they meet Colonel Berryhill at the wetlands.

“Heeeere you go.” Berryhill has settled himself at a picnic table in the shade and slides a paper across the surface, past his large takeout bag from Hardee’s. Tonio waits respectfully for Ash to take it, and together they study the simple black-and-white topographical map. “That’s all you get, Cadets. I’d say this one’s an Intermediate difficulty. Just a little challenge for you boys because Eastman knows what he’s doing, and to see how well you work together. Crowley, Eastman outranks you both literally and in experience, so pay attention and I bet you’ll learn a lot.”

“Yes, sir,” says Tonio.

“Questions?”

Ash raises a hand and waits for a nod of acknowledgment. “Are we sticking to the marked trails, sir?”

“Nope. Cross-country, so good job wearing those boots. Anything else?”

Ash is silent, pondering the map.

“Great. Timer starts…” Berryhill lifts a stop watch. “…Now. Dismissed, Cadets.”

Tonio leaps to his feet and stands at attention. “Orders, Cadet Staff Sergeant?”

Ash is still studying the map as he rises. “Fall in, Cadet,” he says absently, and starts walking across the gravel parking lot; Tonio follows about two paces behind him. At the mouth of the dense, wooded area are several signs indicating the name and length of each trail through the wetlands, and he pauses here. “Okay,” he says, “look.” Tonio moves in close—close enough for Ash to smell whatever deodorant or shampoo he uses. It’s pleasant. Vaguely fruity. “This has to be the parking lot—this big flat space at the edge.”

“Right.” Tonio angles his head this way and that. “No compass? Some map.”

“That’s part of the point. Identifying landmarks based on the shape of the land. We might not know directions, but we do have a compass.” Ash produces a dividing compass from his pocket.

“Ooooh, you know how to use one of these?” Tonio takes it and turns it in his long fingers. “That’s super cool.”

Ash frowns slightly. “I know you weren’t in ROTC” —he says the acronym as rot-see— “last year, but what about at your old school?”

“Nnnnope.” Unabashed, Tonio returns the compass. “Teach me, sensei. I mean, Cadet Staff Sergeant.”

Keenly aware of still being in Berryhill’s line of sight, Ash kneels to place the map on the ground. With Tonio hunkered close beside him, he points out the indicated scale at the top of the map and demonstrates how to adjust the compass to measure distance. “…So it’s only about a quarter-mile to our first marker, if we go in the right direction.”

“Right. Which is…” Tonio squints around, glances at the map again, and then points with confidence. “That way.”

Ash dusts off his knees as he stands, and consults the map. “I think you’re right, actually. How did you know?”

“Dunno. The squiggles over here are probably that ridge over there, which puts us about…” To Ash’s surprise, Tonio takes him by the shoulders to turn them both bodily; he then removes his hands immediately. “Here. Which means this way on the map is this way in real life. Right?”

“Uh, right. Let’s go then, the timer’s running.”

“Right behind you, Cadet Staff Sergeant.” Tonio winks.

And just like that, Ash finds himself alone with Antonio Crowley, who hadn’t even known his first name until yesterday but now seems as comfortable as though they’ve known each other for years. He jokes a lot, and laughs every time he jokes, but doesn’t seem annoyed at all that Ash is quiet. More than once he stops Ash—either by speaking quickly or by physically blocking his way—from walking right into a bog, since Ash is so focused on the map.

“Permission to make a suggestion, Cadet Staff… Aaaactually, can I just call you Ash? There’s no one else out here, and the title’s kind of a mouthful.”

Ash hesitates, but then relaxes. It’s true; Tonio and Berryhill had each driven, but their cars and Ash’s bike had been the only vehicles in the parking lot, and Blue Fern Wetlands covers more than seven hundred acres. “Oh, fine. What’s your suggestion?”

“Teamwork.” Tonio grins his quick and easy grin. “Since there’s only two of us, why don’t you do the map, and I’ll do the recon. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get us there—without getting water in our boots. Promise.”

It’s an elegant solution, and works like a charm. With stops every now and then to measure or triangulate, within an hour they’ve picked up the first three markers and are on their way to the fourth, the longest stretch at nearly a mile.

Tonio is tossing a pebble to himself as he walks, pausing only to hold aside branches for Ash to pass, and then scrambling to take the lead again as Ash plods diligently on. “This is super fun!” he says out of the blue. “Can’t believe we get course credit for this.”

“It’ll be more difficult on competition days,” says Ash as he veers left to follow Tonio’s detour around a rotted stump. “We’ll have to really focus and hustle.”

“This is you not focused?”

Ash shrugs a little, looking steadily back and forth between the map and the area ahead. “Okay, we’ll have to focus more.”

“Still sounds fun. …So are you Jewish?”

Ash blinks. “What?”

Tonio tosses the pebble extra high and snatches it out of the air with a flourish. “Dunno, isn’t Asher a Jewish name?”

“Oh. Yes, but we’re not Jewish. The original Asher is Biblical, though—one of Jacob’s sons.”

“Ohhh, nice! It’s a pretty name. I like it.”

Something about the word pretty in conjunction with Tonio’s bare freckled arms beneath the sleeves of his slim-fitting t-shirt makes Ash return his gaze very studiously to the map. “Um, thank you. …Isn’t Antonio an Italian name?”

“Probably. I think my mom just wanted us to sound exotic. Got a brother named Rafael—with an f, not a ph.”

“That’s funny, I have a brother named Gabriel. Both angelic names.”

“Hey, how ‘bout that?” Tonio grins back at him. “Older?”

“Yes, almost eight years older. And we need to angle about ten degrees to the right.”

Tonio obediently adjusts their course. “Mine’s three years older. But still, another thing in common. I knew I’d like hanging out with you.”

Ash snorts before he can stop himself. When Tonio stops and looks at him in surprise, Ash fiddles with the compass, flustered. “We never spoke before yesterday.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen you around.” Tonio is smiling, but still not teasing. He looks…gentle. Earnest. In the light of the September afternoon the color of his eyes is shockingly vivid, almost golden. “You read a lot. And sometimes you’re drawing in a big sketchbook.”

Ash holds the map a little closer to his chest. “I… You… You’ve seen me?”

“Well, sure. It’s kinda cool we have a class together now, huh? And we get to hang out like this! Thursdays for practice, and Saturdays for competitions, when those start. It’s gonna be great. …Why,” he adds, when Ash is still silent, “don’t you wanna hang out with me?”

“…I had never considered it,” Ash answers honestly. “We…don’t exactly run with the same crowds.”

“Yeaaah, I know.” Tonio shrugs a little and kicks the heel of his boot into the moist dirt, almost like he’s abashed. “I don’t mean to be…like that. Cliques and all that stuff. Hard not to get roped into it. But I’m in ROTC because I want to be. And I really am looking forward to hanging out with you. You’re interesting.”

Ash resists the urge to glance over his shoulder, as though Tonio could possibly be addressing anyone else here in the wilderness. “Me?”

And again Tonio doesn’t tease. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s second-guessing his own assessment. He’s completely candid: “Yup. We make a good team. If this is Intermediate, I bet we could do a Difficult course no problem. Probably even Expert!”

And when Ash offers a tentative smile, Tonio returns it tenfold.

The fifth and final marker is on a low rise, from which they can see the parking lot. Tonio whoops in triumph. “Let’s run there! Shave some extra seconds off our time!”

Ash chuckles. “I don’t think I could run all the way. And we’re well within the time limit already.”

“Yeah, but let’s impress ol’ Berryhill! Show him how awesome a team we are!” Tonio is actually bouncing where he stands. “Come onnnn, we can run until you’re out of gas and then walk the rest of the way! We’ll stick together. Promise.”

It’s his second promise of the afternoon…but then, he’s kept the first one—Ash’s socks are nice and dry in his boots—and that energy is infectious. “Oh…okay.”

“Great! Three two one let’s goooo!” Tonio takes off down the slope, arms flailing, cackling like a maniac…and Ash finds himself laughing as he hurries along behind as best he can. Tonio is lean and athletic and could probably run ten miles without stopping, but he keeps this promise too. He waits for Ash, encourages him, laughs with him—not needling or cruel, but laughter of genuine enjoyment. He really does look like he’s having fun jogging through the woods with Ash, and the distance just seems to melt away until they burst through the brush onto the grass verge at the edge of the parking lot and make a final sprint to the picnic table.

Berryhill puts down his magazine and stops the watch. “Eighteen minutes under the limit! Not half bad, Cadets, especially for your first shot. How did it go?”

Ash salutes and presents all five colored flags. “Sir, it went very well. Cadet Crowley has a significant aptitude for intuitive reconnaissance.”

“Good to hear. And you, Crowley? How did you find your commanding officer?”

Tonio also salutes. “Cadet Staff Sergeant Eastman is a confident and capable leader. I’d follow him anywhere, sir.”

“All right, all right, no one likes a brown-nose.” Berryhill jots down some notes on a form. “Nicely done, Cadets. Dismissed.”

In his car Tonio has a Thermos that he’d crammed ice into, and the water is still cold; he pours some into the cap to offer it to Ash, who gratefully accepts. They lean against the side of Tonio’s truck—an ‘85 Ford Bronco, dented and run-down, the black paint chipped and scratched—sharing the water, and return Berryhill’s cheerful wave as he drives off.

“We should practice some more,” says Tonio.

“Well, we’ll be out here every week.” Ash takes a swig and hands the canteen back.

“Yeah, but aside from that. Ever been out to Hot Shots?”

“The paintball place? I thought it closed down.”

“It did, but people still go out there sometimes. Mostly to break into the building, but the courses are pretty much left alone. Good for wandering. We can practice our recon.”

“What, make our own maps?”

“Nah, too much work. But we could, like, set targets for each other. Or maybe be the targets.”

Ash pulls a wry smile. “Are you inviting me to play hide and seek?”

Tonio looks startled…and then laughs. He laughs so hard that he staggers a few steps away from the truck and sits down at the edge of the gravel, near a patch of black-eyed Susans nodding in the lengthening light of early evening. And when Tonio looks up, Ash very nearly gasps aloud.

The heavy golden sunbeams catch Tonio’s eyes, pooling there like a cat curling up to stay, and set flames licking along the individual strands of his hair. It’s a moment that Michelangelo might have painted, had he beheld it. Ash is struck to the very bone; he feels like he’s been flayed open without warning, his beating heart fully exposed.

Tonio wipes his eyes, still chucking. “Yes. Absolutely. Will you play hide and seek with me, Ash Eastman? Please?”

Ash runs a hand through his hair to hide his own discomfiture. His pulse is racing. Ridiculous, he scolds himself…though he doesn’t really know why a boy and a bunch of flowers at sunset should have hit him like a slap. Poetic drivel. Just answer the question. “…Sure,” he says, dropping his arm with a little grin as though his hesitation had been an attempt to feign exasperation.

“You mean it?” Tonio is beaming, leaning on his long arms, the stems of flowers caught between his fingers.

Ash folds his arms. “Yes, Tonio Crowley, I will play hide and seek with you.”

“Awesome,” says Tonio, and he looks like he really means it. “Saturday?”

“Okay.”

“Need a ride? I could pick you up.”

“Um, sure. That’s a good idea, it’s a little far for a bike ride.”

“Great! Around ten?”

“Sure.”

“Annnnd do you want a ride now, too?”

“Oh!” Ash looks over at his bike. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“Dude, it’s fine. You biked here, so you live in Cutler, right?

“Right.”

“Well I’m out in Dexter, so I’m goin’ your way anyway.” Tonio lets his head flop to one side. The sunset dances over his cheekbones and the planes of his forehead. “Besides, if I drop you off now I’ll know where to pick you up on Saturday.”

“…I guess that makes sense.”

“See, told you. …You okay?”

Ash realizes he’s been staring, and looks away hastily. “Yes, fine! Sorry. Those are…my favorite flowers. That’s all.”

“These?” Tonio looks around like he hadn’t even seen the black-eyed Susans until this moment. “Oooooh, yeah, they’re super pretty! Want one?”

“No, no. Let them grow.”

“Good call. C’mon, then, let’s get rollin’!”

And so Ash finds himself riding shotgun in the old truck with the chipped black paint and a gear lever that looks like an 8-ball on a stick, with his bicycle lying in the bed in back. They chat on the ride, and it feels…normal. Like the way friends chat. He wouldn’t dare think of himself as Tonio’s friend—all of Tonio’s friends are suave and hip and attractive—but at least they seem to have found a pleasant team dynamic.

“Sweet house!” is Tonio’s assessment when they reach Ash’s home on Blue Jay Avenue and Ash climbs out. “Oh, hey, lemme help!” He’s out of his seat in an instant, before Ash can even get to the back tailgate, and together they maneuver the bike out to the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” says Ash.

“No prob,” says Tonio, and ticks a silly two-fingered salute off his forehead. “See you tomorrow, Asherrrr…got a middle name?”

Ash holds on tight to the handles of his bike; the familiar sensation helps him feel anchored in reality on this bizarre evening. “Uh, Zebulon.”

No chiding; Tonio’s smile merely widens. “Cool. See you tomorrow, Asher Zebulon Eastman!”

“Sure thing, Antonio…”

Tonio winks. “Just John. Not as cool as yours.”

“Antonio John Crowley.” Ash nods. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

Then he’s gone, and Ash wheels his bike slowly up the driveway, trying not to smile. 

He smiles a little anyway.

(May 1998)

Crisp and correct.

He thinks it every time. It’s like a tic at this point, but at least it’s a benign, private one. It’s even a little comforting in a way, because it’s part of the routine that’s such an integral part of his life.

He has a drawer just for white t-shirts, which he irons every Sunday before folding and setting them neatly into place for the week, and presently he pulls one on to tuck it into the drab green slacks of his office attire. PT is over for the day and he had come home to shower, which is one reason he’s grateful to live on base—otherwise he wouldn’t have time to go home and would need to use the communal showers at the gym, which is something he’s managed to avoid for his entire two and a half years here and doesn’t intend to start. Gabriel had offered to get him set up in the nice little housing development off base where he lives, but Ash had politely turned him down. It’s a simple matter of priorities, and he’d rather be able to bike home after PT and have a few minutes of quiet before work than endure the twenty-minute wait at the gate every morning.

He irons his long-sleeved brown dress shirt, and this is another thing he still does in exactly the same way he’s always done it—first the right sleeve, then the left, then the left front panel and around the back until he arrives at the right front panel. Extra attention paid to the cuffs and collar. He lifts the shirt to fan it gently through the air for a moment before slipping it on, and fastens the buttons with the thoughtless speed of long practice. The belly is still here, inescapable, though the regimented daily exercise and limited food options available on base have smoothed it somewhat since his college days. It’s like his body is determined to hang onto that slightly convex shape.

But not even Gabriel can call him soft anymore. He sweats it out in PT with his platoon every morning; Gabriel strongly believes in leading by example, and Ash happens to agree. It can be rough going for an O-1 who struts around as though his college degree is a badge of honor, so Ash has never once brought it up (beyond the obvious implications of his rank) and does his best to prove his worth through quiet confidence. A bar on your collar doesn’t get you respect, Gabriel always says, it just gets you obedience. (And a better parking space.) Only sweat will get you respect.

Ash certainly sweats enough. It’s late May, and the long humid days of a Midwestern summer are on their way. He’s never liked humidity. But an assignment is an assignment, and with Gabriel here at Fort Tillman, Ash’s name is unlikely to come up for transfer any time soon.

When his shirt is tucked and adjusted, he pulls on the green jacket and buttons that, too. So many buttons in a day. He had once calculated that he does and undoes an average of one hundred fifty buttons a week, factoring in chapel services on most Sundays and the occasional change into a fresh shirt on days of warm weather. The administrative building does have air conditioning, but only window units, and Ash’s little cubicle doesn’t have a window.

He steps into the bathroom—barely big enough to turn around in, especially with one door leading from the bedroom and a second connecting to the living area—and braces his hips against the counter to lean in a little while he fixes his hair. Even buzzed at the sides and chopped to less than an inch on top the texture remains fine and wispy, and he always applies gel to make sure it stays in its place. Then he steps back and tucks his hat under his arm and regards himself with a critical eye. There’s never anything to notice; the whole rigamarole is so ingrained in his muscle memory that he could probably complete it in his sleep.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror: gray-green-blue, a mishmash of indecision. “Thursday,” he says—a daily mantra that helps to settle him mentally in a schedule that sometimes threatens to blend into drab sameness.

And then he leaves the house.

It’s a pitifully small apartment, and Gabriel valiantly pretends not to be a little uncomfortable on the rare occasions when he comes by, but Ash doesn’t mind it. What would he even do with a three-bedroom in a development? Having dinner with his nieces more often is the only perk he can really think of. Falcon Ridge—an absurdly grandiose name for the cluster of buildings, packed with identical single-man apartments, here at the far edge of Fort Tillman’s property—isn’t luxury housing by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s convenient to live on base, and Ash’s place is a corner unit on the ground floor, which is about as nice as it gets. He’s been to friends’ places elsewhere on base, and had once seen the desiccated corpse of a cockroach fused to the wall beneath a coat of paint. If there’s one thing the Army is good for it’s the giving and following of orders, and if the order had been paint the walls then by God the walls would be painted. The moving of cockroaches had apparently not been in the job description.

Ash often (though privately) thinks of giving orders as crafting wishes for a genie: you have to be extremely specific, or you’ll end up with unintended consequences and no one to blame but yourself.

As he steps out onto the long concrete stoop that stretches along the front of the building and locks his door (more out of habit than any actual need), a clanking rumble catches his ear and he turns to see a moving truck rounding the bend. Small, just a fifteen-footer, typical for someone moving into Falcon Ridge. Only about two-thirds of the units are occupied at the moment, so Ash feels a weird kind of proprietary pride that someone else has chosen this out-of-the-way spot. The driver and his passenger give silly little salutes as the truck rolls by—clearly non-military hires, not the new occupants—and Ash nods in reply. 

His bicycle stands just beside the stoop, but while that does him just fine to get to and from morning PT, it apparently doesn’t become an officer to pedal around in uniform. There’s no one else out at the moment—Carlson next door is probably snatching a few minutes of time on his PlayStation before reporting for duty, and Ash doesn’t blame him; Ash himself could have had ten to fifteen more minutes reading or having a snack, but is feeling a little restless—so he gives the bike’s seat a pat as he passes it by to walk to the car.

It’s nothing special, just a white Dodge Neon, only a year old when he’d bought it. Gabriel teases him about it occasionally, but Ash likes it. It’s a cute little thing, and who cares what he drives if it gets him to work on time?

Fort Tillman occupies a lonely stretch of prairie in northwestern Illinois. Humid in the summer, buried in snow over the winter, flat as an ironing board, mostly unremarkable. Gabriel Eastman and a handful of other officers had been assigned here several years back as an initiative to improve and invigorate the place, and the combined influence of his father and brother had brought Ash in shortly after receiving his commission. He doesn’t mind it. It’s nice to be near Gabriel and Bea and the girls, and one base is really the same as another as far as duty is concerned. What does it matter where in the country he lives, as long as he has something to do?

It’s only a five-minute drive to the administrative offices. Ash leaves the car, settles his hat onto his head with the brim parallel to the ground, and pauses to wait as a group of Privates jog past along the sidewalk, slowing down briefly to salute, which Ash returns. Then he takes a short walk to where his platoon is waiting for him—punctuality is another thing soldiers are very good at—and thinks, as always, that he needs to put in another reminder that his sergeants, only three for the group of thirty-eight, are spread too thin and they need to bring in at least one more to ensure proper training. But for the moment he performs the morning inspection with care and precision, and receives the sergeants’ reports, and sends them on their way with their small teams.

Then it’s time to head to the offices. He’ll spend time this afternoon with the various squads, but he also has administrative duties to attend to as his platoon’s Equipment Manager.

“Good morning, sir,” says Debbie at the front desk with a bright smile. “Major Eastman has asked to see you, at your convenience.”

Ash feels a pang of misgiving, but his face remains neutral. He’s gotten very good at that. “Good morning, Debbie, and thank you.”

He and Gabriel don’t often spend time together during their duty hours, not even for meals, to avoid any show of favoritism; they get along well, but a friendly face isn’t worth the potential for mutterings among the rank and file. So if Gabriel needs to see him, it must be something serious…though at the moment Ash can’t think of anything that could be amiss. It’s just a typical weekday in a typical week. Maybe there’s news from Father that he considers urgent, or maybe Gabriel’s duties as the base’s Security Officer have landed him with some task he needs help with.

Ash takes the stairs past the second floor, where his own cubicle is, and up to the third where Gabriel has a nice office (with two windows). He can hear his brother’s voice, deep and resonant, as he walks down the hall—something about but that’s to be expected—and someone else in the office laughs briefly and then mutters a quick apology.

Ash’s feet falter. His head rocks back as though someone had thrown a punch at his face. He strains his ears, but now only Gabriel is audible. But that other voice…that laugh…God, it’s a dead ringer straight out of the best (and worst) moments of Ash’s life. To the point of being uncanny.

A voice from a different office startles him: “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

Ash starts but recovers quickly, and turns to pop up a salute as he faces the open door to his right. “Yes, Major. Apologies, sir.”

Major Adams grunts and returns to his paperwork.

Stupid, Ash scolds himself as he continues toward Gabriel’s office. It’s just a voice. It’s not like…

“Ah, there he is.” Gabriel is comfortably seated behind his desk but rises to return Ash’s immediate salute from the doorway. “Lieutenant, your prayers have been answered—we have a new officer on base, and he’ll be joining your platoon.”

The room’s other occupant also stands, and pops his heels together to salute, which Ash neglects to return as his brain seems to have disengaged from reality.

“Tonio,” he blurts.

The man’s mouth twitches outward at the corners. Long nose, freckles like a sprinkle of cinnamon, close-shaved hair like a forgotten coal still smoldering. “Sergeant Crowley now, sir,” he says, and the voice isn’t exact; it’s a little deeper now. A little rougher. But Ash would still have known it anywhere, in an instant.

“Oh, you do know each other.” Gabriel isn’t smiling—he’s in uniform after all—but there’s warmth and cheer in his voice. “I wondered, since the sergeant here is an alum of your high school back in Tennessee, Lieutenant.”

“Yes. Sorry, sir.” Ash shakes his head to clear it, and finally remembers to return the salute. His heart is slamming crazily in his chest. “We were in the JROTC program together.”

“Yes, sir,” agrees Tonio—Antonio John Crowley, in the flesh; what is life, that something like this is even possible, much less actually happening? “Under Lieutenant Colonel Berryhill. …Remember how he’d read his girlie magazines during our Orienteering practice?”

Ash huffs something that’s too incredulous to be a laugh. “He was a character.”

“Well, this is dandy.” Gabriel sits again, looking so pleased he almost smiles while in uniform. “I was going to have you show him around the base anyway, Lieutenant, but it seems that’ll be an easy order to follow. Sergeant Crowley has a degree in Mechanical Engineering and he’s been assigned to Bay C, so he’ll be a major asset to your boys on equipment duty. Good communication between a platoon commander and his sergeants is key, so hopefully that old acquaintanceship is a good foundation for you here. Make sure he knows what’s what, Lieutenant, and you can both get down to normal duty after lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” says Tonio, and salutes again.

“Yes, sir,” echoes Ash, not at all sure that he isn’t dreaming, and also salutes.

“Excellent. Dismissed.”

Out in the hallway, Ash fiddles with his hat. “Ah. Would it…be all right if I filed a few forms down in my office before we do the tour? It won’t take long.”

“I believe I’m at your disposal for the morning, sir.” Tonio is watching him with a solemn, appraising air that hurts Ash’s heart, even as the sight of those honey-brown eyes whispers wakefulness to something long since banished and buried deep.

“…Yes. This way, then.”

As he descends the staircase to the second floor and traverses the hall toward his own small office with Sergeant Antonio Crowley in tow, Ash reflects that he could probably spend a hundred years attempting to describe the emotions of this moment and still not be able to truly encompass it all. Fear is high on the list, though not of Tonio himself; intense self-consciousness, aware of every tiny motion as he walks; guilt, obviously, and a pit of regret deep enough to drown in; and faint and fluttering, like the heart of a mouse, a flicker of hope more painful than all the rest together.

He turns into his cubicle, and it’s a relief to be surrounded by familiar things. His own desk, with photos of his parents and of Gabriel, Bea, and the girls; his filing cabinets, meticulously labeled; his pencils and pens; the chalkboard on the wall for keeping track of his platoon’s weekly assignments and schedule.

“This will only take a few minutes,” he says. “You can sit.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tonio lowers himself into the chair in the corner and sits there rather gingerly, straight-backed and proper, which looks so wrong, somehow—Ash would have expected him to flop and slouch and maybe hook one leg over the arm.

But, Ash supposes, a lot has probably changed in eight long years. He dares a quick glance at Tonio’s rigid form before taking his own seat, and gathers the papers in his in-box. But it quickly becomes intolerable to say nothing, so: “…Mechanical Engineering?”

“Yes, sir. Mostly just wanted to be able to fix up the damn truck without paying someone else to do it.”

Ash looks up; there’s a small smirk on Tonio’s face. “You don’t still have the Bronco.”

“‘Course I do. She’s a piece of shit, but she’s mine…uh, sir. You didn’t see her out in the lot?”

“No. I can’t tell if that would have been better, to have had some warning, or if I might have had a heart attack right then and there.”

“Yeah. Guess a warning might have been nice. …Sorry about that. Sir.”

There’s a beat of silence where they just look at each other. There’s a tremble deep in Ash’s chest. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m… It’s good to see you.”

Tonio’s brows pucker slightly. “Yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Wasn’t sure.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Ash busies himself with his forms. “I was just startled, that’s all. I had no idea you’d even gone through with enlisting.”

“It got me through school. You were right about that, sir. Mostly night classes—had to work, too—but it only took two years, so I’ve been on active duty five years now. Once my contract’s up I’ll have the skills to earn good money. And look at you—Second Lieutenant. Took the commission?”

“I did. I’m better off in an office—never been much of a people person.”

“Nice to be stationed with your brother.”

Ash glances toward the hall—there’s no door on his cubicle—but all he can hear is quiet, distant chatter. “…Not my idea,” he murmurs as he works. “But I don’t mind it. He has a wife and children now. Two daughters.”

“Big fan of their uncle, are they?”

“Yes, and vice-versa.”

Tonio leans a little closer to look at the photos on the desk. “They sure are cuties, sir.”

There’s something vaguely awful about Tonio calling him sir, but there’s no way around it. In terms of authority and practicality their ranks are almost equal, they’ve just taken different paths, but the technicalities of military hierarchy mean that Ash’s commission places him higher in the chain than an enlisted officer like Tonio, and therefore the sir will have to stay. “Yes, they are. Eleanor and Sophia.”

“Well, they’re lucky to have you, sir.”

Ash can feel heat rising in his cheeks, and could happily curse his body’s betrayal. “Thank you.”

When he has completed the minimum amount of office work to carry him through the day, Ash leads Tonio back down to the parking lot—where he does indeed see the old black Bronco down near the far end. But he goes to his Neon, and Tonio stops in shock.

“This is your car? Sir?”

“Yes,” Ash sticks out his chin. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

“No. No, sir. It’s…perfect. Actually.” He looks at Ash across the roof of the car and grins.

It’s the same grin. The very same. Except for the buzzed hair and the green uniform, that grin could have been plucked straight out of the vaults of Ash’s memory. The tiny, fluttering thing at the core of Ash stirs and sighs, turning uneasily in its sleep.

There’s nothing unusual about Fort Tillman, so the tour isn’t extensive. They drive around—it feels strange to be the one behind the wheel, to have to look to his right to see that long freckled nose in profile—and Ash shows Tonio the commissary, the school, the mess hall, the barracks where their platoon lives, the equipment bays where Tonio will have most of his duties.

“They’re a good group,” says Ash. “They work hard. Decent mix of enthusiasm versus obligation, but they all try.”

“All we can ask, sir,” says Tonio thoughtfully. “You with them for PT?”

“Every day.”

“Great. I look forward to hearing what they think of you.”

Ash looks at him with sudden wariness…but there’s a smile dancing in those bright eyes. It feels like an olive branch, and there is undeniable delight bubbling in Ash’s chest as he relaxes. “Oh, great.”

“I’m sure they revere you, sir.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Tonio puts on a singsong voice. “Lieutenant Eastman is the most fantastic CO anyone could ever hope for, sir! We’d jump off a cliff if he gave the order, sir!”

Ash laughs. It’s as unstoppable as the sunrise. He stifles it as quickly as he can, but can feel traces of it lingering at the edges of his face. “Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”

Tonio is chuckling, but swallows his mirth. “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to be too familiar.”

“No harm done. We can… I mean, I’d like to…” He sighs. “If you’re…living on base…?”

“I am, sir. Single housing. Some place called Falcon Ridge.”

Of course. Ash is fighting another smile as they pause at a stop sign and he looks over at Tonio. “I live in Falcon Ridge.”

“Holy shit!” Tonio ducks his head, sheepish, but is grinning again. “Uh, sir. That’s amazing.”

“Well, since we’ll be neighbors…maybe you’d like to…come and say hello sometime?”

Tonio’s expression softens. There’s wariness there, and sorrow, but also a spark of hope…which brightens into surprise as Ash laughs again. Two incidents in rapid succession, practically a disgrace to the uniform, and yet he can’t find it in him to regret it.

He ticks a finger at Tonio. “Sorry—it’s just that those puppydog eyes are exactly like I remember.”

Tonio barks laughter. “Ohhhh my god.”

A car has pulled up behind them, waiting for the intersection, so Ash gets the Neon moving again. “Apologies, Sergeant.”

“No apology necessary, Lieutenant. If you’d actually want to hang out…that would be great.”

“Only if you want to.”

“Definitely.”

“Then it’s a deal. This evening? I was going to make some soup. Oh, unless you need time to unpack.”

“Nah, it’s really just a couple of boxes. Soup sounds good, sir.”

“Okay, then. I’m in unit B-one, right near the main entrance to Falcon Ridge.”

“I’m in D-seven.”

“Oh, the D building is right across the court from me.”

“Court?”

“A basketball court. Still in use, though not in great shape.”

They have lunch together in the mess, and it’s once again a struggle not to laugh as they find themselves in another cafeteria, far away from the last but very similar in both layout and offerings. They talk mostly about the base, and Ash warns Tonio that Falcon Ridge is hardly the luxury settlement the name might suggest.

“Doesn’t matter, sir,” says Tonio with a shrug. “I don’t need much. As long as the windows are intact.”

Ash snorts over his salad…but then sobers. “And…your father?”

“Four years ago. He really hung in there.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, sir, but it’s really fine. He can’t possibly be worse off now than he was while he was still around.”

“Yes, I suppose that's fair. …And how have you been?”

“Fine, sir.” Tonio takes his time to chew a bite of his burger. “Did my night classes at the local tech place back in Tennessee. Then Basic at Jackson in SC. Stationed at Bliss down in Texas for a while, and then I heard they were offering incentive bonuses to come up here, so I figured, why not? And here I am.”

“That neatly summarizes what you’ve been doing, but that wasn’t what I asked.”

“Said I’m fine. Sir.” He looks up then, with just a hint of a smile. “But thanks for asking.”

They part ways for the afternoon so that Tonio can spend time familiarizing himself with the equipment bays and unpack his things, and Ash spends the rest of his work day in a state of low, simmering panic. Tonio is here. After all this time—more than eight years—the phantom of his Junior year of high school has returned, in the form of a tall lean redhead with a freckled nose and an easy grin. A boy no more. A man with a sergeant’s stripes, and they’ll be seeing each other every day. They’ll be neighbors.

Is it possible, Ash wonders as he drives home in the long golden light of late afternoon, to mend a friendship that he had truly believed to be broken beyond all hope of repair? Is that even what Tonio wants? …Is that even what he wants?

And if so…is it something he should want, or something he should run from, immediately, before anything terrible happens?

Like what? he asks himself as he unlocks the door, but he doesn’t dare try to answer.

When the soup is simmering he has a quick rinse in the shower just to freshen up, and feels like he ought to straighten up, but there isn’t much to do. The front door opens directly into the living room, and there’s a small kitchen with a fridge and a stove and a few cabinets, and the bathroom with a standing shower, and the bedroom—which has his bed, a dresser, and a small closet for hanging his uniforms. Nothing at all like the comfortable house back in Cutler, Tennessee that Tonio had come to treat like a second home. But maybe that’s a good thing, Ash muses as he stirs the soup. And this apartment might be small, but at least it’s tidy, and the couch and the armchair are nice and soft, and there’s a full bookshelf by the little television, along with a collection of tapes and a VCR.

It’s never really occurred to him before now to look around this place with a critical eye. For the most part he has simply accepted what he had been given and not questioned it. But now that he does, he feels genuine satisfaction. He doesn’t need much. As Tonio had said about the old black Bronco, it may be a piece of shit (and how oddly jarring that had been; Ash hears wildly colorful profanity every day of the week and is unfazed, but hearing it from Tonio had startled him), but at least it’s his. He’s put a few pictures on the walls and knick-knacks alongside the books on the shelves, little things that make the cookie-cutter space feel more personalized, and he’s comfortable here.

There’s a knock. Weirdly nervous, Ash gives himself a glance—gray t-shirt and comfortable jeans, just his normal wear—and hurries to the door.

And there he is, solemn on the stoop in the purple dusk. Black t-shirt, Army-issued sweatpants, holding up a six-pack of beer like a peace offering, and in his other hand…

Ash gasps. “You smoke?”

“Oh. Damn. Sorry, sir.” Tonio drops the half-gone cigarette and crushes it beneath the toe of his sneaker on the concrete stoop. “…Kinda picked it up in college.”

“After what you’ve seen?? And it must wreak havoc on your PT! For pity’s sake, Sergeant.”

“Said I’m sorry. Sir. Won’t smoke in the house. Now can I come in, or are you gonna stand there and scold me all night? …Sir.”

Ash sighs and steps aside. “No, I’m sorry. I have no right to scold you. Please come in.”

Tonio scoops up his crushed cigarette butt—the Army is extremely strict about litter—and carries it inside, pausing to look around as Ash closes the door. “Huh. This is perfect, sir.”

“Oh? In what way?” Ash leads the way to the kitchen and Tonio ambles along after him. “And you know… When it’s just us, you really don’t have to call me sir.”

Tonio drops the cigarette into the garbage can by the counter. “You sure?”

“Very sure. Please.”

“Okay, then. I just meant that the place…feels like you. The you I remember, I guess. It’s nice. Perfect for you.”

“Oh. Thank you, I think.”

“It’s a compliment.” Tonio smiles. “Soup smells good.”

“It is good. Have a seat, I’ll bring some.”

But when Tonio sits at the tiny kitchen table and Ash sets a bowl in front of him, he stares at his soup for a long moment. “Look, before we… Fuck, I don’t even know how to say this. Except that I’m sorry.”

Ash’s heart beats faster, but he tries to keep his tone light. “Sorry? For what?”

“You know what.” He looks up, and in the yellowy kitchen light his eyes seem to glow; Ash had forgotten how intensely beautiful those honeyed eyes could be. “I was a grade-A jackass.”

Ash stirs his soup slowly. “You were upset.”

“To put it mildly, yeah. But that’s no excuse. I know it’s been a long time, but…I’ve thought about all that. A lot. And now I finally have this chance to apologize, so… I’m sorry. More sorry than I even know how to say.”

“…I tried to call.” Ash gives up on pretending he has any interest in food. “Only a couple of times. The long distance, you know. Awfully expensive. But I did try. You never picked up.”

“Fuck. Wish we’d had an answering machine.”

“Well, no changing what happened then.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not sorry about it.”

“No, but…we’re here now. Somehow.”

A slow smile creeps over Tonio’s face. “Asher Eastman, are you saying you still wanna be friends?”

“Yes.” Ash is distantly aware that he had been anxious earlier, had even wondered if he ought to rescind the invitation and turn Tonio away…but none of that seems to matter now. His answer is immediate, without any reservation or doubt. “I don’t know what that will look like for us, after eight years, but… Well, here I am, if you want to give it a try.”

There are tears in Tonio’s eyes as he lifts his beer in a toast. “Lucky me.”

Ash tinks his own can to Tonio’s.

Only then do they finally eat.

Some things, once gone, can’t ever be recaptured. Lightning in a bottle: open the lid…or violently smash the glass…and it vanishes for good. But sometimes—just sometimes, if you’re awfully lucky—you might find yourself sitting across from a very familiar face, watching lightning flicker in the eyes you’ve missed for such a long time.

They talk: not as easily as they once had, but not halting or awkward either, even bantering like the old friends they could have been (and might yet be) as they wash the dishes. They laugh: from snorts and snickers to uproarious hilarity, as they lay out their favorite memories one by one like cards from a well-worn deck. And most of all, they smile: tentative and careful at first, but with increasing confidence as the evening wears on and they both gradually come to understand that this reunion isn’t going to end in bitterness or shouting.

They sit on the couch to have one more beer each, and Ash shakes his head. “It’s an actual crime, what they’ve done to your hair.”

Tonio grins, running one long hand over the gingery stubble. “Need I remind you that me signing up was your idea?”

“I take it back. Go resign immediately, and regrow that glorious mop.”

They laugh. “That’ll be my top priority once my contract’s up, I promise.”

“Not a career man, then?”

“Nah, not for me. Shhhh, don’t tell the brass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tonio takes a swig of his beer. “I was nervous as hell to see you, y’know. Seems funny now. You’re the same old Ash. …Still go by Ash, when you’re not in lieutenant mode?”

“Sure do. And are you still Tonio?”

“Only to friends.” He winks (and deep within Ash’s sense of being, something small and startled and breathless opens its eyes).

“And…” Ash is suddenly a little flustered, and picks at the tab on the top of his can. “Should I be flattered, that I’m still the same old Ash?”

“Depends. You were my best friend, buuut I also have questionable judgment.”

They laugh again…and Ash realizes with some surprise that he quite literally cannot remember the last time he’s laughed like this: not only so much, but so freely. He feels almost like a kid again, as though he had nothing more to worry about than homework, or who might sit with them at lunch tomorrow. 

Not that Tonio had been that worry-free. “…Any trouble from Rafael?” asks Ash gently.

Tonio shrugs, unperturbed by the question. “Nah. He did four years for that one thing, but didn’t bother coming by when he got out. Last I heard, he’s doing more time out in North Carolina.” Tonio grabs another cookie from the package Ash had set on the couch between them. “And your parents?”

“Still in Guam, actually.”

“No kidding! Really liked it, huh?”

“Apparently. They both seem to thrive there.”

“What about you?”

Ash shrugs, looking up at the books on his shelf. “Not so much. I…had a pretty lonely time, actually.”

He doesn’t dare look over during the following pause, but when Tonio speaks, his voice is soft. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“I’m sorry anyway.”

Ash smiles. “Thank you.”

“Been lonely here?”

“I guess that depends on how you look at it. I spend ninety percent of my time within these fences. I have friends…but nothing like what you and I had. No one I’m real with, like that.”

“Sorry to hear that, too.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. I have a home, I have a job I’m thoroughly competent at, I have dinner with Gabriel and his family every Sunday… What’s to complain about?”

Tonio is watching him thoughtfully. “Are you happy?”

Ash has to look away. “Maybe there are more important things than being happy.”

“Fuckin’ hell, man.”

“Don’t you fuss at me.” Ash grins at him. “Is swearing another thing you picked up in college?”

“Matter of fact, it is.” Tonio grins back. “Bother you?”

“Not at all. Swear away.”

“Aww, permission takes some of the fun out of it.”

They laugh yet again, and Ash watches the side of Tonio’s face for a long moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, when eventually they remember that they’ll need to be up early for PT and he walks Tonio to the door. “Not just here tonight, but here on the base. It’ll be great to have you around.”

“I was kinda worried…but I think you’re right.” Tonio tilts his head, watching him with eyes of sun-warmed honey. “Thank you, Ash. You’re still the best, and I'm glad I’m here too. Thanks for giving me another chance.”

Ash smiles. Suddenly he feels like he’s been dipped in gooey molasses. “It’s my pleasure, Tonio.”

“Therrrre it is.” Tonio ticks a finger toward Ash’s face. “I missed that.”

“Missed what?”

And to his shock and delight, Tonio bobs his head, scrunches his face dramatically, and sings softly: “When I seeeee you smiiiile…”

Ash lets slip what can only rightly be called a giggle. Shouldn’t have had those beers; alcohol tends to make him silly. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Remember it? How could I forget? Wait, wait, here’s another oldie! Remember…” Tonio brings his right hand to his face to kiss the palm, and then holds out the hand for a shake.

“Oh my god.” Ash giggles again, so hard that he has to lean against the wall beside the door for a moment. “Do I remember? What a question.” And it’s the easiest thing in the world to kiss his own palm and clasp that hand to Tonio’s.

Tonio laughs a wonderful hearty laugh and pumps Ash’s hand several times in a firm shake before releasing it. “Amazing.”

“At least we’ve established that we’re both sentimental dopes.”

“And thank goodness for that.” Tonio opens the door and steps out onto the stoop. There are crickets trilling softly in the thicket beyond the road. “G’night, Lieutenant. See you bright and early. Wanna carpool?”

Ash purses his lips to suppress a grin. “…I bike to PT, actually.”

Tonio cackles at that, holding his stomach. “Of course you do. Of course. Maybe I’ll get myself a bike sometime and join you.”

“You’d be very welcome.”

“Then you’re on. Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for the drinks.”

“Sure thing. Hey—when I’m home, I’ll go to my back window. Let’s see if we can see each other.”

Ash watches him saunter down the sidewalk, whistling, and then closes his door and hurries through the apartment to the bedroom in the back to open the window and lean on the sill…which suddenly feels wrenchingly familiar, in a way that could easily make him cry if he weren’t feeling so happy.

About five minutes later he sees a light turn on in the bedroom of a ground-floor unit maybe twenty yards away, across the cracked concrete of the basketball court. The window opens and, sure enough, Tonio leans out.

“Ha!” he calls. “This is great!”

“It is!” Ash waves. “Good night!”

“Night!”

He’s still smiling as he brushes his teeth and changes into his pajamas. The window has a thin curtain that he always keeps closed when he’s at home, but as he gets ready for bed, he glances that way anyway. Several times. There’s a fizziness inside him that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. Not since the last time he’d hung out with his best friend, actually.

It felt so nice, he thinks as he turns off the light and settles into bed. So…natural. Like we’ve never been apart at all. Like those eleven awful days never happened. He’s harder now. More careful. Sharper around the edges. But the sweetness is still there, too, I can tell. He laughs just the same. The way he looks at me is just the same. He apologized, he wants to be friends, he’s going to get a bike and we can ride to PT every morning, and we’ll have to be very professional when we’re in uniform but maybe he’ll come back for dinner again soon, or I could go over there, and maybe we can build something here. Maybe I can have a best friend again. Someone to talk to, REALLY talk to, about anything and everything. Someone to lean on and confide in. And I could be that for him, I could listen to him and support him again…if that’s something he still needs.

Maybe…maybe we can be happy. Because when I see him smile, I…

Oh.

Oh no.

As he clutches the blanket to his chest, he can feel the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart. He stares at the ceiling, but all he can see is a pair of eyes like dark honey, crinkling at the edges with humor and warmth.

He doesn’t want to face this truth. He doesn’t want to burst the wonderful bubble that has encased this entire evening. But he thinks about it anyway, because some things are impossible to avoid or shut out: he remembers apple-scented shampoo…a scarf of plaid felt…a long lean hand rising and falling as it had lain on the scrunched fabric of an undershirt. He remembers what had happened to him when he’d gotten close to the boy this man had been.

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I handled things then, and I can handle it now. I’ve BEEN handling it, for eight years.

He goes to sleep feeling deeply uneasy.

When he steps out onto the stoop at five-thirty the next morning, he’s startled by the sound of a bell. At the end of his driveway is Tonio, in his gray shorts and shirt for PT, sitting on a red bicycle with one long leg extended to hold him up.

“Borrowed it from a neighbor,” he says. “I’ll get my own soon. C’mon, let’s roll…sir.”

Ash leaves his uneasiness behind on the doorstep and pedals joyfully into danger, with his friend beside him.

(November 2011)

Crisp and correct. Just one last time.

The ironing board in the hotel room is covered with rust spots like freckles, and he wishes he hadn’t noticed that specific detail; he tries to ignore it, but it’s difficult to ignore the very thing that’s been preying on his mind for three weeks now. Ever since the list of invitees had been confirmed. 

He frowns when the cover of the ironing board pops off of one corner as he lays it flat, but truly he’s glad for the distraction and tucks it back into place with more focus and attention than it really warrants. Then he takes his pale green shirt from the hanger and spreads it very carefully over the worn, frayed, polka-dotted cover. First the right sleeve, and it really is soothing to watch the wrinkles disappear beneath the gentle pressure of the iron. Wisps of steam drift upward and the little appliance hisses and mutters like a living thing: an old woman with bubbles for breath, venting an endless stream of harried complaints as she works.

He irons the shirt to perfect smoothness and slides it on; the heat raises goosebumps on his skin but he ignores them, and watches his own hands in the mirrored closet door as he fastens the buttons and tucks the tail into his freshly-creased trousers. Army green. The entire branch is in the middle of a transition to blues as everyday wear, and he knows that Gabriel will be wearing his newly-issued colors… But for his part, for this particular event, Ash can’t imagine wearing anything but the green, even though he hates the shade. It’s never looked good on him. Annoying that he’s had to spend half of his life wearing little else. The uniform isn’t mandatory for the ceremony, but to Ash it just feels right. It’s symbolic of everything he has worked for, everything he has achieved…and everything he’s giving up, too. But he isn’t worried about that. He isn’t even particularly proud of being honored today.

There is only one thing that will make all of this worthwhile, and he doesn’t even know if it’s going to happen.

Heather had promised to update the list even this afternoon if any changes occur, and as Ash buckles the big black belt with the big silly gold buckle and ties the perfect tie-tie, in the mirror his eyes linger on his phone, lying on the dresser. He should check one more time. Just to be sure.

I’ll just be disappointed, he thinks with a frown. Now or later. Either the list will say ‘Not Attending’ and I can be disappointed here in private, or it will still say ‘pending’ and I get to battle my disappointment in public, while trying to give a speech that no longer has any point whatsoever.

But that isn’t fair, and he sighs at himself. Of course it matters. So many of us have fought so hard to be here. This is a celebration, so whatever happens, I’ll just have to keep my disappointment to myself.

He realizes that he’s never really expected not to be disappointed by this event. This probably ought to make him sad, but instead he just feels tired.

One way or another, after tonight it will finally be over. All of it. For good.

The phone chimes. Ash gives his shirt a few more judicious adjustments right at the tuck—the belly that had subsided somewhat in his early years of service is back, and at thirty-eight he has resigned himself to its permanent presence. It doesn’t bother him as much as he sometimes feels like it should. It would have, once upon a time, but not anymore. Not for many years.

Even-keeled is how Gabriel describes him, and he says it like a compliment. Steady as the North Star, that’s our Ash. 

Bea knows better, but she keeps her mouth shut. Ash is grateful for her.

He walks to the dresser and lifts his phone. There is a new text waiting, and he smiles wryly. 

Ash sighs again, and closes the messaging app to open his email. Just a few items down in his inbox is a message from Heather Sixsmith with the subject Lineup, Kansas City 11/19. He taps it and then scrolls down to the little blue link that reads, RSVP list (rolling updates) and taps that. The link opens his web browser, and after a few seconds the list pops up.

He doesn’t have to scroll far. One hundred nineteen honorees have been invited to the event, and the name he’s looking for is near the top.

Sgt. Antonio J. Crowley (upgrade granted 10/26/11) (pending)

Of course.

Ash sets aside the phone and walks back to the closet to take his green uniform jacket from its hanger. He’s done everything correctly, down to the minutest detail, even measuring the placement of each individual pin—something he hasn’t done since the first few months as a commissioned officer, fresh out of college. When he dons the jacket and completes the old, old ritual of buttoning each polished button and smoothing the lapels and tugging the cuffs and hem, he steps back to regard himself in the mirror.

He looks every inch the respectable, disciplined soldier he has striven to be for so many years…and it makes him feel vaguely nauseous.

“One last time,” he tells himself in the mirror.

It’s an easy walk. Kansas City is not a hilly place, and while the sky is clouded over and smells faintly of rain, the streets and sidewalks are dry as Ash traverses the eighteen and a half blocks to the event space that has been rented for the evening. And right out front, waiting for him, is a group of familiar faces.

“Uncle Ash!” The girls hurry up the sidewalk and he catches them in his arms to hug them tight.

“Hello, my beauties,” he tells them, with a kiss to each dark head. “Ellie, have you grown six inches since the summer?”

Ellie, sixteen and sweet as spun sugar, giggles at him. “I’m wearing heels, you goober, and they’re only two inches.”

“Heaven forfend,” he gasps with mock outrage, a hand over his heart. “Annnnd yet they suit you. How you can run in those things, I’ll never know, but you’re certainly a force to be reckoned with. And you, my itty bitty pretty one? Have you also decided to grow up all at once?”

“No sir!” pipes fourteen-year-old Sophia—who, in contrast to Ellie’s pretty dress, is wearing a suit and tie. “Not all at once, at least.”

Ash’s smile softens. He touches her chin. “Good.”

“All right, girls, scoot your patoots, it’s my turn.” Gabriel, also in full uniform, scoops Ash into a massive hug. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

Ash smiles against his brother’s shoulder. “And you, Gabe. Thank you for being here.”

“Are you kidding? We wouldn’t miss it!”

“Not for anything,” agrees Bea—and to Ash’s surprise, she hugs him too, a thing she hasn’t done in thirteen years. (She’s not a hugger in general.) “Come on, let’s get the guests of honor inside.”

A bright-faced young Corporal—Hennigan, by his nameplate—greets them in the lobby, and his eyes grow wide when they give the name Eastman. “Of course, sirs!” he says with something like reverence. “And can I just say…I’m a big admirer of your work. Obviously. Thank you so much, for everything.”

He shakes their hands and then salutes again. They return it. 

There is a steady stream of attendees entering the hall by this time and Ash tries not to look around as they find their table, right up front near the dais. Either Tonio will be here or he won’t, and there’s no way to know, not unless—

“Bogey at four-thirty,” mutters Bea. “Don’t stare.”

Gabriel immediately sits up and snaps his head around; Ash and Bea share a look of chagrin.

“Who is it, Dad?” asks Sophia, mirroring her father. “The guy at the blue table? Ooooh, I like his hair!”

Ash doesn’t look. But with careful deliberation, he lifts a hand to smooth his hair; he hasn’t been in active service for several months, and the pale strands have finally had a chance to regrow an inch or two.

“He sees us!” Gabriel turns back to the table, looking shocked. “Ash, look, he’s here!”

“Yes, thank you, Gabriel.” Ash’s pulse is hammering so hard that it quite literally feels like his heart is lodged in his throat as he finally turns. Through the milling crowd of soldiers and their families finding their seats he locks eyes with a man he would know anywhere, in any context. The thirteen years make no difference whatsoever. After a hundred years, he would still know this face—long nose, bright brown eyes, and the hair… A glorious mop of hair like a plume of flame, half tied back, tumbles in gentle waves to brush his shoulders.

He is the most beautiful thing Ash has ever seen.

“Major Eastman!” says a cheerful voice suddenly, making Ash jump. “Colonel Eastman! Thank you both for coming.”

Ash rises, somewhat flustered, to shake the hand of a pretty Black woman around thirty years old. “Heather,” he says with all the warmth he can muster. “How wonderful to meet in person at last.”

“It’s an honor, sir. Truly.” She shakes Gabriel’s hand as well and then grins at Ash. “All set for your speech? We’re doing the opening stuff first, then dinner, then you.”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Awesome. Get comfy, then, we’ll get things going in ten minutes or so.”

When she has gone, Gabriel leans over. “You okay? You look pretty pale.”

“I’ll be fine.” Ash sips the provided glass of ice water.

“Uncle Ash?” asks Sophia. “Who’s the man?”

Ash smiles a small, sad smile. “…He was my boyfriend, for a little while. That was a long time ago. He knew you girls, actually, way back then. You both adored him. He was great with kids.”

“He’s a good man,” says Gabriel, “who didn’t deserve what the Army did to him. Like so many others, obviously, but this one really hurt. We might get to say hi later, but if he’d rather not, that’s okay too. We’ll respect his space.”

Sophia dares another glance at Tonio’s table…but Ellie is looking at Ash with deep compassion. She’s always been such a wise little thing…though not so little anymore, he reflects as he tries to give her a reassuring look.

Dinner is buffet-style. Ash isn’t very hungry—in fact, his stomach is a churning mess of anxiety—but he takes just enough food to look like a normal meal and picks at it fitfully for a while, until Heather steps up to the mic on the dais.

“Welcome,” she says. “Welcome, honorees, and welcome families of all shapes and sizes. My name is Heather Sixsmith, and I’m the civilian liaison for the Kansas City chapter of OutServe. We are here tonight to celebrate together, publicly and without fear, the formal repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

She pauses, beaming at the applause and cheers that fill the hall. Ash is deeply moved to hear it, but far too nervous to clap himself.

“But instead of a long, boring speech from me,” Heather goes on, “we have something much better for tonight. If you’re here, then it’s pretty much a guarantee that you’ve heard the name Eastman. Colonel Gabriel and Major Asher Eastman have been working in cooperation with the Servicemembers’ Legal Defense Network for nearly ten years now, while in active service, putting their own jobs and livelihoods at risk in order to advocate for the soldiers harmed by the military’s discriminatory policies. Out of curiosity—if anyone here tonight has personally benefitted from the tireless work of these two men, if you’ve had direct contact with one or both over those ten years, how ‘bout you make some noise?”

Cheers and whoops fill the room, as well as one comically loud, booming hallelujah. Ash looks down at his plate; his eyes sting with tears. Gabriel puts an arm around his shoulders.

“I sure am glad to hear it. They’re heroes in my book, and Major Eastman in particular has been an inspiration to so many with his public coming-out the very day the repeal was announced back in October. It is my privilege to now invite him to come and talk to us about what tonight means to him. Major?”

Ash can’t really feel his feet as he leaves his seat and mounts the steps of the dais. He shakes Heather’s hand again and stands alone behind the small glass podium, bobbing his head every now and then until the applause has died down.

“Thank you, Ms Sixsmith,” he says, and winces at the feedback from the microphone. “Oops. My apologies—I’m not a routine speech-giver. But I’ll do my best. Because every person in this room tonight is worthy of the very best I have to give.”

There’s another smattering of applause. Ash wishes he had notecards, or anything at all to look at up here; the glass podium is more distracting than comforting, increasing his sense of exposure. He settles for finding Gabriel’s face at their nearby table, which is much less frightening than looking at the mote of fiery hair in his peripheral vision.

He takes a deep breath.

“When I first told my brother that I’m gay, I was terrified of his reaction. We’ve always gotten along, but we are the latest in a long line of military men…and what’s more, after our initial personal run-in with DADT we had carefully avoided addressing the matter, for fear of losing our jobs and the security of our benefits as servicemembers. But that unresolved burden sat between us at every family meal, and I carried it within me like a mass of ugly, twisted scar tissue. I wept when I finally told him the truth.

“And to my lasting surprise, he did not turn his back on me. He hugged me. I know, he said, and I’m so sorry for what happened.”

He has to pause, and blinks rapidly to clear his eyes of tears. “I could not be fully out, of course, not then. But with the support of my brother—who has been a staunch and unwavering ally not only to me, but to all queer servicemembers—I knew that I had to do what I could. I had to help, in whatever small ways were possible from my position. Because I know the damage and horror that the DADT policy has inflicted. What we have been through, all of us here…it’s beyond unconscionable.

“We give so much of ourselves when we join the military. We leave our homes and our families, dress identically, behave identically, respond to a shouted rank or a family name instead of our given names. We have sacrificed years and years of our precious time on this earth to an organization that warned us, in no uncertain terms, that simply to be who we are was punishable. Punishable by banishment. Censure. Even criminal convictions. This backwards, narrow-minded view—not merely the opinion of a few, but an official, enforced regulation—has brought untold pain and hardship and ruin to the lives of people who did nothing to deserve these things. Whose service to their country was unimpeachable. 

“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is gone. But the harm that it has caused remains. We carry it with us, every day of our lives. The work of seeking repeals for the dismissals and dishonorable discharges executed under this policy is noble and necessary…and yet it barely scratches the surface of what reparations ought to look like under such circumstances.

“But what can be done?” He lifts his eyes then and looks solemnly over the utterly silent room. “What reparations can possibly be made that would truly mean anything? The only way to actually fix what this policy has broken would be to reverse time. But even then, how far back would we go? The inception of DADT in nineteen ninety-three? But preventing the policy itself does nothing to alter the attitudes and prejudices that led to its enactment. We could go back to the very founding of our nation, and find ourselves only more deeply mired in ignorance and intolerance.

“We cannot change the past. We cannot prevent the blows that gave us the wounds we carry. We cannot and should not—must not—erase the suffering we have undergone. Our only choice is to move forward. To carry this victory not as an end goal but as a banner into battle, as a reminder to those who have wronged us that an apology is only meaningful when it takes the form of action. We cannot change hearts, but we can and must seek changed policy. Reformed regulations. Equal treatment, not only in official channels but from every soldier in every unit in every branch of the United States military.”

He rests his hands on the glass podium and waits for the clapping to subside again. “DADT has robbed us, and what was taken can never be restored. But that doesn’t mean… Oh dear ones, that doesn’t mean that there is no joy on the horizon.” Again there are tears in his eyes, but he makes no attempt to hide them. “There will always be more work to be done, but tonight we celebrate. Tonight I celebrate the beautiful courage of the soldiers gathered in this room. I commend you, and it is my honor to stand here before you. My honor. With all of my heart, thank you for your service—whether concluded or ongoing. Every last one of you is a true hero to me.”

He leaves the dais as quickly as politeness could deem acceptable, amid thunderous applause, and steps directly into Gabriel’s waiting embrace. His hands are shaking and his breath comes short.

“You did good, kiddo,” says Gabriel into his ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

The reception is mostly a blur. There is an endless parade of people who want to shake Ash and Gabriel’s hands and thank them personally, and to tell them stories—equally harrowing and moving—of their own experiences. Ash listens closely to every one. Occasionally, between these encounters, he’ll stretch up on his toes and scan the room, but he can’t see any sign of a mop of bright hair, and as the minutes tick by his anxiety deepens. 

Tonio had shown up, against all odds and expectations. He had sat through Ash’s entire speech without storming out or throwing things. Was that single glimpse, then, enough for him? Is he now satisfied? Had hearing those words given him any kind of closure? Or is he still angry? Had he slipped away as quickly as politeness could deem acceptable, and is he out there in the city now, walking through the night…or perhaps driving, turning the nose of an old black Bronco toward the city limits and whatever lies beyond?

Or is he still here? Slouching in a corner somewhere, watching? Does he see the tears given to Ash like religious offerings, and does he think this gratitude is warranted or is he silently scoffing and seething? Does he dearly wish to march over here and throw water in Ash’s face and scream at him, that his piety is a lie and this honor a farce?

In a brief lull, Ash snags Gabriel’s sleeve. “Have you seen him?”

Gabriel sighs with a grimace. “Nope. He was definitely here for the speech, though, I kept peeking.”

“Right. I’ll be right back, I need to…find the restroom.”

Excusing himself a hundred times, and shaking more hands on the way, Ash traverses the periphery of the large room. He doesn’t need the bathroom. He needs to see a particular face. He needs to try. 

He’s up near the dais again—pinned by a very sweet older woman who is gushing at Ash, to her Navy daughter’s amusement and embarrassment—when a flash of orange catches his eye. Across the entire hall he sees the side door open, and a tall lean figure slips through into the night.

“Yes,” he says quickly, “thank you, I’m so happy for you both, please excuse me, I have to… There’s someone I…”

He hurries, but it doesn’t do much good to hurry in a crowded reception hall where he has been a guest of honor. He feels like he’s swimming against the current, struggling, with increasing desperation in his excuse-mes until at last he all but flings himself against the door and stumbles through.

The door swings closed behind him; it will be locked from this side, but Ash doesn’t care. He’s in a narrow parking lot between buildings and strides forward at once, scanning the rows of cars, but doesn’t see anything familiar. He sprints to the sidewalk to look frantically up and down the street, but there is no sign of Tonio anywhere.

Gone. Without a word.

And so it ends.

A huge and terrible weight settles onto Ash’s shoulders. His feet drag in their nicely-shined shoes as he retreats from the sidewalk. He would have to go back through the lobby to reenter the building, but he doesn’t want to. He can’t take one more happy face or hearty handshake.

“Oh…oh god,” he whimpers, and crumples to the asphalt. His knees thump down painfully, but he welcomes the bruises. He welcomes the stains that will mar the stupid Army-green pants. He welcomes anything that will distract him from the howling darkness inside that wants to swallow him whole. “No. No no no, please no, I just… I only wan-…”

Suddenly he’s suffocating. The chilly air seems to close around him like a massive fist, and he gasps for breath as he claws at the buttons of his jacket and the knot of his tie until he can fling both aside. Only when the top two buttons of the crisp green shirt are undone—the second one actually pops loose, and he can hear it ping once on the ground before rolling away—does he finally feel like he might not drown here on dry land.

“Fuck you,” he says to the jacket with its patches and pins and the shining nameplate that reads EASTMAN. He picks it up and slams it back to the ground for emphasis, several times. “Fuck you! I hate you! Look what…look what you’ve done! What I… Oh…oh, fuck.” This single hot flare of anger is gone as suddenly as it had appeared, and his final curse is nothing more than a strengthless whisper. He leans on his arms, and his chin quivers as tears squeeze from his eyes to patter onto the pavement.

Close by, shockingly, someone clears their throat.

Ash gasps so hard that his breath squeaks, and falls sideways onto his rear as he wrenches around. Not twenty feet from him, leaning against the wall of the event center just beside the door that Ash had burst through minutes before, is Tonio. A thin band of bluish smoke rises from the lit cigarette in his fingers.

Mortified, Ash lurches to his knees and turns away to wipe at his damp face. “Sorry,” he says in a low, gulping voice. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know… I thought you were gone.”

There is a pause; he can hear Tonio take a slow pull from the cigarette. “I, uh, figured.”

Ash gathers his discarded jacket and tie, now smeared with grime from the asphalt of the parking lot, and climbs unsteadily to his feet. He gives his cheeks another quick swipe with a wrist and then turns, disheveled and dirty and haunted, to look at the man who had once been so much more than just a friend.

Tonio wears a black wool coat over a dark red sweater and slim jeans. He’s as lean as ever, all sharp edges and angles, and with one arm tucked across his ribs and the other lifting to bring the cigarette to his lips…he’s even handsomer and more elegant now than Ash had remembered. Faint lines bracket his mouth and fan outward from the corners of his eyes, and Ash can see a few scattered strands of silver in the fire of his hair, but these things only serve to add fascination to his beauty.

What a mess Ash must look in comparison. Shirt rumpled and torn, besmirched jacket dangling from one hand, stains on his knees. Still, here they are, and Ash humbly accepts this opportunity: as fragile and ephemeral as a bubble hanging between them in the November evening.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he says. “You never confirmed with Heather.”

Tonio shrugs and looks down as he taps a line of ash from the end of his cigarette (and Ash the person tries, and fails, not to see any symbolism in that simple act). “Wasn’t sure I’d come. Hell of a drive. Four damn hours.”

“Yes. Well. I hope the food was worth it.”

This is a pitiful attempt at levity, and Tonio doesn’t smile. “Didn’t drive four damn hours for the food.”

Ash’s heart gives a painful lurch that makes his mouth twist. “Yeah, it wasn’t that great.”

Tonio studies him in silence for a minute. Ash watches those scintillating eyes dart all over him, taking him in, grime and missing button and all; he’s cold now, but the jacket is filthy and his coat is inside, and he doesn’t dare move anyway while Tonio is looking at him. Not an inch.

“Not really my thing,” says Tonio finally. “Big crowd. I didn’t want to be there, but I also wasn’t sure I was ready to leave. Just needed a minute.”

“And then I barged right out after you.” Ash fiddles with one of the buttons of the jacket, which now bears a scrape across its polished surface. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah.” Tonio takes another drag and releases it slowly. The smoke caresses the planes of his cheeks and circles his head like a dark parody of a halo. “This…right here?” He gestures with the cigarette at Ash’s appearance. “Looks more like you than the guy at the podium did.”

Ash can feel his shoulders straighten. Just a little. “…This feels more like me.”

“Dry cleaner’ll have a hell of a time with that jacket.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I was actually going to burn it when I got home, anyway.”

Tonio’s eyebrows lift slightly. There’s a long pause as they watch each other in wary silence. “Going back inside?”

“I’m supposed to.” Ash sighs and gives the limp jacket a little shake. “But I’m not really in any shape for another public appearance. And…I don’t want to go back in. If I never hear the words Major Eastman again, it’ll still be far too soon.”

“Hm,” Tonio grunts. He drops the cigarette and crushes it beneath the toe of a stylish black boot. “…I might go get some coffee.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I, I don’t know the city, but it’s never hard to find a coffee place these days. So…so I guess this is…”

Tonio rolls his eyes and lets his head flop dramatically to one side, a quirk so precious and familiar that Ash’s eyes immediately spring with fresh tears. “I’m asking if you want to go get coffee.”

“Oh!” Ash blushes and stammers. “Well, um, y-yes, that would be…yes. If you don’t mind being seen with me looking like this.”

“Don’t care. Need your coat?”

“No, I don’t want to be spotted in there again. I’ll just have Gabriel grab it when they leave.” Ash pulls his phone from his pocket.

“You have a smart phone?” Tonio sounds vaguely amused, though he still doesn’t smile.

“Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“Of course I do. You don’t seem like the type.”

“…I can’t tell whether I should take that as a compliment or not.”

Tonio shrugs and looks away. “Probably not.”

“There.” Ash tucks his phone away. “Did you walk, or…”

“Drove.” Tonio pushes away from the wall—even that simple movement is heart-stoppingly graceful—and ambles toward the end of the lot. “Parked a couple blocks away. We can just walk to find coffee, though.”

Ash hurries to catch up. They wander down the street a careful distance apart, and don’t look at each other as they walk.