cry


I.

"I thought you didn't have to leave. I thought you were done, you were back for a while." Lance's voice rang out in accusation, hurt and confused, betrayed and alone.

"I'm sorry. I don't have any control over these things." Keith didn't look at the other boy, didn't want anyone to see his tears.

"You could have told me sooner."

So denied, so I lied
Are you the now or never kind
In a day and a day love
I'm gonna be gone for good again
Are you willing to be had
Are you cool with just tonight

"I just found out." Keith knew that Lance couldn't see him in the dark, couldn't see how much this was hurting him too. But he was supposed to be the strong one, the leader. He couldn't cry too.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

"For how long?"

"I don't know." He sighed softly, shoulders shaking. He didn't want to leave again, didn't want to go out and face the guns and the blood and the death.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Keith whirled, angry, shocked that Lance would even suggest that. "No! I want you to stay here. I want you to be safe." He walked to the bed on unsteady legs, soul hurting to know that he was leaving this, leaving Lance again. "I want you to be here, to wait for me. I don't want to think about this, not anymore. Not really. I just want to be with you tonight--nothing else. No job, no worries about the rest of the world. Just you and me, and nothing else." One shaking, pale hand reached out to touch the soft brown hair, brush it out of Lance's eyes. "Is that all right?"

Lance nodded shakily, face bright with the crystal tears that ran down his cheeks.

Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well
Here's to the nights we felt alive
Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry
Here's to goodbye tomorrow's gonna come too soon

Keith kept his eyes closed, though he knew sleep wouldn't come. Not tonight. Not with what he knew. Not with all the reports that had come from the front.

Will he still love me if I came back deformed, came back injured beyond imagining, came back nothing but a shell? The thoughts haunted him, ran circles in his tired brain. Could I love him still after all I'll go through? Could I be worthy of him? Am I worthy of him now?

"Oh Keith..." Lance rolled over, buried his face in the soft cloth of Keith's pajamas. "Why do you have to leave?" His tears soaked his lover's chest, shoulders shaking with grief. "I don't want you to leave," he mumbled, voice raspy. "Why can't you stay with me?"

"Shh. It'll be all right." Keith pressed his face into Lance's long hair, gently kissing the silken strands, then breathing in the intoxicating mix of Lance and his shampoo. "It'll be all right."

"I don't want tomorrow to come. I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to ever leave." Lance sniffled and roughly wipe away his eyes. "Why does it have to be tomorrow?"

Keith shrugged and pulled Lance tighter.

Put your name on the line
Along with place and time
Wanna stay, not to go
I wanna ditch the logical

"I have something for you to sign." Keith pulled the papers from the beside drawer, wondering if this was the right thing to do. He handed the sheaf to Lance, holding his breath and waiting for a reaction.

"A next-of-kin form? But why?"

"Because I want to make sure that you'll be all right if I...leave. I...I want to make sure you're always safe."

"But what about your family? What...what will the rest of them think. Keith, do you realize what you're doing? I mean I'm sure they suspect already but this...this is big."

"I know. I don't care anymore. Lance, you're the most important thing to me. Let them know. I want to go to the top of the bell-tower and shout how much I love you to the world. I want everyone to know that you're mine. That you'll always be mine." Keith kissed his lover's sweaty brow, stroked the velvet skin of his back, pulled him closer until the other boy was cradled against his chest and held safe within the circle of Keith's arms. "Please, just sign it. Just for my sanity."

"All right. But this is just because I'd hate for you to go insane. Then where would I be?" Lance smiled, tried to make light of the situation though his hand shook when he signed on the dotted line. Keith sighed, relieved as he saw the signature gleam against the white form, black ink still wet as he picked up the sheets and placed them back in the drawer. He buried his head in Lance's hair, breathed in deep the lemon-y smell of his lover's shampoo, wrapped his arms tight about Lance's thin, hard waist.

"Keith, you're going to have to let me go if you want to get enough sleep for tomorrow," Lance gently chided. "Where will you be if you collapse from exhaustion before you get on the transport?"

Here. With you.

Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well
Here's to the nights we felt alive
Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry
Here's to goodbye tomorrow's gonna come too soon

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Lance's voice was quiet, filled with fond humor.

"Yes. I still can't get that wine stain out of my shirt." Keith laughed low and soft, chest thrumming and vibrating comfortingly.

"Well it's your fault for not paying attention," Lance shot back. "You walked into me, remember."

"No, you walked into me. I just didn't move out of your way like everyone else." Keith kissed Lance's neck, closed his eyes. "Do you know why I didn't move?"

"I always thought it was because you were just being obstinate."

"Well, you're partially right." His black eyes slid partly open, studied in minute detail the mingling of Lance's brown hair with his on the white pillow. "It was also because I couldn't take my eyes off of you. Gods, you were really just too beautiful, too breathtaking for me to let you walk away." He laughed, softly. "Seeing you was like experiencing all of those cliches about love. My heart beat faster, my palms got sweaty, I was so self-conscious. I was actually afraid that if I did move my legs would give way."

Lance smiled in the dark. "I think that's why I walked into you in the first place. I just couldn't pull myself out of those damn black hole eyes you have." Lance sniffed again, began to cry again. "Damn it." He wiped roughly at his face. "What's wrong with me? It's not like you're going to be gone forever. You'll come back."

"Shh." Keith gently kissed the tears, kissed Lance's puffy, swollen eyes. "Shh. Of course I'll come back. I promise."


All our time is frozen motion
Can't I stay for an hour or two or more
Don't let me let you go
(don't let me let you go)


Keith glanced at the clock, grimacing at the betraying green numbers. How could it already be five o'clock? Only a moment ago it was only eight and he and Lance had had the entire night before them. Where had all the time gone?

"You should leave. If you don't you'll miss the transport." Lance's voice shook, though he tried to be strong.

"I should." Keith glanced at the clock again, willing it to move back an hour, a minute, even a second. He wanted more time, needed more time. He couldn't leave. Not like this. Not with Lance like this.

"Keith..." Lance began to speak, hesitant and pained before he stopped, shook his head. "Never mind. You're going to be late."

"Yeah." Keith slowly slid out of bed, cursing every God he knew. It wasn't fair! He glanced back at Lance, wishing that the other boy would say something, anything. At one word he would stay, refuse the mission, demand his well-deserved shore leave. No one would deny him that. They wouldn't dare.

But Lance stayed silent, head bowed, quiet as Keith slipped away into the predawn chill. He knew Keith too well, knew better than to force him to chose between love and duty.

Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well
Here's to the nights we felt alive
Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry
Here's to goodbye tomorrow's gonna come too soon

Keith watched the squad dwindle under the heavy fire, watched as his brave, idiotic comrades kept charging into the killing rain. And he was there above them, dropping his deadly payload, causing more destruction to both sides than any number of machine guns. Around him the anti-aircraft shells exploded, huge cloud bursts coloring the already grey air, shaking the craft with teeth-jarring intensity.

One more pass. I've got to get that supply base. Keith narrowed his eyes, squinted through the desolate, murderous clouds to get another glimpse of the body strewn field, marking the ash colored supply area. He dodged through the shells, wheeling and turning in the turbulent air. His breath came quick, excited, strangely exhilarated as he forced his plane past the exploding shells. Almost...There.

He pulled up, away from the sudden red explosion, flipping past another burst of grey. He was done. His mission was complete. He could return home, return to Lance.

Lance... A goofy smile spread across his face, and he sighed, slowly. Ah Lance. I told you I'd come back.

The sudden ping of an bullet puncturing his craft caught his attention and he cast a quick glance down at the controls. The fuel gage blazed an brilliant warning red, the last of his fuel supply drain out of a hole in the fuselage. Keith felt his heart stop, mind refusing to believe this, refusing to understand.

No. No. I didn't... He closed his eyes, swallowed hard in a throat suddenly rough and dry. Oh God. There isn't enough to get back; isn't enough to get out of enemy lines. He sighed, resigned himself and opened his eyes. No choice. Oh Lance, I'm so sorry.

Keith wrenched his plane around, headed back into the fray, mind set on one, final blaze. His nose pointed to the officer's quarters, Keith sat back in a sudden calm. Strangely enough he didn't fear his death--had sort of expected it, really. A burden he didn't even know had been upon him was suddenly lifted, and he felt...good.

One gloved hand reached up to stroke the picture of Lance he had stuck in between the glass and the metal of his cockpit. He smiled, soft and sad as the memories rushed up to consume him.

The plane screamed as it dove, screeching past the huge, green guns, below the anit-aircraft missiles and into the chaos of the ground. Keith let go of the stick, took the picture of Lance and placed it in the breast pocket of his flight suit.

Goodbye, my love.

And he smiled as he died.

Here's to the nights we felt alive
Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry
Here's to goodbye tomorrow's gonna come too soon

II.

Alone again tonight
In this empty time
The sound in my head
The sight leaves me blind

Lance shivered in the cold emptiness of his bed, wished that he had gotten drunk again tonight. It was so much easier to deal with things when he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel.

It's not fair! It's not fair, damn it! Why him? Why'd he have to die? His shoulders shook with his unvoiced grief. Why Keith?

The worst part was not being able to say anything. He hated having to keep his pain bottled in, watch as other friends approached Keith's family and offer hollow condolences. His pain--his loss--were all ignored in the sight of propriety; he could be nothing more than a grieved friend. And that wasn't what he wanted, wasn't what he was.

The fleeting delusions, the memories of days long past that he hadn't even thought of, were all so painful. They made his very soul ache, made him hurt deeper than he had thought possible. And there was nothing that could be done about that; people were already suspicious, and at any outward sign of the true nature of their relationship he would lose his job, be given a dishonorable discharge; worse, Keith's brave sacrifice would be ignored, shamed by their 'unnatural' love. And he couldn't do that. Not to Keith.

And so during the day he pretended that everything was all right. But it wasn't, because there was nothing left to him, no life, no joy left. The world was suddenly so stark, empty of anything that held any sort of meaning. And it was still all so hard. It was hard to keep that pain in, keep smiling and pretend that he hadn't been Keith's lover. He felt a gaping hole deep within him, a loss that hadn't been there before that seemed to center itself right were his heart once had been. And sometimes the loss was so strong he couldn't see--couldn't breathe.

"Is this what you felt when you died?" he whispered into the empty silence, wanting, needing Keith to answer, to hear his voice one more time. Sometimes the silence in their room was deafening.

I'll write a million words
I'll sing until it hurts
How far could this be
Until it's seen
How long will I let this go
I can't stand to spend another night alone

Lance stared at the medical chart before him, not comprehending the neat rows of typed text. His head ached from lack of sleep, felt too heavy and yet too light. It was almost like he was floating, viewing the world from a distance too far away to care about what went on around him.

"Doc?"

"Hmm?" Lance looked up from the chart and into the black eyes which gazed at him in such concern. He felt disoriented and confused, and for one aching, fleeting moment he almost believed that it was Keith come back for him. But then he remembered and that fluttering hope died.

"You've been looking at that chart forever."

"Oh. Sorry. Right. Well." Lance cleared his throat and glanced down at the manila folder in his hands, then back up at the pilot lying in the sterile hospital bed. "You're almost ready for your physical therapy. A few more days and we'll start getting some movement back in those limbs."

"All right!" The patient hit his good arm against the white sheets in joy. "How long until I can fly again?"

"Oh, um, you won't ever be able to fly again. I'm sorry." Lance smiled sympathetically, hoping that some of the pain his message carried would be eased by the gesture.

"What? No. You must be mistaken." The dark haired pilot looked at Lance in desperation. "Flying is my life! I have to fly!"

Lance sighed and glanced at the name on the chart. "Listen, Sven, I'm sorry but you aren't going to be able to fly. If we're lucky you'll regain about fifty percent of your former movement--seventy-five in your arm, maybe. But that's not enough for a fighter pilot. I'm afraid that the only time you'll fly again is if you're a passenger."

"No! I--I can't be grounded. You can't take away my flying! It'd be like taking away my life itself!" Sven was panicked, now, finally realizing the reality of his situation. His voice cracked in desperation and Lance felt something almost akin to pity for the pilot.

"I'm sorry. I know how you must feel."

"How? How can you know how I feel? You're taking away my joy, my life! How could you possibly begin to understand?" Sven began to weep, hot angry tears that left small circles on the sheets. "Go away. Go away!"

Lance sighed and softly exited the room, leaning against the flimsy door once he was in the hall. "I know. Believe me, I know."

I stare at the empty walls
I speak, no one hears
I make every excuse
And blame my fears
How long will I let this go
I can't stand to spend another night alone

The sun outside was a brilliant, white light in the cerulean sky. It cast warm comfort on the happy, expectant world outside and Lance felt strangely affronted by this act. Shouldn't the sky be dark? Shouldn't the sun be ashamed to show its face and the heavens weep for his loss? The perfection outside shouldn't exist, not when there was one so...flawed, so imperfect as he. How could that perfection exist when he was only half-whole, missing his best parts and lacking in the basic joys that made life worthy.

One year. One year, and you'd think that there'd be more of a sign. He sighed, looked at the photo he held in his hands--his favorite one--of Keith sitting on the sea cliffs. He closed his eyes, glad that the rest of his day was clear. He didn't think he could deal with his patients. Not today.

"Oh God...Should I still hurt so much? Should I still ache for you, miss you?"

It had been so hard to find reasons to live lately. Every day brought only more pain and every night more nightmares. Sometimes Lance wondered what kept him going, what kept him from stealing some morphine and just ending this miserable existence.

He could feel the tears coming again, and he willed himself to be strong. He had to be strong. But it was all so hard.

"Keith..."

"Who?"

Lance snapped his head up and stared at Sven, caught between fear and shock. How he could have been so busy wallowing in his own grief to miss the tell-tale thud of Sven's cane? How could he have been so careless?

"Um..." He ran his tongue over his lips, suddenly filled with the desire to tell Sven--tell everyone--the truth. The idea was appealing in a self-destructive way, and Lance fought hard to give in; the old habit of self-preservation was still too strong to break. But how he hated the lies that easily slipped past his lips. "Just an old friend."

"Oh." Sven limped his way into Lance's office, leaning heavily on his dark cane. "Listen, can I talk to you about something?"

Lance wanted to say no, to tell his patient--no, his friend now--to leave, but that would only encourage Sven to whip out his Psychology degree and probe him further. Casting one envious glance at the souls outside, Lance sighed and nodded, gesturing his friend into the chair opposite his desk.

With a sigh, Sven sat, groaning at the ache in his newly reconstructed knee. Hooking his dark cane on the armrest, he leaned forward, rubbing at the aching joint. "Tell me, just how much longer do I have to do this damn physical therapy?"

"Six more months daily, and then twice a week after that until the end of your life," Lance replied briskly. "Now, was that all?"

"Pretty much." Sven sighed. "You're sure there's nothing you can do?"

"Nope. I may be a neurologist, but there are limits to modern science." He shuffled some of the papers that cluttered his desk and cleared his throat. "Listen, Sven, I'd like to get this paper work done before the weekend, so if you could just..." He glanced meaningfully at the door, then at Sven.

"Paperwork? Ahh come on, Lance, you need to stop working so hard. Go out. Have some fun!" Sven stood, hobbled over to the wind and gazed at the perfect sky in envy. "I wish I was up there. Are you really certain that there's nothing you can do? No strings you can pull?"

"You combat pilots are all alike. You think you're all indestructible." Lance paused, surprised at how bitter he sounded. Licking his lips he tried to insert some level of levity into his voice, but fell too short. "You're not, you know."

"Oh come on, I'm the only combat pilot you know on a social level. I like to think that my sadly mistaken notion of indestructibility is uniquely my opinion."

"Sorry to disappoint you but Keith was exactly the same." Lance swallowed and kept his eyes on the papers, struggling to get under control.

"Keith? That's the friend you, uh, mentioned. Is he the one in all these photos?" Sven limped his way over to the bookshelves, examining the displayed pictures. "What unit is he serving in?"

"None. He's dead." Lance's voice was flat, emotionless and in that emptiness betraying more than he liked. "He thought he was invincible and, well, turns out he was wrong."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Sven shifted uncomfortably, not liking the silence that descended on the office.

"Yeah, well, it was awhile ago." Lance was too cold, he knew, but he didn't really care. "Now could you please leave, Sven? I have a lot of work to do."

"Yeah. Sure." The thud of Sven's cane was muffled in the thick carpet as he carefully made his way to the door. He paused, rested for a moment on the frame, walking still taking more out of him than he liked, and turned back to face Lance. "You know, if you keep pushing people away you're just going to end up an angry, lonely, old man."

"Funny. Keith said the same thing. You two are surprisingly alike." Lance would have laughed if it hadn't been for the pain.

All these shadows come to rest
In my head I can't see you
I can't hear the things you said

The quiet of the room was broken by Lance's whimpering, as he tossed and turned on his too large bed. Caught in the throes of a nightmare, he quested out blindly for the presence of a comforter, a protector, wanting to feel the warmth of one who was not there and never again would be. The soft curls of his brown hair clung to his feverish forehead, the sheets growing damp with his sweat.

"Keith..." The name was moaned softly, painfully. "Don't go...No, come back."

Crying, sweaty form tangling itself in the dark sheets, he turned back and forth, body reflecting the unrest of his mind. He clutched at the twisted cloth, face contorted into a visage of panic, until at last he awoke with an anguished sob to the empty silence of his room.

Sliding from the knotted sheets, Lance made his way to the shower, troubled by his nightmare. The sharp, hot stream enveloped his sweaty body, washed away the rigors of the night, but could do nothing to cleanse his troubled mind. He rested his head against the slick tiles, eyes closed against the painfully hot beads that beat against his skin, reddened it in the warm mist. And he could not help but wonder which was worst: the pain of remembrance or the agony of forgetting.

There is a secret place
You'll find a bloodstained fence
It's there the future speaks
And he spoke to me

Lance gazed at the white bottle, entranced by the way the light seemed to be collected into the plastic, reflecting only dully back. He turned the container over and over in his hands, listening to the rattle of the pills, wondering why he was even contemplating this. It went against everything he believed, against his moral code, against the oath he had taken. He had become a doctor to save lives, and even the mere thought of taking one disturbed him greatly.

But how healing was it to continue a life so full of pain?

He placed the pills on the desk, took a deep breath and sat back to stare at the bottle and battle with his mind. This is insane. This is wrong. This is extremely wrong. I shouldn't even contemplate it. Why am I doing this? This isn't going to solve anything. All that's going to happen is that all of my problems will be foisted onto my family and friends and how can I do that to them?

Then again, Keith didn't think about those he was leaving behind when he died. At least I don't have a lover; at least there won't be anyone like me left behind. Besides, it'll look like an accident. Everyone knows that I've been taking sleeping pills lately, so it'll just look like I took one too many.

Yeah.

This is so stupid. I'm damned either way; too weak if I don't do it, too weak if I do.

The seconds ticked by, leading Lance deeper into the night, closer to possible discovery. He stared unblinking at the bottle, realizing that it all came down to just one question: could he live without Keith?

The answer--as it had always been, though he hadn't wanted to see--was no.

Steadying trembling hands, he reached out, twisted the cap off of the bottle and poured two pills onto his hand. The white tablets seemed to glow in the darkness and he stared at them for one long, endless second. Then, with a quick movement, he popped them into his mouth, swallowing fast the bitter, powdery taste and stumbled back to his bed. Lethargy was already slowing his steps and he collapsed on the cushioning mattress.

Already he was debating the wisdom of his choice, frightened and panicked as his eyes slid ever closed. He struggled to get back up, to call poison control and get someone over here to save him. But he was past saving, and the panic was really very silly.

The darkness crept closer, his endless sleep sneaking up on him, not gentle or kind but filled with fear. He was sweating, shaking with the effort to keep his eyes open, even as the lashes touched and blackness was all he could see.

Sleep swept closer and closer, Lance knew his breath grew shallow, his skin colder as the blood slowed and sluggishly continued its all important work. But even as he slipped into the abyss of death, he rose above, rose to a light that was warm and full of joy. And in that light was Keith, smiling, perfect, unharmed and happy, hand outstretched to take him in.

Then those wonderful, warm, comforting arms wrapped themselves around him, and Keith's heavenly voice was whispering in his ear, "welcome home."

How long will I let this go
I can't stand to spend another night alone

III.

So you're standing on a ledge
It looks like you might fall
So far down
Or maybe you were thinking about jumping
Now you could have it all
If you learned a little patience
For though I cannot fly
I'm not content to crawl

Coran blinked in the brisk dusk air, breathed in the sharp bite, hooded his eyes against the dust that whipped about him. He peered into the shadows of the roof, looking past the small domes that sprouted from the concrete in a haphazard fashion. He scanned the grey top for the silhouette he had seen from below, the young man with the precarious perch.

Ah. There. Nodding slowly to himself, he wandered over to the young, black haired man, trying not to look too conspicuous. The poor boy looked too tense, too ready to jump to be startled. Coran needed to be careful here, needed to be sympathetic and gentle. He cleared his throat, speech already prepared in his mind. The words died on his tongue, though, as the boy turned to face him, and he was struck dumb by the beautiful features marred by some indefinable sorrow. My Gods...

The boy glared at him in suspicion and Coran knew that this wouldn't be an easy task, that this required even more precision that normal. He felt the ache, felt the boy's pain keenly. What could have hurt him so? It's like seeing a falcon with a broken wing.

"Hello there. Nice night isn't it." The boy grunted in reply and turned away. Coran took a step closer, carefully testing the boy's limits. "Do you mind if I sit?" The boy shook his head and Coran eased his aged flesh down. "Great view isn't it."

"What do you want?" Coran could detect a trace of accent in the boy's speech, Swedish perhaps.

"Nothing much. Just admiring the view, really."

"Bull." The boy turned and glared, black eyes flashing with anger. "Listen, if you think you're going to talk me out of jumping--"

"Oh no, I would never try to do that." Coran smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating fashion. "What you chose to do is your decision. It's just...It'd be a real shame to destroy such a magnificent vista."

The boy snorted and gulped down some sort of liquid. Alcoholic, probably very potent and very cheap, if Coran's nose was telling him correctly.

"Whatever."

"Say, I never properly introduced myself. My name is Coran, and you are--?" He stuck out his hand, hoping that the boy would shake it.

"Sven." The boy ignored Coran's outstretched hand, looking down between his legs at the great drop below them. "I bet if you fell from here it'd be almost like you were flying."

"Well, I don't know about that. I would think flying would involve more lift and fewer sudden stops."

Flying, huh? Probably a pilot. Such a shame. Coran mentally sighed, cast another sidelong look at his companion. Beautiful boy like that could have anyone he wanted--anything too. Wonder what it was that got him so depressed.

"Probably." The boy smiled a little, a quirk of the lips that, though small, gave Coran some hope. "But for a little while it'd be like flying."

Coran looked down, then cast a quick glance about the roof. A cane? Must've been injured then; probably been grounded. Explains why he's so depressed.

"Yes. It would be."

So give me a little credit
Have in me a little faith
I want to be with you forever
If tomorrow's not too late...

"Say, have you ever been up in F-22 Raptor?"

"I used to pilot one--before my accident." Sven took another swig, voice bitter.

"Really? I always wanted to pilot one." When did I start thinking of him as Sven? Easy Coran, remember the first rule. Don't get attached. "I imagine it must be very exhilarating."

"It is." The walls were still there, still too strong. Coran needed to break them down, needed to get in and get him down.

"I envy you, you know. You've actually been able to fly. The closest I've ever come to a military plane is washing them down." Coran paid little attention to what he was saying, too busy scrutinizing Sven, trying to find some sort of weakness. "I wanted to become a pilot when I was a child, but the Air Force wouldn't take me."

"Why not?" Sven looked up, vaguely interested, some of his hostility fading.

"Pediatric arthritis. I didn't pass the physical test." Empathy...That might work. Gods it's cold.

"If you didn't join the Air Force than why are you on base?"

"Well, I went to West Point and became an officer--having sore joints doesn't affect your ability to lead. I was just promoted to General a few months ago, really." Coran rubbed his hands together, massaging the aching joints. "So what's your story?"

"Got hit and crashed, hurt some things, wasn't allowed to fly anymore." Sven snorted and reached for his bottle. Coran stayed his hand, touching the younger man's shoulder gently.

"Listen, why don't I take that? It probably isn't a good idea if you get drunk and fall down and break something else."

Sven shrugged and turned his attention back to the ground. Coran sighed and slowly stood, wincing at the pain in his joints. "Sven, this cold air isn't doing much for my joints. What say we head down to the officers mess and I buy you a coffee? I would love to hear more about what it's like to pilot a Raptor." Sven made no move to stand and Coran almost sighed in frustration. "I'd like to compare planes to choppers; my personal favorite is a Pave Hawk."

Sven looked up in the growing gloom and smiled, slowly, a spark of curiosity burning deep in his eyes. "All right."

But it's always too late when you've got nothing
So you say...
But you should never let the sun set on tomorrow
Before the sun rises today...
If I am
Another waste of everything you dreamed of
I will let you down...
If I am
Only here to watch you as you suffer
I will let you down...

Coran walked Sven to the door of his lodgings, wondering at the way his stomach flipped every time their hands inadvertently touched. It was amazing; it was like being sixteen again, young and giddy and full of desire.

"This is it. Thanks for the coffee."

"No problem. I actually enjoyed it a lot." Coran pulled out a note pad and a pen, scribbled down his extension and his home phone. "Listen, if you ever need to talk, or you need advice on anything, don't hesitate to call me. I would really like it if we continued our discussion; I think you've reawakened my desire to fly again." He smiled and pressed the paper into Sven's hand.

"Sure." Sven stood for a moment, wondering if he should salute or just enter. Coran smiled and stuck his hand out again.

"It was very nice to encounter you Sven."

"Same here." The young man shook Coran's hand in a quick, firm motion, before turning and unlocking his door. Coran waited for him to enter before turning away, making his way to his own lodgings, thinking about the young pilot.

Poor boy. Hope he doesn't climb up onto a roof again. That'd be a real shame. Coran frowned, wondered what he could do to revive Sven's spirits. He knew that the only reason the ex-pilot had come down off the roof had been because he hadn't really wanted to jump; the boy had been merely trying out some of the darker ideas his depression had whispered to him. Coran knew the feeling, knew the boy's position well, having been in a similar one not so very long ago. Well, I'm not going to let him destroy himself. There has to be some way to reach him. There has to be.

His gaze slid across the dark field to the landing strip, eyes coming to focus on the dark silhouettes of the aircrafts. Flying...What if I got him back up in the air? As a helicopter pilot? His reflexes wouldn't need to be as good, and I do need a new pilot...A slow grin spread across Coran's face as he thought about his plan. Flying...Yes, that would work well indeed.

So you're walking on the edge
And you wait your turn to fall
But you're so far gone
That you don't see the hands upheld to catch you.

"Sven?" Coran knocked on the screen door's wooden frame, squinting in the light of the setting sun. "Sven are you in there?"

Too quiet...

Coran frowned and tested the handle, surprised when he found the door unlocked. "Sven?"

He opened the door and carefully made his way into the dim room. A strange feeling overcame him, a dark premonition and he knew, suddenly, that he needed to find Sven now.

"Sven, where are you?" Coran strode down the long hall, peering into the various doors, desperate to find his--friend? Lord, when did Sven go from a suicidal nobody to his friend? "Sven, talk to me."

"Here." The voice was low and shaky, almost missed. Coran paused and turned toward the sound, heart pounding in fear. He almost sprinted to the closed door, wrenching it open, prepared for almost anything--just not the sight of Sven staring down the barrel of his own gun.

And that was probably the scariest thing. He was just sitting there, staring at the gleaming metal; not half-crazed as though he was going to shoot himself, but serious, calm. As if this wasn't just a dark impulse but a thought out decision, a conscious choice. Coran froze, breath short and chest aching in fear.

"Sven?"

"Yes?" The boy's dark eyes didn't move from the weapon, didn't stray from its deadly beauty.

"Sven, I need you to put the gun down."

"Why?"

"Because--" Coran thought hard, struggling to find an answer he would believe. "Because I need you. To fly me to DC. You're the only one who can get me there in time."

"All right." Sven put down the gun, carefully and gently, still possessed with that frightening calm. He stood, movements fluid, and walked to the door, cold and empty. And Coran watched his straight back disappear and wondered.

And you could find the fault
In the heart you've been handed
For though you cannot fly
You're not content to crawl...
But it's always too late when you've got nothing
So you say...
But you should never let the sun set on tomorrow
Before the sun rises...
If I am
Another waste of everything you hoped of
I will let you down...
If I am
Only here to watch you as you suffer
I will let you down...

Sven sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands. He wondered at what he had become, wondered when, exactly, he had started down this path. He had never really thought of himself as the suicidal type, yet more and more his thoughts turned towards death. What was wrong with him?

Why are my thoughts always so black? My life is getting better--I'm flying again and Coran's a pretty cool guy for someone his age. After all, he got me this job, he's always willing to talk, and he's pretty knowledgeable about stuff that I didn't think he would be.

Sven smiled fondly at the thought of his old-new protector. He always got a warm glow when he thought of Coran, a deep heat that melted the cold places in his soul. It was a nice feeling, one that he was slowly becoming addicted to.

This...this a good thing. My life is going pretty great for a lame pilot.

So why am I still so full of dark thoughts?

So you're standing on a ledge
And it looks like you might fall...
If I am
Another waste of everything you dreamed of
I will let you down...
If I am
Only here to watch you as you suffer
I will let you down...

It was strange to think about this, strange to sit down and examine his life. He hadn't done that in so long, hadn't searched his soul for a reason to be. All he had done was live every day, and that obviously hadn't been the right way to go.

He never would have thought to do something like this before he had met Coran.

Coran...Everything always seems to come back to him. Why? What's so special about him? Why do I feel so drawn to him? Oh God I'm confused.

Sighing, longing for something but not know what, Sven buried his face in his hands, felt the hot tears of frustration burn his palms and slide down his wrists.

Why am I so depressed? Yeah, I know that I haven't had a real friend since Lance OD'd, but that was awhile ago. Now I have a great job, and I have Coran--whatever the hell he is.

Lance.

Why'd you die, you bastard? I needed you! You were supposed to help me get better, help me heal. That was your job damn it! You weren't supposed to abandon me--you were supposed to be there, to help me. You were my friend. That's what friends do.

I think.

But, then is Coran a friend? Or...or does what he do for me something beyond friendship?

I wonder what it'd feel like to run my hands through his hair...

The answers we find
Are never what he had in mind
So we make it up as we go along...

"Coran?"

"Yes?" The General looked up, a smile breaking out on his face at the sight of Sven standing in the doorway. "Sven! Come in, come in. Have a seat."

"Thanks." Sven sat down, nervous and uncomfortable. "Coran...I need to talk."

"All right." The older man laid down his pen, turned to give his full attention to Sven.

"I--I think I know why I wanted to kill myself. I had a friend...He was my doctor, actually. And I thought that he was going to help me get better; except he died. He took one too many sleeping pills. He--he left me and--" Sven stopped and swallowed hard, wondered how he could have missed so sore a spot, how he could have ignored this pain for so long.

"He abandoned me. Right when I needed him too." Sven swallowed hard. "And I--I was alone. I didn't have any other friends, and I couldn't fly, and everything was just really fucked. And then you came along.

"Coran, I have to know. I have to know why you--why you saved me. Why you became my friend."

Coran sighed and stared down at the desk, searching for a way say this eloquently. "Sven...At first it was just because that was what I do. I used to want to die myself--until I realized that death really doesn't solve anything. I don't think that, in times of war like this, we need more death. With so many lives lost already, those who are still alive should be even more precious.

"As for the other, well, it was pretty easy. Sven, you're a great guy. You're funny, intelligent, collected, handsome--" Coran paused, wondered where that last word had come from, wondered how Sven would react.

"You think I'm handsome?" A slow smile crossed Sven's face and he stood, walked over to where Coran sat, reached out tentatively to touch the long, soft hair. "May I?"

"Yes."

You don't talk about dreams
I won't mention tomorrow
And we won't make those promises we can't keep...
I will never leave you
I will never let you down
I will never leave you
I will never let you down

The songs used are, in order of use, "Here's to the night" by Eve6, "Another Night Alone" by SR71 and "If I Am" by Nine Days

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