They must've wandered here in a daze.
No plan. No words. Just the path their feet knew without thinking—muscle memory carved from a hundred stolen afternoons.
David didn't know how they had gotten here. Only that it had been waiting.
The baseball diamond emerged from the darkness like something half-remembered from a dream. Chalk lines had faded to ghost-trails in the patchy grass. The bleachers leaned into shadows like weathered guardians, watching over something they'd seen play out before—different actors, same story, eternal as the game itself.
Like even time didn't know what to do with them here.
The air tasted of wet dirt and rust, cut grass and something else—that particular smell of leather and pine tar that never quite left a diamond, no matter how long it sat empty. Familiar and wrong at the same time. Like looking at your childhood room after someone else had lived in it.
The last thing David remembered clearly was the chaos—sirens splitting the night, floodlights turning darkness to harsh white day, someone screaming orders that dissolved into static. Jez's voice cutting through it all, steady as a blade. The medics. The questions. Johnny's blood on his collar, not all of it his own.
The sound had chased them for blocks, maybe miles.
But out here, none of it reached them.
The city hummed in the distance—traffic and life and ordinary disasters that couldn't quite breach this pocket of quiet. Like Stricton itself had given up trying to find them, or maybe had decided to look the other way. Just this once.
David didn't speak. He stood at the edge of the infield, letting the silence settle on his shoulders like an old jacket—heavy but his. There was a gravity to this place—not pull exactly, but pause. Like even time didn't quite know what to do with two boys who'd already lived through too much tonight.
Johnny was already walking the baseline, his right hand trailing along the chain-link fence. The metal sang softly under his fingers—a tiny percussion accompanying his slow circuit. Head down. Shoulders curved inward like parentheses around something fragile.
Not marching.
Not performing.
Just... moving.
Like if he stopped, whatever was holding him together might finally give way. Like motion was the only thing between him and complete collapse.
Even from twenty feet away, something in the slope of his shoulders made David's chest tighten—not with want this time, but with recognition. Memory stirring in his ribs, stretching after being buried too long.
That's how he walked the day after his mother left for Arizona. The morning after Scout died. The night he told me about—
David followed, keeping careful distance. Three bases between them. Not closing the gap.
Not sure if he should.
Or if he even could.
Their feet whispered against the grass—David's steady, Johnny's stumbling every few steps like the ground kept shifting. Neither of them had changed clothes. David still wore the same hoodie from the break-in, now smelling of bleach and fear-sweat and something medical. Johnny's ROTC jacket hung open, the brass buttons catching moonlight like accusations.
The diamond held them both—not gently, but knowingly. The way only a place that had seen everything could hold two boys who'd finally run out of places to run.
Johnny stopped near second base.
He didn't turn.
His hand dropped from the fence, fingers curling briefly into a fist, then releasing. A muscle jumped at the base of his neck—that spot where tension always gathered when he was fighting something bigger than himself. Like he was bracing for a blow that wouldn't come. Or maybe like he'd finally decided he was too tired to keep running.
The silence stretched between them, taut as piano wire.
"Johnny."
The name left David's mouth before he'd decided to speak it.
Not a question.
Not a command.
Just a name, sent out like a fishing line cast into dark water. Like maybe if he said it soft enough, careful enough, something might finally bite.
Johnny's shoulders rose—a slow inhale that seemed to take forever. But he didn't walk away. That was something. After everything—the fight, the blood, Eli's face when the baseball connected—he didn't walk away.
Finally: "I didn't know where else to go."
The words came out raw, like they'd been scraped from somewhere deep. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't an explanation. It was truer than both. The kind of truth that only surfaces when you've got nothing left to protect it with.
David stepped closer, the wet grass squelching soft under his sneakers. The air between them shifted—suddenly warmer, like the space itself remembered what they used to be. He could see Johnny's back rise and fall now. A hitch in the rhythm. A pause before each breath like even breathing took concentration.
"I thought I was going to lose you," David said.
Like an open palm.
Quiet.
Honest.
Like laying down a weapon you'd forgotten you were carrying.
Johnny's laugh was barely a sound—just one bitter exhale that might have been a sob if it had lasted longer.
"You did."
The words hit David in the sternum. Not from the cruelty of them—Johnny's voice held no malice. But from how much David still wanted to cross those last ten feet and pull him close anyway. How his body leaned forward without permission, drawn by three years of muscle memory and one night of almost-losing-everything.
But then Johnny turned.
Slowly. Like it cost him something precious just to pivot on the dirt.
His face in the stadium's distant light was a study in exhaustion—pale where it wasn't shadowed, eyes too bright, mouth soft with something that might have been grief. Open in a way David hadn't seen since before The Wipe. Since before SoulWatches and FaithCoin and all the machinery that had tried to grind them into shapes that fit.
Maybe ever.
"You were right," Johnny said. Each word deliberate, like he was pulling splinters from his tongue. "About all of it. The church. My father. What they were doing to kids like—" His voice caught. "Like Noel."
A pause. His jaw worked, fighting something.
"And I hated you for it."
David's breath stalled. But Johnny wasn't done.
"I hated how you could see it when I couldn't. Or wouldn't." His hand rose to his chest, fingers pressing against his sternum like checking for wounds. "How you stood up in that sanctuary and said everything I'd been swallowing down for months."
Another beat. A breath. A truth scraped raw.
"Part of me still does."
Then—impossibly—Johnny smiled.
Not the practiced thing he'd worn for cameras and congregations. But that crooked, reckless grin David remembered from their first meeting. From sneaking through City Hall corridors. From the moment before everything got complicated.
That smile that had started all of this.
David didn't answer. Couldn't.
Just looked at him.
Let it land.
Let it settle into the space between them like sediment in still water.
His hands ached to reach out. Every atom in him pulled toward Johnny like he was gravity itself. One heartbeat. Two. On the third, he might have done it—crossed the distance, consequences be damned.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
Instead: "I'm listening."
Two words. Soft as the grass under their feet. An invitation and a promise wrapped in simplicity.
Johnny's smile flickered, then steadied. He looked at David for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Behind them, wind moved through the chain-link fence, a whisper of metal and air that sounded like the field itself was holding its breath.
"I don't know who I am anymore," Johnny said finally. The words came out careful but clear, like a confession he'd been practicing in his head. "Not without the uniform. Not without the programming. Not without..."
He paused. Swallowed. Met David's eyes with something that looked dangerously like hope.
"Except with you."
The words hung between them like a held note, vibrating in the air long after Johnny stopped speaking.
David's chest tightened. Not with the old familiar ache, but with something newer. Harder to name. Like recognition and fear and want all tangled together in his ribs.
Johnny looked down, breaking the spell.
His foot had nudged something in the grass—round, scuffed, half-buried in the dirt like a fossil waiting to be discovered. He bent to pick it up, movements careful as if his body might rebel. His fingers brushed away the dirt, revealing worn leather and fraying red stitches.
The baseball turned slowly in his hands. Once. Twice. A third time.
David watched Johnny's thumb find the seams by instinct, tracing the raised threads like reading braille. Even after everything—the programming, the compliance metrics, the months of rigid control—his hands still knew exactly how to hold it. Some muscle memory ran deeper than doctrine.
A game ball, probably. Left behind seasons ago by kids who'd moved on to other fields, other lives. Or maybe it had been waiting here all along. Maybe the field kept certain things for certain moments.
Johnny hefted it once, testing the weight. His expression shifted—something between pain and amusement flickering across his features.
"I've been using these for more than pitching lately."
He glanced at David, one corner of his mouth lifting. Not quite his old grin, but a ghost of it. A sketch of what used to be.
"Not always gently."
David felt his own mouth curve in response, involuntary as breathing. "He had it coming." A pause, then softer: "Didn't know you had it in you."
"Neither did I." Johnny's voice dropped. "Turns out there's a lot I didn't know about myself."
He looked at the ball again, really looked at it. Like he was seeing not just this one, but every ball he'd ever thrown. Every perfect game. Every strikeout. Every moment before his life became about angles and compliance instead of curves and choice.
Then, with a motion so familiar it made David's throat close, Johnny tossed it underhand.
The ball arced through the air—not his usual blazing fastball, but something gentler. It traced a soft parabola against the dark sky, rotating lazy and slow, the loose stitching catching moonlight like a planet spinning through space.
It rolled to a stop at David's feet with a soft thud.
An offering.
Or maybe a question.
David crouched to pick it up, his fingers finding the same dirt Johnny had brushed away. The leather was soft with age, almost powdery in places. The weight of it was strange—lighter than he remembered from their practice sessions, but somehow heavier too. Like it carried more than just horsehide and cork now.
He stood, ball cradled in his palm, and looked up.
Johnny was watching him with an expression David couldn't quite read. Expectant maybe. Or just... waiting. Like everything hinged on what happened next.
"I always liked the way your curveball broke," David said finally. The words came out rougher than intended, scraped from some deep place. "Like it was defying physics just to prove it could."
Johnny's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's your review? Three years later?"
"Kind of late."
"Kind of perfect."
Their eyes met across the twenty feet of infield dirt, and something clicked into place. Not loudly—not like a door slamming or a lock turning. More like a gear finally finding its groove after grinding for too long. Like machinery remembering how it was meant to run.
David stepped forward.
Just one step.
The ball warm in his hand.
Then another.
His feet found the baseline without thinking, following the same ghost-path Johnny had walked. Each step deliberate but not forced. Like walking toward something that had always been there, waiting for him to be brave enough to reach it.
Another step.
Another.
Until he stood in front of Johnny, close enough to see the grass stains on his uniform pants. Close enough to smell the particular mix of sweat and fear and something metallic—blood, maybe, or just the memory of it—that clung to his clothes. Close enough to see the small tremor in Johnny's hands, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was full—packed with three years of absence and three hours of chaos and three seconds of pure recognition.
David held out the ball.
Johnny reached for it, their fingers meeting around the worn leather. The contact was brief—just a brush of skin, nothing more—but it shot through David's nerves like electricity. Like touching a live wire he'd forgotten was dangerous.
Not long.
But long enough to remember why it was worth the shock.
Long enough to want more.
Johnny took the ball, but his fingers lingered against David's for an extra heartbeat. Testing. Or maybe just reluctant to break the contact now that it had been made.
"The thing about curveballs," Johnny said softly, eyes not leaving David's, "is they only work if someone's willing to catch them."
The field felt smaller suddenly. The distance between them erased not by steps but by something else—understanding maybe, or just exhaustion with pretending they were strangers.
Johnny's eyes dropped to David's mouth.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
David saw it happen—the tiny flicker of want that Johnny couldn't quite hide anymore. And something low in his chest clenched in response, warm and insistent and absolutely terrifying in its certainty.
The space between them hummed like a struck tuning fork.
Above them, the stadium lights—long dead, long dark—flickered suddenly to life. Just for a moment. Just long enough to wash them both in harsh white light before dying again. Like the field itself was trying to illuminate something that had lived too long in shadows.
Like even the world's wiring paused to remember.
Neither boy looked away.
The darkness rushed back, but it felt different now. Warmer. Closer.
Necessary.
One of them moved first—neither would remember who.
Maybe it was Johnny, swaying forward like he'd finally stopped fighting gravity. Maybe it was David, drawn by three years of waiting and one night of almost-losing. Maybe they both moved at once, pulled by the same invisible thread that had always connected them, even when they'd tried to cut it.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was this: the space between them vanishing like it had never existed at all.
Their foreheads touched first—gentle, testing. Like afraid the other might dissolve at contact. David felt the heat of Johnny's skin, slightly damp with sweat, real and present and here. He breathed in—cologne long faded, replaced by something rawer. Fear and exhaustion and underneath it all, still Johnny. Still that particular scent that made David's memory light up like struck matches.
They stayed there, breathing each other's air. Sharing the same small pocket of warmth in the cool night. David's hands hung at his sides, fingers curled, wanting to reach up but not quite daring. Not yet.
Johnny pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes in the darkness were all pupil, wide and searching. Looking for permission or absolution or maybe just proof that David was really there.
"I can't—" Johnny started, then stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know how to—"
"I know," David whispered. And he did. He could feel it in the tremor running through Johnny's frame, in the careful distance he still kept between their bodies despite their closeness. All that programming, all those months of being told what he felt was wrong, sick, dangerous—it didn't just vanish because they'd burned down Pathlight.
"We don't have to—" David began, but Johnny shook his head. Quick. Decisive.
"No. I want—" His voice cracked. He tried again, steadier. "I need to know if it's still..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
If it's still there. If we're still us. If anything survived.
David's hand rose slowly, telegraphing the movement. Giving Johnny time to pull away. He didn't. David's palm found Johnny's jaw, thumb brushing across the stubble there—rougher than he remembered. Johnny's eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a soft exhale escaping him like he'd been holding that breath for years.
"It's okay," David murmured. "I've got you."
Johnny's eyes opened. Something shifted in them—a wall coming down, or maybe just a door opening. His hand came up to cover David's, not to remove it but to hold it there. Like an anchor.
They moved together this time. No question about it.
The kiss was soft. Careful. Like they were both made of spun glass and too much pressure might shatter everything. Johnny's lips were chapped—David could taste the salt of dried sweat, feel the slight tremble there. But they were warm. Real. Pressing back with a tentative pressure that made David's chest ache with something too big to name.
David didn't push. Didn't demand. Just stayed present, lips barely moving, letting Johnny set the pace. Letting him remember how this worked. How they worked.
Johnny's other hand found David's sleeve and gripped—not tight, not desperate, but steady. Like he needed to hold onto something solid while the rest of the world spun. His fingers twisted in the fabric, and David could feel the fine tremor running through them. Could feel how much this was costing him, how hard he was fighting against three years of conditioning just to stay here, in this moment.
The kiss deepened slightly—Johnny tilting his head, finding a better angle. Still careful, still questioning, but with something underneath it now. Something that tasted like recognition. Like coming home to a house you thought had burned down, only to find one room still standing.
David's free hand found Johnny's waist, settling there lightly. Permission and promise in one touch. I'm here. We're here. This is real.
They broke apart only when breathing became necessary, but not far. Their foreheads touched again, both of them panting slightly. David kept his eyes closed, not wanting to break whatever spell had let this happen.
"Still there," Johnny whispered. Wonder in his voice. Or maybe relief. "It's still there."
David smiled against his mouth. "Never left."
They stayed like that—breathing each other in, hands clutching fabric and skin, the baseball dropped forgotten somewhere in the grass. Neither of them ready to step back into a world that had tried so hard to keep them apart.
But the world could wait a little longer.
They'd already given it enough.
Johnny shifted slightly, and David thought he might pull away—but no. He was just adjusting, bringing his other hand up to frame David's face. Holding him like something precious. Like something he'd been afraid he'd never get to touch again.
"I thought they'd erased it," Johnny said, so quiet David felt it more than heard it. "The feelings. The want. I thought they'd finally succeeded in making me..."
"They didn't," David said firmly. "They couldn't. You're still you."
Johnny made a sound—half laugh, half sob. "I don't even know who that is anymore."
"I do." David opened his eyes, finding Johnny's in the darkness. "I've always known."
Something broke in Johnny's expression then. Not shattered—released. Like a fist unclenching after being held too long. His thumb traced David's cheekbone, reverent and wondering.
"The Ship of Theseus," he murmured.
"What?"
"Something we talked about in class. If you replace every part of a ship, is it still the same ship?" His voice went softer. "I thought they'd replaced too much. Thought there was nothing left of who I used to be."
David turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to Johnny's palm. "You're not a ship. You're a person. And the parts that matter—" he placed his hand over Johnny's heart, feeling the rapid beat there, "—those can't be replaced."
Johnny looked at him for a long moment. Then, with something approaching his old confidence, he leaned in again.
This kiss was different. Still soft, but surer. Like he'd remembered who he was, or at least who he wanted to be. His lips moved against David's with purpose now, tasting and testing and claiming in equal measure. When David's mouth opened slightly, Johnny made a small sound—surprise or pleasure or both—and followed.
The world contracted to just this: the warm slide of lips, the catch of breath, the solid presence of each other after so much absence. David's hands found their way into Johnny's hair—shorter now, regulation length, but still soft—and Johnny pressed closer, eliminating even the whisper of space between them.
When they broke apart this time, they were both breathing hard.
"Okay," Johnny said, and almost smiled. "Okay. That's—we're okay."
David couldn't help it—he laughed. Soft and breathless but real. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Johnny's smile grew, became something closer to what David remembered. Still fragile at the edges, but true. "We're okay."
They kissed again. Shorter this time, but no less sweet. A punctuation mark on everything they'd survived to get here.
The stadium lights flickered once more—a brief strobe that painted them in harsh white before dying again. Like the universe offering one last comment on what it had witnessed.
Neither of them noticed.
They had more important things to focus on.