Johnny opened the door without a word, just a nod that said you can come in.
His fingers trembled against the doorframe—not from cold, but from something harder to name. David caught it, that slight shake, the way Johnny's eyes darted to his face then away, like looking directly at him might burn.
"Hey," David said softly.
Johnny's mouth opened, closed. Started to form a word that died somewhere between thought and sound. His hand flexed against the wood.
"I—" Johnny started, then stopped. Swallowed. "You came."
"You asked me to."
Another silence. Johnny's weight shifted, one foot to the other. David could see him struggling with something, wrestling with words that wouldn't come. The hallway felt too exposed, too open, but Johnny seemed frozen in the doorway.
"Do you want me to—" David gestured vaguely behind him, ready to leave if that's what Johnny needed.
"No." The word came out too fast, too sharp. Johnny's face flushed. "No, I... Come in. Please."
David stepped inside, and Johnny closed the door with careful precision, like he was sealing them into something he wasn't sure how to navigate.
"My father's in Washington," Johnny said quietly, back still to the door. "Emergency meeting with the Attorney General. Something about federal jurisdiction and religious freedom violations." His voice carried a mix of relief and bitterness. "He took the red-eye last night."
David felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. He'd been prepared to sneak around, to keep his voice down, to bolt at the first sound of Saul's footsteps.
"How long?" David asked.
"Two days. Maybe three. Depends on how many senators he needs to convince that Pathlight was a 'rogue operation.'" Johnny's jaw tightened. "He's trying to get ahead of the federal investigation. Make sure the church comes out clean."
"And he left you here alone?"
Johnny shrugged. "Michelle's technically here. Somewhere. And the staff." A pause. "But yeah. First time in... I don't even know how long."
"So we have time," David said softly.
"Yeah." Johnny's eyes met his, vulnerable and determined. "We have time."
David looked around, and his breath caught. The room was different. Still recognizably Johnny's, but transformed. The usual chaos—clothes thrown over chairs, textbooks scattered, empty water bottles on every surface—had been replaced by an unfamiliar kind of order. Books lined up by height. Trophies polished and precisely spaced. The bed made with military corners that Johnny had never bothered with before.
But David noticed something else. The room wasn't sterile, not like the rest of the house. It wasn't Saul's taste of gleaming metal and cold glass. But it wasn't the old cluttered disaster either—the one that had always driven David a little crazy.
It was somewhere in between.
Thoughtful.
Personal.
Something in David's chest turned over, heavy but warm.
He used to tease Johnny endlessly about the mess—"How do you find anything in here?" he'd laugh, picking his way through discarded jerseys and crumpled homework. But secretly, he'd loved it. In a house that felt like a museum, Johnny's chaos had been proof of life, of someone real living behind all that polish and performance. The mess had been Johnny's quiet rebellion.
Now, looking at this meticulously cleaned space, David understood exactly what this meant. Johnny hadn't just tidied up. He'd specifically cleaned it the way David always joked he should. But he'd kept things too—the baseball trophies still gleamed, a guitar pick was tucked into the mirror frame, his glove rested on the desk chair like it belonged there.
David recognized this for what it was. Johnny trying to say something he couldn't put into words. Trying to meet David halfway, even if he didn't know where halfway was.
"You cleaned," David said, keeping his voice neutral.
Johnny's hands found his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly. "Yeah, I... thought you might..." He trailed off, jaw working like he was chewing on glass.
David waited. He'd gotten good at waiting.
"I thought you might want—that it would be better if—" Johnny's frustration was visible now, a flush creeping up his neck. "Fuck. I can't—"
"Johnny." David kept his voice soft. "It's okay."
"No, it's not." Johnny's hands came out of his pockets, gesturing helplessly at the space between them. "I can't even—I don't know how to—" His voice cracked. "I cleaned the room because I wanted you to feel... I wanted it to be right. For you. For..."
He couldn't say 'us.' David could see the word catching in his throat like barbed wire.
"I know," David said quietly. And he did. The room wasn't just clean—it was an offering. An apology. A plea. All the things Johnny couldn't say out loud.
"I don't know how to do this," Johnny admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "I don't even know what 'this' is supposed to be."
David took a small step closer, careful not to crowd him. "We don't have to know right now."
Johnny looked at him then, really looked, and David could see everything written there—the want, the fear, the confusion of someone who'd been programmed to hate the very thing his heart reached for.
"I can't even say—" Johnny cut himself off, frustrated. "They took all the words. Made them into something ugly. Something wrong."
David understood. The church hadn't just monitored Johnny's feelings; it had stolen his vocabulary for them. Every word that might describe what they were to each other had been coded as sin, as sickness, as something to be corrected.
"Show me the room," David said gently, offering an out. "Tell me what you changed."
Relief flickered across Johnny's face. This he could do. Action instead of words.
It was a start.
David's eyes landed on the desk, and his breath caught.
Two glass bottles of Mexican Coke sat on a tray, already sweating in the warm room. Two short glasses beside them. No ice, no frills. The sight hit him unexpectedly hard—Johnny had remembered. After everything, through all the programming and distance, he'd held onto this small detail.
Johnny followed his gaze, shifting his weight. "I, um. I remembered you like the ones in bottles."
There was something tentative in his voice, like he was offering more than just a drink and knew it.
David stepped closer, his throat tight. "I didn't think you'd remember that."
"I remember a lot of things." Johnny's voice dropped lower. "Maybe too many things."
He walked to the desk, each motion careful and deliberate. From his pocket, he pulled out his keychain—the miniature baseball bat bottle opener. The one that David had given him. Johnny's thumb ran over it once before he used it to pop the first cap with a practiced motion. The soft hiss filled the silence.
Johnny poured the cola into both glasses with unnecessary precision, like he needed the ritual of it. When he held one out to David, their fingers brushed. Johnny didn't pull away, but David felt the slight tremor in his hand.
"We could..." Johnny started, then gestured vaguely toward the bed. "I mean, if you want to sit, we could..."
The words tangled again. David could see him struggling with even this—how to invite David to sit on his bed without it meaning something the church had taught him was wrong. The simple act of sharing space had been weaponized against them.
"Yeah," David said easily, taking the glass. "Let's sit."
They settled on the edge of the mattress, careful inches between them at first. The springs creaked softly. David could feel the warmth radiating from Johnny's body, could smell his shampoo—something clean and familiar that made his chest ache.
"You always hated this house," Johnny said suddenly.
David blinked. "I didn't hate it."
"You hated how clean - how sterile - it was. How fake everything felt,"
David gave a soft exhale that might've been a laugh. "That wasn't about the house."
Johnny tilted the bottle, watching the bubbles rise. "You used to complain about my room too... You can't have it both way. Said it looked like a closet exploded."
"It did," David said, smiling faintly. "But it was yours."
Johnny held his glass without drinking, staring at the bubbles rising. "I used to think about this," he said quietly. "When I was—when they had me doing the exercises. The reconditioning. I'd think about stupid stuff. Like how you always tilted the bottle to check for sediment even though there never was any. Or how you'd take the smallest sips to make it last."
David's free hand curled against his thigh, trying to hold something steady inside him.
"Johnny..."
"I wasn't supposed to." Johnny's voice was rough now. "Every time I did, the watch would—but I couldn't stop. It was like the more they tried to make me forget, the more I remembered."
He finally took a sip, and David watched his throat work. When Johnny lowered the glass, his knee shifted—just barely—until it pressed against David's.
The contact was small—but it sparked through him, unmistakable.
It was nothing and everything, all at once.
David knew what it cost Johnny to allow it.
To choose it.
"I'm glad you remembered," David said softly.
Johnny turned to look at him then, and something in his expression cracked open. "I never forgot. Not any of it. They couldn't make me forget you."
The words hung between them—not quite a declaration, but close. Closer than Johnny had been able to get before.
David shifted his weight, letting their knees press more firmly together. A silent answer: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.
Johnny didn't move away.
They sat there, colas fizzing quietly in their hands, knees touching, breathing the same air. It wasn't everything. But it was more than they'd had in so long.
David's eyes caught on something by the window—Johnny's baseball glove, oiled and pristine on its stand. Next to it, his cleats, perfectly aligned.
"You even cleaned your cleats," David observed. "I can see the actual color now."
Johnny huffed. "They're baseball cleats. They're supposed to be dirty."
"That's literally what you always said. Word for word." David's voice held gentle amusement. "You said the dirt was 'earned,' remember?"
"Yeah, well." Johnny stared into his glass like it held answers. "Turns out I wanted something more than authentic baseball grime."
"What's that?"
Johnny was quiet for a beat, then: "You. Here. Not thinking my room smelled like a locker room."
It was half-joke, half-confession, delivered with just enough of a self-deprecating smile to keep it from being too heavy.
David bumped Johnny's shoulder lightly. "I never minded. It smelled like you."
The cola was sweet on David's tongue, but it couldn't wash away the heaviness in his chest. They'd been circling around it—the raid, Pathlight, everything that had happened—like it was a wound too fresh to touch.
Johnny set his glass on the floor, movements careful and controlled.
"I keep seeing their faces," Johnny said suddenly. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "The kids at Pathlight. Just... typing. Like their bodies were present, but everything else was gone."
David's throat constricted. "I know."
"Do you?" Johnny turned to him, and there was something desperate in his eyes. "Because I helped put some of them there. Not directly, but—" His hands clenched into fists. "I wore the uniform. I said the words. I brought kids to youth group knowing what could happen if they didn't fit."
"Johnny—"
"No, I need to—" Johnny stood abruptly, pacing to the window. His reflection stared back, ghostly in the glass. "When I saw Noel in there, I thought—God, what if that had been—"
He couldn't finish. Couldn't say 'you' or 'us.' But David heard it anyway.
"It wasn't," David said quietly.
"But it could have been." Johnny's forehead pressed against the window.
His voice cracked. "They would have taken you. And I would have let them."
"You wouldn't have—"
"I would have." Johnny turned, and his face was ravaged. "That's what terrifies me. Two weeks ago? A month ago? I would have watched them drag you away and told myself it was for your own good. That's how deep they got into my head."
The confession hung between them like a physical thing. David could see the self-loathing eating at Johnny, the weight of complicity crushing him.
David stood slowly, approaching Johnny like he might spook. "But you didn't. When it mattered, you chose differently."
"I hit him." Johnny's voice was hollow. "Eli. With the baseball. I just—snapped. Everything went red and I—" He looked at his hands like they belonged to someone else. "I'm not violent. I've never been violent."
"You were protecting us."
"Was I? Or was I just..." Johnny struggled for words. "All that anger. Years of it. At them, at myself, at the whole fucking system. And I couldn't—I couldn't even name why I was so angry. They took that from me too. The words for it."
David reached out, carefully taking one of Johnny's shaking hands. Johnny didn't pull away, but his whole body was rigid.
"They taught me to hate," Johnny whispered. "Not just... not just people like us. They taught me to hate the part of myself that—" Another break in his voice. "The part that used to watch you during your piano recitals. The part that wanted to reach for your hand every time we walked somewhere."
David's heart hammered against his ribs. This was the closest Johnny had come to naming it.
"They made me sick every time I thought about—" Johnny's free hand gestured helplessly between them. "About whatever this is. Was. Could be."
"Johnny." David squeezed his hand gently. "Look at me."
It took a moment, but Johnny's eyes found his. They were wet, overwhelmed.
"You survived," David said firmly. "We both did. That matters."
"I don't know how to—" Johnny's jaw worked. "I want to be different. Better. But I don't even know where to start. They rewired my brain."
"Start here," David said simply.
Johnny's composure finally cracked completely. He pulled David against him in a fierce, desperate hug—not romantic, just necessary. Like he was drowning and David was air.
David held on just as tight, feeling Johnny shake against him. All the horror of Pathlight, all the guilt and programming and violence—it was pouring out of Johnny in waves.
"I've got you," David murmured. "I've got you."
They stood there, clinging to each other while the weight of everything tried to crush them. Outside, Stricton continued its slow spiral. Inside, two boys held each other up.
Not healing.
Not redemption.
But real.
The silence that followed was different—cleaner somehow, like the air after a storm.
David watched Johnny's profile, the way his jaw still held tension even as his shoulders had begun to drop. The confession had cost him something, but it had also freed something.
"Can I ask you something?" Johnny said quietly, still staring at his hands.
"Yeah."
"How do you—" Johnny paused, searching. "How do you know? Like, really know? About yourself. About what you... want."
David considered the question. "You mean how did I know I was gay?"
Johnny flinched slightly at the word but didn't pull away. "I guess. Yeah."
"I just... knew. Even before I had words for it." David traced the rim of his glass with his thumb. "My mom helped, I think. She never made me feel like I had to be anything specific. And her Buddhism—it taught me that suffering comes from fighting what is."
Johnny was quiet, processing.
"But you," David continued gently, "you had the opposite. Every feeling got monitored, punished, corrected. That's not your fault."
"I used to think about kissing you," Johnny said suddenly, the words tumbling out like he had to say them before he lost his nerve. "Back when we first met. Before I even understood what that meant. And it felt... good. Natural. Like the most obvious thing in the world."
David's breath caught.
"Then the reprogramming started," Johnny continued. "And suddenly that feeling was wrong. Sick. Something to be fixed. And I just..."
"Johnny—"
"The worst part is, I got good at it. At shutting it down. At feeling the pull toward you and immediately replacing it with scripture or pushups or—" He laughed bitterly. "Baseball statistics. Anything to make the watch stop flashing red."
David set his glass aside and turned more fully toward Johnny. "But you're here now. Talking about it. That's huge."
"Is it?" Johnny finally looked at him. "Because I still can't—I want to say things to you and the words just... dissolve. Like they're behind glass and I can't reach them."
"What kind of things?"
Johnny's eyes dropped to David's mouth, then away. "Things about... how you make me feel. What I want. Who I—" He made a frustrated sound. "See? It's like there's a wall."
David considered him for a moment. Then, carefully: "What if you didn't use words?"
Johnny's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Show me. However you can. Words aren't the only way to say things."
Johnny stared at him, something shifting in his expression. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took David's hand. His thumb traced over David's knuckles, learning the shape of them.
"When you played piano," Johnny said softly, "I used to watch your hands. The way they moved. Like they were having a conversation with the keys." His touch continued, gentle but purposeful. "I wanted to be the piano."
David's heart was racing now.
"Is that—" Johnny swallowed. "Is that okay to say?"
"Yeah," David breathed. "That's okay to say."
Johnny's other hand came up to cup David's face, movements careful like he was handling something precious. "I used to dream about this. Even when the watch punished me for it. Even when they made me recite verses about abomination. I still dreamed about touching you like this."
"Johnny..."
"I'm scared," Johnny admitted. "Not of you. Not of this. But of how much I want it. How much I've always wanted it. They tried to burn it out of me but it just... wouldn't go."
David leaned into his touch. "That's because it's real. It's yours. It's who you are."
"I don't even know who that is anymore."
"I do," David said firmly. "You're the boy who threw curveballs that defied physics. Who shared his Mexican Cokes. Who kept a bottle opener on his keychain even when it made your watch scream at you." He covered Johnny's hand with his own. "You're the boy who chose us over them when it mattered."
Johnny's eyes were wet. "What if I forget again? What if they—"
"Then I'll remind you," David said simply. "As many times as it takes."
Something in Johnny's expression broke open—not with pain this time, but with possibility. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against David's.
"I want to remember," he whispered.
They stayed there, breathing the same air, hands intertwined, foreheads touching.
The world outside could wait.
They sat in the quiet for a while, hands still intertwined.
Johnny shifted slightly, turning their joined hands over like he was studying them. "I thought about texting you," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "After the raid. After everything."
David's thumb moved across Johnny's knuckles. "Yeah?"
"I kept typing messages and deleting them." Johnny's jaw tightened. "Nothing felt... big enough. Or small enough. I didn't know how to start."
"I kept checking my phone," David admitted. "Every buzz, I thought maybe..."
"I stood in the shower for an hour. Maybe longer. Watching the water run pink down the drain." Johnny's voice was distant, lost in the memory. "And all I could think was—what if I'd hit him harder? What if I'd killed him? Would that have made me as bad as them?"
"No," David said firmly. "It would have made you human."
Johnny looked at him then, something desperate in his eyes. "I wanted to kill him. In that moment. For what he did to Noel. To all of them. For what he tried to do to us."
"But you didn't."
"But I wanted to." Johnny's voice cracked. "And that scared me more than anything else. That they'd turned me into someone capable of that kind of violence."
David squeezed his hand. "They didn't turn you into anything. They pushed you until you broke. There's a difference."
Johnny was quiet for a long moment.
Then looked down at their entwined hands, thumb tracing David's knuckles absently. When he spoke again, his voice was even quieter.
"I think Micah still hates me."
David huffed a dry, almost-laugh. "He doesn't. He's just bad at forgiveness. Makes it look like a performance."
Johnny managed a faint smile. "That sounds about right." A pause. "He has every reason to hate me though. After what they did to—"
Something flickered behind Johnny's eyes—urgency, or maybe fear—sharp enough to break through his composure.
"Noel..." Johnny's voice caught on the name. "Is he—how is he?"
David's expression softened. "Still not talking much. But he lets Micah stay close. Lets him do the small things."
"Small things?"
"Bringing him food. Sitting with him during the evaluations. Making sure he eats." David's voice dropped. "Micah holds his hand sometimes. Just sits there, not saying anything. And somehow... that's everything right now."
Johnny was quiet, processing this. "I didn't know Micah could be that... caring."
"Me neither. But you should see him with Noel. It's like watching someone learn a new language." David shifted slightly. "Yesterday, Noel actually squeezed his hand back. Just once. Micah almost cried."
"In front of people?"
"No. He waited until later. I found him in the shelter supply room, just sitting on a bag of dog food, shoulders shaking." David's voice held a mix of sadness and admiration. "He kept saying 'he's still in there' over and over."
Johnny's grip on David's hand tightened. "They're lucky to have each other."
"They are." David looked at Johnny meaningfully. "It's easier when someone sees you through it. When someone refuses to let go even when you can't always squeeze back."
The parallel wasn't lost on Johnny. He swallowed hard.
"Micah came out, you know," David added quietly. "Not publicly. Just to us. But still."
Johnny's eyes widened. "When?"
"During the raid planning. Just said it, like ripping off a bandaid. 'I'm gay and I love him and I'm getting him out.'" David smiled faintly at the memory. "Michelle just nodded and said 'We know.'"
"God." Johnny shook his head. "And I couldn't even—all this time I couldn't even say—"
"Hey." David squeezed his hand. "Different journeys. Micah had to almost lose Noel to find those words."
"He's tougher than he looks," Johnny said softly. "Noel I mean."
"They both are." David agreed.
Johnny looked at David then, something raw and honest in his expression.
David's breath caught.
He lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to Johnny's knuckles. The gesture was soft, barely there, but Johnny's whole body reacted—a shiver, a catch in his breath.
"Is that okay?" David asked quietly.
Johnny nodded, not trusting his voice.
They sat there, closer now, the space between them charged with possibility. David could feel Johnny's pulse through their joined hands, quick but steadying.
"I still don't know how to do this," Johnny said eventually. "Be this. With you. Without the world trying to tear us apart."
"We don't have to figure it all out tonight."
"But what if—" Johnny's voice caught. "What if tomorrow the church comes back? What if my father—what if they find another way to—"
"Then we deal with it tomorrow." David's voice was steady. "Tonight, we're here. We're safe. That's enough."
Johnny looked at him, and something in his expression shifted—fear giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. "How are you so calm about this?"
David laughed quietly. "I'm not. I'm terrified. But I'm more terrified of wasting whatever time we have being scared."
Johnny studied him for a moment. Then, with careful deliberation, he lifted his free hand to David's face. His thumb traced David's cheekbone, the touch feather-light but intentional.
"I want to be brave like you," he whispered.
"You are," David said. "You're here. After everything, you're here. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen."
Johnny leaned in slightly, their foreheads almost touching. "I don't want to forget this. Any of it. How you look right now. How this feels. I want to remember everything."
"Then we'll remember together," David promised. "We'll help each other remember. Always."
The world outside felt very far away. Tomorrow would come with its challenges, its threats, its impossibilities. But right now, in this clean room with Mexican Coke bottles sweating on the floor and their hands clasped between them, they had this.
It was fragile. It was precious.
It was theirs.
The moment stretched between them, comfortable now in its silence. Johnny's hand was still warm in David's, their knees pressed together, the air between them settled into something that felt almost like peace.
Then Johnny shifted, a sudden tension running through his shoulders.
"Wait here," he said quietly. "I need to show you something."
He stood, reluctance clear in the way his fingers lingered against David's before letting go. David watched him move to the bed, confused, until Johnny knelt and reached beneath his pillow.
The gesture was so careful, so private, that David held his breath.
Johnny's hand emerged holding something small—at first David couldn't make it out in the lamplight. Then Johnny turned, and David saw it clearly.
The Echofire launcher. Not the original—that had broken years ago. This one was cobbled together, pieces that didn't quite match, held together with careful tape and what looked like pure determination.
"Is that—" David started.
"The Echofire," Johnny said. His voice was quiet but steady.
He moved back to David, sitting closer this time. Close enough that David could see every imperfection in the repair—mismatched plastics, glue seams, scratches that wouldn't buff out.
"You rebuilt it," David said softly.
"I rebuilt a lot of things," Johnny replied, and he wasn't talking about the launcher anymore.
Then, with careful deliberation, he placed it in David's hands. "I want you to have it."
David's fingers closed around the familiar weight. "Johnny—"
"You asked me once if I remembered that day," Johnny said. "At City Hall. When we shot at my dad's poster."
His voice was steady now. Sure.
"I remember everything. How you laughed. How you didn't hesitate. How you made breaking rules feel like freedom instead of sin."
He looked down at the launcher—this small, scuffed object shaped like an oversized marble, smoky and faintly glowing in David's hands.
"I thought it cracked apart," David murmured.
"It did," Johnny said. "But I kept the pieces. Fixed it one night. Don't even know why." A beat. "Actually, I do."
He placed his hand gently over David's, steadying it.
"You once said it was just a kid's toy..." Johnny continued. "But it's not. Not in your hands."
David looked up, caught off guard.
"You're not a cadet," Johnny said quietly. "You're not a fighter. You don't force people. But you still change everything."
His voice dropped lower.
"You walk into a room and bring down gods—just by being there. I used to think that made you dangerous. Now I think it makes you—irreplaceable."
David stared at the Echofire, heavier than he remembered, glowing faintly between their palms.
"You sure?" he asked.
Johnny nodded. "You see things for what they could be, not what they're supposed to be. You saw me that way. Even when I couldn't see myself."
He swallowed. "You fought the whole system with nothing but who you are. No weapons. No army. Just... you."
"I had help," David said, thinking of Abby, Micah, Michelle. Of Johnny himself, choosing them in the end.
Johnny's voice dropped. "You're the brave one. You always have been."
David looked at the launcher—this broken thing made whole, this toy that had started everything. When his thumb found the trigger, it pulsed faintly, as if recognizing him.
"We're both brave," he said finally.
Johnny smiled then—not the practiced one from church photos or ROTC drills, but the crooked, genuine one David had fallen for years ago. "Maybe. But you first. Always you first."
David set the launcher carefully on the nightstand, then took Johnny's face in both hands. "No more firsts or lasts. We do this together or not at all."
Johnny's eyes fluttered closed, leaning into the touch. "Together," he agreed.
The word hung between them like a vow. Outside, David could hear distant traffic, the world continuing its spin. But here, in this room with its clean sheets and meaningful gifts, time felt negotiable.
"Come here," Johnny said softly, tugging David's hand.
They shifted on the bed, no hesitation now, until they were lying side by side. Not quite touching everywhere, but close enough to feel each other's warmth, to breathe the same air. The Echofire glowed softly from the nightstand, keeping watch.
David turned his head, finding Johnny already watching him. "Yeah," he said. "I'll stay."
They settled into the quiet, bodies finding their rhythm together. David's head fit perfectly into the hollow of Johnny's shoulder, like it had been waiting for him. Johnny's arm came around him—tentative at first, then sure.
"This okay?" Johnny whispered.
David nodded against him. "More than okay."
He didn't talk about it. Didn't need to. The air had already done the work—smoothed the rough edges, let them fit.
They laid there, learning each other again. The weight of Johnny's arm. The rise and fall of his chest. The way their breathing slowly synced until David couldn't tell where one exhale ended and the next began.
Johnny's free hand found David's, fingers interlacing with careful deliberation. "I used to dream about this," he said quietly. "Just... holding you. No watches. No surveillance. No one keeping score."
David squeezed his hand. "We're here now."
"Yeah." Johnny's voice held wonder.
"We are."
The Echofire pulsed gently on the nightstand, casting their shadows on the wall—two shapes breathing in unison.
David watched them shift and merge—in and out of each other's shape.
A quiet dance of light.
Johnny's thumb traced absent circles on David's shoulder. The touch was hypnotic, grounding. David felt his eyes growing heavy, the exhaustion of everything—the raid, the fear, the constant vigilance—finally catching up.
"You can sleep," Johnny murmured. "I've got you."
But David fought it, not ready to let go of this moment. "What happens tomorrow?"
Johnny was quiet for a long beat. Then: "I don't know. But whatever it is, we face it."
"Your father—"
"Will have to deal with it." Johnny's arm tightened slightly. "I'm done being his perfect son. Done pretending I'm something I'm not."
"It won't be easy."
"No." Johnny pressed a kiss to David's temple, so soft David almost missed it. "But you're worth it. This is worth it."
David turned in his arms, needing to see his face.
Johnny didn't speak. He just looked at David—really looked—and something in his face shifted.
Not a smile. Not quite. More like recognition.
Recognition without fear. Without filters.
"Hi," David whispered.
"Hi," Johnny whispered back, and he was smiling that crooked smile again.
They were so close David could see the gold flecks in Johnny's eyes, could count his eyelashes. The space between them hummed with possibility.
"I love you," Johnny said, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for years. "I'm terrified and I don't have all the words yet and I might mess this up, but I love you. I've loved you since you laughed at my dad's poster. Since you caught my terrible pitches. Since—"
David kissed him.
It was soft, careful—a question and answer all at once. Johnny made a small sound, somewhere between surprise and relief, and kissed back. His hand came up to cup David's face, holding him like something precious.
When they pulled apart, they were both breathing shakily.
"I love you too," David said. "In case that wasn't clear."
Johnny laughed—soft, wondering. "Yeah. I got that."
They settled back together, David's head on Johnny's chest now, listening to his heartbeat. Strong and steady and real.
Outside, Stricton simmered in its uneasy peace. The church still stood. City Hall still plotted. Somewhere, Eli Prophet was probably recovering, planning his next move. The morning would bring new battles, new threats to navigate.
But not tonight.
Tonight, there was just this: two boys together.
Their hands intertwined. Their breathing synced.
"David?" Johnny's voice was getting drowsy.
"Mm?"
"Don't let go."
David pressed closer, feeling Johnny's arms secure around him. "Never."
And in that clean room, in that narrow bed, in that moment stolen from a world that wanted them erased—they held on.
The city could wait. The battles could wait. Tomorrow could wait.
Holding still. Holding each other. And holding on.
For now, this was enough.
THE END