This was prompted by a scene from LOTR: Return of the King, because Merry and Pippin are my OTbromance.

He always looked out for me

All sound and movement had ceased inside the building. Gone were the faint calls of the twelve boys still trapped inside, and the onlookers held their collective breath while the Art Hall continued to collapse before their eyes.

Then Mrs Anderson started screaming, and Shane managed to throw her off and make a mad dash for the building entrance. David was still standing stiff and unmoving, so the three boys who had been holding him ran after the distraught dancer, pulling him away just in time.

David ran.

Someone chased after him and he ducked beneath outstretched hands, not bothering to alter his path as he sprinted directly for the door. He had to get to Wes.

The heat hit him like a wall moments before he reached the flames, then he was pushing through into the inferno. He paid no heed to the burning pain, bringing a handkerchief up to cover his nose and mouth, eyes streaming already in the dry smoke and heat. He scanned his surroundings.

"Wes!"

There was no sign of anyone, and the only voices he could hear came from outside, screaming his name.

Think, think… Where would they have gone? Which staircase was the most structurally sound? No, which was closest?

He started running again, dodging around sculptures, tables, fallen plaster and burning ceiling beams. Just when his head was beginning to spin, and his lungs ache, David reached the point where the door to the stair-well should be.

No.

The way was blocked, a huge piece of plaster having fallen from the ceiling directly in front of the door. David hadn't seen any sign of people between the door and here; did that mean…?

No. They couldn't be—Wes couldn't be gone. Who would keep David sane if Katherine got sick again? Who would bug him until he talked about his problems? Who would David grow old with now? He only wanted Wes.

David turned away from the hopeless sight before him, ears no longer registering the roar of the flames or the screams of the onlookers; his lungs had stopped hurting, his burnt arm stopped throbbing, all was eclipsed by the heavy weight of his heart, the sick feeling in his gut.

Wes was gone. He was—

Wait. There; in the rubble. There was a body. It wasn't moving, but…

David ran to its side, knowing even before he turned the face towards him that it was Wes, it was his Wes.

Wes wasn't moving.

David sobbed, pulling his best friend close to his chest, rocking him back and forth, breath catching through the smoke and his own tears. Wes wasn't moving.

Then he felt the tiniest resistance against his chest, the smallest flutter of a pulse at Wes's neck.

He was ALIVE!

Oh, thank God, thank God he was ok, he was breathing, oh God...

Wes stirred.

"Wes?" Eyes blinked open, searching the light and dark of the flames before focusing on David's face.

"Wes, it's me. It's David." Please, he begged silently, please say something, please remember, oh God…

A parched tongue poked out to wet dry lips, but it was no use; they cracked as he formed the words.

"I knew you'd find me." His voice was faint and hoarse, but it was a blessing to David's ears.

"Yes," he breathed, nodding dazedly as relief coursed through him.

"And are… are you going to… leave me?"

Wes tried to look brave, but David could see the fear in his eyes.

"No, Wes." He pulled his friend close, brushing back some hair from his ash-streaked face. "I'm going to look after you."