A/N: I actually got this idea this past weekend while at a Veteran's Day parade downtown, reworked it, and this is the result. It's an AU showverse thing. Nothing toobad (I don't think anyway), just some language and references to death.

A big thank you to military personnel worldwide for your service and sacrifices. And to the family members as well. Hopefully I don't screw things up too bad with this oneshot.

Carlos sat on the edge of his bed, hands rubbing up and down his thighs, head hanging. A heavy sigh left him as he felt the weight of the world forcing him down. He felt like shit, physically, mentally, emotionally. All of it. All he wanted to do was get back in the bed and forget the world.

He figured depression did that, made you wanna just say "fuck everyone" and be left the hell alone. And he knew he was most definitely suffering from it, didn't need that therapist he saw weekly to tell him that. It was an obvious thing. And considering what he'd been through and what he'd suffered, it was almost to be expected that he'd be suffering from the mental disorder.

There were some good days though. Days when he actually could stand to go out into the world, where he didn't mind his mom coming over to check on him, when he didn't mind his friends inviting him to their place to watch the Wild game.

Today wasn't one of those days.

And, of course, it was a day he felt like he had to go out.

No one was forcing him, not really anyway. His best friend Kendall had kinda manipulated him into going with not so subtle jabs at the Latino's masculinity, resulting in a need for the shorter male to prove that he wasn't afraid of anything. Not that he really needed to prove anything. He figured being a Marine and doing three tours in the Middle East spoke volumes on his bravery. But it was a pride thing forcing him to go, along with the need to get his friend to just shut the hell up.

With another heavy sigh, Carlos braced his arms on the bed on either side of him, pushing himself up into a standing position. He wobbled slightly, his right arm shooting out to grab hold of the wall in an attempt to steady himself. Two months later and he still wasn't used to it.

Balance restored, he carefully reached forward, past his nightstand, taking hold of the pair of crutches that were leaning against the warm yellow walls. He secured them under his arms, grabbing onto the handles, using them to walk towards his closet opposite the end of his bed. Getting dressed was a challenge lately, but he reminded himself of all that he had been through, of the battles he'd fought and won, the ones he'd lost, and how, at the end of the day, that was much greater than the difficulty of being able to put on a pair of pants.

Besides, the sooner he got dressed, the sooner he could leave and get everything over with, and the sooner he could get back home and be left in solitude once more.

That thought in mind, he reached into his closet, grabbing a pair of camo pants and tossing them on the bed. Next he grabbed a gray Marines shirt, holding the piece of clothing in both hands and staring down at the gold and red lettering. He could do this. He could do this. He was a fucking Marine, dammit. He could fucking do this.

The annual Veteran's Day Parade was being held downtown, just like it always was. Granted it wasn't even on Veteran's Day, but the day before, although everyone seemed to know anyway. Carlos managed to find a near empty parking lot, the gate open, no money being charged for the event. As soon as he killed the engine, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him to a new text. One from Kendall. Who apparently couldn't make it because he'd been throwing up all morning.

Great.

Carlos let out another sigh as he stared straight ahead out the window, wondering if it was worth being there. His whole reason for coming was because Kendall had convinced him to, had told him it would be good for the shorter male to get out the house, to maybe see other vets and talk to them about readjusting back to civilian life. The Latino had snorted at that excuse. He didn't want a civilian life. He'd grown up wanting to be a military man, just like his dad had been before he became a cop. He wanted to serve and defend his country. He wanted to do battle against enemies. He wanted to make his parents—and his country—proud. Only now, he couldn't.

His right thumb drummed against the top of the steering wheel, the thumb of his left hand being chewed on by his teeth as he thought. Going home and getting back in bed sounded awfully appealing. But at the same time, he'd already come all the way out here. He was parked, had his own spot, and all he needed to do was just get out the car.

Which was apparently easier said than done, both mentally and physically.

Figuring it would just be a waste of gas to go back home, Carlos pulled the keys out of the ignition before taking off his seat belt and opening his car door. He swung his legs around, right foot flat on the ground, grabbing hold of either side of the doorframe before pulling himself up. Next he grabbed his crutches from the backseat, then closed the door, locking his car before shoving his keys in his pockets. Crutches firmly in place, he made his way out the lot and onto the side street he'd turned down into.

The sidewalk was sparsely populated, the street Kendall had stated they should meet on being towards the end of the parade route. The blond knew most people would be near the beginning or the middle, just like he knew his best friend would prefer to be in a smaller crowd, which was why he had suggested the rendezvous spot that he had. 'Course now that the taller male wasn't gonna be showing, the shorter one was feeling slightly panicky, once again second guessing himself and seriously considering going home.

Then he remembered he'd have to deal with getting in his car and that wasn't something he was looking forward to.

Using his crutches to help him walk, he kept going forward, reaching the main road. A lot of people had brought their own chairs, Carlos mentally cursing himself for not thinking to bring one. Sure, a majority of the spectators were standing, but they had the ability to do that for a long period of time. He'd lost that capability two months prior.

"Hey!"

A voice called for his attention, his head turning to the left. A brunet male was standing up from his chair a few yards down, waving him over. "You can use my seat if you want!" he called out, gesturing to the fold up chair.

Carlos' lips slightly tugged up at the sides in appreciation as he gave a small wave to the man, before making his way over. A couple was heading in the opposite direction, but gave him room out of respect and politeness, the woman giving him a thanks as they crossed paths. He gave a small nod in acknowledgment, focusing more on not getting the bottom of a crutch caught on or stuck in something.

He reached the brunet male, giving him a small smile and a thank you.

The guy was a couple inches taller, even without the Latino needing to slouch on the crutches, his dark hair slightly spiked in a messy way. He grinned back, chocolate eyes kind, dimples forming on fair cheeks. "The least I can do to someone who served our country," he stated in a matter of fact kind of way.

Carlos felt awkward then, never really knowing how to respond to that. Yeah, he did enjoy the gratitude, the thanks, the acknowledgments he was giving for what he and his fellow soldiers did, but he honestly didn't do it for any sort of special recognition. He did it because he wanted to, because it felt like the right thing to do. Being thanked for it was like him thanking someone for breathing, for turning oxygen into carbon dioxide, for just being alive.

But at that moment, there was more to it than that. The way this guy had said what he did, the small smile on his face, the deep look in his eyes, there was something going on in his head, some other reason he was giving up his chair to a total stranger, a reason other than just being respectful of a veteran.

"I'm Logan, by the way," he stated, hand outstretched.

Carlos steadied himself before taking hold of it with his own right hand, his grip firm and sure as they shook. "Carlos."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

The Latino's face scrunched up at that. "No need to call me 'sir'. Just Carlos is fine."

The grin on Logan's face grew. "Carlos it is."

The soldier couldn't help but return the smirk as he carefully stepped around the chair, Logan helping to move it, before the tanner male slowly sat on it. The dark green material was thick, holding his weight, despite the flimsy look of the whole thing. Carlos put his crutches together and laid them on the ground to his left as Logan sank down onto the concrete sidewalk on his right, ankles crossed, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs as he clutched something in his right hand.

Silence descended upon the two of them, despite the numerous conversations of the other spectators going on, and the sounds of a high school marching band off in the distance slowly getting louder as it got closer. A few people passed by, saluting Carlos, who just nodded and slightly waved his hand, still feeling awkward. But he was more focused on Logan.

The brunet was keeping to himself, seeming withdrawn, and not just due to the body language, although that was a major clue. He was hunched in on himself, holding his body together, clearly closed off. And then there was the fact that he wasn't talking to anyone else around him, leading Carlos to believe he'd come to the parade by himself, too. Which was a pretty curious thing really. Going to a Christmas or Fourth of July or Thanksgiving parade alone, the Latino could understand that. But a Veteran's Day one?

Unless Logan knew someone in the force.

The first high school marching band crossed in front of them, the trumpets loud in his ears, the drumline vibrating in his chest. He turned away from the brunet male, staring straight ahead, not seeing the teal and black costumes the students wore. Hell, he could barely hear the music. Instead, he was hearing the distinct yells of the JROTC cadets as they marched behind the band.

His dark eyes went to them, to the dark green uniforms, to the berets some of the leaders wore. He watched the leader yell out, the cadets copying him word for word. Flashbacks hit him, of his own time in the after school program when he was in high school. Sure, he had to give up hockey in order to keep up with those practices, but it was worth. Plus he wasn't all that great a goalie in the first place. His best friend Kendall was the ice stud, not him.

But Carlos had excelled in the JROTC, able to run faster than his athletic friend, jump higher, do more push ups. Kendall would state it wasn't that big a deal, since hockey players didn't need to run or jump or push up anything, all of their activities taking place on ice, where the blond boasted he could beat the Latino. But the shorter male knew that was just the talk of a sore loser. The darker haired male couldn't be kept down, couldn't be made to feel like his win was nothing, mostly because no matter what, it was a fucking win. But it was also because he'd managed to find something he was good at, something he was better than his best friend at, and he was damn proud of himself.

Only now, he couldn't do any of that. He could barely stand without needing the help of crutches. He couldn't run, couldn't jump, sure as hell couldn't do push ups. He felt worthless, like an actual maggot, and not just the insult his drill instructors had screamed in his face during basic training.

His left hand automatically went to the stub that was once his left knee, rubbing where he had rolled up his pant leg and pinned it in place. Funny really. One never fully appreciated having two working legs until half of yours is lost when your Hummer is hit.

"You lost it in battle, huh?"

The voice was low, soft, cautious, and Carlos turned his head to see Logan looking up at him, brow drawn in concern and curiosity. His eyes were worried, as though he was afraid he'd said the wrong thing, and that fear that he was causing the Latino pain or grief or traumatic flashbacks had him immediately backing down.

"Sorry," he stated, hands up in innocence. "I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to tell me."

But Carlos wanted to tell him. There was something about this guy that was drawing him in, that was making him want to open up for the first time since he returned from his original tour in Afghanistan. He wasn't sure if it was because the other male wasn't pushing him, if it was because he was polite, or if it was just because he was attracted to him. He'd known he was gay since he was about fourteen or so, coming out to his family and friends, only to have to be closeted once he enlisted. But he'd never really acted on any sexual impulses, not really finding any of his platoon-mates worth risking dishonorable discharge for. Sure, there were some good looking guys, but he never flirted, never spared a passing glance, made sure his eyes didn't linger longer than they should.

Another flashback hit, one of when he was in the Middle East. He was in the tent at the encampment, everyone else at the mess hall eating, some enjoying the last moments of daylight by playing football in the dirt. Carlos had wanted to be alone, feeling kinda homesick, so he stayed by himself, telling everyone he was just tired. Only he didn't sleep. He just laid in his cot staring at the khaki fabric that was supposed to be a ceiling.

One of his platoon-mates, Jason, had walked in, asking if he was all right. He'd always liked Jason. He was a good guy, genuine, nice, and Carlos felt a real friendship between the two of them. They'd even kept in touch once they got back home, meeting up for beers a few times. Feeling comfortable enough with the guy, he spoke the truth, saying he was just feeling homesick, how it was the longest and furthest he'd ever been away from his family, which launched into a long ramble about his parents and his siblings, about traditions they had. It was then that it hit him, how his homesickness was due to the fact that it was his Papi's birthday, the first one he'd ever missed. Even if his father was on duty with the police force that day, the family would still stop by the station to bring him his cake and enjoy a slice, hoping he'd be able to spare them a few moments before being called out to do his job.

Jason had given him a sympathetic smile, saying he knew how that felt, how he had missed his baby brother's graduation because he was overseas. Then he asked something Carlos never thought he'd hear.

"Are you gay?"

His eyes had gone wide and Jason had immediately launched into an "It's okay" speech. "My brother's gay, so it's cool. It's just you never talk about missing a girl or any chicks you've been with in the past or anything. I mean, if I'm reading into shit, I'm sorry, that's my bad. But just know that if you are, it's okay. I won't tell a fucking soul, swear on my gun."

The Latino knew that swearing on your rifle was the most solemn vow a soldier could make. So with that in mind, and with the belief that Jason would keep his word—and his mouth shut—he nodded.

And the other male had kept his promise, had never told anyone about Carlos' sexual orientation. And when "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was repealed and the Latino had come out, Jason was by his side, supporting him, while the rest of his platoon-mates accepted him, none of them caring who he loved or who he had sex with—given the other person was legal, consenting, and not a farm animal. They were a brotherhood, bonded together by things they had seen and done, and nothing would ever change that.

Snapping back to the present, Carlos felt his vision go wavy, eyes filling with tears. He forced them away, sniffing audibly, hoping everyone would assume it was due to the cold November air. Marines didn't cry. Marines were brave, strong, proud. He needed to fucking act like it at that moment.

He turned back to Logan, seeing the male stare out at the gang of bikers, all in black leather with various "POW MIA" patches and stickers on their Harleys.

"Yeah," he called out over the rumble, the brunet's head snapping up. "I lost it in Afghanistan. Got a purple heart and discharge a couple months ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the other male replied, the bikes pulling away, a pick-up truck with the local sheriffs station's banner on the side following them. "But at least you made it out alive."

The Latino nodded, having to agree. Especially when he thought about how many of his friends he'd lost in that attack that had cost him half his leg. The fact that he hadn't suffered anything worse was somewhat of a miracle, but he knew that if he could, he'd have both legs taken if it meant bringing at least one guy back.

Both men turned their heads and attention back to the parade. Another marching band, another JROTC platoon, a truck pulling a trailer full of cub scouts. The kids all waved as they passed, the leader noticing Carlos and saluting him. He gave another awkward nod and wave, hand going to his dog tags as they sat outside of his Marines hoodie. He'd had them tattooed on his ribcage, a bonding moment with him and Jason, one that had come after Carlos had outted himself, one that took place between tours. One that lead to Jason's body being identified, since his face had been blown off and his tags mangled. The Latino remembered finding them on a piece of rumble, but had no clue which body they belonged to. He'd handed them to a medic, frantic, more worried that Jason's family get the necklace than about his own life.

He hoped to God they got them.

Another truck pulled up, slowing to a stop to let the marchers go, the trailer pausing directly in front of Carlos and Logan. A large metal frame was erected on it, holding a giant sign with the words "To Those We've Lost" painted across it, right above a silhouette of soldier's back in front of a setting sun. The Latino clutched onto his dog tags harder, those tears filling his eyes once more as his chest grew tight. He knew the pain of missing a leg was terrible, the difficulties it created, the depression, the startling reality that he had no idea what the hell he was gonna do with his life now that he couldn't be a soldier, or even a cop. But it was nothing compared to the feeling of loss he got when he remembered his platoon-mates who had returned in a wooden box covered in a flag.

He couldn't look at it anymore, his head turning to the right, where his eyes came across Logan. The brunet's head was tilted down, shoulders shaking as he sniffed loudly, his own hands clutching around a chain that dangled from them. He'd lost someone, too. That's why he was there.

The Latino reached out, putting a hand on the other male's upper back, rubbing sympathetically. The sudden touch made the brunet jump slightly, head jerking up in surprise. His facial features relaxed as he saw it was just Carlos, who was giving him a sad, sympathetic smile.

"I lost my brother," he stated before sniffing. "I always looked up to him. Ever since I could remember he was my hero, even before he enlisted." He paused, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Now he's gone and it's just. It's so hard."

Carlos nodded, knowing exactly what the other male was going through. The men he lost may not have been blood brothers, but they felt like they were. The loss of them would be how he imagined it would be to lose one of his actual siblings, an unbearable pain that was as crippling as his half-leg.

"What happened?" he asked, figuring maybe it would help the other male to talk about it.

Logan dropped his head, sniffing, hands wrapped around the chain once again, a thumb rubbing the bumps on it. "His Humvee. It ran over a hidden mine. Killed a few of his platoon members." He paused to sniff, Carlos' eyes going wide and his brow raising. "He was so mangled, they had to have a closed casket ceremony. Only way they could tell it was him was the tattoo he had of his dog tags."

No. Fucking. Way.

Carlos felt his heart stop, his stomach drop, a lump immediately forming in his throat. "Wait," he started, turning in his chair to face the brunet more. "You're Logan?"

Another sniff as he raised his head. "Yeah."

"Logan Mitchell?"

"Yea—how do you know my last name?"

The Latino let out a laugh of disbelief. "You'd be surprised how much shit I know about you. You were all your brother could talk about."

Confusion settled over the brunet's face, before everything seemed to click, realization spreading across his features. "You're Carlos?!"

A smile formed on the soldier's face as he held his hands out to the side. "I'm Carlos."

Now it was Logan's turn to let out a disbelieving laugh. "Small world, huh?"

"Yeah. Small, but nice."

They exchanged smiles, a mutual understanding settling over the twosome. Jason had been a special person in both their lives, and they knew that he'd be glad to see his baby brother and his best friend getting along, chatting, spending time together.

The parade soon ended, Logan standing and holding out a hand to help Carlos up, which the Latino gladly took. A spark flew between them, heat rising from where they made contact, and the shorter male was reluctant to let him go, both literally and metaphorically. He wanted to talk to the brunet, not just about the male they had in common, but everything. He wanted to get to know him on every level possible, wanted to spend as much time with him as he could.

Which was when he remembered. Jason had mentioned having a gay brother. And how he was the oldest of two kids.

Carlos watched as Logan held the chain he'd been clutching earlier in both his hands, pulling it over his head and letting it drop around his neck. Allowing the Latino to finally get a good look at what exactly was on the chain: the mangled up dog tags he'd found at the site of his Humvee's explosion, the ones that had belonged to Jason, the ones he'd been determined to make sure were returned to his friend's family and was more worried about than if he'd ever walk again.

Emotions hit Carlos like a tank, damn near knocking him off his feet. It had to be some sort of sign that he ran into the little brother of his best friend at a Veteran's Day parade, that the brother was the one with the dog tags he'd found. Any other family would've put the pieces of metal on display, along with the flag that had been draped over the soldier's coffin. But not the Mitchells. Because Logan was standing before him, attractive as hell, wearing the jewelry with pride and somberness.

And the more Carlos thought about it, the more he was convinced he should do what he was wanting to at that moment.

"Do you maybe wanna go grab some lunch together?" the Latino questioned, watching as the brunet leaned down to pick up the other male's crutches.

Logan's shot up as he handed them over, a faint red staining his cheeks. "Now?"

"Yeah. Unless you have plans."

"No. No plans." He gave a small smirk, dimples forming on his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "So, lunch?"

The soldier nodded, adjusting how his crutches were under his arms. "Yeah."

"Like a—" the taller male started, then paused, clearing his throat as he blushed more.

"Like a date?" Carlos finished for him. "Well, Don't Ask, Don't Tell is gone, so if you want it to be—" he trailed off, smirking, hoping the other male would get the hint. "But if doesn't have to be. We can just grab some food, maybe a beer, exchange embarrassing stories about Jason." He finished it with a shrug.

Logan smiled, eyes lighting up. "I do enjoy embarrassing stories about my brother."

The Latino chuckled as he grinned. "Who doesn't? So how 'bout it?"

The smile grew. "It's a date then."

Carlos felt giddy inside, happiness actually hitting him for the first time since he'd returned from Afghanistan. He waited as Logan folded up the chair and put it in the carry bag before the two of them started heading down the street towards the brunet's car, chatting about how things were going in Logan's pre-med studies—something Jason had bragged about to Carlos. And while the Latino listened to the brunet talk, he started thinking that maybe opening up himself wouldn't be so bad, that having Logan hear about what happened could maybe help them both move on, find peace and closure, and that maybe, just maybe, the shorter male would be able to be happy with his life once again.