Once again, Sarge woke with the rising sun. The clock on the bedside table told him it was around seven, and the dread in his stomach reminded him that his… stroll on the wild side the previous night had not been a dream. He found himself lost in space at the very thought of it. In his mind, he replayed the events of the night prior, remembering it all in vague, foggy detail: Fillmore walking him back to the motel after the fireworks show, bidding him goodnight before returning to his own home.

Except, that's not exactly the way it went. Sarge couldn't help but notice every time their hands brushed as they walked, how Fillmore had lingered with him for too long outside of the motel, how he had whispered oh-so-inconspicuously, "I can do more than just make out with you."

Sarge groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He wasn't a queer. It had been a one-time thing, a fluke. Nobody was there except for him and Fillmore. Nobody knew they had been together. He'd just forget it ever happened, then it would be back to looking for Mrs. Right. He tried to force it out of his mind immediately, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. He followed through with his routine, but his mind would always wander back to the butte, Fillmore's mouth hot on his own-

He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and snapped the door shut behind him. Sarge wanted to get out as quickly as possible, to leave this town behind and never come back. He turned in his room key and loaded his belongings back into the jeep, and had almost turned the key in the ignition before he remembered: he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. With a groan, he measured his chances of running into Fillmore at Flo's. He wanted to avoid him, but the idea of going back to base to eat military food made him feel physically sick.

So, of course he went to Flo's. She waved as he entered, and he waved back. The restaurant was blissfully free of Fillmore, or any Fillmore-type people, so Sarge sat down at the empty booth next to the door. Flo came over and filled his coffee, and they chatted idly for a moment, before she had to return to other responsibilities.

Much to his dismay, the bell above the door jingled, and a very slumped, very tired-looking Fillmore walked in. Sarge found he was unable to object when he slid in the booth across from him.

"Morning, Sarge," Fillmore greeted. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days; his eyes were bloodshot with heavy bags underneath, and his voice was slow from exhaustion.

"Good morning, Fillmore."

The air between them was stiff and cordial, and it was a few moments before either of them spoke again.

"Can we talk about what happened?" Fillmore asked quickly, lowly, casting a tired glance at him.

Sarge's heart sank into his stomach. "Not here." Not ever.

"Step outside with me, then. How 'bout a smoke?"

Fillmore motioned towards the door, and Sarge nodded quickly, heart sinking as he did. He stood, tossed a ten dollar bill on the table, and left. They met just around the side of the building, where their conversation might go unheard by any passerby. Fillmore offered him a smoke. This time, he accepted it.

"Last night didn't mean anything," Sarge muttered.

"Maybe not," Fillmore agreed. "But there was still a whole lotta feeling in it, y'know?" He lit his cigarette, and tossed the lighter to Sarge.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he returned, lighting his own.

"Bullshit. You were into it."

"Okay, fine. I was into it." Sarge took a quick drag and blew it out of the side of his mouth. "I'd rather forget about it than try anything else."

"Why?" Fillmore pressed.

"Try and see it from my perspective, wouljda?" Sarge said, suddenly annoyed, "You come to some town in the middle of nowhere, and end up making out with someone who's practically a stranger-and, not to mention that you hadn't even considered the possibility of being a queer-"

"Alright, I get it," Fillmore interrupted. "You're afraid."

"I wouldn't say that."

Fillmore laughed, but it sounded strained. "Well, you sure sound afraid." He took a drag, and smoke spilled out of his mouth as he spoke, "This must be your worst nightmare or something, man… Imagine that, thinking you're a square your whole life, only to wake up one morning and-"

"You know what I'm going to do?" Sarge snapped, "I'm going to go back to base and forget you ever existed, because nothing good can come out of this-"

"You don't know that,." Fillmore countered. "Maybe you'll be happier if you know exactly what you like, rather than it being just a shot in the dark all the time."

"I'm not going to pursue it, Fillmore."

Sarge dropped his cigarette and ground it into the concrete with his boot. Fillmore was silent as he took another drag off of his own. Neither of them moved.

"You got a pencil, man?" Fillmore entreated.

"What for?"

"I'm gonna give you my number," Fillmore said shortly. "In case you want help with that."

Sarge glared at him out of anger and disbelief. After that conversation, he had the nerve to… Oh, goddammit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and an old receipt. Fillmore took them, and quickly scribbled a few digits before handing it back to him.

"Call me," he said, before turning on his heel and promptly walking away.

Sarge stared at him as he retreated, hands in his pockets and messy brown hair flying about in the wind. He rounded the corner, and he was gone from the world. Sarge turned his attention down to the receipt, wondering vaguely if it was serious or not. He shoved it back into his pocket, opting to forget about it like he'd said he would.

Sarge returned to his jeep and got in the driver's side, then turning the key in the ignition. No matter how he might try, he simply couldn't put it from his mind. He wasn't afraid of it, per say… But, if not afraid, what was he? Conflicted? Curious? And, if it wasn't meaningless…. That was nonsense, of course it was meaningless. What meaning could it ever have?

He pulls out of the lot and out onto the main road, mind a whirlwind of yes, no, maybe so. He felt as though he'd been inducted into some kind of horrible game, and now it was too late to turn back. There was most certainly some grand domino effect that he had set into play by having that conversation. Did he want to find out what it meant? Absolutely not. All he wanted was to go back to his normal military life with his normal military job, and-

As he passed, Sarge spotted Fillmore emerging from the beaded curtain of his geodome. His hair fell haphazardly over his face, and he wore large, round, red-tinted sunglasses. Sarge met his gaze briefly, raising one hand in polite farewell. Fillmore did nothing but watch, finally turning away and getting back to work as Sarge crossed the town's border.

After that, Sarge attempted to settle back into his everyday life. It was difficult, to say the least; he found himself unable to put his mind to his work. He'd lose focus, let his mind wander back to the little town and the fireworks exploding out of the desert like atom bombs in his mind. And Fillmore… As much as he hated it, he damn hippie seemed to follow him everywhere, muddling his mind and turning his train of thought into something like jelly. "You're curious," Fillmore had said, words flowing like easy, slow water. "...You want to know what it's like."

Suddenly and without reason, he snapped out of his haze. He held his pen tightly; black ink pooled on the paper where he'd been pressing it down. He quickly removed it and crumpled the page, tossing it towards the wastebasket and missing by a few inches. It had been four days since he left town. Four miserable days of procrastinating work to daydream about his return.

Sarge found a fresh sheet of paper and restarted. Name, age, height, weight. Name, age, height, weight. Name, age, height, weight. He rubbed his eyes, sighing in exasperation. What would Fillmore be doing right now? Probably trying to sell that organic bullshit, listening to that psychedelic-Hendrix-crap- Oh, goddammit, Sarge thinks, sighing frustratedly, What's the use? He could hardly think straight, much less get some work done-

His eyes find the scrap of paper pinned on his corkboard. Fillmore's Taste-In…

Sarge practically flies from his seat and snatches it off of the board, nearly tearing it in two. He was going to call Fillmore, and ask for advice (explicitly not a hookup). He quickly sits back down in his chair and wheels himself over to the desk, holding his breath as he picked up the receiver and pressed it between his shoulder and ear as he dialed.

Nervous excitement grew in Sarge's stomach as his fingers moved, turning the rotary as quickly as he was able. 5...0… 5… What would he even say? I can't stop thinking about that night, about you-

"Fillmore's Taste-In, what's cookin?"

Sarge held his breath, going dizzy for a moment. "Fillmore!" He waffled, struggling to think of something he could say. "I-uh… How are you?"

"I'm-er-just fine." Fillmore replied cordially, audibly confused. "Uh-Who is this?"

Goddammit, how could he have forgotten- "It's Sarge. I-erm-wanted to talk… about what we discussed the other day."

"I don't think we should talk about it over the phone, man," Fillmore conceded, his voice lowering dramatically to a low whisper. "You never know, dude, maybe they're monitoring the phone lines-"

"Alright, fine," Sarge interrupted. "Can you come and get me, then? We're free, for the evening-"

"Nine," Fillmore said. "Does that work?"

"Ni-ine." Sarge echoed, faltering. He cleared his throat, and returned: "Nine sounds good."

"Where can I find you?"

For a moment, Sarge had almost forgotten he was in the army; civilians were not allowed on the premises of the base. Thinking fast, he said, "Just, uh… Meet me by the clearance gate. If anyone asks, just tell them you got lost."

"What are you going to do?" Fillmore asked, "You're getting into an unauthorized vehicle, man-"

"I'm an officer. They'll keep quiet if I tell them to."

Fillmore hummed in response. "Authoritative. I like it."

For a moment, things seemed normal again. Fillmore was teasing him, just like he had before any of this had ever happened-Sarge gasped quietly as he realized that they'd been sitting in silence, still on the phone, for significantly longer than necessary. "Well I better get back to work-"

"Yeah-uh-me too."

"Goodbye, Fillmore."

"Uh-Later, dude."

Neither of them hung up. Sarge was holding his breath, listening for when Fillmore would inevitably his end back into the cradle… though, it seemed that moment would never come, so Sarge supposed he would have to hang up first-Wait, no, he can't do that, then Fillmore would think-

The line went dead. Sarge breathed a sigh of relief as he set the receiver down with a satisfying clink. He scrubbed a hand over his face and found himself grinning for some unknown reason. He turned back to his work, now feeling infinitely better. Everything would be resolved that evening, and everything would finally be able to go back to normal…

The hours seemed to pass like days. Time certainly wasn't agreeing with him this evening. He glanced at the clock every few minutes, hoping to find something other than eight-fifteen or eight-sixteen or eight-seventeen. He should go fix his appearance, shouldn't he? Surely, he looked a mess…

Though, much to his dismay, he didn't look like a mess. He looked fine. Now it was eight twenty-three.

At eight twenty-nine, after slumping in his desk chair once again, he considered: was it worth it? He was most certainly going to get caught leaving; it was Saturday night, everyone had already left for the evening. No one would be able to vouch for where he was, which very well deemed him missing…

Eight forty. He'd been pacing his office. Back and forth, back and forth. To the door, back to the desk, and once more. Eight forty-one. He sat down at his desk and pretended to work. There were things that needed to get done, after all. Bootcamps to plan and inventories to take and-

Eight fifty-seven. Dear God, he was going to be late.

He power walked out of his office and out the main door. The camp was mostly void of life-everyone was likely out drinking at the local towns.

As Sarge was getting cleared to leave, Fillmore's psychedelic bus came to a stop fifty feet from the gate. The unfortunate corporal who was manning the gate shot him a confused look, before opening the gate. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the bus. "You goin' with that guy?"

"Yes," Sarge replied. "Keep your mouth shut about it, and I'll put in a good word for you."

"No problem, sir," the corporal replied, halfheartedly saluting. "Have a nice night."

Sarge uttered a quick "as you were," before ushering himself out of the gate and approaching the bus. Fillmore opened the passenger side door for him, and Sarge got in.

"You're late," Fillmore said, as Sarge shut the door.

"Sorry," Sarge replied. "Got a little caught up."

Fillmore drove off. They sat in silence until the bus was parked neatly between two narrow mesas, away from the prying eyes of the military base. The moon had risen not too long ago, blanketing the desert in cold gray light. Stars glimmered above like dust, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. Their silence was loud and ringing, full of questions and answers that hadn't yet manifested. Sarge stared forward, unable to look at him for fear of what might happen.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "Why did you think it was a good idea to… you know."

"I don't know," Fillmore groaned, his reply much more enthusiastic than Sarge would have expected. "I thought you were attractive, and… I dunno, I wanted to see what would make you tick." Fillmore sighed in defeat, and laughed somewhat weakly. "It was stupid. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sarge replied, almost reflexively.

Another prolonged moment of silence. Sarge turned it over in his head. Fillmore was just messing around…

"I, uh…That doesn't mean I didn't mean it," Fillmore reprised quickly. "I-I mean, I didn't at the time, but now…" He huffed frustratedly. He looked at Sarge tiredly, and asked with some strange anticipation, "Why did you call me? That…That can't be the reason why you called me out here."

Sarge was silent for a long while, eyes traveling back and forth along the desert landscape in front of them. "I can't stop thinking about it… That night," he said after a long while. "I can't think, I can't focus, I…I can't do anything anymore. It's bothering me."

It was a long while before Fillmore replied. "I… I can't either."

A long, horribly painful moment passed before either of them said anything. They were both lost in the moment, mulling it all over in a manner that could only be described as reproachful. This was not how it was supposed to turn out.

"Sarge," Fillmore said softly, pleadingly. "Look at me, please."

When he looked, Fillmore's eyes were wide and dark and perfervid, his eyebrows knit together in some wild emotion that Sarge wished he would know. He was closer now, mere inches away and dancing on the edge of Sarge's self-restraint. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" Fillmore whispered, his hand gracing the side of his face with strange, fevered delicacy; brushing against his temple and down his cheekbone, before finally coming to rest on his jaw.

Sarge wanted to push him off and demand an explanation, but found he couldn't even find the will to look away. There was something in his eyes that terrified and intrigued him. He swallowed thickly. "I'd ask the same of you."

Fillmore's hand slid agonizingly down to his chin, cupping it in his palm while his thumb swept across his lower lip. In one strained, effortless movement, he closed the distance between them. It was soft, hesitant, embodying a question that didn't require words. Sarge answered in the only way he can think: losing himself somewhere in the moment as he leant into it batedly.

"Hey, lovebirds, this is military property! You can't park here!"

Sarge pushed him away, a strangled gasp escaping his throat. He met Fillmore's eyes briefly, fearfully, anxiety rising in his throat. No, no, no, this can't be happening, he managed to think. This can't be… In unison, they turned their gaze on the source of the noise.

There, outside the driver's side door, stood a private. He peered in through the window, face illuminated by the bright light of the moon. Sarge recognized him; he was one of the trainees in his bootcamp, always reluctant to train like everyone else. The private's eyes flicked over the two of them, his cocky grin quickly dissipating into a look of shock. He pointed, mouth agape and stuttering nonsense. Not a moment later, he turned tail and ran into the night, back in the direction of the base.

Fillmore turned back to him, a look of insurmountable shame on his face. Sarge opened his mouth to say something (anything), but found he was completely unable to. It's over, he thought as Fillmore pulled away from him and turned the key in the ignition.