Pj let go of Dan, who immediately rushed off and began to furiously attack the Hanger. Phil was still on the ground, barely conscious as he watched Pj crumpled beside Chris, numbly using his knife to cut off a chunk of his shirt to press against the wound. The fabric was soaked in seconds.

Chris had always been pale—Dan liked to joke that he looked like a zombie, with the deep splotches of purple underneath his eyes and his inability to tan, despite the constant exposure to sun all soldiers had. But now, he was almost translucent, like someone had replaced his skin with porcelain. His green shirt was almost black with blood, which was slowly spreading outward in a sick way that reminded Pj of a making tie-dye shirts as a child.

Where had it all gone? Childhood, comfort, the dull assurance of tomorrow? Only a few years ago—two, and barely that—he had been so sure of his future. Everything, it had seemed, was right before him like a neatly set stone path.

Was it always that way? Were the workings of the universe always so turbulent, and he just hadn't known? How could he have not known? And if he had known, if he had had time to think, prepare, and plan for this mess, would it have changed a thing? Would his fiancé be alive? Would his family be alive?

Would Chris be able to stay alive?

He shook his head at his own thoughts, snapping his attention back to the present. Chris would live. They had Phil, with his medical supplies and training. Surely he would know how to treat this wound. Surely there would be something he could do.

So why wasn't he moving? Why was he just laying there with that hopeless, mournful look on his face? Was Pj the only one willing to do anything, anything, to save Chris?

"You'll be okay," he promised, cutting off a new strip and pressing it against the wound. "You've survived worse, right?"

That was right, he had. They all had, Chris and Pj and Dan, the last better than any. It had been in the early days of their service, back when both sides still had enough fuel to employ whatever attacks they so desired.

They'd been walking through a field, one with the grass that always felt like razors against bare legs and acted as a host to God-knows how many ticks and fleas. They'd been a few meters away from the base camp, heading back to get some water, when Dan suddenly pulled Chris and Pj down, so quickly they could barely cry out.

The camp had exploded in an angry ball of fire and dust, sending body parts and damaged supplies everywhere. Pj had heard something zing towards him, almost like a sound effect you'd hear in a movie, and that same something bit at his eyes.

Surely a bomb is worse than a Hanger. Surely, if Chris has survived a blast of that magnitude, he could survive this.

"This isn't like the bomb." Chris whispered. Pj hadn't even realized he'd been recounting the story aloud. "You know that. I'm damaged, Pj."

"Don't say that." Why, when around an injured person, is it so impossible to talk normally? Never mind the tears and shaky voice, but even being able to raise one's voice, just a smidge, would make the whole conversation seem less dire. "Don't say that Chris. You're okay, you hear me? You're okay."

"I'm dying." Tears began to flow down his cheeks; slowly, at first, but gradually becoming a steady stream, a physical representation of the group's shared grief.

"No. You aren't dying. You can't die on me Chris. Not you too." Pj pulled Chris's head into his lap, stroking his hair gently. "Just relax. You need to heal."

Chris grabbed Pj's hand. His grip was strong, for someone who seemed so weak. "Please leave me. I can't stand to see you cry."

Cry? Pj supposed it made sense, for him to be crying. He hadn't even realized that the tears had begun to flow, he'd been too focused on Chris, watching his chest move up and down in its irregular rhythm.

Up, beat, down. Longer beat, up, down. Up, beat, down. And so on.

"I'm not leaving, so you better shut up if all you're going to manage is nonsense. You don't leave a soldier on the battlefield, and you don't leave a friend when they need you."

"You're such an idiot," Chris sobbed, ugly, gasping tears that seemed to only worsen his pain. "I don't even know why they let you in the army. God, that...that hurts."

"I know. Hold on, Chris. Hold on."

Behind them, Dan finally stopped his ruthless attack on the Hanger, which, by then, was barely recognizable as a heap of metal. He collapsed beside it, his sudden burst of energy completely spent.

"I love you, Pj." Chris said weakly. He didn't seem to notice Dan, crying to himself, or Phil, up and searching through his satchel for any sort of needles or gauze that would help. "You're my best friend."

"I love you, too."

"I never wrote a note to say goodbye."

"There's no goodbye, believe me." He brushed Chris's hair back and kissed his forehead, like his mother used to do when he was small and scared of the shadows on the wall. "Goodbye is forgetting, and there's no forgetting you."

"I love you." Chris repeated, lips turning up in a weak smile.

"Chris?"

"Don't forget me. That's my worst fear. Don't forget me."

"Chris..."

"Pj."

And that was it. Even Phil seemed to notice the heavy silence, because he stopped searching through his bag and went over to Dan, letting the younger boy slump into his arms.

For a moment, they forgot the danger of staying still and the fear they had carried with them for so long, and remembered the simple truth we all learn from the youngest age: sometimes, it's okay to just cry.