It's June when Sarge finally realized that the town had been abandoned. The weather had turned hot again, and his last hope for monetary survival had been crushed. A lot of people- himself included- had thought that summer would bring the return of travelers. Apparently not.

There was a lot of talk about people leaving, around that time. Living in Radiator Springs had become unsustainable and difficult, and there were bigger and better opportunities elsewhere. No use sitting around waiting for something to happen, right?

It was a sad reality, for Sarge especially. He felt as though his life was on a continuous downward spiral, all starting when he had met Fillmore. Come to think of it, Sarge hadn't seen much of Fillmore in four… no, five months. Since their last fight about moving to California together. Neither of them had ever tried to reconcile after that, for whatever reason.

Such is life, he supposed. Fillmore seemed to have moved on, anyways. He was always sleeping around and having people over.

First it was that longhair-hippie that had stopped by on the Fourth of July last year. Sarge remembered the first time he had met him, greeting Fillmore like he was an old friend. "I bunked with him for a while when I lived in Cali," Fillmore had said, brushing it off like it was nothing. And, Sarge never thought it was anything more than that… Of course, until the hippie started coming around every few weeks.

Then there was that Motorama girl, who had been friends with Flo when they were in college together. She spent the night a few times… anytime she came around, really. She was gorgeous, no lie, with her hair styled in a large afro and her laughing brown eyes. She was almost like a model, someone you'd see in magazines or on television. Sarge would watch them dance at the Saturday Night Hops at Flo's diner. They looked so free, so wild, so… happy.

And it wasn't that Sarge was jealous. No way in hell. He just… wanted to see Fillmore happy, that's all. It wasn't like they had been too serious about each other, anyways. Everything had been nothing more than a casual relationship…

Sarge doubted himself about that sometimes. Why had he practically moved in with Fillmore if it was only casual? Why did they eat dinner and watch television together every night if it was only casual? There were too many questions and doubts and not enough answers. He wanted to let everything go and move on, but he just… couldn't.

That wasn't a problem, though. It hardly ever bothered him.

Hardly... He thought about it very often, unfortunately. He very much wanted all of the answers he was sure he would never get. It was all through with, now. He hadn't spoken to Fillmore in such a long time, it wasn't like it mattered anymore.

Sarge found himself stuck thinking about this one night as he sat in front of his television. There was a beer in his hand, a bag of potato chips on the table next to him, and late night television on before him... and yet, he found himself unable to concentrate on it.

He had been staring off into empty space when his shop's phone began to ring. It was half past eleven... What kind of person would be calling so late? He groaned and stood up, padding to the front of his shop to get the phone. "Sarge's Surplus Hut, your one-stop shop for all your government surplus needs."

"Hey buddy, it's me."

Fillmore's voice left a sour taste in Sarge's mouth. Speak of the devil, and he doth appear..."Fillmore. I wasn't expecting you to call so late."

"Yeah, well, neither was I. Anyways- Do you want to come over?" Fillmore said, "You know, for, uh… Closure?"

Sarge didn't say anything at first. To say the least, he was a little bit stunned. It had been months since they'd spoken, and now all of the sudden Fillmore wants to talk about it? "Erm… Yeah. For sure."

"Cool, um… When are you coming, then?"

Sarge frowned "Oh, you meant right now?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Fillmore, it's almost midnight."

"Please?"

Sarge sighed. "Okay, fine. I'll be over in ten."

"Oh, tight. See you then, man."

Fillmore hung up before Sarge could say anything else. Closure…. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It's a lot of risk for him to go over there, especially so late at night.

Nerves filled his throat and stomach as he left the house and locked the door behind him. We're just going to talk, he repeated to himself, walking the familiar path towards Fillmore's geodome.

To his surprise, Fillmore was waiting outside. His hands were in the pockets of his sweatpants, his long hair pulled back in a knot at the top of his head. There were what seemed to be a dozen necklaces and crystals hanging on his chest. "Hey, man," He said, offering his hand to shake.

Sarge almost had to laugh. Since when did they shake hands? Even so, he took it. "Hello, Fillmore, it's been a while."

"Too long, man," Fillmore said.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, hands clasped together.

"Well! Um… Come inside?" Fillmore offered, motioning towards the beaded curtain.

The interior had not changed since the last time Sarge had been there. The bed was still unmade, the sink was still piled high with dirty dishes, and the turntable still had a record on its needle. Fillmore switched off the television and sat him down on the couch. "So, uh… What's up, man?"

"Not sure," Sarge replied, "What did you want to talk about?

Fillmore sighed and lit a cigarette. He lounged back on the couch as he spoke, that first puff of smoke escaping his lips. "What happened, man?"

"What happened?" Sarge repeats, "What happened is that things didn't work out."

"No, like… Why did you leave?" Fillmore takes another drag off the cigarette. "Whatever the problem was, we could have worked it out. I just don't know why you'd… walk out on me like that."

"I…" Sarge sighed, recalling the shouting match from six months prior. "That relationship, or whatever the hell it was… It was never real, Fillmore. Neither of us… well, we didn't want it."

"Speak for yourself, jackass."

"What?"

"Why the hell do you think I stayed in town all this time?" Fillmore asked, getting heated, "Remember? I was gonna move out of here and never come back. Why do you think I stayed?"

Sarge stared at him, knowing the answer but finding himself too afraid to say it.

After a moment, Fillmore answered for him: "I stayed because of you. I thought you'd come around eventually, and then we'd be able to leave together, but… I guess not."

"I…" Sarge sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Too little, too late, man." Fillmore huffed, bringing the cigarette back to his lips, "Thank you for apologizing, though."

Sarge grew quiet, retreating into his thoughts. He became very conflicted, not knowing how to continue forward in the conversation. "Are you going to leave, then?"

"Maybe," Fillmore said, "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, what're you thinking right now?"

"I dunno, man." Fillmore sighed. "On one hand, I can't waste my whole life in this little town. On the other, though…" He looked at Sarge earnestly. "I don't know if I could leave."

"Why?"

"It's…. Hard to explain." Fillmore said. "I have a nice life here, you know? Nice pad, steady income- well, it used to be steady." He laughed a little, "I guess I just don't know if I'm ready to settle down, yet."

"I get it," Sarge replied, "I wasn't either, but I had to when I got discharged."

"Eh, not really," Fillmore said, "You coulda left anytime you wanted."

Sarge shrugged. "It's far too late now, anyways."

"Not really."

The room was silent for a moment, and Sarge started to contemplate. Closure… This couldn't be what Fillmore had wanted. There had to be more to this situation. "I got a question for you," he said, "Were you expecting more than just a… little chat?"

Fillmore hummed. "Maybe a little."

Sarge laughed, "That's immature."

"Ha! You're one to talk." Fillmore took another drag off of his cigarette, "You're the one who walked out after one petty little fight."

"I would hardly consider it petty. You wanted to move away to California on some fantastic adventure, and I had only just met you."

"Well I thought we were happy together."

"Hmph. So did I." Sarge crossed his arms, "That doesn't mean I was ready to elope with you, though."

"You know what I think?" Fillmore said, "I think it was a 'right person, wrong time' scenario."

"... What?"

"You know, we woulda been great together like, three years down the line."

"Fillmore, what does that even mean?"

"Means exactly what I said, man." Fillmore laughed a little, "You woulda had yourself a life partner, my friend."

Sarge laughed, mostly out of disbelief, "Yeah, right, and RFK will be president."

Fillmore giggled, but quickly covered his mouth, "Bad taste, man. He was shot, like, two weeks ago."

They fell into silence, though now it was more comfortable than it had been before. Things seemed almost back to normal- although, Sarge thought that things would never truly reach that point again.

"I should go home," Sarge said after a few minutes of their silence, shifting a little so he could stand.

"Hey, wait, you want to smoke first?" Fillmore asked, "I just got some fresh pot off of my buddy from California."

Sarge sighed, considering it. He had only lit up with Fillmore a couple times, and had never exactly enjoyed it… yet, against his better conscious, he wanted to stay. He looked at the watch on his wrist: 1:26 AM. "Okay. Fine."

They smoke a bowl together, talking and laughing and listening to the lull of whatever late-night talk show Fillmore liked. Together, they fell down rabbit holes of conversations, getting lost in insane theories that wouldn't have made sense while sober.

They end up falling asleep together in the early hours of the morning, perched on opposite ends of the couch. The radio was silent when they woke up, and midday sunlight streamed in through the beaded curtains.

"I need to go," Sarge said, stretching, "I don't think I should have even stayed last night."

Fillmore looked almost sad as he spoke next, "Yeah, I guess so."

"It was fun, though," He said, a little remorsefully, "Y'know, after we talked about everything."

Fillmore smiled at him, "Yeah, it was."

They sat awkwardly for a moment. Sarge wondered for a moment if he should stick around a while longer… no, he shouldn't. He'd spent far too much time there already.

"Alright, well," Sarge stood, "I ought to go, then."

"I'll show you out."

They walked to the doorway together in a slow and almost reluctant way. Something was gnawing at the inside of Sarge's mind, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Fillmore held the beaded curtain open for him, and they entered the shop.

"I'll catch you later, man," He said, letting the curtain fall closed as Sarge passed.

Sarge turned to face him, "Hey, listen-"

Fillmore kissed him. When he pulls away, Sarge can't help but stare. "... What?"

"I- I'm sorry," Fillmore stammered, "I just wanted to, uh… I've been wanting to do that since, erm, last night… I'm sorry." He looked weary as he spoke next, "You should go."

Sarge watched him a few moments longer. He was exhausted, confused… maybe even a little bit angry. They had been over for nearly six months, why was this happening now?!

It's only another moment before anything happens, but it feels like an eternity. They're like two gunmen in a John Wayne film, one waiting for the other to fire his revolver. Sarge shot first, closing the distance between them in one swift movement. It was far from perfect- more resentful than anything else- but it felt right. Like fireworks over Willy's Butte.

They end up making love on the couch; it was music without rhythm or tempo, disregarding the boundaries they had set the night before. The room feels heavy when all is said and done, like the walls had witnessed an unspeakable crime.

"Why did you sleep with other people if you were waiting for me to come back?" Sarge asked, breaking their silence.

Fillmore sighed, and looked up at him. "I don't know. I missed you, I guess."

"That's a lot of mixed signals."

Fillmore shrugged, "Everyone's different."

They fell silent again. Fillmore seemed to hold him tighter, as though he was now afraid that Sarge would get up and leave.

"This shouldn't have happened, Fillmore," Sarge whispered.

Fillmore hummed, "I guess Mother Fate had other plans for us, man." He looked at him earnestly, brown eyes wide, "Like I said last night: right person, wrong time."

Sarge sighed loudly, scrubbing a hand across his face. Any feeling of rightness had left him, leaving him confused and upset. Guilt gnawed at him like a dog with a bone; he knew he shouldn't have let this happen in the first place.

Fillmore didn't look at him when he spoke next, "Can we… try again?"

"Fillmore, I…" Sarge sighed. "I don't know. I don't know much of anything right now."

"Take your time. It's your life, too."

Sarge sighed loudly, and looked up at the painted ceiling above. He…. he had wanted this. For months, he had dreamt of this moment. Why was he backing down, all of the sudden?

"You want a cig?" Fillmore said, finally standing.

"I'm fine, thanks." Sarge replied, missing his warmth, "I've been trying to stop."

Fillmore laughed a little, "Why? It's good for you, you know that?"

"Where the hell did you hear that?"

Fillmore shrugged, "Dunno, just always thought that."

Sarge watched him dress into the same sweatpants and t-shirt he had been wearing the night before. They hang loosely, delicately off of him. It was… flattering, in a way. He could see the gentle curve of Fillmore's hips, his soft stomach-

"You got a staring problem?" Fillmore grinned at him.

"Huh?"

"I'm fucking with you." Fillmore laughed, scuffing Sarge's hair in a way not dissimilar to a school bully.

Things go back to normal, after that… For the most part, at least. There was a lot to go over from the past months of separation that was missed in their conversation (or lack thereof) about closure. At the end of the day, pretending like nothing had ever happened was the easiest thing Sarge had ever done.

It was so, unfortunately painless to fall into infatuation with Fillmore again. Perhaps, despite everything, Sarge had never not been infatuated with him. Looking back, he had always made a point to keep tabs on him despite how much pain it had caused.

Over the next months, Sarge began to settle again. He and Fillmore spent their evenings together, as a couple would: eating, talking, drinking, and lovemaking. It became ever clearer that, in the face of adversity, they had pulled through. Everyone goes through rough patches, in any relationship.

However, he could tell that things were a bit different for Fillmore: he was growing restless. The election in November had angered him, and he seemed to itch to get back to the streets. "There's a war out there," Fillmore would say, almost nightly as they watched Cronkite's six-o'clock news. "It's a fuckin' shame no one's doing anything about it."

Sarge chose to keep his mouth shut during these instances. He had voted for Nixon, and didn't exactly have any complaints so far- then again, it was only March, and far too early to tell whether or not this decision was a good one.

June seemed to be Fillmore's breaking point: Everyone in town knew about the riots in New York's radical districts, but Fillmore (ever the radical himself) was the most affected. "It's a revolution!" He said, giddy with excitement. He had talked endlessly of the bricks at Stonewall and the reform they might bring. "Don't be such a pessimist, Sarge, it applies to you too."

Sarge stared down at the newspaper in his lap. The young men threw bricks, bottles, garbage, pennies… "I don't know, Fillmore," he sighed, "I just don't think anything's going to come from it."

"Well, I guess you'll just be wrong then," Fillmore said, swiftly removing the newspaper and dropping into his lap, "It's a revolution. Of course things are gonna come out of it."

"Don't call it that," Sarge sighed, "It's a riot."

"Revolution!"

Fillmore continued his rant, talking of fantastical things like marriage equality and nondiscrimination. Sarge disagreed- he couldn't find it in him to believe that anything like this would happen in their lifetime- but listened fondly anyways.

That summer, Fillmore starts going to demonstrations again. He was gone every few weeks, with promises to call home whenever he got the chance. There would always be evenings when the entire town would huddle around the payphone outside of Flo's, trying to hear a whisper of what might have happened in DC, New York, San Francisco, or wherever else… and further, there would always be evenings when the phone in Sarge's Surplus Hut would ring, and Fillmore would be on the other end.

Fillmore was gone for the better part of 1969, travelling around the country in his battered volkswagen. He would talk endlessly of his protests, riots, and the occasional arrest; Sarge never exactly approved of it, but he could tell that Fillmore was happier out there.

"You know, jail isn't so bad," Fillmore said one evening. He had used his one phone call to talk to Sarge, to check in and tell him what had happened. "At least, not when I know I'm doing the right thing."

"What did you do, exactly?" Sarge asked, less than pleased to hear he had gotten arrested.

"Punched a cop," Fillmore replied simply, "In my defense, he was the one wielding the tear gas."

Sarge groaned. "Fillmore, are you serious?"

"Absolutely!" Fillmore said, "I don't regret anything."

"Where are you, anyways?"

"Chicago. I'm with the SDS."

"What's the SDS?"

"It's the- Oh, shit, my time's up." Fillmore sighed, "Gotta go, man. I'll call you when I'm out of the slammer."

Sarge found it in himself to laugh. "Okay then. Talk to you soon."

Without another word, the line was cut. The follow-up call came two days later, where Fillmore told him he'd be going to Washington DC next. "There's going to be a moratorium next month," Fillmore had said, excitement clear in his voice, "This is the big one, man. This is gonna get the message through to those government jackoffs." Sarge hears about it on the evening news a few weeks later. Fillmore was one of thousands in attendance, gathered at the foot of the Washington monument. Quite frankly, the numbers were staggering: one of the biggest demonstrations in history.

A few days later, Sarge hears from Fillmore again. "I'm coming home."

"How long until you're back?" Sarge asked, stifling his excitement.

Fillmore hummed. "Well, I'm over two-thousand miles away… I'd give it a week or two."

"Just in time for the holidays."

"A Christmas miracle."

Fillmore is home by the first week of December, but… He's different, somehow. He seems older, as if the outside world had impacted him so much to change his usually apathetic personality. He had cut his hair for once, and it now fell in the way that it had when Sarge had first met him.

Fillmore sat on the front counter at the Taste-In, anxiously tapping his carton of cigarettes against his palms. "Nixon isn't doing anything," he said, for what seemed like the fifth time, "The war's getting worse because of him."

"Things like that take time," Sarge said, "You can't just stop a war and bring everyone home."

"Well, you would think that he woulda done that by now," Fillmore snapped, "He's been in office nearly a year, and you'd think that any good man would want to end the violence."

"It's going to take some time, Fillmore. A year isn't enough time to end a war."

Fillmore scoffed, "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Sarge chose to ignore the fact that Fillmore was being a downright asshole, and let it be. It would likely fix itself with time; Fillmore just needed to relax a bit, and being home would certainly help it.

Christmas came and went, and soon enough 1969 had come to an end. They, once again, spent New Years Eve at Flo's diner, celebrating with everyone else in town.

"The 70's aren't gonna be good," Fillmore said broodingly, nursing a large glass of wine.

"Lighten up, man," Ramone slapped him on the back, "Give that protest shit a rest and relax for a bit."

"It's a whole decade, hun," Flo added, "Good things are bound to happen."

"God, I hope so," Fillmore sighed, "How long has this shit been happening? Ten years?"

Flo snapped her fingers, "No more of that tonight. Go dance, or something."

Fillmore scoffed, and turned back to his drink. Sarge's eyes met Flo's, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Sarge, honey, why don't you come help me find another vintage to open?" Flo said, more of a demand than a question. "This rosé is almost empty."

He grit his teeth and nodded, before quickly following her to the back of the diner. He knew Fillmore and Ramone were watching them leave.

"What in the hell is up with him?" Flo asked, turning to face him once the kitchen doors had closed behind them.

"How should I know?" Sarge said defensively, "He hasn't shut up about it since he came back from DC. It's like he's become some kind of radical or something."

"Honey, he's always been a radical. You're just now seeing it." Flo sighed heavily, "It's certainly not something that's going to pass."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't supposed to be," She said, "I'm giving you the reality of it."

Flo collected two more bottles of wine from a tall rack, and gave him a sad look. "It'll work out," she offered, "I'm sure he'll taper off eventually. Just give it a little bit."

"Thank you," He said.

"Don't worry about it, hun. You folks are family."

Fillmore seemed to have lightened up a bit upon their return, as he and Ramone were chatting about the newest Beatles album. "I'm telling ya, man, that B-side is something else," Ramone was saying, "That Lennon guy really knows what he's doing."

"I preferred Magical Mystery Tour," Fillmore replied, "I liked how weird it was."

They talked idly for the next hours about anything that came to mind, from music to television to the empty road outside. Soon enough, midnight was upon them: the diner was filled with cheers and kisses as the clock struck into the first hour of 1970.

Fillmore smiled, and squeezed Sarge's hand under the table. For a brief moment, it seemed like everything could, indeed, go back to normal.

"It's a little sad," Fillmore said, "The 60's are over."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sarge asked.

"I dunno," Fillmore replied, "I just feel like nothing is going to be the same after this."

Sarge hummed, silently disagreeing. Nothing ever changed so dramatically after a new year, as Fillmore was implying.

"You want a smoke?" Fillmore asked, pulling his pack of Marlboros out of his breast pocket.

"You know I quit that."

"Hm. How about you come stand outside with me, then?"

Sarge followed him outside, and around to the side of the building. There, Fillmore pulled him in close and kissed him. "Happy New Year," he said quietly.

"Happy New Year to you as well," Sarge replied.

They returned home that evening and drank some more, this time unafraid to flirt with one another. They made love late into the night, and took a long shower together. Fillmore's record player was turned down low, and filled the home with the soft sounds of Jimi Hendrix. For the first time in months, Sarge went to sleep happy.

The next few weeks were lovely. It seemed as though Fillmore had finally put his concerns to rest, at least for the moment. He was back to his old, charismatic self. They would spend each and every evening together, content to be in each others' presence.

Sadly, it did not last long. Over the following months, Fillmore continued to stress about the war, about Nixon, about the protests, to the point that he would talk about nothing else. He was endlessly angry and snappish to everyone around him, including Sarge. He seemed to be somewhat aware of it, as well: Fillmore would be unusually sweet to him out of nowhere, but it would never last long. Maybe a few hours, or an evening, and then it was right back to the politics and protests. This had been going on for months, and Sarge was getting exceedingly tired of it. It was March, now, and all Fillmore had done for the last four months was complain about politics.

Sarge knew that he wasn't really like that. Maybe it was just a rough spell, or the combined stress of all the protests he'd been to in the last year. He was confident that it would all come to an end if Fillmore were to stay away from it long enough. Yet, summer was once again fast approaching; the warm weather was bound to bring more protests.

"I don't understand why you won't stand up for the things you believe in," Fillmore said one evening, lighting a cigarette.

They were parked out by Tailfin Pass, on one of the rare evenings where Fillmore had acted normal for a while. It was a welcome respite from how he'd been recently… Yet, it was bound to end eventually.

"I don't really believe in anything," Sarge answered, staring forward.

"Oh, yes you do," Fillmore joked, half-punching him in the shoulder. "I know you're just as much against the war as I am."

Sarge hummed, unwilling to disagree with him. He felt it necessary to remain overseas, but Fillmore would never accept that.

"What's been up with you recently, man?" Fillmore pressed, "You're more distant than usual."

"I'd say the same about you," Sarge replied.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"All you do is talk about the war, and the president, and how much you hate it here."

Fillmore hummed, "That's what's important right now, man."

"Can't you give it a rest sometimes?"

"Not really," Fillmore said, frowning. "This country needs to get fixed, and the only way to get that message through to the government is through protest."

"You aren't protesting right now though," Sarge implored, "You're home."

"That doesn't matter. Stuff like this never stops."

"God, please give it a rest for once." Sarge groaned.

"Well, since we're on the subject, I've been thinking about skipping town again," Fillmore confessed, ignoring what Sarge had said. "Y'know, being here… It just doesn't feel right for me. For now, at least."

"Where to?" Sarge asked, indifferent, "Where would you go, if you were to leave?"

"I dunno," Fillmore hummed, "New York, maybe. I heard about a new radical group that's been cropping up around there." He thought for a moment, "Then again, maybe back to San Francisco. I always kinda miss being there."

"I see."

Fillmore looked at him, cigarette hanging crookedly from his mouth, strands of hair falling out of his knot. "You don't need to tell me again, Sarge. I know you're not coming with."

"I wasn't planning on saying anything, Fillmore."

Fillmore shrugged, "Even so… I know what the circumstances are, man."

The blues played quietly on Fillmore's radio. He could never tell which band it was, they all sounded the same anyways.

"Is it really that simple to you?" Sarge asked.

"Yeah, I mean…" Fillmore sighed, "I really can't help but wonder what we've been doing all this time, Sarge. It's been, I dunno, years since we've gotten back together… and it still feels like you're pushing me off."

"I'm trying, Fillmore." Sarge wearily scrubbed a hand over his face, hurt.

Fillmore huffed. He rolled down his window and flicked his cigarette out. "I just want, like… an answer, or something. What do you really want out of this?"

"I…" Sarge sighed loudly, "It's complicated."

"It doesn't have to be," Fillmore replied, "You're just making it that way."

Fillmore continued before Sarge got a chance to speak: "I know what I want out of it, and I think somewhere in there you know damn well what it is."

"Oh? Enlighten me, then."

Fillmore looked at him and laughed, exasperated, "You're really dense, aren't you? I never woulda thought that."

"You're being an ass." Sarge said, "Let me know when you genuinely want to talk about it."

"What do you think I'm doing right now?!" Fillmore cried, "Sarge, I'm trying to work this out!"

Sarge scoffed, "Hardly!"

"Why don't you just let me help you?! I'm your boyfriend, for fucks sake-"

"Don't say it like that."

Fillmore seemed to stop for a moment, confused. "What?"

"I don't like that word," Sarge said firmly.

"Well, what is it then?" Fillmore asked, hurt, "What am I to you, if not… that?"

Sarge swallowed thickly. "I… Don't really know."

Fillmore was quiet for a long while, gently kneading his hand into the leg of his pants. Sarge gnawed at the inside of his cheek, regretting what he said. This whole time, he had hated to think of Fillmore as his lover… He didn't really mean to upset him.

He began, "Fillmore-"

"Don't." Fillmore cut him off, "We're going home."

The fifteen minute drive back to Radiator Springs felt much more like an hour. Their silence was electric, like a violent storm about to break loose over the valley. Sarge returned to the Surplus Hut that evening, rather than following Fillmore into his geodome. He didn't exactly want to risk making things worse, nor was he willing to put up with more of Fillmore's incessant questions.

Sarge paced anxiously around his living quarters, from the foot of his bed to the edge of his kitchen. He couldn't find the patience to sort out his thoughts, beyond smacking himself for being such a goddamn idiot. What was he to do? He finally settles on the foot of his bed with a huff, falling backwards to stare at the stark-white ceiling. His eyes stung, he felt fatigued… and he hated the conclusion that he was slowly coming to realize.

He needed to cut things off for good. No more falling for Fillmore's tricks or sweet-talking, no more ending up in his bed after a lonely night. It's for the best, he thought, standing to pace again. He never really loved Fillmore, did he? It had all been… false? Fake? No, neither of those… Perhaps he was just confused this whole time.

God, he needed to relax. He would've preferred the nightmare of Phuoc Tuy to this… At least he had some control over that. Sarge felt as though he was beginning to spiral, ever downwards into the pits of some special hell.

Desperate for a distraction, he turned on his radio. A newsman's grave voice came through the speaker… no, that wouldn't do. He tuned the dial to a local radio station instead, letting their soft voices soothe him.

"Next up we have a classic in the making, right man? Very much an anthem for the new age…"

Sarge sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his fists. Why must his life be so disastrous? Every time he got too comfortable, another cataclysmic event would strike him down. The electric guitar flooding from the radio pressed down on him like yet another weight on his back.

"If I leave here tomorrow… Would you still remember me?

How fucking poetic. Truly, what deity had thought this one up? Angrily, he stood and switched the radio off. There would be no poetic irony tonight, no sir.

It weighed on his consciousness deep into the night, as he tossed and turned in bed. Things had been getting worse for months now… Was he really one to tough it out? Did he really want to spend the next period of his life unhappy? And yet, He knew Fillmore was better than this. God knew there was a reason Sarge had taken a chance on him in the first place.

He huffed and rolled onto his side, glaring at the bright red numbers on his digital alarm clock. 2:48 AM. It was almost pitiful that he was up so late.

Almost as if on cue, his phone began to ring. Who else would call so late at night? He thought, heart sinking in despair. He dragged himself out of bed and trudged to his kitchen, where he answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"That was fast," Fillmore replied, voice flat, "Come over."

"What for?"

"To talk."

"About?"

"You know what about." Fillmore grunted, "See you in ten."

And with that, Fillmore hung up. Sarge dearly hated his habit of answering Fillmore's late night calls, especially when he had no option but to go over. They had become increasingly common since they had gotten back together a few years ago.

With his heart in his throat, he readied himself for what he understood to be an inevitability. He dressed and combed his hair in crushing silence, anxiety growing as he moved closer toward the door.

As usual, Fillmore stood outside his geodome. His hands were in his pockets, and there was a deep frown on his face. "You're late," he attempted to joke, but it just fell flat.

"Sorry."

They entered in silence and seated themselves on opposite ends of the couch. That damn song was on the radio again, and he thought vaguely that it was strange to play twice in one evening… "And this bird, you cannot change…"

"There's something you wanted to talk about?" Sarge asked.

"I'm leaving," He said simply, "I don't know where to, but I'm leaving."

"Okay," Sarge said, indifferent.

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Yeah. I'm not going to stop you if you aren't happy here."

They're silent for a few minutes, Fillmore lighting a cigarette and Sarge nervously kneading his hands into the blanket. The atmosphere was stuffy, pregnant with things they wanted to say but knew they never could.

"Fillmore," He said, slowly realizing that he didn't have the strength to say what he truly wanted to, "The past few months have been awful. You have to realize that."

Fillmore stared at him for a long while, looking as though he wanted to fight about it. When he finally spoke, however, his voice was meek. "Yeah, uh… You're right."

Sarge didn't know why he felt like vomiting all of the sudden. He doesn't speak, for fear of saying the wrong thing. Bye-bye, baby, it's been a sweet love… Though this feeling I can't change….

"That's it, then." Fillmore said, a hint of finality in his voice. "There's nothing else to be said."

They sat quietly for another few moments, sorrow welling in the pit of Sarge's stomach. "I'm going home," he said, sitting up.

"Yeah… okay."

Another wave of nausea passed over him as he stood. He shouldn't regret this. It was the right decision to make. He collected his things, and quietly moved towards the door.

"See you around, man," Fillmore said complacently.

"Yeah, uh. Goodbye." Sarge said, before showing himself out one final time.

I suppose it's good it happened sooner rather than later, he thought to himself as he unlocked his door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fillmore watching him through the beaded curtain. He met his eye for a moment, before continuing on inside and locking the door behind him. Through the window, Sarge watched as Fillmore packed his things into his old Volkswagen, and pulled out into the empty road.

He didn't sleep well that night, or any night following. Bad dreams, or the urge to go out and smoke right as he was about to doze off. Years passed slowly, gruelingly. The town became desolate and washed out, taking on an ugly orange hue to match the desert around. Sarge never left, though. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Radiator Springs was locked in time… and in one way or another, so was he.