Time Flies

by StarlightSorcerer

Three stories in one! In the first, Penny reconnects with her ex (and Amelia's dad!) The second chapter is Iceman's story, exploring the intersection of his career as a Navy pilot and his queer identity. The third is all about Rooster: his childhood, his journey to earn his wings, his relationship with Phoenix, and his reconciliation with Maverick.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: 19 Stripes

Funny how time worked.

When you were a kid, a year felt like an eternity.

As you grew older, time moved brutally fast. A car with no brakes. A jet engine in full after-burner.

And then, when you could see the end so clearly, time moved ever faster still.

Tom Kazansky found himself looking back on the life he had lived. He often didn't see things so linearly–it was all in fragments, millions of pieces he tried hopelessly to rearrange into something that made sense, a perfect picture of where he was and where he had been. All those people he'd met along the way, both friends and enemies, those who left and those who stayed.

His mind's eye, tired and world-weary, looked over those fragments, and tried to help him remember.

---

Tom was surprised to find himself thinking: This is a good vacation. Ratchet had at last ceased his ruthless bullying. Slider had punched him into submission, thank God. Things had started out rough, to say the very least. But now it was better than ever. He and Maverick and Slider and Slider's Friends Whose Names He Still Did Not Know had a great time, going to bars by night and hanging at the beach and eccentric souvenir shops by day. Ratchet joined them for a time, but he'd obviously grown tired of being ostracized, pushed to the fringes of the friend group and ignored. Everyone had had it with his behavior. He spent the remainder of the vacation at the beach house.

Good, Tom thought. He deserved to be alone.

Tom and Maverick had grown even closer after their talk on the beach. Sometimes it was just the two of them, walking the beach and bar-hopping. Mav loved to chat with complete strangers. He had a knack for getting friendly with people fast. Everyone really liked him. He was a huge hit with the ladies, of course. Tom watched him chat up hordes of sexy college girls. He wondered if his friend would finally hit it off with one of them. God knows at least one of them needed to get laid—and it wouldn't be himself, for obvious reasons. But no. Nothing ever happened. It couldn't be that Mav had failed—the ladies loved him. It seemed to be Mav's choice.

Night after night, bar after bar, it was just the two of them. They came together and they left together.

Tom tried not to think the thoughts he was thinking. This was not what he felt it was. But he couldn't help it. No matter how hard he fought the feelings with logic, the heart always beat the brain.

He and Maverick talked for hours, never ever running out of words. Tom told him about his parents, the house he grew up in, the woods, the friends he had made. It felt so good to open up. It felt so good to watch his friend listen, his green eyes trained on him, all of that exciting energy buzzing between them.

Okay, Tom, RELAX, he scolded himself.

One night, they sat on the steps leading down to the beach, staring at the lights of the amusement park. The Ferris wheel's chasing lights ran outwards from the center. The illuminated rollercoaster was a blazing fast stream of red.

Tom remembered the conversation they'd had earlier, or rather, the conversation they'd failed to have. He turned to Maverick, watching him watch the lights, looking oddly pensive.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked.

His friend looked at him. "What?"

"With Goose's wife and kid. Did you have a good time?"

Maverick stared wide-eyed at him, the quintessential deer-in-the-headlights look. He opened his mouth just a little, but did not speak. He looked away from his friend.

Tom studied his face. "Was it that bad? Is she…upset with you?"

Mav shook his head. "No, I mean…she should be, but no. She just…" He sniffed. "Sh-she just doesn't—doesn't wanna see me anymore, ya know?" He dug his fingernails into the worn wooden steps. "'Cause I'm…I am a reminder." His voice broke more and more with each word he spoke. He stared at his feet, his mouth a tight, quivering line.

Tom's body turned to concrete. Was he about to cry? He couldn't even bear the thought of his best friend breaking down, completely overwhelmed by guilt and grief.

He was quiet for several moments, attempting to collect himself. "I can't stand it," he said, his voice even but weak. "I was thinking, maybe we could talk about it. Maybe she's having nightmares too. Maybe that'd make me feel better, if I could just talk about it with her." He shook his head. "God, I'm so selfish."

Tom leaned in closer, trying to get him to make eye contact. "You're not selfish."

"Whatever." Maverick climbed to his feet. "Let's just go for a walk."

Tom stood up with him. "You need help."

"It is what it is."

"You probably need therapy."

"I'm not crazy."

"I know you're not." Tom got in front of him, blocking his way down the stairs. He grabbed him by his shoulders so that he would not try to get around him. It was a little forceful, but he felt it necessary. "You need to get help. You can't keep going like this."

Maverick wouldn't look him in the eye. "I'm fine," he croaked.

"No, you aren't. Why don't you go to therapy? It might help."

Maverick shook his head. "I can't."

"Yes you can. Just try it. Try to help yourself."

"No…"

"Why not?"

"It's not gonna change anything!"

Tom froze. He'd never heard Maverick sound like this—so distraught, broken, defeated. It cut him to the core. As much as his friend tried to hold it all in, he couldn't; a few stray tears slid from his tired eyes. Tom just wanted to take it all away. He'd do anything.

"I can't go back," Maverick said. "I can't fix what happened. And I can't…I can't fix how I feel. It's always going to be there." He lowered his head, and Tom could barely see his face anymore. "God, I just want him back."

Tom took a few deep breaths. He carefully considered his next words. "You're right. You can't go back. You can't fix everything…but that doesn't mean you can't fix anything. You need to focus on what you can do." He squeezed his friend's shoulders. "If you get help, I think you'll feel better. You'll still grieve. You can't just get rid of all that pain. But maybe you can learn how to carry it. If you try this, you'll at least have a chance of getting better. If you do nothing…then you're guaranteed nothing." He sighed. "Look…I'm not going to bully you into therapy. I just think you should think about it."

Maverick lifted his head, locking eyes with his friend. He was red-faced and red-eyed. But some light had returned to him. "Thank you," he murmured.

Tom looked into his eyes, wishing he knew what was going on behind them. "What do you think you're going to do?"

He shook his head a little. "Umm…I don't know. I don't know yet."

"That's okay," Tom said gently. He felt weirdly warm. Lighter. Open. "I just want you to get better. I'm worried about you, Pete."

His eyes flitted all over Tom's face, and Tom wondered if he saw something beyond his expression, something beyond his words, the kind of something he tried to hide. There was a strange energy around them in that moment, a kind he'd never felt before. But it was good. He liked it.

Pete let out a tiny chuckle. "I'm worried about me, too."

Tom flashed a half-smile. "Well, that's a good thing. If you're not worried about yourself, then you don't care about yourself. If you care, then you'll work to make things better."

Pete nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Yeah…"

Tom started to let go of him. But then Pete grabbed onto his shoulders tightly. Tom stood stiff and still, afraid to move. Pete wasn't making that obscenely intense eye contact with him anymore. Now he was sort of looking between him and the ground. Tom raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Did his friend want to say something?

Did he just feel emotionally drained and was holding on to him for support?

…?

Well, who knows. A moment later, Pete let go of him, and Tom let go of him at the same time. They took a walk and Pete's mood seemed to brighten. They went on to discuss less depressing things.

Later that night (or was it a different night altogether?) Tom found himself alone. Everyone had turned in for the night. But he couldn't sleep. He was thinking, thinking too much. He was thinking about what he'd said to Pete. Maybe he should take his own advice. Not about therapy, exactly, but he figured he should try caring about himself so that he was capable of helping himself. There were a few things he needed to fix.

Firstly, he needed to let go of…certain feelings. Pete didn't feel the same way about him. He couldn't. And even if he did—Oh, who the hell was he kidding? Tom could never say no to him, nobody could, even when they really should. But anyway, nothing was going to happen there. In his mind he knew it, but never in his heart. He needed to work on moving on. He couldn't turn off his feelings with the flip of a switch, no, that was impossible. But he had to stop thinking about it so much. It was difficult, but very necessary work, and work he needed to undertake as soon as possible.

Secondly, he needed to learn to fully embrace himself, every part of himself, even the part he had to hide to survive. The world seemed to hate him…but that didn't mean he had to hate himself. He saw people like him who were thriving, who had found their inner strength. Of course, they were out of the closet, and that was something he could never be. He couldn't risk his career. He was a fighter pilot. He often told people, "It's not just what I do, it's who I am." So he had to choose. Either be out and find a different life, or be closeted and stay on his current path.

Either way, he had to sacrifice a part of himself.

Sometimes he felt guilty, turning on the news or opening a newspaper and seeing all those people protesting, thrusting homemade signs in the air. He felt maybe he should be there with them. The image of himself protesting made him roll his eyes—he'd never protested a damn thing in his life. He'd have no idea what he was doing. But he felt responsible. These were people like him, facing the same struggle. What did it say about him, that he'd rather preserve himself and his relationships and his career, then go out there and sacrifice and fight the good fight? Did that make him selfish? He agonized over his choices. He found himself drawing strength from those who fought. Maybe, eventually, he'd finally find the strength to love himself. Maybe he'd even be able to come out to people—those he trusted, of course.

He wanted to tell him. He trusted him. He was his best friend. If not him, then who?

Tom and Pete sat on the beach one night, watching the waves in silence. Their shore leave was nearly over. It was time. Who knew when they'd be off the boat again? Deployments lasted six months at least. Tom couldn't wait that long.

"Pete?" he started.

His friend whipped his head around. "Yeah? What is it?" They didn't often use each other's first names, so he knew it must be important.

Tom dug his fingers into the sand. His heart pounded in his chest. His breath felt heavy, sticky, clinging to his lungs and struggling in and out of his windpipe. Was he really doing this? "I want to tell you something…" He realized just then he should have prepared something. He had no idea how to tell him.

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

Tom forced himself to make eye contact. "You have to promise me you won't tell anyone." He knew Pete wouldn't go around gabbing like an asshole, but he was so incredibly anxious he just had to say it.

Pete smiled. "Ooh, a secret! Yeah, of course I promise."

Tom shook his head. "This is serious. I could lose my job."

The smile immediately disappeared. "Wait—what? What the hell did you do?"

"It's not what I did. It's more…It's about who I am."

His friend stared at him in utter bafflement, his brows scrunched together. "Okay. So what is it?"

Tom took a deep breath. "Well. It's…I'm…" He looked at Pete, watched his eyes grow with anticipation. He couldn't talk. He could barely breathe. Oh, God, what the hell was he doing? This was a mistake. He couldn't do this.

Ultimately, he knew everything would be all right. Considering all the evidence, Pete did not appear to be a bigot. He would not hate him, he would not be uncomfortable in his presence. But things would change between them. Once Tom said it he could never take it back. Pete would look at him a little differently. Things would be different in millions of tiny, subtle ways he could not even imagine. He loved their relationship exactly as it was. He didn't want it to change. As far as Maverick knew, his friend was a straight, "normal" guy, and Tom wanted him to keep on believing that.

Tom looked away from him. "Never mind. Forget it. It's not important."

"Aww, what?" Pete threw his hands up in frustration. "Come on, that's so unfair! What is it?"

"Just…forget it, okay?"

"No way! Can't you just tell me? Please?"

"Pete," he snapped. "Drop it. I mean it." Then he added, more gently, "Please."

His friend chewed on his lip, still a bit upset. But he nodded. "Okay."

They quickly moved on to other topics, and all the while Tom wondered if he'd ever be ready, if that day would ever come.

He hoped it would.

---

Tom felt like a failure. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't yet come out to one of the most important people in his life. But he had to let it go. No point in ruminating. He didn't have time for that anyway.

The vacation had come to an end, and he was back out at sea. Walking the narrow halls in the bowels of the carrier, eating in the mess hall with his friends, flying high above the world…there was no place he'd rather be. Eat, sleep, fly. That was more than good enough for him.

There were few feelings better than the high that flying gave him. There was nothing like floating through the infinite expanse of blue, your own kingdom between Earth and space, the calm before the electric storm of a (simulated) dog-fight. It was an exhausting, but deeply fulfilling exercise. Pulling G's posed some of the greatest challenges. Depending on his speed, his own arms would become heavy weights, sometimes up to six times heavier than normal, and all the while he'd have to keep the plane in the air and pull difficult maneuvers. It was exhilarating.

At the end of the day, he'd wait in the overcrowded mess hall, wolf down some food, collapse into his rack to grab about four hours of sleep, then it was back out to the flight deck. Rinse and repeat.

On less busy days, there were other activities available besides flying. Like laundry. Yeah, to most people (civilians), that would certainly not be considered an extracurricular activity, but that was life on the boat. Some days, washing your clothes was considered a luxury.

The rec room offered pool and foosball. Tom had never played a game of pool, but once he began his life on the boat, he became proficient in a hurry. This was the place he was most likely to hang out with friends.

Slider. Despite the hurtful thing he'd said about him, Tom still valued his friendship. They were quite close. Tom was the pilot, and Slider was his RIO. How could they not have a strong bond? Tom really loved hanging out with the guy, so he did his best to push that negative memory out of his mind. The relationship was far from perfect, but it still meant a lot to him.

Maverick…Pete. Tom didn't get to see him as much. He supposed it had something to do with their different schedules. Years ago, back when Mav and Charlie were still a thing, Tom saw him all the time. But things changed constantly depending on the needs of the Navy. It was okay. They could still hang in the mess hall a few times a week. They mostly talked about their latest flights. But simply sitting next to him and saying nothing at all was enough sometimes.

Merlin, Maverick's RIO. He was a good guy. Stressed out most of the time. Very dry sense of humor. Tom liked him quite a bit. They'd only recently started talking, but he'd quickly become one of Tom's favorite guys on the boat.

Ratchet. Not a friend, but Tom wouldn't have it any other way. He avoided Tom like the plague, thankfully. Ratchet wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't sit anywhere near him in the mess hall. If Tom came into the rec room, he would leave. Every once in a while, they'd run into each other in the hall. Ratchet would avoid eye contact and squish himself against the wall as he passed, very careful to avoid any physical contact. Tom figured he was afraid of a violent confrontation, or catching whatever disease he might be carrying. Either way, it was hilarious.

Everything was going quite well overall. Everything was as it should be.

And then, in order to restore balance in the universe, life tipped the scales, as it always did.

Tom hadn't seen Maverick and Merlin in a while. Maybe about three weeks. Something was wrong. He barely had time to worry, given his grueling work, but the fear popped into his head throughout the day, and completely consumed his mind in those few moments before he fell asleep. He figured he'd ask around. Some of the guys said they crashed. What? What kind of crash? How serious was it? Everybody just kind of shrugged in reply. Someone else said they had been kicked off the boat, and Tom very much doubted that was true. For God's sake! These guys were like teens spreading rumors around their high school.

At long last, Merlin reappeared. Still no sign of Maverick. Tom took a set next to him in the mess hall and demanded he tell him what had happened. Merlin looked at him with tired eyes, and not the normal tired of a pilot or RIO after a long day. This was an unnatural kind of exhaustion, one which is only born after experiencing some unexpected, terrifying event.

Merlin began the story by saying Maverick was fine, don't worry. Tom had not asked about him yet, but anyone who knew anything knew that the Ice/Mav bond was A Thing, so of course he knew what Tom wanted to hear about first.

Merlin described the incident in excruciating detail. He and Mav were coming in for a landing. They went through all the usual procedures, talking with each other and the tower over ICS. The Tomcat hit the deck, they rolled along. And kept rolling. Merlin had a feeling something was wrong—an instinct, a tightness in the pit of his stomach. He'd been through hundreds of carrier landings and this one was not going well. They rolled across the deck, and rolled and rolled and did not stop. The tailhook should have caught one of the arresting wires and jerked them to a stop.

Mav yelled out for him to eject and he did. Merlin ended up in the ocean, calmly floating there in his life vest, parachute netting surrounding him like a spider web. He noticed Maverick floating several yards away, seemingly having a difficult time with his gear, but he couldn't look at him for long. He had to focus on his own safety. He recalled his training, everything he'd learned back at Pensacola. He paddled slowly and carefully, untangling his body from the parachute.

Shortly thereafter, the helicopter came, its blades making waves all around him. They pulled him up into the cabin, where he got his bearings. He thought to himself, That went pretty well, all things considered.

Then Merlin had a look around, and realized things were not going as well as he'd thought. Well, for Maverick, at least. He sat against a wall, staring straight ahead in owl-eyed shock. A lieutenant commander and petty officer crowded around him, demanding that he talk to them, all the while tugging at his clothes, frantically checking him for injuries. Maverick didn't seem to even know they were there. He was off in another world, and judging by the petrified look on his face, it was a truly horrifying world. Merlin said it reminded him of the stories he'd heard about Vietnam veterans.

He later spoke to the men who had been on the helicopter to get some more details. Apparently Maverick had panicked as soon as he found himself in the water. He'd removed his folding knife and was frantically hacking away at the parachute strings around him. This tool was only meant to be utilized in the most dire of situations, which this was not. He only needed to wait a few short minutes for the helicopter to arrive. They had a lot of trouble getting him into the sling. He kept on with the knife no matter what they said, his breathing fast and violent. Eventually one of the guys got a hold of him and practically dragged him into the sling. They assessed him for injuries and found that in his panicked state, he'd ended up cutting into his legs and abdomen with the knife. Luckily, it seemed he hadn't hit anything vital. They were unable to bring him out of his strange state. Eventually he came out of it on his own.

All of this could have been avoided, had the arresting wire been set to the correct weight. It couldn't handle the massive F-14, and it had snapped. By some miracle no one had been hurt or killed. Somewhere somebody was getting reprimanded for fucking up royally.

Merlin reported that Maverick was still with the doctors, resting up.

Tom finally remembered to breathe again. This was overwhelmingly horrifying to hear. He wanted to abandon his food and go to the doctor's and see Pete immediately. But he knew that was stupid; they wouldn't let him visit. This was an aircraft carrier, not a civilian hospital, and he had no business being there.

Pete was in an even worse state than he thought. That panic could have cost him his life.

The incident had left him with scars. They weren't noticeable; you had to know where to look and even so had to struggle to see them. Tom noticed the scars a few times, and it gave him the strangest feeling. He was sad that this had happened, but overjoyed that Pete had survived, and was with him still.

But that was later. Right now the incident was fresh and had yet to scab over.

More weeks passed. Nothing. Another week. Nothing.

Then, one day, Tom saw him. He'd been walking by sick bay, and for whatever reason, Pete was standing outside the room. He wore an old t-shirt with a photo of a sunset and "San Diego" in big white text, and worn out jeans. He spoke quietly with a man Tom did not recognize. He seemed like a doctor, but he had a different energy about him. Whoever he was, he went back through the door, leaving them alone.

Pete noticed his friend immediately. He leaned against the wall, flashing the iconic Maverick grin.

"Hey, man," he said, his voice oddly gravelly and lethargic. "What'd I miss? I've been gone way too long."

Tom smiled back. "Yeah, you have." He went to him and pulled him into a hug, a real hug, not one of those shitty Man Approved kind of hugs where you smacked the other guy's back. Pete seemed surprised at first, but he quickly hugged him back. They stayed like that for a while; Tom wasn't sure how long. He realized after several moments that he was practically holding Pete up. God, he was so weak. He could feel the thick layers of bandages through his t-shirt. He didn't smell like himself, either. He reeked of alcohol and whatever other stenches were the hallmark of hospital settings. It didn't matter, though. Tom felt warm all over and deeply relieved to see his friend again.

"I'm letting go now," Tom warned, so he would not fall over.

Pete untangled himself from him and steadied himself on the wall once more. His smile had grown.

"Okay," he murmured. "I gotta go back now."

Tom gave a little nod.

"I'll be out soon," Pete promised him. Then he disappeared through the door.

Soon.

---

Maverick returned sometime later. Tom made a beeline for him in the mess hall and they sat together. It was the first time they'd seen each other since meeting outside the doctor's office.

He looked infinitely better. Color had returned to his face and the light had returned to his eyes. But in other ways he was slow to heal. His voice sounded gravelly and threadbare. Tom struggled to hear him through the cacophony of the mess hall. His friend was skittish, jumping at certain noises, even though he knew well the normal soundtrack of the carrier. Tom hadn't seen him like this since Goose's death was fresh in all their minds. He supposed the incident in the ocean had triggered him. Tom's heart ached. He couldn't begin to imagine the weight of that pain, reliving the worst moment in his life again and again.

Tom didn't believe in God anymore. Nonetheless, that night, he said a short prayer for Pete. It couldn't hurt. He needed all the help he could get.

This deployment was a long one: an entire year with the dark, wild sea as its backdrop. This was the sort of adventure Tom always dreamed of.

He didn't even remember what country they'd found themselves in. Mostly what he remembered was That Night, a memory that stayed vivid in his mind decade after decade, never tearing or fading in the slightest. Everything surrounding it, however, had become foggy. He vaguely recalled walking the streets with Pete, looking at shops and food stands. Everyone stared at them because they were white and therefore stuck out like a sore thumb. Tom's heart pounded and he tried to avoid eye contact where possible. He kept cool and collected on the outside as was his way, but inside he was self-conscious. Pete was unfazed, greeting everyone with a warm smile and a wave. He engaged in lively conversations, even when he and the other person did not share a language. Tom admired his friend and his way with people. He had a few things to learn from him.

One night—That Night, to be more specific—the two of them sneaked out and went to the beach. It was a fairly pathetic place, a far-cry from the beaches of California. Small, rocky, frigid water. But Tom was there with his best friend, all alone, so he supposed it was worth sneaking out for.

He loved breaking the rules with Pete.

They had to climb down a small cliff of jagged rocks, in the middle of the night, a cloudy night at that, so that part was a pain in the ass. Tom was relieved when his sandals at last touched the soft sands of the beach.

Tom had worn his jeans and a navy blue hoodie over a t-shirt he'd gotten on a family road trip, when they'd traveled to Oklahoma to see the Blue Whale of Catoosa. Pete was wearing a Gatorland t-shirt and his swim trunks. Tom wondered how his friend wasn't freezing to death.

He sat beside Pete, watching the waves as they crashed into the shore. It was the only sound in the whole world. The dark clouds had parted, and a bright crescent moon was at last revealed.

Tom breathed in the salty sea air. This was pure bliss. He turned to his friend to comment on the peaceful atmosphere, but the words never left him. He watched in awe as Pete stretched out his legs and touched his feet to the water. His friend recoiled slightly, perhaps surprised by the cold, but he did not jerk away from it in terror. He took deep breaths in an even, steady rhythm. He caught Tom looking at him, doing a double take.

"What is it?" Pete chuckled.

Tom wiped that stupid, shocked look off his face and smiled. "You're in the water."

Pete nodded and stared down at his feet, also in disbelief. "Yeah. I mean, it's kinda just my feet, but…"

"That's still a big deal. Back when we were on vacation, you didn't want the water anywhere near you."

"Yep. That's progress, even if it's just something small." Pete's smile flickered with anxiety. "Umm. So. Yeah. I've been wanting to tell you this. Just didn't want to do it on the boat, where anyone could overhear it…So, this is just between us."

Tom nodded slowly. "Of course. I won't tell anyone. What is it?"

Pete smiled, letting his shoulders relax. "I've been seeing a therapist. I…I always knew you were right: I needed help. I just kept avoiding it. I didn't wanna admit how bad it was. But after what happened…" He shuddered. "I knew I needed to face it."

"Good. That's really good." Tom felt lighter, warmer. He felt like he'd been holding in a breath for so long, and now he'd finally exhaled. "How's it been going so far?"

"Oh, it's been great! I just couldn't even believe—I mean, Tom, the things he's taught me? I'm so glad I made this choice. It's…wow…" He stayed quiet for a moment, trying to keep himself together. Tom noticed the way his eyes glistened. He continued, "It's been amazing. This is the best I've felt in years, no joke."

Tom grinned. "That's awesome. I'm glad it's going well." He gently elbowed his friend's arm. "And what'd you say before? About me being right?"

Pete rolled his eyes.

"Could you repeat that?"

Pete chuckled. "Yeah, man, you were right. You were totally right."

Tom nodded his approval. "Thank you very much."

"But seriously…I really wanted to tell you first." Pete wrung his hands as he stared out at the sea. "I knew you wouldn't make fun of me or any of that crap. I needed to tell you, 'cause you know…it's important to me, what I'm doing, and I just—I needed to share it."

Tom stared at him. He felt truly honored that his friend trusted him. He'd shared an integral part of himself: the pain he'd endured and his journey of healing.

Tom was ready. He was ready to share that piece of himself with his friend. He wished he'd done it more eloquently, but the words just sort of fell out of him.

"I like guys."

Pete kept staring out at the water, smiling and unfazed. "What guys?"

Tom frowned. "I mean…men. I mean I'm attracted to men."

Pete stopped smiling. He turned to him, eyebrows raised, mouth struggling to form words. "Wha—? Wait. WHAT?!" He looked him up and down. "You? REALLY?"

Tom shifted, deeply uncomfortable with the way Pete was looking at him. Did he think this was something he could actually see if he just stared at him hard enough? He muttered in reply, "Yes. Really."

"B-but you don't look—I mean, y-you don't act like—You're not—"

Tom glared at him. "What? I don't act like a faggot?"

Pete winced. "Oh, geez, don't say that."

"I'll say whatever I want."

Pete's eyes flitted around as he struggled to think. "Hold on…So that story you told me, about your first girlfriend, Scarlett…You just made all that up? You lied to me? Why?"

Tom shook his head. "That's all true. She was real, she was my girlfriend, and I wanted her to be my girlfriend."

Pete rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "Wait. But you just…you just told me you're gay, so…"

"No, that's not what I said." Tom took a breath. He knew, and he'd known for a while, but he'd never said it out loud. He felt dissociated, like he was outside himself, watching himself from somewhere far away. "Umm…I'm…I'm bisexual." He couldn't read his friend's face. "Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, I guess. That's a real thing?"

Tom dug his fingers into the sand, a blast of anger blazing through him. "Of course it's a real thing! You think I'm making this up?"

Pete raised his hands a little. "Okay, okay," he started gently. "Calm down. I didn't mean it like that. I don't think you're lying. I just…never heard anyone call themselves that before—I mean, not seriously, anyway."

Tom relaxed his hands, and tried to do the same with his mind. He regretted losing his temper with him. He could see that he was trying to understand. Like most people, he had no knowledge of this topic. But he was trying, and that was the important part.

Tom asked him, "Where have you heard that word before?" He knew he'd hate the answer, but he needed to know what Pete knew.

Pete shrugged. "Back in college, it was kinda like, umm, a punchline. One time, this guy said being 'bi' was just something girls did for attention."

Tom scoffed. Yeah, that didn't shock him one bit. He knew full well the sort of nonsense Pete had been force fed his whole life, because the same thing had happened to him. "It just…it means I like men and women. That's it. I'm not horny twenty-four seven, or a pervert or a predator or anything like that."

Pete blinked at him. "Okay. I didn't think you were."

"You can be honest. When you heard me say…that…what were you thinking?"

Pete shook his head and stammered, "I-I donno, man. I was shocked! I wasn't thinking anything!"

Tom stared at the ground. He hated to keep probing, but he had to. He didn't want anything kept in the dark, not anymore. He needed to know exactly how Pete felt. He needed to know they would be okay.

He spoke quietly, struggling to keep his voice even, "I need to know what you think about all this, even if it's…it's something you'd rather not say, even if it's ugly. I need to know that things aren't going to be different." He made himself look at his friend again. Pete made uneasy eye contact, his brows crumpled. "Please, just be honest, Pete."

His friend took a long, deep breath. "Well, yeah, I'm not gonna lie to you…when I heard, you know…when you said that word, umm…a lot of…not very good stuff popped into my head. Like I said, it was always a joke. And then sometimes it was…it was worse than that. Really disgusting, mean, awful stuff. I never really thought too much about, like, did I believe any of the things people said? I don't know. I guess…maybe I did, a little, 'cause it was all I'd ever heard. But I…I know you're not any of those things. You're my friend, my best friend. And…I think I have a lot to learn." He let out a nervous chuckle. "Like a lot a lot. And I want to understand. I really do." He reached out and squeezed Tom's arm. "I think…things are gonna be different. But not in a bad way. It's just gonna be different because I know something about you that I didn't before. I think it's gonna be a good different." He cracked a tentative smile. "Okay?"

Tom nodded slowly. He was so impressed with how Pete was handling this. Once again, for the millionth time since he'd met him, he surprised him. Pete had started to let go of him, but Tom squeezed his wrist. "Thank you…so much. This means a lot." He could feel himself shake a little, but not out of fear, not anymore.

Pete grinned. He must have seen it too, the change in him.

They let go of each other. Tom said, "Okay, go ahead."

"Huh?"

"You said you wanted to learn. I know you have a lot of questions, so go ahead, ask them."

Pete stared, mouth agape. "Uhh. Okay? Umm…I don't know where to start, really."

Tom nodded in understanding. "Just start. Don't worry about sounding rude. You can ask whatever. As long as it's not invasive, obviously."

Pete hummed to himself, thinking deeply. "All right, so…if you're bi, then are you, like, half gay?"

Tom chuckled a little. He didn't think he'd ever be able to smile about any of this stuff, but today was a new day, a good day. And something about "half gay" was just funny as hell. "No, it's not like that."

"Why not?"

Tom gave a small shrug. He couldn't explain it, but it was just…different. "It's different. It just is."

"Do you have a type?"

"Yeah, more or less. I know it when I see it."

"What kinda guys do you like?"

Tom's heart pounded. Why did he have to go there? He worked to sound as nonchalant as possible. "I don't know. Guys that are attractive."

Pete snorted. "Okay. So…" He hesitated, his face reddening for the first time that evening. "So when you like girls…and guys…does it feel…different?"

Tom squinted at him. "'Different?'"

"I-I mean, so…You like girls and guys in the same way. But…liking girls feels one way, and-and liking guys feels another way?"

Tom nodded slowly. Wow. Wow. He'd been pondering his feelings for years, thinking no one would ever get it, that he was just a freak, floating along on his freak asteroid in the void, all alone. It was so surreal having someone else vocalize his thoughts.

"Yes, exactly," Tom murmured. "Do you want to know more about that?"

"No, I think I get it."

He sure did. He brought it up all on his own, with no help from the queer guy.

Pete asked him quietly, "Who else knows?"

"Just you and my parents. I told them when I was a kid."

Pete's eyes got big. "Oh! So you've known since you were little?"

"Well…sort of. Back then, I thought I was gay. I'd only ever liked boys."

"So…you didn't like girls back then? Did something change?"

Tom shook his head. "I think…I always liked girls, too, it just…it was harder to see back then. Girls were kinda cute, I guess…but I never really, really liked a girl until high school, when I got a crush on Scarlett." He shrugged. "I don't know. I think it was just a matter of meeting the right girl."

Pete stared at the sand, eyes jumping all over. He looked as though he was trying to work out a particularly difficult math equation.

Tom sighed. "Is this weird for you to hear? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Pete jerked his head up, finally pulled out of his trance. "What? No, no! It's not weird!"

"Okay." Tom relaxed, sitting back on his elbows. "I think there's more to all this stuff than we've been taught. We've been lied to. A lot of people will do anything to hide the truth. They'll even be violent if they have to."

"Yeah…" Pete shifted closer to him. "How do your parents feel about it?"

Tom scoffed. He always hated thinking back to that whole mess. "My mom's cool with it. My dad…I don't know. We used to be really close. After I told him…things were different."

"Oh. No." Pete groaned. "So that's why. That's why you guys don't really talk anymore."

Tom gave a nod. "I couldn't tell you the whole story before. But I think…things just aren't gonna be the same anymore. We can't go back to how it was." He felt Pete squeeze his shoulder, and he struggled not to cry. He'd been numb to it all for so long, but saying it out loud scratched open the wound.

Tom sniffed. "Umm. We should go. It's getting late." He stood up and Pete slowly got to his feet with him. "You remember what I told you before, right? You can't tell anyone." He knew he could trust him. He was just paranoid, and needed to say it to keep his mind at ease.

"Of course," Pete said quickly. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I could lose my job if the wrong person knows."

Pete scowled, eyes fiery. "Man, that is…that is so fucked up. They can seriously discharge you for something like this?"

Tom chewed on the inside of his lip in frustration. "You know the rules as well as I do. A guy like me is 'incompatible' with military service. They think I'll tear the entire system to the ground."

Pete threw his arms in the air. "You are one of the best pilots in the Navy! They can't afford to lose you!"

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "And you might be right. The Navy will do the calculations. They might decide they need me. They might ignore that part of me because they absolutely have to. Or they might decide they have more than enough good pilots, and more coming out of Pensacola every day. They might be just fine with discharging me. And it would be less than honorable. And that will stay with me for the rest of my life."

Pete shook his head, grumbling and growling under his breath, fists clenched. Tom worried he was gonna totally snap right in front of him. But it was nice to see someone as angry at the system as he was.

They began their trek back to the boat. Tom dreaded the thought of climbing the cliff. After this exciting evening, he was ready for a warm bed and a long sleep. Pete put a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

"Tom?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to say something."

Tom turned to him. Pete's face was crumpling. He could see it in his eyes: he was all twisted up inside.

"You know…I'm not naive. I've seen it all, everything that's going on out there. I know about all those men who died. I know about…those people who say they deserved it. And I knew…I knew how wrong it all was. But I didn't really think about it. I wasn't like those guys, and I didn't know anybody like that—or, ya know, so I thought. So it was easy to kinda just…not care as much. If someone asked—I mean, nobody ever has, but—if someone asked how I felt, I'd say it's wrong, it's disgusting what's happening. I wish it wasn't happening, that people weren't cruel. But to me…it was still just a story on the news, a headline in the paper. I didn't have to really worry about it that much. So I didn't." Pete watched his feet. "Does that make me a bad person?"

Tom stared at him in silence for a moment. This was a lot to take in. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't think so. We all have our own lives to worry about. We have to live them the best we can. We all have…we all have our own struggles, and our plates are already full. We can't always afford to take on everyone else's struggles too."

Pete sighed. "I guess. But still…" He let out a frustrated chuckle. "Oh, shit. Here I am, worrying about being self-centered, and…honestly, I'm worrying way too much about what you think of me, so, yeah, guess I am pretty selfish."

"You're not," Tom insisted, gentle but stern. "I know you're not."

Pete searched his face. "I'm just…Man, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to go through all this shit. I'm sorry you had to go through it by yourself."

Tom nodded. He really didn't need to apologize. But it was nice of him. Tom didn't want to dwell on that lonely past. He was looking to the future now, and it looked brighter than before.

Tom started towards the rocks, but he barely took two steps before Pete hugged him. Well, that was a nice surprise. Tom pulled him closer. He had healed up nicely—no longer did he have to hold him up. Now, Pete felt so much stronger.

And Tom felt it inside himself, so powerfully in that moment: he was stronger too.

---

From then on, things were different between them.

But Pete had been right: it was a good different.

Now they were closer than ever. There was a good energy between them: it was calm and quiet—but powerful.

There was one change, however, that Tom didn't particularly care for. Whenever Slider or one of the other guys made a shitty, homophobic comment, Pete would keep staring at him with big, worried eyes. Tom had to take him aside and tell him, kindly, to cut it out. He said he appreciated his concern, but he'd been dealing with this his whole life, and by now he was used to it.

Pete grumpily replied that this was not something he should have to get used to, and Tom agreed. But the world around him wasn't going to change anytime soon, so in the meantime, he had to grow a thick skin and soldier on. Pete still looked upset, but he agreed not to worry so much…at least not outwardly.

The years flew by, moving faster and faster all the time. Eventually, the job took Tom and Pete in different directions. It was inevitable. Tom struggled to accept it in the beginning, even though he'd been mentally preparing himself for ages.

He climbed the ranks while Pete stagnated. His friend did get promoted here and there, but at a much slower rate. In some cases, it was by his own choice. But more often it was due to his inability to follow rules. Tom bailed him out of trouble more than once, but he didn't mind. Maverick was worth it.

Tom returned to Top Gun as an instructor: one of the best jobs he'd ever had, as well as the most difficult. Giving a lecture was a great challenge. A combination of pre-existing slides and scripts, as well as your own research, was used to create a lecture. Tom spent hours organizing and preparing not just what he would say, but how he would say it. All of his hard work culminated in a final, stress-inducing test: the murder board. He'd give his lecture to a room full of longtime instructors, who reviewed his delivery and asked challenging questions to see what he knew. It was one of the most difficult challenges he'd ever faced in his long career, but eventually his hard work paid off. Over the years he gave many lectures and even wrote some of his own. He loved it, and he loved the people he worked with.

Even so, it got lonely at times. He found good friends in the people around him, whether they be RIOs or WSOs or fellow instructors. But once again, he found himself in an environment where he had to go back in the shadows. He didn't trust a single one of his friends enough to tell them his secret. They weren't bad people, really. But he just didn't have that special bond with them. No matter how close they became, it was never enough. He couldn't risk his secret getting out. He couldn't lose everything he'd worked so hard for.

Despite his worries, he did break the rules many, many, many times. He knew he shouldn't. But for a few years, he was at his lowest point, and he just needed something to distract himself. He enjoyed the hook-ups at times, but mostly they just left him feeling empty. He'd known since his college years that this wasn't for him. He wanted a partner, someone he actually had feelings for.

Tom had one serious boyfriend. Of course, it couldn't last. Sneaking around all the time was depressing and dehumanizing. Eventually he had to end things. It was beyond painful. The whole experience left him with wounds that ached for years. But as time ticked by, he was able to move on. The pain subsided. It was difficult to let go. It had ended not due to their own feelings, but rather circumstances outside their control. But now he was no longer bitter, wondering about what could have been. Now, when he looked back on that time, he was grateful for everything that had happened. Slowly but surely, he let it all go, let it fade away into the past.

Tom found himself at a crossroads, and he needed to choose the right path: the one drenched in light, not swallowed up in darkness. There were people out there, people like him, people that understood. He had to find them.

There was a pride center nearby. He needed to pay it a visit. This was the right path.

For months, he couldn't make himself go in. He would make the trip, stand outside the doors, and after an hour or so of battling with himself, he would leave. He had to push through. He had to take the plunge.

Tom called upon the teachings of his therapist. He focussed on his breathing and took in his surroundings. It was a beautiful, calming place, he realized. The center sat at the end of a suburban street lined with craftsman houses. Between the homes and the center was a forest of pine that perfumed the air. So much better than any lousy air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. It was quiet this time of day. The sun had begun to set. A gentle wind moved the tree branches and the many flags flying high above the center. Tom recognized the rainbow one. But there were several others, and he had no idea what they all meant. He took one last breath and pushed through the doors.

The place was fairly plain. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to see, but it wasn't that. There was a small lobby, with benches on both sides. Above them were bulletin boards, filled to the brim with colorful posters announcing upcoming events. A welcome desk sat at the head of the room. He supposed that was where he should go.

Tom walked slowly, feeling as though the air was heavy and holding him back. His brain screamed at him, Run away, run away, you idiot! Get out of here! Thankfully there weren't many people there. A skinny man about his age sat on one side of the room, watching his feet and looking pensive. Across from him a little girl was doodling in a notebook, and next to her sat a woman, very nicely dressed in khaki pants and a frilly green top, with perfect corn-rows atop her head. Tom supposed they must be mother and daughter. He found it strange: he did not expect to see children in a place like this. Were they allowed here? He supposed it made sense: he'd known he was different since he was a kid. It must have been society's brainwashing again, convincing him that kids should not be around "predators" like him.

Tom stood at the front desk, staring straight ahead but not really seeing anything. The few people in the room paid him no mind, yet he still felt the eyes of the world trained on him.

A moment later, a grinning, energetic man appeared.

"Hello! Welcome!" he greeted him. "My name's Miguel and I'm gonna be helping you out today! Gee, I sure don't recognize you! Is it your first time here, my friend?"

Tom's face burned. God, did he have to be so loud? He gave a barely perceptible nod, his face like stone.

"Awesome! Hope you didn't have too much trouble getting here! Ugh!" He rolled his eyes. "I swear everyone's GPS takes 'em to the wrong place! Oh, well, what can ya do!" He waved dismissively.

Tom suppressed a groan. He used to hate men like this: these ultra-feminine, limp-wristed faggots. They made "normal" queer guys like him look bad. He knew he was so wrong and hateful for feeling that way. Over the years he'd worked through that toxicity, but it was an uphill battle.

Miguel scoffed. "Geez, rude! I'm so sorry, but I didn't even ask you your name! What do they call you?"

"Tom," he muttered.

"Well, lovely to meet you, Tom! What brings you here this fine evening? Are you looking to join one of our programs?"

Tom nodded stiffly.

"Super cool! Let's just find you a form…" He jetted to a file cabinet behind him, pulled open a drawer, and dug through.

Tom stood stock still, his heart pounding. The overwhelming urge to flee remained. He noticed a news rack beside the desk, which housed many pamphlets. He didn't understand half the words on them.

"Here ya go!" Miguel returned to him with a form and a pen with a purple fuzzy puff on the end of it. "Now, just so you know, this is super informal!" He tapped the form with his pinky. "We really just need, like, your name—and not even, like, your full name, if you'd rather not put that down. And we need a number if we need to call you. And then check whatever groups you'd like to join. Simple!"

Tom nodded. He was relieved to hear him speaking more quietly. "Got it. Thanks." He took the pen and paper.

Miguel leaned over the desk and whispered, "Hey, if you want some privacy, there's a little room over there." He pointed. "Nobody's in there this late in the day."

Tom blinked at him. "Thanks. I think I'll be fine out here though."

Miguel nodded. "Of course. Let me know if you need anything."

Tom left him and took a seat on the far end of one of the benches. He appreciated Miguel's offer. He'd tried to hide his anxiety, but somehow the guy must've noticed something was up. Miguel was quite intuitive. And kind.

Tom wrote his first name on the form. Easy.

He wrote down his phone number.

He checked off "male." Then he made it to the third section, which made him pause.

How do you identify?

The thought of seeing That Word under his name made him nauseous. He skipped it.

In the final section, he checked off the groups he wanted to join: anything that didn't involve talking about his feelings.

Tom returned the form, exchanged a few perfunctory words with Miguel, and left. Despite his nerves, he was glad he came. It would be a challenge to return, though perhaps a less grueling one, now that he'd broken the ice.

---

Two weeks later, Tom returned to the pride center. As he'd predicted, his anxiety had lessened. He knew more or less what to expect. A plain building, plain entryway, a place that looked like every doctor's office he'd ever been in. Except for the colorful posters and decidedly more cheerful people, of course.

It was an early, foggy morning. Tom had a brief chat with Miguel, found out where his chosen group was meeting, and headed down the labyrinth of hallways. This place was bigger than he thought. Finally he arrived at his destination.

The room was basically an art classroom: large tables with tall stools all around them. There were probably about fifteen people in the space, and as soon as Tom crossed the threshold, they all turned to look at him, which kind of made him want to run away, but of course he put up a cool front.

A short dude at the head of the room grinned and waved at him. "Welcome, come on in!" he greeted him with a cheerful, cracking voice. "We're just about to get started!"

Tom stood among the others, slyly observing them. It was a fairly diverse group: folks of various races, men and women, some in their late twenties and others up near fifty. He recalled that the kids and teens had their own groups, although there were a number of all ages meet-ups as well.

The group leader, Archie was his name, explained what they'd be doing as he shuffled through his papers and re-arranged his shaggy, dark hair. Basically, they would be folding pamphlets, which would be placed in the rack at the front desk or handed out at events. He showed everyone what to do with the paper, which Tom found pretty stupid—did they really not know how to fold a piece of paper? Eventually Archie decided he could trust them with this challenging task, and let them go to work. Tom stood at one of the tables and started folding and folding and folding.

He kept to himself for most of the meeting. Everyone there seemed to already know each other, asking about so-and-so's kids and their weekend plans and oh-hey-by-the-way-how-did-that-meeting-go, so they didn't need to talk to him. He supposed his anxiety was still getting the better of him, because he couldn't bring himself to converse. He hadn't felt this socially anxious since he was a kid.

At one point Archie came over and complemented his work. He was so good at folding! A "complement" that Tom found quite condescending, even though he knew he probably meant well. Apparently, he'd completed an impressive amount of pamphlets. He had such amazing focus! Had he done this before? Tom told him no. That was the extent of his social interactions for that first meeting.

Tom went to the next meeting, one week later. He kept on folding. He quite liked these pamphlets: they were easy to understand, even for a novice like him. He tried to hide the fact that he was reading them as he went. He'd read a paragraph here, a few sentences there, then he'd finish his folding, move on to the next one, and pick up where he'd left off. He ended up learning a lot.

After a few meetings, though, he'd exhausted his reading material. He still didn't talk to anyone. He must have been unintentionally putting out some pretty hostile energy, because nobody bothered to engage with him, either.

Tom started to think to himself, what the hell was he doing here? His goal had been to find community, get to know people like him. But even among all these people he felt completely isolated. He didn't think he'd have this much trouble coming out of his shell. He didn't even know he had a shell. Something had to change, and soon. He had to do something, he had to—

"Hey, new guy! Hey!"

Okay, that was the third time he'd heard that lady yell. Was she talking to him? Well, he supposed she had to be. He turned his head to see her making a beeline for his table.

She appeared to be around his age. She wore glasses with thick frames and had long, white hair with pink and purple stripes framing her face. She had on a pair of "stylishly" ripped jeans and a baggy t-shirt with sparkly pink text that read "'F' is for Feminism."

Oh, God, she must be one of those hippies. Tom slowly turned away from her and went back to his work. Please just leave me alone.

The lady stood at the other side of the table. "Hiya, new guy!" she greeted him. "How are ya?"

Tom's weary eyes darted to her. "Fine."

"Fine? That's it? Geez. Well, guess I'm doing…at least a little bit better than you. I've been on vacation the past few months. Disney World. Good time, but I was kinda glad to go by the end of it." She scoffed. "The humidity was killing me!"

Tom tried to figure out her accent. She sounded like a New Yorker. He wondered why she'd come to the other side of the country.

She went on, "So it's back to work for me. I do accounting. Eh, not my dream job, but it pays the bills." She took a sheet of paper from the pile and started folding. "So whataya do?"

Tom took a breath and tried to focus on his work. His palms began to sweat and stick to the papers, making for a frustrating folding experience. "Pilot," he said.

"Aww, yeah, no kiddin'? Which airline?"

Tom shook his head. "Navy."

"Wow. That's impressive. It's not easy. I've got a friend who's in the Air Force. They really put people through the wringer there." She clicked her tongue. "She loves it though. Oh, hey, by the way, names—I'm Tracy!" She held out her hand. "You?"

He hesitated a moment. She'd probably notice how soaked his palms were, but he couldn't think of a subtle way to wipe them off, so he shook her hand. "Tom."

She didn't seem to notice the sweatiness. "Nice to meet you! Anybody ever call you Tommy?"

He smirked. Only his partners, when they were particularly pleased with him. "No," he told her.

"So, what's it like being a pilot?"

Tom suppressed a sigh. Oh, no, an open-ended question. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"All right, all right, no prob. So how'd you find your way to this place? Me, I'm the 'B—' I mean the one in LGBT, not that I'm a bitch—well, I mean, I am that too!" She chuckled. "But you don't have to tell me your letter. How do you like this place?"

Tom's heart pounded. How could she do that, just come out to a perfect stranger like it's nothing? He could never be that brave—no, stupid is more like. Why did she tell him? Could she somehow tell they were the same?

He knew he should be happy. This is what he wanted, to meet someone like him, and exactly like him at that. But it just made him ill. He felt like he was swallowing sand, and the more she talked, the more it filled his stomach, and there it turned wet and heavy and dragged him to the ground.

He felt like an asshole, but nonetheless he told her, "I'd rather not talk at all."

The energy changed between them. No longer warm and inviting. All gone. All empty.

"Okay," Tracy said gently. "I get it. My cousin's got social anxiety. Tough stuff. No worries. Silence is golden."

They worked in silence. Tom folded. Tracy folded. The others around them carried on their own conversations.

Tom read one of the pamphlets. He'd read it so many times, he knew it by heart. But he didn't know what else to do. It was about coming out to family, and dealing with potentially intolerant folks.

It can be extremely taxing to deal with family members who don't accept you. Be patient. Sometimes they may simply need time to process this new information. In a worst case scenario, they may never fully embrace you. If this happens, try reaching out to more kind family members, friends, or perhaps a mental health professional. See if you have an LGBT+ center nearby.

Above all, always remember: no matter how difficult your journey becomes, no matter how alone you feel, there will always be folks out there who will embrace you. You will find them. But you must keep your head up, and keep your eyes and your heart open. If you keep your head down, you may miss them.

Tom sighed. "Umm. My dad…he was an accountant too."

"Oh, yeah?" Tracy said. "And how'd he like it?"

"He enjoyed it. He always really liked math."

She snorted. "What? I'm sorry, I don't wanna be an asshole—but what the hell's wrong with your dad?"

Tom chuckled. "Yeah, I never did find out."

"I think you chose the better job! Who wouldn't want to fly?"

Tom finally made eye contact with her. "There's nothing like it."

The two chatted through the rest of the meet-up, and the next meet-up, and every one after that. They really hit it off. Before long, Tracy had become his closest friend outside the Navy.

One day, when they were at last alone in the parking lot, Tom came out to her.

Tracy smiled. "I know—I know you're not s'posed to say shit like this, but I kinda had a feeling that you weren't straight. I didn't know you were the 'B' like me though, that's cool."

Tom tensed up. "Did something give it away?"

"Well…" She hummed thoughtfully. "Don't worry, not something the straights would notice. You just had this…I donno, this look in your eye. You looked lost. You reminded me of me, before I found these community centers."

Tom and Tracy started hanging out outside the meetings. They took each other to their favorite bars and restaurants and odd spots around town. They chatted about their careers, their childhoods, their views on life and the world.

Tracy took it upon herself to educate him. She always said, "You can't learn all of queer history from just pamphlets, ya know." She texted him articles and podcasts about Vernon E. "Copy" Berg III, Robyn Ochs, David Lourea, and more.

One day, as they sat alone on a bench outside the center, she asked him out of the blue, "How do you do it? How can you be part of it? I know you know this…but the military fucking hates us."

Tom thought for a moment. "It just…It was my dream to serve." He shrugged. "It was everything. Even when I found out wh—I couldn't just give up on it. Even though I knew the military…and, well, most of the country…didn't want me doing this…I believed there was still something worth fighting for."

Tracy cocked her head to one side. "'Something?'"

"Well…the people of this country, even the ones who don't like me. And…I know it may sound corny, but…freedom."

"Hell yeah, man."

He chuckled.

"But, seriously, I get it."

"It is complicated, for sure."

"You know what I always say…the American flag has more stripes, but! Us queers have more colors. So we win!"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You always say that?"

She shoved him playfully. "Shut up. It's an awesome thing to say."

During the summer, Tracy invited Tom to her many backyard BBQ parties. She was a pretty spectacular cook. Her pulled pork was his favorite.

The first time he came to her home, he got there early before the other guests had arrived. She gave him the grand tour. It was a charming home, small and cozy with a huge backyard and deck off the back porch. She took him to the living room beside the kitchen first. She had a large shelf stacked with cookbooks—mainly those focused on the art of BBQ. Beside it was a movie shelf (she had a good variety, in Tom's opinion). In the backroom, her pet rabbit, Rusty, was hopping around. But this was no ordinary rabbit—this one was monstrous. He had short, reddish fur and gigantic feet, and big floppy ears that were turned in Tom's direction. The animal hopped over and sniffed his feet. Tom tried not to look terrified. Tracy showed him all the red and blue ribbons decorating the walls. Apparently she'd entered her rabbit in all these contests at various county fairs. There were framed pictures of a grinning Tracy holding Rusty and the ribbon, and some with Rusty by himself. Tom noticed there were several food bowls, some with pellets and some with lettuce and carrots and other veggies. Toys carpeted the floor—colorful balls and things for him to chew on. Geez, this whole room was a shrine to this animal!

Tracy asked if he wanted to hold him, and Tom said okay, only because it seemed so important to her. Rusty was even heavier than he thought he'd be. Tracy took a picture, for what purpose Tom had no idea. He was too focused on the rabbit, and the feeling of his nose nuzzling his arm. He hoped Rusty wouldn't get upset by this stranger holding him and decide to bite. His teeth had to be as big as the rest of him.

Shortly thereafter, they headed out to the backyard where Tom would meet Tracy's friends.

Alex was a skinny dude with short, sandy brown hair. Well, at first, Tom actually wasn't sure if Alex was a "dude" or not. He came to find out Alex was a "they" and used words like "non-binary" and "trans-masculine" to describe themself. Tom didn't really understand it at the time. He figured he needed to read some more pamphlets. Alex and Tracy loved to hike and go camping. They'd met each other a few years ago out in the California wilderness. Alex proudly told Tom that they were currently going to college to learn computer programming, and their goal was to one day work as a system architect.

Melissa was far less chatty. When Tracy introduced her, she was sipping on a colorful drink, quietly observing everyone. She was wearing a gorgeous flower print dress, and her long bleach-blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail. Tom immediately noticed how buff she was. She must have a pretty brutal workout routine. She quietly, shyly said hi to him. She seemed so on edge. Tom hoped he wasn't the cause of her discomfort. She told him she was a construction worker in downtown San Diego. She'd recently broken up with her wife, but they were still good friends. In her spare time, she took art commissions from locals, mainly painting murals. Her son loved to help out. She would later tell Tom, after they knew each other a little better, about her struggle with transitioning. She wanted to be more open about her identity at her construction job before starting hormones. But she feared losing her job. She wasn't sure what to do. Tom empathized. He couldn't fully relate to her experience, of course. But he understood very well the sort of "rock-and-a-hard-place" situation she found herself in due to her identity.

Tom saw at least one familiar face at the BBQ: Miguel, the man who worked the front desk at the center. He was there with his husband, Gussy. Tom felt a bit guilty: he saw Miguel every week at the center, yet he was always so short with him. It was high time that changed. Miguel was such a warm, kind, patient person. As Tom talked to him, he looked at his big, bright eyes and knew he was truly hearing and understanding him.

Tom would return to Tracy's home again and again, year after year, decade after decade, for the rest of his life.

All of these folks would become some of his closest friends.

---

Tom was the happiest he'd been in years.

He greatly enjoyed his time at the pride center. Over time, he began to join other groups, graduating from the sometimes tedious pamphlet folding. He did what he once wholeheartedly swore he would never do: talk about his feelings in front of a group of strangers. It was nice, actually. He felt a great weight was lifted. These were folks he trusted, who were kind and understanding. If he had a nickel for every time someone nodded vigorously in agreement, or gave productive, thoughtful advice, he'd be the richest man on Earth.

Tom would go on to lead a group of his own, one where folks could work through their hard feelings and difficult pasts. He wanted to give people what he wished he'd had decades ago: understanding, compassion, and hope. Archie and Miguel and other group leaders commented that he did a spectacular job. Tom told them he'd gained this experience from his teaching career at Top Gun.

When Tom wasn't carrying out his Navy duties or helping out at the pride center, he was spending time with friends. Of course, he always had to see his Navy buddies and his queer friends separately. His queer friends could know about the Navy folks, but never vice versa. He'd accepted it. It was simply the way things were.

The only one that could move between both worlds was Pete Mitchell. Tom felt so grateful to have at least one friend who knew every side of him.

Although Tom was perfectly content with his friends and lack of a love life, that didn't stop Tracy from trying to hook him up with everybody under the sun. He declined a date with every one of them. A boyfriend was completely out of the question, for obvious reasons. But he wasn't exactly raring to get a girlfriend either. He'd had too many sour experiences in the past few years. Some of these women he simply wasn't compatible with. Others were completely unhinged. There were only a couple girlfriends he'd been serious with, and both relationships had gone downhill as soon as he came out. The one woman broke up with him almost immediately, telling him bluntly that it made her feel "deeply uncomfortable" being with a guy who had been with other guys. The other girlfriend told him she was fine with it, but right after he told her, she started behaving differently. She no longer wanted to have any physical contact with him, always shifting away whenever he got too close. He couldn't hold her hand or even sit too close to her on the couch. Obviously kissing and sex were completely out of the question. Shortly thereafter Tom ended the relationship.

After these experiences, even the idea of romance made him recoil. He swore it off for life. No more dating, he declared. Never again.

But then he saw her.

She was beautiful. Long, curly locks fell around her shoulders. Her warm demeanor brightened any and every space.

An elderly man always accompanied her to the pride center. Tom thought maybe he was her father, but then he heard her call him "Ernest," so apparently not. Every week, she dropped him off and picked him up.

This Ernest guy was the most unpleasant, ornery, irritating old fart Tom had ever encountered. He'd met him briefly, when they'd attended the same group. Tom witnessed him getting reprimanded for being unkind to another member, though he didn't quite catch what he'd said. The group leader told him this was his first and only warning. Tom heard the guy's complaints afterwards.

"What the hell're all these letters? When I was a boy, it was just man and woman, gay and straight. Whole world's gone fucking crazy!"

If Tom had to spend even one more second with him, he'd probably end up killing him and/or himself.

But she was different.

She was practically a saint, a bottomless well of warmth, kindness, and patience. No matter what nonsense he dished out—complaints about the center being too hot/too cold, his feet hurt, his legs hurt, he was walking too much/not enough, she was being too kind/too harsh—she took it all in stride. She killed him with kindness. On most occasions, she was able to calm him down, and on many others, she even managed to squeeze a little friendliness out of him.

Tom's feelings grew more and more each time he saw her. Still, he had yet to introduce himself. They spoke very briefly, one day. She was coming towards the center's entrance, Ernest trailing behind, and Tom held the door for her.

He grinned. "Hello. How are you?" He figured she'd be caught off guard by him, in the way that women usually were. He imagined her blushing, smiling shyly, and being unable to make proper eye contact.

That did not happen.

She smiled back at him, looking him right in the eye. "Hi! I'm well, thanks. How are you?"

He was the one who was caught off guard. But he tried not to let it show. "I'm all right," he replied lightly. They didn't get a chance to talk more. A second later, Ernest caught up to her, grumbling about one of the very many aspects of life that annoyed him.

She headed inside, and somewhere in between Ernest's long list of complaints, she turned her head and called to Tom, "Thank you for holding the door!"

"No problem," he said.

Ernest, finally noticing that Tom existed, grinned at him and lasciviously grazed his eyes over him. "Yeah, thank you very much!" He winked.

After they'd both gone, Tom let a frown overtake his phony smile and moped around outside. Great, now he was attracting the wrong person. He tried to put that gross old pervert out of his mind. He thought about her smile, the way she'd looked at him. She wasn't the least bit flustered or intimidated by him.

That only made him want her more.

At last, his desire outweighed his anxiety. He waited for the perfect moment: after Ernest had gone to his meet-up, but before she had left.

Tom walked up to her, bravely and boldly, as she read one of the posters on the bulletin board. She did a bit of a double-take when she saw him.

She smiled politely. "Hey, I remember you."

He smiled back, leaning against the wall as casually and attractively as he could. "Really? What was memorable about me?"

She still smiled, but her eyebrows scrunched together just a bit, a perfect blend of sardonic and playful, a look that clearly said, This guy is a bit too confident. "Well, you held the door for me last week."

He chuckled. "Okay, that's fair." He held out his hand. "I'm Tom."

She shook his hand. "Sarah."

The two made small talk. Tom found out she was a social worker, and Ernest was one of her patients. She used to work with teens, but nowadays she mostly cared for old folks. She was fluent in Spanish and ASL. In her free time, she was a singer in her friend's band.

Tom was very impressed by her. He seized every chance to speak with her—basically whenever Ernest wasn't around. Sarah genuinely enjoyed talking to him. She asked many questions about his career in aviation and how he'd dealt with the many challenges he'd faced in the Navy.

Eventually, he introduced her to Tracy and the rest of his buddies. She invited him into her friend group as well, her fellow social workers as well as her bandmates. He went to a few of her concerts too. She was a wonderful singer, of course.

There was a quaint, 24-hour '50s-style diner where Tom and Sarah and her bandmates would hang out after shows. After some time, her friends would head home, and Tom and Sarah would hang out late into the night, chatting about their lives, their triumphs and failures, their hopes and dreams.

Starting from the diner, the pride center, or Sarah's or Tom's home, they'd go on long walks through the busy downtown, or the quiet neighborhood. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they simply enjoyed the comfortable silence between them, the kind that invited more words if need be, but was also completely content existing as it was.

And yet, through all of this…they weren't actually dating. Tom thought it certainly felt like dating, but neither one had asked the other out. He supposed he should make it official. He was about ninety-nine percent sure she felt the same way.

One night, they sat in the diner, all alone save for a waiter in the back minding the register. There was a lull in conversation. Tom picked at the remains of his fries. Sarah stirred the ice in her drink with a straw.

Tom looked over at her and Sarah immediately lifted her head to make eye contact. She smiled warmly, eyes glistening. He smiled back, trying to remember what it was he was planning on saying.

"Tom?"

"Yeah?"

Her smile grew. "Are we dating?"

He chuckled. "Well, it definitely feels like dating. I was kind of hoping…that's what's been happening."

"Good, good. Me too."

Just like that. Simple. They were good for each other. No drama, no bull-shit. Just two people being happy together, being there for each other.

Before things got too serious, Tom wanted to come out to her. He wasn't nervous in the slightest. He knew her well enough to know everything would be okay. They sat on a bench on the beach, looking out at the sunset and the waves—God, was it really that idyllic? Maybe he was misremembering the location. It just seemed too good to be true. He came out to her there, slowly explaining his feelings and giving a brief overview of how this had affected his life. She smiled comfortingly as he spoke.

He had to ask, "You knew, didn't you?"

She took a breath, eyes flitting as she thought. "Well…I met you at the pride center, so I figured you were most likely not straight. Some allies go there, but not too many, especially not the groups you're a part of."

He nodded. "Right…"

She held his hand, slipping her fingers between his. "I know a bit about queer sexuality, but I'm definitely not an expert." She rested her head on his shoulder. "So if I miss anything, please let me know, okay?"

He leaned his head against hers, a warm, fuzzy feeling filling him up. "Okay," he murmured.

After a little while, Tom and Sarah got married. It was a small affair: no big church or anything extravagant, just a quiet little place in the country and some close friends.

Much later, as the 2010s wore on, Tom saw a lot of changes he never thought would happen.

Marriage equality across all of America.

And at long, long, long last, the LGBT military ban was lifted. Finally, finally, it was all over.

At first, Tom was not happy, even though he knew he should be over the moon, which made him feel even less happy. He was bitter. Why couldn't this have happened decades ago? Why did it have to happen now when he was so old? He cursed the military, politicians young and old and alive and dead, and wallowed in misery and self-pity. But he quickly pulled himself out of it. He did some soul searching. He had a lot of good talks with his therapist, his friends, Pete, and Sarah. He accepted his dark feelings, while also making room for light. Ultimately, he came out on the other side feeling happier.

He was grateful that he had lived to see these changes.

He was happy that no one else had to go through what he had all those years ago.

Sarah was there through it all. The good times and bad. The triumphs and tragedies.

She was there when he started to feel unwell. She was there at the doctor's office to hold his hand.

She was there when he got bad news.

She was there when he got worse news.

---

The disease worked away at him. Tom lost his energy to it, his time, and eventually his voice.

He communicated with Sarah effectively. She knew him well enough to understand his facial expressions and simple gestures. She taught him sign language so he was capable of communicating more complex ideas. He sometimes used it to make snide comments about rude or annoying folks they encountered, since most people wouldn't know what he was signing. Sarah would sign back at him to cut it out, but she had a lot of trouble hiding her smile.

Tom and Sarah continued to host parties. All of his military buddies and his friends from the pride center were there. The two worlds collided, two worlds that weren't actually so separate at all, as many of them always knew but weren't allowed to say. Tom had known the truth his whole life, but to finally see it in front of him, staring him in the face…it was overwhelming.

Sometimes, during these gatherings, Tom would stand in the doorway, staring out at the backyard and all of his friends. They talked, ate, drank, laughed, and enjoyed each other's company. All of them, all together.

It was all he'd ever dreamed of.

---

Pete came to the house shortly after it happened. It was difficult, to say the least, but Sarah had insisted.

He knocked on the door, his arm feeling heavier than stone. Sarah answered almost immediately. He wondered if she'd been waiting in the foyer.

He forced a small, polite smile. "Hey, Sarah."

She smiled back. "Hi, Pete." Her eyes looked tired and hollow.

Pete felt the weight inside him grow heavier just from looking at her. She stepped aside and he came in. He looked around. Nothing appeared different, really. But with Tom gone, the energy in the house felt different. It felt…incomplete.

"Thanks for coming," Sarah said.

"Oh, of course. No problem."

"How is everyone? The kids, I mean."

"They all made it home. Mission accomplished."

Sarah smiled, genuinely this time. "Good. That's so good to hear." She started down the hall and Pete followed.

"I'm sorry I can't stay too long…"

"Oh, it's all right. 'The needs of the Navy.' Believe me, I understand."

Pete cracked a smile. "Of course."

Sarah opened the door to his office. Pete reluctantly followed her in. He drew in a shaky breath. He looked at the desk, the black computer screen, the chair that Tom had sat in not so long ago, where he'd been the last time he saw him.

Sarah was at the other side of the room, going through a small box on a shelf. She returned to him, a small, metallic object clutched in her fist. Pete knew immediately what it was.

Sarah opened up her hand and held it out to him. Tom's dog tags. She stared into Pete's eyes, her gaze warm and comforting.

"He wanted you to have these," she said. "We talked about it years ago. He even put it in his will. One pair of dog tags for me, and one for you."

Pete took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He could not break down in front of her, he just couldn't. He could see she was barely keeping herself together. He took the dog tags from her. "Thank you."

She nodded, mouth quivering and tears welling up.

They hugged. Pete felt the dog tags between his fingers. He ran his thumb over the letters: TOM KAZANSKY.

He wasn't able to bid him farewell at the funeral. It was just too hard. But maybe he could do it now.

It was strange and sad, seeing what was left of a person after they'd gone. A memento tucked away in a box on a shelf. A house with one less occupant. But most importantly of all, the memories: the stuff you could never touch, never hold, but even so, that was the stuff that felt more tangible, more real than anything else.

Good-bye.