Ash and Embers

The fire was a hungry, crackling thing, spitting embers into the inky blackness. David watched them climb, brief fiery souls reaching for the indifferent stars before winking out. His hands, shoved deep into the pockets of his faded hoodie, were clenched tight around nothing. The cold seeped through the denim, an insistent whisper against his skin. It had been autumn when she left too, hadn’t it? The air holding that same metallic tang, the same scent of decaying leaves and coming frost. He hadn’t noticed it then, not really. Not beyond the numb, all-consuming ache.

He picked up a half-charred stick, poking at a log that refused to catch properly, sending up a shower of sparks that illuminated his face for a second – pale, eyes shadowed. The town had changed after. Everything had. Like a pebble dropped in a still pond, the ripples just kept going, hitting every shore, every person. No one talked about it, not really. Not with words. But it was there, in the quiet way folks looked at each other, in the way conversations trailed off, in the way everyone just seemed a little more fragile.

It felt like he was constantly holding his breath, waiting for the next ripple to hit, the next silence to stretch too long. Waiting for another face to vanish from the regular rotation in the local shop, from the school hallways. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the heat of the fire a strange comfort against the sudden chill of his own thoughts. His laugh. God, his laugh. It had sounded like wind chimes and sunshine, a bright, impossible sound that now echoed only in the hollowed-out spaces of his mind.

A branch snapped somewhere behind him, and David flinched, his shoulders hunching. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Only one person was reckless enough to tromp through the woods this late, or kind enough to seek him out when he’d disappeared again. A familiar weight settled on the log beside him, not touching, just present. Tommy. Always Tommy.

The silence that stretched between them wasn’t empty. It was full of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of the kind of easy companionship that required no words. David kept poking the fire, the rhythm a low, meditative thrum in the quiet of the night. Tommy pulled a half-eaten bag of chips from his own hoodie pocket, crunching one loudly. The sound was jarring, then oddly comforting.

“You’re still out here,” Tommy said, his voice a low rumble, rough from the cold. He offered the bag. David shook his head, though his stomach rumbled a protest.

“Thought you’d be home.”

“Yeah, well.” Tommy shrugged, shoving another chip in his mouth. “Saw your light wasn’t on. Figured.” He paused, then: “Thought you might need the company.”

David grunted, a noncommittal sound that meant both 'you’re right' and 'leave me alone'. He didn’t really want Tommy to leave, though. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.

Beneath the Stars' Indifference

The fire crackled, spitting a tiny, perfect ember onto David’s jeans. He flicked it off, watching it die in the dirt. He felt like that ember, small and fragile, ready to be snuffed out by the slightest disturbance. He could feel Tommy’s gaze on him, a steady, warm pressure, but didn’t meet it. Too much there. Too much raw, unmasked grief that he wasn’t ready to share, not fully. Not even with Tommy.

“It’s stupid,” David mumbled, the words feeling rough and inadequate in his throat.

“What’s… stupid?” Tommy asked, his voice gentle. He reached out, not quite touching David, but resting his hand on the log between them, close enough for David to feel the radiating warmth.

“All of it. This. Me, out here. Still…” He waved a hand vaguely at the dark, at the town beyond the tree line, at his own chest. “Still thinking about it. About him. Like it’s going to change anything. It won’t. He's gone, and… and everyone’s still just… pretending, you know? Like it didn’t shatter everything.”

Tommy was quiet for a long moment, the only sounds the rustle of leaves in a faint breeze and the persistent hiss of the fire. “No one’s pretending, David,” he finally said, his voice low, steady. “They’re just… dealing. Or trying to. Different ways, maybe. Yours is out here, ours is… probably worse, trying to figure out how to talk to you, how to even be, when you’re like this.”

David scoffed, a bitter sound. “Like this? What is ‘like this’?”

“Like you’re carrying the whole damn town’s grief on your own back,” Tommy said, without an ounce of judgment. “Like you think you have to be the one to remember him the hardest, to hurt the most.”

That hit. That was exactly it. A sharp, uncomfortable truth. David dug the stick into the dirt, grinding it hard. “Someone has to. He deserves… to be remembered.”

“He *is* remembered,” Tommy insisted. “By everyone. But that doesn’t mean you have to break yourself doing it. And it doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.” His voice softened further, almost a whisper. “It’s been a year, David. And it’s still… raw. For everyone.”

David finally looked at him, really looked. The firelight caught the planes of Tommy’s face, highlighting the worry in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. Tommy, who always seemed so solid, so unshakable. There was a vulnerability there that David hadn’t allowed himself to see, not really. Tommy had dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders seemed a little heavier than usual. The community's pain wasn't just David's burden; it was shared.

“It’s not just him,” David admitted, the words spilling out, a dam finally cracking. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck. “It’s… it’s what happened a few months after. And then last month. Like… like a contagious quiet. Everyone just… holding their breath. And I keep thinking, what if… what if I’m next? What if *you’re* next? What if we all just… disappear?” He hated how his voice cracked on the last word, hated the burning behind his eyes. He wasn't supposed to be this messy.

Tommy didn’t laugh. Didn’t brush it off. He simply reached out and gripped David’s forearm, a firm, reassuring pressure. His thumb rubbed slow circles on David’s sleeve. “You’re not next,” Tommy said, his gaze unwavering, intense. “And I’m not. And we’re not going to let anyone else be, either. Not if we can help it.”

The Weight of a Promise

The warmth of Tommy’s hand was a startling, anchoring sensation against the chill of the night. It felt… solid. Real. David focused on that, on the texture of Tommy’s hoodie beneath his fingers, the strength in his grip. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched like that, with such steady, unshakeable intent.

“How?” David asked, his voice barely a croak. “How do we help it? We’re just… kids. Everyone just tells us to be strong, to get over it. But they don’t see what’s underneath.”

“They don’t have to,” Tommy said, his eyes still locked with David’s. “We do. We see it. We feel it. And that’s what matters, isn’t it? Being able to actually see it, when everyone else is just looking away.” He shifted, moving a little closer, the chips long forgotten. The air around them seemed to hum with an unspoken intensity.

David pulled his hand free, not because he wanted to, but because the sudden rush of emotion was too much, too raw. He buried his hands back in his pockets, clutching the empty space there, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But Tommy didn’t pull away entirely. He just leaned in, his shoulder now brushing David’s. A silent, steady weight. A warmth that began to seep past the fabric of his hoodie, right into his skin.

“We talk,” Tommy continued, his voice lower now, almost a conspiratorial whisper. “Even when it’s stupid. Even when it hurts. Especially then. And we listen. Even when there’s nothing to say. We just… show up. Like I did tonight. Like you’ve done for me, a million times.”

David felt a fresh wave of heat rise to his face, a different kind this time. Not shame, but something close to… gratitude? Affection? He risked another glance at Tommy, whose eyes were now on the flickering flames, but his shoulder remained steadfast. The subtle scent of Tommy’s laundry detergent, mixed with campfire smoke and a faint hint of something like pine, filled David’s senses. It was a familiar, comforting smell, the smell of home, of childhood, of his oldest friend.

He thought about all the times Tommy had been there. The scraped knees, the botched science projects, the terrible first dates. Tommy, a constant, unwavering presence. And now, this. This silent, powerful reassurance. It was a different kind of love, he realised, a love that held him steady even when the world felt like it was spinning out of control. It wasn't the fiery, consuming love he'd lost, but a deep, foundational one, like the bedrock beneath the shifting soil.

“I… I don’t want to lose you, too,” David finally confessed, the words a raw, broken whisper. It was the truest thing he’d said all night, maybe all year. The deepest fear, finally articulated. The silence that followed was heavy, charged.

Tommy turned his head sharply, his eyes meeting David’s again, wider now, luminous in the firelight. There was a flash of something in them – hurt, understanding, and then a fierce, unwavering resolve. He reached out again, this time taking David’s hand, lacing their fingers together. His grip was strong, warm, undeniable.

“You won’t,” Tommy said, his voice raspy with emotion, a promise forged in the heat of the fire and the cold of the night. “You won’t lose me. Ever. I promise you that.” He squeezed David’s hand, a silent oath passing between them. “We’re a team, David. Always have been. We just… we never really put it into words like this, I guess.”

David swallowed, his throat tight. He squeezed back, holding onto Tommy’s hand as if it were the only thing keeping him from floating away into the vast, indifferent darkness above. The embers pulsed, casting long, distorted shadows. The cold still bit, but a different kind of warmth had begun to spread through him, emanating from where their hands met, spreading through his arm, into his chest. A fragile, flickering hope.

“A team,” David repeated, the words feeling like a prayer. “We… we look out for each other. No matter what. No matter how dark it gets. We pull each other back.”

“Exactly,” Tommy murmured, his thumb brushing over David’s knuckles. “A pact. You and me. Against… against everything. We don’t let anyone fall. We keep showing up.” He lifted their clasped hands slightly, a solemn gesture. The weight of it, the gravity of that simple promise, settled over them both. It wasn't just words; it was a commitment, a lifeline thrown across a chasm of fear and grief.

The fire had begun to die down, the flames shrinking into a bed of glowing coals. The last of the woodsmoke drifted lazily into the crisp air. David felt a strange lightness, a sense of burden shared, though not entirely lifted. He still hurt, still missed him, but now there was a solid hand in his, a steady gaze meeting his own. A new anchor. A new reason to keep breathing, to keep looking for the next sunrise.

Tommy finally released David’s hand, but the warmth lingered, a phantom sensation that promised permanence. He nudged David’s shoulder playfully. “Come on. It’s freezing. My butt’s gone numb.”

David managed a weak smile, the first real one in what felt like forever. He pushed himself up, his muscles stiff, and Tommy followed, dusting pine needles from his jeans. The world still felt heavy, but now it had edges, something to hold onto. The stars, once indifferent, now seemed to twinkle with a hint of shared secret. As they walked back towards the faint glow of the town, shoulder to shoulder, David knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that tonight, under the vast, ancient sky, something profound had shifted. He wasn't alone. Not anymore. Not ever again, if Tommy had anything to say about it. And for the first time in a long time, the thought of tomorrow didn't feel like a threat, but a quiet, hopeful invitation.