When he was growing up, Wes thought that being an adult was the ideal situation. You could do what you want, when you wanted, with whomever you wanted. You could move away and make new friends and never talk to your old friends again; you could date ten people or get married and have ten babies.

He liked that adults didn’t have to eat vegetables but most of them did, anyway, because they said they liked it. He hadn’t been sure that was true but he liked the idea of maybe liking them one day. He liked the idea of drinking a cup of coffee and saying things like, “The weather this week, am I right?” And laughing at his own jokes.

Wes even liked the idea of a job. The stability of it, the idea of hanging out at a water cooler, the concept of workplace friends and social life friends—Wes had grown up pretending to have a briefcase and a reason to leave the house in the morning outside of just escaping his house.

His entire life, as far back as he could remember, Wes had really wanted to be a grown-up. He had always thought he would be really good at it.

Now, though, Wes kind of was an adult. He had a job and an apartment and the ability to eat or do anything. He had all the freedoms and perks of being an adult. And they all fell so, so flat.

Everyone said that, of course. That growing up wasn’t all it was chocked up to be. But until recently, Wes really hadn’t minded it. He had thought he did do a good job at being an adult, if only because it was so much better than being a kid.

He didn't mind being tired from work and he didn’t mind paying taxes. He didn’t mind having to do his own dishes or be his own best friend most days. The regular things that people hated about being an adult, Wes didn’t really mind.

But now, right now, Wes was sitting cross-legged on his couch, the outline of the ceramic tile from his bathroom pressed into his cheek, and he really hated being an adult.

Because when you’re a kid, you don’t really know stuff. Sometimes you know things and sometimes you even understand them, but you don’t know things in your gut, an instinct that hurts and demands attention. You don’t realize, when you’re a kid, how horribly fucked up things can get when you involve yourself in things you never should have. You don’t really feel responsible for the things you do, at least not for a while.

Right now, Wes felt responsible for things he had no clue how to fix.

He hated growing up, hated his father, hated the life he lived and the horrible way he was forced to live it. He hated trying to keep everyone safe and failing and feeling like he was a failure for that. But sitting there, thinking about his best friend’s brother lying in a hospital bed, Wes would give anything to go back and be a kid again.

Failing when he was a kid had sucked but he’d grown up and realized that it wasn’t his fault his dad was the way he was or his sisters left home. But he wasn’t going to grow up now and realize this wasn’t his fault. He was already an adult and that meant that his fucked up mistakes weren’t lessons to learn on the road; they were just fucked up mistakes.

He couldn’t believe he’d been so wrong.

He took a long pull from the lukewarm coffee in his mug. It was too strong and a little too cold to taste like anything but ass, but Wes couldn’t bring himself to care.

What if Sam had accepted the mission instead of coming back like he said he would because he was worried that Wes would be waiting for him? What if Wes had misread everything? What if Sam’s hospitalization, his pain, his barely-being-okay-status was all Wes’s fault?

What if Tom found out that Wes hadn’t believed him? Hadn’t really even cared, even though he’d told Wes that Sam was in danger?

Wes had been a bad friend. Wes had never thought he’d be a bad friend.

He took another drink. It was gross and it was exactly what he deserved.

He’d woken up ages ago and had crawled out of his bathroom, replacing himself on the couch. He’d stood up enough times to make the coffee and bring it back to the living room with him, but he couldn’t convince himself to do anything else.

His mind ran in circles. One track had his sisters on it, memories of playing house and making plans and never speaking again; the other was Sam’s name, again and again and again. He kept running laps around them. He couldn’t stop, even as his legs turned to jelly and his breath was threatening to stop entirely in his lungs.

He should get up.

He should stop thinking.

He needed to clean the apartment, go grocery shopping, and maybe pay some bills. He didn’t remember paying his rent that month. He could do that today. He also hadn’t watched the news or read a newspaper in a while, so that could be good. Current events were important. He could do that.

He clicked the side button on his phone, watching it light up. No missed calls, no texts. 7:58 AM.

Wes sat the phone down on the couch, face down. He waited a few seconds and then flipped it back up, so he could see if he got a message. Not that he was waiting for any call or text or anything. Tom was busy; he couldn’t just call Wes, and besides, why would he? He didn’t really know Sam. Or, well, as far as Tom knew, he really didn’t really know him.

Still. He checked the phone again, biting the inside of his cheek when it was blank. He wasn’t waiting or anything, but he didn’t want to miss the vibrations by accident.

He drank the coffee slowly until another ten minutes had passed and he had emptied the cup. Then he refilled it from the pot he’d brought into the living room with him and took a sip.

It was burned a little and cold.

He drank the whole thing anyway.

Wes knew he was probably making this too much about himself. He probably couldn’t have prevented Sam from joining the Navy, from becoming a Seal, from accepting dangerous missions. He had really thought he was right to not believe that Sam was in danger and he didn't think he was callous for trying to move on from it. He knew these things.

But god, did he feel differently from how he thought.

He felt responsible. He felt cold and callous and wrong. He felt like the worst person he’d ever met. He felt like his father.

He had been dismissive, even if just in his head. He’d acted as if Sam ignoring him was good enough reason to ignore the warning signs his brother offered him.

He felt like he should do penance. He wondered if you were allowed to do that if you weren’t Catholic.

He finished the pot of coffee by 8:30; each cup was more terrible than the last.

The sun was blocked from the windows by the heavy curtains and he hadn’t bothered turning the lights on that morning. Still, the room brightened without his permission as the day heaved forward.

Wes uncrossed his legs as they fell asleep. He crossed them again when they woke up.

Wes was just sitting there, wondering if he should start another pot of coffee, when his phone finally buzzed.

He grabbed it so quickly he almost flung it across the room.

It was a text message from Tommy.

Hey. So far I haven’t been able to see him.

Wes’s hands shook as he typed back.

Why?

He’s still in surgery. Guess it was pretty bad when they got to him.

Wes’s stomach was in knots and he was thankful all he’d had to eat was cold coffee since the last time he’d emptied his stomach.

Another message buzzed in before Wes could reply.

He’s doing good, though. Nurses are updating me sporadically.

Good.

Yeah.

Wes contemplated what to say next. He wanted to demand details and he also didn’t want to know a single fucking thing.

He wanted none of this to be happening mostly.

What are you doing today?

The question seemed too casual. Wes felt too casual replying “Nothing”.

Tom replied quickly, though. Would you want to come up here? It’s chill if you don’t. Sara just has to get back to John and I thought it’d be boring to wait by myself.

Wes’s pulse pounded in his ears. He wanted to say no, I’m sorry, I can’t. He wanted to fling the phone out the window and pretend like he’d never even met Sam. He wanted to pretend like the deep, disgusting feeling in his stomach wasn’t guilt, a thousand leagues deep.

He swallowed around a lump in his throat that might have been becoming permanent.

Absolutely. I’ll leave soon.

Thanks, man. Call when you’re here.

Wes swallowed back the nausea and stood up. As terrible as he felt, he didn’t have the right to say no or to be nauseous or dizzy. This was Tom’s brother. Tom was his best friend and even if he just said he thought he’d be bored, Wes and Tom both knew what he wasn’t saying: this was scary as hell and Tom didn’t want to be alone.

If Wes was being honest, he didn’t really want to be alone either.

So he’d go to the hospital and he’d try not to throw up or scream or beg forgiveness. He’d just go and be Tom’s friend.

Sam would be okay. He wasn’t okay right now but he would be okay soon or eventually. Surgery or not, Sam would be okay.

Wes repeated the mantra in his head as he got up and stripped, climbing into the shower. He said it again and again as he scrubbed shampoo through his hair and a toothbrush across his teeth. He thought it as he quickly threw on an outfit he was too distracted to see and he said it quietly under his breath when he searched for his keys and jacket.

He’d repeat it to himself on the drive to Wichita and maybe by the time he got there, he’d believe it enough to convince Tommy, too.

Because Sam would be okay. He’d be okay.

* * *

Wes got to the hospital quicker than he thought he would. Poplar wasn’t far from Wichita, but still, he had anticipated having a good, long drive to prepare himself for Tom’s face and Sam’s update and the heavy smell of chemicals that permeated every godforsaken hospital.

He hadn’t realized that time went by just that more quickly when you wanted it to go slowly.

He followed the signs that led his old, bumbling truck up to the visitor’s parking lot. He pulled into an empty spot and turned the key out of the ignition, listening as the truck’s sputtering quieted. Without the sound of the truck, he could practically hear his pulse as a secondary sound outside of his body. It was a soundtrack that his thoughts couldn’t keep up with.

He pulled out his phone and checked it. He had a missed text message from Tom from thirty minutes ago.

Still in surgery. Almost done.

Wes clicked on Tom’s icon and called him.

It only rang twice before his best friend’s voice filtered through the speaker.

“Hey, man! You here?”

“Yeah,” Wes cleared his throat, pretending like his voice wasn't threatening to quit on him. “I just parked. I’m headed to you in a second.”

“Awesome. I’ll text you where I am so you can come find me. This place is a damn maze.”

They hung up and Wes ran his hands down his face, taking a deep breath.

Sam is okay. Sam will be okay. Everything is okay.

The mantra was keeping everything inside of him together; the letters had worked to bind the little parts of his crumbling interior together. It was like the muscles and blood and tissues of his body, begrudgingly promising to keep him alive.

The mantra was the only thing he had to offer that promise right now.

Making his way through the hospital wasn’t as difficult as Tom had suggested. Of course, Wes was doing it with years of experience and familiarity with the layouts of various hospitals. And, too, Wes was distracted and horrified by being here, but not with the same degree or feeling that Tom had when he first arrived.

Like when he was driving into the city, Wes was a little convinced he was making his way through the hospital’s halls with more ease precisely because he didn’t really want to make it to his destination. He was being eased through by a distinct and powerful desire to not ever arrive.

But, still, he made it to the right waiting room with very little turnaround. He spotted Tom’s messy hair and sunken eyes easily.

“Wesley!” Tom called out, waving a hand over his head. Wes wove through the few people and their strewn about bags to get to him.

Tom stood up, clapping Wes on the back in a quick hug.

“Thanks for coming, man.”

Wes stood back, shoving his hands into his pockets, and shrugged. “No worries. Of course I came.”

They settled into two chairs. Tom began jiggling his knee up and down immediately.

“When did the girlfriend leave?” he asked.

Tom looked up after a second too late. “Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, like, right after we talked, I guess? Had to go get John from her mom.”

Wes hummed noncommittally, nodding. “She coming back?”

Tom shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. I’ll call her later and we’ll decide. We don’t want John here for sure, at least not until—“ He hesitated. Wes’s throat clenched and he focused hard on breathing evenly for a moment.

Tom cleared his throat before barreling on. “Just, like, we don’t know how he’ll be and stuff. The doctors mentioned something about, like, mood?”

Wesley nodded. “Yeah, of course. Better wait for John.”

“Yeah, exactly what we’re thinking.”

Wes nodded. Tom nodded. They both pretended like it was normal for them to both be nodding that much.

“Oh!” Wes’s voice caught them both off guard. “I could, you know, watch John. When you want me to or whatever. I don’t mind.”

Tom’s face relaxed a little. Wes felt incrementally better than he had in awhile. “That’d be great. We’ll let you know.”

“Great, cool.”

The waiting room looked like nearly every other waiting room he’d ever been in or seen on TV. The walls were painted a beige that seemed to be standard in creating a boring, timeless space; there were racks made for magazines but empty from the material, as every actual magazine or paper was strewn across the floor or chairs, most of them missing pages. Fake plants stood watch in the corner and a bored looking nurse sat behind a reception desk, trying to patiently answer questions that should have had really obvious answers.

Wes tapped his index fingers on his knees, letting the feeling of his fingertips distract him from the way he wanted to jump up and bolt.

Tom looked a little haggard, but still bright. It was clear that he hadn’t gotten any sleep since they’d spoken last night, what with his disheveled clothing and dark circled eyes. But there was an energy burning beneath his skin that seemed tangible to Wes. He could practically see the hope and happiness radiating off of Tom. His brother was home and Tom was sure he’d be okay.

He would be okay. Sam would be fine.

Wes wondered if Tom really felt as hopeful as he looked; Wes kind of hoped he was looking more hopeful than he was actually feeling.

The urge to bring up something besides Sam was nearly overpowering. Wes wanted to make Tom feel better, to make him laugh and joke and be his regular self. But he didn’t know the hospital etiquette for how he was supposed to act when his best friend’s older brother was in surgery due to a secret governmental kidnapping. There wasn’t really a handbook on that. At least, not one he’d ever read.

He didn’t know if it was better to distract Tom or to talk about Sam or to say nothing at all. He wanted to be a good friend, a better friend than he had been when he kissed Sam and never told Tom; a better friend than when Wes unilaterally decided that Sam wasn’t actually in danger but just being an asshole; a better friend than Wes really knew how to be. He loved Tom. He wanted to prove it so badly in that moment.

“Wesley.” Tom’s voice broke through Wes’s mental anguish and he jumped. Wes closed his eyes, embarrassed by his reaction.

“Yeah?”

“Calm down, man,” Tom said, shooting him a look. “Don’t give yourself an ulcer.”

Wes’s cheeks heated. “I’m not—I mean, I am calm.”

“You’re thinking so fast, I’m afraid you’re going to catch fire.”

Wes rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatically honest.”

“I’m just—” Wes stopped. He ran through several different words until one didn’t taste like ash on his tongue. “Worried, I guess.”

“Me, too,” Tom said quietly. “But the doctors said—”

“About you, man.” Wes interrupted. “I mean, god, of course, I’m worried about Sam. Of course. But I’m also worried about you.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised, his mouth parting in surprise. “Oh. Right. Well, thanks, man.”

Wes shrugged, slapping his palm on Tom’s knee a little too hard, trying to loosen some of the tension in his chest and between them. “No sweat, Tom.”

The TV in the corner of the room was old and boxy and played a sports game. Wes kind of hated sports but Tom was staring at it so Wes stared, too.

One of the teams was up by several points. It looked like there was no way for the other guys to win, even if they all suddenly got better by inches.

Wes thought the idea of competition to be rather discouraging in an environment like this. The whole concept of one side winning and the other losing seemed to Wes like a bad ideology to support in a hospital. After all, what if you were rooting for the losing team?

Everyone in the waiting room was waiting for someone in particular. Their brother or husband or wife or child. They were waiting and hoping, rooting for the underdog. Would a frail, human body win, or would a disease or a bullet or some sort of secret torture win? To hope for health and prosperity and getting well soon seemed crazy. To think that a team already that many points behind would win was crazy.

Wes rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars.

At least in the stars, he could believe in things bigger than winning and losing. In the stars, there was something that could be explained by science but believed in like magic. Wes preferred to think of that than the game.

“Are you ever going to tell me?” Tom said.

Wes looked up. Tom hadn’t looked away from the screen.

“Tell you what?” Had Ash mentioned that he’d gone out with Nick? Wes was going to tell Tom, he just wanted to wait till after the date so he didn’t psych himself out. Then, with all this—it didn’t seem fair to talk about his love life.

Tom’s jaw clenched a little and he shot Wes a look from the side of his eyes before refocusing on the game. The winning team scored again; Tom’s expression didn’t alter.

“What happened between you and my brother.”

The air left Wes’s lungs.

“I know I told you the other day that I don’t want to know and that’s kind of true. But also you never said anything.” Tom looked at him, frowning. “You’re my best friend and you never said anything.”

Wes felt water in his lungs and underneath his palms. That sleepy feeling of drowning came back, even as he sat there, fully awake.

He didn’t mean to hurt Tom or lie to him in any way. He just—it hurt.

Couldn’t Tom see how embarrassing it was to love someone that didn’t care about you at all?

“Sam never said anything to me, either. But I could tell that, I don’t know, something happened. I don’t know if he said something or if you did or what but—” Tom stopped himself short, shaking his head. “It’s just weird that you wouldn’t tell me, even now.”

“I would,” Wes disagreed. “I will, if you want.”

Tom looked at him hard.

Wes felt like he was being dissected. He tried to not fidget or look away; his best friend was looking for something on his face and Wes hoped desperately that it was there.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” The question was hard to answer, but not as hard as the one Wes was afraid he’d ask. He didn’t know how he’d explain what happened but maybe he could explain this.

Wes looked at his knees. The jeans he was wearing were a little worn around the knee, the denim material lighter there than other places. He plucked at a stray hair that had fallen there and flicked it away.

“I don’t really know, fully.” Wes’s voice sounded meek and he tried to make it stronger. He wanted to be honest but he couldn’t handle the vulnerability that his voice showed. “I guess—I guess because telling you made everything really, kind of, real. And I was—it was just a lot, for me, and it wasn’t a lot for him and I didn’t know if making it real would be worse or not.”

Tom’s frown smoothed into something neutral. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the already unruly strands.

“Okay. I don’t get it.”

Wes sank his teeth deep into his bottom lip. The barely healed wound from last night reopened and when he tasted a bit of blood, he let go of his lip with a pop.

“I cared about him and, briefly, I thought he cared about me, too.”

Tom froze. With obvious effort, he forced his shoulders to relax and he looked at Wesley as intensely as he ever had. “Now you think he doesn’t?”

Wes swallowed. He hated this. “I know that, yeah.”

“Do you still?”

Wes looked down. He’d have to buy new jeans soon.

“Trying not to, I guess.”

Tom didn’t ask any more questions after that and Wes didn’t offer any more information. He felt shades away from spilling everything or running from the room.

Wes wished he could explain it better. Wished he could let Tom crack into his chest and see all the confusion and hurt spill out. But even if he told him everything, it wouldn’t be enough. Because Wes’s hurt from Sam wasn’t just Sam’s fault; he knew that now. He had already realized that he was putting too much on people, expecting too much. He knew that he was trying to fix his fucked up childhood through having a perfect adulthood and he was fucking his adulthood up by trying to do that.

He knew that he couldn’t blame Sam for not falling in love with him. He couldn’t blame Sam for not seeing through on a possibility because hope isn’t the same as a promise.

Last night felt years away. He could barely believe that his date with Nick had been less than twenty-four hours ago. It was like he’d lived a whole life since then.

Wes wondered if it was loyalty that made him feel like nothing else mattered but Sam right now or if it was fickleness that made him feel like Nick was definitely one of those things that didn’t matter anymore.

The game on the screen ended. The losing team looked so unsurprised that they didn’t even seem disappointed.

Tom didn’t look up to see who won; Wes knew he’d already have known.

“Mr. Carlisle?”

Wes hopped up a half second after Tom, looking between the doctor and Tom.

“Yeah, hi. I’m Tom Carlisle.”

The doctor shook his hand. He was wearing a lab coat that seemed a little snug. His forehead was sweating and his cheeks were bright pink, as if he’d just stopped running.

“I’m Dr. Plymouth,” he said, shooting Wes an odd look.

Tom interrupted it with his most authoritative voice. “He can stay.”

The doctor shrugged and nodded. “Mr. Carlisle, your brother just got out of surgery. We’re taking him to post-op in the ICU right now.”

“How was it? Is he okay? Can I see him?” The questions fired out of Tom’s mouth with a ferocity but Dr. Plymouth merely smiled.

“The surgery was incredibly successful. We were able to remove all of the bullets and the majority of the scar tissues from old wounds. The damages to your brother’s body was extensive but his major organs were all in relatively good shape.”

The doctor continued to prattle on. Wes struggled to keep up.

“He’s been heavily sedated, of course, and we’ll continue to monitor his pain levels before fully weaning him off so he can wake up. There’s really no telling how long that’ll take, but we’re hopeful that it won’t be too long.”

Dr. Plymouth barreled forward, not stopping to let Tom get a word in edgewise. Wes thought that was probably for the best because Tom looked like he had a hundred and one questions to throw at the man. “We’re still monitoring him very closely but you should be able to see him shortly.” He glanced at Wes. “Unfortunately, immediate family only. I’ll send someone to get you when it’s time.”

Tom’s whole body sagged, a giant smile blooming on his face. “Thank you, Doctor!”

Dr. Plymouth smiled. He reached out and rested a hand on Tom’s arm, squeezing gently before stepping back. “Of course. I’m sure we’ll speak soon, Mr. Carlisle.”

Tom threw his arms around Wesley the minute the doctor was gone, hugging him tightly. He pulled back and wiped the back of his hand across his cheek. Wes felt like he was smiling bigger than he ever had before.

“Oh my god. I have to call Sara.” He patted at his pockets for his phone, diving for his jacket when he didn’t find it. When he finally untangled the cell from his seat, he shot Wes a huge grin. “You’ll be okay for a second? I’m gonna go call her. Come get me if they come back!”

Wes nodded, yelling after Tom that he would. He sank back into his chair, watching through the window as Tom called his girlfriend.

He was okay.

Sam was out of surgery and they got the bullets—bullets, plural, Jesus Christ—and he was okay. He was in the ICU but they had every reason to believe he’d be okay and he’d wake up and Jesus Christ, Sam was alive.

Wes knew that, he guessed. Ever since last night, he knew that Sam was alive, and even before that, he had assumed he was alive. There was such a very brief time when that was even a possibility of an issue.

Still, sitting here, knowing that Sam was just a few floors away, sleeping and resting and healing, felt like he’d lost a thousand pounds. He felt lighter and safer. He felt dry, like he’d never gulped mouthful after mouthful of salty water.

Wes fought against the pricking in his eyes, a sure sign that he was near tears. He was so relieved. Sam was alive. Tom could go see him soon.

Wes leaned against the chair, closing his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he saw the way that Sam looked that night they kissed.

His pupils blown wide, his lips bruised red, his hands trembling but sure against his head; Wes remembered the way that Sam had pulled back slowly, as if reluctant. He remembered the way his heart had nearly exploded in his chest, so full and happy and loud.

Sam had been so bright in that moment, Wes wouldn’t have been able to compare him to anything but a star. It burned and burned so high in the sky, lighting up a world and guiding people to home and truth. But, too, it burned too far away; if anyone got too close to the star, even looking at it would hurt. Looking at Sam would hurt, if anyone got too close, because Sam was destined to burn. He couldn’t do anything else.

Wes had always preferred stars. He couldn’t help but watch, no matter how close or far away he got. He’d just keep looking until either the star was too far away to see or they’d both burned up.