Pairing: RED Scout/BLU Pyro

Word count: 14,782

Summary: 'He can hear the flame's low growl, like it's a living thing that's hungering for the ash of his flesh and craves to consume him whole. This is where most people will start praying to whatever god it is they believe. Crumple to their knees and cry and piss themselves. Beg for mercy, for their life, and hope it gets through the black rubber of that grotesque gas mask and into human ears.'

Rating: PG-13

Author's notes: Here's the tenth commissioned story for my Fanfiction Fundraiser, with much thanks to Mikayla C.! I can't believe I managed to write a 14,000+ word story about two characters who I'd scarcely thought about before this ... but in this instance, I'm glad to have proven myself wrong about not being able to do it. For all you Scout/Pyro fans, I hope you'll enjoy this (and I apologize in advance for the fuck load of feels).

The title of the story is also the name of the soundtrack I listened to while writing this, Max Richter's Embers. A haunting tune, but also one edged with hope, at least to me.

Of all his seven brothers, he likes Jeb the least. He tells Jeb that somewhere between the brutal kick he aims at Jeb's shin and the hurtling punch into his face that sends him flying across their house's grassy backyard.

"S'for your own good, kid. Ya eat, or ya get eaten. Take yer pick."

Jeb always sounds like an earthquake. Fucking shakes the ground like one too, stomping towards him like a raging elephant ("Yeah, Jeb, I know what an elephant is, ya asshole."). Jeb never lets up no matter how many times they do this, no matter if Ma and Pop are home or their other brothers are watching and howling like the beasts they all are as bruises burble up upon their skin and hot blood sprays the air and their bandaged hands.

It's a good thing, as much as he hates agreeing with Jeb about it. It really is. It's not enough that he can run the fastest, not when a single blow from Jeb's gargantuan fists is enough to lay him flat for precious seconds. All it takes is one hit to end him, one hit to end the infinite cycles of information looping in his brain, to end the tactics he's got for dealing with each of his brothers when they forget that he isn't a helpless runt, the fantasies he's still got of his high school crush and her huge breasts (not that he's ever going to admit it when he's yet to actually fuck anyone).

So he runs as fast as the information racing in his brain. He takes everything Jeb dishes out and gives back as much. He runs with his pack of mad dog brothers through their turf, and he takes what he's learned and kicks and punches and smashes his baseball bat into the weak flesh of trespassers until he's the last one standing.

"C'mon, s'that all ya got? What ya gonna do now, huh? Huh?"

It's not Jeb who's sprawled on the grimy sidewalk in front of him. It's some guy he doesn't even know, some bastard from the other side of town who thought it was a smart idea to swagger into their territory with some of his own chuckleheads. He prods the bloody end of his baseball bat against the guy's swollen cheek and he thinks, people are so damn fragile, their anatomy bound by rules that he himself can't run, can't escape from either. He doesn't like that. He doesn't like what it means for him, for his family, that there are some things he can't beat.

Jeb's saying his name. He turns his head to grin at Jeb, probably looking like a rabid wolf, all fangs and unblinking, feral eyes. He blinks, though, when he sees the look on Jeb's face. He's never seen that look on Jeb's face before, like Jeb's never seen him before, like he's suddenly a stranger who's knocked him – him, Jeb – over like a leaf. He doesn't see it again until the Administrator and two of her cronies in black suits and sunglasses storm into his house and flaunt a leather suitcase bursting with a million cold, hard bucks.

Of course he says yes to her offer. A year in a desert fort with eight guys, free to run and fight nine other guys as much as he wants, and he gets paid for it?

Fucking dream come true, man.

Of course Ma cries while he packs up to go. Of course Danny, Mike and Tony talk about finally taking their ladies out for fine dining (yuck), and of course Don's ranting about needing more than his fair share for the newest Dodge Charger (which he'll get to drive anytime he wants when he comes back or Don's dead) and Abe and Paulie are rubbing their hands all over the green like dummies who've never seen money before.

But Jeb's got that damn look on his face. It sinks into him like a rock to the bottom of a barren, shadowy lake. It makes him feel like he's too small for his skin, like he doesn't belong in it, like he's missing something really important and he doesn't like that.

The look on Jeb's face follows him out the door. It takes him a long time after that – five violent battles with BLU mercenaries, to be precise – to be able to pull that look into the light and study it in his head.

By then, he's already gotten the news from Mike via his last phone call home that Don and Jeb were in Don's new muscle car and that they were speeding down Central Artery when they crashed. Ma and Pop and the other guys were still at Mass General waiting for updates from the doctors. Don was awake and just banged up bad, one arm broken. Jeb was rushed to the OR and nobody got to see him at all and the nurses weren't saying anything and Mike thinks it's bad, pretty bad and asks when he's coming back.

But he can't leave, not unless he breaks contract and forfeits the million dollars, and he sure as hell can't talk to any of the guys here. They're all too busy doing the nasty with each other anyway. Ugh.

So he tells Mike as much, tries so hard to laugh over the spasm of his throat at Mike's disgust and later, he thinks about Jeb and that look on Jeb's face as he'd rushed out their family house months ago. He sits alone in a pile of blankets in the sparse attic of one of the tallest buildings here in Teufort, and there's no one around to see the look on his face as he realizes, too late, what that look on his oldest brother's face had really meant.

It's cold. It's the first time he's been outside in a while. He isn't sure how long it's been, but it's enough that the bite of a chilly breeze makes him tug tighter the blanket around his shoulders. The nights and days before today have blended together into a hazy dream. He thinks he's supposed to be somewhere, supposed to be with someone or some people. People who can tell him what the giant, black thing is in front of him, looming over him and creaking in the wind like it's crying and trying to be quiet about it.

He thinks he's supposed to know what the giant, black thing is. It looks big enough to have been a house. But houses aren't black, broken, smelly and empty like this. His house doesn't look like that. It doesn't. He's sure of it.

Mamma, Poppa and his baby sister Alissa would be waiting for him inside, otherwise. Mamma would be so mad the house is so dirty and stinky. Alissa would be waiting for him to come back from school so they can play Kubb again.

They aren't here.

This is not his house. It's not.

"This is no place for you, dear."

There's something wrong with one of his eyes, his right one. There's something wrong with the right side of his face too, and the right side of his chest and flank. He doesn't know what and why. He thinks he should, but he doesn't. He tears his gaze from the giant, black thing and stares up at the woman standing next to him. She's wearing a white cape over a white dress and has a white cap over her short, brown hair. She has one hand on his left shoulder. She's petting it, gently, slowly, as if he's a frightened doe lost in the darkness. Her green eyes look strange. They're shiny, like there's water over them.

He thinks he's supposed to know who she is. Her face seems familiar enough. She seems nice.

"Where are they?" he asks her. "They're not here."

She doesn't answer him. Her eyes glisten even more. Her hand rises from his shoulder and hovers in the air, as if she wants to draw him nearer. She doesn't.

He blinks at her, then stares at the giant, black thing again. He hates it. He hates it because it's ugly and colorless and Mamma, Poppa and Alissa aren't in it. He likes colorful things. He likes the bright, blue sky and pudgy, baby animals and vast, flowery meadows and rainbows and candy, candy everywhere. Yes, such a place is so much better than here. He's sure Mamma, Poppa and Alissa think so too. They must be there, waiting for him to find them! Why didn't he think of that?

"Oh … I do know where they are. I'm going to meet them soon!" he says, and now, the woman does draw him to her, careful to not touch his right shoulder and side. She makes a soft sound just like the giant, black thing in front of them. It's such a sad sound. He doesn't understand why she's sad when he knows where Mamma, Poppa and Alissa are now.

"Come now, dear. It's time to go back to the hospital."

He nods and lets her lead him by the hand to a car nearby. He gazes down at the path beneath his slippered feet. It's gold and brilliant, just like the road of yellow brick in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Mamma always read the book to him before bedtime.

The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick, so you cannot miss it.

He can't and doesn't miss it, just like Mamma told him so many times. He skips and dances across the path's glittering surface as best he can. When he glances up, he sees massive, multi-hued lollipops and candies scattered on both sides of the path. They make him smile. They guide him away from the cold and the shadows into sweet, warm sunshine that lights up the world as far as his eye can see. He likes them very much.

Oh, if he follows the yellow bricks, he's sure to reach the City of Emeralds. He's sure to find Mamma, Poppa and Alissa there. He's so glad he came here after all. What a wonderful day it is!

"I'll get some salmiaklakrits and sockerbitar for you before you see Dr. Karlsson, all right?"

That's right, he's supposed to see Dr. Karlsson today. Dr. Karlsson is nice. Dr. Karlsson allowed him to go outside, to go home when he asked for that. He'll have to tell Dr. Karlsson that he was brought to the wrong place, that his house isn't black, broken, smelly and empty. Maybe Dr. Karlsson will help him search for Mamma, Poppa and Alissa, once his eye is better and his body doesn't hurt so much anymore.

"Yes, I like candy. I like rainbows. I want to share rainbows with everyone!"

"That's very sweet of you."

"I'll make a special shooter for it! It'll be gold and big like a trumpet, and it'll never run out of rainbows and stars!"

"Are you going to tell Dr. Karlsson about it?"

He thinks about the very tall and lean doctor with wavy, gray hair. He thinks about the last time he saw the doctor, as he was getting into the car with this nice lady. The doctor had been standing in the shade of a large Spruce tree and facing away from them. The doctor had something long, thin and white sticking out from between his lips, and was holding something in his palm near its tip.

He'd gasped when he saw the bright rainbow flaring up from Dr. Karlsson's hand. It did something to the long, thin and white thing sticking out from the doctor's lips, something that made his eyes widen and his heart quiver with an unrecognizable emotion.

Dr. Karlsson can make rainbows too. Like him.

"Oh, yes! He always listens to me. He'll be so happy when I give him a rainbow."

"I'm sure he will."

He's content to gaze at the back of the front passenger seat as the car drives away from the giant, black thing, farther and farther away. He can't wait to see Dr. Karlsson again. He can't wait to play with rainbows with Dr. Karlsson and cover the doctor from head to toe in them.

"Don't worry, when I make the shooter, I'll give you a rainbow too. Rainbows make everyone happy!"

Scout's going to die today.

"C'mon, ya fucker. C'mon," he whispers to himself.

He's gripping his aluminum baseball bat with both hands, his eyes honed in on the narrow entry of the short alley he's trapped in. He'd lost his double-barreled lever-action shotgun early on in the battle along with his meat cleaver when he was attacked by the enemy Spy, leaving him with just his trusty bat. He can beat almost all the other morons easy with it, including the enemy Heavy. But the BLU Pyro?

It's nowhere close to being enough to confront such a monster.

Yeah, he's going to die today, and it's just a question of how painful the bastard's going to make his death be. Maybe it'll be the fireman axe, a single chop to his neck with that red-and-silver bladed head. (That's what happened to Medic the last time.) Maybe it'll be that gray-and-orange flare gun, firing at point blank range into his face and exploding it into a gory mess of bone and meat. (That's what happened to Engineer and Sniper. In Engineer's case, he saw it with his own eyes.) Maybe it'll be the worst one of all, that freaking flamethrower with its propane tank full of death and agony. (He doesn't even want to think about this one.)

He grits his teeth as the steel muzzle of that flamethrower glides into view. There's that vivid, blue flame in front, the star of his nightmares more than once (not that he's ever going to admit that, ever). He can hear the flame's low growl, like it's a living thing that's hungering for the ash of his flesh and craves to consume him whole. This is where most people will start praying to whatever god it is they believe. Crumple to their knees and cry and piss themselves. Beg for mercy, for their life, and hope it gets through the black rubber of that grotesque gas mask and into human ears.

Well, fuck that.

He steps forward the same moment the BLU Pyro steps fully into view. He silently curses the trembling in his hands and grips his bat until his knuckles go white. He raises the bat. He stands straighter, his shoulders squared and farther back, his legs apart and his teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

That's right, kid. Face the wimp head on and show him what happens when he messes with one of us. Show him what we're made of.

It feels right that the voice in his head sounds just like Jeb. He'd give a lot to have Jeb by his side right now. Jeb would scare this guy for real, unlike him and his scrawny physique. Can't even pretend he's got muscles or puff himself up more, not looking like he does with his shirt frayed by knife slices courtesy of a very dead BLU Spy, the skin of his chest and back scattered with light cuts, his face and neck dotted with sweat.

"You gonna burn me to death, huh, ya bib-wearin' dope? Huh, are ya?"

The BLU Pyro says nothing and stands there at the alley entrance, staring in his direction with a tilt of the head. He doesn't know if the BLU Pyro is staring at his face or not. Studying it, even. The thought that the masked freak is doing that makes his belly flop and his breath stick like a lump of coal in his throat. Monsters don't bother looking at a face. They don't even see a face. They only see prey, a thing to be hunted down, slaughtered and devoured.

This is a monster he's looking at, it has to be.

He takes another step forward. Then another, his bat lifted higher, his snarl fiercer.

"You gonna burn me? Huh? GO 'HEAD THEN!"

His roar echoes off the walls of the alley. He glares back at black, circular, opaque eyes and thinks of Ma and Pop back in Boston. He thinks of Jeb lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines pumping air, blood and drugs into a wrecked body, not knowing that he knows what the look on Jeb's face had meant now. He thinks about his other brothers, his family, his home, his state of being before this war between RED and BLU, and he thinks about how easily the Respawn system can mess up and leave him in eternal purgatory or just straight up end him anyway.

He takes yet another step forward. He's now near enough that a single blast from the flamethrower would kill him instantly.

"I ain't afraid of you."

Every breath he sucks in burns his lungs. He doesn't blink when a droplet of sweat rolls into his left eye. Gravel crunches under his feet as he minutely grinds down the soles of his shoes on the ground.

His heart jolts, just once, as the muzzle of the flame thrower lifts.

And then, after another tilt of the head, the BLU Pyro turns around and saunters away without a word.

Scout reels where he stands, blinking numerous times, his lower jaw sagging in shock. His bat falls to his side. The excess adrenaline kicks in, and he sits down hard on his ass, his knees drawn to his heaving chest. What … what the hell just happened?

"Holy shit," he mumbles, the only words his overwhelmed brain can process for now in the glory of survival. "Holy shit."

When the notion of a secret hideout came to him and coalesced in his mind into something tangible, something possible, the first thing he did was to place an order for a RED portable, self-powered mini-fridge with HQ as part of their monthly supply restock. Before that, he didn't know such a thing even existed; his home has only one fridge, an old albeit hefty, electrical one, and a mini-fridge that can run anytime and anywhere on perpetual energy's pretty damn mythical to him. It's like something only read about in sci-fi books (yes, he actually knows how to read and enjoys Kurt Vonnegut's and Philip K. Dick's work, shut up) or seen as watercolor illustrations for those interior design magazine ads of futuristic, space-age homes (not that he actually reads any of these artsy-fartsy magazines, he just flips through them whenever he encounters any out of sight of his brothers, shut up).

He was the last guy to add an item to the order list and because of that, he'd learned more shit about his teammates than he wished he ever did. The awful kind of shit. The awful, kinky kind of shit. He doesn't want to know what Engineer and Soldier are going to do with that American flag-printed, phallic thing. He definitely doesn't want to know what Demoman intends to do with a neon orange, spandex jumpsuit that has boobs. Nobody needs as much pantyhose and lace garters as Spy apparently does, not even a snail-munching guy who's fucking piss-throwing Sniper and the enemy Scout's mother at the same time (and where's the brain bleach when he needs it?). And for fuck's sakes, he never, never ever needed to know Medic's order of spiked, leather collars and enormous, fur-lined handcuffs that can fit only one fat, balding guy on the team (no, no, no not going there no).

And yeah, all that awful, kinky shit is why he's getting the mini-fridge into his very own private hideout – his bachelor pad, yeah, that sounds better – in the first place. He needs it to store his Crit-a-Colas, Atomic Punches, milk, ham, confectionery and mackerel (hey, fish is good for you, don't diss the fish) away from everybody else, away from all the disgusting moaning and groaning and who knows what else he hears through the thin walls of his bedroom in the fort. You'd think the old farts he has for teammates would be too cranky and old to have vigorous, kinky sex but nope, it's become Cocksucker Central and everybody's in on the cock-sucking action.

Except him. Him, the youngest, most virile, sexy, good-looking, irresistible guy on the team.

Which is … well, fuck.

Or lack of fuck. Utter lack of it.

It's so unfair it makes him want to cry buckets of manly tears into his manly hands.

And you'd think that after exploring the whole fort and coming across the vacant attic and making it his own with the addition of a mattress, some warm-light lamps, some novels and a portable radio (all also ordered in from HQ), after years and years of living with seven brothers in a cramped house with zero privacy that he'd grab the opportunity to grab his dick. Go at it until he chafed and ached and seriously thought about becoming a monk.

His body, though, it's got different, traitorous ideas.

Here in his bachelor pad, alone with his assorted pastime items, it turns out jerking off is the last thing he wants to do. Maybe listening to the other guys fucking each other night after night did something to his brain and shut off something vital in it. Maybe he should be worried or pissed off about that, since guys like him are expected to want to jerk off nonstop and stick his dick into the nearest hot lady or something.

Maybe he isn't like most guys and he doesn't feel the urge so much.

Maybe he just doesn't get it up anymore when there aren't any women around and his dick doesn't see the point of it until there are women around.

And maybe, maybe he needs to stop thinking about crap like that too much because it's the reason he doesn't notice the presence of another person in his pad until he's already in it and stumbling to the fridge for a refreshing dose of Crit-a-Cola. It's after sundown. It's murky and he hasn't switched on the lamps and so it's with the light emanating from the interior of the fridge that he sees the reflective, distinctive blue of a BLU mercenary's uniform, the black, opaque eyes of a grotesque gas mask staring back at him mere feet away from the fridge.

He doesn't scream at the top of his lungs and flail backwards like an electrocuted rabbit. He doesn't.

"HOLY FRICKIN' FUCKIN' STUPID CRAP ON A SALAD CHEESESTIIIIIIICK!"

He lands hard on his ass on the floor but he doesn't feel the impact at all, nor does he feel his arm smacking into one of the lamps. He seizes it and switches it on and holds it in front of him like a shield, gasping, scrambling backwards until his back collides with a wall.

Oh my god, oh my god, the BLU Pyro's somehow found his secret bachelor pad. The BLU Pyro's here and he's alone with the psycho and goddamnit, he didn't think to bring any of his weapons with him since it's off-battle hours and it's in the contract to not be in enemy territory during said hours but maybe the BLU bastards don't have that clause in their contracts –

"Ow, howow dow."

Scout freezes, the lamp still held in front of him, in front of his face. He peers with squinted eyes past one side of it at the BLU Pyro opposite him. The BLU Pyro has yet to move away from fridge. The BLU Pyro's just sitting there with legs folded, shoulders hunched, knees to chest and arms wrapped around the shins and –

Wait a second.

The BLU Pyro, the monster … spoke to him.

He's never heard the monster speak before. Monsters … aren't supposed to speak. Only people do that. Monsters just hunt and kill and devour.

Right?

"W-what … what the hell are ya doin' here, huh? How'd ya find this place? Are you followin' me around, ya freak?!"

He shakes the lamp in hand as ominously as he can. If it was a gas lamp, he could have harnessed it as a weapon. Thrown it at the BLU Pyro and watched the monster taste its own medicine by going up in gaseous flames and he'd gleefully yell, "Hey, who's on fire now!"

Then again, if it was a gas lamp and he did that and the BLU Pyro fought back with that ghastly flamethrower, his bachelor pad would burn to ashes too.

Along with him in it.

Yeah, not a good plan.

"Ueh. Ow fowow phrr."

Cautiously, he sets the lamp on the floor in front of him. The panic of meeting an enemy here of all places is ebbing. It leaves him with senses and mind sharpened to severe clarity. He feels the globules of sweat popping up on his forehead. He feels the rasp of his slowing, balmy breaths coursing in and out of his lungs through his nose and open mouth. He feels the wooden panels of the wall against shoulder-blades he's probably bruised in his haste.

He goes for the nearest idle lamp several feet away and switches it on as well, then returns to sitting with the wall behind him, his gaze upon the BLU Pyro the entire time. In the extra illumination, he sees the flamethrower on the floor near the BLU Pyro. There's no blue blame. It's quiet. A sleeping beast.

At least he knows the BLU Pyro doesn't intend to kill him by fire, not tonight.

He relaxes bit by bit as the minutes pass while they stare at each other. The BLU Pyro still hasn't moved. He doesn't see the axe or flare gun anywhere. Looks like he isn't going to die by chopped body parts or exploding head either.

So what the hell does the BLU Pyro want with him?

Again, the BLU Pyro mumbles something indecipherable. Scout frowns, his eyebrows lowering, his eyes narrowing in frustration.

"Look, Mumbles," he says with a confidence he doesn't feel. "Ya wanna talk to me, you gotta take off the mask."

He struggles with the impulse to obscure his eyes and peek between his fingers. He's heard all kinds of crazy talk about the Pyro – the enemy one and his own team's – and none of it was reassuring. Spy in particular was convinced both Pyros were the results of sickening experiments at the hands of mad scientists (like Medic, that old, perverted Deutsch-bag), that they were hideous beasts underneath the masks and suits, that they could slay you with a single glance or touch of bare skin. Heavy once mentioned that he saw what the BLU Pyro was inside the suit when he managed to pin the monster down with a volley of bullets.

"It vas … lumpy. Like … potato. Lots of potato that go boom!"

It kind of figures the fatcakes would think that a sentient, homicidal creature's made of food.

And oh god, he so does not ever want to know what Demoman thinks, considering the guy's actually fucking their team's Pyro. There is something wrong with that dude.

The slick slide of the gas mask coming off is deafening in the sparse attic. He has to dig his fingernails into the wooden floor to not flatten himself against the wall, to not squirm and leap to his feet and run.

His eyes follow the gas mask as the BLU Pyro places it on the floor in front of black boots. It collapses in on itself, like a balloon going out of air.

He waits the span of a heartbeat. Then another.

Then, he glances up.

"You're … you're just … a guy."

He knows his eyes are stark, jaw sagging so much he can probably fit five mackerels in it. He doesn't know whether to jump up into the air and exclaim his astonishment or flop onto the floor from sheer relief or laugh hysterically or do all those things at once. The BLU Pyro is just … a guy. A guy with tufts of rich, ash blond hair on the left side of his head and big, brown eyes – like Bambi, what the fuck – and … scars. So many scars on the right side of his face, a mass of it on the lower cheek and jawline. Jeez, just looking at them makes his own face hurt –

"Yes. Were you expecting a woman?"

This time, Scout does exclaim his astonishment with a shrill yelp, rearing back and bumping his back into the wall a second time.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he murmurs, eventually. "You can speak English. Like, normally."

The BLU Pyro tilts his head and gazes back at him with those big, doe-like eyes.

"Yes. You also speak English."

Scout's brow furrows at that. Of course he speaks English. He's American! That's what everyone in America speaks. Well, everyone except foreigners, Communists and murderous, flamethrower-wielding psychos in asbestos-lined suits and black gas masks. (That's what Soldier said.) And he didn't even know the guy's human until now!

So he isn't a monster, is he?

Scout's brow furrows even more. Sometimes his brain asks questions he doesn't like to think about. So what if the BLU Pyro's just a guy after all? The guy's killed his teammates in the most horrific of ways, over and over.

You've killed his teammates too, pal. Over and over. What's that say about you?

Yeah, sometimes he really doesn't like his brain. Sometimes it's too smart for its own good.

"Duh, 'course I speak English. I'm American." He squints at the BLU Pyro, replaying the lines the guy's said so far in his head. Accented lines. "But you're not."

"No. I am from Sörmland. Near the Kolmården forest in Sweden."

Scout blinks. Wow, and here he thought he's far away from home. Until this job with RED, he'd never left Boston, much less his home country to live and work in another on the other side of the planet.

"Sweden. That's like … somewhere in Europe, right?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

Scout blinks again. The BLU Pyro has … a nice voice. It's mellifluous and low and so far from monstrous that it's terrifying. Combined with the Bambi-like eyes, aquiline nose and thin lips, the guy can almost pass for those male fashion models in those underwear catalogs (and no, he does not browse through them, he just knows about them, shut up shut up shut up). If the scars weren't there, that is.

They look like burn scars. Scars caused by flames.

Why a guy with such scars has a job that messes with fire all the time is beyond Scout's comprehension right now.

"Okay, look, you … you still haven't answered me. How'd ya find this place? Were you seriously followin' me around?"

For the first time, the BLU Pyro breaks eye contact. He hangs his head and appears so much like a kicked puppy that Scout has to cling onto his ire.

"Yes. I followed you. You … don't look like the others."

"Not creepy at all," Scout mutters, and immediately regrets it.

The BLU Pyro's shoulders hunch even more. When those big, brown eyes gaze forlornly at him from under long, ash blond lashes, something really, really strange happens to the left side of his chest. It's like somebody slams a bat into it. Or stabs it all the way through the back with a knife. And the pain is … something he's never felt before.

It's weird. It's scary. It's good.

It's been a long time since he had company that didn't see him as some annoying brat better left unseen and unheard. A very long time.

"Just … okay, fine. Ya wanna stick around, fine." He sits up straight and jabs a finger in the air at the BLU Pyro. "But don't you forget, this is my bachelor pad. My territory. Neutral territory, which means no fightin' or killin' or burnin' of people AKA me and shit. What I say goes around here." He points at the flamethrower next to the BLU Pyro. "And I see that thing lit up, you're outta here with a caved in skull. Ya get me?"

The expression of confusion on the BLU Pyro's face as he glances down at the flamethrower makes him confused. Huh, maybe the guy can only understand so much English before it becomes gibberish.

"All right."

The BLU Pyro's gazing at him again. The confusion's gone from the guy's face. In its place is something warm. Something happy.

It does strange, strange things to Scout's chest.

"Okay. Whatever." He stands up and tries not to grimace as sensation returns to his numb ass. "Ya want a drink? Or candy or somethin'? I got a lotta food in the fridge."

He would have toppled back if it isn't for the wall behind him from the eruption of bliss across the BLU Pyro's face. The guy can't quite smile properly due to the scars, but there's no mistaking the delight in those Bambi-like eyes gone even wider. Wow, dude must like food a lot.

"Candy?"

Okay, scratch that, dude must like candy a lot. It's … sweet (and he'll straight up murder anyone who ever finds out he thought that).

He strolls back to the fridge, struck by intense déjà vu. It's like he's suddenly been granted a second chance to relive this moment, to do it right this time. He can't explain it, but he knows it's important. The life-changing kind of important.

"Here. Chocolate."

He hands the BLU Pyro a bar of milk chocolate encased in red paper emblazoned with the RED logo. He almost laughs as the guy munches on the chocolate bar like a hyperactive puppy, smearing chocolate all over his lips. It's … cute (and oh, he will straight up murder and torture anyone who ever finds out he thought that).

He switches on the rest of the lamps and then goes over to recline on the mattress laid on the floor beneath the one skylight in the roof. The New Mexico desert sky's gorgeous tonight, stars and vibrant nebulas strewn upon the carbon paper blue-black of space beyond. It's a damn near perfect spot to read or listen to the radio or contemplate in peace.

"Thank you for the chocolate."

But the best thing about it now?

"No problem," he replies to the BLU Pyro who's approached the mattress and is sitting on the floor beside it, staring up at the stars with him.

The best thing now is, he gets to share it with someone else he wants around.

The next time they encounter each other, it's on the battlefield. Scout is concealed behind a wooden pillar in an abandoned warehouse. He hears the growl of the BLU Pyro's flamethrower before seeing the weapon itself, its steel muzzle waving deliberately from side to side through the air. The vivid, blue flame, the star of his nightmares more than once (but curiously, not anymore), is glaring in the gloom of the warehouse, a living thing that's hungering for the ash of his flesh and craves to consume him whole.

This is where most people will start praying to whatever god it is they believe. Crumple to their knees and cry and piss themselves. Beg for mercy, for their life, and hope it gets through the black rubber of that grotesque gas mask and into human ears. This is where he might have once done those things, before he saw what was behind that gas mask. Before he saw the man there.

He steps out from the shadows, his arms at his sides, his hands empty, his bat and revolver strapped to their respective places upon his body. The BLU Pyro halts a dozen feet away, motionless as a stone statue.

They stare at each other in silence. He can't tell what facial expression the BLU Pyro has, but he easily envisions the big, brown, doe eyes behind those circular, opaque eyes of the mask. Maybe they're crinkled like they were when the BLU Pyro said farewell and departed from his bachelor pad that night. Maybe they're still affectionate and warm like the melted chocolate that'd been on the BLU Pyro's lips.

Or maybe, maybe that one visit to his bachelor pad was a moment of aberration and the BLU Pyro's back to his typical homicidal, psychotic self and Scout's going to die today for certain. Painfully. Very painfully.

Fuck.

His right hand slithers on its own volition towards the revolver strapped to his side. His fingers curl around its wooden handle. He doesn't want to use it, he really doesn't, but he will if he has to.

He doesn't want to.

He waits, and he's glad he does.

He doesn't react when the BLU Pyro shifts the muzzle of the flamethrower to one side, away from him. He continues to gaze at the BLU Pyro's mask, past it, into it.

It's not a monster he's looking at. It never was.

He knows this, but for many minutes after the BLU Pyro nods at him and then turns away and ambles out of view, he has to stand where he is with knees locked in place so he doesn't fall flat on his face. Stand there until the uncontrollable tremoring of his hands recedes, until his breaths aren't ragged anymore, and marvel with not a little amount of awe at how he's ended up befriending the most feared BLU mercenary of all.

The Scout of the RED team fascinates Pyro. The RED Scout doesn't appear like anyone else; he isn't tiny with a gigantic head, isn't in diapers, and he doesn't have any wings. He's tall and wiry, a lightning-fast being of robust sinew molded to airy, long bones. He looks like the people he once knew, before the white rooms and the belted jackets, before the shockwaves of electric agony that lingered in his head, before … before.

("I know you wish to go home, I know you do. But we have to wait until you're better. Your face and body are still hurting, aren't they? That's why we have to wait. Be patient. When you're feeling better, I promise you can leave the hospital and go home.")

Before their fateful meeting in that alley weeks ago, all he'd seen of the RED Scout were passing flashes of red on the battleground, a blaze of startling color that made even the iridescence of the many, massive lollipops and candies of his world pale pathetically in comparison. He rarely got near the sprinter. The RED Scout had seemed very determined to avoid him at all costs, and thinking back on that, he wishes he hadn't focused so much on the other enemy mercenaries. He wishes he'd tailed the RED Scout earlier, much earlier. Followed him to this secret attic hideaway and offered his greetings and proved his sincerity without inadvertently frightening the young man like he had.

How much precious time had he wasted, that he could have instead spent with the RED Scout like he is now?

"It's all Jeb's fault that I like their books. Used to be when I was a kid and I wanted to go out and play, he'd make me sit on the couch in the living room and sit next to me and make me read for at least half an hour a day. Even on the weekends. I mean, seriously, who does that to their youngest brother, ya know? I thought he was punishin' me or somethin', the blockhead."

The RED Scout is sprawled on the mattress, sipping now and then from an open can of Atomic Punch. He has his own can of the drink. It's half-full, on the floor near his feet as he sits quietly next to the mattress and listens to the RED Scout talk. The cherry flavor is delicious, though not as much as the milk chocolate.

("Don't eat too many of the salmiaklakrits, dear. You want to save some for Dr. Karlsson, don't you? Yes, good boy.")

"But Jeb was … he was right. I guess Jeb would know what he was doin', makin' me enjoy readin' and, what did he say? Expand my mind. Yeah. He's the only one of us to go to college. Engineerin'. Got in on a full scholarship, man."

The pride in the RED Scout's voice is palpable. He wonders if the RED Scout is aware of it.

"He was halfway through when Pop had the accident at the factory. Jeb quit college after that. Tony, Danny and Mike were already workin' at the time, but there was no way in fuck all that their pay combined could keep the whole family goin'. Me, Don, Abe and Paulie were still in school, me just gettin' into junior high and we were all growin' guys who needed to eat so much damn food." The RED Scout glances at the fridge in the corner of the attic, then back up at the skylight. Afternoon sunshine cascades upon him and sets his large, blue eyes aglow. "So yeah. He quit college to work so the rest of us could finish high school. He never went back."

It's a while before he says to the young man, "He sees hope in you."

("You're doing so well. The treatments hurt, I know, but they're good for you. They'll make you well again. Make you a new person! Isn't that wonderful? Think of the things you'll accomplish in life when you're that new person. That's something to look forward to, isn't it?")

His comment is definitely not what the RED Scout expected. The RED Scout gives him a hard, long look of disbelief.

"Hope? Me?" The RED Scout's expression begins to soften, removing years from his already youthful features. It's a beautiful sight. "Huh. You … ya think so?"

His answer is an honest one.

"Yes."

"Huh. That … kinda makes sense. He never bothered doin' that with the other guys, except Don and Abe for a while, but then Don really got into cars and mechanics. Ya know, those big, fast cars and –"

The RED Scout abruptly falls silent. The soft expression is gone. He doesn't know what's happened to cause that. He doesn't know how to get it back, to make the light glimmer in the young man's eyes again.

He remains silent himself, and gazes at the RED Scout's face.

("Where … where did you get that can of fuel? Is that my lighte – All right, all right, just … give it to me. That's right, just give it to me, and everything will be fine. Please, p-please just –")

He likes the way the RED Scout's nose slopes. Likes the way those thin, angled eyebrows quirk up and down so dramatically throughout their conversations, and –

("Oh god, oh my god, the doctor's dead, he killed him, he killed him –")

He also likes the way dimples appear in the RED Scout's cheeks whenever the young man smiles, likes the unevenness of the pearly teeth gleaming in those smiles, the bunny-like front teeth –

("I don't care how tragic his past is! He needs to be locked up for the safety of the public! He's not a boy. He's a monster, a MONSTER!")

And he likes that the walls here aren't white, that no one forces him into white jackets that hurt him and puts him into that bad room, into that bad chair and makes him fall asleep and wake up to see nothing but white, white, white –

"Ya like lookin' at me a lot."

The voices are hushed by the RED Scout's murmur. When he doesn't say anything in reply and blinks owlishly and then stares on, the RED Scout smirks at him and smooths his short, brown hair with both hands. It makes the RED Scout's t-shirt ride up slim pelvic muscles and a flat belly.

"Yeah, I know. I'm good-lookin', huh?"

His answer here is an honest one, too.

"Yes. You are."

"Jeez."

The RED Scout's face is now redder than his shirt. The RED Scout's glancing everywhere except at him, lower lip sucked in as if attempting to not smile, and there is something incredibly endearing about that to him. This is the person who has caught his eye like none other. This is the one who shares and enjoys candy with him, who shares tales of his life and imbues the stillness with said life. This is the one who lets the colors in, who keeps the whiteness, the darkness at bay.

This is … the one.

"Hey. What's the other Scout like? Is he like me?"

The RED Scout has rolled onto his side to face him, one arm folded beneath his head. He's still somewhat flushed, the tips of his lips curved up, blue eyes heavy-lidded.

Pyro tilts his head while he considers the questions. He doesn't interact much with his teammates. They're eager to leave him be, which is fine with him. They've never seen him without his mask on, but really, that's how he likes it. It maintains a comfortable distance between him and them. The distance, though, is also why he scarcely knows anything about his own team's Scout apart from his physical appearance and performance in combat. His own team's Scout looks like everyone else; someone with a tiny, baby-like body and gigantic head, in diapers, with a pair of wings on the back.

His team's Scout and the RED Scout are as different as night and day.

What answer can he possibly give that would justify the RED Scout's worth?

"He is … the moon, a sliver of white easily clouded over and swallowed by the night. You are … the sun, an immense star that brings forth life with the touch of your rays of light. There in the vastness of space, luminous and infinite, even when you cannot be seen."

The RED Scout gapes at him. Amazingly, the RED Scout's face flushes even more, red enough to rival that of a beetroot's. It unsettles him, this incredulity that the RED Scout feels every time he speaks of him. Has no one told the young man such truths? Ever?

An eon trickles by before the RED Scout mumbles, "Man, you've been hidin' behind yer mask the whole time."

Pyro accepts the statement for what it is.

"You've been hiding behind your mask too," he says, his own lips arching up, his own eyes twinkling.

The RED Scout stares at him for a few minutes with sun-filled eyes.

"Yeah … maybe I have. Maybe I have," the RED Scout says solemnly, and the unguarded smiles they bequeath each other are blinding.

Nobody knows it's his birthday in four days' time. It's not their fault, since he never told any of the guys about it. He's not sure he wants them to know anyway, not if it means they'll get him kinky sex stuff and then try to rope him into their kinky sex games and shit. Ugh. If he never sees Engineer's naked ass in leather chaps and Heavy in pink, lacy lingerie again, it'll still be too damn soon. Just ugh.

He also didn't tell Pyro – the BLU Pyro, his Pyro – and he isn't expecting anything whatsoever from his family either, what with Jeb still in the hospital in an induced coma to help him recover from his injuries. (His part of the salary from RED should go to the bills, it's only right.) He doesn't even know if RED will permit the admittance of any items not available in the RED catalog. He isn't about to start testing the Administrator's patience on that, no, sir.

So in this moment, sitting on the mattress in his bachelor pad, holding up two new books that were not there before today in the singed orange-and-purple radiance of a setting sun, he doesn't know what to feel.

There's only one other person who knows about this hideout, about his inclination for the authors of these books.

"Holy crap, first hardback editions of 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?' and 'God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater'."

He traces the neon yellow, cursive title of Philip K. Dick's latest novel with a forefinger and lifts an eyebrow at the dissected sheep on the gray cover. He's going to relish this one, he can tell. He snickers at the chubby pig in a fireman's hat on a bicycle on the cover of Kurt Vonnegut's novel. Hey, it's got an axe like Pyro's. Pyro must have noticed it too and gotten this version since it was first published three years ago in 1965. Jeb doesn't have this book in his collection, which is why he's yet to read it.

He brings the books to his nose and sniffs in the scent of new, printed paper. He loves the smell. It reminds him of summer afternoons, mowed grass, fresh lemonade and his brothers roughhousing outside and Jeb's rumbling voice as they read aloud together.

When Pyro shows up at the pad two days later, they play-wrestle on the floor while the radio plays Steppenwolf and then the Stones, their mirth a tangible, brilliant thing. He takes care to not touch the scarred areas of Pyro's face and neck. They look like they still hurt like fuck, although Pyro never says a word about them. Can't be healthy to wear that rubber gas mask over them so much.

"Thanks for the books," he says later, smiling at Pyro while they catch their breath on the floor.

He lies on his side with his head on Pyro's chest, facing Pyro's shoulders and head. He warbles along to Simon & Garfunkel as they sing about Mrs. Robinson. He can't hear a heartbeat with the blue suit in the way. But maybe one day, the suit won't be in the way any longer. Maybe one day, Pyro will tell him how he got those scars.

"You're welcome," Pyro murmurs, eyes half-shut. "See, I do listen to what you say."

He tells himself that the heat in his face is just the evening sunlight bathing them from the skylight and windows.

"Yeah. You do."

He tells himself that it should be creepy to watch Pyro sleep, to reach out and touch Pyro's nose. He tells himself that he's just a guy, an ordinary guy who's got wants and needs and dreams. Just an ordinary American guy with dreams of a nice house in a nice neighborhood, a nice wife who cooks nice food when he comes home from his nice job and nice kids who get As for all their classes in a nice school. A nice life. A nice death, maybe while asleep in bed with his nice wife at the age of ninety-nine. Nice.

But … he isn't like most guys. He isn't ordinary. He doesn't want a nice job that doesn't make him feel alive, make him live. He doesn't want a nice house in a nice neighborhood if his family isn't with him and under his protection and the folks around him aren't good people. He doesn't want a nice wife – even one who might cook the most scrumptious food in the world and give him the best kids – if she doesn't understand him, doesn't accept him as he is, his penchant for brawls, baseball, sprinting, sci-fi books, sodas, other men and all.

He knows that now.

"I ain't afraid of you," he whispers, mapping out the dip of Pyro's lower lip with his fingertips.

He isn't like most guys. He never will be.

And that's okay.

"I love my job here," Scout says to him while chomping on a sandwich they'd slapped together with bread, ham and cheese from the fridge. "Back in Boston, my brothers always had most of the fun on the streets. I didn't get to run as much as I wanted, not like I do now. When I was smaller, Tony and Danny would hold me back in the house while the others patrolled the turf and if I tried to sneak out, Jeb would box their ears and threaten to lock me in the bathroom. That was dumb 'cause we only got one bathroom for the eight of us while Ma and Pop got their own. The one time Jeb really tried that, Abe had to piss in the backyard and the moron pissed all over Ma's dahlias. She made him clean the drains for a month!"

He likes to listen to Scout's voice and laughter, to the intriguing and often amusing tales of such a large family in a burgeoning, northeastern American city thousands of miles away from here. He doesn't know what it feels like to have seven brothers. He doesn't know what it feels like to have a family like that.

Sometimes, he doesn't know what the faces of Mamma, Poppa and Alissa look like anymore.

"But when I became faster than everybody else, man, that was the day. I was always the first at the fight! Always the one who took down the most bozos, kicked the most ass, ya know?"

Pyro nods.

("Do you want to leave this place? Blink once for no, twice for yes.")

"Yeah … yeah, I think that's how the Administrator found out about me. I know there was a lotta talk about me and my brothers in town after the Appleton gang from the Lower End tried to jump Jeb at the docks and then came onto our turf. Bastards had no idea what hit 'em. They thought midnight made it easier for 'em, but they shoulda known: We're the Quinn Mad Dogs. We own the night."

("You have a rare talent – a gift, if you will – that's wasting away in here. It really is in your best interest to let me … administer and develop that gift.")

"You shoulda seen me that night. I beat those bozos, I beat 'em so bad with my bat, none of 'em could even crawl like a worm after I was done. If they thought I was lettin' 'em get away with tryin' to waste Jeb, they were so, so stupid."

("That straitjacket looks quite uncomfortable. I have alternative attire that I believe you'll find adequate to your needs. It's fire-proof, for one.")

"And Jeb … man, Jeb saw it all. He was there next to me the whole time, fightin' 'em too, and he saw me bein' the baddest fucker in town and ya know what?"

("Oh, I meant rainbows. Yes, they do make you happy, don't they? I'll let you play with as many rainbows as you want. I promise.")

"He was starin' at me with these eyes, lookin' like he had no fuckin' clue who I was, like he was afraid of what he saw. I didn't get it. He taught me how to fight, right? He was the one who taught me how to smash a guy's nose up his skull, how to break a guy's arm or leg with one blow, how to handle a guy with a knife, how to use a bat, a meat cleaver, the good shit that's saved my ass so many times. And he just … he just had to look at me like that. Look like that when she came along."

("Ah, I see two blinks. Good. You're a good boy.")

"Her suit was, like, this bright purple and yellow that could make yer eyeballs melt. She just chucked the suitcase full of money on the coffee table and then everybody was talkin' about what they were gonna do with their share and there's Jeb, sittin' on the couch, glarin' at her like she's the Devil or somethin'. He wasn't even scared of her, but Jeb, well … it takes a lot to scare him."

("Yes, you're going to be my brightest star in the desert.")

"And I didn't get it then, ya know? I didn't get why he kept givin' me that look when I agreed to the Administrator's terms and signed the contract. Sure, I get why he wanted a lawyer to take a look at it first, see if it's legit, but there was no time for that crap. It was a 'sign it right now or never see a million in cold, hard cash ever again' kinda deal. And we needed the money. We did. And I didn't regret it, and that's what I had to keep tellin' Jeb while I was packin' and tellin' Ma not to cry and tellin' the other guys to watch our turf and not blow all the money, and when I walked out to the Administrator's tank – seriously, a bona fide tank with a cannon – ya know what the asshole does? He comes runnin' outta the house and grabs me from behind with both arms so hard that I'm off my feet and I can't even breathe and his face's on my shoulder and … and …"

("You'll make me so proud.")

The voices within and without are hushed for long, wordless minutes by the anguish in blue eyes far too old.

"I always thought, one day, I'll be stronger than him." Scout's voice is hoarse and frail, as if he'd been screaming for hours rather than talking. "I always thought, one day, I'll beat him and I'll be the strongest of the pack and never be ordered around by anyone ever again. That's why I never walked away from a fight with him. Even when he beat me to the ground and I looked more like mashed potato than a guy."

You are strong, Pyro thinks, but doesn't say.

Scout is now sitting hunched forward on the mattress, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten in a limp grasp, his head bowed by the weight of memories and revelations and shame.

"But I'll never beat him. I'll never be as strong as he is. 'Cause maybe … maybe bein' really strong ain't about how fast you can run or how hard you can beat somebody up. Maybe it's about how much you're willin' to give up so the people ya love got it easier in life. Maybe it's about how much you're willin' to let somebody ya love hate yer guts when you're just tryin' to protect 'em and make 'em strong."

He sees the Adam's apple in Scout's throat bob in a hard swallow.

"The Administrator never said anythin' about the Respawn system then. Jeb thought I was gonna fight for a million bucks and die. He thought I was never comin' back. And … he let me go anyway. 'Cause he loved me enough to lemme make my own choices and go where my feet take me."

He sees Scout blink several times, sees sunlight reflect off shiny eyes.

"He never had to say it. That's the kinda guy he is. He never had to say it, 'cause he already showed it in everythin' he did for us. For me."

He sees Scout drop the sandwich onto the mattress. Sees Scout rub and lay bandaged hands over a wan face, over the glistening tracks upon it.

"The docs said … they said Jeb could have permanent brain damage. Said he'll never walk again," Scout rasps behind those hands. "And it's all my fuckin' fault 'cause I got the money that bought that fuckin' stupid car."

It isn't your fault, it isn't, Pyro thinks, and says it through the press of a gloved hand upon Scout's upper arm. Scout's hands remain where they are. Scout sits soundless.

Scout doesn't move away.

"You're a good listener, ya know," Scout murmurs up at the high ceiling of the attic.

He's shifted the mattress from under the skylight for the day so he and Pyro can laze and nap on it in the cool shade instead. The radio's playing a calming jazz tune he's heard before but can't pin down its name. He still finds it somewhat difficult to look Pyro in the eye although it's been over a week since his … outburst. Until then, he'd never permitted his emotions to be displayed like that before, not even in front of Ma and Pop. (Him crying as a kid doesn't count. Fuck, anyone would cry if they got hit in the groin by a baseball zipping through the air at Mach 5.)

He doesn't know why it happened at all. He doesn't know why he doesn't find it as embarrassing as he thinks he should.

He still remembers the sensation of Pyro's hand upon his arm, a shaft of spring sunshine thawing the ice in him.

"Dr. Karlsson made me speak often."

It's a non-sequitur of a reply. It's also the first time Pyro has revealed anything personal about his past.

Scout swivels his head to glance at Pyro. Pyro is staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, his face seemingly blank. Scout is wiser than to believe that, though. There's nothing blank about the person reclined on the mattress next to him. Nothing cold or bitter or ghastly.

Those things can never make his chest tingle with that exquisite, inexplicable pain like it does now, whenever Pyro is near.

"Who's Dr. Karlsson?"

"He was my doctor."

Scout rolls his eyes, then asks as he flips onto his right side to face Pyro, "Yeah, I know he was your doctor. I mean, was he your doctor for your … face?"

"No."

Scout tucks one arm beneath his head as he gazes at Pyro's profile. From this angle, he can't see the burn scars on the right side of Pyro's face and neck. The skin on the left side is smooth and pale, like living porcelain, like a canvas awaiting splashes of color to be admired in the light.

He has to burrow his fingers into his palms to not caress Pyro's cheek, to not paint it with the stories within him.

"So, he was … oh, he was a shrink."

Pyro says nothing, but Scout takes that as a confirmation.

"Back in high school, there was this counselor there who always tried to make me talk to her. Tryin' to reach out to me or whatever, like there was somethin' wrong with me, or like she saw somethin' that had to be fixed. It was creepy. One time, she came up to me durin' lunch and she told me I could always talk to her if I needed to or some shit and, man, nobody would believe me when I said the bruises on my face and arms wasn't 'cause I was bein' abused. Ya can't expect a guy to train with his brothers in street fightin' and not get fuckin' bruised!"

He sighs heavily.

"I had to go see her in her office when she said she was gonna call Ma. Ma was already dealin' with so much crap with Pop bein' outta a job and Paulie fallin' really sick with this bad cough and Danny havin' problems with his boss at the bistro so there was no way I was gonna let that happen, ya know? So there I was, sittin' in this tiny office and the counselor's got her hair in braids and she's got these colorful bracelets all the way up to her elbows and she says to me," – he raises his voice to a screechy falsetto – "'Open your heart, follow your feelings, your happiness and the universe will open doors where there were just walls. Give your feelings a chance to flow out and be free!'"

Scout rolls his eyes again and snorts. An instant later, however, he sinks into the mattress, weighed down by the abrupt realization that he recalls what she'd said word for word.

He'd laughed at her, then. Rolled his eyes so hard they could have tumbled out of their sockets and flailed his arms around as he told her what a bunch of sissy bullshit it was to talk about feelings. She'd simply smiled at him, looked at him with kind, brown eyes that made him want to crawl under his chair and huddle there like a puppy that'd done something bad.

She'd been odd, yeah. But there's a good reason he recalls what she'd said.

"Well … maybe she had a point," he mumbles, thinking again about Pyro's hand upon his arm, about Pyro's soothing presence on the mattress beside him in the aftermath of silent tears and liberated regrets. "I dunno."

Pyro is quiet for so long that Scout assumes he's fallen asleep. His own eyelids begin to flicker shut. He stretches his legs and resettles his head on his arm.

"There was no sun that day."

Scout's eyes snap open. He gives Pyro a sharp glance and sees that Pyro's eyes are open to slits, staring off into the distance, into the past.

"The sky was gray, as if it'd lost its colors and mourned for them," Pyro says so softly. "I was walking home from school. I was hungry, thinking about Mamma's köttbullar and raggmunk pancakes. Mamma makes the best meatballs ever. Alissa loves them too."

Scout holds his breath for several seconds. Holy crap, Pyro's talking about his family. Finally.

"Who's Alissa?" he asks in an equally soft voice.

"My little sister. She is four years old."

Scout's eyebrows lower in a frown of bafflement. What the … Pyro has a four year old sister? Does that mean Pyro's as young as he is? Or even younger? He'd guessed Pyro's age to be at least in the late twenties to mid-thirties, making Pyro's parents at least in their fifties today. Who decides to have a kid at that age?

He gets up on one elbow and scrutinizes Pyro's face. It's still outwardly blank.

He feels the storm brewing behind the impassive wall of pale skin and scars, coiling itself against it.

"I saw the rainbows long before I reached home. They unfurled up to the sky and brushed at the grayness, and they were all I could see as I ran the rest of the way. I was sure I'd taken the right path home. I walked to school and back on my own all the time, and I'd never gotten lost, not once. But that day … the house I saw was covered in rainbows, from roof to ground. They were so bright that I could hardly bear to look at them. I had to shield my eyes with my hands. I tried to look for Mamma, Poppa and Alissa. I shouted for them and tried to find them in the rainbows and then, the rainbows were upon me and I danced with them."

Pyro's gloved hands are loose and open upon the mattress.

Scout's hands are clenched into trembling fists. It's a trembling that bleeds its way into his roiling belly and solidifies into a boulder of ice there as he stares at the scars on Pyro's face and neck.

"Then I was lying down, and I looked up at the sky and it was black and golden and still so bright. There were people all around me. I told them I had to look for Mamma, Poppa and Alissa, that I wanted them to see and dance with the rainbows too. I couldn't get up because there were hands pressing me down. They told me not to move, to stay still. They told me to not look at the rainbows, but I tried to until I was inside a moving room and the doors closed and hid the rainbows from me.

"I was in a white room for a long time. I asked for Mamma, Poppa and Alissa, but no one would tell me where they were. Everything hurt for a while. Then Dr. Karlsson came to see me. He would sit next to my bed and ask me how I felt and what I was thinking. I told him I just wanted to go home. When everything didn't hurt so much anymore, he let me go out. He told me I could go see my house."

Scout draws in a long, shallow breath. It does nothing to ease the throb behind his sternum.

"What happened then?"

"I was brought to this giant, black thing that looked like a house but smelled like ashes. It wasn't my house. My house didn't look like that at all. It wasn't my house because Mamma, Poppa and Alissa weren't there. I was brought to the wrong place."

"Where … where do ya think they are?"

At this, Pyro turns his head to look at him. Pyro's big, brown eyes are warm again. They look at him as if he contains the stars of the universe inside him.

"At the City of Emeralds, of course. I just have to keep following the road of yellow brick to meet them again."

Scout sits up and gapes down at Pyro, his mouth open, his hands loosening to press themselves upon his thighs. The trembling lingers.

"Road of … yellow brick. The City of Emeralds," he mutters to himself, his fingers curling in once more as the pieces of the puzzle Pyro's handed him plummet into place, one by one. "But that's …"

That's a fictional place, in a fictional world in a book of fiction and he ought to know it; The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum was one of the first books he and Jeb read together during those idle summer days when everything seemed so much simpler. And Pyro thinks his family is there. Pyro thinks –

Scout glances at his baseball bat on the floor next to his side of the mattress. He gathers it up and grasps it with both hands.

As Pyro sits up and faces him, he lifts it into the space between them and says, "Pyro … Pyro, what's this?"

Pyro tilts his head as he gazes at the item in question.

"Sura colanappar."

Scout makes a face.

"Is that Swedish for baseball bat?"

Pyro blinks owlishly at him.

"No. Candy."

Another piece of the puzzle slams home.

Scout swallows visibly. After putting down the baseball bat on the mattress, he points at the empty gray-and-orange flare gun on the floor on Pyro's side of the mattress. He asks what it is.

"Fruktnappar."

"Lemme guess: Candy."

Pyro blinks again. On any other day, Scout would find it adorable as hell and mentally punch himself on the chest to stop thinking such mushy crap. Today, he just feels like peeling off that fucking horrible asbestos-lined suit, like peeling off every scar and mark of pain from Pyro's body, neck and face until the plains of Pyro's being are flat and flawless and whole again.

He has to draw in another long breath, a deep, searing one, before he can slide off the mattress to knee-walk to Pyro's flamethrower on the floor half a dozen feet away.

"Pyro, tell me what this is," he says, laying his hands on the steel muzzle of the flamethrower.

The lopsided grin that spreads across Pyro's face is ecstatic.

"That's my rainbow shooter! Isn't it big and gold and just marvelous?"

None of his brothers' fists will ever strike him as hard as those words do. None of them will ever overcome him like the uninvited, appalling visions deluging his mind right now do: A little ash blond-haired, brown-eyed boy carrying a school bag, dashing into the deadly inferno that was once his home, screaming for his mother and father and sister, his face and neck and body going up in flames and everything, everyone he loves burning, burning.

He almost vomits right then and there when he remembers what he'd wished to do to Pyro with a gas lamp mere months ago.

"I made it myself," Pyro says, smiling down at the flamethrower while he strokes its propane tank with the affection of a parent for a beloved child. "After the Administrator took me away from the white rooms and the people in white coats, she put me in a room full of colors and wondrous things and let me build it. It is my pride and joy. It never runs out of rainbows and stars, and that makes me so happy because I can share rainbows with everyone. Rainbows make everyone happy."

If the muzzle of the flamethrower hadn't been made of metal, it would have warped underneath Scout's clutch now.

"Jeezus. Jeezus fuckin' … fuck." Scout blinks hard. Swears inwardly when his stinging eyes don't clear, when his breath snags in his raw throat. "You're not tryin' to kill us. You never were. You … you're tryin' to save us."

Pyro's gentle, hopeful smile splinters something deep in his chest.

Later, while Pyro reclines on the mattress with his head on Scout's lap, he says, "She told me I was a good boy. She told me I have a gift, that I can change the world if I followed her and listened to her. She told me that things would get better because of me. She told me things would get better for me. And she was right."

"Yeah?" Scout rasps, grazing his fingers through the silky tufts of ash blond hair on Pyro's head.

"Yes. She was right," Pyro replies, the ends of his lips bowed up, eyes heavy-lidded and lustrous. "I met you."

Later, much later, as Pyro slumbers and he continues to pat Pyro's hair, Scout thinks about his home in Boston, the only home he's ever known. He thinks about Ma baking her special peanut butter cookies on a Sunday and Pop sitting on the couch reading the papers, eyes crinkling when Ma passes by and kisses him on the crown of his head. He thinks about being on the same couch on another day with Don, Paulie and Abe, watching the TV and laughing like chuckleheads and hurling popcorn at each other. He thinks about running the streets with all seven of his brothers, feeling the cold, invigorating wind of oncoming winter upon his cheeks and through his hair, howling his gratification for their kingdom to hear. He thinks about tussling with Mike and Tony over who gets to use the bathroom next, about flushing the toilet while Danny's still showering and scampering the hell out of there before Danny strangles him. He thinks about Jeb pouncing on him from behind and rubbing those goddamn huge knuckles across his head until he elbows Jeb in the side and Ma tells Jeb to cut it out and help set the table for dinner.

He thinks about Jeb ruffling his hair and tucking the blankets around his shoulders when Jeb thinks he's asleep.

He thinks about the phone call he made to Mass General two days ago, listening to Jeb's earthquake-strong voice and trying to speak over the colossal lump in his throat, trying to say to his brother what he should have long ago, just fucking say it already and hearing Jeb say for both of them, "I know, kid, I know."

He thinks about how damn fragile people can be, their anatomy and their minds, their hearts bound by rules that he himself can't run and escape from either.

And he thinks, actually, it feels pretty good to not be running anymore. It feels pretty good to be here with the sun's rays within reach, here with this sleeping kindred spirit on his lap, this fractured and beautiful spirit, and know that he has more than one home in which to seek and find sanctuary.

Scout isn't here, again. The radio and lamps are switched off. The mattress is under the skylight, smoothed out and bereft of the valleys of Scout's body. Scout's books are neatly stacked against the mattress. The refrigerator hums in its corner, a faithful sentinel brimming with Scout's favorite foods and drinks.

Pyro sees all these things. He sees them.

He outlines the whorls and swirls of the grain of the attic's wooden walls with gloved fingertips, losing himself in them for a century and a day. He browses through the stack of novels and fiddles with the dog ears that Scout's folded on specific pages. He stands in front of the mattress and stares down at it, reluctant to sprawl on it when only his chasms will remain in it until Scout returns. He stands in front of a window and stares at his reflection in the glass, at his skewed hair, his marred face and neck.

He doesn't remember looking like that. He doesn't remember how long he's looked like that. He doesn't remember why he looks like that now. Does Scout know? Scout would tell him if he knew, wouldn't he?

He touches the glass, presses his fingers on his reflection where the bulk of the scars are.

He doesn't remember. But maybe one day, he will. Maybe one day, he will remember and he'll tell Scout everything he remembers, and Scout will stay.

He goes to the fridge last. It's when he switches on some of the lamps that he spots the handwritten note taped to the door of the fridge. Scout's script is bold and sharp, speeding along the rectangular, white paper, so much like its author:

Hey buddy,

The guys are getting suspicious again. Gonna stay in the base dorms for a couple nights to be safe. Don't want them finding you.

Got something for ya in the fridge. Hope I got it right cause I only heard ya say the name and I dunno a lick of Swedish.

Yesterday Jeb told me he walked from his room to the doctor's office. He gave the doctor the finger and told the doctor to fuck off and eat his crutches when he doesn't need them anymore HA HA HA. He said the doctor laughed too.

Jeb's gonna be OK.

Enjoy your gift.

- T.

When he opens the fridge, he discovers a brown paper package in the top compartment and takes it out. He sits on the floor with the fridge door against his back. Whatever it is inside the package, it's squashy and in small pieces and so … familiar.

He opens the package and carefully pours out some of its contents onto one palm.

He stares down at the brown-and-white, pacifier-shaped objects. He plucks one up and opens his mouth and places it on his tongue. He gasps at the stimulating sourness gushing across his tongue.

"Sura colanappar!"

He shuts his eyes for a moment and revels in the flavor. When he opens them again, he sees the verdant front yard of his family home. He feels Alissa leaning against him as they sit on the porch steps and chew on the delightful wine gums Poppa bought for them. He hears her laugh as he holds the package of candy out of her reach, laughs with her and lets her have another piece when she pouts and hugs his neck. He pets her luxuriant, ash-blonde curls as she naps in his arms.

He hears the front door of his home open and close, hears Poppa's steady steps behind him. He feels Poppa's large hand stroke the back of his head.

He hears Mamma's mellow laughter from inside the house.

The sky is bright and blue and cloudless. The scent of baking bread wafts from the open kitchen window. The flowers in Mamma's garden are blooming in the morning sun, and they stun him with their innate and iridescent splendor. The last remnants of the wine gum in his mouth glides down his throat.

The fridge door is unyielding against his shoulder-blades.

He blinks, and the hot haze over his eyes vanishes.

"Tacka dig, min vän," he whispers to the one who isn't there and yet, is there with him in the ways that matter.

He eats the other wine gums on his palm. He reseals the brown paper package and places it back in the fridge. He reads Scout's message to him once more, traces the curves and loops of the letters with a forefinger.

Without the radio on, he has only the profound hush for company. He doesn't mind it.

The voices do not say anything.

The voices do not haunt him, not today.

One more week, and their contracts with RED and BLU will end.

"So Don's freakin' out on me and he says, 'I keep tellin' these bozos, I don't want another Charger, I'm never gettin' behind the wheel of another, ever again!' and I can hear Jeb in the background callin' him all kinds of names, callin' him a chicken and makin' these chicken pok-pok-pok noises and it's the funniest shit."

Scout is seated on the wide sill of one of the attic's windows, one foot on the floor and the other on the sill, his right forearm resting on a bent knee. Instead of his regular red t-shirt and long pants, he's attired in a fitted, white tank top and loose, knee-length jeans. He's filled out in the past three months, the outcome of rigorous strength and endurance exercises with his team's Heavy Weapons Guy and Soldier. It shows in the swells of his shoulders and upper arms, in the broadening of what had already been a toned chest, in the veins of sinewy forearms and in the flat belly and blatant ridges of powerful calf muscles above ankle-high, red sneakers.

"I get it, ya know, why Don doesn't want another car like that. He got off with just a broken arm but he woke up at the scene and … he saw Jeb in such bad shape. It'd mess anybody up. I know it'd mess me up. But I get why Jeb wants Don to get behind the wheel and drive him around again, too. Don can't run from it forever. It'll eat him up, eat his whole life up."

Pyro, also sitting on the wide sill of the window, leans back against his side of the window frame. He's attired as usual in his asbestos-lined suit. He's starting to loathe it. One more week, and he'll never have to wear it again.

One more week … and he will never see Scout again.

"It's weird, man. I started this job thinkin' I'd get so addicted to runnin' that I'd never, ever wanna stop. I thought I'd never get sick of fightin' and beatin' other guys and bein' top dog or whatever. But …" Scout gazes out the window, his lips pursed into a thin line of contemplation. "I guess part of growin' up means changin' into who you're meant to be, even when it scares the livin' fuck outta ya. Maybe especially when it scares the livin' fuck outta ya. And sometimes, what ya wanted yesterday ain't always what you want today. It ain't a bad thing, to change."

Pyro gazes at the young man – and oh, he is indeed a man – and says nothing, humbled by the words born from a lion's true courage, from a tin woodsman's loving heart, from a scarecrow's sage mind.

Pyro gazes at Scout, and sees the magical road of yellow brick meandering into the horizon, beckoning him to resume his journey home.

"Ya know what scared me most about this job? The Respawn crap. You shoulda seen what happened to Sniper last month when he died and got Respawned. He came out with three extra arms growin' outta his back and an extra head growin' outta his chest and Heavy and Spy had to hold him down 'cause he was tryin' to cut off the arms and head with his kukri. And Medic, holy shit, that guy was just laughin' his ass off and clappin' his hands and tellin' Heavy to drag Sniper into his lab and do … who the hell knows what! It was like somethin' straight outta a gory horror movie!"

Scout flings his hands up in the air and shakes his head in incredulity. Then, he snorts, smiling with old eyes.

"That was it. That was the moment I knew I don't wanna do this for the rest of my life. Life's just … it's too short, man. I just know now that the last thing I want is to be away from my family. There's just … I got a lotta things I hafta say to my family, a lotta things they need to know before it's too late. And I … I'm just glad I'm goin' home in one piece and I'll get to kick Don's ass and drive Jeb to college until he can drive again and watch him finish his degree and I dunno, maybe go to college myself. Maybe go for, I dunno, economics or literature or somethin'."

Scout's brown hair shimmers in the sweltering desert sunlight. It's longer, wilder. He watches Scout run the fingers of his right hand through the dense mane. Scout's blue eyes are shuttered, clouded over, staring out the window once more.

"Are you not happy?" Pyro asks. "To go back to your family?"

For numerous minutes, Scout doesn't answer and continues to stare outside, lost in thought.

Then, Scout murmurs, "Where are you gonna be?"

The desert sunlight is arctic in contrast to the warmth in Scout's regard of him.

He stares back at Scout and thinks of white rooms with white, cushioned walls. He thinks of white belted jackets and people in white coats. He thinks of the colorlessness scorching him blind, of the colorless pills muting him, of the invisible incineration of his mind that comes back to him in shards of nightmares.

He thinks of a universe in which Scout does not exist, and he doesn't want to go there.

He doesn't want to go back there.

"I do not know," he replies. Everything he's thinking parade themselves in those four words for Scout to hear.

Scout sits up and leans forward, shifting long, wiry legs. Their knees touch. Neither of them move away.

"Listen. Jeb was burned on his shoulder and chest in the accident." Scout gestures at his own right shoulder and chest with one hand. "He told me he had pretty bad scars, but he also had a really good plastic surgeon at Mass General. He was so good, Jeb says ya can't even tell he got burned, now. And, I mean, money ain't a problem 'cause we both got paid a fuck load of money for this job, right? I know your scars are … old, but I think this surgeon can do somethin' about 'em."

Pyro stares, and stares. The magical road of yellow brick is beckoning him. He sees Scout standing upon it, looking at him. Waiting for him.

"Surgeon?" he whispers, and something in his voice makes Scout clasp one of his knees.

"It's just an idea. Ya don't have to do it if ya don't want to. And the surgeon is … Jeb says he's a good guy. He's helped lotsa burn victims. He knows what he's doin', and he's all about givin' the victims their life back. It's a start. I know you gotta be scared …"

Pyro blinks. Burn victim. Oh, that's what he is. That's what he always was –

"But you don't have to be, not for the rest of your life. We can do somethin' about it. Ya hear me, Pyro?"

Pyro blinks again. The road of yellow brick is shining ever more radiant, and Scout is holding out a hand towards him, waiting, waiting.

"Oh man, I just realized somethin'. All this time we've been talkin', eatin', readin' and playin' together … and I don't even know your name."

Scout's fingers are long and no less elegant for their callouses. Pyro yearns to feel them against his own fingers. Yearns to feel them against his cheek, his mouth, his scars.

"I'm Tyler," Scout says, smiling oh so sincerely, so fondly.

Pyro stares and stares, and sees Mamma, Poppa and Alissa at the kitchen table, smiling at him, waiting for him to join them for dinner. He pinches Alissa on the cheek and giggles when she squeals. He hears Poppa's snort of amusement. He sees Mamma's crinkled eyes and listens to her chide him and, oh … oh, that's his name, that's his name.

He remembers it, again.

He hears Scout inhale harshly as he strips the gloves from his hands. He hears Scout inhale harshly once more when their bare hands meet and entwine for the very first time.

"I am Soren," he says, smiling oh so sincerely, so fondly as he steps onto the golden path. "Tyler … will you help me find the City of Emeralds?"

Will you help me find my way home?

He sees Scout's – no, Tyler's throat ripple, sees Tyler's smile widen even as those large, blue eyes glisten and then blink. Tyler moves nearer to him. Tyler touches his cheek, his mouth, his scars, his heart.

Tyler doesn't let his hand go.

"Yeah. Let's walk the Yellow Brick Road together."

Fin