A/N I couldn't leave this story be without busting out the other half of the story. You know, go big or go home. I just felt like MK getting the narration only told so much. Don't expect the others to get their own chapters cause I spent a day typing this up on my iPod and not doing productive shit. This, and replaying Need For Speed Most Wanted. You might see another one of those stories coming out depending on my mood.

Thanks to Tune for uploading this on my account. You're a goddess and I would be a writer dead on my feet without you. But you knew that.

Disclaimer and all, not much to say. I'm hoping this works.

Life after Lucas was infested by noise.

I had raised to the best and worst of my abilities a young astronaut, and when the galaxies we would gaze at in awe claimed his body as well as his heart, all people would talk about is what they lost. He was talented, he was intelligent, he was dedicated, and he died a hero.

I can never see a funeral in such black and white terms. Fifty-three years of losing more people than I kept had painted a youth's rose tinted glasses to red as crimson as blood, as anger, as war. A mother should never be able to see her child as a flawless angel. We only had each other; divorces, fights, betrayal, and accursed loss would be sure of it. I saw him as his best, at his worst, at every peak and in every trip to the depths of hell. I raised a brilliant young man whose conquering of his own faults made him beyond angelic to me. There is something more miraculous about a good man than there is about a million angels. Angels are born with their wings. He worked for them.

The second he finally got to fly, his wings were clipped.

Now all I feel is a consistent sense of falling. Falling through the empty condolences of others, falling through grief, anger, regret, denial. Falling through every morning I wake up knowing he's gone, or worse, every morning I forget. I am falling, falling, falling, and I've left no one to catch me.

-MoD-

The decision to take the invitation of one man who could only send out online requests to unite us together was one I dared not think through. I was left in the house I raised my son in, and every inch of it was a trap that triggered a thousand memories it burned me to think of again. I had to leave, I had to break free, and I couldn't let fear stop me.

I recognized the faces immediately. I recognize the blonde, one who didn't mince words and was as fit as her youth allowed her, from a story about prisoners of war, of which she was the one survivor. The woman I would learn was the wife of a famous television survival expert personality, who played with fire one too many times. The eldest of them all, a tall eighty-year old black man who still had a spring in his step, was a fantastic chef who kick started the culinary scene in his hometown, and would be the first to tell his stories. I don't recognize the host.

Me, I just fell into line. I didn't want to speak, I was tired of being asked questions about my grief for people who didn't care. I simply observed, and observed well. I could understand Samus and realized her honesty to all except herself. I respected Zelda for being open with her emotions and doing her damnedest to provoke the same from us. Gaiman's spirit was enough to light the room more than any Christmas lights ever could.

When they started work in stringing up the Christmas lights and decorations, I seamlessly fell into line. I took directions with a small smile, listening to Zelda's leadership and watching her masterpiece of planning bring Christmas to this old home.

I held a garland in my hand when I saw the host, a man I knew nothing about but had already lost so much of myself to. I don't talk to him, simply giving him the garland. I don't want to talk to him today, even moreso than I don't talk to others. With them, my silence is a safe haven. With him, it is an escape.

He has already made me a fool.

I feel his eyes on my neck, and they burn holes right through me. I pull my robe up until I feel them no more. Even then, after he's gone to work, I still can't get the feeling of his presence off of me.

-MoD-

I remember in sporadic moments. I do my best to fight off the grief. I try and focus on the others and invest in their stories so I can forget my own. But even the best defenses cannot stand forever.

Sometimes I remember. I remember indirectly, when the feeling of loneliness overtakes me. It starts with the people I lost before Lucas. I remember with David, the only man I allowed myself to fall for, a damaged soldier who could only buy into stability and sanity for so long until he threw our world out of balance.

I remember the day I told him to stay away from me. Lucas was crying in his room, falling apart at last, his birthday ruined by his drunk father who spilled forth meaningless rage towards everything, expunging his self loathing onto the things that matter most, to the point where my demand, said in the lowest, most hateful guttural growl I will ever manage, did nothing but convince him to walk out quietly, never to return.

I collapsed on the couch, hating the fact that my relationships had just been broken beyond repair and my son was the one to face the consequences. I listened to his sobs, filled with pain, anger, and confusion, and I bit my lip to keep from crying as well. The taste of my own blood made me stronger as my teeth punctured my skin, forcing myself to stay upright.

When he settled, I knew I had to tell him.

I walked into his room, seeing him sitting at his desk. An endless map of the stars was on his ceiling, and his room was decked in space memorabilia. He sat on his desk, arms folded between books and journals, a sketch pad with a half-finished drawing of a ship open. He tried to work on it, but by the way he was shaking I knew he was failing.

"Lucas," I whispered. "He's gone."

He looked up, but didn't face me. He didn't believe me.

"He's gone," I explained, "for good."

Lucas closed his eyes, shut his notepad, and said the worst thing he could have, the one word that could have broken my heart.

"Good."

He left his chair and abandoned me in his room, where I found myself faced with the aftermath of thirteen years where I was too weak to face a father whose son hated him. In one word I could hear every ounce of exhaustion, every iota of hatred, every molecule of suffering he faced in the stormy seas of this broken family. I had spent so long convincing myself David wasn't unsalvagable, so wrapped up in saving the three of us that all I accomplished was lying to one of us. Now my lies to myself burned in my mind, and I hated myself for spending so long telling myself it could be worse that I never realized it never got better.

I only hoped I could save what I had left.

-MoD-

Sometimes I can take it no more. I dare not show my tears to anyone else in the house. I do not want the questions, the curiosity, the need to upstage your own mourning process. I did not want to hear others talk. I wanted silence.

At times I would leave the home and find my way into the forest. The host's cabin was in the edge of forests on the edge of the Oregon Coast, just before the trees began to disappear into nothingness. Snow covered the ground everywhere, claiming the woods on behalf of Winter. It was cold, it was fresh, it was real. It was everything yet nothing at all. Most of all, it was quiet.

I never set out on my schedule dates to cry, because I convinced myself into believing that to be weak. I told myself that I was simply leaving to draw in the forest, like normal people clearly did often. Like he did.

Of course, memory only gets you so far when you want to recreate them.

I will always remember Lucas, that's a given, but I find myself paralyzed in fear as I realize that his physical form had begun to escape my mind's eye. The pages were always empty, my attempts worthless, my pride shattered.

Feeling so useless, could you help but cry?

My tears were interrupted by gunshots. One, then two. I used to jump at the sound of them, ready to hide under the log I sat on, fearing for my life. Now as I hear the host and Samus hunt, I sit placidly, my tears drying up, too tired to fear for my own safety.

It's not until I hear footsteps that I become anxious. As they get louder I pretend I don't notice, peering into my notebook, holding a pencil in a horrible attempt to feign drawing prowess. I notice them, but I don't see them, just feeling the burn of his eyes on mine.

"Talk to her," I hear Samus command. I hope she isn't successful, but I also know commitment isn't in the host's best ability. Nothing happens for a few moments except my heart hammering out of my chest. Predictably, the footsteps fade away, and I become cold once more.

Still, I burn inside. The host angers me just to think about. Sometimes I swear I hate him for leaving me high and dry, but I feel like I hate him for doing what I do to others, which makes me feel kindred to him, a mirror darkly of his own fears of opening up. I just wish he'd never held out his hand once just to take it away once more.

People have already shattered my faith so many times, and it is so hard to rebuild it when I let someone else break it for nothing.

-MoD-

Despite the decorations being up, Zelda insists on all of us meeting together to plan for the holidays, though I could expect nothing more of the woman who still was fixing every ornament of the tree even as she spoke. Today, Gaiman took some of the duck Samus hunted and fixed it up, cracking wise about inviting Christ to his own birthday to taste his food. Gaiman is confident, but not arrogant, taking his flaws and using his skill to overcome them. As the others dig into the duck, I see them approve, and I know Gaiman's confidence is not wasted.

I face it, and will myself to eat it, but I am not hungry. I barely eat anymore, in fact I feel like I only exist via pure technicality. I must look like a corpse that failed to die. When I feel the slow burn on my skin, I can only imagine what the host is thinking. I don't look up, but I can just imagine his judgment, his striking eyes of near orange condemning me as hopeless, as I have been condemned and condemned myself to more often than not.

The thought angers me, even if I have no proof. How dare he judge me for being broken when he hardly helps to fix me. He could have, he nearly did, but he would not.

I turn to look at him. He sharply turns away, caught in the act. Predictable.

I get up and leave the room as nonchalantly as I can, despite his eyes lighting me on fire that could burn down the forests.

I retire to my room to sleep, and it's amazing that for a short time I was ever awake.

-MoD-

Samus once cracked that a mother of a teenage son deserved a medal of honor. Coming from someone who had their own made it even funnier, and in my humble opinion, confirmed it as true.

I suppose any teenaged child was due to be a hassle; even in my fifties I can attest that deep internal conflict brings out the worst in anyone. Still, it wasn't enough that he was going through his rites of passage, but he entered them in the most tumultuous stage in his life, where his mother was trying to put the pieces of their life together whether he liked it or not.

I was in Lucas' room again. David had been a distant memory for over three years now, although always one it burned to remember. It was a different room, in a different home, but even though his room wasn't covered in memorabilia so his friends wouldn't find him odd, I could still tell it was the room of someone who belonged more to the stars than of this own world.

I hated the fact that I would have to pack it up and move it once more, but not as much as the fact that when I told him, he nodded with the resigned inevitability of someone used to fate taking him down a lonely road. I wished he'd yelled at me, slammed his door, told me he hated me; I can deal with that, I can understand that.

We weren't at the point where silence is all that I wanted. Right now silence was the worst thing in the world.

Equally resigned to our fate, I figured the least I could do was some surface level packing. Not too deep, he was still a teenage boy, so I knew I could find worse things to deal with than his silence. Instead, I picked some of his books off of the shelf, organized them into a box, and left it open so he could amend things for me. I made it to his desk, before realizing a key component was missing.

Lucas was out with friends, one last time before they became a new set of memories. When that was the case, he never took his notebook. It wasn't cool, or something, Gods only know. Yet, it wasn't there.

That's when a scary thought entered my mind, and no force on Earth or space could stop a mother with a scary thought.

I dug through his shelves, and the books I packed, not noticing his favorites in there. I looked in his clothes closet, noticing his favorite outfits were gone. I ran into the kitchen, and as I tore through the cupboards, I realized an incriminating lack of pop-tarts and Cheetos.

Gods help me, I've driven my own son away from me.

The rest of the night is a blur in my mind. Desperate phone calls to nowhere, a night of driving around looking for him, finding him at a fast food joint outside of Bremerton on the outskirts of town, bag packed with a boy I'd never met with makeup on his eyes.

After that, silence. He was caught, he had no defense. He packed his boxes, listened to my lectures, and stayed with me as though he was a prisoner, not as a child.

The silence was not to punish me, not as a petty act of revenge, but because he had neither a way to say what he wanted, or faith that I would listen.

It wasn't until we drove down the Interstate that I finally asked him to speak. I apologized for not supporting him, but affirmed that we were in this together. We always were, an aimless planet and a loyal moon that, try as he might, could never break his orbit.

I expected him to start with him angrily telling me about how he didn't want to move, how I was ruining his life, and other old standbys from the teenager tantrum playbook.

I didn't expect him to apologize.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for not trusting you."

I closed my eyes for a moment until I realized we were driving, and the roads were especially icy at this time of night. I prepared a response when he beat me to it, sidelining one conversation for a new page to turn into, giving me his trust in a way I hadn't expected, even if a mother's intuition can usually be trusted to be ready for the news.

"Mom," he said, taking a deep breath. "I'm gay."

And here I was thinking I'd scared him away from men. "Okay," I replied, not wanting to scare him but realizing this is a shift I didn't expect to talk about. "I'm glad to know. Just don't make the mistakes I made."

"I've learned a lot from you," he promised. I cracked wise about that being what I was afraid of more than anything, and the conversation ended, but as his life went before my eyes, I realized that the way he stood up for himself might have been inspired by the choices I made to protect us. He was strong even when I was weak, and that made me stronger.

-MoD-

Every once in awhile Zelda unites the five of us to process our grief. She led by example, willing to talk about her own process, tears and all. I caught her talk about finally reading the journals Link wrote in during his expeditions, which changed her love of a strong, silent man, to an understanding of someone who had so much to say about her beneath the surface. All of us had a million tales to tell under our skin, even someone as open as Zelda.

I also recall Gaiman talking about his own family. He cracked wise about how after his wife passed, he jetted here to make sure they didn't put him in a home, but now realized he couldn't run forever, and was going to build the bonds he abandoned while standing his ground. Zelda said if they could taste his food they'd know he'd be strong on his feet. "Til the day I die," he promised.

I wonder if he noticed me beaming at his progress.

Samus was the one who struck a false note in my mind. The decision not to reenlist was unsurprising; even though her accomplishments were lauded, and justly so, I was in the room next to her. When she awoke screaming, she woke me up too. I knew she'd reject me if I tried to comfort her, but seeing her try and shrug off her choice as an everyday decision makes my gut clench up. She's a terrible liar. I can see the look of resignation in her eyes. It reminds me of Lucas. In that moment in her life, I hate the world for what it did to her.

Maybe space was the one true refuge.

I'm so caught up in my own daze that when the names of myself and the host are said I don't notice at first. The host shakes his head, as silent as ever. I am no better, getting up to leave before I break.

Before I know it, I'm in the forest again. The injustice of the world has broken my shell and it won't be an easy fix. At my log in the corner of the world, I let myself cry without reason, angry at all the sleepless nights, all the broken hearts, all of the family strife, all of the gaping holes in our lives, and angry that myself and the host are too scared to speak, yet all I can remember is the moment the two almost had a real bond, and it was ripped away before I could even lose it by my own accord, like I was so volatile by nature.

-MoD-

He was a clean slate. He was the one who offered four strangers a place in a meager cabin to help us recover from all that the world did to us. He was the one who didn't question us for our strange habits, the one who never made us feel like we were taking advantage of him or infringing on him. Yet, he rarely spoke beyond necessity, never shared his story, never gave any sign that he was like us until the night he tried to kiss me.

We met in the living room by mistake. It was night, and we were milling about avoiding sleep so we would not have to dream, I assume. We had no plans or destination, but we found each other.

I fired the first flare. "Hello."

He didn't respond, and in the dim iridescence of Christmas lights I was able to observe him. He was shorter than I, barely taller than Lucas. His skin was tan despite the winter, leading me to presume it was natural. He had a goatee, he still wore his boots and jacket like armor, and when I looked straight into his eyes, the ones that felt so scalding now, I felt a warmth in my heart.

He looked stronger than a redwood, but there was such an underlying sorrow in his eyes that I couldn't help but relate. He was so much like I, that despite not knowing him I felt like I knew him forever.

Not knowing what else to do, I took him into my arms, embracing him in a way that was ambiguous, unsure, but welcome. He placed a hand on my hip, cautiously to avoid overpowering me. I relaxed, okay with the way this was going. I'd not been affectionate with anyone in so long, and I was terrified, but willing to try anything, so I moved down to look him in the eye, trying to communicate that this was okay, that I was game.

He kissed me, and it ended as quickly as it began. I tried to return it, but he broke away, and in his eyes I read shame, shock, and terror. I could only look back, not running, trying to show I wasn't upset, that I was okay.

He didn't move, looking away.

The sensation of warmth left me, and I was cold and clammy once more, like someone who was asleep for far too long being put back to bed. Defeated, I walked away, and I felt the same resignation I'd seen too starkly in Samus' eyes.

I just wanted to feel again. Rejection and anger was better than nothing, I suppose.

-MoD-

The day I'd met Lucas' future husband, I knew immediately that he was the right man, to the point of near envy. They talked with a familiarity that felt far more expansive than the few months they knew each other, and the affection also mirrored this. As we sat down to watch Bend's homegrown Christmas Parade, I was as content to watch the two of them talk as I was to participate.

The beau in question was a unique man. He wasn't as camp as I expected, but still had a spark to him that was limitless. His energy was infectious, and even my son, as quiet and introspective as he was, bounced off of Toon's energy. As the stage name would indicate, he was a character, and I enjoyed knowing he'd be a part of my life.

Eventually I broke up the reverie as we waited for the first float. "So, what else is going on upstate?" I asked. "I hope you've been managing well in school."

Lucas sighed, but with a knowing fondness. "You don't possibly think I'd show my face around here if I was failing?"

Toon elbowed him. "Oh you gotta tell her," he said, "you have to."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm dying to hear."

He blushed. "Oh, well..." he looked around his person for something. "Shit, Toon, do you have it?"

Toon smirked. "Like I'd miss a chance to embarrass you in front of your mother?" He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a small paper stack.

"Damn it, Toon," Lucas mumbled, looking down. I could only imagine what the college days were doing to a once innocent young man. Toon laughed a chirpy little giggle and dramatically popped a kiss on the side of his head before handing me the paper.

I read it, immediately finding the name "Lucas Stellan". I don't know what I expected, whether he made the honor roll or killed a man, and the teasing and clues were no help, until my breath caught as I read it.

"Told you she'd cry," Lucas said.

I couldn't help but get emotional as I read Lucas' newsletter article, where he expressed his love for the stars and how it translated to his love for life. I would give anything to find that paper today, or at least a copy of it, but I still remember one passage.

"I used to think that the enormity of the universe was too inaccessible, and that I was too small in comparison to matter. Now, it's inverse. I am no bigger, and the galaxies are no smaller, but I realize if I am so small and insignificant, there's no reason to live life anything short of fearlessly. I love freely, I pursue my dreams, I try new things, and I enjoy the world around me. I'd urge anyone not to feel like the galaxies make you insignificant. You're never too small to reach for the skies."

Toon grabbed me dramatically, feigning tears in his eyes as blue and big as the sky, but an unmistakable gleam of love still shining through. "Isn't our boy just a poet?"

I can only nod, proud that all of the things that went wrong in our life didn't stop from making sure he turned out all right.

"Yeah, not sure if you could tell, but Toon does theater," Lucas explained, trying to divert my attention from the paper, blushing redder than the Santa hat Toon was wearing.

"I caught that at the stage name," I replied wryly.

Toon laughed, thrilled that I was already familiar with him enough to partake in the playful spirit. "Well, a name like Jon just isn't enough to express my spirit. You know how it is with us college theater students."

"I'm sure if I tried to remember, I could, but I'm getting older by the day."

I handed Lucas the paper back, and to keep from embarrassing him, just clapped him on the shoulder. He responded by hugging me, pulling me tight like I would disappear if I let go. From the corner of my eye, even Toon looks affected by the embrace.

He lets go when he's good and ready, and I let him go back to bantering with Toon. The first floats come in, as handcrafted and humble as you'd expect, but my eyes are on Lucas. He's short, not like myself, but he stands tall. His wispy blonde hair swirls up in a faux hawk, he's dressed in a striped holiday sweater, and his eyes have a new energy to them. I finally see the man my son was always destined to grow up into, and I already feel as though I got my Christmas gift.

-MoD-

I spend some time near the Christmas tree. As usual, I listen, never speak. I think the notes I've taken about the others will be good to get Samus, Zelda, and Gaiman good gifts, but any information I get is good. Besides, Zelda is busy interrogating Mister Mystery himself about what he wants for Christmas. Predictably, he has a monologue of non-answers. To my surprise, Zelda cuts right through it without a fuss.

"You should let us worry about you. It's what you brought us here for."

I find myself emphatically agreeing with her, to the point where I nearly speak up in support, but stick to my vow of my silence before it's too late. I keep my hand on the tree, trying to find peace while staying incognito when I feel my hand held to the fire once more.

I look up, and the host is looking at me, on guard. We stand next to each other, dangerously close. I give him a look that keeps him on edge, one that tells him he already had his chance. I didn't notice until it was too late that he'd almost spoken to me for the first time since the kiss.

I swear to myself and leave the room. I head outside, even though sadness isn't my exact mood, and prepare to head into the forest to get away from the holiday madness. At this point, I almost prefer the nothingness.

I'm stopped cold in my tracks when I hear his footsteps, too desperate for comfort. I turn around sharply, facing him, until he- of course- stops. I realize again that I'm giving him a look Medusa would envy, but at this point I don't care, I'm beyond frustrated with him.

He looks at me. I look at him. I am reminded of a Seussian tale I would read Lucas every now and again about the Zax, a tale of two stubborn morons like ourselves who stand in each other's way but refuse to move.

In his eyes, I see terror. It's a terror that's transcendent, beyond being scared of a woman who looks close to breaking. Against myself, I wonder how much I've misjudged him.

I can't take it. I breathe out and leave him. When he doesn't follow me, I wonder if I've burnt the bridge for good.

-MoD-

The days before Christmas disappear too quickly. More planning, more routines, more meetings, more ceremonials, but so little meaning. I am not invested, because I give so little, and I wonder if I've lost the capability to give my all.

Eventually I force myself to make my way to town and shop. Samus gives me a ride, as quiet as ever. She knows enough about life to know which kind of people ask a lot of questions and who don't like to ask questions, gravitating towards the latter. As her beat up Toyota makes its way to Newport, not even the radio fills the dead air.

We arrive to the boardwalk and split quietly. I have three gift ideas, and I looked up in a phone book where to find them. Now it's just time to get to doing.

I walk along the boardwalk. Watching the others go along the street is unnerving. There are so many others here, to the point where I fear the shops will make me claustrophobic. All the chatter, all the noise, all the activity has already unnerved me, and I can barely hide it.

I'm almost to the first store when, speak of the bloody devil, he finds me. I prepare to avoid another standoff when I see him.

Lucas.

I nearly scream, I nearly cry, I nearly jump out of my skin, I nearly do many things, but I manage to keep my reaction relatively inconspicuous in ratio to what I want to do, but it doesn't keep him from dropping the bag with the newspaper in it that has my son's face. I clench my hands together and try and catch my breath, but I feel like I'm about to have a heart attack, which at this rate would be more than welcome. I just want this all to stop, because I am close to breaking.

You apologize, and it's enough for me to reach for your hand. We look each other in the eye, and I withstand the fire.

"Do something." I demand. I'm done, I'm here. You've caught me, you've awoken me, and you've nearly driven me off the deep end. One interaction has weighed on me so heavily that I can't think straight, because I nearly began to feel again and you took it as fast as you gave it. Hate me, love me, kiss me, scream at me, just don't leave me, for the love of God.

I squeeze your hand, awaiting for you to show signs of life. You're frozen. I have finally turned you to stone. Any avenue we could have taken appears to be gone, because of you, because of me, because we are so desperate to escape the pain that we have sold our souls to the devil, willing to keep from speaking if it means we never have to say what we're really thinking.

I surrender, and I leave you at long last, my footsteps saying more than I know.

-MoD-

Even at his funeral, I never cried harder in my life than when Lucas handed me the acceptance letter from NASA. Toon held his arm raptly as I read it, a wide grin on his face. Both of them were in their mid-twenties, a lone ring on their ring fingers, so together, so grown, so successful. I had no clue what I'd done to be so blessed, and could only cry as I tried and failed to read the letter.

Lucas launched forward in a way that suggested that Toon literally pushed him towards me, and he grabbed my arm. Not content, I stood from the table, steadying myself on my feet to wrap him in a hug that I never wanted to let go of. In my mind ran all the risks, all that would change, and how extreme of a transition it would be, but I was ready, because he was ready. I knew I'd have to let go of him, not just from the embrace, but from my immediate life, so he and Toon could move across the country to chase goals larger than I could comprehend.

"I'm so proud of you," I choked out.

Truth be told, I was proud of myself as well. Despite all of my flaws and shortcomings, I managed to raise a son that achieved his dream that he'd wanted all of his life, who had a fiancé that was loyal yet unique to him to challenge him in ways no one else could, that was going to change the world. I had no clue how many days I had left, nor where my destination was, whether it be decades or minutes, around the world or still here, but I knew I would leave this Earth having accomplished something.

-MoD-

I bought a copy of the newspaper, and now I'm alone on the boardwalk reading it. I'd made so much effort to avoid news, avoid the world around me, avoid thinking about life outside of my hiding place from the world, that I didn't know about this tribute to him, his final resting place.

I read the newspaper, and with the summarization of the tragedy come the accomplishments. As I read about how well he did in his brief tenure, at first it all overwhelms me with just how much the world lost when the ship blew up. The children of many, not just I, had so much to give, so much intelligence, bravery, and passion to explore places so few would, to bring back power and information that would make the world a better place, only to have it end on one of their very first missions, where they become nothing more than stardust.

Then I remember his words, and the inverse happens.

Like a switch, I think of all that he got to do, some of which that I still will never be able to do. He excelled in school, earned the acceptance of others, withstood a tumultuous childhood without resentment, found true love, and saw the galaxies outside his window, closer than most men ever will be.

Good men are harder to find than angels, but my young angel became a good man.

I only wish I could understand how to say this to others, but I take the first page of the newspaper, look Lucas in the eye, seeing how exhausted he was, and try and memorize it for later. Then, I leave it, and prepare to shop.

I find gifts that let others find their voice. I find Zelda a journal, so that she may leave behind her own legacy for the world to see. I find Samus a photo album, so that she may have the courage to make memories anew in a world that has only left her with twisted ones. I find Gaiman a track phone with some minutes, so that he may find a way to build the bridges with his family stronger than ever. I don't know what to get me, and I don't know what to get the host, but I accept easy fixes are but a fantasy.

As I prepare to leave, Samus is the one who finds me. She's got a smirk on her face, and she's pointing to an object in her hand. As I catch up with her, she hands it to me. It's a CD for a group I don't recognize, and I wonder why I should care.

"You'll never guess the dirt I dug up," she says. I read the name of the band. The Checkered Knights. I hand it back to her, confused.

"Oh, lemme..." she turns it around and points at two names on the back. Purin Knight and...

Oh, Gods.

I now know what to get him, at least.

-MoD-

We listen to the CD on the way back. As usual, he is silent, but she has an amazing voice. She sings like a bell, with energy and passion, the same way that Lucas wrote about space. The lyrics are of romance beyond my comprehension, so true and meaningful that even silent, he appears.

Suddenly things make a lot more sense.

We arrive back. She parks the car and says, "He's good."

I nod.

"Imagine if he spoke up," she adds. "The things he could say."

Imagine indeed. I wonder what I could say as well.

"Thank you," I tell her. I open the door, and prepare to leave. As I do, she does as well, and we run into each other on the other side of the car. I stop, and so does she.

"Hey," she says coyly, confused in an amused sort of way.

I am almost too scared to speak, and I have too much to say to keep quiet, but I choke out "you take care of yourself."

"Look who's talking," she replies, keeping wit despite being pretty clearly surprised. Her smirk masks a gasp, and her eyes read something I haven't seen in them yet: satisfaction.

She reaches out and gives me a quick hug. It's a small embrace and clap on the back, but it's more than I ever expected. She gives me a short salute, and she's sincerely smiling. I go into my room, set the gifts down, and grab my sketchbook before I forget Lucas' face.

Running and not just walking, I take the sketchbook and set out to find my log. The forest becomes a beautiful blur, and the cold air gives me energy that my frail body hadn't given itself in ages. It isn't until I reach the edge of the woods, seeing miles of deforested stumps before me, that I realize I overshot it drastically.

Oh.

I look out at the nothingness, feeling like I'm on the edge of the Earth. I can only imagine what was once here before industry and business could take it for itself. The woods around the host's house felt endless enough, but it could have been so much more than a graveyard of death.

The trees are gone. Lucas is gone. Purin is gone. Link is gone. Mrs. Gaiman, Samus' troupe, the others on the Astromeda, and billions I will never meet, all are gone. But I remember the law in Oregon that requires that for every tree taken down, two new ones are planted. Even after I am gone, after all five of us go in whatever order, the seeds we planted will remain and will go on without us.

That's when I realize I can no longer do nothing.

First things first, I sketch. I draw Lucas to the best of my abilities, remembering vividly the picture of him in the newspaper. Every hair on his head contains a memory, the color of his eyes contain his soul, the structure of his face shaped by the life he lived. I finish it by fixing the memory of the paper and give him a genuine, shining smile.

I begin to cry again, but it's not entirely sad this time. At least I'm finally able to express a proper farewell. For once, I am fearless.

When his footsteps enter the scene, I still feel no fear, even with his fire on the side of my face. I don't look up, and I don't wipe my tears. If he makes his move, it will be with me at my rawest, at my most sickly sincere. No more, no less.

When he does make his move, I smile, and look at him. I don't know what the change is, but I understand sudden, rapid change, sparked by one particular moment. Maybe I can understand him as well, and through him understand myself.

I see him shiver, and I like the idea that it's not from the cold. I start the conversation with "I hope this is your attempt to do something," hoping that either he'll progress or he'll step back, and I can make my path from there.

He sighs, but he says, "Yes."

Good.

He looks at my drawing, and I don't hide it. He takes my hand, and I don't fight it. He doesn't kiss me, and I don't push it. Compromise makes a good relationship, after all, wherever this goes, or so I'd imagine. His silence is a concentrated silence, and I can only imagine what he's thinking, what the one he lost has left him with.

His eyes shine enough to melt the snow, and I finally tell him that his eyes are like fire. He looks at me, and I feel comforted, not burnt. It reminds me of something even I had forgotten, and I let Lucas' page go to show him his own portrait. I'm not sure what he thinks, but silence is our first language, and whether he knows it or not, he's smiling.

He hands me a plate of food, which surprises me. I hadn't considered the idea that he cared that much to notice me. I blush. "I know, I must look like death," I say, and attempt to eat. I'm far from successful but I get in a few bites. He seems to understand. "I'm sorry if I worried you."

I set the plate down, and he fixes the tinfoil. "After everything..." he swallows. "I have done nothing but worry. I only wish I had found my way to you sooner."

And I only wish I had met you halfway, and pulled you over to my side instead of resenting you for struggling with the same struggle to speak that I had. The past can stay in the past, though. It's time to enter the future. It's time to live again.

"I do not know your journey," I say, each word weighing more than the world, and as relieving as that implies to let go of it, "but I know if you continue to take it alone, you will never make it. Take me with you, and perhaps we will both find our way out."

His skin feels warmer on mine, and he reaches into his bag for something. Before I can tell him to save it for Christmas, it's in my lap. I almost don't notice it until I realize it's the second sketchbook I hold.

I open it. It's empty. No note, no drawing, nothing but clean pages. Silence is still our primary language but he's already said more than I imagined.

"Thank you," I breathe, ready to cry again. "I didn't expect this."

He shakes his head in disbelief, but I really am surprised. From the moment he laid hands on me I knew he was going to be important, but this isn't how I expected it to happen. Since turnabout is fair play, I realize I have his gift in my pocket. I pull out a music player and some headphones. It's nothing fancy, but if he gives me a new page to turn, I will give him new songs to listen to.

He doesn't quite understand what it is until I give him one headphone and start an album by the band that Lucas and I used to listen to beneath the stars. I can see the look in his eyes as his heart catches. Good. He loves it already. I'm glad he's got good taste.

I can feel every emotion he could ever say in his hand as he hears the music that's given me so much. I wonder if he knows how much I already know about him just by his presence and his body language, but we say nothing, letting the wordless music speak our native tongue for us.

He already is unforgettable.

It's nice to meet you, Mr. Knight.

-MoD-

Lucas and I sit beneath the stars. I have The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place on the CD player beneath us. The grass beneath us is soft and authentic, the dirt beneath a solid foundation for a goodbye. Tomorrow he leaves for college and I already miss him.

He's teaching me how to draw, showing how he creates his structures and teasing me when I slip up. It's frustrating, and it's only just now becoming something I can do, but I enjoy learning it.

Every once in awhile, his gaze turns toward the stars, where he traces constellations with his eyes and gets lost within them. More than happy to set the sketch pad down, I tap him on the shoulder.

"I'm going to be up there someday," is all he says.

I believe him.