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So Ives doesn’t survive the war.
It’s probably because of something heroic, he probably used his own body to stop the bullets that would have torn apart the little girl finding refuge from the latest Nazi occupied town. Or because he refused to leave his men to fight a foe that wielded weapons that couldn’t be of their world, weapons that tore good soldiers from reality and left smoke where they stood.
Or maybe there was nothing heroic about it, maybe he’d trusted too easy, been too desperate to find some semblance of comfort, familiarity, affection when all day he saw death and destruction and misery, and instead of giving the men in Washington a chance to send him over that blue ticket, the guys on the front line took care of it quick and quiet. Soldiers came home dead every day, if this one came home with a few bullets in his back rather than across his front no one would care to look into it.
It doesn’t matter how he dies, only that he does. He never makes it home to his boys, never gets the chance to take one more dance, one more drink, never gets the chance to be free from playing the part of a respected sergeant and be happy and himself just one more time. He dies across the sea playing the part of a man he could never be.
It’s years, actual decades, before Harry is of a mind to try and find him. He’s changed now, his hardships have forged him into something other, he’s stopped running, stopped fighting what he’s meant to be. So when he learns his friend never made it home, lasted barely longer than he did, he has the power to make it right, to make amends. And so he does. He steps into the stream that had once been a raging, uncontrollable river, in search of that star-bright soul whose tether is near severed and he finds him broken and bloody but still beautiful on a battlefield he will die on. He reaps the soul personally, lifts it from its broken shell and cradles it to himself until it can stand on its own.
“Flash.”
Free from the burden of life and all her miseries, Ives’ soul is luminous. Exactly as it should be.
“Hello.”
“We thought you were dead.”
“Never that.”
“But I am.” It’s not a question, there’s no need to ask, his body is there at his feet so still and so obviously void of life. He’s not sad, at least he doesn’t look it, only stricken and a little disappointed. “So much for winning that war.”
“You’ve done your part, for it we’ll win. Eventually. But now you move on.”
“Move on where?” he tries to appear unbothered, his usual smirk paints its place on his lips, but it doesn’t work completely to hide how shaken he suddenly is. “I hope all they said in the bible ain’t really true, ‘cuz I’ve lived a life full of sin.”
“Not sin,” Harry corrected. “You lived a life full of love, confidence, beauty. Whoever, whatever comes after, won’t care what form it took. I’ll escort you to its gates and you’ll be accepted as you are. But first there’s something I want you to see.”
“What’s that?”
“What should have been yours.”
Harry had told Ives of his home once before, told him of how what a person was, who they loved, and how they identified wasn’t a crime or taboo. It was done and it was accepted. Ives had wanted it, to see it, to live it, and while not even Harry can offer him a second chance at life, he can at least offer him the chance to see for himself that those who come after him really wouldn’t have to lurk in the dark, hide who they were for fear of persecution and ostracization. So he takes hold of his friend, grips him tight and moves forward.
They land somewhere familiar. It’s New York at just the start of summer and they’re in an alley, kicking around old newspapers and empty, old cans. The buildings on either side have changed, no longer the businesses they’d been some seventy odd years ago, but not enough has changed to make it unrecognizable.
“This is where we met.” Ives looks around, incredulous and amazed. “You brought me home?”
And Harry smiles, just a little mischievous. “Not quite.”
Out on the street it’s loud. There are thousands of men, women, and some who are neither; joyful, and colorful, and proud.
Harry takes his hand and drags him to the revelry, where the flow of the crowd surrounds them completely. Ives’ eyes are huge in his head as they cast about, trying to find somewhere to land but finding too much all around him to choose one thing alone to focus on.
Two men just to their right lean into each other, their lips meet and Ives’ entire body flinches. But no one comes to drag them apart, they’re not hauled down the street and descended upon by an angry mob. Those around them continue to cheer, barely taking notice when a hand slips too low for just a moment. Then they part and move on, grins still in place and lives intact.
“What is this? Flash where are we?”
“This is home. Same place you’ve walked hundreds of time, just a different when.”
“You’re going to have to explain a lot better than that.”
“I told you once that I lived in a place where what you wore, who you were, who you loved didn’t matter. That you could be free and you and the majority wouldn’t care. This is it.”
And finally Ives understands. He takes everything in with a whole new understanding, a totally different level of awe.
“What are they celebrating?”
“Themselves. And everyone who came before them. You. Elton, Russel, Stanley, Ray.”
“I don’t understand. What did we do?”
“You kept true.”
Ives’ hand catches in his, their fingers wind around each other’s inextricably linked and not at all out of place among the crowd who moves around them without ever actually seeing.
“You hurt, you suffered but you kept to who you were, you fought for your right to be you and you died for it. Others did too, they fell to disease and violence and hatred, but for every one who fell a dozen more stood to take up their place and their voices carried. And now because of them and because of you, we’re here surrounded by these hundreds and thousands who love who they love, and are who they are, and they don’t have to hide.
“This future, this world is free and happy and proud, because of you.”