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It was the end of the world.
Pete Mitchell knew it. The entire world knew it.
The papers say it’s doomsday, the button has been pressed .
The war had already devastated half of the planet, and the other half was burning. He’d hoped he wouldn’t see the end, but life had never been fair and death had never wanted to take him. Hell, if it wasn’t for the INCOMING NUCLEAR MISSILE notifications blaring from his phone, he probably would’ve lived forever.
Tom had gotten home an hour or so earlier, a grim look upon his face. Though no longer an aviator--or a Naval Officer at all--Pete knew what the face meant. There was nothing they could do to stop the bombs.
Not even a month after the failed uranium plant mission he’d been tasked to teach, the entire world had broken into a fatal war. He always blamed himself for the failure; maybe, if he hadn’t been the one tasked to teach, they would have succeeded. Maybe, if he’d flown the mission, his son would still be alive.
A part of Pete was glad that Bradley had died in the mission, as he wouldn't have to see what the world had become. A dark, desolate place. Countries across the globe wiped out, civilizations extinguished. Even the most populated cities in America had been bombed.
He was glad that he and Tom hadn’t actually lived at a naval base in years. Or, maybe he wished they still did. Their deaths would’ve been quick, unexpected. Pete wouldn’t have seen the horrors he’d seen the past month.
Pete turned off his phone, completely shutting it down. It wouldn’t matter, anyways. No one would be calling him now. Everyone he’d loved was already dead: Goose, Carole, Bradley. His parents. Even Charlie, Penny, and Amelia were gone, their small home near NAS Miramar evaporated in the initial blast that had taken out the base. All Pete had left was Ice.
“Mav,” a weak voice called for him, and Pete looked up from the black phone screen. Tom was standing in the doorway, gazing upon him with sad eyes.
Distantly, a siren went off. Those were getting more and more common.
Pete swallowed a lump in his throat, blinking away the tears in his eyes. “I’m not ready, Tom.”
Tom’s eyes softened and he stepped over to his husband, sitting down on the couch next to him. “I doubt anyone is,” came his raspy voice, rough from weeks of arguing and fighting with military officials and politicians. Pete had told him not to strain his voice, especially this soon after his throat surgery. Not that it mattered, anymore.
They didn’t say anything for several minutes, just sitting quietly. Pete thought about the things he wished he could do one last time but would never have a chance. Drink a morning coffee while sitting across from Tom, watching his husband ramble on and on in sign language about some two-star admiral that pissed him off. Watching the sun rise in the morning outside his hangar. Soar above the clouds, artfully twirling through the sky. Hug his son, tell him that everything would be alright. Dance to Frank Sinatra with Tom in the kitchen. Playfully fight with Slider. Eat his favorite foods. Stand barefoot by the sea, letting the waves wash over him.
He’d give anything to watch the sunset with Tom once more, but the sky was always dark with fog, smoke, and fallout. It was hazardous to step outside without a full body hazmat suit, these days. Not that it mattered anymore. He couldn’t get cancer if he was dead.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” Tom said, eventually. He reached over, grabbing one of Pete’s hands and just held it, rubbing his thumb over the skin there.
Pete turned his head away from his husband, looking at the television. He’d never get to settle in next to Tom, curling close to each other to watch a movie, again. They’d always wake up to the end credits, their bodies stiff from sitting at weird angles. “How much longer do you think we have?”
“Could be any minute now.” Tom sighed, closing his eyes. “I’ve stopped paying attention to the alerts. No use worrying about it now.”
“Yeah,” Pete answered, nodding. He looked back at Tom, offering him a small, sad smile. At least he’d die with the love of his life by his side.
Tom returned the tiny smile, squeezing Pete’s hand. “I made some dinner, if you want some?”
They both knew it was pointless, eating now. But it was something to take their minds off of the end.
They both stood, walking hand-in-hand to the kitchen. The kitchen table was set for two, twin glasses full of wine and twin plates of steak and mashed potatoes. Pete was surprised Ice had whipped it up in an hour, but he wouldn’t complain. Tom pulled his chair out for him, and he sat down and set his napkin in his lap. He’d at least try to enjoy one last meal with his husband, without thinking about their impending doom.
Tom went to the old vinyl player they had in the corner, slipping one of their specially-ordered records that had all their favorite slow dancing songs on it. My Way by Frank Sinatra started playing softly as Tom came back to the table, sitting across from Pete.
They toasted with their wine, clinking their glasses together. “To a good life with each other,” Pete said, letting a soft smile overtake his face. He studied his husband, taking in every single detail just like he’d done a million times before. The same smile lines near his eyes, that gray and blond hair that Pete loved to run his fingers through. Those lips that he kissed whenever he could, jaw that he’d trace. He’d always found Tom attractive, even when they were rivals.
Pete had always been a, well, a maverick. He was wild and unpredictable, dangerous and feral. He’d calmed down a lot with his old age, but his energy was always matched by Tom’s. Tom, who was calculated and precise, ice-cold and just as dangerous as Pete. As wingmen, they were legendary. As Tom climbed the ranks and became the youngest Commander of the Pacific Fleet ever, he still had Pete’s back.
God, he loved this man.
“I love you,” Tom rasped, setting his wine glass down to squeeze Pete’s hand again.
Pete brought Tom’s hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “You are my everything.”
They ate dinner in silence, simply enjoying the presence of one another. Pete ate every last thing on his plate, unable to stop the groan that escaped his lips when he bit into the steak. Tom always knew how to make it perfectly to Pete’s tastes.
Afterwards, neither bothered to clean up. There was no point, as with so many other things. They’d go out in a blaze soon enough. Instead, Pete stood and offered his hand to Tom as the soulful trumpet intro of It’s Been a Long, Long Time began. Tom took it with shaky fingers, something that Pete noticed happened more and more often these days. Perhaps it was their age, perhaps it was the stress, perhaps it was Ice’s cancer returning. There was nothing Pete could do to stop the shake, though. Just one of the many things he couldn’t do.
Tom settled his hands at Pete’s waist, holding him gently. Pete’s arms rested around his shoulders, his forehead on Tom’s collarbone. They swayed slowly to Harry James and Kitty Kallen, the unspoken thought that they both shared hanging over their heads. How much longer did they have?
Pete wished he could go back in time and fix everything. Go on the uranium mission, make sure he died instead of Bradley. Maybe he’d travel to the night when Bradley first left them and explain that he hadn’t wanted to pull his application to the Naval Academy, that it had been a promise to his mother. Hell, why not go back to the day Goose died and force himself to be patient, to not fly through Ice’s jetstream and spin out? He could’ve done all the things he should’ve done and stop the events that led to today.
But he couldn’t. Goose still died, Bradley still hated him for over a decade, and then he still died in a mission that was basically suicide.
He wondered if the rest of the younger aviators that he’d been tasked to train had died yet. Pete was sure that most were sent to fight in the war effort.
The record scratched as it came to the end, ready to be turned to the next side. Tom pulled away from Pete with a little sigh, going to flip the vinyl over. Pete watched with sad eyes, wishing with all his heart that they were young again, that the tense set to Tom’s shoulders was simply because of work and not the end of the world. Tom had always been such a hard worker; his work ethic was the reason he became an admiral so quickly.
Pete wondered just how far up the ranks he could’ve climbed if he’d decided not to just stick with captain.
Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear
Just for a while dear we must part
Don't let this parting upset you
I'll not forget you, sweetheart
Tom stepped back in front of Pete, wrapping his arms around Pete’s waist and leaning his forehead against Pete’s forehead. They both knew the end was coming soon.
We'll meet again
Don't know where
Don't know when
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day
Keep smiling through
Just like you always do
'Til the blue skies chase those dark clouds far away
“I love you, Pete Mitchell,” Tom whispered in Pete’s ear. Pete felt a singular tear drop from Ice’s cheek onto his.
“I love you more than life itself, Tom Kazansky,” Pete answered, closing his eyes and trying to be in the moment as much as possible. “Thank you for loving me.”
Tom inhaled, as if he was about to say something, and then there was a brilliant flash of light and heat.
Pete took his final breath, content to die in the arms of his husband, surrounded by light.
We'll meet again
Don't know where
Don't know when
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day.