Harry absentmindedly taps his fingers against the polished wood of the table. Everyone's talking and the room is filled with a volume much louder than he expected it to be. It's almost too loud and he wants to leave as much as he wants to stay.

He's already had a few drinks and his mind has quieted a little. Craig, Douglas, and Eugene have only had a drink or two and they're chatting away like they've got too many words and too little time. It's strange to think about how he used to be like that—talkative and in good spirits.

The war ruined him.

Craig notices how quiet he is and offers him a soft smile, "You don't have to stay if you don't want to, we understand. I just thought it would be a nice change and I know how much you enjoy music."

There's a part of him that feels bad for not having a good time, but he's not really sure what to do because he doesn't know what to talk about and he doesn't want to be trashed by the time that Lola makes it to the stage and into the spotlight.

Someone turns the mic on and the shrill noise that it emits triggers another memory.

He's covered from head to toe in dirt and soot and it feels like he's just spent the night in a pool of mud. There's a slight tremble in his fingers as his eyes scan the area in search of the enemy.

Joseph and David are chuckling as they pass an unarmed grenade back and forth.

They've been told multiple times not to do that, but they keep at it because they're bored just walking around and trying not to die. War isn't for them. It isn't for any of them really, every single man in his platoon was drafted without a choice in the matter except which division to go into.

Craig tells them to knock it off because he'd like to keep all of his limbs, but they ignore him and continue to pass the grenade to each other.

Harry and Craig walk a little further away as a precaution. Sometimes those things are unpredictable and they'd like to not be injured because Joseph and David decided to play a game of hot potato with a live grenade.

It would be different if it was dead, but they didn't feel like using one of those because they enjoyed the risk that it posed.

He wishes that they'd stop, but everyone's tried to tell them and they won't listen.

David makes a joke about Joseph's sweetheart's baking and Joseph returns the grenade with a little more force.

"Don't talk about Margaret."

Eugene tells them to knock it off. Things are getting too heated between them and no one wants them to die, even if they are a bit reckless.

David apologizes, but Joseph's still a little angry with the comment and he's not paying attention to how he catches the grenade. No one notices that he's tripped the pin until it's too late.

The grenade makes it around one more time before it goes off in David's hands. Metal sprays everywhere and everyone hits the ground in a matter of seconds.

Harry was closer than he thought and the explosion fucked with his eardrums. All he can hear is a high pitched whine and muffled voices.

He knows that it's bad before he opens his eyes. Someone's dead and there's blood everywhere. The ringing is still piercing his skull, but his hearing is slowly returning.

"Joseph...Joseph look at me. Can you hear what I'm saying?"

Nothing about this feels real. This is something you see at the cinema or read in the papers, not something that can happen to one of your friends. It can't be. But it is and it doesn't matter how badly Harry wishes that he's dreaming.

Joseph is sitting with his knees to his chest, his eyes wide and his body trembling. There's blood coating his face and his clothes and the look on his face says it all.

Harry doesn't need to look to know who's gone and he doesn't want to. The haunted look in Joseph's eyes already haunts him and he just wants to go home to Eleanor and forget about the war. He wants to be anywhere else because he knows that these things are going to torment him for the rest of his life, they've already started and he can't seem to figure out a way to stop it.

Craig's shaking his shoulder and telling him to breathe. His eyes drift between his friends only to see that they've all noticed and that they're all looking at him like they did when he told them about Eleanor and how she left him.

A few other people are looking at him with curious eyes and he hates the attention. He knows that there's something wrong with him, but it doesn't help when everyone looks at him like that, like he's some kind of monster.

Harry shakes his head and removes Craig's hand from his shoulder. "Stop looking at me like that."

Inside his chest, his heart is hammering away at his ribs and his lungs are struggling to pull in oxygen. This always happens when he has a flashback of the war and he wishes that it didn't because it doesn't help the way that people look at him and he always feels like he's dying when it happens.

They're still looking at him though because they don't know what to do and they feel bad that their friend goes through this at least three times a day—or more, he doesn't really tell them much anymore because they don't understand.

No one understands.

Abruptly, he stands and uses his hands to push off of the table. There's a slight wobble in his knees and he wants to kick the table in frustration because he doesn't understand why God would allow him to keep his legs if they were always going to give him trouble.

Does he even believe in God anymore? He's not sure. All his life, he's heard that God is benevolent and kind to those who are in need, but where was God when all of his friends were dying and where was God when the war started?

If God was there at all, Harry could never tell. It certainly didn't seem like it.

"I need a drink."

No one stops him as he grits his teeth and stalks over to the bar. He can still feel them watching and that only seems to make it worse.

He doesn't understand how he's the only one like this, they were all there to witness the same things that he did. So why doesn't anyone else experience the same things?

Maybe everyone's right, maybe there is something wrong with him. He's certainly starting to think so.

The bartender only raises an eyebrow to ask what he wants, and for that, he's thankful.

"The strongest liquor you have."

Harry took a seat on one of the stools and the tingling sensation in his right leg returned. A grimace takes hold of his countenance and he leans forward and covers his face with his hands.

If he knew that life would be like this after the war, he wouldn't have told Craig to save him. It just doesn't seem worth it anymore.

A glass is placed in front of him and he removes his hands from his face, muttering a thank you as the bartender heads to the other side of the bar to talk with a pretty woman.

Alcohol wasn't something that he was fond of until after the war. He hates the taste and how it makes his body temperature rise. Now it's become something that he can't live without. It numbs the pain in his legs and takes the memories away for a little while.

He's drained half of the glass by the time that Craig makes his way over.

The club falls silent and Lola takes the stage, but Harry's not in the mood to look anymore. Instead, he traces his index finger around the rim of his nearly empty glass and waits for Craig to say something because he knows that he didn't come over just to keep him company.

"I'm sorry that I don't understand. I...I wish that I did because I hate seeing what it does to you, what it does to Cliffton and so many others. You're my best friend, Harry and I'm sorry that I can't do anything to help and that I don't experience it too. You don't have to stay if you don't want to, I just thought that maybe it would help. I'm sorry."

Harry shakes his head but he doesn't look at his friend. "I hate the way that people look at me when it happens. It's not your fault. Be happy that you don't have it too, I'm glad that you don't because it wouldn't be right for your family and that sweet little girl of yours. I just—I feel like an old man. For Christ's sake Craig, I'm only twenty-five and I feel like I'm eighty."

Behind them, the band starts to tune their instruments and the chatter starts up again at a soft murmur.

Craig's looking at him like his mother used to when he fell in the yard and scraped his knees. "Do you regret telling me to save you?"

Finally, he meets his eyes. His lips part for a moment before falling shut again. That's not what he was expecting to hear at all and he's not really sure what to say.

Craig waits patiently with a slight gloss over his eyes. On some level, he understands now and he hates that Harry feels the way that he does all the time and that he's afraid to close his eyes at night because the nightmares never go away.

After a long pause, Harry nods. He doesn't have the words to say what he wants to and he doesn't want to misconstrue his thoughts.

"I'm sorry."

Harry shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. "Don't ever apologize for saving my life. I might not like what it's turned out to be like, but I sure as hell wouldn't want to break my mother's heart again by getting lost underneath all that dirt."

Lola takes the stage, but the two men aren't paying attention as they mend their frayed friendship.

Lean fingers push the glass forward before he turns back to Craig and offers him a genuine smile, "I'm sorry for being an ass. Thank you for dragging me down here, I think it'll help too."

Craig returns his smile and notches his head toward the stage. Harry turns around slowly, not yet ready to put a face to the music. She sounded lovely and he was imagining what she looked like the entire time he listened to her record, but he still wasn't prepared to come face to face with the woman that might just turn his life around, even if only with her music.

The lights cast a wonderful glow to her skin, tanned with the warm rays of the sun that hardly ever seem to show their face here, and she's got on a lovely shade of red lipstick that isn't too bright or too dark. It compliments her eyes, which he thinks are blue, but he can't tell because he's too far away and the smoke in the room makes it difficult to see.

Lola can't really see much either, but she can see that the building is packed and she's a little nervous. She's performed a lot recently and in her earlier years, but that little ounce of stage fright hasn't ever really gone away and she doesn't think that it will any time soon.

"Thank you all for coming tonight, I really appreciate your support. The first song is a song that I wrote while I was waiting for my Father to come home from the war. It's called Letters From Home and I hope you like it."

Harry's mesmerized the moment she opens her mouth. Her hands are slightly trembling at her side and her cheeks have acquired a nice pink tint, and he likes that because it shows that she's not just another one of those 'celebrities' that don't get nervous at all. It shows that she can relate to people and that she's not stuck on herself and he admires that more than he thought he would.

She can't see him, and he knows that she can't, but it feels like she does as she sings from her heart and fills the room with emotion. He's never heard a musician quite like her before and it stirs something inside of him that he hasn't felt in a long time: happiness.

The instruments are drowned out after the first song and all he can hear is her beautiful voice. Craig's smiling to himself because he didn't think this would work so well and because he's happy to see that Harry's been moved on some level. It's been years since he's seen him smile like he is now and he hopes that this will be one of the first steps of him regaining his spirit and his love for life.

Hours tick by like minutes and Lola's thanking everyone again and leaving the stage before he realizes how much time has passed. Harry's smile drops to a slight frown because he wants to listen to her sing for the rest of the night and he feels like the time has gone by far too quickly.

Craig's hand is on his shoulder and he's wearing that mischievous smile that he used to wear when they were in school and snuck under the bleachers to look up the girl's skirts.

"I'll pay for your drink. Head out and take a right into the alley, she'll be leaving through there instead of the regular exit."

So that's how he met all of those musicians, the sneaky bastard.

Harry smiles and shakes his head as he carefully finds his footing, his head a little dizzy from the strong drink. "Don't expect a call tomorrow."

Craig laughs loudly, "Since when do you give me a ring? What, once a month?"

He shakes his head and waves him off as he heads toward the exit with his mind in a jumbled mess. There are so many things that he wants to say, but he doesn't know what he should say. She might not even leave that way or want to talk to him anyway, but he has to at least try or he won't forgive himself in the morning.

The temperature outside has dropped considerably and the street lamps have come on, casting a warm yellow glow upon the streets and dark shadows on everything it cannot touch.

He left his gloves at home and his hands are freezing, but it's worth it in his mind. What's a little bit of cold compared to getting the chance to meet someone that's already managed to change his view with her music alone.

Fifteen minutes pass and the stinging sensation is starting to build in his knees again. He's starting to think that Craig was wrong and she did leave through the other exit. Maybe he's foolish for standing out here in the cold and waiting for a woman who might not even care.

He has to try.

Just as he's about to give up and start the walk back to his apartment, the door opens and Lola steps out with two men. They're there to protect her if anything happens and Harry understands because he's heard about how out of control people can get when they see someone they admire.

There's a new light in his eyes as he pushes himself off the wall and straightens his posture, "Hi, I don't mean to bother you, but I couldn't leave without letting you know how beautiful and moving your music is. I don't want an autograph or anything, I just want to thank you for sharing your music."

A moment passes where the two men step closer to her, but Lola waves them off with a smile. He's only one man and he sounds genuine, she doesn't want them to make him leave for wanting to thank her.

Lola smiles and quirks one of her eyebrows, "Shouldn't I be the one thanking you?"

Something deflates within him and the light in his eyes nearly vanishes. He thinks that she's talking about the war and that maybe she ran into his friends before she stepped outside.

He doesn't say anything, but the look on his face is enough to prompt her to add, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. Thank you for coming to the show, it's nice to see people who appreciate the music and that don't look at me like some sort of exotic animal because I'm American. Can I ask for your name? It's only fair, since you already know mine."

The smallest trace of a smile returns as his fears dissipate, "Harry."

Lola's delighted to get his name, he seems like such a lovely man and she'd hate to not get his name after he waited out in the cold for all this time just to thank her. And it doesn't hurt that he's got pretty eyes and a lovely smile.

She offers him her hand, "Lola Simmons, it's so nice to meet you."