Wyl is enjoying the party on Endor. He hasn't the this big a group of people this happy since he doesn't remember when. The second Death Star is destroyed, the Empire is dealt a crucial blow. The end of the war feels closer than it's ever been.

At one point, he slips away from the celebration into the quiet of the surrounding forest, finding a clearing and gazing up at the stars. He's not sure which direction he's facing relative to the galaxy and he's too excited to figure it out on his own, so he pulls out his datapad and aims the star identification program at the dark sky.

After only a few moments, it chimes softly and identifies the search he'd input. Wyl puts the device away again and smiles upward. Polyneus's star is barely visible from here, but it's there. Dim white, calling him soon. Soon, he thinks, warm with the possibility.

“Found what you were looking for?” comes a voice from behind him, and Wyl turns to see he's not as alone as he'd thought. Seated on a fallen log a little ways away is a blond man in a green flight suit similar to his own.

“Sorry, I didn't see you there. But, yeah.” Wyl points, though he knows the other won't have any idea which of the thousands of stars he's indicating. “The star of the Polyneus system. That's where I'm from.”

“Homesick?”

Wyl suppresses a shiver at the sudden question. “I left to do my duty, but I miss it. Now that this battle is over...” He leaves the rest unsaid. “Can you see yours from here?”

The other man’s expression turns rueful, his voice soft when he answers. “No.”

It makes sense. There are millions of systems not visible with the naked eye from this exact point in the galaxy. “Well, you know it’s out there.” Wyl gives him a smile.

“No. I’m Alderaanian.”

Wyl’s heart seizes in his chest, and for a moment he doesn’t know what to say. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

The man gives a little shrug like he’s used to hearing it, but Wyl can see the buried pain in his expression.

“This might be too much, so you don’t have to answer, but...how do you deal with that? I’m fighting in this war because of my world and what the Empire has done to it. It’s everything to me. Just imagining it gone, imagining that I could never go back...” He shivers, swallowing bile, reminding himself that this man doesn’t have to imagine.

His companion stares up at the sky for a long time before answering. Debris from the destroyed battle station sparks on the atmosphere. Finally, he looks back at Wyl.

“I think about what we did today,” he says quietly. “And what the Alliance did at Yavin before I was a part of it. I think of how we’ll never let another Death Star be created. How no one else will ever have to feel the way I feel.”

For a moment, the night folds in around them, just the sounds of night in the forest and far distant revelry.

“I'm sorry,” Wyl say again..

The other offers him a little smile. “You didn't know. It's...” He pauses, considering his words. “I can't say it gets better, but I'm used to it.”

“I can't imagine. I don't know that I would have made it through.”

“It was the only choice.” His companion's eyes go flinty for a moment. “When you see someone do that – destroy an entire planet, everything you've ever known and loved – there's nothing you can do but fight.”

Wyl nods. If the loss didn't destroy him, he thinks that's what he would do, too.

He shakes his head, smiling over at the other man. “We're supposed to be celebrating and here I am bringing the melancholy.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Wyl. Riot Squadron.”

The man takes it, firm and confident. “Tycho. Usually a Rogue, but today I was proud to fly with Green.”

Wyl’s eyes go wide. “Tycho Celchu! One of the original members of Rogue Squadron!”

Tycho gives him a quizzical look at the sudden enthusiasm. “Yes?”

Wyl tries to calm himself. Suddenly, he feels like he’s sitting next to a celebrity. The man he's just been forcing to relieve what has to be the most horrible fact of his life is no less than one of the pilots he used to idolize – and, truth be told, still does in a lot of ways. “The Rogues are legends,” he manages. “It's an honor.”

Tycho chuckles, and Wyl is glad to have put him back at ease. “We're no different than you, Wyl. We all flew up there today, and we're all still here. That's what matters.”

He's modest, too. Of course. Wyl is trying to figure out what to say next when the sounds of multiple people approaching wend through the forest. He and Tycho look up to see a trio of men making their way through the trees.

“There you are, Tych!” the one in the middle, short with dark curls, shouts. “We looked everywhere. Who's the kid?”

“I needed a moment of quiet,” Tycho answers with a good-naturedly roll of his eyes.

Wyl takes an unintended step back as he recognizes the three. Wes Janson. Wedge Antilles. Hobbie Klivian. More Rogues.

Before he can get too far, Tycho catches him with a hand on his shoulder. “This is Wyl. Flies with Riot Squadron. Big fan of the Rogues,” he teases.

Wyl flushes deeply and hopes it's not completely obvious in the dark.

“Ooh, a fan,” the man – Janson – says in a devious tone that makes Wyl nervous.

“Be nice,” Tycho says.

Antilles steps forward to shake Wyl's hand. “It's nice to meet you, Wyl. Your people did good work up there today.”

“The pleasure is mine, Commander,” Wyl stammers.

Antilles laughs gently. “No need for formalities; this is a celebration.”

Tycho stands and stretches. “I was just about to head back.”

“You were just about to miss Luke pretending he can dance,” Klivian supplies.

“You coming with us?” Tycho asks Wyl.

Wyl stops himself from saying Can I? and instead nods and tries to sound casual when he says, “Yes.” The others members of Riot are never going to believe he spent time with so many of the original Rogues. If he well and truly lucky, maybe they'll even introduce him to Luke Skywalker.

“C'mon, then,” Janson says. He throws a familiar arm around Wyl and steers him back toward the nearest campfire. “Kid fetches the first round of drinks.”

Wyl finds that more than an even trade.