Work Text:
Today Sunday, January 12, 2014
The call came at exactly four fifty two in the morning.
Went to get breakfast.
Drunkard on the way home from the pub.
Accident.
Died on impact.
Michael hung up.
Today Friday, January 17, 2014
Michael hadn’t slept in days. On Tuesday, it was because Gavin was due home the following morning. On Wednesday, it was because Gavin never showed. Michael sat in the front hall of their shared apartment, slumped against the door in the same clothes he’d put on Monday morning. He kept his phone, with it’s newly cracked screen, clutched in a shaking hand. On Thursday, it was because the words died on impact whispered themselves in his ears over and over without pause and every time his eyes closed images played across his eyelids. Gavin smiling, looking down, re-reading the rambling text Michael liked to send when Gavin was away and he was bored, stopped in his tracks by a large black suv, sometimes a tank, Michael refusing to believe anything smaller could take out the love of his life. Gavin’s smiling face dissolving into a bloody mess. Gavin’s body crumpling like he was boneless into a pile of nothing. Sometimes the quiet reminder of ‘died on impact’ would be interrupted with a frightening screech of brakes and a terrified yell and Michael would realize he was drifting off and force his eyes open. He didn’t move until a stab of pain in his lower abdomen made him realize how long he’d been there. Phone dead and starving, he rushed through a shower and a quick meal before settling right back down to watch the door.
He needed to see Gavin the second he walked in so he could stop picturing the love of his life dying.
Today Thursday, January 30, 2014
Michael started messaging Gavin because he didn’t believe he was actually dead. He was absolutely sure that his boyfriend was still alive and well, sitting in England, logged into skype on invisible, conspiring with all the people who kept asking Michael if he was okay and apologizing for his loss. It was probably revenge for the day, a week and a half before Gavin left to visit his parents, when Michael put hot sauce in the ketchup and then told Gavin it was necessary to drink an entire gallon of milk as quickly as he could to stop the burning. This was an intense long con, but Gavin had a history of going a little over the top. Once it was all over, he’d have to give Mrs. Free his congratulations. Her acting when she called him, they way her voice trembled, the sobs caught in her throat, it was all very convincing.
He hoped if he reminded Gavin enough how much he loved and missed him, his boyfriend would start to feel guilty for playing such a cruel prank and end the charade.
Today Wednesday, February 12, 2014
It had been a full month of Michael chatting about Gavin and how excited he was for his boyfriend to finally come home and how strange it was that Gavin hadn’t been on skype lately but he was probably busy having fun with his family that Ray finally snapped and did the worst thing he’d ever do.
"HE’S FUCKING DEAD, MICHAEL. HE’S DEAD. HE’S BEEN DEAD. HE’S NOT COMING HOME, HE’S FUCKING DEAD AND WE ALL LOVED HIM, SO FUCKING STOP. STOP PRETENDING LIKE HE’S COMING BACK BECAUSE HE’S FUCKING NOT AND YOU NEED TO ACCEPT THAT HE’S FUCKING GONE.” Ray had stood up in the middle of Taco Bell, where they were out for lunch, and screamed the words at his best friend before storming out. He didn’t come back.
Michael calmly ate his and Ray’s tacos while ignoring the sympathetic looks from the other customers in the dining room and smiled politely at the woman who apologized for his loss as he threw away his trash. He hummed contently as he walked the two blocks back to his apartment. When Mr. Burns, an older gentleman who lived two floors above them who Gavin had loved to go down and talk to and listen to his life story, asked why his favorite tenant hadn’t been around, Michael gave him a sad smile and a simple “He’s not with us anymore,” before stepping onto the elevator.
When he stepped into his apartment, he grabbed a framed picture of the two of them playing video games that Lindsay had taken the first time Gavin had come to visit and threw it, as hard as he could, into a wall in the living room. He listened to the glass shatter, listened to the frame snap, watched it all fall into a pile next to the couch and walked into his bedroom where he got into bed and slept for 14 hours.
Today Friday, February 14, 2014
Michael woke slowly, coming out of a dream that felt so real a shot of panic flowed through him when he slid his hand across the mattress, out from under his warm blanket and pile of pillows that mimicked another body resting against him, and felt nothing but cold sheets. He brought his hand up to confirm that the weight on top of him wasn’t Gavin, like it had been ten minutes ago when he was still asleep, and froze. Unmoving for another minute, he let reality catch up, let the memories of the past month erase the false ones he’d dreamed up of him picking his boyfriend up from the airport and taking him out on a ridiculously romantic date that ended with a perfect mix of video games and blowjobs. And then, he got out of bed, and let himself pretend for a little longer, let himself hope.
"Gavin," he called softly, shuffling into the hallway. He glanced into the bathroom on the way to the kitchen, just to be sure, even though the door was open, the shower was off and the room was dark. Louder, he repeated Gavin’s name a few times. Stupidly, he let the hope fill him up, allowed it to spread it’s warmth through his entire chest and convince him that Gavin would be standing in the kitchen, fighting with the coffee maker.
He wasn’t surprised when the apartment was empty, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Hope only made the sting of disappointment harsher.
Today Monday, February 17, 2014
Michael was back to work. He’d been in a few times, since Gavin died, but it was hard and they were understanding, even willing to give him another month or two if he needed them. It was a kind offer, but there was only so much time Michael could spend alone in his silent, just thinking, before it was too much. Even if he wasn’t ready, he needed something to force him out of bed and into the shower every morning.
It was the third day in his second week back when he forgot his lunch.
He didn’t forget, exactly. Every Monday and Friday for as long as he’d been working, Gavin had come in and either brought him lunch or taken him out. Michael had woken up and dragged himself to work, knowing it was Monday, expecting his boyfriend to show up and bring him food.
And then he saw him.
Lean, tan, a mop of bed-messed light brown hair. He was even wearing a purple and white striped shirt, just like the polo Gavin looked fantastic in.
Feeling burst through Michael and his face lit up with a grin. He knew it. He fucking knew. Gavin didn’t die. He’d just been waiting for the perfect moment to come back and tell Michael the prank was over, and damn, did he get him good.
Michael jogged six steps, ready to call out, and then they turned, and it wasn’t a he at all. It wasn’t Gavin.
Of course it wasn’t Gavin.
Gavin was dead.
Gavin was never going to bring him lunch again.
Gavin was never going to do anything again.
Michael froze. The girl across the room saw him staring and offered a flirty smile and a little wave.
Bile rose up Michael’s throat and he stood, stuck in that spot until his boss finally came over and asked if everything was okay.
"You look like you’ve seen a ghost!" He joked.
Michael requested the rest of the day off.
Today Thursday, February 20, 2014
Michael sat on the couch, his laptop on his thighs with his fingers resting on the keys. He stared, unseeing, at the screen where his most recent messages to his dead boyfriend were waiting to never be read.
The words “I hate you” repeated in his head, over and over as his eyes focused just past his computer at the small pile of glass and frame from the picture he’d broken a week earlier. Carelessly, he shoved his laptop away from him, letting it slide off his legs onto the couch. The words got louder in his head, volume raising until he thought he head would explode and he finally yelled them out, towards the broken frame. He grabbed another, a cell phone shot of Gavin’s smiling face on their first real date, and threw it at the ground towards the other. The frame held together, miraculously, but the glass hit a corner of the other frame and Michael heard it crack. Again, he screamed the phrase, this time towards the ceiling of his apartment. Their apartment. This dumb shitty apartment he’d lived in with his dumb shitty dead boyfriend.
Michael pulled a photo album from a nearby shelf, filled with some old family pictures, candid shots of the two of them together, taken on some shitty disposable cameras that had been laying around for months, plenty of bad quality photos taken from a cell phone and printed out on regular old paper, along with some high quality prints from Lindsay’s brief but instead photography hobby. He fell to the floor near the glass, careful to avoid touching any, and began to tear photos from the book, ripping Gavin’s half out of any couple shots, pulling the singles into eighths, letting the pieces fall into a pile. He breathed heavily, a mix of rage and the on-coming panic attack. He’d never had them before, before Gavin died, but now they were nothing new.
"You piece of shit," he mumbled angrily, "you worthless piece of trash," he continued as he tore a particularly cute image until there was barely anything left, letting them settle into a pile, "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
They looked a little like ashes.
He wondered if Gavin was cremated.
He realized he didn’t know.
The anger melted into an unbearable sadness just as quickly as it had burned into existence. The panic attack was overwhelming now, his lungs constricting painfully while his heart beat dangerously fast. He left the album open, pages hanging out as result of his brutality, laying over a mess of torn photos and broken glass and stumbled into his bedroom.
He fell into bed, wrapped himself in three blankets and laid every pillow he owned over his body until he was cocooned in warmth and comforting weight. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pretending that it was Gavin curled around him until it was easy to breath and he could almost hear a soft, accented voice telling him about the dumb lighting guy at the newest movie set who accidentally broke six bulbs within three hours.
Today Monday, March 3, 2014
Michael’s angry most days, lately.
It’s unfair and Gavin was always such an asshole and Michael hates him with all his heart.
This day, something’s off, everything hurts a little more. Mrs. Free keeps calling and Michael wants to answer, he really does, but every time his finger hovers over the answer button his heart rates shoots up and he breaks out in a sweat and the words died on impact ghost through his ears and he hits ignore.
He’s on the couch and the torn up photos and smashes frames are taunting him from across the room. It’s not enough for him to get up and do anything about it but he feels a pang of guilt as he remembers his mumbled stream of insults. He opens skype, working under the impression that maybe Gavin is watching over him, and types out a few messages.
"You aren’t worthless," he whispers to his computer, to the thing that gave him Gavin in the first place, "you aren’t trash."
"You’re everything."
Today Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Ray calls him. There’s a service in two days. Friday. Mrs. Free has been trying to tell him for a week. They planned it, they’re flying out.
He says Michael’s going.
Michael says there’s no way in hell.
Today Friday, March 7, 2014
Ray and Lindsay were in Michael’s apartment at ten am and Michael was still in bed.
"You’re going," Ray told him, "you douchey piece of shit, you’re going."
"Sweetie," Lindsay murmured, pushing his hair back with a caring hand, "It’s best you go."
Ray played bad cop, calling him names and trying to bully him into it. Lindsay was good cop, soft and loving, pleading quietly, telling him he needs it. They both grab and arm and physically force him into sitting up.
It was forty minutes of constant attempts and coercing and promises of coffee and staying by his side before they even got Michael standing. It’s twenty more of berating, from both of them, to get him into a suit instead of his original plan to wear his pajamas.
"He was my boyfriend. I’m the one who lost him. I can wear what I fucking want." Michael argued. Lindsay came back with some bullshit about respect and the Frees and Michael conceded.
They got there early, by request of the family, according to Ray. Michael apologized to Mrs. Free for ignoring her as she hugged him, but offered no explanation. The rest of Gavin’s family pulled him into hugs, and they all traded condolences once everyone had touched him. Mrs. Free pointed out the room with the casket, which was closed, and explained that it’d been too long and there was no way they could have it open after the first week. Michael nodded like he understood, but all he could think was that he wanted to break it open, wanted to see him, just once more. Maybe crawl in and be buried too, because sometimes he felt like he was nothing with Gavin.
Instead, he didn’t even look at the room. He just quietly thanked Mrs. Free and walked to the other side of the main hall to wait for people to start arriving.
Lindsay stood on one side, fingers laced with his, and Ray stood on the other, a heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder. True to their word, neither of them moved away from him the entire time. People came and went, those who knew what Michael and Gavin were sought him out to give him sympathy and wish him the best and Michael smiled politely but didn’t speak to any of them.
He didn’t speak at all, not after talking to Mrs. Free when they arrived, until the end.
Geoff had come in late, very late, barely making it in time. They were minutes away from taking the casket to the grave. Gavin had said in passing, once, while they were visiting his family a few weeks after his grandfather had died that he didn’t want the family plot. He wanted to be buried in America. His mother had refused, initially, when he was alive and healthy and twenty three years old, but decided to respect his wishes in the face of his actual death. They were readying the cars for the procession, figuring out carpools and waiting on the escort when Geoff walked up to Michael and grabbed his free hand in a firm shake. Geoff and Gavin had met in person, officially, once Gavin had moved to America full-time and had seen each other two to four times a year since.
"I’m sorry for your loss. Our loss."
"The world’s loss," Michael corrected, softly, speaking for the first time in several hours. His voice was raw and scratchy but he didn’t care.
"The world’s," Geoff agreed, giving him the same sad smile a hundred other people had offered throughout the service. Ray’s hand slipped off his shoulder and Geoff’s replaced it. "Thanks."
"For what?"
"For what you did for him. When I met Gavin, he was thirteen, and I was twenty six and I’d been in the army and it was hard and real and Gavin was a kid and so goddamn immature and it’s exactly what I needed, but I noticed a lot. Even though we talked online, it was easy to tell. He was so fuckin’ twitchy and nervous and scared to say the wrong thing like he’d ruin the friendship with one wrong word because he was so fuckin’ lonely and so confused and scared about the future. He was always worried that it’d never work out the way he dreamed it too and he would never feel secure enough to be his true self and he’d be stuck where he was forever, and I spent years trying to open him up and convince him things would be okay but it never worked until you came into the picture and he got this new confidence that I don’t think anyone else but me noticed he didn’t have before, and I watched him change for the better, all because of you. And he finally came out, because of you, and he finally let himself take a chance and let you in, and you filled in all those empty spaces that made him feel so lonely, and you gave him the future with the perfect boyfriend and the acceptance and you always made the world and the future something exciting instead of scary."
Michael dropped Lindsay’s hand and swallowed around the lump in his throat and pushed back against the pressure building behind his eyes and threw his arms around Geoff in a tight hug because, if he spoke, he was going to fall apart. He didn’t give Geoff time to hug back, pulling away seconds later, and started towards the door.
Ray called to stop him, said that Lindsay was their ride, but Michael shook his head and kept walking without looking back. He wasn’t going. He went to the damn service, felt the pain of it all increase every time someone promised it would fade soon, listened to Geoff’s entire goddamn speech that made him want to sleep for a week so he could dream of Gavin and pretend none of this had happened, but he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t fucking do it. He wouldn’t watch them put Gavin in the ground, wouldn’t watch them bury him forever. It was too much. It was too real. If he saw the gravestone, he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.
All he had left was the denial.
Today Saturday, March 8, 2014
Michael woke up, still in his suit, on the couch. He’d come in after walking six miles from the funeral home back to his apartment, forcing himself to keep the tears in and collapsed on the couch before he could collapse in on himself.
He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and sighed. When his hand fell into his lap, his eyes focused on the pile of broken glass and shattered wood and torn photos and that was it. He broke.
A strangled sob broke from his chest while he stumbled forward, towards the mess he made, and tears that had been held in for months blurred his vision and wet his cheeks.
He scrambled to grab the tape from the kitchen counter before dropping to his knees in front of the mess. A couple pieces of glass caught and ripped holes in the legs on his suit pants. He didn’t care.
Frantically, he began to pull ruined fragments of photographs out of the destruction and places them together like puzzles, haphazardly taping them back together so they vaguely resembled the photos they’d once been. Some were recognizable, some were so mangled you could barely tell who was in them.
Snot collected along his upper lip and dripped down his chin. Occasionally, he’d stop long enough to wipe his face with the dirtied sleeves of his suit jacket.
It took him hours. There was forty or so photographs to be repaired, about five more than too ruined to ever be fixed. He kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” into the otherwise silent room, choking out the words. He didn’t stop until his throat was dry and he could no longer force out a word.
Small beads of glass imprinted themselves in his pants and he grabbed at scattered pieces of torn pictures and larger, sharper pieces cut thin, superficial lines into the sides of his hands. Paper cuts covered his fingers and stung like crazy but he didn’t care. He kept going until every last salvageable picture was taped back as best he could. They were all fixed.
They were all fixed, but it still felt like his heart was in pieces.
Today Monday, March 24, 2014
Michael had taken another two weeks off work, but he was back again, and he swore it was for good this time. In his absence, they’d hired a new employee, Tyler. He’d heard the story, it seemed, because he gave a sympathetic smile and a tight handshake when they were first introduced.
At the end of the day, Tyler left him with a friendly slap on the back and an offer, “Hey, sorry if this is too insensitive, but my brother died of cancer when I was fifteen and we were really close. If you ever need an ear, or a shoulder, I know what you’re going through.”
Michael scowled and went home.
Today Thursday, March 27, 2014
Michael found Tyler at lunch and slid into the seat across from him. Tyler silently offered his bag of chips, and Michael took one, just for a reason not to speak.
Eventually, he asked, “When does it stop hurting?”
Tyler told him, “It never really does.”
Today Monday, April 7, 2014
Michael stared at the menus spread out in front of him, trying to decide what he was hungry for. Pizza? Sandwiches? Chinese? Maybe Italian.
He wondered what Gavin would want, if he were there. If he would even bother to ask Michael. Maybe he would just go ahead and choose something. Maybe he wouldn’t even ask Michael if he were hungry. Just order his favorite and know he’d eat it eventually.
Michael ended up not eating at all.
Today Wednesday, April 9, 2014
For the first time in his life, the survival instinct failed and the thought crossed his mind that maybe he wanted to die. It scared him so badly he spent three nights at Ray’s.
Today Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Michael sat on the couch, legs crossed, staring at the blank television with a bottle of pills in his hand.
He poured roughly twenty ibuprofen into his hand and closed his fingers around them.
He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t even move his fist up to his mouth.
He just sits, pills in hand, bottle in other with at least thirty more, and feels powerful.
He could do it. He could die.
Except, he couldn’t.
He couldn’t, because he knows, wherever Gavin is, he would never be allowed.
Today Friday, May 23, 2014
Michael bought flowers.
Michael bought flowers and a Halo figurine and found a shitty Polaroid of him and Gavin kissing, also from Lindsay’s photographer phase.
He decided to walk, it’s a beautiful day. In the back of his mind, he thinks that Gavin has something to do with the shining sun. Maybe that’s where he is. Where he truly belonged.
Michael makes it three miles to the grave before a heavy, sick feeling settles in his stomach and he stops. He looks up at the sun and it hurts his eyes but he yells “fuck you” and drops all the dumb shit he bought for Gavin on the sidewalk and turns and goes back home.
When he gets inside, he goes to his room. He looks out the window, the sun still shining brightly, and whispers “Happy birthday, Gavin,” before shutting the blinds and climbing into bed.
Today Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Michael woke up and it was too fucking hot.
It’s eighty degrees outside at five in the morning and he’s under a heavy pile of blankets and pillows, for the thousandth time, pretending it’s the weight of Gavin pressing himself on Michael to wake him up.
It reminds him of the first time Gavin came to visit, when he was jetlagged and couldn’t sleep and Michael woke up at three in the morning with Gavin straddling his waist, grinning down at him.
Michael mumbled a hello and Gavin gave him a happy little “hi” in return. He looked Michael up and down and gave his grin turned predatory.
Despite his protests of ‘morning breath’ even though it was not nearly morning enough for Michael, Gavin leaned down and kissed him and it was everything Michael had ever wanted.
Michael smiled fondly at the memory, and it was nice. Normally, memories of Gavin make Michael want to hit himself in the head so hard he becomes an amnesiac, but this time he just fills a pleasant swell of affection and a slight sting of loss.
Today Thursday, July 3, 2014
Michael woke up, his usual companion of pillows piled on the floor at the end of the bed and decided to visit Gavin.
He drove to the grave, the heat too much to walk that far in, and know he’ll have to rush to work after.
It’s the first time he’s actually managed to get there, he realizes, as he walks down the path towards the plot. He’s tried countless times, never quite making it all the way to the parking lot. This time, he’s too far to turn back.
The nice part is, he doesn’t think he wants to.
Today Monday, August 11, 2014
Michael realizes it’s been two months since his last panic attack.
Michael realizes it’s been a month since he messaged Gavin on skype.
Michael realizes it’s been three weeks since he’s slept with his Gavin mimic.
Michael realizes he’s been tentatively returning Tyler’s nervous flirty grins and more-than-just-friendly text messages for a week.
Michael realizes he hasn’t even thought of Gavin in two days.
Michael realizes it’s starting to hurt less.
Michael thinks he’s forgetting.
Michael hates the idea of forgetting Gavin.
Michael calls off work and curls up with all his pillows even though the summer heat is still in full effect and gets Gavin’s favorite pizza and reads back through their skype messages as far as he can go and tries to make it hurt.
It does, but not as bad as he wants.
At the end of the day, he grabs some boxes and packs up everything Gavin owns and throws it in the hall closet.
Today Monday, September 1, 2014
Michael asked Tyler to go on a date with him.
He spent the entire date listening to Tyler talk, occasionally asking a relevant question to keep him going.
Michael’s only half listening. Mostly, he’s making a venn diagram in his mind. In one circle, Tyler. In the other, Gavin.
Where Gavin was lean, Tyler is wrapped in thick muscle and Michael never thought he’d be into that but Tyler makes it work. Tyler’s hair is dark, almost black, and his complexion is much darker than Gavin’s even was. His eyes are a startling bright green. He’s calmer, thinks through what he says. His hands are still when he speaks. He’s American. Like Gavin, his entire face likes up when he talks about something he’s passionate about or his family. He loves science and has a lot of ridiculous theories that Michael can’t quite keep up with. He loves Halo. He likes to cuddle.
Michael thinks about it, puts all of Tyler’s traits into categories and wonders if the sliver in the middle where he and Gavin are exactly the same is the only reason Michael asked him out.
Today Thursday, October 16, 2014
Tyler kissed Michael for the first time and it made him feel like his heart was exploding.
It wasn’t the good kind of feeling, like fireworks, like nothing else mattered like all Michael needed to survive was that kiss.
It felt like betrayal.
Today Thursday, October 30, 2014
Michael kissed Tyler and it felt a little bit like magic.
Today Saturday, November 15, 2014
Michael rolled over in bed and felt another body, a real body, and he jolted awake with an excited shout of, “Gavin!” And for a minute he believed that the past year was the dream, not the moments where he still thought Gavin was alive. His eyes adjusted and the other person is woken up by his yell, and he realized it was Tyler. His face fell in disappointed, and then quickly turned to horrified.
“Oh, shit, Tyler, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t… I know… you’re… I’m so fucking sorry.” Michael’s breathing was getting more rapid, a mix of nerves, and panic. Tyler was the best thing to happen to him since Gavin had died. Tyler was so nice, and understanding and Michael really did like him. He didn’t love him. He wasn’t sure he could love, again, after Gavin had taken his heart so completely and filled him up and ripped him to shreds when he died. But he liked Tyler and he needed him and he was scared he’d just ruined it.
Tyler just pulled him into a tight embrace and murmured, “Tell me about him.”
So, Michael did.
He told Tyler about how they met, and about how they got together, and Tyler laughed and asked if Michael would show him the ‘helpful infographic’ in the morning and Michael didn’t tell Tyler that he had a printed copy tucked into his pillow case for nights when it hurt too bad and he needed to laugh and remember the good times. He talked about when Gavin first came to see him, and the first time they had sex and how awkward they were, and how it was more laughter than moans but it was still perfect. He told Tyler about the time where he was so sure that Gavin was going to break up with him and everyone was acting like they knew something he didn’t because Gavin conspired with everyone he knew to surprise him by moving to America. He told Tyler about their first official date and how Gavin had nervously bought him roses, and then thrown them away because he thought it was dumb, and then gotten the back out of the trash because he wanted to be romantic, but then he had messed with them so much, they were ridiculously mangled by the time he actually gave them to Michael. Michael told him about how Gavin played video games, moving his entire body with the controller. He told Tyler about their first trip to England, and that was the point where he started crying, but he kept going, telling Tyler every important or funny or sweet moment they had spent together, and he told Tyler about the day Gavin had died, and how Michael fell apart for months, and he told Tyler everything he knew about who Gavin was and then he told Tyler about all the ways he was similar to Gavin and then he told Tyler all the things that were different about him that Michael still liked.
It hurt to think so much about Gavin, and to talk until the sun came up, but as he got out of bed to make breakfast, he realized he felt lighter. Like he’d been holding Gavin in, and now he’d finally let him go.
Today Monday, January 12, 2015
Michael holds Tyler’s hand as they walk down to the grave, a bouquet of the ugliest flowers he could buy in the other. It’s cloudy, today. Michael thinks it’s fitting.
One full year.
One hard, terrible, year.
And here he is.
“Hey, Gavin,” Michael mumbles as he gently places the flowers at the bottom of the head stone, “Can’t believe you’ve been gone for a whole year. It feels longer, sometimes. Like you left forever ago and I’m done healing. Sometimes, shorter. The wound gets ripped back open, sometimes. How long it takes to heal is different, every time,” he takes a moment to smile back at Tyler, who’s standing silently, respectfully, a few feet back. This is the first time Michael’s brought him, “Fucking sucks, every time, but it’s easier with someone there to help patch it up,” he looks down at the ground, still kneeling, and picks at the grass, “I miss you. I miss you so goddamn much. And I love you. I’ll always love you. Even if I moved on, don’t think it’s because I forgot you. You’re always here,” he taps his chest, and smiles, “but there’s room for a little more now,” he stands, takes a few steps back until he can grab Tyler’s hand, again. “I’ll talk to you again. Maybe not too soon, but I’ll be back.”
Michael turns to leave, but Tyler stops him. He clears his throat, and speaks quietly, “Hey, uh, Gavin. This is probably a little weird, but, you were a great guy. You didn’t deserve this. Michael didn’t deserve this. It may not mean much, coming from me, but you didn’t.” Michael squeezes his hand and they start to walk away, but Tyler stops them again, and turns back to the grave.
“I promise I’ll take good care of him.”
Suddenly, the sky grows lighter, and the sun peeks out from behind the thick clouds.
When Michael gets home, he opens skype and sends three messages.
And then, he deletes the contact.