Work Text:
June 7
Gavin,
Fucking Christ, I can't believe I'm about to do this, but my fucking therapist, Dr. Goulash or whatever the fuck her name is, thinks it would be good for me to write all this shit down like a letter, not that I actually want to ever send them to you or anything.
Plus they might get wet during the trip across the ocean, and I know you don't like soggy stuff.
It's all my fucking fault, you know? There's a thousand things I should have done better when I had the goddamn chance. I know, I know, I don't have the chance anymore, but I dream about having another one. Dream about being better, about getting you flowers, and taking you to those stupid parties you always wanted to go to.
I hope Dan can do those things for you, Gavin. I hope he's ten times the boyfriend that I ever was, I hope you're happy.
All I ever wanted you to be was happy.
-Michael
---
June 11
Gavin,
It was unfair of me to say that, fuck, I'm sorry. I know you're not with Dan, but I get so fucking jealous, thinking about you all the way across the ocean, with him around to be able to hold you when you need to be held, to fix your tea just the way you like, to lend you a jacket or give you rides to the grocery store.... It should be me, doing those things, not him.
-M
---
June 13
Gav,
It's Friday, and you know what that means. LPs aren't the same without you. We don't even start in Achievement Square anymore because one time Ray started to cry, and he wouldn't get out of your house, he sat there for so long I thought the image of your trophy room was going to burn into his monitor. He misses you, so much. We all miss you.
Please come home, Gavin.
-Michael
---
June 20
Who the fuck do you think you are, Gavin fucking Free? You think you can just waltz out of my fucking life like this is a fucking divorce? We were best friends, we were in love, I had the fucking ring for you, I wanted you to be mine, but noooo, you had to go see fucking Dan. It's always fucking Dan. No room for Michael, only for your precious fucking B.
I thought Gavin Jones would have been lovely. Better than Michael Free, and trust me, I considered it.
I want to be mad at you, I want to scream and tear this fucking paper to shreds because the ink's already smeared and there's water on the page but I needed you to know how close you were to being mine.
We could have had a life together, you and me. I would have even let you get a cat, even though I don't like them nearly as much as you do. Hell, I would have even adopted a little fucking brat, if you wanted one.
I would have bent over backwards to rearrange the stars in the sky for you, Gavin. I would have painted every grain of sand on every beach the colour of your eyes, I would have rewritten every love song so they were all for you, hell, I would have played every shitty indie game in the goddamn world with a smile on my fucking face for you, Gavin.
But I can't.
I can try, and I have, but I can't move the moon and the stars when I know you won't even give it a glance.
I can't keep crying like this, Gav.
-Michael
---
June 29
Gavin,
I'm not really all that dumb, you know.
I know you're not really with Dan, in England.
You are in England, though, but that's just cause your parents decided to bury you there.
I still can't believe it, most days. So I just pretend you're still alive, that you're hopping around chatting Dan's ears off, smiling that beautiful smile that you always had.
But you're not.
You're dead, Gavin.
They say that the guy was a junkie, that he saw you, thin and lanky and dorky, and thought you'd be easy pickings.
You know what you had in your pockets, Gavin?
I know, because they gave it back to me, when they arrested the guy.
You had your wallet, with a picture of us, no money or cards inside, you had three monster tabs for our jar, a pen with purple ink, a nearly empty pack of gum, the slip you needed to pick up our order, and a button that had snapped off from your shirt that you wanted Griffon to sew back on.
You died over these things. The junkie shot you, over all of these things. He took your fucking life, watched you bleed out, and the most valuable thing you had on you was a picture of you and me. You didn't even have your cell phone, because you'd left it in my car.
I would have given you a ride, if you would have waited another five minutes. It honestly wasn't that important, you could have waited, we wouldn't have wasted away to nothing waiting for our food for five extra minutes.
We all blame ourselves. Geoff wanted to protect you from the whole world, he loved you like he'd conceived you, like his wife had bore you, like they'd raised you. Ryan always talks about what would have happened if he hadn't complained so much about being hungry. Jack wonders why he didn't offer you a ride once I said I was busy. Ray tells me that it should have been him, but you threw scissors to his rock, and he got to stay while you went. Maybe, he says, if you two had just gone together...
And me, you know me. It's all my fault.
It's not really my fault, but it feels good to feel like I have some sort of control over it, like I could have actually done something, when I know I couldn't have.
I fucking miss you.
Somedays, I can't breathe, because I just can't think that I'm never going to see your smile, that your pulse will never dance under my fingertips, that I won't hear you say my name with that dopey accent. I spent four straight days in bed before Geoff sent me to Dr. Goulash. I think he wants to protect me, now, especially since I showed him the ring.
He's really a nice guy, honestly. Though he's a sad drunk.
He and Ray and I, because yes, Ray started drinking, he says that it helps make him feel better, I tried to make him stop, but he's grieving and I really can't say anything about dealing with grief poorly, spend a few nights a week drinking and playing dumb games and talking about you. We usually end up crying, which sounds so girly, but we all loved you, even if it was in entirely different ways. Ryan's joined us once or twice, but Jack never has. You know Jack, though, he internalizes all that stuff til it's near about too late. I don't remember if he cried at your funeral, though, and everyone cried at your funeral. They had to escort Jordan out before it was even over, he was a wreck. You guys were close. I saw him yesterday, and he looks like death warmed over. Honestly, I think you were one of his best friends.
You were so important to so many people, and that stupid fucking mugger will never know that.
I fucking hate people, you know?
Your little Michael
---
July 26
Michael,
I know, you're not dumb, you're honestly one of the most intelligent people I know!
I'm a bit glad they laid me to rest in England, but then again, I'm upset, because you're going to be buried in New Jersey, and our remains will never be together.
I can't even pretend you're just visiting New Jersey, I don't have the luxury.
But you're dead, Michael. Dead like me.
They said he was almost twice over the legal limit, that driver, he never even saw your car.
Do you know what you had in your pockets, Michael?
I do, because angels have access to all sorts of knowledge.
You had your wallet, with the picture from mine. You had your phone, a flash drive, about a dollar in change, and a ring. My ring. The one I never had a chance to wear.
You did not die over these things, but they brought you no comfort in death. You died on impact, there was no pain, and for this, I am ever thankful to any deity that will listen.
The fellas feel awful about this all... Me, in May, and now you, in July. Not too soon after your birthday, either. You were 27 for two whole days.
My new friends tell me you'll be coming here, soon. And you and I will be reunited, and we'll never have to be apart again, if we don't want to be. Everything up here is based on what you want, and I'd be willing to bet any amount of money that the boys will find their way to us once their times come. Until then, it will be me and you, and we'll be happy, together.
I already have your ring, to prove it.
There's a knock on my door, now. That must be you. I hope you like the house I chose, and all of the furniture I have... We can change it, if you're unhappy.
I love you, Michael.
And I'm glad that you've come home.
-Gavin