Work Text:
There are no happy endings, not really. Chris knows this. Life is not a fairy tale, life is not something that ends up neatly wrapped in a box, loose ends tied together as it is all put away, covered oh-so-pretty in a bow. There is nothing so perfect, so concise, so clear cut, the end , roll the credits as the screen fades to black.
And yet, Chris can hope. He can hope, the hopeless romantic that he finds himself to be, all he can do is hope. Hope is the most beautiful torment, he thinks, promising one something that oftentimes cannot be had -- and yet mankind hopes, and perhaps that is what makes them able to see light in the darkest of times. Hope is all one can have, after all, when the world has torn everything else away.
The visitation has become a ritual, at this point, something of a habit, a habit that Chris finds that he cannot stop himself from doing. As much as he knows that this can’t continue, that it isn’t healthy, torturing them both like this, he cannot pull himself away. The thought that this will end in tears, that it could end in...in -- ( don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t make it real ) -- skulks about the outside of the graveyard of his thoughts. It grows closer with every day, with every visit that he makes, with every change that he sees in Josh, and yet Chris ignores it, ignores the ache in his chest and the way it grows.
The changes were subtle, at first. They were something that could be ignored: the way Josh seems taller, the way he holds himself more akin to that of a hunter, the way his skin is cold. Chris could brush it off, explain it away: it is still Josh, after all, is it not? He knows Josh; he knows Josh better than he knows himself, better than he knows the interior of his own home. Perhaps he is more gaunt, perhaps words are slow and halting at times, but it is Josh.
It is still Josh, even as bones jut more starkly against greying skin, even as eyes become more ringed in darkness, even as he shies away from the light.
Still, rose-coloured glasses do not extend to the olfactory sense. The sickly sweet smell of rot became something that even Chris cannot ignore.
Even in quiet moments, as they would rest together, stealing time by the fire that Chris insisted on during the cold months, Chris could smell it. He smelled the rot on Josh’s breath, on his skin, the way it hung about him like a miasma neither of them would acknowledge. Even when Chris would go home, he would smell it on his clothing – though, part of him was loathe to wash it away. It was a reminder, a stark reminder that he needed, but, oh, God, denial is a hell of a drug.
Every time, the clothing went into the washing machine, and every time he told himself no, it’s not that bad. We can make it through this. He would sway away the Is there even a ‘we’? that crept about the edges of his mind, taunting him with what he so longed to have.
Winter passed to spring, spring to summer, and summer to autumn. The world moved on.
Chris did not.
In the purgatory of November, Chris stands at the beginning of the trail, hands shoved into his pockets. Fingers worry the edges of a piece of worn paper, chewed nails tearing off tiny pieces as he takes a deep breath and begins to walk. The air is sharp in his lungs, his breath fogging up his glasses, and he licks chapped lips as frosted grass crunches beneath his boots. There is apprehension that pokes at the back of his mind: the air feels…off.
No, it doesn’t, dumbass. You’re just overthinking things.
But how can he not? How can he not, when the last time he saw Josh, he did most of the talking? How can he not worry when last time he looked into Josh’s eyes, there was something primal there, something that – no, no, he doesn’t want to say it, but God, it was there, and it was hungry.
“Josh?” Chris calls out, the word slipping from his throat like a prayer. “Hey, it’s me, I know I said I wouldn’t be back ‘til Monday, but, uh…” I got worried, I got scared, I have a bad feeling. “I…got lonely, so. Here I am!” (Not a lie, not really; nothing has felt the same since Josh began to live this ghost life on this mountain. Nothing fills the void the same way that his brief visits up here, these forbidden moments, manage to.)
For a long moment, there is no response.
Chris hesitates, fingers digging into the worn paper in his pocket, twisting it about as he feels his breath catching in his throat. He wants to call out again, wants to call for Josh like he always has. He has always been reaching for Josh, searching for him, calling for him, and Josh was always there. Josh has always been his constant, been there for Chris when he needed him.
Why does it feel different this time?
No, stop it, I need to get out of my own head. Get it together, Chris.
“Josh?” This time, Chris’ voice is quieter, swallowed by the sharp cold of the air. It falls flat, syllables lost amongst the rustling of the bare branches that reach towards the unforgiving sky, lost to the unholy silence that hangs about this mountain.
When Josh appears, it is without noise. Like a shadow, he slips from between the trunks of the trees, moving faster than Chris’ eyes can track. He is not there, and then he is: a form hunched on the path, grey skin blending in with the dead grass below. His eyes are dark hollows, face blank as he stares at Chris.
Chris fights the urge to take a step back. There is the sense of wrongness again, dread a cold knife in his stomach as he seems unable to catch his breath.
“Josh…?” Now it is a question, a word whispered in an abandoned cathedral to a god that does not hear. “Hey, uh… It’s– It’s me, hi,” Chris finishes lamely, half-raising his hand in a wave. Great job, Chris. Brilliant observation. ‘It’s me.’ Who the hell else would it be?
Before Chris blinks, before his hand is back at his side, Josh is before him. Oh, fuck. Chris swallows hard as he searches those hungry eyes for any flicker of– of, well, anything. He feels, more than hears, Josh inhale deeply, and he swears he hears cold skin creaking with the effort.
Chris suppresses a shiver, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He stands still, a rabbit locking eyes with a wolf, and he prays, prays, that this isn’t how he is going to die. He remembers –
flurry of movement, the sound of a hungry beast, the crash as his back connected with the earth the fear of oh god this is it, this is how it is going to end, i am going to die at his hands his teeth he is going to eat me and maybe this is how it was meant to be i am going to die at the hands of my best friend the only boy i ever–
– last time.
“Hey, man, it’s… How’s it going, J?” His voice is still low, a whisper, as if he is talking to a skittish creature. Lately, that’s how it’s felt, sometimes, like he is talking to a wild thing, something that should shy away from people, lest harm come to– (To who? Chris, or Josh? Man, or beast?)
There is no reply.
These past few times, Chris has stopped expecting a reply.
“So, uh…” The words fade from Chris’ lips as soon as they appear. He cannot stop his heart from fluttering like a caged thing, beating its wings feebly against the cage of his ribs. He wants to say something, anything, wants to see a flicker of recognition in Josh’s eyes. He wants Josh to stand up straight again, wants his bones to be hidden beneath warm flesh, wants those wounds to close up, wants the blood washed away, wants his eyes to be the familiar green not this muddy brown, and God, he just wants Josh.
There is a low huff from Josh, a soft click in his throat, and, with what seems to be a great effort (muscles rippling below skin, bones shifting unnaturally) he moves closer to Chris slowly, slowly, closing the space between them until there is just the barest breadth of an inch.
The primal part of Chris’ brain screams for him to run, but his self-preservation instinct has never been the strongest, has it? Instead, Chris fumbles for a moment, shoving a glove into his pocket, and presses his bare palm to Josh’s sallow cheek. His throat closes up as he searches once familiar features, and oh, oh , there it is, the barest flicker of something beneath the rot and gore, there is the way Josh looks at him, the way Josh makes him feel seen. There is the softness, though now it is dim, fading, almost gone, a ghost of what it once was.
Chris swallows hard, breath rasping in his throat, tasting the rot on his tongue as he closes his eyes and lets himself press his forehead against Josh’s one last time, because this is the last time, isn’t it? This is the final time that he will get to do this, get to see Josh before there is nothing left of him. He knew it, he knew this was coming, they both did, but oh, denial, the sweetest poison, hanging on when there is nothing left to grasp. It is the agony, the blissful agony of what could have been, and Chris whispers three little words –
I love you
– three little words that should have been spoken so long ago, three words that are almost lost as the wind howls by, but it is said, a whispered hymn for something dead.
There is a noise from Josh, a low hum that almost rattles Chris’ bones. It is mournful, low, an aching sound, a eulogy without words. Chris curls his fingers against Josh’s sunken skin, fingertips tracing as if to memorize the planes and angles that were once as familiar as his own reflection.
There is a shaking breath, Chris opening his eyes as he moves back, searching Josh’s eyes one last time, seeing his own pain reflected back at him. “...God, I’m so sorry, Josh, I’m sorry,” he says, hand lingering a moment longer on dried flesh. “I shouldn’t’ve– I don’t regret it, I’d do it again, but… Josh, I’m sorry.” Had he made Josh hang on longer than he should’ve? Had they both fought to keep a dying flame alive? Would it have been better if, if, if, what if? Dead things are best left alone; this has been an act of summoning things long gone, hasn’t it?
Chris lets his hand drop to his side as Josh takes a shuddering step back, a clicking-growl rattling against sharpened teeth. There is a snort, a huff, head twitching, and what was one Josh seems to struggle a moment, sinewy muscles unsure of which way to go. He stands, a creature torn, wickedly curved fingers at his sides twitching as if he wants to reach for Chris, wants to grab him and consume him ( for we devour what we love – the thought flashes wildly through Chris’ mind, unbidden).
If this is how I die, Chris thinks to himself, at least I will die at the hands of someone who loved me.
A blur of movement, and Josh is right before Chris once again, teeth catching the gray November light just so, and Chris closes his eyes, a strange peace settling over him (he has been a ghost himself for these last few months, hanging onto something long dead, these visits a seance – an act of glorious torture – for something that might have once been).
With a soft breath of air kissing Chris’ cheek, the sickly sweet smell of rot on his tongue, Josh is gone.
Chris does not move for a few moments, staring at the spot where Josh once stood. There is nothing: the trees bear witness, skeletal arms those of forgotten supplicants, the crows granting a moment of silence before they take to the skies. The grass is bent, broken, where Josh once stood, shards of frost tiny knives that point to the sky. These tiny knives have carved him raw, leaving him all nerve endings and no beginnings.
Chris only realizes he is crying when he tastes the salt on his lips.
Poets never tell you how it ends. They never say how one is to move on, after losing your center of gravity, your one constant in an ever-shifting world, not once, but twice. They never tell you where to look after your North Star fades out, what to do when your pain is not something pretty, not something beautiful. It is all crystalline tears, all he haunts me in the night, all some stupid fucking bird says nevermore, which shouldn’t even be a word, God. It is all oh, my beautiful agony, you haunt me.
They never talk about the magnitude of grief, the way in which it holds you down, how you can’t grieve at a graveside because you know that is not where he rests, not where he rests his head at night. The sun still rises, the moon goes through her phases. The little seed of grief (more like a huge-ass tree, but who’s keeping track?) settles itself once more so very neatly into his hollowed out chest. His heart is still missing half of itself, but somehow, the world moves on. It gets easier, everyone says, it will fade with time.
What the fuck do they know?
He doesn’t think this sort of pain will fade: really, he doesn’t think it ever will. He left half of his heart on that mountain: Josh will always carry that with him, whether he knows it or not.
Closure is a fucking lie, Chris thinks. All the same, he does not regret it, does not regret telling Josh those three little words, for he loves Josh – he always has, and he always will. That is the agony of love, the pain of having loved.
There are no true endings; not while the world turns and the stars burn. There is nothing ever neatly wrapped up in a box and packed away, stamped and finished. Sometimes there are no proper goodbyes, only things half-said; sometimes, someone is in your life, and then they are gone, taking part of you with them. All you can do is grow around that ache.
But that, of course, is the beauty of it, Chris thinks. For if there is no ending, if there is no fade to black, roll credits, then maybe in another time, another world, things will work out. Maybe, in another life, things will be as dreamed.