Chapter Text
Gueira opens the fridge and pulls a Stella out from the back, pops the top with the churchkey magnet he’d won at a stupid firehouse fundraiser. His bones ache and he dearly needs a shower, not that he’ll likely get around to it until he’s already piss drunk.
It’s been 7 years, 3 months, and 22 days since the day Gueira lost him. Not that anyone was counting. The date had just been casually burned into his soul. Carved into the most tender places he didn’t like admitting he even had, under the callouses and the dirty fingernails and the horrible attitude. His therapist had said it was normal to struggle. To grieve.
That it always gets worse before it gets supposedly easier.
But, thing is, that had been 6 or 7 years ago and things never once got even a single fucking bit easier.
His phone rings, which is normally no cause for concern, he was off the clock after all and there was no such thing as an emergency in construction work when you’re as low on the ladder as Gueira is, but Lio’s name on caller id catches his eye. He sighs, setting his beer on the counter, and answers.
“Yeah, boss?” He scratches the back of his neck, where the chain of the necklace he never takes off meets peeling sunburn.
“Gueira.” Lio says, with a voice that has Gueira standing a little straighter. Ever the general. Ever on alert. There’s a garbled voice in the background, just out of earshot. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Is everything ok?” He presses, already fearing the worst. Not that it could ever be the worst again.
There’s a pause, and Gueira is already grabbing his jacket, fishing out his keys from his pocket. “You need to get to the station.” Lio says, voice wobbling in a way it never does. Like he’d been crying.
“Say no more.” He says, locking the door and taking the stairs two at a time down to the building entrance.
“Gueira.” A familiar voice calls from the background, from beyond, because certainly that voice could not be coming from his phone no matter how tinny and distant. His heart squeezes like it might burst and he stops dead in his tracks, pale and frozen in place. His pulse rushes in his ears, audible and painful.
He clears his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. “Boss?” His voice wobbles, weak.
“You need to get to the station.” Lio urges. “Now.”
Gueira breaks every speed limit. Would have flown through every traffic light too if it wasn’t so damn important he showed up in one piece.
He bursts through the station door, shirt soaked through with a cold sweat, and scans the room for something he doesn’t believe he could possibly find. The entire station staff is crowded around Lucia’s desk, the monitor blocked by their huddled bodies. They turn in unison, a menagerie of unreadable expressions on all of their faces. But, he isn’t looking at any of them. He’s looking at the shock of blue hair barely visible in the space between their bodies. His knees lock up and his stomach flips pitifully in his gut, his whole body shaking as Lio steps out of the way, and he sees him.
“Meis.” He breathes, sobs, staggering past the small group to push Lucia and her chair out of the way, falling onto his elbows at desk and staring at the monitor, at the tear-streaked face staring back at him.
“Hello, Gueira.” The voice that held him in his dreams says back, before sucking back post-nasal drip and choking a sob into his hand, leaning close to the screen and brushing his fingers against the monitor. Meis laughs wetly, his fingers blocking half the screen as he pet the digital space like he was trying to reach through the screen and touch him.
Gueira sinks to his knees, the crowd of people around him all but forgotten as he tries to sift through his pathetic kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions. He’s not crying, but his cheeks are wet and that’s ok. “How.” He mouths, coughing around a watery noise before trying again. “How?”
Meis wipes his eyes, mascara streaking. “I-” He looks like he’s trying to find the words. “Gueira, I… I’m not your Meis.”
“What do you mean?” He breathes, standing up, slow and deliberate.
“I mean,” Meis sniffs, “That I’m not from your dimension, G. Not from your timeline.” He looks offscreen, to where a familiar tiny hand waves out from the nothingness. “Lucia, my Lucia,” He clarifies, “Found out how to connect to other dimensions this way. For me.”
There is an empty pit where Gueira’s stomach is supposed to be. This is a joke, a cruel one at that. God, or the devil, or whatever sadist was in charge, was playing with him for sure. “Why?” He growls. “Do you have ANY idea how this feels for me?” He roars, stepping forward and shoving Lio off his arm when he feels deft hands try to steady him. He’s shaking, vision blurry and underwater as his palms meet the desk, steadying himself. “Play number neighbors with another fucking timeline. Another fucking universe.” He spits, a hand ghosting to ring on his necklace, gripping it tight.
He shoves his palm into his eye, roughly forcing the tears away to look at the ghost across the screen. Meis is eerily still, dramatic streaks of black running down his cheeks as he squares his jaw, patient and breaking. Gueira could read him as easily as he ever could. “I do.” He says, and Gueira looks at him, really looks at him. At the careful updo that still easily waterfalls past his shoulders, at the barbel piercing he’d never had, at the ring around his neck, black and plain. That he was holding just like he was holding his. Meis wipes his cheeks, smudging black pigment across his face as he does. “I think I’m the only one who does.” His voice is measured, stubborn and small. “I lost you too.”
—-
It’s been 6 years, 11 months, and 4 days since Meis lost him. And he has long since stopped pretending he doesn’t count every single day. The first therapist said it wasn’t healthy, hanging on like this. But, Meis had always been a selfish person at heart, despite the community service and the activism and the habit of letting other people take charge. The second therapist said everyone grieves differently, but kept trying to make him try to do things that might make him happy again. As if a road trip, or a hobby, or lunch with friends, could ever make him happy again. The third therapist prescribed antidepressants. Meis never filled the prescription. Somehow getting rid of the pain felt like getting rid of whatever was left of him.
He never got rid of anything that was left of him.
Not the hole he’d accidentally punched in the drywall with the doorknob. Not the photographs he’d printed at the library to pin to the corkboard. Not the flat pillow on his side of the bed. Not the save the date invitation that still hung on the fridge.
Stubborn, maybe. Self destructive, for sure. But, for a man whose soul had been blown out like a candle, trying to cling to the smoke was all he had left.
So when the funhouse mirror image of his twin flame stared back at him through the screen, shattered and angry, and walked away, Meis could not blame him. Selfish, he thought as he squared his jaw and fought back a gutting wave of tears. This was not his Gueira. He was not his Meis.
He promised a Lio who had lost him long ago that he’d see him again, because of course Gueira was not the only person who had lost him in the other reality. But, he could not give his boss what he needed when his heart had been shot clean through. And so when the connection dropped, when the strong fingers of his own Lio gripped his shaking shoulder, he fell into himself like a crashing wave.
Self destructive.
Stubborn.
Selfish.
His throat was raw, and his mouth still tasted metallic, when his tears dried up and he laid in bed, fingers ghosting the well worn pillow laying next to him. “I saw you today.” He whispered into the space beside himself, voice scratchy and dull. “Another you.” He rubbed his fingertips on the pale blue pillowcase. “You had a beard.” He chuckled darkly, “A really ugly one.”
The space beside him said nothing, but Meis knew he would have laughed at that. Would have boasted how handsome he would have looked with a beard. Teased him about how he would have loved it no matter what. And of course it was true. Gueira could have been bald, bearded, eyebrow-less, or just about anything, and Meis still would love it. Would still love him.
He closed his eyes, imagined a hand brushing over his cheek, pushing his hair over his ear and kissing the tip where it met the barbel. He exhaled, slow and weak. “I miss you.” He said, for the billionth millionth time, voice hitching around a sob that had no tears behind it. “I miss you so much, you fucking bastard.” He rolled over to his side of the bed, burying his face into his beloved pillow, shoulders shaking as he crested the wave and let it drown him.