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The crack of the rifle splits the air, ringing in his ears as he whirls around to spot the shooter. Pain flares in his chest, shoves him to the ground. Cold cobblestones press against his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt like he’d thought it would. All his training told him to expect burning, but this… It’s an ache, an emptiness. As if the bullet had taken something from him when it hit. His fingers meet the wound, the warmth of blood seeping over his skin.
He can’t feel much of anything, now that he’s trying to. Just vague sensations. The chill infiltrating his clothes and a consuming fatigue. His eyes are closed. At the realization, he forces them open. Milo crouches at his side, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Llewellyn…” His lover’s voice is muffled. A whisper through an invisible wall.
When he tries to reply, warn Milo of the danger, his body refuses to cooperate. His lips are too numb to move. As are his legs. He feels much like a disembodied head, pinned to the street without a neck to lift it. The emptiness yawns open, wider and wider. It devours him, leaves him with nothing but a train of thought to sustain him. To delay Death long enough.
He’s not sure where that idea comes from. Only a moment ago, he would’ve said the wound wasn’t so severe as that. But it’s supposed to hurt and it doesn’t. He’d seen men clutch at bullet holes, writhe, scream in agony. Why does he feel nothing if he isn’t dying?
No. He can’t let himself be so pessimistic. Ones attitude often dictates how a situation plays out. Or, so he’d been told. Most likely by Julia, but the memory eludes him.
Milo rolls him onto his back, applies pressure to the wound. Good, he wants to say, but the word won’t come out. Part of him seizes in panic. It’s better than succumbing to the numbness, though not enough to really make a difference. He stares up into his lover’s face. Those dark eyes round with horror. Brow scrunched. Soft lips forming a frown.
He remembers the feel of them on his own. The stolen kisses. Late nights spent drinking wine by the fireplace or discussing poetry in the garden. He’ll miss those moments, wishes he’d appreciated them when he had the chance. Will Milo look back on them just as fondly? Or will his memory be tainted by the bitter words they’d shared? Their final argument. Shame burns in his chest, hotter than the bullet lodged there. If he’d known then that he would end the night like this, he never would have—
“I…” His throat is dry as he finally manages to speak.
Milo shushes him gently. “Save your strength.”
It’s almost laughable how weak he is, how even his eyelids weigh too much for him to hold them open. And still, he wonders why Milo treats him so delicately. He should be angry. After everything that was said…
His lungs constrict, jerking him out of his mind. He’s still breathing, but it isn’t enough. His chest tightens as he flounders. Struggling for precious air that seems to draw into his throat but goes no farther. Milo’s hands secure him, one pressing down harder on the gunshot wound. The other caresses his cheek for the briefest moment. The pads of his fingertips are warm, almost feverish in comparison to the skin they brush against.
Panic easing, his eyelids flutter closed once more. Fighting only exacerbates the pain, the exhaustion. Milo is right; he needs to rest. And if he… if he has to die, he’ll do so quietly. With dignity. He’d never imagined his own death before. Maybe a passing awareness. The occasional fantasy of hair gone silver, his wrinkled hand clasping his lover’s for the last time. It’s different when it’s just a dream, an abstract.
Death watches him, scythe in hand, poised to reap his soul. He can’t distinguish reality from the imagined anymore. Perhaps his soul is already severed from his body and he’s experiencing sensations from both. Existing in two places at once. It tires him further, the push and pull between worlds. Limbo.
Life’s grip on him loosens.
“Llewellyn,” Milo pleads.
“I’m… sorry.” His own voice is only a sigh. The last of his breath spent. It lessens the guilt, somewhat. Though there is so much more that he wants to say, that will die with him.
He doesn’t hear Milo’s response or the ambient sounds of Toronto’s nightlife. The silence suffocates him in the dark. The last push he needs to let go. His sense of self fades, dwindling down and down. Until he’s gone.
Llewellyn’s heartbeat pauses beneath Milo’s bloodied fingers. And never resumes.
It’s been three years since Llewellyn died and Milo still thinks about him every day. At least once. When he hears a song Llewellyn might have liked or finds himself loitering by the soft pretzel vendor. Each reminder tears open the old scars again. Although, can they really be considered ‘old’ when they never quite healed in the first place?
He’d tried to connect with Llewellyn’s friends at Station House No. 4, share in their grief. But they moved on faster than he did and, too soon, his pain became an unwanted burden. So, he distanced himself, falling deeper into reclusive habits.
Several times, he considered parting with Toronto. It might’ve helped to put some distance between him and the place where he’d watched his lover die. Yet, he could never muster the courage. Because this was Llewellyn’s home and his grave is here. It would feel… wrong to go, to leave him behind.
Milo leans back in his chair with a sigh, setting his journal aside and twirling the pen in his fingers. Whenever he sits down to write, he tries to find the proper words to express his emotions. The longing. The terror. The guilt. And every time, he fails. He used to think he was an excellent poet, before all this. Stanzas once flowed like sweet wine, quenching many a thirsty soul. Now, his mind is more akin to a desert. He wants to write something for Llewellyn, to cope, to fulfill a long-forgotten promise. But the inspiration dried up three years ago.
Some days, he feels hopeless. Some days, he flings his pen against the wall and returns to the comfort of his bed. But most of the time, he functions well enough. He runs errands and meets with friends and accomplishes everything expected of him. Unable to free himself entirely from the fog of his grief. Even rarer than the hopeless days are the good days. The ones where reminders of Llewellyn make him smile instead of cry. When he doesn’t think about the blood that clung to his hand. The deafening silence of a still heart.
He’s more aware of his own heartbeat now. Tracking its rhythm, waiting for it to slow down to nothing like Llewellyn’s did.
A shudder rips through him, yet another sign that he is irrevocably alive. How long until he’s okay again? How long must he suffer? Even beginning a new affair hadn’t fixed him. It was a short-lived entanglement, the excitement now so dull that it wasn’t worth his time. He’d meant what he said that night – that he didn’t want to limit himself to one partner. He just wanted… no, needed Llewellyn to be there too.
But he isn’t here and he never will be again.
The pen drops out of Milo’s grasp. It isn’t fair… They were supposed to work out their problems, go home together. Llewellyn should be here now, sipping tea in the other armchair. Or hunching over a book. Tears threaten to spill down Milo’s face and he bites down on his lower lip to stop them.
He bends down and retrieves his pen. Such a small, insignificant gesture. To be honest, most things in his life feel that way these days. And yet, he keeps pushing on. Because he has to. Because, if he stops, he won’t be able to carry the weight anymore.
Guilt stabs at his heart. He knows Llewellyn would want him to find happiness again. He knows he shouldn’t lock himself in the past, away from those who care about him. But he can’t break the cycle. The self-loathing loops again and again in his head, reminding him of all the things he should have said. All the mistakes he’d made replay endlessly. He should have done something – saved Llewellyn somehow.
Slowly, he stands, placing his pen and journal on the coffee table. His hands shake, eyes burning with unshed tears. He’s spiraling again. Thinking too much about what ifs. But sometimes, all he can do is indulge himself. He climbs the stairs to his bedroom, feet leaden. Today is already too much…
He draws the heavy curtains over his windows then eases himself into bed. The blankets wrap around him tightly. And, if he closes his eyes, drifts out of reality for a moment, they almost feel like an embrace.