Chapter Text
It is possible to die of a broken heart: though extremely unlikely, it is far from nonexistent. The tragedy consumes you until it pulls you under, and your eyes shut for the last time.
Phil Watson had lived a happy life.
Admittedly, there had been struggles, times when he wasn't sure if he'd be able to keep a roof over his head, times when he wasn't sure if there would be enough food to put on his plate, but he had managed. He had survived.
And though the worry, that fear remained as a constant nagging in the back of his mind, he could allow himself to relax, if only a little.
He bought his own apartment and made a habit of eating out at least once a week to make up for the times he had not been able to eat at all.
He dreamt of a family, and the things he could buy for them with his (albeit still quite small,) newfound wealth.
He could pay for the wedding of him and his lover, a woman who he would follow to the end of the universe.
"Till death do us part," their voices had echoed, smiles blossoming on their faces despite the dark undertone of the words. The words that weren't quite true. For Phil believed not even death could keep him away from her.
Phil would tear the stars from the sky for Kristin. And if she were to die he was sure he would follow not far behind.
It was, to say the least, a pity that death were to occur so soon. It was sudden, cruel and came from nowhere: Kristin passed in the arms of Phil, whose tears were the only thing keeping her cold body warm until the doctors tore him away.
In the end, Phil Watson did not die of a broken heart: after all, it is extremely unlikely.
Instead he took his own life.
He chased after her, straight into death's arms.
They were buried side by side, and the many flowers that were laid by their headstones were replaced with newer, brighter ones before they had the time to wilt.
Phil Watson had lived a happy life. Now, Phil Watson was dead.
~*~
Music echoed around the room, slightly static, slightly tinny, but the two figures pressed against each other didn't notice, didn't care. They were too lost in each other's arms, in each other's presence as they swayed around the room. Neither were particularly skilled at dancing: in fact they were both a mess, tripping, stumbling, foolish grins consuming their faces for the whole world to see. But they didn't care. They were together. And that was what mattered.
“I love you,” Kristin whispered.
She could feel the way Phil smiled as his lips sprang up from where they were pressed against her forehead.
She could feel the way he spoke the next words, the way he put every part of his soul into those four words.
“I love you more.”
Her laugh was like music to his ears.
“Oh really?”
“My heart beats for you. It will die with you.”
“I really did marry the sappiest man alive.”
The moon hid behind a cloud, getting rid of the silvery glow, leaving it with only the soft orange flickering of the fire.
Its flames - though dangerous and unforgiving - held no malice at this hour. It held no desire to take from the couple who tended it so gently. They settled in front of it on a worn out sofa, Kristin resting her head on Phil's lap as he combed through her dark hair with his fingers, adoration blatant in his touch.
“I love you,” he whispered as her eyes began to close.
“Love you more,” she retorted.
Phil waited until her breathing had leveled and he was sure she was asleep before muttering, “you could never. I love you most.”
He would say the same thing over and over and over two weeks later when her body turned cold and she couldn't say it back, he would say the same thing as she was lowered into the ground and he would promise the same thing as he followed after her.
~*~
Five years passed.
Five long years, and he couldn't find her.
Maybe he had been wrong.
Maybe death could keep them apart.
Maybe they were destined to be torn away from each other's grip, leaving empty spaces where their hearts should have been, that would have been consuming if Phil had stopped to rest.
He stumbled through forests, seas and bustling cities, searching, searching, searching, ignoring the branches that tore at his skin and the water that burnt him, ignoring the cars that slammed into his side and the people that would trample him: the pain was there, but it caused him no lasting damage.
He was dead.
It wasn't like he could die twice.
So he searched.
He searched and searched, his path beginning to stray from love to the brink of madness.
Another year dragged by.
He did not allow himself to rest: he had a job to do and only when it was completed could he remember what it was like to relax, only when it was completed could he finally find it in him to crush the fear that he couldn't create attachments, that he could finally let himself love again.
(For if he were to allow himself to care about anything else, that 'anything' would slow his search, that 'anything' his heart would have to split its love between: the new 'anything' and- the new thing and…Her. She who he held close to his heart, She who somewhere was still under the same starry sky as him, She who was called-
She who was called…)
It is on a stormy night with lightning lashing out mercilessly against anything and everything, that Phil realises he cannot remember Her name.
He can't-
He can't remember.
He can't remember her.
But-
She was his world. His universe. The reason his heart would keep beating, and the reason it had stopped. And he couldn't remember Her name.
It started small.
Tears streamed down his cheeks.
It grew with the sobs that tore from his throat, shaking his entire body. At the core there was something festering, something blue and painful and cold that sent shivers through his body but couldn't make him freeze.
It could not stop him walking.
He just had to find Her- he- he would know what She looked like when he saw Her.
A bright smile perhaps. A dress? There is a memory, slightly fuzzy, that he grasps onto with everything he has left. She wears a dress, he wears a suit. He thinks the day was happy.
Phil does not remember that the memory was of his wedding.
And so he did what he did best: he kept walking.
A stillness settled over him, one he could not escape. It clung to the corners of his mind, slowly spreading like roots until time became a foreign concept that never stayed long enough to understand.
No matter how much he ran from its ticking hands, it always seemed to catch up. Never left him long enough to stop to breathe, to rest, to recover.
And so he kept walking.
The landscape was forever changing: mountains turned to cities, cities turned to valleys, and valleys turned to open stretches of beach.
The trees turned from green to a fiery red before falling from the branches, discarded on the floor, dead. Children laughed and ran around carrying buckets shaped like pumpkins. Spices filled the air and extra blankets were piled onto beds.
Phil kept walking.
Snow started to fall. Streets were strung up with lights, shop windows were filled with trees, tinsel and gifts. The air carried the smell of gingerbread and marshmallows as people rushed on, smiles on their faces and bags weighing their arms down, hot chocolates clasped in their hands keeping the cold at bay.
Phil kept walking.
The snow melted and with it the clouds were washed away, blue skies and warmer days tending to the buds that began to sprout from the ground and the grass pushing its way up through the earth. New life entered the world. Phil was dead.
Phil kept walking.
The days got hotter and the ground dried up, ice cream vans were never far and wherever you went children would be playing in the streets, be it with paddling pools or bubbles. Parents chased after them with bottles of suncream as the sun grew warmer and warmer. Phil didn't care much for the heat.
Phil kept walking.
The leaves started falling.
They fell from their branches, dropped from their homes, and danced in the wind, free for the first time in a year.
They had - as most things do - no control of where they would land, and yet they trusted the wind enough to carry them.
It was one of these leaves that made Phil stumble: he did not stop, but he could not remember the last time he stumbled, so this felt like some sort of insignificant milestone.
However his memory hadn't exactly been in top shape so for all he knew he could have tripped yesterday.
But regardless, a leaf fell from a tree.
A leaf which didn't just dance: it twirled and glided and was the colour of gold.
She had worn gold. He doesn't remember it clearly, at best the memories are fuzzy, but he can picture a hand holding Her’s, both with a golden band around the ring finger on their left hands.
She had never taken it off.
She had held it to Her heart and kissed it before She fell asleep each night.
And so Phil strayed from his own path and followed the golden leaf’s, hoping for a miracle that would lead him to Her.
His own path hadn’t led him anywhere. Well over a decade had passed and the only thing he had gained was a bigger hole in his heart and an increased pain with the knowledge that he was forgetting more and more.
So he followed the path of gold.
The path was gentle to begin with, well trodden paths lined with flowers and benches along the border of a wood, a wind strong enough to carry the leaf and gentle enough to not tear it from Phil's sight. But soon the trees turned to thorns and the paths turned to rivers and once more Phil found himself stumbling. However the golden leaf carried on.
So he had to continue.
Eventually, the ground returned to well worn paths and flowers, only this time the trees were headstones and the forest border was the graveyard wall.
They had been traveling for a while now, and the leaf was growing tired. Too tired to be carried much further. Too tired to keep its golden glow.
So, as what happens with all dying things, the leaf took its last flight. One last moment of freedom before it would wither away.
It died in a graveyard.
Right at the back, tucked out of sight along a path only the gardeners walked. It had began to grow over and the leaf lost its gold, it lost its dance, it lost its flight.
Phil fell with it.
He fell because he could not stop moving but his last thread of hope had withered, frayed, snapped from his final grip.
But he could not stop.
He had to carry on.
He had to find Her.
He had to.
He had-
He…
His eyes landed on a grave.
It stood out among the others doused in tears and gifts.
It was plain. Simple. Holding only a name and a date, empty of any flowers, any message, any love. But the grave itself was not empty.
The boy had been 10.
10 years was not a life one could live. 10 years was a glimpse, a taunt, a cruel tease of something he could never have.
10 years was all the boy had been given. 10 years on this evil earth and he was dead.
Phil stops walking.
"Fuck," he rasped, voice hoarse.
And God, that just made it hurt more. The first time he spoke after dying was to try to curse out the sadness blooming in his chest over a boy he never knew, over someone who's grave held no flowers.
Someone who wasn't loved, even in death.
Phil was tired. He was ready to fall back into his own grave and close his eyes for another century, let the slow hands of time wrap themselves around his neck and drag him back to death.
Instead, he pulled himself back to his feet.
He pulled himself back to his feet and used all the strength that he had left to focus on his fingers and pluck a golden flower from a nearby bouquet.
He couldn't stop the tears that fell, and though they burnt at his cheeks he didn't think he would stop them if he could: flowers cannot grow without water.
He propped it up against the headstone, unable to stop the shaking of his hands.
"Why are you crying?"
He freezed. Slowly, he turned to face the voice.
The boy peered out through curls of golden hair with blue eyes rimmed red, tear stains leaving trails through the dirt on his face. Scarred arms were wrapped around his knees pulled to his chest. He seemed to shrink smaller as Phil looked at him, despite the way he tried to push out his chest.
Phil crouched down to the boys eye level, trying to soften his face as he brushed away tears.
"This grave looked a little lonely. It- it made me worry- made me sad. I don't think graves should be lonely."
That wasn't exactly what he had meant - what he had meant was it made him panic, made him worry. Who visited Her grave? Did anyone visit it? Or was it left in the back of a graveyard to crumble, tucked out of sight?
The boy tried to bury himself further into the worn out jumper ten sizes to big for him. A small smile crept onto his face and lifted the corners of his mouth but didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You can see me?" Hope overtook his voice.
"Yes," Phil chuckled. "I can."
"Good. I was getting lonely." Phil's heart dropped. "I've been waiting so long for someone to visit!"
Phil paused. Reminded himself to breathe. "How long have you been waiting, Tommy?"
It was a guess. And he hoped he was wrong. He hoped the boy would ask who Tommy was and tell Phil that it wasn't him.
"Since as long as I woke up here, it's been-" he trailed off and tore his eyes away from where they'd met Phil's. "How…how do you know my name?"
He had been 10.
"Tommy-"
"No…no, stop it," he muttered, voice getting angrier as tears began to stream down his cheeks. "NO. STOP IT. STOP. What- why- no. No stop. Stop stop STOP-"
"Tommy I need you to breathe-"
"Stop! I- how long- who are- what happened! STOP!"
He lurched forward, tugging at his hair and screaming and there was little Phil could do but watch on as the boy spiraled further and further.
"Tommy, my name is Phil," he shuffled forward slowly, making sure his steps could be heard, "it's okay. It might not feel like it now, but it will get better, okay?"
"Where are they? Why haven't they visited yet? Why- what-"
His words once more turned unintelligible as cries ripped at his throat, shaking his tiny frame.
"Tommy," he needed comfort. But Phil didn't want to stress him anymore. "Is it okay if I hug you?"
He opened his arms and Tommy threw himself into the embrace, nearly sending them both sprawling.
"Hey, see, it'll be fine mate, it's going to be okay," he pulled the boy closer, careful not to spill any of his own tears onto Tommy.
They sat there like that for a while: the cold seeped into Phil's trousers from where his knees were pressed against the ground but he paid that no attention: he could change trousers later. For now, he held the boy close and muttered reassurance in his ear.
When he had calmed down enough, Phil asked the next question.
"Do you know what happened Tommy? Do you know you're…dead?"
The boy lifted his head from where it had been tucked under Phil's chin, blue eyes blinking slowly, void of any joy.
If Phil had not been so angry at the world, his eyes would've looked similar.
"I don't want to die."
"I'm sorry Tommy."
"I thought- I just-"
"It's okay mate. Take your time."
"I'm dead."
"We both are."
"Why- this isn't- fuck you!" And then the tears fell once more and Phil took every pound of Tommy's fists against his chest, ignoring the phantom pain and instead holding him closer. "It's not fair!" Tommy cried out.
"I know, I know."
Tommy fell limp. His voice turned to nothing but a whisper.
"How long has it been, Phil?"
"According to your grave, it's been two years since you died. I'm not sure how long you've been waiting but-"
"I've been waiting all this time. I- I think I remember… I don't know why, I should've known they wouldn't, they don't, I'd be asking too much."
"Tommy?" Phil kept his tone soft. "Why haven't they visited? Do you know?"
"Because I am unlovable." His voice shook, trembled as much as he did. It was said as a fact. Said as if such a lie could be true.
"And why is that?" Phil asked, making sure to keep his tone gentle despite the anger consuming his mind, pumping around his body and flowing through his veins with every beat of his- oh.
"There are no flowers at my grave," the boy whispered. "No visitors. Everyone else gets visitors. Everyone else has more than just a name and a date. They don't care. If they cared they'd visit. If they'd cared they would have saved me. If I'd been loveable, I would still be alive." He spat the last words like poison.
"That's not true Tommy," Phil didn't know how he had got attached to the boy so fast. Maybe it was because he hadn't spoken to anyone in years. Maybe it was because he hadn't allowed himself to love since Her. Maybe it was because Tommy had blonde hair and blue eyes, both the same colour as Phil's and maybe Phil had always wanted a family. "You don't deserve to be left behind. They are horrible people for doing that."
He wasn't sure who 'they' were, but if he ever found out, he would make sure there was not a day that passed where they were at peace.
"Oh Phil," Tommy chuckled, and Phil hated how Tommy sounded so old - he was 10 - supposed to be a child, giggling and oblivious to the cruelty of the world. "I don't think they're the horrible ones. It's not their fault they left, it's-"
"Not your fault." Phil interrupted before Tommy could finish. The boy just scrunched up his face.
"No, Phil." His tone was sickeningly patient, like he was explaining something to a child. "People have left me before. They will leave me again. That's not their fault. It's okay- it just means that…it just means that I wasn't enough…" he trailed off.
"No, Toms," Phil didn't know where 'Toms' had come from, the nickname slipping out on its own accord but for now they chose to ignore it. "That's not how- it's- I won't leave you. If you'll have me, I'll stay."
He would make it work. He could take Tommy with him and together they could find Her and maybe in death Phil could have the family he had always longed for.
But Tommy scoffed. His laugh was bitter as he stepped away. "I'd love you to stay. But you'll leave. You can't say you'll stay if you're just going to leave! That makes you a liar Phil."
"I'm not lying to you Tommy." Phil rose to his feet, offering a hand to him. "You can come with me if you want, graveyards aren't very happy places. We'll find a house and we can make it a home."
Tommy hesitated.
"Promise me."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll stay. You have to promise or you'll leave and that would hurt more than you just leaving now. So please Phil, promise me you'll stay."
"I promise." Phil smiled as Tommy took his hand. "I promise I'll stay."
Tommy's grin lit up his entire face and Phil couldn't help but smile as the golden boy began to chatter, barriers he had kept up before dropping as the two started walking.
It was almost poetic: a boy who had to die to be loved walking hand in hand with the man who had to die to get the family he dreamed of.
It made Phil happier knowing that this time when he walked, it wouldn't be alone.