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At first, it’s just the obvious things you notice. Things that, even before you started trying to be a better person, you might still have picked up on. How quickly he changes the subject when you bring up your old crush on Chris the stripper, or the poltergeist you liaisoned with during your... experimental phase, some time in the last couple of years. The way he never brings up any topic that could be contentious, like politics or the war or the dinosaur bed, and only speaks of safe, generic things, like literature or idle gossip. How he never, ever talks about the wedding anymore, or the past that you share, and always keeps a respectable distance between you when you go for your daily walks.
But you’ve worked hard on self-improvement, on being less selfish and doing your best to open your eyes - and heart - to see a world that encompasses more than just yourself.
So in time you notice the smaller, more subtle things, too. Like the tension in his body whenever you unthinkingly stand too close, right before he takes a deliberately casual step away. The tightness at the corners of his mouth when he smiles at some witticism you’ve shared, or the way his eyes flash with something you can’t read on the rare occasion you catch him staring. Because it is rare now, remarkably so. Once upon a time it was a regular occurrence, something you saw multiple times a day, every day. But now it almost never happens, and after some reflection you realise, with no small amount of surprise, that he no longer looks you in the eye much at all.
You start to pay closer attention still. You see him rubbing at his chest sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching. Hand pressed over the buttons of his uniform, just below the gorget, a slight grimace on his pale, pretty face. You don’t understand until the one time his fingers shift in just the right way, and you glimpse the splash of red hidden beneath them: blood, you realise. Blood that you spilled when you accidentally sent a bullet into his heart 250 years ago; blood that will mar the fine linen of his waistcoat forever now. And with that comes another sharp jab of understanding, one that’s definitely, infinitely worse: that the bullet is still there, lodged in his chest, and much like the bloodstain on his uniform, you know the pain from it will never fade away.
But then you start thinking about all the things you’ve noticed - the constant tension in his face and body; the precise politeness of his behaviour; the distance, both literal and figurative, he’s so careful to always maintain. This despite your mutual agreement to be friends, despite the fact that you are friends now - good friends, close friends. You speak with him about things you can’t really imagine speaking of with anyone else.
And slowly, slowly, you begin to understand. The pain from the bullet you fired into his heart is nothing compared to the pain you inflicted when you broke it.
You examine memories from even further back. Well before Sam and Jay moved in, when you only saw each other once a year for parleys that you knew, even then, were meaningless. When you could barely look at him for fear that he’d see the terrible longing in your eyes, or worse, that you might see the same thing in his. Because what then?
You’d have proof that he wanted something you had no idea how to give.
And so he waited. And waited and waited, until years became decades and decades became centuries, until you finally found the courage to look at him and let him see. And with no hesitation he did the same for you, and gave you a gift of such immense value that you’re ashamed to admit you didn’t recognise its worth at the time. Open access to something impossibly vast, a depth of feeling so intense that you couldn’t even process it. And all of it was visible in his eyes, and audible in his voice, and tangible in his hands when he gave you what you didn’t know how to ask for and touched you for the very first time.
You remember: his fingers shook. His voice shook, too. And his eyes… you remember thinking that his eyes were brighter than anything you’d ever seen.
Now, later, you think of his past and the life he had, before. The men he had, before. Scores of them, possibly, though you’re not sure of the exact number and he never brought the subject up again. You recognise the jealousy there, of course, churning in your stomach like the dysentery that took your own life. But more than that, there is puzzlement. Why was he so nervous with you, so uncertain, when his experience so clearly outweighed yours?
Soon enough, you ask him about it. The question spills out of you with no warning; there’s no careful broaching of the subject, no clever segway, no lead up at all. One moment you’re walking along the lakeshore and talking about the ducks; the next, you’re asking him why he waited so long to add you to his body count.
His shock compels you to try to rephrase. Truly, you hadn’t meant to be so crass; it’s just the way the thought lives inside your head. You try again: why did he wait, when he knew you weren’t unwilling to be part of the count?
It takes some time, but the answer eventually comes:
Because I didn’t. Because you’re not.
He says this like it’s something you should already know.
You ask the other question that’s been plaguing you. About why he was as nervous as you were, even though, unlike you, it wasn’t his first time.
But this is a question he doesn’t answer. Instead he just stares at you, looks you right in the eye in the way he hardly ever does anymore, and too late, you realise how pointless the question is. How cruel.
It was his first time. You were his first, in every way that really matters. You are his first and last.
You know that he’s still in love with you. You’ve always known; everyone knows. You knew even when you asked him to be friends. But this… this is different. This knowledge is different.
Because love in death is different. Forever in death is different.
When the living speak of forever, it’s just an abstract concept; a word to garnish grand speeches or embellish meaningless vows. But when the dead speak of it in the afterlife, there’s nothing abstract about it all. Forever is a concrete thing. Infinity is time you’ll measure in millennia and eternity is a house, a house with grounds and borders you’ll never be able to cross.
And love… love is a concrete thing, too. An infinite thing. Something you can see and hear and touch and know will last and last and last. And when your entire existence is as endless as it is insubstantial, when you pass through objects and move unseen, when you know that almost everything around you will disappear or fade away, you cling to the few things that won’t. The things that stay.
For centuries, you thought you loved him. You asked him to marry you, thinking that you loved him. And when you left him, you left not knowing what was true. But it’s been years since then, years since you’ve been friends, since you started to notice things that you really should have noticed from the start. Because in truth, they’ve always been there. He’s always, always been there.
You thought you loved him then. But you know you’re in love with him now.
“First and last,” you hear yourself say. He blinks, uncertain. For a moment, he almost looks afraid.
You’ve apologised to him already - several times, in fact. For the bullet, for the silence, for the wedding that never was. But you’ve never apologised for this.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, Nigel.” You think of all the years left behind you, and all the years left in front of you still. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”
And it takes some time but when it happens, you see it there, in his eyes, when he realises what you mean. And you remember: brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.
You hear it there, in his voice, when he nods and whispers back:
“First and last.”
It’s an agreement, not a question, but you nod in affirmation anyway. You step closer. He doesn’t move away.
And you feel it there, in his hands, when you reach out and he lets you hold them. You remember: his fingers shook. Your fingers shake now. Everything shakes now. But when you kiss him, and he kisses you, what you feel – what you know – is as solid and real as the ground beneath you, as infinite as the sky above you, and when even those things turn to dust, you know that this will remain steadfast.
His hands move up to cup your face and you pull him closer, until you feel the whole length of him pressed against you, chest and stomach and thigh. You remember watching him through a spyglass, you remember every parley you ever had. You remember confessing your feelings in the entry hall, and you remember leaving him behind and walking away. But later, in the future, you hope that this is the thing you’ll remember best: the first kiss you’ve shared with him in many years, and how it feels both old and new at the exact same time.
First and last, you think again, and pull him even closer. First, and last, and always.