Work Text:
On a fog-shrouded afternoon, those who loved Tim gathered in a small church near San Francisco's Castro District for his funeral.
Hawk sat in the back row, watching the service unfold before him. Even as he listened to Marcus and Frankie deliver their eulogies, it still felt like a dream.
When the service ended, people quietly filed out of the church. Hawk remained seated for a while, until he was nearly the last person there. At last, he rose and turned his gaze toward the door. A figure was slowly approaching him. It was Marcus.
"Hawk, can we talk?"
Hawk nodded, and together they stepped out into the church courtyard. The fog had begun to lift. Hawk squinted against the brightness of the emerging sunlight.
"Tim asked me to give you something." Marcus produced a brown box from under his arm and held it out toward Hawk.
"From Tim?"
"Yeah."
When Hawk reached for it, Marcus pulled his hand back slightly. Hawk narrowed his eyes at the unexpected gesture.
"One condition."
"Which is?"
"Only if you want it. That's what he said."
Hawk stared at the box in Marcus's hands. Brown and simple, with plain packaging and nothing written on the outside. Something from Tim. Something meant only for willing hands. There was only one answer.
"Of course I want it."
"Figured you would," Marcus said with a wry smile.
Hawk carefully took the box in both hands. It was heavier than its size suggested. The weight seemed to carry the very essence of Tim's absence.
"Did he say anything else?"
"No."
"Right."
"Hawk." Marcus looked at him steadily. "You know how he felt about you."
Marcus was one of the few people who had known them both from the beginning. Although originally Hawk's friend, he had grown close to Tim after their introduction. After moving to San Francisco, Marcus had been much closer to Tim than Hawk ever was. When that paperweight had found its way back to Hawk, it was Marcus who had told him to stay away.
"Thanks, Marcus." Hawk held the box against his chest. "He'd be glad you came." Marcus glanced at the box and gave a slight nod.
* * *
Back in his hotel room, Hawk placed the box on the bed. He sat beside it and simply stared at it for a long time. He had no idea what was inside. All he knew was that he was hesitating to find out.
Even now, Hawk couldn't fully grasp that Tim was gone. Though he understood Tim's death intellectually, he couldn't wrap his mind around it. Perhaps that was why he hadn't cried at the funeral. Not sorrow, not even grief—only a quiet kind of shock, a hollow emptiness that left him adrift.
Tim's absence left a silence so deep, it no longer felt real. But that numbness was what allowed him to endure. Because it didn't feel real, he could still stand here.
But what would happen once he opened this box? Would he still be able to endure? Could he accept the truth—that Tim's presence had vanished forever? Would opening it mean the end? Would this truly be the final goodbye? That's why he hesitated.
How would he feel when he opened this box? He couldn't imagine it. Hawk was afraid. Yet he knew he had to open it himself.
Skippy. You always did know how to break a guy's heart. Hawk murmured with a self-deprecating laugh. After a long time, he finally gathered his resolve and opened the box.
* * *
The first thing he saw was a white envelope. When he picked it up, he could see the cover of a book underneath. The Seven Storey Mountain—the book from Tim's apartment. He ran his hand over the cover and opened the envelope. Inside were several sheets of letter paper.
Dear Hawk. That's how the first line began, written in Tim's familiar handwriting. Below his name, careful script filled line after line. This was a letter. Hawk traced the words with his fingertip, reading each line.
* * *
Dear Hawk,
If you're reading this, it means you came to my funeral. It took you long enough, but I'm relieved you finally decided to act like a human being. Don't get the wrong idea—whether you came to my funeral or not, your one-way ticket to hell remains reserved. But when you face judgment, if this counts for something in your favor, feel free to use it.
I have several things I want to give you. And also some things I don't want to give you. This is a list to explain both.
Things I want you to have:
1. The photograph from Rehoboth Beach
As you know, this is one you took. So it's only natural to return it to you. I look pretty good in this photo, if I do say so myself. I don't know much about photography, but you're quite good at it based on this one picture. I don't have any photos of you, though. No matter how much I asked, you never gave me one (you should definitely feel bad about that, by the way). But I remember your face when you took this picture as clearly as if it were a photograph itself.
2. The Seven Storey Mountain
You know this one too, right? You specifically brought it from my apartment to the hospital. Do you know the story in this book? Of course you do. You were absolutely terrible on Fire Island. Please, for the love of God, never let yourself sink that low again. This book is a warning. When you feel yourself about to fall, read it. I don't expect you to become a saint at this point (people who don't even know you wouldn't expect that). But I want you to know this: I want you to live as long as possible. So quit drinking. And keep the smoking to a minimum.
3. The letter from Fire Island
This is also something you brought from my apartment to the hospital. You found it tucked inside the book. You teased me about still having that postcard (God, your face when you're being mean is really insufferable). But I'll admit it now, since I don't have to see your smug expression. You were right—I couldn't throw that postcard away. I couldn't bring myself to end it. I'll say it again: you were absolutely awful on Fire Island. But even so, I loved every part of you, always.
Things I'm not giving back:
1. The most expensive gift you ever gave me—the cufflinks
The cufflinks you gave me for Christmas. They were the only "expensive" present I ever received (yes, that's sarcasm—I hope you caught that). Remarkably, they have your initials on them. Even when we were apart, they made me feel close to you. To me, they were worth more than any jewel. So I've decided to be buried with them. I plan to wear them when I climb the stairway to heaven (assuming your sinfulness doesn't drag me down to hell with you).
2. The cheapest gifts you ever gave me—personal items
You gave me a lovely present at the very end. Can you guess what it was? That's right—the toothbrush and undershirts you left behind in my apartment (yes, I'm joking about this too). But honestly, these were incredibly special to me. Clothes that carried your scent. Evidence of your daily life. Proof that you had undeniably lived, slept, and breathed in my apartment. After you left, I secretly smelled your shirt. Too bad it had already been washed (this is top secret information—please take it to your grave).
Hawk, there's so much I want to tell you, but I'm sure you already understand it all. What I said at the end—that was the complete truth. Hawk, I'm glad I met you. Whatever your reasons for coming to see me, I'm glad we could meet again. I have you. And you have me. Wherever you are, I hope you'll always be happy.
With love,
Tim
P.S. I promised not to write letters, but this is a "list," so I'm not breaking my promise. I don't expect you to write back. But if you want to remember me, take a walk through the Castro. Don't just rush back home—stroll through the neighborhood slowly and have coffee somewhere. There's a café called "Betty's" on Castro Street. My favorite seat is at the very back by the window. I'd be happy if you came to like this neighborhood. That would be enough for me. You don't need to cry. I'll be there.
* * *
When he finished reading the letter, Hawk picked up the photograph. There was Tim on Rehoboth Beach, still wearing that youthful expression. The ocean breeze tousled Tim's hair. A faded old photograph. A vivid memory from their youth captured there. He could almost feel the gentle wind from that scene.
A tear fell. The droplet landed on Hawk's hand holding the photograph, quietly moistening it. Another drop. Then another. Silent tears began their slow descent down his cheeks.
Hawk clenched his fists. He bit down hard, desperate to stay silent, and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears continued to overflow. Eventually, Hawk collapsed onto the bed, his back shaking as he pressed his face into the sheets. Tim. He called out in his mind. Tim's image in the photograph was now blurred by tears. Instead, he pictured Tim in his heart.
Skippy. When he called that name, Tim still smiled back at him. Timothy David Laughlin. That adorable Catholic boy from Staten Island. The man I loved with my whole life. The man who loved me with his whole life.
Hawk mouthed Tim's name over and over silently. Unable to contain his sobs, tears flowed endlessly. Hawk wept openly, like a child, with no sense of time, only grief. He clutched Tim's photograph tightly to his chest, as if embracing the person he could no longer touch.
* * *
When Hawk finally raised his head, the view outside the window was completely painted in sunset colors. Following directions he'd gotten at the hotel, he went out into the city and headed toward the Castro District.
The wind brushed against his swollen eyelids. When he pressed his hand to the chest pocket where Tim's photograph lay, he could almost feel Tim's warmth.
The café Tim had told him about, "Betty's," was located in a quiet area on the outskirts of the neighborhood. Its large front window was distinctive, and from the window seats, you could see the entire street.
Inside, the rich aroma of coffee filled the air. Hawk took a seat at the window table in the back—Tim's "favorite" spot. He ordered black coffee and watched people pass by on the street while he drank.
The roads Tim had walked, the shops where he'd bought things, the places where he'd laughed with friends, the sights he'd seen. This was Tim's world, where he'd spent his final days. By the time Hawk finished his coffee, the lights of the city were beginning to twinkle outside the window.
Hawk stood and left the café.
Rainbow flags fluttered in the wind, and couples chatted happily as they passed by. Along with the night's embrace, fog was beginning to envelop the city once again.
Hawk walked. As he walked, he surrendered himself to the rhythms of this neighborhood Tim had loved, carrying Tim's memories in his heart. Occasionally, he spoke to Tim in his mind. Even though there was no answer, he kept talking.
Even as the night deepened, Hawk continued walking. In this way, in this city, in the neighborhood Tim had loved, he etched the evidence of Tim's life into his soul.
The man I loved with my whole life.
The man who loved me with his whole life.
The man he could never hold again.
He remembered Tim's gaze from that day, by that ocean—tender, reaching, still full of light.
These were his unspoken words of love. This was his unwritten letter.