Chapter Text
During the early hour, Vincent wanders around the streets. His eyes are enticed by the brownstone houses that he can only hope that he and Matthew will eventually come to own. He had discovered only recently that leaving twenty minutes earlier gave him enough time to walk before work. He had convinced himself it was practical. The walk loosened the stiffness from sitting at a desk all day. But after several mornings, he admitted the truth to himself.
He was looking for leaves for Matthew.
For years, he had watched Matthew return from walks with pockets full of leaves, and Vincent never asked why. He had simply admired the growing collection decorating their refrigerator and accepted it as one of Matthew's hobbies. Maple leaves were always Matthew's favorite. Not to mention, they were practically adorned on their apartment decorations every autumn.
It wasn’t until Vincent walked with Matthew that he understood why Matthew collected them in the first place. He noticed it then, but the sadness that ran through him was difficult for him to point out. Although they were married, they couldn’t always be together, both of them pulled by the strings of obligation from work.
Because of that, mornings were always difficult for them. Vincent was always reluctant to let go of Matthew, but he knew he had to if they wanted to make a living. It had become a consistent routine, one in which he never realized he was gradually losing Matthew.
One time, Vincent stood behind Matthew with grocery bags hanging from both arms, watching him crouch at the entrance to their apartment. Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Matthew carefully lifted the corner of the welcome mat and slid two fingers underneath. A maple leaf had been trapped there, its veins pressed flat against the concrete.
“You’ve got hundreds of those pressed in books,” Vincent remarked, shifting the grocery bags to one arm so he could reach for the door.
Matthew gently swatted his wrist before he could. He opened the door, then said simply, “I know.”
“Then why keep collecting them?” Vincent asked.
Matthew didn’t answer right away. Holding the door open for Vincent, he turned the leaf over between his fingertips, tracing the delicate web of its veins with his thumb. The silence lingered between them, broken only by the breeze rustling through the trees outside. “They’re pretty,” Matthew said quietly.
Vincent looked at the faded brown leaf. He raised his eyebrow. “They’re dead,” he replied.
“Yet they’re still here.”
The words settled between them more heavily than Vincent had expected. Vincent stared at Matthew as he slipped the leaf into the pocket of his jacket before stepping into the apartment.
That’s when he figured out that somewhere along the way, Matthew had learned to cling to the things the rest of the world overlooked. Vincent couldn't help but wonder how many times Matthew himself had felt like one of those forgotten leaves.
Now, Vincent found himself slowing whenever he passed beneath a tree. His eyes drifted upward, searching through branches painted with shades of autumn. The sidewalks are littered with leaves already beginning to dry, but Vincent passes most of them by. Instead, he crouches occasionally, examining one before silently shaking his head and standing again.
Eventually, he comes across a maple tree. Sunlight filters through its branches, revealing the morning dew on the leaves. One branch hangs low enough for Vincent to reach. He rests his hand against a leaf, its colors reminding him of the sunrise that had filled their bedroom only an hour earlier, before he plucks it carefully.
Vincent tucks it safely into his pocket before making his way back to their apartment. The quiet of the early morning settles around him as he steps inside, careful not to make too much noise.
He finds a pen and a small sheet of paper, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before writing a simple note for Matthew. Once he is satisfied, he folds it neatly and places it on the bedside table where it will be the first thing Matthew sees when he wakes up. He takes out the maple leaf and places it on top of the note.
Matthew is still asleep, his face peaceful in the soft glow filtering through the curtains. Vincent simply stands there, admiring the way his long blonde locks pool on his pillow. A small smile tugs at Vincent's lips.
He leans down, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Matthew's forehead with the lightest touch, careful not to wake him. Vincent then leans down and plants a kiss on his forehead before leaving.
—
Matthew stays still, listening to the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of afternoon traffic through the window. He is awake, but he can’t bring himself to get up. Thankfully, he isn’t working today, but it is unfortunate that he spends his time lying in bed instead. Even when he is at work, Matthew longs to be in the comfort of his bed. It’s where he is able to hide himself, but it is the same bed that witnessed such agonizing torment that plagued his mind.
Matthew rolled over, his eyes moving from the ceiling to the bedside table. He noticed a note resting on the side, held down by a maple leaf.
He blinked. It wasn’t dried like the ones he usually collected, but fresh. With his fingers, he pushed back its orange edges that faded into a vibrant red at the center.
Picking it up, he read the note, which was written in short but neat cursive.
Don’t forget to eat. I’ll be home before dinner. Love you.
He turns the note over in his hand before picking up the leaf. Vincent couldn’t have simply picked this up before going to work. He must have intentionally gone looking for it, then.
The realization lingers in Matthew’s mind long after he has gotten dressed. He finds himself carrying both the note and the leaf into the kitchen. Usually he would go on a walk, but instead he stands in front of the refrigerator, looking over the dozens of pressed leaves collected over the past several years. They have long faded into muted browns after months of hanging beneath magnets.
Near the center, lies a deep amber leaf Vincent had handed him during their walk together a few weeks ago. Matthew smiles faintly. He reaches toward the refrigerator, intending to add the maple leaf beside it, before stopping himself.
It isn’t ready yet. The edges would curl in on themselves. Instead, he walks over to the living room to place the leaf between the pages of a thick dictionary resting on the table. There are already some leaves pressed between parchment paper from a couple of days before. However, he decides to place it on another page. Somehow, it deserves the same care Vincent had taken in finding it.
Therapy has become part of his routine now, ever since Vincent first walked with him. Before therapy, he had taken walks alone as a way to distract himself from his loneliness. Sitting across from someone who wants to help him often leaves him searching for words that don’t feel large enough to hold what he carries. It makes it easier to manage the loneliness, and he is even encouraged to keep collecting leaves on his walks.
Matthew sits on the couch, staring down at his hands as the weight of his loneliness presses in on him. It is by his own hands that he tears himself apart from the inside out, driven by desperation to stop the pain. His chest tightens with something he cannot quite name, and he blinks hard, trying to push the tears back before they can fall.
Matthew stays there for a moment longer before he stands, grabbing his coat from the coat hanger to go on a walk.
The tears don’t fall this time.
—
Vincent arrives home just as the light outside begins to soften into the night. His fingers tighten briefly around the edge of his coat before he finally exhales and moves further inside.
The apartment is quiet in a way that immediately tells him Matthew is in their room. Vincent slips off his shoes slowly, placing them neatly by the door without thinking, his eyes already drifting down the hallway toward the direction of their room.
“Matthew?” he calls out. His hand slips into his coat pocket almost unconsciously, brushing against the edges of what he has spent the morning gathering. For a moment, Vincent hesitates before he begins to take the leaves out.
The leaves were all carefully chosen, without him fully realizing when it had become the standard. Some are still vivid, while others have already begun to soften into their muted colors.
He lays them out across the dining table, spacing them gently apart so none of them overlap. The surface of the table slowly fills with color, with Vincent arranging them with his own quiet precision.
Vincent’s gaze lingers on them longer than he should. He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, almost amused at himself.
When Vincent finally turns away from the table, his attention shifts toward the living room, and that is when he sees Matthew.
Matthew is sitting on the couch, slightly hunched forward, still wearing his coat as if he has just arrived. His hands rest loosely between his knees. His gaze is lowered; it was turned inward that Vincent has learned to recognize even without needing confirmation.
“Hey,” Vincent says.
Matthew blinks slowly. When he lifts his eyes, Vincent watches recognition reach Matthew, letting the silence stretch.
Vincent reaches into his coat pocket again and pulls out one of the leaves he has kept separate from the rest. It is the best one in his own judgment, though he cannot say exactly why, beyond the fact that he noticed it early and refused to let it go.
“I found more today. I might have gone a little overboard.”
He steps closer and placed the leaf on the coffee table beside the dictionary. Vincent lowers himself onto the couch beside Matthew.
Then, after a moment, he glances over again, his expression softening. “You went out,” he says. “Did you find anything?”
A brief pause follows before he adds, even more gently, “Or was it one of those days?”
When Matthew finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “I walked,” Matthew says, pausing slightly. He opens his mouth to continue before shaking his head.
Outside, the light continues to dim, slipping quietly behind the buildings. The coffee table is scattered with sunlight. Vincent looks at Matthew again, then at the leaves, then back at him. “Dinner will be soon.”
Matthew nods. “Okay.”
Neither of them moves for a moment. The space between them stays quiet, as Vincent eventually lets his hand touch near Matthew’s, squeezing it. Eventually, he brings him into a hug, enveloping his arms around Matthew.
Matthew returns the hug, tilting his head into the crook of Vincent's neck. He wants to say something, but he is trying to make sense of his disfigured mind. He can only guess what comes next. A sense of dread, perhaps.
Vincent holds him for a moment, sensing his thoughts. “You’re here,” he says quietly as a reassurance.
Matthew doesn’t answer, his pale fingers gripping Vincent’s back.
He closes his eyes as tears begin to fall.