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“I love you, Samuel. Nothing will change that, I’ll always love you.” Paul stands firm, hands shaking, holding tight to his pocket clock that snugs in his blue-patterned vest. His brown hair slicks back as a curl hangs on his forehead, his face is the handsome, outlandishly refined kind, and his expression naturally so expressive, scared to look at Wilkins straight in the eye. And he had that elegant posture that was only the kind of wealth that would make a regular man jealous. “My feelings won’t ever change—I will always be waiting.”
He quickly grabs Wilkins’s hand and gently places a button from his old Cufflinks, engraved with his family initials, its rimmed glint in the sundowning sky. He feels Paul’s hand linger a little bit too long before letting go entirely, taking a breath for anything that Wilkins might say as well, and that he does, indeed, feel the same. He didn’t.
They sat at a park. In fall, autumn tree leaves began to fall in the gradients of beautiful color.
A few meters apart, dressed in cozy outdoor clothing, wooly coats, and Wilkins’s favorite cardigan sweater, which now has sleeves for his warmth so as not to cause his arthritis to worsen as much as it did when he was sitting outside.
“No matter how I look at it, haven’t you been waiting for a long time?" Wilkins says straight-faced, wondering in deep thought.
“The past hasn’t changed much, I stay true to my words.”
Wilkins sways his head to look at Paul, who still had that scoreless charm of an old friend from way back then, unlike the streaks of white hair that Wilkins had seen in his late 50s to early 60s, his hair was still brown, but white groomed its way into a (more)-salt-and-(less)-pepper look.
The most prominent visual feature was the wrinkles that formed. He has noticed that, but it wasn’t unexpected, and it’s had its effect on someone who is still as handsome as it was in the past, looking like it had belonged there unnoticeably.
“No, there’s no way nothing’s changed. Have you forgotten how old we have become?”
“You’re 76, I’m 74.”
“That’s pretty much a whole lifetime—just stop waiting, it makes me feel bad.”
“It doesn’t matter how old we are.” He replied.
“You’re wrong.” Wilkins whispered, with a low churn of jittery lossless of envy, making Wilkins tinge with a frown.
“Didn’t you have multiple lovers in your 30s to 40s? You haven’t been waiting at all.”
“Those people and my love for you are unrelated.” He stares off in front of him. “And you stayed a grass widower after you got a divorce from Penny. You understand, right? You could have taken another relationship or two.”
Wilkins stays quiet.
“And… honestly, I kind of thought you’d been waiting for me afterwards.” He blushes. “I thought you were shy after all this time, you know?”
“Do you want me to kill you?”
Paul laughed gently, slowly getting up from the bench, stretching his back as he grabbed his rather expensive-looking cane.
“Well, even with these circumstances, I still love you.”
“Seems like you will say that even in the grave.”
“I’m not kidding.” He lowers his voice into a stern determination, a light of angst and yearning mixing into a hopeless love. "You have been the same, though, been keeping me waiting for so many years."
“Hah.”
“You still stuck around me after so long. You have always loved me, haven't you?”
Wilkins didn’t say anything, again, those words still hurt him, like they had been the first many times he had said it.
“Have an answer for me soon, I guess I’ll be waiting till one of us kicks the bucket then.”
Paul walks away on his path back home, and Wilkins sits there on the bench in the silence of the fall autumn breeze. He reaches into his pockets and opens his hands to look at the Cufflinks, their shine was now long gone, but his name was still etched onto the button. "He has no respect for me at all…”
A brisk walk as the winter clouds covered the sun, the coldness from the Canadian north winds wasn't as raging as it was in December, but overall it still felt the same when they were younger. Bits of frost pathetically gather on the concrete and grass, causing Wilkins to be looking down at the ground in case he ends up falling.
“It seems like it’s getting colder and colder.” Paul shivered, his wrinkled hands found their way to Wilkins's shoulders to form a quick hug for warmth.
“I don’t necessarily hate the winter, but this season is kind of harsh for old men like us.” Wilkins replies before moving more to his left to get Paul off of him. “We're going to die any second now.”
“Aw, don’t say such things," he pouts.
“I went to the doctors recently, and they said that I had high blood pressure, this could cause strokes or heart attacks if I’m not careful.
Paul looks at him with the perpetuated fear of a case gone cold after the death of a loved one. “Cut it out, we’re in the same situation.”
“Don’t you wish for those things, since we’re already old?”
Paul didn’t reply. He fully stops walking. Wilkins looks behind him after a couple of steps. He looked around him after a second too long. The scenery of snowflakes started to fall around onto the surrounding landscape, it brought back formally refracted thoughts of nostalgia. This was the path that he took in high school to his family home.
“During this time of year, it makes you miss the good old days, huh? When it was just us, here in the streets of Brooklyn, back when we were in high school."
“I said, 'Stop it.' " He sighs.
“I don’t know much after you graduated from high school. There was a period where we lost touch, and there are still things in the past that I don’t know because I wasn’t there with you—I don’t want to hear anything about it since it upsets me a little. I’m jealous of the people who got to know you during that period in your life, and I'm still jealous you met Penelope.”
Wilkins stares, almost gulping, before adding, “Um, there’s no need to worry. I was still alone after I got divorced, and plus, the popularity thing was your thing, it got pretty lonely until you started talking to me again.
“Don’t look at me, I’m a fool.” He says sternly, hiding his embarrassment.
“You really are.” Wilkins laughs.
They were inside the cozy living room of Wilkins’s apartment, sitting on the couch as they watched TV. It was the kind of evening that Wilkins had found a liking to even if Paul staying here made him a bit uncomfortable, as he lived a life of comfort, as his home was much larger than his and much broader and bolder compared to his salary from being a retired English teacher. But Paul told him not to fret, as this kind of living space brought a sense of domesticity to him, and “being with you is all that I want.” Wilkins had ignored that last part.
They sat slumped together as they watched a cat play with a yarn ball—Wilkins was a sucker for cats, but as unlucky as he was, he was allergic, and with his poor little baby passing away, it had bought him a sort of sad fondness for them.
“They’re so cute." Wilkins's eyes gleamed.
“You know, I could always count on cats to make you smile so cutely.”
“Why don’t you focus on the screen instead of looking at me?"
“But your reactions are so cute, so—so cute, every time you see those little suckers.”
“Excuse me. Can you shut up for a moment?”
“It makes me feel so young again, I just want to squish your face into oblivion. Aw, you’re so cute, Wilkins. Why didn’t you marry me when I asked you, huh? We could have great-grandbabies by now.” Paul’s body unshamingly begins to hug Wilkins into a tight squeeze, his joints already hurting under all that weight and pressure, leaning on the man on the side of him.
“Get off of me?!!” Wilkins yelled.
“Samuel, between you and me, is it better to die first or later?”
It was brighter out, the cold air was still prominent but had been a lot less cold than usual this morning. They watched the sun rise into the sunny skies, a rich blue filled them, clouds were whiter, trees were greener, and flowers were blooming in various colors across Brooklyn.
Death was inevitable. And death wasn’t something that spooked him as much as it did when he was a kid. And Wilkins wasn’t a religious person or anything, so it was sort of an afterthought and nothing less. He thought of it as he grew more senile, but all he was doing was embracing it, accepting it.
“Don’t bring such things up," Wilkins responded. “But if I were to choose, I would want to die first.”
“What, you will miss me that much?” Paul laughed nervously. The joke didn’t land. “Is it because you don’t want to feel sad when you see me go first?”
“Well, there’s that. It’ll be annoying to arrange a funeral even in my old age.”
“Ah, you see me as a burden then? Sigh, I knew it.” He sighs dramatically, leaning backwards on the wooden bench. Before sitting back up straighter and staring down at himself. “I also want to die before you. I can’t imagine a world without you in it.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll be fine, don’t you have your brothers and your nephews? And their kids?”
“Yes, but wait." He quickly shuts up, like a chord has struck him. “If I die first, you’ll meet a new partner and love them, correct?? And without me here to watch you and keep you company, someone younger will probably catch your eye!”
“Hello? What?” Wilkins blinks his eyes in confusion at Paul's sudden accusations. “Hold on.”
“NOT UNDER MY DEAD BODY. I will live longer than you by any means!!!!”
“Will you shut up and stop being jealous of this potential inappropriate relationship between me and some young folk?” Wilkins blurts, "And why does it sound like you and I are in a relationship? We are not a thing.”
“You’re so hurtful.” Paul whines.
In summer, the heat was exhausting but felt good on the skin to give him temporary peace. Hardly any wind was blowing, and the summer sun blazed through the trees and the bay in front of them, glistening, reflecting off the sunlight into a pretty view.
“I realize that we don't have a will for each other," Paul confessed. A stark contrast he had with words had always made Wilkins worried for him, and if his high blood pressure wasn’t going to kill him, certainly Paul was. He said those words with a delicately worded tone, like he had churned these thoughts in his head the night before.
“Hm, what do you mean a will? We’re not even related, there’s nothing to leave.” He tried to act reasonably and rationally.
“No, I mean something more specialized, an emotional bond than financials, different from formal ones.”
“Ah.” That makes sense.
“I’m saying, like, we leave notes to each other and open them when we know we’re going to die.”
“Hm.” He hummed, “I quite like that idea, sentimental. But will you be able to hold off?”
“I can hold off on it as long as it takes.”
“Hah, really?”
“Yes.” They both looked at each other, his eyes were truly blue as the sky and the bay. It was one that made Wilkins realize how beautiful life was and that he—Paul as a person was the only thing that had captivated him in a weird, sudden burst of affection and love.
“Tomorrow morning then. I will bring it tomorrow.” Wilkins smiles softly.
In Wilkins’s will, there left a single paper declaring his love and a golden Cufflinks of Wilkins's own initials.