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Gerry’s first death is a blur of pain medication, beeping machines, and all-consuming fear. His second death tastes like smoke.
He sits upright with a gasp. He knows at once that it’s done. His body is solid, not translucent, and there’s no sign of the skin book—it doesn’t hurt just to sit there breathing, existing. He grins to himself. The son of a bitch really did burn his page. He’d been beginning to think the Archivist would get cold feet, but here he is. It’s over.
Gerry’s sitting on the ground beside a river, clear water gently streaming past. He takes a deep breath. God, it feels good to actually breathe. The air smells fresh, more than it ever did when he was alive, or maybe it’s just been so long that he’s forgotten how good it was. If this is the afterlife, it doesn’t seem so bad.
Of course, if this is the afterlife, he’s got a long to-do list ahead of him.
But he can take a minute to sit and watch the stream.
He’s not sure how long he sits there before he hears footsteps. Gerry freezes. He doesn’t turn around, not willing to risk disappointment, but he hears someone’s breath catch, and just like that, he knows.
He turns, and Michael is waiting for him.
He smiles shyly. He looks exactly the way he did when Gerry last saw him—same sweater tucked up around his wrists, same hesitant posture, same beautiful face that knocks the air right out of Gerry’s lungs.
“Hi,” he says.
“Michael,” Gerry says hoarsely, and scrambles to his feet to throw himself forward, hugging Michael so hard it would probably break his ribs if such things still mattered. It startles a laugh out of Michael. The sound makes Gerry’s heart ache. “Fuck, I missed you,” he says, burying his face in Michael’s curly hair.
“I missed you, too,” Michael says, still audibly smiling. “Although I suppose it’s not, er, great that you’re here.”
“Spare me the pleasantries,” Gerry says, his voice muffled. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if I’m dead. Not if it means I get to see you again. God, if I’m dreaming right now, I’m going to be so pissed off, you have no idea.”
“Well, I am sorry you’re dead. But you’re right,” Michael murmurs. “It’s good to see you.”
“It was a stupid way to go, anyway,” Gerry says. “Out of everything I did, it was—”
“Brain cancer,” Michael finishes. “Yes, I know.”
Gerry pauses and pulls away. “How did you know about that?”
Michael chews on his lip. “I, er… well… you know, some people got here before you did, so—”
His meaning quickly dawns on Gerry. “You’ve talked to Gertrude?” he asks. Michael nods. Gerry tightens his grip on Michael’s waist. That makes sense, actually. Michael would’ve arrived in this place long before she did; maybe he sought her out when she died. “Were you here when she got here?” he asks. “Did you look for her?”
Michael winces. “Not exactly,” he says. “She, er… she found me. Not so long ago, really. She was waiting when I got here, like I was for you.”
Gerry furrows his brow. “What do you mean? She only died recently, and you died in…” He trails off in the face of Michael’s sad smile.
“Did she ever tell you what happened to me?” Michael asks.
Gerry shakes his head. “I never asked,” he admits. “After you didn’t come back, I just… I figured I wouldn’t want to know.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Michael says quietly. Gerry can’t quite read his expression, but the pain in it is familiar.
“You don’t have to tell me about it,” he says.
“I know,” says Michael. “I… don’t know if I could if I tried. But there are,” he bites his lip, “there are parts of it you should know, I think. I-I was something different, it was—”
Gerry reaches up to run his thumb across Michael’s cheek. Michael falters and closes his mouth. His eyes are pale blue and swimming with emotion. Gerry knows that some of it is hurt—how could it not be, with the lives they’ve led? Every kind of happiness he knows is tinged with bittersweet.
But this is the closest he’s felt to true happiness in a long time. Their old lives are over. Now they’re just left with this, and this is all Gerry wants.
“I know we've got a lot to catch up on,” he says gently. “But we’ve got all the time in the world. I just want to be here with you, Michael.”
“But you should know,” Michael says, looking pained. “I don’t want you to… if it changes anything, I don’t want you to feel like I’ve lied to you. I’ve lied so much.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know.”
“But you do,” Michael says fiercely. “Because you were good, Gerry, right up until the end, I know you were, but I wasn’t. If you had seen what I was, i-if you didn’t know me,” his voice cracks, “you probably would have killed me. I was a monster.”
Of course, out of all the things Michael would carry with him from life into death, it would be guilt. That more than anything is a sign of how little he’s really changed.
“I believe you,” Gerry says softly. “I know what it’s like out there. And I know the kinds of things Gertrude was willing to do to accomplish her goals.”
“But it wasn’t all her,” Michael says miserably. “She made me that way, but she didn’t… she didn’t make me kill all those people, Gerry. That was me.”
“And the Spiral,” says Gerry. He’s just guessing—that was the ritual Gertrude had been trying to stop when Michael disappeared, after all—but Michael nods. Gerry’s heart twists. He can’t imagine what that must have been like. He’s never actually encountered the Spiral in person before—and now that he thinks about it, maybe that was intentional. Maybe Gertrude kept him away from it so he would never get too close to the truth.
“Not exactly me and the Spiral,” says Michael. “It was me. Kind of. Not really. But at the same time, yes?” He winces, and Gerry places a finger to his lips before he can continue.
“I don’t care,” he says firmly. “I know it must have been awful, and I know you did things you regret. But that’s not you anymore, and you don’t have to tell me everything right this second. When you’re ready, I’ll listen, but now?” He feels his face soften. “Right now, I’ve just come to the end of a very hard existence, and I’d really like to kiss the man I love.”
“I’d like that too,” Michael whispers.
Gerry doesn’t keep him waiting.
At the first touch of their lips, Michael melts into him, warm and beautifully, miraculously real. Gerry can’t count the number of times he’s fantasized about this, even when he shouldn’t have. None of the daydreams come close to the real thing. Michael’s hair smells like coconut shampoo. His skin is soft to the touch. Kissing him is the most natural thing in the world, and it makes Gerry’s heart feel like it’s going to burst, because he’s never gotten to have anything normal before. Not permanently. Last time, their story had ended in tragedy.
But coming back, it’s like no time has passed at all.
When Gerry finally pulls away, Michael beams at him. “I missed that,” he says.
“Me too,” says Gerry. Having the full radiance of Michael’s smile turned on him is like looking straight into the sun, so he turns to look around. “Not to ruin the moment or anything, but where the hell are we?”
“Why? Trying to get me somewhere more comfortable?” Michael teases.
Gerry grins. “Maybe.”
Michael ducks his head, blushing, and doesn’t respond. “I’m not really sure where we are,” he says. “I think this is where everyone shows up, at first. Or I-I know I did, at least. You can kind of go anywhere you want in this place. All you have to do is think about it, and you’re there. It’s sort of like dreaming.”
“That much is already obvious,” Gerry murmurs. He kisses the corner of Michael’s mouth. “Take me somewhere else, then.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home,” Gerry says simply. “Like it was before.”
Michael nods. He gestures for Gerry to turn around. Gerry does, and all at once, everything is different. They’re standing in the middle of their old apartment—the one they shared when they were both working at the archives, with its cozy little kitchen and art hanging on the walls. Gerry blinks hard, but the scenery doesn’t change.
Michael takes his hand. Gerry exhales shakily. He’s always been the type to let the past be the past, and move on when he had to—it was the only way he could survive. He tried not to let himself linger on the things he would never get back. But now that survival isn’t an issue, maybe that can change. Maybe just this once, things can be permanent.
“It’s all right,” Michael says softly. Gerry doesn’t realize he’s crying until something wet streaks down his face. He doesn’t move to wipe it away. “We’re both here now,” says Michael. “We don’t have to wait anymore.”
Gerry turns and pulls him into a kiss. Michael throws his arms around Gerry’s neck. Every second of it feels too good to be true, like Gerry could wake up at any moment, so he kisses Michael hungrily and counts every heartbeat.
“I love you,” Michael sighs into his mouth.
“I love you so fucking much,” Gerry murmurs. “Don’t leave again.”
“Never,” Michael says at once. “Don’t you go, either.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Gerry presses his forehead against Michael’s, pausing to catch his breath. “You know,” he says. “I think there’s got to be a ‘til death do us part’ joke in here somewhere, I just can’t find it.”
Michael giggles. “I certainly hope there isn’t.”
“Let’s just not part, then,” Gerry suggests.
“That sounds good to me.”
Gerry cups his face in both hands, taking a while to just look, and drink in the sight of him. Everything is different, but it feels just the same, and that’s more than he ever would’ve dared to hope for. His heart is heavy with joy, the kind that’s so profound it isn’t so much weightless as it is aching. It’s hard to believe that there’s no catch. He’s seen so many strange things, but happy endings are always something he’s remained skeptical about.
Michael might make a believer out of him, though.
“Well?” Michael whispers, half-smiling. “Are you just going to stand there?”
Gerry responds by kissing him again. He can’t get enough of the way Michael’s hands curl into the small of his back, or the way his lips close so softly against Gerry’s, like something will break if he moves too quickly. That’s okay. It’s more than okay; it’s perfect. Slow is exactly what Gerry wants right now.
Even if they have an eternity to spend together, he wants to make every second count.