Title: Letters
Author: MoyaoftheMist
Warnings: Character death, mourning, abundant headcanon, human!AU. I'm sick-ish as I write this.
Author's Note: Inspired by iraya's fluffy headcanon. It gave me a plot bunny the day she posted it, and I haven't yet gotten it out of my head.
Matt sank into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. On the bedside table, the steady ticking of the clock assured him that time was still passing. Four days, five hours, eight minutes without Gil. Four days, five hours, nine minutes without Gil. Four days, five hours, ten minutes without Gil.
Gil had known. When Matt had called the mortuary, the mortician had informed him that everything had been paid for in advance; there were no arrangements to make. Gil had been too sick at the end to pick up a phone—how many months earlier had Gil known he was approaching the end?
Matt was still in his funeral suit. It'd taken four days for Ludwig and Al and Francis and Antonio and all the rest to book the plane tickets and fly out to Canada. Only Matt had been with Gil at the end.
"You're all I ever needed, Mattie," he'd said, at the very end. He'd known; Matt hadn't. Matt had started to laugh—started to lean down to kiss Gil's forehead and call him a goofball—when he'd realized how still Gil was.
Matt scrubbed his eyes and shoved himself upright, breathing hard. Four days, five hours, thirty minutes without Gil. No more pillow forts or late nights playing video games in them. No more trading books back and forth as they read different parts in dramatic voices. No more lazing around in the tub as Gil rubbed the knots out of Matt's shoulders and named every single thing he loved about their life together.
They'd hoped to adopt; Gil wanted a big family, but Matt had only wanted two kids. They hadn't agreed before it was too late, and Gil was already too sick to be the wonderful stay-at-home dad he'd always dreamt of being.
The bed held memories, too—from before the illness, and from after. Matt remembered the morning after they'd first slept together—waking to breakfast in bed with a handmade card that said, "You're the best I've ever had." One of the least cheesy cards that Gil had made for him over the years. Little notes tucked in briefcases and shirt pockets and glasses cases. Gil had a card for every occasion, and he could whip one up any time he wanted to say You're amazing, or just You have the most perfect butt.
Matt didn't want to remember that the bed was where Gil had fallen asleep for the last time, had gone still and cold in Matt's arms. To stave if off, he stooped to pull out the box that he used to house Gil's many cards. When he reached for the box, though, he found another shoebox sitting on top of it. Matt frowned, but picked it up and carried it over to his desk (he'd wanted to work near Gil while he was sick; he hadn't yet moved it back to his office and wasn't sure whether he would).
Matt carefully removed the top of the box. Every centimeter was crammed with paper. Tabs jutted out above them: Anniversary, Bad Day, Birthday, Christmas …Matt scanned the list all the way to Valentine's Day. When he reached to pull out the first Bad Day card, he noticed that his hand was shaking.
The front of the card had a lovingly drawn sketch of Matt nodding off on the couch—definitely Gil's handiwork, but not done with as steady of a hand as he'd always had. Inside, the card was jam-packed with neat, tiny writing.
"You're the most amazing person I've ever known," Matt read. The words clogged in his throat; what followed was a mix of dreadful poetry and ridiculous pick up lines. Tears pricked Matt's eyes, but when Gil attempted to rhyme "Mattie" with "hottie," he let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hand over his mouth and turning automatically to see whether he'd woken Gil.
The bed was empty, of course—Matt looked back at the oddly blurry card, jumping to the very end of the note.
"Did I make you laugh yet?" Matt read. His voice was shaky, but he swallowed to steady it. Gil's most dramatic voice crowed in his ear: You can laugh at my poetry, but it's nothing but the truth!
How many bad days—how many anniversaries and birthdays and holidays had Gil sent him? Matt pulled out the first Missing You card.
Sorry, read the cover. A sad-looking bouquet and a box of chocolates were painstakingly drawn below. Matt opened it and ran his hands over the ink drawing of Gil hug-tackling Matt, a huge grin on his face. This one had fewer words.
I miss you, too.