rico-pico:
[snip] how about another PruCan fic with the song "Vanilla Twilight" by Owl City. (yes, I love this band a lot w) The song makes me think of how much they miss each other, since they live so far away. The lyrics are sweet and gives me loads of feels :c
Warnings: Character death.
Beyond the window, the moon was just starting to rise. The house was still; the sheets were cool against Matthew's skin. He stretched an arm out across Gil's side of the bed, imagining that he felt that familiar hand intertwining with his—callused but warm, fitting perfectly at his side. His hand was painfully empty.
"Remember when we'd talk about what we wanted to be someday?" Matthew whispered to the darkness.
No one whispered back, I don't care about someday. You're already everything I need.
"When you got better," Matthew whispered. "After Freddy grew up."
It was so hard getting out of bed in the morning. The illness had overwhelmed Gil slowly but surely; Matthew had known that he would lose him. He just had always hoped it'd be after someday, no matter what the doctors had said.
Somehow, Matthew managed without him. Gil had trusted him to be strong, and he was—he always surprised himself when the sun rose, once he was actually out of the bed they'd shared. He could smile and joke with Freddy, make him breakfast, get him to school. He kept the house immaculately clean and stayed on top of things at work. There were moments when he felt as though Gil's arms were around him, and lips pressed against his ear were whispering, Mein Gott, Mattie, I am so proud of you, or, I always knew that you were strong. I love you so much. Thank you. At those moments, Matthew's chest flooded with energy and love and warmth, and he had the strength to keep going.
But then night sent Matthew back to their bed.
The nostalgia settled like a cold fog somewhere beneath his skin; he hadn't slept in days. Gil had always slept the most soundly when tucked in Matthew's arms, Matthew's nose buried in his white hair. The scent of him lingered on Matthew's pillow—Gil had always snuggled back closer and closer, leaving his own pillow behind. Now Matthew couldn't sleep without that presence in his arms, that hair tickling his nose, that soft muttering in German that'd kept him up at night when they'd first slept together.
Matthew left the bed, creeping out to the porch. Gil seemed to be everywhere—eating at the breakfast table, napping on the couch, leaning on his cane by the window. His impression had sunk into the house. He might be around any corner—and yet he wasn't.
The air outside was cool and pleasant after the warm day. Matthew tucked his knees under his chin and started up at the sky, blinking back tears.
"God, Gil," he whispered. "I wish you were here."