September 20th, 2014
"Is this the last of it?"
Arthur looked up, snapped from his thoughts. "Er—yes," he said softly. "I'll go through the dresser myself . . ."
Francis gave him a sympathetic look as he set the box with the others. "If you need anything else, let me know."
"Right," Arthur murmured. "Thank you for helping."
"It's really no trouble," Francis responded easily. "I'm meeting Gilbert and Antonio for lunch—give me a ring if you need something." He stepped out the door. "I'll see you later."
Arthur nodded, but Francis was already gone. He sat against the wall and looked around the apartment, his eyes settling on the stacks of boxes, just waiting to be placed in the truck—which was due tomorrow—and driven away.
It had been a whole month since the crash. Arthur had been slowly recovering, and it had been Francis who had suggested a change of scenery . . .
Knock-knock-knock
Arthur looked up sharply at the door. Had Francis forgotten something? He stood and went to the door, opening it to find a young delivery boy holding a small package and a clipboard.
"Um . . ." the boy glanced at his clipboard. "Are you Mr. Arthur Kirkland?"
"Yes," Arthur said tiredly.
"This, uh—" the boy adjusted his hat awkwardly with the hand holding the clipboard. "A Mr. Alfred, uh, Jones arranged to have this sent to you in the event of his death . . ."
Arthur's stomach clenched. It took him a few seconds to realize that the boy was still talking.
"Sir?" the boy repeated. "Sign here, please?"
"Right," Arthur said dazedly. He automatically scrawled his signature on the indicated line, took the package, and retreated into the apartment as the boy left.
He sat hard on the bed and stared at the package in his hands. What could Alfred have sent him? What was so important that it had to be sent after he had died? Why did he go through the trouble of setting this up?
With shaking hands he took out his pocketknife and slit the tape. He pulled back the flaps and found—
—a stack of manila envelopes.
The top one had To Arthur scribbled on the front in Alfred's familiar messy writing. Arthur lifted it up and found that the next one had a date: July 15 2017.
July 15th . . . their anniversary.
Arthur found that all the others had the same date on the front, but with different years. 2022. 2037. 2042. 2062.
Arthur opened the one addressed to him and slid out a handwritten letter. As he studied its contents, he could hear Alfred's voice reading it to him:
Dear Arthur,
I'm glad this package got to you, but if you're reading this, it must mean I've died. I'm really sorry.
You're probably wondering what this is all about, huh? Well, I'm writing this a little bit after our first anniversary. After the second honeymoon, I got to thinking: I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But what if I died before I got to say everything I wanted to say?
So I decided to write these letters. You've probably looked at all the envelopes, right? I know you've figured out the pattern already. I mean, it's not hard, and you're the smartest person I know.
If you want to read the letters, can you read them on the dates I put on the front of the envelopes? I know it'll take a while—I wrote them all the way up to 2062, even if they are in years-long chunks. I wanted to write more, but I decided to do more later. I probably didn't get around to that.
You don't have to read them if you don't want to. If you find someone else, if you feel like you don't have to—you can recycle them, burn them, do what you like with them.
I love you, and I'm sorry.
—Alfred
Arthur silently stored the letter back in its envelope and studied the one below it.
He placed the envelope back in the box, closed it up, and placed it with the boxes in the corner.
July 15th, 2017
Arthur took out the manila envelope from the box in the corner and slid out the letter.
Dear Arthur,
Happy anniversary! It's been five years already, huh? The time just flew by!
Do you still like that stuff you ordered at that restaurant? Remember? We were too tired to go out to dinner on our first anniversary, so we went out the next night to that British pub. I got the bacon burger, and you got that weird mushroom pie thing. I still hate mushrooms! I don't understand how you can like them!
Arthur glanced at his watch. The pub was still open. He could go there for a drink, for old times' sake . . .
I would've liked to go there again, but I hope you can go for both of us.
I love you!
—Alfred
Arthur wiped away a tear as he finished the letter. He slid it back into its envelope and put it back in the box. He got on his jacket and left the apartment.
July 15th, 2022
"Yeah . . . yeah, that sounds good. I'll see you later, Francis."
Arthur hung up the phone. He'd just made plans for dinner with Francis, Feliciano, and Ludwig.
"Right," he murmured to himself. He went to the box in the corner and opened it, taking out the next envelope. He took out the letter and sat down to read it.
Dear Arthur,
Happy tenth! How're you doing? How's everyone else doing?
Remember a little before our second anniversary, we went to the beach? I'm sorry about that—I was just trying to teach you how to swim! But you're like a rock in water, huh?
Even if you can't swim to save your life, it was fun playing around in the sand. I would've liked to go back to the beach for our tenth!
Arthur glanced outside. It was still raining heavily.
Maybe you'll learn to swim one day, right? Good luck!
I love you!
—Alfred
Arthur stowed the letter away with a faint, sad smile. He was overcome with a coughing fit again.
July 15th, 2037
Arthur put away his coat, took a few pills, and went to the box in the corner with a warm heart. Reading these letters were one of the only things he had to look forward to these days, other than spending time with his friends.
He took out the one for that year and began to read.
Dear Arthur,
Happy silver anniversary! It's been a long time, hasn't it?
We always talked about how we'll never get old. What do you look like today? You haven't grown a beard, right? I've warned you about that. You'd look terrible with facial hair. Plus, I'd be laughing too hard to kiss you!
Arthur suddenly stopped reading as a coughing fit overcame him. Funny, the doctor said they should have stopped by now. He picked up a mirror and examined his reflection. Other than the five-o'clock shadow and the new lines around his mouth and eyes, he was sure anyone who had known him twenty years ago would know him now.
He set down the mirror and returned to the letter.
Even if you look different, I know I'd recognize you no matter what. The only way I wouldn't recognize you is if you shaved off those caterpillars you call eyebrows.
Well, I'm only teasing. You know I like those things.
I love you!
—Alfred
Arthur was overcome with another coughing fit.
July 15th, 2042
Arthur's lined hands slowly drew the next letter out of its envelope. He sat down and read.
Dear Arthur,
Happy anniversary, love!
Remember when we first met? I tripped in the cafeteria and spilled my food all over you. Francis was losing it and you looked ready to kill me. I tried to help clean it off you, but I accidentally dragged you to the floor with me!
I was so surprised when you just started laughing.
I don't know if I've told you this before, but asking you out was one of the scariest things I'd ever done. I didn't know what you'd say, I was probably going to get tongue-tied again—hell, I got tongue-tied practicing in front of the mirror. Imagine my surprise when I finally got the courage to do it and you said yes right away!
That was the best moment of my life—no, the second-best. The best was our wedding.
I love you!
—Alfred
Arthur set down the letter and began violently coughing. He found blood on his hand. Hm. The doctor had said to call him if that happened again.
July 15th, 2062
Dear Arthur,
Happy golden anniversary!
I don't know if you'll ever know how much I love you. I love your soft hair, your beautiful green eyes, the way your eyebrows come together when you're thinking about something . . . the way you'll snap at me, but then laugh just a minute later, and your uncanny talent for making flower arrangements!
We never could have a proper fight, right? We'd just laugh soon enough—hell, I don't even remember anything we fought about!
I said it before, and I'll say it again: Our wedding was the best day of my life.
I still remember how nervous I was coming down the aisle! And remember how we'd talked about which one of us would wear the dress, and Francis said we should both wear dresses?
I wore that white suit, and you wore a black one . . . when the priest was reading off the vows, we both cried a bit, didn't we? I saw you crying, so don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.
The honeymoon was amazing. The food was great, and that night was so fantastic.
I love you so much, Arthur.
—Alfred
Arthur passed away in 2043. He never read the final letter.
He and Alfred are buried side-by-side. Each of their graves are inscribed with their vows.
For better or for worse, in sickness and in health . . .
. . . until death do us part.