A/N: If you are reading, and you are listening to music, might I suggest "The Light" and "See In You" by The Album Leaf?
He's been waiting so patiently.
Well, that's not entirely true. Some days, the hours creep by so slowly it makes him want to scream, break apart, and go mad. He just wants to get there so badly, but he refuses to let himself think about leaving early.
That wouldn't do at all.
Even as the unnaturally long days gnaw at his bones and feral longing drives sleep from his eyes does he do anything but try his level best to soldier on. He floats along, like chaff on the breeze, his world seen through a filter of dull grays and colors only muted at best. Faded platitudes and unsolicited advice swirl around him from well meaning friends and sometimes strangers.
"I'm so sorry."
"You need to move on."
"The sooner you accept it, the better it will be."
"Why can't you just let go?"
They only magnify his loneliness, but the knowledge that there will be rest at the end gives him strength that makes it a bit easier to bear.
And the memories.
He is never truly alone, not with memories like these.
They said it would be like washing out to sea, all pillowy and slow, but it isn't like that at all. It snaps shut with a final yet insignificant bang, as if such a contradictory sound could exist. A noise that should have been deafening is muffled and still, a gunshot from far away, or a door closed only in irritation instead of anger.
He gets the distinct impression that an entire world has ended. Whether another one will begin and take its place is anyone's best guess. So, unlike when he was young and brash, he will patiently wait.
He imagined there would be a light, but there is just darkness. It's actually nice, not silent or cold, but lived in, comfortable and familiar as a favorite old shirt or the weight of his rifle. He tries to get his bearings, but the darkness is thick; a quiet and pleasantly heavy fog that engulfs him like those long loose limbs he remembers from a lifetime ago.
A curtain slowly comes up, signalling the opening scene in a play he has waited so long to watch. He shivers with excitement, as the darkness recedes a bit, just a tease, like senses returning while waking from a deep sleep.
Laughter and murmured conversations swell and become more distinct. The clink of glasses and bottles softly chime while dust motes and the scent of something sweet and dry dance on the air. The lights come up a bit and while it's still dim, it's the cozy kind, the kind that makes you want to burrow deeper into the blankets and let the sleep last just a little longer.
He's finally here.
He sees her now, hunched over the bar top, glass of whiskey in hand. She seems to be contemplating something a thousand miles away, absently swirling the amber liquid around in her glass with soft fingertips, not enough to spill, just enough to let it lap at the rim. The barstool next to her is empty, and a tumbler of something rusty red sits in front, looking suspiciously like his favorite brandy.
She looks up and smiles.
It is blindingly beautiful, this smile, so bright it hurts.
Given the chance, he would endure this hurt as much and often as the universe will let him.
Her face is the same as he remembered it, just as he hoped he would. He had dreamed of it and ran its image through his mind over and over; the terror that he might forget her stronger than any fear he had ever known. It had ruled his nightmares, that unbearable thought of a blank space in his memory where her face should be.
Every freckle on the pale smooth cheeks is in its place, and he remembers the constellations his fingers had mapped between them.
The dark curly hair is just the right shade, a color between warm chocolate and cool earth, and he remembers the heady scent, one he could never place, filling his lungs as the silk ran rivers through his hands.
The lips are full and flushed berry red, and he remembers the shapes they made as smiles, frowns, and laughs played across them. He remembers the way the lower one caught between her white teeth, and it makes his blood burn and thrum under his skin.
This nose is the original one, the one he likes best, bent by being broken too many times, and he remembers her rage when she realized it was not the same and that she never would be either.
Her eyes, though, they are his favorite. So different from his own, huge and almost black; he remembers those pools, so deep and dark that he couldn't help but drown, and how he thought a death like that would be the best anyone could ask for.
"Hey big guy."
Her voice takes his breath away, an exquisite kick to the gut that he has craved for so long. It is soft and low, a beautiful timbre that makes his heart beat faster and his fingers itch. It is a labyrinth of meaning, a still forest to get lost in and happily never return from. He remembers the way she sang, velvety and lush, and how that voice only sang for him.
This is the same voice that told him I love you, and meant it.
"I saved you a seat."