He thinks that if he were to rewrite this story, he'd change everything about it. When he writes it, he's young and stupid, and tragedy is a genre to compel an audience.
(he thinks that it was only five months ago and a changing in the seasons, summer fading to the crisp air of winter and he—)
He meets Alfred in the summer. In July, sweltering and miserable with heat, Matthew goes to the bay to watch a fireworks show and falls in love. It's not something he expects, or even wants, really—it's an accident that he tumbles into and by the time he gets his feet under himself again, he's too far gone to stop it.
(Alfred's hands shake, slightly, when he talks, and Matthew thinks that's the first sign, the first, ignorable sign—it's so easy to overlook, but it grows, it grows, it grows)
He's writing a book, when he meets Alfred. Draped over Matthew's shoulders, close to his ear, Alfred begs, anything but a tragedy.
There's enough tragedy in this world, Alfred explains. But Matthew—young and stupid—kisses the paper-fine skin of Alfred's shaking hands; I like a good tragedy, he says and he's thinking of Jay Gatsby stretching his arms out at the green glow of the impossible American dream, of drowning Ophelia with her long hair curling in the water. Alfred gives him a smile, a little strained—there's a shadow in his eyes and Matthew chooses not to see it.
(his funeral is quiet, his portrait smiling; there are white roses around his head that make him so much paler than he ever was in life)
Matthew writes a tragedy that gets published.
And he wishes—
(what should I write instead, he asks, and Alfred's arms tighten around his shoulders)
("And they lived happily ever after, for all their days.")