"It's just another night and I'm staring at the moon
I saw a shooting star and thought of you
I sang a lullaby by the waterside and knew
If you were here, I'd sing to you
You're on the other side as the skyline splits in two
Miles away from seeing you
But I can see the stars from America
I wonder, do you see them too?"
_Ed Sheeran, 'All of the Stars'
The book in my hands feels heavier than any law of science says it could possibly be. Ninety-four thousand six hundred and sixty-two words can't possibly weigh so much, but maybe it's the blank space on the last page that's heavier than all of them combined.
Jean died in December. My brand-new hardback copy of Oblivion turned up on my doorstep from a return address in Paris in March. I put it on my shelf and didn't touch it until May. I didn't flip past the first page until June. And somewhere between that stupid Fight Club quote and 'Marco, I,' I somehow ended up sitting here in the basement of the Kirschtein household, curled up in a dust-covered gaming chair and trying not to feel like everything in me is falling apart. I'm not doing a very good job of it.
Missing him comes in waves that ebb and flow but never really stop completely. Six months later and I'm no longer paralyzed, and that's about the biggest achievement I can claim. The first few months felt like I was a puppeteer in control of my marionette limbs, piloting myself through the motions of life but not really feeling anything. Numbness was the one shot I had at protecting myself from what came next. January, February, snowfall and the pale blue walls of my room and my mom begging me to eat.
The pain came later. March, sitting at Eren's house because I could see Jean everywhere in my own, sitting on my kitchen counter, falling into the koi pond in the back yard, pacing the floor of my bedroom, and it was slowly driving me insane. Making the lung-shattering trek across the grounds of Sunset Cemetery's manicured grounds to stare at a polished hunk of rock and remind myself that there was only one place he could be. Bursting into embarrassing, hysterical sobs on the way home because I saw some guy in a leather jacket pull a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Doctor's appointments. You're not taking good enough care of yourself, Marco. You should focus on staying healthy.
Why the hell would I want to do that?
April. A package on the front porch that predated a new #1 on nationwide bestseller lists by a week or two. The first book in years to achieve wild success posthumously of its author. People bought Oblivion for the little promise of 'with a foreword by Levi Rivaille' under the title, or so the talk shows said, but they stuck with it for the heart-wrenching tale of love and loss. My phone rang with so many interview requests that I changed my number. The world had decided that our love story possessed the highest level of integrity.
Jean finally got his legacy. I couldn't even look at it without collapsing into tears.
Eventually, the buzz died down. The phone calls stopped, the talk shows found different books to recommend, the days passed, one after the other. May. I took the book off my shelf, ran my fingers over the dust jacket . The cover image was a picture of the Metaphor Jar, the real one, a snippet of my bedroom in the background. He'd taken it with his phone while I hadn't been looking. The back was nothing but a quote from that Sarah Williams poem about the old astronomer. Opening the cover felt like cracking open a tomb, but I did it anyway, only if long enough to take one look at the author biography on the inside of the dust jacket before I ended up curled up in the middle of my bed, folded in on myself in a futile effort to keep every fiber of me from exploding into bloody, ragged bits. I hadn't had anything to hold me together in months.
Above the few lines of text about middle school soccer teams and a fondness for Chuck Palahniuk, the picture I'd snapped on my phone of Jean dripping wet and covered in koi pond sludge grinned out at me.
I realized that I'd forgotten what his laugh sounded like. I didn't come out of my room for three days.
First half of June. More doctor's appointments. We can't tell much until we get more tests, but there might be some new growth.
Oh.
And so maybe I left the house today because I couldn't stand my parents looking at me like I'm a ticking time bomb anymore. Maybe I brought the book with me because some part of me really didn't want to die without knowing what it said. Maybe I drove for an hour before I somehow ended up in the Kirschteins' driveway because for some reason, it was the only place I could think to go.
His parents still haven't cleaned out the basement. In fact, no one's been down here since a month or so before Jean died. No one's been down here since he got too sick to sleep without supervision, but that doesn't change the fact that he still clings stubbornly to every speck of dust, even after he put so much work into pulling all those pictures off the walls and boxing up his things. There's a box of books destined for Armin still in the corner, another package with Eren's name on it over by the door. Nothing for me, though. No mysterious little parcels, no envelope addressed to Marco sitting on his empty desk. Everything I had with him is now in the hands of millions. Sometimes I resent him just a little bit for that, and then I realize what I'm thinking and end up trying to hold myself together again. It never works very well. Jean was always better at it than me.
The book still open in my hands, I get up from the chair and wander over to his bed. Still unmade. Oblivion gets placed gently on the nightstand for long enough for me to stretch out on the dusty mattress. The sheets still smell like him. My throat tightens painfully, and I force myself to sit up before the weakness in me makes me determined to lay there forever because it's the closest to him I've felt in ages.
Marco, I
"I what?" I whisper, picking the book up again and staring at the last page. "Marco, I what?"
The book doesn't answer, because it's lifeless paper. The one person who could tell me is rotting away in a Brooks Brothers suit six feet under the cold earth.
I'm too lost to realize this, hands shaking as I stare at the words until my vision blurs. "I what?"
His jacket is hanging off the back of his desk chair, the top of a carton of Marlboro Reds peeking out of the pocket. The sight of it sends spiderweb-cracks across my skin, and six months later, I finally break.
"I WHAT?!" I scream-sob, chucking the book away from me with all the meager force I can muster before I collapse back onto the bed, lungs screaming in protest against the searing pain that crying brings. Every hiccuped breath feels watery and useless but I can't stop, a hand clutching at my chest and wishing that I could somehow physiologically get away with ripping my heart out so it would stop hurting so goddamn much.
Hurting is part of the human condition. Fuck the human condition. I've been hurting for a huge chunk of my life, but it's always been with a goal in mind. Chemo to shrink tumors. Surgeries to help me breathe. Drug trials to keep me indefinitely terminal. I'm fine with pain so long as it has a purpose. This? This is meaningless.
"It's not fair, this isn't fucking fair," I choke out, somehow lucid enough to realize that I'm not talking to myself. Sometimes therapists will tell you that it's healthy to talk to the people you're grieving, but that's usually only if you believe that in some way, they can hear you. It's a little hard to hear from a grave all the way across town, but that doesn't stop me, fingers clutching white-knuckled at a pillowcase that still smells like Old Spice and Pert shampoo and accusation turning words to knives. "God, you can't do this to me, not you too, I came here to say goodbye and dammit, Jean, I…"
I what?
My chest hurts too badly for me to do anything other than lay there, a trembling mess with diseased lungs that's on its way out of the world, crying in the middle of a dead boy's dust-covered bedroom and trying desperately to remember how his kisses felt. I feel like I'm drowning in my own lungs (probably because I am), fingers quaking as I reach over and turn the oxygen intake on my tank all the way up. The physical aspect of the pain lessens after a few minutes, allowing me to sit up and look at the place where the book made a dent in the drywall. Jean used to have a poster with the rules of Fight Club hanging in that spot, pictures of his Jazz Band competition trip to New York City hanging beside it. Now it's just empty space marred with the rage of yet another thing that he left behind. The only difference between me and all those boxes in the corner is that I feel his absence. I can't stay still long enough to collect dust. If I've learned one thing from today, it's that stillness lets me get too far into my own head and realize just how much I need him, the exact extent to which I'm actually not dealing with the fact that he's gone.
The night he died, I sat there and looked at my phone for hours trying to figure out who to call. The only person I wanted to talk to about Jean Kirschtein's death was Jean Kirschtein, and I was too numb at the time to see the absolutely depraved brand of irony in that.
The book sent a cloud of dust up when it fell to the floor, the pages rumpled to the point that one of them is sticking out further than the others. Frowning, I lean forward and scoop it up, trying to smooth out the damage. The rumpled page is actually a few pieces of folded paper, tucked into the back of the dust jacket. Frowning, I smooth out the creases and squint down at the top one, gaze flicking back and forth over the spidery, elegant handwriting.
Marco,
If you're reading this, then you have either A) Finished the book and thrown it as hard as you possibly can, B) Finished the book and found this tucked into the back, or C) This is not Marco, in which case, fuck off and stop reading other people's mail. Still Marco? Yes? Okay, moving on. You're probably looking at the last page of this book and starting to think that I have a pattern, to which I would like to respond, this one wasn't really my fault. I'm not the author on this one, just the editor. As is implied, Jean's tape recorder ran out while he was in the hospital the night he passed away. Unfortunately, no one was around to hear what he said. While I now understand what a shitty thing it is to end a story mid-sentence, it would be an even shittier thing for me to put Jean's last words in his mouth. I sincerely hope that you can forgive me, him, and everyone else involved.
Also, you should know that in our last few correspondences, Jean had his misgivings about Oblivion being published after his death. His original intent was for me to compile the book and simply send it to you and you alone. If you want someone to blame for the book's publicity, blame me. I brought up the concept of legacy, and… well. You knew him better than I did. I don't really need to say more.
But no matter what the world does with your love story's integrity, Marco, you need to understand its true purpose. Every single word of this book is a love letter. I'm not sure what Jean left for everyone else, if he left anything at all. But this is what he left for you. For the last months of his life, his sole purpose was making sure that you would have a lasting reminder of how very much you were loved. So before you get angry about your story's compromised integrity, take the time to consider that it doesn't matter one fucking bit what the world thinks. That boy loved you. You loved him. The world's judgements are irrelevant.
I'm a stubborn bastard and I don't learn easily, but your shit-head brat of a boyfriend taught me that much. I have him to thank for the ring on Hange's finger and the fact that my kid's going to have a mother again. If you're ever in New York, drop us a line.
Our conversation at the funeral didn't end well, and I didn't have the chance to tell you what I came to tell you. This book wasn't the only thing that Jean left for you. A few months before Jean died, I got a letter in the mail, which was weird since he usually stuck to email. I can only imagine that he sent it to me that way because he knew that I wouldn't be the only one seeing it. I have enclosed the letter behind this one.
I can't offer much other than my condolences and empathy, having lost a love to cancer as well. You know as well as I do that I'm shit at talking to people, and I know as well as you do that you're not fond of me, but if you ever need someone to yell at, you know where to find me.
He loved you. He loved you. I am in awe of how much he loved you. Please, always remember that, no matter what.
Regards,
Levi
My hands are shaking again, either from deoxygenation or the physical manifestation of a grief that's finally taking its toll. The room feels suddenly claustrophobic - I've always hated being underground. The only thing that made this basement even close to tolerable is long gone from it - and as soon as I've got my breathing back under control, I get up and walk over to Jean's desk, carefully taking his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapping it around my shoulders. It's a little big on me; the sleeves almost cover my hands, but the worn leather carries the same scent as his sheets. It's as close to comfort as I can get these days.
The night outside is chilly for summer, the cool air drying the tear-tracks on my cheeks as I walk across Jean's back yard and sit with my back against the chain-link fence. Almost a year since we sat and watched fireworks become miniature supernovas over our heads. He wrote about that night in the book, about what kind of soda we were drinking and what I was wearing, but what I remember best was his smile. The porch light is close and bright enough to read by, but I can barely shuffly the pages until Levi's letter is in the back, his careful penmanship replaced with Jean's messy scrawl.
Levi,
I'll probably write about this in installments you'll see later, but it bears mentioning that I ended up in the ICU a few days ago. Long story short, we're stopping treatment. Tick-tock, my friend. I'm about to be discharged currently, but something happened that I felt the need to write you about as soon as possible.
I had a pretty heated argument with my best friend today that basically ended with him shouting at me that "you'll be long gone by the time Marco finally bites it, and I'm gonna have to fucking go to both of your funerals." That got me thinking.
Marco is indefinitely terminal, while I, on the other hand, now have a much earlier expiration date. I will undoubtedly be dead long before him, and out of all the injustices we've had to suffer, I think that this is perhaps the greatest. Marco will have to go to my funeral, will have to eulogize me, will have to go through the process of grief. In the grand scheme of things, I get off pretty easily if you don't count the whole dying thing.
You've already done so much for me by helping me out with the book, but I'd like to ask just one more favor in light of recent events. When Marco dies, I'd like you to take all the sentimental bullshit I'm about to spew at you, turn it into a proper eulogy, and read it at his funeral in my stead.
And don't even complain about plain tickets, you cheap bastard, you're filthy rich. But I digress.
I'm blinking back tears again, but they aren't the kind that rips me apart at the seams and renders me useless, just sitting thickly on top of my vocal cords as I rasp out a laugh and flip to the next page of the letter, pulling the pack out of the pocket of Jean's jacket and fiddling with a single cigarette between my fingers as I read. He tried to teach me how to hold one once. I felt stupid and told him that I'd leave the obnoxious metaphorical smoking to the professionals. He laughed. I loved him. I love him.
The thing about Marco it that there aren't enough words in any language on earth to describe what he is. He is so much more than the sum of his parts, so much more than the fact that he is smart and kind and funny and beautiful, although he is all of these. I've tried looking through the taxonomy of words that mankind has invented, and I still can't find something that works. The Germans have a word for the feeling of being alone in the woods (Waldeinsamkeit, if you're interested. It's a lovely word), but no one has come up with a word for the feeling of Marco Bodt granting you his love. While I'm not a linguist, I can work with my limited materials and hopefully convey something close.
He is smart. He is so incredibly intelligent, not just because he reads obscure books and listens to folk music and drinks herbal tea, but because he sees the world as it is, realizes that there is an order to the universe and that we are all just tiny parts of it. He has the strongest mind and the strongest heart that I have ever been privileged to know, but he never makes you feel like you are less than him for that. The fact that he is smarter than you is not something you dwell upon. It's a simple fact, and you accept it with a smile.
He is kind. There is sunshine beneath his skin and he lights up any room he walks into. Marco draws people to him because he is inherently kind and good, and the fact that a person so inherently kind and good ever thought twice about giving me the time of day never ceases to amaze me. He is so much kinder than I deserve. If the world were full of people like Marco, it would be a far better place. But I'm selfish enough to be glad that the world isn't full of people like Marco, because if it were, I might be too desensitized to realize how special he is.
He is funny, but he is never mean. He can make you laugh with the stupid things in everyday life without ever making a single person feel bad. I'd say that his smile could cure cancer, but that would just be evidence on how my sense of humor is far, far more horrible than his.
He is so beautiful. Once you look at him, you don't ever want to stop. He has very tiny freckles on his lips that you have to get very close to see, and he has beautiful hands, and a beautiful smile, and a beautiful soul. As an artist I like to think that I have an eye for beauty, but every time I try to draw him it never quite comes out the way I want. The fact remains that he is a Mona Lisa in his own right, and I am not a Da Vinci. The closest I get to capturing how beautiful he is won't be in a picture or a book or any other physical record. It will be in the way I keep looking at him for as long as I can because I know that nothing can accurately portray how incredible he is.
I am so unbelievably lucky that he loves me, Levi. I am so privileged to be allowed to love him. And maybe you were right, maybe all great cosmic loves eventually end in pain, but I will accept that pain happily. In the long run, we don't get too many choices in life. One of the few allowances we get is the ability to decide what sort of pain is and isn't worth it. And any sort of pain is worth it for the knowledge that he loves me.
So maybe Marco was right when he told me this the first time. The best word invented by man to describe him is 'supernova.' Because he is complicated and dangerous and incredibly beautiful, and he pulls everyone around him into his gravity despite the fact that day by day we are both collapsing inward.
I am glad that I fell into him. Okay?
"Okay," I whisper to the constellations overhead.
Maybe it's true that one of the only choices we have in life is who we let hurt us, and I'm happy with my choice. But not happy enough and far too alone to stop me from placing the paper cylinder between my lips, digging the unused lighter out of Jean's jacket pocket, and lighting it.