This is dedicated to dearest 'Silver' on her birthday, and although I have never met her, I wanted her to know that she is special. Happy Birthday, from Mick and from me. Hugs and kisses.
I listened to 'November Blue' by The Avett Brothers over and over again as I wrote this, and it flavoured the piece. Thank you for another wonderful song. This turned out a little softer, a little more introspective, a little more 'slice of life' than I expected… But I like it. The best love stories are the ones that take a lifetime to write.
November Blue
Gilbert slouched down the slicked roads with his hands in his pockets. The streetlights caught on the puddles, and on the delicate rings of ice decorating the edges. He frowned down at the frost and grumbled.
Fuck, it was cold!
The leaves did not crunch or crumble as he stomped through them and he frowned a little harder. It was too damp, and bitter, for that. He turned his threadbare jacket up against the wind and mourned the passing of autumn.
He could almost taste December…
Gilbert rounded the corner and licked his lips as the Tim Hortons came into view, welcoming and warm. He crouched alongside the restaurant and slapped his palms against the windows, laughing when the blonde on the other side of the windowpane jumped. He grinned.
"Chickenshit," he mouthed as Matthew reached up and pressed his palm against his own, intimate and familiar. He wrinkled his nose and gestured to the two cups of coffee in front of him. Gilbert knew an invitation when he saw one.
He curled his fingers in recognition and tapped the windowpane once, twice, before turning around and walking in.
The restaurant was painted in shades of maroon and cinnamon. It smelt like heaven. Matthew waved him over with a soft smile and pushed out the seat across from him. Gilbert collapsed into it and kicked his feet up.
" 'Sup?"
Matthew grimaced and slipped one of the cups towards him without a word. It was still hot; sweet and pale and drowning in cream and sugar.
"Oh, man, I think I'm in love with you!" He sighed as he took a sip. Perfect. Matthew snorted and brushed off his affection.
"Uh huh."
Gilbert studied him over the rim of his cup. He looked a little lean, a little haggard. His sweater was torn and stained and so were his jeans. His lips were parched and flushed, and his hair was a mess, but it was still the brightest shade of yellow he had ever seen.
His stare was patient and compassionate but he hunched forward as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Maybe it was.
He looked exhausted.
Gilbert thought about leaving now and then, about packing up and joining the armed forces, about sweating in the mines or the oil sands. He thought about leaving it all behind; the small town and the recession and the crippling student debt…
And then he thought about Matthew, with the weight of the world on his shoulders… And then he stopped thinking about it altogether.
He would never, could never leave; not if it meant leaving him. It was true that they were young, and unemployed, and desperate, but at least they had each other. That was enough.
They did not have much, but they had enough.
"C'mon," he said suddenly. He stood up and offered Matthew his arm. He took it.
"Where are we going?"
"Out."
Gilbert led Matthew down the streets and out of town, with his coffee in one hand and Matthew on the other. The wind seemed more temperate than it had even fifteen minutes earlier and the moon lit the gravel roads better than the streetlights could ever hope.
The stars were brilliant. Dazzling.
He dragged Matthew through field after field until he found the 'right' one. He pushed him down. It said a lot about Matthew that he had bothered to follow him so far, when it was so cold.
It said everything, actually.
"I really do think that I'm in love with you," Gilbert repeated, quieter this time. Their coffee cups rolled and scatered as he straddled Matthew and cradled his face.
"You're full of shit," Matthew laughed, but it was sad and broken. And he was sad and broken… But he was also radiant and beautiful and wonderful. Gilbert wished that Matthew could see himself from his perspective.
He traced his jawline, his cheekbones, his lips… He bent low and kissed him. Matthew kissed back.
"Sometimes," he admitted between kisses, "but not this time."
"You're lying."
"Not to you, never to you."
Gilbert kissed along his collarbone, his chest, and he was warmer than the coffee had been. They had been friends for seven years, and best friends for five of those, and he knew Matthew inside and out; he knew his faults and his weaknesses, and he loved him in spite of those limitations. Because of them.
And he loved him for his strengths, for his courage.
Matthew cried when he thought no one was watching, and Gilbert cried for him. Matthew staggered and stumbled and slipped, and Gilbert picked him up. He brushed him off. Matthew lingered in front of the mirror, weighing his worth, and Gilbert waited.
He would wait forever.
Gilbert would murmur "I love you, I love you, I love you" until Matthew believed him. He would mention it over coffee and remind him under the stars; he would scrawl it in cursive and write it in the sand and whisper it against his thighs. He would tell him over and over again until he believed it.
And then he would keep telling him. He would keep showing him.
"I love you, I love you, I love you!"