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They meet in a bookshop.
A book is sold, a heart is stolen, an evening is shared. After that, a life, what is left of it, is shared.
There you are.
Found you.
We were never quite apart, I don’t think that’s how it works.
But it feels like it. Sometimes.
Ah. But we almost make the most of it. And here?
A split second can feel like eternity when there’s no notion of time.
I’ve missed you, too.
They meet on a battlefield.
The arrow has torn its way through fragile flesh, and he pulls it out of the leg quickly, to spare the extra pain.
The enemy looks up in surprise as the cloth is wrapped around the wound.
“Oh, thank you,” he says, and they don’t comment on the different colors on their uniforms. That is something that should matter, but doesn’t, and now they’re both stained crimson, unified by the blood.
He can’t explain why he saves him, this enemy, a stranger, but such is the strangeness of empathy, the very core of humanity.
He lives, and they live together, until this lifetime is over.
I got to return the favor this time.
What favor?
With the leg. You bandaged me. All the way Before. I remember that now. That and everything.
Oh that. That’s a favor that’s been returned so many times over, my dear, I stopped counting.
They meet on a bandstand.
There is laughter around them, ducks in the pond, spies on the benches.
They are both holding an ice cream, and they melt as they talk, a conversation sparked by the book peeking out of the other’s bag. They talk, and they keep talking, and he buys him new ice cream to make up for what trickled away.
“Same as before? Vanilla?”
“Oh, I think you should choose for me. That’s only fair.”
He picks a strawberry lolly, the red color stains his lips and matches the blush on his cheeks.
It takes you too long.
I’m sorry?
If you’d hurry it up, we could have met earlier. This one was just - what? Barely a decade?
I think you’re as much to blame for that as I. Besides, they started continents apart this time. That’s bound to slow the progress.
…Well, at least we get another round.
Eternity, yes. The bird and the mountain.
There’s no mountain, really. No rush. No broken beak, if you really think about it.
They meet at a planetarium.
“You’re wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. I just - A pet peeve of mine, really. I heard you call it Hadar, but that would be Alpha Centauri. Easy mistake to make. S’why Hadar is also known as Beta Centauri, and now I sound like a prick, correcting you, and that’s my bad -”
“It’s alright. Obviously, I am talking to an expert. A passionate expert. And I know the feeling, and let’s say you confused Emily and Charlotte Brontë, I would have given a little speech, too.”
“You’d forgive me, then.”
“All forgiven. I’m always eager to learn more, which is - well, it’s why I’m here. So maybe - if there’s more you could teach me?”
Your hair looked stupid this time.
Really? After all that, and this is the first thing you say when we reunite?
Keep it short the next time, will you?
I might just surprise you the next time.
They meet as enemies. They have different commanders, different orders, different banners.
They are not quite good at following orders. Even when they try.
“They won’t have to know,” he says, and he believes him, he believes him for a long time, and when they lose their titles and their honor, and eventually, their lives, he believes they made the right choice.
It’s not really us, you know. S’just the pieces that were left. Little tiny bits of once were stuck in human flesh. Over and over.
Ineffable, really. I thought - Well. I thought it was goodbye.
It was. Goodbye over and over and over.
And hello.
Yes. And hello.
It’s a bit like magnets, I suppose. Drawing them together every time. The tiny pieces of us affecting them, and the world, too.
I feel bad for them, sometimes. And then I don’t. Not really, if you have the whole picture.
Which they don’t.
Exactly.
They meet in the office.
“You work for Gabriel, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Just offering my condolences. I hear he’s quite the boss.”
“He’s not that bad. I’m sure. He has certain… qualities. Excuse me, who are you again?”
“Oof, you have that many newcomers? I heard that, ‘bout you lot, that you have a problem keeping good staff.”
“Ah. So you work for -”
“Pandemonium Holdings, yes.”
“You’re on the wrong floor, then.”
“Right, but our AC is out, and yours works. I guess you could kick me out, but then I’d die a slow, sweaty death, and neither of us wants that, right?”
“...Right.”
“I also hear you guys have a salad bar.”
“If you’re that eager, perhaps you should apply to work here. Before any of us get into trouble.”
“I like trouble. Otherwise, this job would bore me to death. Before the death of hyperthermia, I mean.”
“I can show you the way to the water cooler.”
“And that’s an offer I can’t resist.”
You should write books. Spice it up a bit instead of just reading, always.
I’m not sure.
You’re a good writer. You proved that, you know, writing about Her. I would have made a bunch of spelling errors trying to say: And there the Almighty was, poof, not even bothering to stand up.
I wrote stories about us. Once.
Yeah?
I have imagination, true, you know. I wish - I wish they had come true.
…They might. Still.
They meet by an apple tree.
It’s not their tree to pick, but he does so anyway, without hesitation or any sign of worry, the moment he hears the grumbling of a starving stomach.
“Here,” he says, offering him the fruit, still covered in morning dew, fresh and inviting.
“I can’t,” the other says, shaking his head. “Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if I stole it?”
“You’re not stealing anything. I’m stealing it, and I’m giving it to you. Then it’s not theft, it’s a gift.”
“I can’t eat that.”
“You’re hungry.”
He is, and it’s a gift he cannot refuse. He eats all of it, the stem and the seeds, so that no one can see the remains of their crime.
Do you regret it? Our decision?
No. There has to be an end. It’s a freedom to choose it. And this way - oh, the beginnings we get. For every end, a beginning. But I do wish -
I know.
And for that I will always be sorry.
They kiss at the end of summer, right when the sun sets over the fields. It is soon time for harvest, winter comes soon, and with it, darkness and cold. Life is fragile and short and precious, and his lips taste of ripe apples.
His hand finds his, and fingers trace over old scars, hardened knuckles.
They are hungry, and they are frightened, and they are in love.
I wasted so much time. Every time, I -
It’s okay.
How many years now? If you count every bit of it? And the first time - I shouldn’t have waited, I shouldn’t have wasted -
It wasn’t a waste. This is the only way to spend eternity.
Do you really think so?
Yes.
They kiss when they make love, lips touching sweaty skin, fingers digging into soft curls. They sink deeper into the bed, panting, moaning, alive and unashamed, even when the neighbour slams a fist against the thin wall.
“Look at you,” he breathes, beholding the wonder beneath him, the entirety of him. “You're gorgeous.”
I wanted this. I wanted so many things.
But this counts. Every bit of this counts.
They kiss after an argument, tongues still stinging from words far too sharp, far too harsh. There’s a protest on his lips, cut off as they meet, and his hands curl into his jacket to keep him there, to make it last.
I’m sorry, they don’t say. I was wrong.
They hear it anyway.
Don’t say it.
What?
I know what you’re about to say, and I won’t hear it. You always come back. I know it.
But they don’t.
Yes they do. Every lifetime, I know you’ll come back.
Only because I keep leaving.
Yeah. And then you come back.
They kiss during a dance, bodies leaning against each other, hands holding the other upright. The gramophone plays behind them, the record spinning over and over like the circles they dance in.
“You stepped on my toe.”
“Well, your foot was in the way. Keep up, dear.”
How lucky I am to get so many first dances with you.
Maybe one day you will actually be good at it.
Oh hush.
They kiss when they are drunk. His face is flushed, with heat and desire and shame.
“I’m usually not this drunk,” he lies.
“Only with me?”
“Only with you.”
They are better at it. Kissing. They are happy kisses, and they get so many of them. And I am happy for them, and for us, but I wish - I wish that -
They are still ours. I claim them. Every one of them.
They kiss during the proposal, before he can even ask the question, the most important of all, the most unnecessary, because they know the answer already, they always know.
“Does that mean yes?” he asks as they exit each other’s arms so their eyes can meet, fingers still intertwined, not quite ready to let go.
“Yes,” he says, again, the same answer over and over and over.
I think I am beginning to understand.
Oh?
Shades of grey. What we were - that’s over, but now - It’s not black and white, it’s grey. We are one, you see, one piece that’s being used to build the universe, over and over, and we break apart into two, and we find each other, every time, and when they die, we unite. This moment of pure, pure grey, it’s us -
And now we break apart again.
And we find each other. In them, we find each other.
They kiss too late. It’s fear keeping them back, fear of the world and oneself. It’s the moments that didn’t happen, the words that weren’t spoken, the time spent apart, the waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and kisses the cold, pale lips. “Come back, I want to - I need to - I can make it right, I swear, but you have to come back to me, you have to, you must know, you know, don’t you, please, you must.”
I wish they knew.
It wouldn’t change much. They still die.
Humans. We spent so long trying to understand what it must feel like.
And now we do.
It’s a blessing, isn’t it, that they don’t know. Or else it might feel like a curse.
You’re not a curse. You’re the best thing that could have happened to me. And they feel that way, too. Every time.
Are you ready? To do it again?
With you? Let’s go.
They die when the bombs fall. There’s a flash of light, they can hear nothing but the sirens, and the floor beneath them shakes. They do not feel the bricks as it collapses, the weight of it all as their bodies die underneath the ruins of their home.
I hate it when they don’t get to marry.
It wasn’t the place for it, or the time. Not our fault.
I know it shouldn’t matter much, a promise is a promise, but - I wish that after all of this, there’d be no suffering for them. All of them.
Then it wouldn’t be Earth.
They die slowly. The hospital is so white it hurts the eyes, endless halls and barren walls.
It’s strange, the way lives are lost here, the very space where lives are saved and new lives are greeted. It’s just walls and ceiling keeping these moments apart, life and death, joy and suffering, opposite sides forever connected.
“You’ll take care of yourself,” he asks of him. “After.”
He kisses his knuckles wordlessly. The aftermath will be lonely, they both know, they never speak of what could wait for them - there is no Heaven, no Hell, there is only this life that they know, one that is bound to run out.
We need more time, he thinks, selfishly. This is too fast for me, please stay, but he cannot say that. It would be cruel, would be fruitless, ungrateful.
But he thinks it, bitterly, as he sits next to the hospital bed and waits.
Next time, you go first.
Why me?
Because I’m a pitiful widower. I’m bad at that part.
You think I fare any better? It’s the worst part of this.
…But worth it?
Yes. Love is worth it.
They die of the smallest things. It takes so little, the human body has too many flaws, and the world, entirely human, remains unjust.
It’s an accident, the worst place at the worst time. A broken branch, a stone below, the wrong angle. It’s instantaneous, and it’s unfair, unexpected. It’s a very human death.
He lies there, still in the garden, like he fell asleep, waiting to be found.
Do you think it’s just us? Being this. If this counts as being?
No. I think - I think the universe is made up of so many parts. And recycling is a virtue.
Hmm.
It’s all bound to be made of something.
Atoms.
Something stronger than that. I think - I think there are parts of souls that go beyond mortality. How else can eternity exist?
So you and I -
Our love is strong enough to endure, yes. That is what is left. Our love, that is what we are, that is what this is, and now it is being used to build something new.
Again.
They die comforted. His head rests in the other’s lap, hands stroking his
“You can sleep now,” he mutters. “It’s alright. I’ll be here, then. If you fall asleep. I’ll stay.”
“What then?” he asks, voice so hoarse the words are hard to hear. “What after?”
“I don’t know.”
There are tears in his eyes and sweat on his forehead, illness wrecking through every part of his body. It hurts, and he is ready to leave it behind, this useless body and this pain. It’s inevitable, his death, they both know it, and yet he thinks that leaving him behind will feel like a betrayal.
“It’s alright,” he lies, kissing his forehead, feeling the heat of the skin and the tremors beneath. “It’s alright, you can sleep, you can go, I’ll hold you, so you can fall asleep.”
He does, his sigh heavy when he goes. It’s first when his breathing has come to a halt that the other dares to weep.
Do you ever get tired of it?
If we keep a certain pace, I’ll keep up. And with the grief, there’s excitement, too. Stepping into the unknown every time.
Unknown. I think we have a certain pattern by now.
And it is beautiful, don’t you think?
They die, and when one goes, the other one is left with a grave to dig.
He carves the name slowly, willing it into the stone so that it won’t be forgotten. It’s a part of the story he will continue to tell, he won’t let the name go to waste, he will speak it, he will honor this name he chose for himself, he will call it out, and say: I miss you, still.
I’m sorry that it hurts.
Only for a brief moment. If we put things into perspective -
Don’t do that. Not with hurt.
It’s worth it. It’s always worth it.
They die, and their loved one is the last thing they see.
It’s the end of one life, and the start of another. They won’t know this, but for this split-second, in the last moment, they stare into the other’s eyes and see the universe in there, waiting for them. They almost feel it, then.
I love you.
I know.
How lucky I am, to fall in love with you once more.
They die together.
They are old and ready, wrinkled hands holding onto each other with a strength that should have been lost to them by now. The matching rings on their fingers seem to glow in this final moment of sunset.
“Goodnight,” he breathes into his neck. “May you dream of whatever you like best.”
“You,” he says. “I’ll dream of you.”
They hold each other, and they fall asleep, and their dream is endless.
Perhaps. We could try something new the next time.
Oh?
It’s rather silly. But I really do miss flying.
Yes.
Just for a short time -
Yes. We can be nightingales.