“The, ah, the TV shows, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Qhuinn took a deep breath. And then laughed a little. “Not The Sopranos, though. That I couldn’t resist.”
Blay put his parka aside and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not following here?”
Qhuinn turned the letter over so that the flap that had been glued shut was face-up. “I have this weird thing about my favorite TV shows that have ended. I did it for Home Improvement, too, come to think about it. See, I refuse to watch the last season. It’s this weird thing. Like, back when we had DVDs? I always kept the last season in its wrapper.” His thumb went back and forth on the flap. “That way they’re never finished, you know? I can pretend in my mind that they go on forever, that they’re infinite—because the definition of infinity is no ending. And if I don’t watch the ending there hasn’t been one.” There was a pause and Qhuinn looked up. “That’s nuts, right?”
“Not at all.” Blay wanted to stroke the male’s back, but kept his hands clasped in front of him. “It makes all the sense in the world.”
“Now you’re just humoring me.”
“No, I’m really not.”
A ghost of a smile hit Qhuinn’s lips, but was quickly lost. “I feel the same way about whatever’s in here. As long as I don’t read it, my brother isn’t gone. Because that’s how it works with people, you know? The folks I live with, you, the kids, Layla and Xcor, everybody else in the household . . . I mean, I have countless unfinished conversations, and pool games that need to be played to even out scores, and meals that are up and coming, and nights out in the field. It’s all in the middle. We’re all in the middle because we’re all alive. And there’s power in the middle. There’s power and potential and this weird, illusory stability that feels so permanent, even though it isn’t because any one of us can die at any time. Yet because death happens so rarely, we get used to the middle. We take the middle for granted. We only see how beautiful, how magical . . . how tenuous it is . . . when the end comes.”
Qhuinn tapped the envelope in his palm. “When the end comes, the fog of habit lifts, and only then do we see how rare and special the landscape of the in-between is.”
After a moment of silence, the male laughed awkwardly. “I’m babbling, aren’t I.”
Blay shook his head. In a rough voice, he said, “No, you’re really not.”
They both took a deep breath. Maybe it was for the same reason, maybe for different reasons, but that was the nice thing about being with someone you loved. Often, you came to the same corner, even if it was from opposite directions.
“So . . .” Qhuinn tapped the envelope again. “What do you say we open this . . . together.”
As that mismatched stare lifted to Blay’s, he did what he had been wanting to do. He put his hand on his mate’s back and made a slow circle—that he hoped was as reassuring as he intended it to be.
Some seminal moments were anticipated: Births, matings . . . deaths, too. As well as anniversaries and festivals, graduations and fresh starts. Yet some of the most important moments in your life crept up on you, no less revelatory or significant for their lack of advance notice and fanfare.
This was one of the most significant moments in Qhuinn’s life: And he’d waited, maybe for hours, just so Blay could come home and share it with him.
Blay meant to hold the words in, as he still wasn’t sure where they stood. But the emotion in the center of his chest chose its method of expression—and it was a conventional one. Tried and true.
“I love you so much,” Blay said in a voice that cracked.
Qhuinn lifted his hand up, the hand that had been on the letter his brother had written. And as he brushed at the side of Blay’s face, it was tenderly.
“Don’t cry,” Qhuinn whispered.
“Am I?”
Qhuinn nodded. “I’m going to try to get through this. I don’t know what I’m doing, though, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”
Blay put his hand over Qhuinn’s, and then he kissed that palm. “However long you need, I will wait. Whatever you want from me, I will do. Wherever you go, I will be right there with you. If you still want me like that.”
Those beautiful blue and green eyes closed. “I love you so much right now, too.”
Instantly, all of the tension disappeared, not just in Blay’s own body, but in the air between them. What had been stuck was now unjammed, and the release was so great, Blay trembled.
The kiss they shared was soft. Reverent. More of a vow than anything else.
And then they eased apart, and both stared down at the letter.
Dear God, Blay thought. He hoped that what was in there . . . didn’t drive them apart all over again.
Qhuinn’s hands started to shake as he eased a finger under the envelope’s flap. There was a lot of resistance, and somehow he wasn’t surprised that his brother had taken care to make sure it was properly sealed. Luchas was precise like that.
Had been precise like that.
Opening the envelope slowly, Qhuinn pulled out . . . a single sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven copier paper. The page had been folded in thirds, and there was only writing on one side—and at first, his eyes just focused on the handwriting. The pen was the same Bic that had been used for Brother Mine, the same one that was on the bedside table, and the cursive script was beautiful, flowing, yet easy to read, each letter executed perfectly.
“He had such wonderful penmanship,” Qhuinn murmured as he ran his thumb down one of the margins. “And look at how straight the lines are. I don’t think he used a ruler. I think he just . . .”
Did it the right way, as he’d been trained.
Before Qhuinn started reading, he had a thought that his brother was so much better than multi-purpose office paper. Luchas should have had personalized stationery, embossed with his name and address at the top. Maybe with a pen-and-ink drawing of the family house as a header.
As Qhuinn trained his eyes on the salutation, he considered reading the letter out loud—but his throat was too tight for that. So instead, he leaned forward and moved the sheet of paper so that it was in between him and Blay.
Dearest Brother Mine,
Firstly, allow me to apologize. You have always been far braver than I, and I believe that what is about to happen proves this truism once again. I am sorry that I am not strong enough to continue upon this path from which I cannot escape, but I am tired. I am bone weary of the pain and the restlessness, and of late, the unchanging nature of my body’s compromises. All has worn me down, whereas you would have persevered. I am weak, however—and the biggest regret of this weakness is that in my actions you may search for, and feel that you find, some sort of personal culpability. Allow me to assuage your conscience. This is naught to do with you.
Secondly, I beg of you a favor. I realize that this is an imposition. For certain, if you are reading this, I am gone and you are in pain. It is entirely unfair of me to ask anything of you in your current state, and yet I beg of you this. Please go unto our family home, and into the confines of my former bedroom. There is a loose floorboard where my bureau was. Hidden beneath it is a secret I have kept. There have been times when I nearly broached this matter that I have kept to myself, but in the end, I was too cowardly. I think I also had hope that I would heal enough to be an advocate for mine own interests. Alas, that did not come to pass. You will know what to do.