they say that, when you die, youāre given seven minutes to relive the best moments of your life.
seven minutes, postmortem, feels like a lifetime within itself. at least, it does to john mactavish.
heās six years old, curled up in his maās lap with a bowl of ice cream in hand, his left leg sporting a brand-new, obnoxiously neon-green cast, testament to the tumble he took from the monkey bars at school that morning. his father claps him on the back and tells him how proud he is of him for being so brave. he handled it like a man would, he claims. for the first time, pride means something to johnny. he can finally feel the weight of it, and heāll be shouldering it for the rest of his short life.
heās ten years old, sitting in a hospital bed beside his oldest sister, his newborn niece cradled oh-so carefully in his arms, with seven sets of worried hands fluttering about. as of today, heās no longer the baby of the mactavish family ā he doesnāt mind. today, he learns that life is a precious, beautiful thing. he thinks that hers is worth a hundred of his own. his ma tells him that, one day, the drooling little girl in his lap will worship the ground he walks on. his sisterās given him the best gift of them all: a friend for life.
heās fifteen, itās past his curfew and heās in for a beating when he gets home, but the boy heās kissing tastes like opportunity, and he doesnāt care what his parents or his preacher would say if they discovered his sins. he will not repent, he will not regret this, and he will not torment himself with thoughts of eternal punishment or damnation. he kisses this boy until his lips are numb and his jaw aches, and he relishes in it for as long as heās able. for the rest of his life. heāll never be allowed to see him again, but heāll never forget him. his memory will be branded into johnnyās skin in the shape of his fatherās belt, and heāll cherish it.
heās twenty-two, and captain john price calls on him to join his team. the best of the best, the finest soldiers in the world, and heās among them. thereās that word again: pride. itās heavier now, itās more than a childās conviction, more than a fatherās passing phrase. johnny bears the weight of it gladly. itās the captainās summons, or maybe itās fate, that leads him to you. the first time your paths cross, you laugh at his hair, and at his name, and, somewhere between your teasing and the burden of duty, he falls in love.
heās twenty-three, and bleeding out on the dilapidated streets of las almas. the city of angels. he can feel them, too, watching ā judging. his lieutenant, his dearest friend, is waiting for him on the other end of the city, and he knows that, somehow, he is not alone. not tonight. simonās dismal conversation, nothing but shitty puns and pessimism, but johnny recognizes it for what it is: faith. not in god, but in him. in john mactavish. and, coming from ghost, itās everything. āi wanna be like you when i grow up, LT.ā
twelve hours later, you kiss him as the sky falls down around you, and itās the first of many. itās the beginning of a love story destined to end in tragedy, but to you, to him, in this moment, itās only the beginning.
heās twenty-four, and the captainās grinning at him from across a little booth in their local pub, with a warmth his own father could never get quite right. youāre strewn across his lap, laughing drunkenly at one of simonās morbid jokes, running your fingers through his mohawk while he keens under your affections. kyle returns with a round of shots, his knuckles wet and sticky with cheap liquor, and johnny muses that his friend is rather lovely. so is simon, and price, and especially you. now, he knows that there is beauty in everything, all the time, and it looks like this. like unlikely friendships, and rag-tag, makeshift families, and doomed lovers. itās bloody and itās tragic, but, oh, itās so, so beautiful.
heās twenty-five, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip as he watches you stretch in the dim, yellowed light of your bedroom. a space youāve chosen to welcome him into. a home youāve offered to him. your throatās bruised from his mouth, your hair rumpled from his greedy hands, and his fingers twitch with the want, the need, to draw you, to capture this moment, so that he might cling to it forever. as if he could ever forget it. he tells you he loves you, and you grin like you already know. he tells you heāll marry you, one day, soon, and you kiss him like you believe it. he wonāt. heāll never get that chance. he would have if he couldāve.
heās twenty-six when he takes you home to meet his family. you fit in like a piece no one knew was missing. his nieces and nephews refuse to let you out of their sight, and his sisters welcome you like they had been waiting for you all their lives. his father praises your service, and his mother tells him heās chosen well. youāre good for him, she claims. sheās right, of course. she tells him that sheās proud of him, not for all the battles heās won and the blood heās spilt, but for the love that heās earned from you.
heās twenty-seven, standing outside the tunnel heāll soon die in. you kiss him like itās the last time, but you donāt know that it will be. how could you? he certainly doesnāt. only a fool walks into a life-or-death situation expecting to die ā you told him that. ācome back to me, J.āand he smiles, because where else would he go? where else would he be, if not with you?
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