they say that, when you die, you’re 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.
he’s six years old, curled up in his ma’s 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 he’ll be shouldering it for the rest of his short life.
he’s 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, he’s no longer the baby of the mactavish family — he doesn’t 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 sister’s given him the best gift of them all: a friend for life.
he’s fifteen, it’s past his curfew and he’s in for a beating when he gets home, but the boy he’s kissing tastes like opportunity, and he doesn’t 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 he’s able. for the rest of his life. he’ll never be allowed to see him again, but he’ll never forget him. his memory will be branded into johnny’s skin in the shape of his father’s belt, and he’ll cherish it.
he’s 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 he’s among them. there’s that word again: pride. it’s heavier now, it’s more than a child’s conviction, more than a father’s passing phrase. johnny bears the weight of it gladly. it’s the captain’s summons, or maybe it’s 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.
he’s twenty-three, and bleeding out on the dilapidated streets of las almas. the city of angels. he can feel them, too, watching — 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. simon’s 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, it’s everything. “i wanna be like you when i grow up, LT.”
twelve hours later, you kiss him as the sky falls down around you, and it’s the first of many. it’s the beginning of a love story destined to end in tragedy, but to you, to him, in this moment, it’s only the beginning.
he’s twenty-four, and the captain’s grinning at him from across a little booth in their local pub, with a warmth his own father could never get quite right. you’re strewn across his lap, laughing drunkenly at one of simon’s 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. it’s bloody and it’s tragic, but, oh, it’s so, so beautiful.
he’s 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 you’ve chosen to welcome him into. a home you’ve offered to him. your throat’s 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 he’ll marry you, one day, soon, and you kiss him like you believe it. he won’t. he’ll never get that chance. he would have if he could’ve.
he’s 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 he’s chosen well. you’re good for him, she claims. she’s right, of course. she tells him that she’s proud of him, not for all the battles he’s won and the blood he’s spilt, but for the love that he’s earned from you.
he’s twenty-seven, standing outside the tunnel he’ll soon die in. you kiss him like it’s the last time, but you don’t know that it will be. how could you? he certainly doesn’t. only a fool walks into a life-or-death situation expecting to die — you told him that. “come back to me, J.”and he smiles, because where else would he go? where else would he be, if not with you?
