Borrowed Time, Chapter 6: This is a romantic comedy
Chapter 1: Are you afraid of death, Jon?
Chapter 2: Take my Picture (I want to last longer)
Chapter 3: I don't know.
Chapter 4: About the life of Gertrude Robinson
Chapter 5: Do not go gentle (into that good night)
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September 30th, last autumn of Gerard Keay
2:00PM
Sasha is with her. She doesn’t have to be, her work is done, and she could be outside getting a coffee or back to her hotel to rest but she said she would stay with Gertrude’s body, and Rosie is there too, it is strange to see her after all those years, and Gerry, so—
Jon fiddles with his phone, playing back the conversation in his head.
“What do you want? — I don’t know.”
If this isn’t the story of his life. He groans, taking the last puff of his cigarette before trashing it. No, it isn’t. He wants… he knows what he wants. Too much, probably. And he’s glad Martin will be here. He is relieved he didn’t have to make that decision, too. Pocketing his phone, he heads back into the funeral house, mumbling about the steps as he reaches the lower level. Oliver had given him the key of the elevator, the one they use to transport the caskets. But he didn’t… ah, he didn’t feel like taking the elevator.
Sasha is putting her coat on when he opens the door, and Gerry fiddles with a pencil mindlessly.
“Did Rosie go?”
“She’s with Oliver, talking about the service. Oh, she said you’ll read a poem.”
“I— what? I don’t like poetry.”
She grabs her suitcase, he hadn’t seen it before. So she came here straight from the train. “Yes, but you did drama, and you are terrible at speeches so she doesn’t want you to talk.”
“I—”
“You did drama?”
Gerry’s eyes drifted away from their sketchbook, and Jon is pinned in place by the attention. “This. Is not the point.”
“Oh, yes, he did. Sang, even. You can sing a song if you like it better, I don’t think Rosie would mind.”
“I can’t— I wasn’t close to her, and, I, she, Gertrude never liked me.”
Sasha checks her scarf, her phone, looks around the room one last night before sighing. “Now this is not the point, Jon, I am writing something, Rosie is planning everything, Elias will manage the ceremony—”
“I could do it.”
She stops with one hand in her pocket, the other on her suitcase. “Gerry, you don’t have to.”
“How come they get to chose and I don’t?”
Sasha glares at him and he shivers, before she turns on her heels. “I don’t care, okay? Just, someone will say a poem, and it won’t be me.”
Jon says “Bye,” but she’s already out the door, and he turns to Gerry, defeated. Their features are tense. Her mouth has a strange shape. “I don’t even know any poem,” he says, as a weak defense, and it has the merit of undoing some of the tension between Gerry’s brows.
“I think I know the perfect one.”
“You can go, too. I don’t need company.”
His tone is brisk, and he winces when the words are out. He didn’t mean it like that, he just… It’s his superstition, his problem, no one should have to stay in a sunless room with a dead body for his sake. But Gerry doesn’t seem to take offense, no, they don’t snap at him like they could.
He just puts his sketchbook down to go towards the body. He looks at it for a long time, utterly still, before he can say, “Well I do.”
And there is something in their eyes Jon hadn’t seen on them before. It doesn’t feel allowed, to come close, when Gerry recites, and it sounds like singing.
“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”
A halt here, and Jon thinks he has heard this poem before. A soft hum, before Gerry starts again.
“Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead,
Scribbling on the sky the message “She is Dead”.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”
There is a watery quality to Gerry’s voice, like the verge of tears, yet it is steady as only the ocean can be. It’s a love poem, and Jon stands awaiting, not daring a breath louder than the other.
“The stars are not wanted now, put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
It sounds like a conclusion. Is it? Does he have to say something? Because Gerry is crying, he is sure of it, but they don’t make a move, and he knows— he wouldn’t want someone he barely knows touching him if he was crying. But he— he thinks Gerry would be fine. Yes, he would, he would appreciate Gerry’s touch. If Gerry was amenable. So maybe— he can’t come to a decision before they speak again.
“Gertrude didn’t like poetry much, either. This isn’t the one I will say, by the way.”
They turn towards him, just enough to shoot a glance, and Jon gets closer, if maybe this is an invitation, at least Gerry can see he is approaching, and if they don’t stop him, it might not be unwanted? They said they needed company. Jon is terrible company. But he is still company. He isn’t a terrible listener, he thinks.
“It’s the one she said for Agnes’s funeral. I think it might be the only one she knew. She talked a bit, too. Honestly, it was hilarious. She was… can you imagine her grieving?”
Jon frowns, looking down at the dead woman’s face. “Not really, no.”
“I don’t think she could, either. She was restless throughout the ceremony. Utterly displeased. She looked inconvenienced more than she looked hurt. When she went up to talk, in front of Montague’s family, she was furious. I half expected her to explode, to tell them just how much they hurt Agnes. I’m impressed she didn’t.”
“She just glared, took the papers she had prepared, but barely looked at them. She said…”
December 21st, first winter without Agnes
“This is a comedy. But you are lucky, because it is a romantic comedy and Agnes loved those. Not that you would know. You wouldn’t know, either, that her favourite romcom was Four Weddings and A Funeral. We went to see it in the theatres. She cried a lot, and for a long time. It is a romantic comedy, that teaches people like us love forever in silence, and then, they die. Well, the very next day, I met you for the first time, and I do not think any reminder of those events is needed.”
The audience is silent. Gerard is quiet, too, in the back row, and Gertrude cannot understand why they decided to come. Sasha is there, too— but Sasha has something with funerals, so it isn’t this surprising.
She relishes the hostility from the room. It’s easier when she has something to stand up for, something to stand up against. If they weren’t here, teeth out and threatening, she would fall apart. Now, now, this damned poem. She knows it. Agnes made her watch this movie far too much.
When she concludes it, there is not a tear shed, not from her, not from anyone else, and she smiles. She has teeth, too.
“Now I do not care for funerals nor do I care for weddings. But Agnes did. This is why I am here, today, and why I was with her on the thirteenth of march, 2014, twenty years after this awful romcom debacle, when she asked if I would be with her until death did us part. We held this promise and today, as her wife and executor, I am to make sure Agnes Robinson will be inhumated and not cremated, as was her will. Thank you for your attention, I think the hearse will be coming shortly.”
Gerry chuckles, eyes wide, and Jon joins, yes, it does sound like Gertrude Robinson, and when he thinks about it, he wishes he had known her more. Maybe she didn’t like him, but he did like her. Despite her chaotic organization. She was fierce, and proud, and certain of what she knew, and all the things he couldn’t be. She was a brave woman.
“Jon?”
In many ways, Gerry takes from her. The decision taken before Jon’s eyes, fortified in an instant.
“Yes—Yes?”
In many other ways, Gerry is the furthest thing from her. The resolute gentleness of his voice, and, well, he doesn’t dislike Jon.
They examine his eyes like she did— yet, here still, it’s the opposite. Gertrude’s gaze felt like a dive deep inside him, now, now he’s the one sinking, and Gerry is the ocean, and he feels like taking their hand is okay so he does, and Gerry doesn’t expect it so they jump a bit, and they get closer, and he doesn’t expect it so he jumps a bit and Gerry talks.
“I don’t have the time for this, really.”
Jon wants to ask. Wants to, but Gerry looks at his lips, it’s deliberate, and his face is burning up. And he can’t help looking at Gerry’s lips, too, and he knows they see it. They’re conscious of this, when they breath in.
“Crushes, and pining. It’s not a luxury I have.”
Like a brick at the bottom of Jon’s stomach, sinking slowly. He feels warm, and light-headed, and he thinks he needs time, to find words, to make a decision, because he doesn’t know. And he needs to know. He can’t be rejected before he has even called this a feeling. Not in this strange, heavy and burning way. Not when he just found out that Gerry’s hands are dry and warm and stronger than they look. Thoughts are too fast in his head, he’s stuck and Gerry doesn’t look away, like they can stand it. “Whether this can work or not isn’t important to me,” another thousand thoughts, their voice is barely louder than his mind, “so if you want to kiss me, I’d appreciate you do it now.”
Jon’s brain shuts completely for half a second, half a second of evidence, before the thoughts rush in again, and he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, or how this will play out, or if this has a chance to last, if he is just starstruck or if after kissing Gerry he will want to do it again, if he will like it, if Gerry will, and— and Gerry asked a simple question, Jon’s breath is too desperate before his hand finds Gerry’s cheek and he brings them closer, closes his eyes to kiss them for the first time, blind and at least certain that in this exact instant, there is nothing he’d rather be doing.
Maybe in two seconds it will be over.
Gerry’s fingers tighten between his. One, two seconds, it isn’t over. The hand on his side is awkward but warm, and it holds him firmly, searching for the right amount of pressure, the right position. When Jon arches his back to get closer, when his hand slips to Gerry’s hair, it adjusts, finds the small of his back, and it’s been a long time since Jon had a first kiss, it has been— and a cold shock runs though Jon’s body at once, and he stills utterly and Gerry’s contact disappears.
Jon doesn’t know what he can say, to fix this, fix the shadow that passes over their eyes when they spot the panic in his, the humorless smile on the lips he just kissed, and where does he start?
“Gerry—”
“’s okay. Thank you, still.”
“No, wait. Let me—”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
But it’s venom. It’s venom spilling out of Gerry’s words, still. They can’t help that it stings.
“I still want to explain. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
What did he promise, just a few hours ago, about not doing things he knew… well, he hadn’t known he would be sorry. He would have if he had just thought, but— he was asked.
“I, ah, I have a partner.”
Gerry moves away from him, a bit more distance, it’s cold and it’s wrong and when Jon tries to focus his eyes on something else the first thing he finds is Gertrude’s closed face, and it doesn’t help. “I didn’t, didn’t remember you were… not aware of that fact.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He has no idea what that might mean, and Gerry’s face is closed, too, now. “Look, I don’t know where you stand on, ah, exclusivity, and, I am… not sure myself of where I stand on that… spectrum, but what I know is that I value transparency and I shouldn’t kiss someone whilst withholding information.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. I don’t—” He looks up to Gerry, and it’s easy to remember the tug in his chest when they kissed, the pull, the warmth of her lips, “I am sorry, but even as I am very conscious I wronged you I do not feel very sorry.”
A gulp and a strangled laugh. Jon’s eyelids shut when Gerry’s hand shadows over them, settling on his temple. Gerry is close again. It’s burning, again. He doesn’t see, but he feels that their face is closer. “So this would be okay, now that I know?”
“Yes.”
It feels wrong, that it could be so simple, like a cheat, a shortcut. The impression is stomped dead by Gerry’s lips, by eager hands in his hair and Gerry’s shirt beneath his fingers. They taste of cigarettes and iron and something new, something desperate, something Jon wants to learn. Something unknown and so right Jon could cry.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
September 25th, last autumn of Gerard Keay
Gerry walks in the studio like he owns the place. Their fingers linger on the wall, leaving an invisible trail as they make their way to the window. Thunder rolls outside, heavy and low. The shutters are closed and no light from outside comes through. The walls are devoid of clocks, and there is no telling if it is day or night, morning or evening.
The air in the room, still, is filled with electricity, echoes of the thunderstorm, and as the sky growls, raising goosebumps on Gerry’s back, fabric rustles behind them, clothes displayed on a table. He thinks he could identify their own clothes just by the sound of them.
The muted weight of velvet, the soft scratching of rough mesh, and they turn around to face Jonathan Sims.
Jon, then, he had said, you can call me Jon.
He’s crouched over his table, examining the clothes with such intent Gerry half expects the fabric to start talking. His blue sweater vest would say I’ve known Gerry since they were seventeen, my threads are worn out and my color has faded a hundred times, and a hundred times Gerry dyed me brighter, and their leather shorts would moan, We once were a fine pair of pants, you know? And his longest dress would sing, I know all about the way Gerry loves, trust me, I know all about touching and being touched, trust me, I know all about laughing and my fabric stretches finely, trust me, I can hold your bones tightly when time makes for narrow hips, I can make room for a month’s worth of joyous meals when time is fair and generous, trust me, and his jacket would laugh and say nothing, because it knows all about keeping secrets.
Jon arranges the clothes differently, finally singling out pieces. He puts a silky caraco and pants and mesh on a chair, his movements just as careful as his voice is. Thunder rumbles, and Gerry shivers.
Jon’s head jerks up without a warning, and Gerry stills. “Is this taking too long for your taste?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath after the question, and is there anything about Jon that isn’t sharp, abrupt? Carefulness and pinning eyes, brisk movements of hands that seem to slip from his composure. “No.” Gerry does not lie, but Jon’s eyes search his face nonetheless. The gaze lingers, and when in seems to take so long, it shines with a flicker of impatience Gerry recognizes. A wanderlust, an itch. So they add, “Is this taking too long for yours?” and Jonathan, Jon, all but gasps, mumbles, throws a hand that comes down with a scoffed chuckle. And Gerry takes a step closer.
“I, ah, this is an… unusual project.” They don’t answer, raise their brows and take another step. “It is perfectly normal that getting started should take longer than my most… routine jobs. It was to be expected.”
There is a practiced detachment in the phrase, and Gerry wonders if it is something he tells himself often, or something he has heard a lot, or if he just treats words that way no matter what he says. They haven’t heard enough to know for sure. Their instincts tell them, he’s impatient. Their instincts tell them, take a step closer. It gets the Archivist’s eyes back on him, and their own breath halts, because he looks at them just as he did the clothes, full of questions he won’t ask directly, utterly silent. He waits, no, he observes. It shouldn’t be surprising. The words slip from Gerry’s mouth, slowly, and maybe if their voice is low enough it doesn’t sound so impulsive. “Simone Weil said attention was the purest form of generosity. The rarest, too.”
“I…” he speaks before he thinks, and as his frown deepens, a somewhat muffled expression, Gerry can feel their lips elongating in a smile. “I think I would… agree?”
The uncertainty dripping in Jon’s tone doesn’t affect its sharpness, it’s wary, searching quietly for a trick. Gerry stays where she is, not so close they’d cause discomfort. They hope. There is a desperation in Jon’s next inhale, and they chuckle. It’s lighter than the electric air, as is their hand when they ghost over the fabrics on Jon’s table. “And I think you are a very attentive person, Archivist. By any means, take your time. I’ll have a cigarette before it rains.”
They slip away, grateful for the air brushing their skin with every movement. That voice, Jon’s voice. They don’t know how it has such a grasp on them. “Wait!” A halt. “Can I… can I take picture without your consent?”
They chuckle, and Jon doesn’t follow. He looks at his feet, and they put their hands in their pockets. Waiting. They’ll wait, they’ll give him their full attention, if he can do it, Gerry can, too. “I meant. I meant, this… Do you allow me to take pictures of you outside formal photoshoots, and without giving you a direct heads up?”
She nods, taking in the question. Jon adds briskly “I wouldn’t keep them or use them without your consent.”
“I know,” Gerry says, and he surprises himself by how much he means it. He knows Jon wouldn’t. Trust might not be the right word. Gerry doesn’t trust people so easily. But they know. “You have my permission, then.”
“… thank you.”
It’s not so sharp. It’s short and it’s not even trying to be soft. It’s a breeze in the heavy September air. Outside, the scent of oncoming storm is overwhelming, and the grey light piercing through the clouds falls soft on Gerry’s smile.
They keep smiling, and they have the distinct impression it keeps the migraine at bay.
September 30th, last autumn of Gerard Keay
6:00PM
As he changes out of his sports bra and into his binder, worry and tiredness making every move harder than need be, Martin wishes for the hundredth time today he hadn’t taken this shift. There was no way he could have called it, he knows, but his fingers are trembling when he buttons his most formal shirt, wrinkled despite his best efforts from a day in his locker. His feet hurt when he sits down to change shoes, red and swollen from a long day of walking around the hospital, and sure, Jon had said he didn’t have to come. Had said he could take his time, go home for a shower before joining the ceremony, that he better rest and that nothing could comfort him more than knowing that Martin is okay and that he could just give him a call or nothing at all, or shoot a text — Jon had said all of this a bit too hurriedly and Martin had asked what Jon wanted, and Jon had looked at him with his big tired doe eyes, and said “I don’t know.”
He muffles a sigh that might just be a sob if it lasted a second longer in his scarf, takes off his tie, because it won’t make any difference if he wears one or not, so he might as well be comfortable. Nathan gets into the locker room when Martin gets out, and he isn’t sure how he manages to smile as he says goodbye, as Nathan tells him he looks like he needs a drink and Martin only shrugs a semblance of a laugh. He is grateful for the Starbucks across the hospital, the look of mutual understanding he shares with the barista as she writes his name without needing to ask for it. He’s saving his energy for tonight, his order is just above a whisper, but she hears, and she doesn’t try to make small talk or ask anything, because if she knows about anything working here, it’s exhaustion and how it looks on someone’s shoulders.
The street is loud, and screw this. He’s taking a cab. He deserves it.
