John Potter Krickett's alarm went off, and he opened his eyes slowly. Groggily. He groaned, rolled over and turned it off before continuing to lay in bed for a bit longer. Not too long though, he had something important to do today. When he did finally manage to pull himself together long enough to get out of bed, he dragged himself to the bathroom and took a shower, then shaved. Looking at himself in the mirror, he almost didn't recognize the man looking back at him. He wiped some more of the steam away from the glass, and that's when he noticed it. John reached out and touched one, lone, silver hair on his head, and he grinned. He was gonna make it after all. John then got dressed, gathered his things, got in his car and drove to the diner.

Sitting in his side of the booth, eating breakfast alone, sipping his coffee, he couldn't help but think about how hard the last few weeks had been. Loss, he'd once said, can feel monumental. Insurmountable. And he felt that now himself more than ever. He glanced up across the table, at where Boris should be, and he couldn't help but have to choke back tears. John continued eating. Drinking. Life goes on, even when it doesn't for others. After breakfast, John headed to the church, only to find Sister Jenn there, doing preparations. He tried to hurry by her, but she wasn't about to let that happen.

"You know," Jenn said, "I'm thinking that we use some of the flowers from the nursing home. Carol told me that they started a flower garden there, and added a bunch more when a resident accidentally got flowers before they died, so I thought it would be a nice little thing to connect him to it."

"That sounds fine," John said, hurrying into his office and shutting the door behind him. He wasn't trying to be rude, she knew this, and she also wasn't going to push it. John set his things down on the desk, and then he checked his watch. He had to pick something up in a few hours. He couldn't be late for that. The door opened and John glanced in that direction, only to see Melody, of all people, coming slowly inside.

"Hi," Melody said meekly.

"Please, come in, close the door behind you," John replied.

Melody shut the door behind her as he requested, then sat down in the chair in front of his desk. John sat down opposite of her and smiled.

"Surprised to see you here," he said.

"I didn't know where else to go," she said.

"Well," John said, "the church is always welcoming, at least mine is. Is there anything I can do to help you today?"

Melody shifted uncomfortably in the chair and crossed her legs. She'd stopped using the wheelchair a few days ago, felt she was strong enough to walk on her own now. She was still staying in the apartment, however, in Boris's room, until she decided what to do.

"I just don't understand, I guess," Melody said, "I don't...I don't get it. We spent so little time together, and yet the impact it had on me...it's made me question everything. He gave me his car. Well, apparently it wasn't even his, but a friends who left it to him. He told me he wanted me to go somewhere with it. Have adventures. But what if I don't want to do that?"

"You're not legally required to abide by his wishes," John replied, chuckling, "it was just a suggestion, not a demand."

"Yeah but...he said he saw in me what he felt in himself. This sense of being trapped, wanting to be free, but unsure what to do with that freedom and feeling like being trapped is the safer option. I think he did understand me, in that sense. He told me, a little bit after I was recovering in the apartment, that the night he found me, he'd been planning to kill himself."

This caught John's attention. Boris had never mentioned this to him. He knew Boris had had a history of depression, feeling hopeless, but he'd never once brought up the fact that he'd actually attempted, or had planned to. John cupped his hands on his desktop and leaned forward, curious to hear more.

"I never knew that," John said.

"I asked the old woman he was friends with, what's her name, Carol? She said he'd planned to do it before too, a long time ago, at the home, but that he'd stopped because a little girl doing volunteer service reminded him of his daughter. Seems like a lot of his life was propelled forward by women. And not women doing things for him, but just women, in general, being there. He seems like he so badly wanted to make up for his mistakes towards the women in his life, from his past, that he was willing to go above and beyond for the women he met later."

"It was admirable," John said, nodding, "and now you're part of that elite group. Have you decided what you're going to do yet?"

"I really don't know. I'd like to go somewhere, but...but I don't know where," Melody said, "he left me a lot of money. I was with him when he was working on his will, and he didn't say it in front of me, but he did it anyway. I could go anywhere. Have a new life. And it's all thanks to him. I want to get better. Do better. That's what he did. I wanna do the same."

"Then Melody, I think that's what you should do," John said, reaching across the table and touching her hand, "you deserve a fresh start, everyone does, and you're getting the chance to have that."

Melody nodded and sniffled, wiping her nose on her arm. She stood up and walked towards the door, ready to go and pack Polly's Gremlin, when she stopped and looked at John.

"You were with him, right? When it happened?" she asked.

"No. I had stepped out momentarily. Well, more like he'd ordered me to leave. I think he knew. I don't think he wanted me to be there. But I'm mad I wasn't. Not mad at him, just mad in general. I wanted to see it through to the end, and he...he decided I didn't need that, so I suppose he knew best but it still hurts," John said, "why?"

"Don't hold yourself too accountable," Melody replied, shrugging, "that's all."

With that she exited his office, leaving John to sat at his desk and think. Did he hold himself accountable? No. He didn't. He'd done everything in his power to be there with Boris, to help him, and he didn't blame himself for anything. If Boris didn't want him there right at the end, that was his decision, and he would respect that. John stood up and checked his watch again. He had to get some other things ready before the pickup. He told Jenn he'd return to the church in a bit, and left in a rush.

                                                                                                                ***

"What the fresh hell is this?" Carol asked, "what am I even looking at right now?"

"It's an old family recipe," Burt replied, "it's a special stew we often make for honoring the deceased."

"It smells like old socks mixed with...older socks," Carol said, sniffing it, then flapping her hand in front of her face, "oh well, thank you, Burt, I appreciate the help."

Carol turned and walked a bit away from the kitchen area of the venue. Burt put the large ladle down and untied the apron, hanging it off the back of a chair as he approached her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Burt asked, and Carol shrugged.

"What's to talk about? Death happens every day around here," Carol said.

"Sure, but...but this is Boris, this is different," Burt said, sitting down from Carol across a table; Burt sighed and put his hands on the table, fidgeting, as he added, "I mean, he was our friend. He was close to us. Moreso you than me, but still. You don't want to say anything about that?"

Carol didn't reply. She just stared at the tabletop. Burt sighed and began to get up, when Carol spoke, stopping him.

"The last conversation I had with him," Carol said, "I had it under the intention of it being the last. A sort of...precautionary thing, you know? Knowing it could be the last time we spoke. But...even with the knowledge, you're not ready for it if it is the last time. I thought we'd talk again. I didn't...I didn't know he'd die that night."

Burt sat back down and listened. Carol sniffled, wiped at her eyes, and continued.

"You always think there's more time. But there's not. There's not more time. We have...a finite amount. Some of us don't even have the same amount. I wanted more time. I wanted...I wanted another conversation. But this is what we get, Burt, we get this much time and that's it, no more, no less. A life dictated by the passage of time. But he did so much with it. He did so much for others with it. I just hope, at the end, he saw the differences he'd made, and the changes he'd undergone. He wanted so badly to be better. I hope to god he knew he attained it."

A pause, as a few workers shuffled in and headed past them, carrying some supplies. Once they were gone, Carol sighed.

"He let me read a poem he wrote once. You are the phone call that never comes, the package that is never delivered, the pair of shoes that is never sold; you are here, but unable to be attained, and you like it better that way. That way you always have someone to blame, but I feel the shame, believe me I do, and I would do anything for you, I hope this reaches you. I think...I think he knew how hard it was to connect with others, and that's why he avoided it for as long as possible, until he knew he couldn't anymore. He wanted to give himself to someone so badly, but he was so afraid to."

The doors opened again, and the same workers walked by, this time exiting the opposite way. Carol wiped at her face once more, her breathing shaky.

"All we have is this. Time. Eachother. Why live our lives wanting more when we have enough?" Carol asked, "So I'm gonna do what he did. I'm gonna be better. Work harder. Already bought the nursing home as a way to make up for things to folks around here. May as well keep going down that path, because...because if Boris can do it, hell, anyone can."

Burt smiled and stood up. He walked back towards the kitchen, stopping behind Carol and kissing the top of her head, making her smile.

"...I really wanted one more conversation," she mumbled.

                                                                                                         ***

"Is this it?" John asked, standing in front of a medium size silver cup shaped aparatus.

"That's it," the woman behind the desk said, as John stood and stared at it.

"...it's weird, an entire person, filling up something like this," John said, reaching out, then pulling his hands back,  hesitantly, before adding, softly, "funny how someone so big can seem so small."

John reached out again and grasped the urn, pulling it to him. He lifted it up and read Boris's name on the little plaque, and felt a lump catch in his throat. How. How could...this was like some sort of awful nightmare. The last few weeks had felt like some sort of awful nightmare. He'd wake up anytime now. He'd wake up, and it'd be morning, and he'd go to breakfast and there the old man would be. He'd be there, waiting, ready to eat. Ready to talk. But he knew, deep down inside him, this wasn't the case.

"Tha...thank you, uh, thank you for your services," John said, before turning and heading out, urn in hand. As he got into his car, he put the urn in the passenger seat, then buckled a seatbelt around it. John started his car and pulled out, heading towards the church, but then...he turned, and headed somewhere else. The service wasn't being held at the church, but he wasn't going there either. He was going somewhere special.

John drove for a good while, about 45 minutes, before he finally pulled over and parked once more. John got out, grabbed the urn, and, tucking it under his arm, headed across the parking lot. He stopped at the wall and placed the urn on the ledge, leaning against it and staring out at the view. John had driven them to the top of a hill, a place people often camped, and he'd walked down a little trail to get to a specific scenic view campers and tourists often visited. John reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He lifted it to his lips, took a few puffs, then exhaled into the air.

"I had to do this before we went to the service," John said, "cause, well, you didn't let me say goodbye, really. Kind of a dick move, Boris, not gonna lie. I get it, I'm not gonna judge you for it, but dammit, you could've...mmm. No, I said I'm not gonna judge you and I won't. I get it. I really do. I appreciate that you were doing it for me, to spare me the pain. You never wanted to hurt me. I'm just...mad, I guess."

John took another long puff, then exhaled.

"Not at you, of course, but the universe. I devote my life to the worship of a God I'm constantly told hates me for my sexuality, continually takes away men I love, and I'm still here, still doing it. Because, I guess, I don't believe in that God. I believe in A God. But not that God. The God I believe in lets me be myself, and loves me for it, and lets me have those men in my life to begin with. I guess it's all a matter of perspective. But I'm mad. Mad that I finally meet the person I'm so clearly designed for, only for him to be so old, so we can't have a full life together. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that...the life we had did have...it was so special. No other life would be like what we had. Even if it was brief, it was spectacular, and I'm so...I feel so lucky."

Another pause. Another puff. Another exhale.

"I used to come here to clear my head, on bad days or maybe days where I felt particularly ashamed of stuff," John continued, "I always wanted to come here with you, but I kept forgetting to do it, and then once you got so sick, I don't know, it just seemed cruel to make you have to walk so far, so uphill. But the view is amazing, and that's what I wanted you to see. Before I met you, I was at the bottom of the hill, and the view was fine, boring, but fine. Now I'm on top of the hill, and the view is unlike anything I've ever seen, and I don't want to lose that. I wanted to share it with you now, since I couldn't before. I know it probably certifies me as a grade a weirdo to be talking to an urn full of ashes, but hey, you do what you need to do to deal, you know?"

John looked at the urn and shook his head, chuckling.

"I don't know why I keep expecting you to respond," he said, "you can't. But I keep waiting for some sort of snarky comment, some kind of pithy comeback. But it's over. Those days are over. It was nice while it lasted. Now we have new days, I guess, to look forward to."

With that, John put out his cigarette and tossed the butt off the edge, before picking the urn up and smiling at it, holding it at face level.

"Well, come on you old bastard," he said, "let's go to your funeral."

                                                                                                             ***

The service was lovely. Low key, low effort, just as Boris would've wanted it, but it was perfect. And everyone had come. Chrissy's parents had let her come, and come along with her. Whittle and Jenn, of course, had shown up. Carol had taken care of the flowers, Burt had helped with the food. Ellen, her wife, and Lorraine were there. And everyone was, more or less, in good spirits. In fact, everyone was so cheerful, you'd have a hard time believing it was a wake. Despite getting cremated and given to John, Boris did have a headstone placed, appropriately enough, right next to Polly. Always annoying one another forever now.

The only person not openly enjoying themselves amongst the others was John, who was hiding out in a backroom, at least until Carol entered the room, surprising both of them, as neither had expected someone to either be back here or come back here. Carol shut the door behind her and locked it, then walked towards the white bench built into the wall where John was sitting, the urn in his lap, and sat herself down beside him. She took a long breath, then looked down at the urn.

"Is that him?" she asked.

John just nodded. Carol looked from the urn up to John, and reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" she asked, "I know nobody ever asks the priest. Everyone always expects comfort from them, not to be giving comfort to them."

"That's the first time in the last few weeks anyone has asked if I'm okay," John said, "I've had to counsel others. Listen to people tell me their sins, expose their souls, ask for forgiveness. Course these are all strangers, so why should they ask if I'm okay. But not even Jenn, or Whittle, not a single person has asked. So thank you Carol."

"I never..." Carol started, blinking a few times before continuing, "I never really understood it, but I was happy about it. I know he talked about wanting to become better, he talked about it at the home, but I don't...frankly, John, I don't think that would've happened had it not been for you. I think you gave him reason. Whatever he did, it was always in the hope of being better for you."

John nodded, his hands running down the urn. John bit his lip, trying not to cry. Carol reached over and put her hand on his back, rubbing gently.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

"No, I...I appreciate it," John said, "I don't think it's entirely truthful that he did it just for me, though. I think he did it for everyone, including himself. I hope he knows how proud of him I was. I just...I can't believe he's gone. I'll be gone too soon, at least for a little while."

Carol cocked her head, confused.

"Going somewhere?" she asked.

"I gotta get out of town," John said, "gonna go home, see the family, and just...take a little me time. It's been a weird few years. I just...I need some time to clear my head, get myself back together. Need to help myself for a change before I can go back to helping others, you know?"

Carol nodded, smiled and patted him on the back again.

"You do what you gotta," Carol said, "we'll be here when you get back."

"It was a lovely service," John said, "Except for that horrible stew Burt made."

"I told him not to serve it, but he refuses to listen to reason," Carol said, the both of them laughing.

                                                                                                            ***

John stopped at the gas station and pulled over by the pumps. He climbed out and started filling his tank, looking around, his sunglasses protecting him from the harsh late day sunlight.

"Hey stranger," a voice said, and John turned to see Melody.

"Oh, hi," John replied, grinning. Melody too was filling the Gremlin, at the pump right behind John; John pulled his sunglasses off and asked, "what are you...you going somewhere?"

"Yeah, you?" Melody asked.

"Yeah, I am," John said, "figured I could use a vacation. Jenn can handle the church for a while, and we have other priests. I just need to get out of town for a bit, you know? After everything that happened it feels...justifiable."

"Certainly," Melody said, reaching back into the car, adding, "by the way, when we were clearing out Boris's room, looking for stuff for the funeral, I came across this and thought you should have it."

After a moment of digging around, Melody reappeared, now holding a small rectangular piece of paper. She handed it to John, who took it, after slowly turning it over, grinned widely. It was a photograph. A photo of himself and Boris at the diner. Melody shrugged.

"I didn't really see any value in keeping it, and...and I didn't see any reason it should be used for the service, but...I figured you might need it," she said.

"I remember this day," John said, tapping it with his finger, "yeah, yeah I...I remember this day. We were having breakfast, and we were discussing if maybe ghosts or spirits were simply a subdivision of angels, created solely to helo perpetuate the belief of the afterlife."

Melody laughed, which made John chuckle.

"Yeah, that's...that's kind of how we were," John continued, "anyway, there was a woman there taking photos for the dinner, I guess it was their anniversary of being open, don't remember the year, doesn't matter. Anyway she took snapshots of most of the people there. I just figured, ya know, it'd go on the wall there and that would be that. I didn't..."

John felt his breathing get shaky, and he paused, took a breath, then continued.

"I didn't know he kept one," John said, "but I guess it makes sense he did. He was kind of sentimental like that, even if he didn't show it. Thank you, Melody, for giving me this. Thank you very much."

Melody shrugged and put the nozzle back onto the gas pump before getting into Polly's Gremlin, then stopping and getting back out. She leaned over the door and snapped her fingers at John, who looked back up at her from the photo.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"When are you getting back?" she asked.

"I don't know, a few weeks maybe, why?" John asked.

"Because we should have lunch," Melody said, "...I feel like I could use the guidance of a priest, believe it or not."

"I'd be glad to help," John said, nodding, smiling. Melody climbed into the Gremlin, and John did the same. As he did, he went to put the photo on the sun visor. As he pulled it down, something fell from inside and landed between his legs. John furrowed his brow, then reached down and picked up, of all things, his prayer beads.

"You gotta be kidding me," he mumbled, then strung them up over the rearview mirror, placed the photo where he wanted it, and pulled out of the gas station at one exit before looking to the opposite side and seeing Melody waiting to leave. Melody looked towards John, and they just nodded at one another, before both turning in opposite directions, and driving away. As he drove away, heading to the road that lead out of the city, John glanced at the urn sitting in the passenger seat and shook his head.

"Well," John said, slipping his sunglasses back onto his face and putting his hand back on the steering wheel, "guess we'll get that life together after all, eh? You might not've been able to spend your whole life with me, but you afterlife is another story. So buckle up, buddy. It's time for a new adventure."

And with that, John Potter Crickett shifted onto the freeway, and off to something new, Boris by his side.

The church was beautiful.

All the efforts John and Jenn had put into it had paid off. Walking inside, John helping him along, Boris was impressed. He'd been inside a few churches in his life, but never one that felt this homey, this welcoming...one he'd willingly chosen to go to. John and Boris continued, until they reached the pew in the front right side and Boris sat down, groaning as he did, breathing heavily. John sat down beside him, crossing his legs, resting his elbows on the back of the pew. Neither one said a word for a while, just instead admiring the sight of the moonlight through the stained glass windows, the absence of sound, the birth of silence.

"...Is it true God is everywhere?" Boris asked, and John shrugged.

"Depends on your interpretation. Frankly, between you and me, I hope not. Bathroom time is private time," John said.

"But he's in every church," Boris said, and John nodded.

"Well, they're his home, he'd have to be," John said, and Boris scoffed.

"God's nothing but a landlord," Boris said, making John put his head back and cackle; Boris continued, "he's got all this property he has to pay no taxes on, people who do all his work for him, give him money. God's a moocher. And yet here we are, praising him, worshipping him. But I suppose, if the scripture is real, and his love is divine, then-"

"The scripture doesn't matter," John said, surprising Boris, who looked at him; John chewed his lip and continued, "it's just words, Boris. Vagueries. Conceptual ideas about ways to live your life, not a manual. What matters is interpretation. That's why I said, depends on your interpretation. We all approach our relationship with the lord in a different way, no one way is right and no one way is wrong. Whatever works for us works for us, and for him, so the question then becomes...is his love divine to you?"

Boris stared back ahead at the stage of the church and thought. Here he was, sitting in a partial suit, as if he was expecting to be here tonight when really it had been a whim, and now he was appropriately dressed, being asked if God's love was divine to him? Boris bit his lip and furrowed his brow.

"It isn't, no," Boris said, surprising John; Boris coughed, clearing his throat and added, "that...that isn't to say it isn't worthwhile. I think I've found some kind of peace from it. But the love that is divine to me...it doesn't come from God, it comes from other people, people who mattered while I was here. People like you, John."

John smiled, abeit weakly, and nodded.

"Lorraine, Polly, Carol, Whittle, Ellen, Chrissy...those are the people whose love mattered to me, and those are the ones I got love from and got to give love back to," Boris said, his voice hoarse, his hands shaking on his knees, "but you, especially. I sat in that nursing home and I was angry, I wanted to be better, I wanted to be remembered as more than a pile of mistakes and regrets and failed expectations. I just didn't have the drive. And then you walked in. You walked in to give the last rites to someone else, and we spoke, and I knew then that I didn't want to get better for me, but for the people around me, who deserved the best me they could have. Sure, getting better for myself was a nice bonus, but it wasn't my primary motive. Call me a people pleaser, I suppose."

John laughed.

"You're certainly on the cusp," John said.

"But that's what I wanted. More from life. I wasn't content to sit around and wait for it to end. I wanted to do something before that, because I'd barely done anything with it before then," Boris said, "so no, God's love isn't divine to me. It's just a nice bonus. Yours is what mattered."

Boris slid his shaking, frail hand across the wooden pew seat and held onto John's, making him tear up. John looked up at Boris, and their eyes met.

"Out of everyone...all of them, even my own daughter, who I wanted for so long to forgive me, acknowledge me, accept me...you were the one that mattered most. To me, when the accident happened, I figured that was it. I was a bad father. I'd crippled my own daughter and for what? A sport she didn't even want to play? When facing God on judgement day, I figured he'd take one look at me and think what a waste of effort I was to create in his image. But then you, a man of the clothe, a middleman for the lord, tells me I can be better, tells me that I can improve and that my past doesn't define me nor dictate what's left of my future...a man closer to God than any other...tells me he loves me."

John reached forward with his other hand, placing it on Boris's face. Boris shut his eyes, his face wet with tears.

"How could I not love myself if you could? God would forgive me. The accident wasn't intentional. God would forgive me, because you saw I was deserving of forgiveness," Boris said, starting to cough, "and...and how could that not inspire me to be the best?"

"I don't know what to say, Boris," John said softly, "other than, I'm touched, moreso than I've ever been. Knowing you has been the greatest gift I've been given. In a way, it almost feels as though I lost my brother, and lost Steven, so that I would be capable of helping you when we finally met."

"Don't conflate the reasons," Boris said, "everything is just a coincidence, and it is what it is."

Boris looked back towards the front of the church, John still holding his hand.

"Sister Jenn calls it The Inevitable Whatever," Boris said, "because she says she has no right to claim what comes next, so why give it a name and a face, an idea. I like that. Being on the verge of The Inevitable Whatever...however...not so much. Scares me. But, like Leanne, I'm excited to see what comes next. I didn't get it at the time, but I think I do now."

John nodded, exhaled and squeezed Boris's hand gently.

"Boris," John said, "you don't have to-"

"I love you," Boris said, surprising him before adding, "I was so scared to say that. But I do. I think I love you, John, more than I've ever loved another person, romantically. Lorraine will always have a soft spot in my heart, having given me Ellen, but...but what you and I had, even if it wasn't official, was so much more real, and it was nice. Nice to get that, before it ended. To at least get to experience it once. The thing I wanted more than anything out of life. And you gave that to me."

John was now full on crying, wiping his eyes on his shoulder, breathing fast.

"I...I love you too," John replied, his voice shaking, "and you're welcome, you gave just as much to me as I could've given to you if not more. I will never have something like this with another man."

"Sure you will," Boris said, smiling, patting John on the hand, "it just won't be like what we had. But don't close yourself off to the idea. Live, John. Live because I couldn't. Don't be me. Don't be afraid. Love someone else, love everyone else, hell, it's your job, you're a priest, remember?"

John laughed, nodding some more. Together they turned and looked at the main window in the front of the church, admiring its beauty. Boris's eyes weakened, fuzzy, and his breathing got heavier. He groaned as he shifted in his seat.

"You know what I could use," Boris said, "I could use a coffee."

"At this hour? You're a maniac," John said, laughing.

"There's a place just down the street, maybe around the block, that's open all night, makes great coffee," Boris said, "would you mind? I'll get breakfast tomorrow."

John smiled, and shook his head.

"I wouldn't mind at all," John whispered, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek before standing up and exiting the church. Boris sat there, listening to the silence. He thought about what John had said, about how he'd never have this again with someone, and he just hoped to God that John would take his advice to heart. To not be afraid to love some more. Because if anyone he'd ever met in his life was deserving of love, it was John Potter Krickett. Boris shut his eyes and leaned his head back, just resting. He could hear some cars passing by outside. A radio in the distance.

"Having a nice night?" a voice asked, and Boris roused from his quick rest, glancing to his opposite side, only to find a woman there. A young woman in her mid thirties with medium length hair in a braid over her shoulder, a blouse with a collar and cuffs, and a pencil skirt. Polly. Boris sighed.

"Didn't know you were allowed in a church, figured you'd burst into flames on sight," Boris said, making her chuckle.

"Always with the quip," Polly said, "it's a beautiful place."

"It is," Boris said, "it's a miracle, frankly. This church is a miracle, and I'm proud to have been a part of that."

"Now that's a legacy worth leaving," Polly said, grinning.

The radio outside got louder, as the song "Let's Get Away From It All" drifted into the church easily, clear and crisp as day. Polly stood up and held one hand out to Boris, as he looked up at her, cautiously confused.

"Dance with me," she said, and Boris smirked, nodded, and stood up. He took Polly by the hand and, together, started dancing. It'd been years since he'd danced, but he still remembered how. One hand in hers, the other on her hip, Boris couldn't help but laugh at the whole situation.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Polly asked, "the people who mean the most to you?"

"It is," Boris said, nodding in agreement, "you just...you never expect it. You think it's gonna be your family or your childhood friends but often...often it's the people you meet along the way, sometimes not until much later, who turn out to be the most important. The ones you have unspoken bonds with."

"Exactly!" Polly said, grinning, "and isn't that nice? To recognize you're not alone, even at an age like that? It sure made me feel better. And that's a beautiful thing, because I think a lot of people, maybe even most people - though many of them are far to prideful to ever admit it - don't acknowledge that they don't become who they actually are until well towards the end. That's when you've known yourself the longest. That's when you know who you are. And that's when others can know too. It's like a gravitational thing, we all become pulled towards one another. I think that's what's beautiful about nursing homes."

"There's something beautiful about nursing homes? God, you really can see the upside to anything," Boris said, making her snort laugh.

"I just mean, we fill these places with people we think are too far gone, but they aren't. They're just starting," Polly said, "look at how much more you lived. Look at who you became. I'm proud to have known you."

Boris nodded, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. They turned and continued dancing as the song came to a close and the silence once again enveloped the church. Boris, his chin resting on her shoulder as the dance ended, then saw it. Himself. Sitting on the pew, looking the way he had for years. Boris stepped back from Polly, and quickly rushed to a nearby mirror, looking at himself. Nice button down, long sleeved shirt, tucked into slacks, suspenders. Hair, full and well groomed. Stubble. He turned and looked back at Polly, who was gently scuffing the floor with her shoe like a nervous teenager.

"I didn't want you to be scared," Polly said, and Boris stammered, walking back to the pew. He seated himself on one side of his body, Polly on the other; Polly cocked her head to both sides before saying, "for what it's worth, for someone very sick at the end...you don't look too bad, champ."

"...why are you here, Polly?" Boris asked, his voice stammering, shaking.

"Why are you here, Boris?" Polly asked, leaning back and crossing her legs.

"...that wasn't scary at all," Boris mumbled and Polly laughed.

"Well, to be fair, this could all be nothing. The subconscious does strange things when the brain is dying. But at least you're somewhere beautiful, with people who cared about you," Polly said.

Boris leaned forward again, looking at his body.

"They have a term for it, you know," Polly said, "for these years, the ones at the end, they call them your golden years, not sure why, guess it sounded poetic in 1945, but...there's something nice about it too. Golden Years. You lived through the bronze, that was where you were young and shitty, and you survived through the silver, where you were getting better, growing but still kind of awful, and now here you are, top of the podium, with the gold. You did it, kid. You won. You survived life. Thing is, nobody gives you a medal. And why should they? We all end here, same as everyone else, no matter how well we did. The only ones who really acknowledge whether we became golden were ourselves and maybe the ones closest to us."

Boris leaned back in his seat and put his hands on his knees, exhaling slowly.

"I think you did it, though, and did it damn well might I add," Polly said, "sorry I didn't make it there. I had to tap out in second place. Always the first loser of the race."

Boris chuckled, nodding, Polly giggling.

"You weren't a loser, Polly. A loser doesn't play by their own rules. So what's it like?" Boris asked, "is it nice?"

"Nicer than this? Anything has to be," Polly said.

"I was supposed to have breakfast tomorrow," Boris said.

"Oh, come off it, we both know you weren't going to manage that," Polly replied.

A moment passed, and Polly stood up, straightened her skirt, and held out her hand again.

"Shall we?" she asked, and Boris waited, then stood up and took her hand. Together they walked around the aisle, and headed past the pews, towards the church doors. The doors opened and out they stepped, into the great Inevitable Whatever. A few more minutes passed, and the doors re-opened, John re-entering, two coffee cups in one hand each. He quickly approached the pew and sat down, placing Boris's by him as he put his own between his legs.

"Their coffee better be as good as you claim," John said, "because it cost too much and it took too long and they spelt my name Johm. That's not even a name, Boris. It's one thing when they misspell it in a way that makes sense, like Sally with an IE, but Johm? Frankly I think they're just bitter about their job. But, if this is what the lord wants, from now on I'll be known as Johm, so be it."

John laughed at his own joke, and then stopped laughing. He reached out, putting his hand on Boris's shoulder, shaking gently.

"Boris? You takin' a power nap in church? It's the house of God, not the bedroom of God," John said, chuckling nervously, before shaking him again, "Boris?"

John had seen death enough to know what was sitting next to him. So John Potter Krickett sat on his pew and he sipped his coffee, and he rested his head on the old mans shoulder. He'd savor this moment for as long as he could. You only get so many moments in life, after all. John lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.

"Alright," John said, "you were right. Coffee's pretty good."

"Well, look at you," John said as he saw Boris exit the hallway in a tuxedo; John continued, "who knew you clean up so well?"

"Nobody ever bothered to ask," Boris said, shrugging, "where's the girls?"

"They left already," John said, "and I've gotta get there soon if I'm officiate this thing properly. It'll be a nice change of pace, doing a wedding and not a funeral. Too many funerals. I don't think people are meant to attend as many funerals as priests have to."

Boris stood still as John approached him and reached out, adjusting his tie.

"I never could do that right," Boris said.

"Well, good thing you have me then, isn't it?" John replied, patting him on the face. Together, the men exited the apartment and headed down the hall towards the parking lot. Once in the complex's parking lot, they stood and looked at one another before John asked, "Separate cars?"

"Yeah, but I'll need a ride home," Boris said.

"I can manage that," John said.

Boris got into Polly's gremlin, while John got into his car, and they both pulled out of their respective spaces, heading towards the outdoor venue Ellen was having her wedding. All things considered, Boris couldn't honestly believe he was going to get to see his daughter get married. He was so grateful that she had managed to move the wedding up just for his sake, and he wanted to thank her repeatedly for this chance to witness the happiest day of her life. Boris eventually pulled up to the outdoor venue - a small plot of pretty land near a beautiful house that was rented out just for the occasion, mostly for the after party - and parked. As he exited the car, he heard someone talk from behind him.

"Well look at you," Lorraine said, and Boris turned to see her, smiling.

"Look at me," he said, approaching her. She was wearing a black dress and long white gloves, her hair done up in a bun, as she leaned against her car and smoked. Boris leaned against her and she handed him her cigarette, which he took. Cancer was no longer a threat he figured, considering he'd be gone long before it could show its face.

"I don't think I've seen you in a tuxedo since...since Polly's funeral," Lorraine said, "and before that, our wedding."

"I never had much of a reason to wear one," Boris replied, shrugging as he handed her her cigarette back.

"You gonna wear one to your funeral?" Lorraine asked, and Boris smirked.

"Nah, figured I'd just turn up in a bathrobe and slippers, I mean, let's face it, who would judge me at that point?" Boris asked. Lorraine laughed, then linked arms with him and, together, they headed towards the house on the little hill. As they passed by numerous folks, mostly people they didn't know - friends of Ellen or Ellen's fiance - Boris couldn't help but feel a little guilty for having people he did know here. Ellen had told him to invite anyone he wanted, hence why Whittle and Jenn were coming, but the only other people Boris had invited were Melody and Carol, and he hadn't seen either one yet.

"You remember all the planning that went into our wedding?" Lorraine asked, "We spent months on the most minor decisions; tableclothe colors, what kind of fucking silverware to use. And for what? For one single day? In all honesty, by the time you're our age, you barely remember the day, so was it really worth it?"

"Yes," Boris said, surprising her, "yes, it was. It was important for that moment, because in that moment, all that matters is that moment. I regret a lot in my life, but I don't regret marrying you, even if I wasn't exactly the best husband, and even if I denied myself who I was."

Lorraine stopped and looked at Boris as he held her hands, massaging the tops of them gently with his thumbs.

"You had a big hand in making me who I am," Boris said quietly, "and I'm grateful for that. I just wish I could've done better for you."

"You did the best you could, Boris," Lorraine said, kissing his cheek, "and that's more than most men ever did."

Lorraine then excused herself to go see Ellen, to admire her wedding dress, while Boris stood there and watched. He took a long, deep breath of the fresh air and he smiled. What a beautiful day for a wedding. He felt weak, tired, but he was happy he was here. Suddenly he felt the presence of someone else and looked to his side to see Carol there, in a beautiful light blue shoulderless dress.

"Wow," Boris said, "don't we look fancy?"

But Carol didn't respond. Boris cocked his head and looked at her a little more closely. She seemed to just be staring absentmindedly into the view ahead. After a long moment, Carol finally sighed and looked towards Boris.

"Any conversation I have with you could be the last," Carol finally said, "and that...that finality, it didn't used to bother me. As I got older, I recognized that, at any given moment - especially in the home - someone I considered a friend could go, and that would be that. But you're not just a friend, Boris, you're like...like family. Seeing these people gather here to celebrate a new life, a marriage, a journey...just makes me wistful, I suppose."

Boris nodded and put his arm through Carol's, walking further into the area with her.

"Well," Boris said, "if this is the last conversation we ever have, then I just hope it doesn't end with you telling me you hate me."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll get that in well before the end," Carol said, smirking, "but doesn't that scare you? To know that today could be it? Or tomorrow?"

"Of course it does," Boris replied, "but I can't let it consume me. The minute it consumes me is the minute it wins, and you can't let death win. He already wins in the long run, don't give him an extra inch."

Carol nodded, laying her head on his shoulder as they walked past a crowd and stopped near a snack table. Boris could see John speaking with Ellen and her fiance, and he smiled to himself. Carol pulled away from Boris and started investigating the snack table.

"Finger sandwiches," she said, "...fuck. How does one have a final conversation?"

"We don't need to. What do you need to prepare for closure for? Just assume there'll be another," Boris said.

Boris watched as Ellen walked away, into the house, and he excused himself, saying he'd be back shortly, and began to follow Ellen into the house. Once inside, he slipped past some people talking, eating, enjoying themselves, his eyes scanning the space for his daughter. Boris headed down the hallway and then backed up, stopping at a bathroom door. He could hear rough breathing inside. Boris opened the door, slid inside and shut it behind him, only to find Ellen sitting on the side of the bathtub, panicking.

"What's all this about?" Boris asked.

"What if I do it wrong?" Ellen asked, looking up at her father, "you did it wrong, I'm your offspring, what if I'm just as bad?"

Boris chuckled, then painfully seated himself on the bathtub side alongside her.

"You can't do worse than me, that's a guarantee," Boris said, "but more important than that...you won't. The difference is generational. When your mother and I got married, we both hid a lot of things about ourselves, things we'd much rather have followed, because society expected us to be coupled, to have a child, to be a family. That's not something you have to worry about. It's a new era. New rules. Look at Whittle. She was living that life. She had a longtime boyfriend, a whole career, and now look at her. Night and day. Happier than ever before. Because she took the risk, knew the reward was worth the effort, and found that, in the end, nobody really cared as long as she was happy."

Ellen looked at her father and smiled, resting her head against his arm.

"I'm just scared," she said, "I don't wanna mess up."

"You won't," Boris said, kissing the side of her head, "I promise."

                                                                                                        ***

"Weddings make me all weepy," Jenn said as she and Whittle sat at a nearby outside picnic table, drinking, watching everyone; she took another bite off her skewer and added, "I know it's so cliche, call me a stereotype and a half, but I just think it's beautiful."

"I wouldn't call you a stereotype, not for that anyway," Whittle replied, winking at her, making her giggle. Whittle exhaled, "honestly...they make me a little nervous, if only because I came so close to being married before. To doing the heteronormative thing and settling for less than mediocre. To think...I wouldn't have met you had I done that. Or maybe I would've, and we would've have an affair."

"That's way hotter," Jenn said, making Whittle laugh.

Whittle, in a sense, saw a lot of herself in Boris's daughter, and realized now why she and Boris had gotten along so well in the end, because in a way...she was a kind of surrogate, just as Chrissy had been. Different daughters of differing ages, all meant to let him be the father he'd failed to be before. Whittle didn't mind that, however, having had a strained relationship with her own parents, she was more than happy to step into those shoes. And suddenly...tears were on her face. Jenn reached across the table and held her hand.

"What is it?" Jenn asked.

"He's going to die," Whittle whispered, "he's going to die and we're fucking celebrating."

"A part of him won't," Jenn said, "she'll keep going, she'll have a whole life. In a way, he's vicariously living through her. She's getting to do the thing he always wanted to, and that's beautiful."

Whittle hadn't considered it from that angle before. Jenn had a point. Whittle lifted her glass to her lips, then looked around.

"Where's John?" she asked.

                                                                                                          ***

"Open your palm," Boris said, and Ellen did just that; Boris fished into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box, opening the lid and revealing a ring. Ellen gasped, her eyes widening.

"That is beautiful," she said softly.

"It is," Boris said, "it belonged to my best friend. She gave it to me right before she died, said she wanted me to pawn it, but I never could. I figured I would keep it for myself, eventually be buried with it. But...once you told me you were getting married, I decided the next best thing would be to give it to you. It won't replace the ring you have, of course, but...it'd mean a lot to me if you'd take it. Polly, she...she had the guts to do what you're doing, to be herself, and in our generation that was gutsy, but she didn't get the happy ending she deserved. I want her to, and this way she will."

Ellen held out her hand, spreading her fingers so Boris could slide it onto one of her fingers. He then held her hand, very gently, and smiled at the ring.

"She told me she used to think the best thing in life was sharing it with other people, but later on she thought the best thing in life is sharing it with the right people. Not just anyone, but someone in particular. Someone who really understands you and gets what you're all about. Not just someone who happens to be in the same vicinity as you. That's why so many marriages of my generation failed, because people married for the sake of not being lonely. After all, what good even is a life if you didn't actually live it?" Boris said, and Ellen nodded, crying, leaning in and hugging her father, Boris rubbing her back.

After a few moments, Ellen said she had to fix her makeup, and Boris stood up, exiting the bathroom. Once he closed the bathroom door behind him, finding himself back in the hallway, he bumped into someone and immediately recognized it was John.

"Oh, didn't know you were in the house," John said, "we're about ready to get started. Is she ready?"

"She will be," Boris said, "walk with me."

John and Boris turned and, together, side by side, walked throughout the house and back out onto the patio, overlooking the party. From this vantage point, Boris could see the altar and he felt his eyes water.

"I wish I could find my prayer beads," John said, shaking his head, "it's been months at this point, almost a year it seems like. Ridiculous. I always hold them when I officiate stuff, and...and to not have them makes me feel so...naked."

"Well just imagine everyone else is naked," Boris said, "you'll be fine."

John chuckled and patted Boris on the back.

"A life begins," Boris said, "and another ends. That's the cycle, right?"

"That's the cycle," John said, "I have to get down there."

Boris nodded, as John walked off. Boris stayed there for a bit, then noticed Melody, in the parking lot, sitting on the curb, just watching from afar. Boris headed back down the stairs, back out of the house and across the yard. As he approached, she waved politely at him, and he groaned as he sat down beside her.

"You don't like weddings?" he asked.

"Eh," Melody said, "I...I was married."

"Really? Now that's not information I was privy to," Boris said.

"Well, it's not really something I like to discuss," Melody said, shrugging.

"Listen," Boris said, digging into his other coat pocket, "your car is totaled. Once you feel ready to drive again, you're gonna need a new set of wheels. I want you to have this."

Boris pushed a pair of car keys, Polly's Gremlins car keys, into Melody's hand. She looked down at them, confused, before looking back up at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Go places with it, take it everywhere," Boris said, "the woman who owned it, she didn't get to do a whole lot. I think she'd be happy to know her car is out there, having adventures. And, like you, she refused to take any bullshit, so I think it just makes sense you have it. I'm not gonna need a car where I'm goin'."

Melody nodded slowly, and then hugged him. Boris hugged her back, and patted her on the shoulder. After this, Boris got back up and headed back to the main lawn where the ceremony was already underway. Ellen and Miranda at the forefront, John between them, speaking. Boris shuffled quietly through the crowd until he found a seat right beside Carol, and plopped himself down. Carol leaned into him, her voice low.

"You do what you had to do?" Carol asked.

"Yep," Boris said.

"Do you remember when Mr. Henderson died?" Carol asked, and Boris nodded; she cleared her throat and continued, "you immediately wanted to move into his room, the room of a dead man! His body had been cold less than 8 hours and you wanted to live in his room. I thought you were crazy. But...that's the thing, Boris, you've never run from death. You've embraced it from the start. That's admirable. I see it now. I mean, you weren't rushing out, hoping it'd take you next or anything, but you also didn't shy away from it. When Polly bit it, that shook you, but you still soldiered on, for her. That's what I'm gonna do. Soldier on. For you."

Boris turned and looked at her, and Carol smiled.

"How's that for a final conversation?" she asked, and he smiled, nodding.

"You did good," he said.

                                                                                                              ***

John did, as he said he would, give Boris a ride home.

Driving through the dark, the only light the ones on the street and the traffic lamps, Boris could feel himself shaking. His leg, specifically. He felt weak. They came to a red light and stopped, waiting for the traffic to continue. Boris rolled his head and looked towards John.

"It was a beautiful ceremony," John said, "Ellen looked so happy. Just...joyous."

"I'd hope so, given the circumstances," Boris replied, his voice weak and soft.

The light changed and John continued driving.

"John," Boris said, "...don't go home. I need to go somewhere first."

John looked at Boris.

"I need to go to chuch," Boris said.

"It could be adjacent to a botanical garden and I wouldn't give a cats fart," Boris said sternly, "I'm dead, what's the view mean to me?"

This hadn't been the enjoyable afternoon Father Krickett had planned it to be. Walking through Ash Cemetery, the two men had looked at over a dozen potential resting places, and not a single one had done anything for them. Or rather, for Boris.

"It isn't all about you, it's also about the people who are coming to visit you!" John replied, annoyed.

"Oh, my death isn't all about me? Is there one goddamned thing in this world that is all about you when it happens? Why's everyone else always gonna be in consideration when it comes to your life altering moments? Ridiculous. Put me in a empty field next to a toxic river, it's the same sort of thing. Six feet under the ground, can't enjoy the place. But I suppose I should think of others comfort, not my own."

John leaned on a headstone and sighed. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, then put another piece of gum in his mouth.

"There are...stipulations one has to make when one dies," John said, "things you must consider. Yeah. You're right. You're dead, what do you care what the view is? But don't you want people to come visit you? You visit Polly all the time. Don't you want that? And people won't wanna visit an empty field next to a toxic river, Boris, they just won't. All you're doing is depriving yourself of visitation rights."

"Again, what do I care, I'm dead," Boris replied, leaning against a tree and crossing his arms; he exhaled and groaned, "Listen, John, I...I get where you're coming from, I do. I guess I'm just a little frazzled dealing with this. It's so...weird. I guess I always expected someone else to pick these things out for me. Ya know, manage my loose ends. It never once occurred to me that I be healthy enough to do it myself when the time came, so it's a little jarring picking out a final resting place."

Boris looked down at his shoes and thought about Polly. About where she was buried.

"I wish," Boris continued, "that it was easier to be selfish without sounding selfish. This is the one thing that should be for me. Everything else throughout my life has been for the benefit of others. I'm not allowed even one thing, even in death?"

Father Krickett cricked his neck, thinking about this. In a sense, Boris was right. So much of life was about pleasing others, doing what's best for those around you, falling to the whims of parents, partners, bosses, friends. When was a person allowed to be selfish without it seeming inherently selfish? He pulled at the sleeves of his turtleneck and sighed, running a hand down his face.

"When my brother died," John said, "we interred him at a local graveyard, you know, so we could come see him. But the thing was, he had always had issues with, what's it called, agoraphobia. He hated being outside a lot of the times. The irony of being placed in a cemetery wasn't lost on him, I'm sure. So we would visit him, but the entire time, all I could manage to think was how unhappy he must be to be out in the open like this, amongst strangers, something else he had a problem with. If it were up to him, he'd likely have chosen to be cremated."

Boris lit up a cigar and took a puff, listening as John continued.

"But nobody wants to carry a person throughout their life," John added, "that's the thing. You're a burden in life and a burden in death. You're born and suddenly everyone's lives have to alter to make room for your presence. You die, and suddenly everyone has to change their schedules to plan for and attend your services. And all that in between time? You're mostly a burden then too."

"This is horribly depressing," Boris said, making John chuckle.

"Yeah, well, that's life," John said, "It's too hard for mom and dad to keep him, find a place for the urn, to have walk by it everyday. Cemeteries...they allow the living a sense of removal. You aren't in immediate proximity, so you don't have to think about them, and the pain lessens quicker as a result. Not for everyone, everybody's grief works differently, but I'd say that's usually the way it goes down. Again...a burden to others, even when you're no longer alive."

"So what you're saying is that the dead deserve the right to be selfish?" Boris asked, tapping the ash from his cigar on a nearby headstone.

"Hey, come on, that's disrespectful," John said.

"Yeah I'm sure Franklin Adams of 1874 is really going to throw a fit," Boris remarked, and John sighed.

"What I'm saying," John continued, "is that yes, you're not wrong, the dead deserve the right to be selfish, and yes, most of life is about pleasing others or bending to their wills. But that doesn't mean people want to visit an empty field next to a toxic river if they want to see you."

"If people love you enough, they won't care where you're buried," Boris said, "ask those people who set up memorials at car crashes on the side of the highway."

John threw his arms up in frustration and turned, walking on, Boris walking slowly behind him.

"Fine!" Father Krickett said loudly, "fine, we'll throw you in a dumpset and fill it with cement! Or, or better yet, how about this, how about we attach you to an anchor and we throw you to the bottom of the ocean!"

"Well now you're just being ridiculous," Boris said, making John groan while also laughing.

Father Krickett had seen plenty of people struggle with their mortality. Going to the home, reading last rights, if there was one thing he was intimately familiar with, it was helping the soon to be deceased come to terms with their mortality. But this was different. This was personal. Boris wasn't just a resident at the home (hell, he hadn't lived at the home for over a year or so now) he was someone involved closely in John's day to day life. Someone who meant something very deep to him. Why was he making this so difficult?

"I probably should've died in the accident," Boris said, and this caught Father Krickett's attention.

"Hmm?" John asked, turning to face him again.

"The accident, the one Ellen had when she was little," Boris said, "all things considered, I likely should've died then. But I didn't. Instead, I got a ticking time bomb inside of me that I was unaware of. But I should've, and imagine if I had. That would've been poetic justice for the horrors I helped usher into others lives. I should've been held more responsible for my actions. Instead, I was literally allowed to walk away from it unscathed, while my daughter couldn't walk for most of her life."

"Do you...do you wish you had died then?" John asked.

"I don't know," Boris said, shrugging, "I just know that it would've made things a lot easier. Wouldn't be here now, doing this, for instance."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this complicating your day?" John asked, smirking.

"No, it's complicating yours," Boris said, and John stopped smirking. The wind seemed to stop blowing, and the air in the cemetery went dead silent. Just the gentle rustle of leaves overhead. John adjusted the neck of his turtleneck, then approached Boris slowly.

"What...what do you mean?" John asked.

"Let's face it, this is harder for you than it is for me," Boris said, "I've accepted it. It was...scary, at first, but at this point, I've accepted it. But you...you still haven't. You likely never will, having seen how you deal with other losses in your life, and that isn't a dig at you, John, it's just a recognition of your personality. So all of this...shopping for a coffin, looking for a resting place, this is performative. It's to ease your pain. Your anguish. Feeling like you're doing everything you can while you can."

Father Krickett bit his lip and nodded slowly. Boris wasn't wrong.

"I don't...I don't want you to die, I mean, yeah," John said, his voice cracking, "nobody wants anyone they care about to die. I've lost my brother, my boyfriend, so many people in my life that mattered to me. I was mad about surviving my car accident too, so I know that feeling all too well. After losing Steven, I closed myself off. I didn't allow myself to become close with anyone again because I knew firsthand the pain that you felt when you inevitably lost them. Until you, Boris. Until I met you. You're the first person I've opened up to in years. And a lot of that was because of how we both viewed the world. But also because I could see in you what I saw in them, what I missed in them, and in some warped way it was like I had them back."

Boris took a long puff on his cigar, then stubbed it out entirely, exhaling smoke into the air and tossing the butt on the ground.

"Yeah, you're not wrong. It's performative. But it isn't just for me. It isn't inherently selfish. I want you to be at peace. To have the best you can. I just wish you didn't have it right now," John said, "I wish..."

John leaned against another headstone and sighed, shaking his head.

"I wish we could've had what others had," John said.

Boris slowly approached and leaned against the headstone beside him.

"What do you mean by that?" Boris asked, "What we've had has been great."

"No, it...it has," John said, "please, don't get me wrong, but...well, we've said this before...if it were different, if you were younger, I were older, if we'd come from the same generation - either yours or mine - we could've had so much more. You admired Polly for being unashamedly out, even when she came from a generation that didn't accept it. She was brave, you acknowledged this. We could've been brave. Priests aren't supposed to fall in love. But I guess some things you can't help."

Boris smiled and put his hand on John's shoulder, causing John to look away.

"You once told me that time takes everything from us. It cannot be reasoned with, it cannot be fought, and it cannot be bargained against. It takes what it takes without compassion, but also without malice. It can't do it with either, because it isn't a living thing, it's a concept. You said memory is the only thing we have in the fight against time, and so long as we remember those we loved - even if they look nothing like we remember - then we've won. You've won. Because the idea of them is what's important. The feeling they imparted on you. Not what they looked like. That's what photographs are for."

John now looked at Boris, as Boris ran his old hand up to the young priests face and touched his cheek. John reached up and held it there.

"So once I'm gone, John," Boris said, "you're in charge of remembering me, okay?"

"Okay," John whispered, tears rolling down his face.

Boris leaned in and kissed him, and John happily kissed him back. It was a moment John had never expected to have, but Boris figured, well, this was the end. May as well give him something to remember him by. Life started to resume in the cemetery, the air began to blow again, and everything sounded more clear, more beautiful. Boris rested his forehead on John's and smiled, making John laugh anxiously. The last thing Boris ever anticipated to find in his old age was a real kind of love, but he was so happy to have met John and allowed himself to be open with him. Sure, to outsiders, it must've looked so strange. An old man and a young priest. But they didn't care. That's what love was. You ignored the strangeness and you embraced the quiet joy of the experience.

"They say the best years of your life are your 20s," Boris said, "but frankly, I'd reckon it's actually these years. The ones at the end."

"And what makes you think that?" John asked.

"You know yourself, fully, and you can be anyone you want without judgement or shame from your peers," Boris said, "if you're brave enough, of course."

"I'd say you're brave enough," John replied, both men laughing.

A pause as they just listened to the sounds of the cemetery around them.

"Hey John," Boris asked.

"Yeah?"

"You want my ashes?" Boris asked.

Another pause.

"Yeah."

                                                                                                      ***

Sister Jenn was doing some cleaning in John's office, organizing the papers on his desk and washing his windows a little. She usually did this once a week, and he'd never once acknowledged it, but she didn't mind. She didn't do it for him. She did it for the church. While wiping the window down, she heard footsteps enter the room and glanced over her shoulder to see Father Krickett standing there.

"Oh, hello," she said happily.

"Didn't know you did this," John said, "thank you, that's very considerate of you."

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," Sister Jenn said, making John chuckle as he sat at his desk. John sat in his chair, watching Sister Jenn finish her window washing, before she turned to face him and sat on his desk. She pulled her habit off and let her long blonde hair fall around her shoulders.

"What made you join the church, Jennifer?" John asked, and Jenn exhaled.

"That's a big question," she said, "I suppose it came from trying to find reason in a world without any. When you have a life where bad things happen to you, you want answers, reasons why. You can't just accept that this happens. So you turn to religion, which offers you the belief that it happens for a reason, to strengthen you. But then that doesn't exactly sit well with me, because if God loves me, why would he allow these horrible things to happen just to make me stronger? Aren't there easier, less traumatizing ways, to make someone stronger? The whole religion is nothing but contradictions, but I suppose that's where the faith comes in. Blind faith, though, don't like that. Still like questioning."

John smiled, nodding, as he reached down into his cabinet beneath his desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and uncorked it, putting two small glasses on the desk and pouring them both a glass. Jenn took it, hesitantly, and downed it in one go while John cautiously sipped on his.

"I hope you're happy, Jenn," John said, "with Whittle, with being you, with...with having the chance to be with the person you want. That's a very rare thing. You deserve to be happy. Not all of us get that."

"I am," Jenn said.

She put the glass back down on the table, hopped down from the desk and adjusted her frock, then told John she had to go for the night and that she'd see him tomorrow. John, now alone in his office, looked towards the stained glass windows in his office, and he turned his glass in his hand absentmindedly. So he would be the recipient of Boris's ashes. In a way, this meant that they would, in some warped way, get to be together forever. John smiled as he lifted his glass to his lips once more.

After all, Jesus did say to love everyone, didn't he?

Whittle rolled onto her side and stretched. She felt her leg leave the safety of the blanket and her skin touched the cool morning air of the bedroom. She opened one eye, and smiled, seeing Jenn laying on her side, watching her. Jenn reached out and put her palm on Whittle's face, stroking it gently.

"I used to think,"Jenn whispered, "that all the beauty in the world derived from the power of God, but now I know that even God couldn't create something as beautiful as you."

Whittle buried her face in her pillow to hide her blushing face. After a moment she resurfaced, biting her lip, trying not to laugh at Jenns sweet romantic cheese. Jenn put both hands on Whittle's face and kiss her right on the lips, and Whittle didn't fight it a bit. For as long as she could remember, all Whittle had wanted was to be absolutely adored by the person she was with, and now she had that after a lifetime of disappointing relationships, and she couldn't be happier.

"I love you," Whittle whispered, and Jenn blushed.

"I love you too," she said quietly.

Right now, during a time of such fraught uncertainty, surrounded by death, it was nice to have something as comforting as love to fall back on. Life felt safe, and understandable, here in bed with the woman she loved, and that was more than could be said for Boris at that moment, who was working on one of the hardest things anyone ever has to do...writing a will.

                                                                                                            ***

"I've never done anything like this so please cut me some slack," Carol said, "I'm not even an attorney, you're gonna have to get someone to look this over after the fact to make sure everything is on the up and up."

"That's not a problem," Boris said, sitting in his chair, Melody in the wheelchair beside him; he straightened his tie and added, "I just wanted help from someone I really know and trust first. That's all. Next to John, you're it, so I figured you'd be the best option."

"What do you even own?" Carol asked, "who am I bequething any of this stuff to?"

"My belongings mean jack shit," Boris said, "I don't care about my clothes, nobody wants them, give them away. What matters is the money."

Carol looked up, a bit surprised.

"The money?"

"From my book sales," Boris said, "ever since that released, my bank account has grown steadily fatter and fatter. That's what it all comes down to. I want some of it to go to the church, of course, to help John with his expenses, and some of it to you, for the home, but the rest..."

Boris chewed his lip and looked at his shoes. Ellen was getting married, she'd be fine. Lorraine lived a cushy enough life without his help. He knew where the money really needed to go. He sighed and shut his eyes.

"The rest is going somewhere else," he said, and that was all he would elaborate on. Carol nodded and started penciling some of this down in her notebook; Boris looked around the room and his eyes landed on Melody, where he smiled and added, "and of course, there's Whittle. Wouldn't have made it this far without her, can't just leave her out entirely."

"How thoughtful," Carol said, "and what do you want to leave her?"

That was the million dollar question. What could he possibly leave Whittle?

                                                                                                            ***

"I like a woman who  can make breakfast," Whittle said, sitting at the kitchen table as Jenn dropped a plate in front of her filled with various breakfast foods before plating her own and joining her, chuckling. Whittle picked up her fork and started eating while Jenn poured them both some coffee.

"The church opens in a few days," Jenn said, "you should come with me to see it. It's so beautiful."

"I'm excited!" Whittle exclaimed, "and that says something because I'm not a remotely religious person, so."

"I love churches, whether I'm religious or not," Jenn said, "especially during weddings. They always seem so ethereal then, during promises of eternal love. Something so beautiful about the whole visual. I remember being a flower girl when I was little and my aunt got married, it felt like being a fairy."

Whittle smiled as she listened to Jenn, while eating her eggs. Jenn being enthusiastic was so infectious, and she loved to bask in it. She also loved it because Whittle herself had rarely had happy moments like that, much less from growing up. Jenn lifted her coffee mug to her lips and took a long drink, then exhaled.

"Do you think..." Jenn started, before trailing off, "No, nevermind."

"What?" Whittle asked, stabbing her eggs and and chewing.

"...do you think you might want to get married one day?" Jenn asked, tapping her nails on her mug, looking down at the table. Whittle thought about it for a moment, then immediately nodded.

"Yeah, absolutely," she said, surprising Jenn; she added, "I mean, my folks had an okay enough marriage, but...I've always believed, and call me old fashioned maybe but, that the union of marriage is the truest testament to someones love to someone else. I know that there's plenty of arguments against that, that you don't have to go that far to prove you love someone, and I don't disagree. But to me, personally, for someone to say 'I want to legally be binded to you for the rest of our lives'...there's something really beautiful about that."

Jenn blushed and nodded in agreement. She sipped from her mug again and tapped her nails once more, anxiously.

"And...and you think you'd want that...with me?" Jenn asked, "going to Boris's childhood home, seeing those two men have a whole happy life together...it just made me yearn for something, I guess. Something more than just...anything. I don't know how to explain it."

"You don't have to," Whittle whispered, putting her fork down and reaching across the table, taking one of Jenn's hands in her own and kissing it gently, "Believe me, I get it."

And she did. If anyone one this earth got it, it was Regina Whittle.

                                                                                                          ***

Boris stood looking out the window, staring at the people in the home out in the garden, on the gazebo, enjoying their old age. Carol was leaning back in her chair, tapping her pencil absentmindedly on the table while Melody sat unshifting in her wheelchair. Boris exhaled and shook his head.

"Look at them," he said, "do they know? Or do they just willingly ignore it? The time is so brief now. Your whole life the only thing anyone ever tells you is to appreciate it because it goes so fast, but it doesn't, it goes slow. It goes slow until the end, then it goes fast. Do you think they're aware of how close to the end they actually are, or are they just willfully ignorant?"

"Not my place to say," Carol remarked, shrugging.

"I agree, I never found it went fast enough," Melody said, "I always wanted it to go faster. I was a child for far too long, and now an adult for even longer. That's why I wanted to expedite the process, you know? Get to the finish line quicker than usual. It's just too painful, and seeing what people your age deal with...it terrifies me. That sounds even worse than living to be that old in the first place."

Boris nodded, turning away from the window and leaning against the sill, groaning, his back hurting.

"I think only when you've fallen enough to want to end it yourself do you see it for what it really is," he replied, "your existence is an affront to nature, and to continue to exist is a revolutionary act because so much of life is trying to kill you at all times. Accidents, infections, murders. So much variety, yet here you are, still existing. So if you opt to try and kill yourself, that's also bold, taking away the one thing life can do to you and making the choice for yourself. Brave. Suicide isn't cowardly, it's the bravest act there is. That doesn't mean I condone it, but I also won't judge it."

Carol nodded, chewing on her cheek. In a sense, Boris had a point, but she wouldn't go brandying that viewpoint around anytime soon. She exhaled and turned her attention back to the will.

"Where's the money going, Boris?" she asked.

"To Chrissy," he said, "I want her to have as good a life as she can, and I want all future royals in perpetuity to be hers. She stopped me from ending it, so I'm gonna help her have the best life she could possibly have. I want her to have what Ellen didn't. A great adolescence. A wonderful college education. A very happy adulthood. Sure, Ellen's okay now, but...but this is my way to make up for it, vicariously."

"That's really sweet," Melody whispered, and Boris smiled at her.

"Just doing what I can while I can," he said, and Carol smiled as she noted this down. Boris had come so far as a person in the last few years, she was so very proud of his growth, and to see he was still facilitating it so close to the end of his life. In a way, it was admirable, inspiring, and she hoped that when the time came, she could do the same herself. Boris walked back around to the front of the desk, back towards the chairs, and sat back down beside Melody.

"And I want it airtight. It's hers, not her folks. They can't touch it. It belongs to her and her alone," Boris said.

"You know I'm not a lawyer, right? You know we'll have to get this actually processed, notarized and legally bound by an actual lawyer? I'm just taking it down for you," Carol said, and Boris nodded.

"I do know that, yes, thank you," he said, "I just want it as clean and understandable as possible. That way nobody can fiddle with the wording, take something away from her that's rightfully hers."

Carol nodded, writing something down, before sighing and looking up again. Melody excused herself to use the restroom, rolling the wheelchair out the door and down the hall, leaving Carol and Boris alone together.

"I gotta ask," Carol said, "...and normally I wouldn't ask this sort of thing, partially because it might freak someone out and partially because it might freak me out, but...what's it like? Being so close to the end? Knowing that, soon enough, the possible eternal nothingness will claim you and you will no longer see or breath or hear or think or feel? I mean in one instance you might imagine it'd be relaxing, finally, no need to be on the ball anymore, but I just gotta know what you think about it."

Boris bit his lip and thought about it for a minute or two. Carol leaned back in her chair and tapped her pen on the desk. After a few minutes, Boris sighed and pulled his hat off, setting it in his lap.

"We spend so much of our time alive focused on being alive that we tend not to think about death, and some people can do that easily and some people have to force themselves not to because it scares them, understandably. Being at the edge of the void, I suppose now, having lived a life full of loss, all I can say is that..."

His thoughts turned to Leanne, on her deathbed that afternoon, the look of sheer joy on her face as she stared into the nothingness.

"...I'm not afraid, I'm excited," he said, "The thing is, nobody knows what comes next, and all the evidence pointing in one direction or another is anecdotal at best, so I'm excited to see what the next step is. Can't be anymore painful than this one was, right? I don't know, maybe it changes day to day, one afternoon I'm scared and one afternoon I'm elated, but for the most part I like to think I'm excited. Maybe it's like so many people believe and you really do get to see the people who matter to you again, you know? Maybe that isn't just some fantasy we came up with to tide over our fears of mortality. I don't know. But that'd be great if it were true."

Carol nodded slowly, thinking. When faced with the end, would she be as brave? She'd be braver, she knew. Braver than anyone else had ever been. Because she was one of those people who always wanted to get onto the next big thing, and what's bigger than death?

"Well, we still haven't decided what you want to leave for Whittle," Carol said, sitting back upright in her chair.

Yes. What could he possibly give to the nurse who had given him so much?

                                                                                                         ***

When Boris got home that evening, pulling into the parking lot of the complex, he saw John leaning against his car, hands tucked in his peacoat pocket, clearly waiting for him. Boris parked, and Melody got out and took her wheelchair upstairs. John then re-opened her passenger side door and climbed into her seat.

"Hope you weren't out there for too long," Boris said, adjusting the heater vent so it blew on John.

"Nah, only maybe fifteen minutes," Father Krickett replied, "I was thinking tomorrow we could go shopping for a resting place."

"Yeah, I guess I should take care of that shouldn't I? Wouldn't want Whittle to just drag me out to the dumpster when the big day comes," Boris remarked, making Father Krickett laugh; Boris smiled and added, "John, can I ask you a question? You're a priest, you deal in all things afterlife...what do you think it's like?"

Father Krickett thought about it for a minute and then sighed.

"I suppose," John said, "that, in reality, science would tell you that everything people see - the tunnel and the white light and the faces of their loved ones - is just your brains way of coping with the fact that it's dying. Putting on a show right at the end. But...how could it be so coincidental? For everyone to see their loved ones, sure, that makes sense being coincidental. We all have people we loved and lost that meant the world to us, and to see them would be comforting. But for everyone to also see the tunnel and the white light? Sure, the power of suggestion is strong, and if people hear about it they might see it themselves...but the fact remains that it's weird that so many people have reported the very same thing."

Boris nodded, tugging on his jacket, pulling up his zipper to his neck.

"I guess," John continued, "what it boils down to is what do you believe? I like to think that when I go, and god forbid that ain't for a long time, I'm sitting somewhere beautiful and I'm approached by the people who passed before me, and we have a lovely little conversation and they ease me into the fact that it's over. They walk me into the arms of the Lord and everything melts away around me. I don't want to just see a face, I want a tour guide. That's how I'd like it to be anyway."

"That's lovely," Boris said, "so what time tomorrow?"

"Uh, how about 11?" John asked, "I'll be done with what little work I have to do by then and I know a beautiful cemetery to try."

After Father Krickett went along his way, Boris headed inside the apartment complex. He took the elevator up to his floor, all the while thinking about what Father Krickett had said, about the power of suggestion, coincidences, and, of course, just being surrounded by the ones who meant the most to you. Easing you into the next chapter. The doors opened and Boris exited, heading down the hall. He entered the apartment, shut and locked the door behind him, the hung up his coat and hat. He then headed into the kitchen for a drink where he found Whittle doing the dishes.

"Have an eventful day?" he asked.

"Actually it was very low key," Whittle replied, "Jenn and I just hung around here, talked about the future, some things, had some breakfast. It was kind of nice."

Boris opened a can of soda from the fridge, leaned with his back against the fridge door and drank, then wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and nodded.

"Sounds pretty good. Carol was on me the entire time because I couldn't come up with anything to leave you," Boris said, and Whittle stopped what she was doing, put the remaining dishes in the sink, then turned and faced him.

"You don't have to leave me anything," Whittle said.

"Well, of course, but you've been here for so long, helped me through so much, I just thought-"

"No, I mean, Boris...you...you've already given me something nobody else could've," Whittle said, surprising him as she added, "your friendship with John, your pseudo association with the church, you brought Jenn into my life. That...god...that is more than enough. You gave me the courage to be open, to be happy, and to love someone and let them love me. Boris, you don't have to leave me anything because what you've already given to me is more than anything else you could give me, and I'll be forever thankful for that."

Boris hadn't expected, nor thought of this, but he was happy. He smiled, and walked towards Whittle, hugging her tight. He was happy to know that, once it was over, once he was gone, someone would be watching out for her. He finished his soda, went to his room and changed into his pajamas, before laying in his bed. After a few minutes, the door creaked open, and Melody came in, climbing onto the bed and laying beside him.

"...So you think I should keep going?" Melody asked, and Boris shrugged.

"Ultimately it's up to you, but I think there's plenty you have yet to see, things you won't expect," Boris said, "things that will surprise you and make you glad you stuck around for them. And, well, if not, then I guess you can blame my dead ass for convincing you otherwise. I'll take the heat, I don't mind."

Melody snickered and held his hand. The wrinkles, the old flesh, reminding her of her grandfather when she was a little girl.

"I guess I could stick it out for a bit," Melody said, "but I'm not making any promises."

"Hey, I'm not askin' ya to," Boris said.

And that's what Melody appreciated most. Boris wasn't trying to convince her that life was worthwhile and that suicide was a temporary solution to a permanent problem when in fact many peoples problems are permanent and suicide makes sense for them. No. He wasn't influencing her in either way, and he wouldn't judge her for either road picked. He just was letting her be, and that was more than anyone else in the world had ever offered her. Therapists, boyfriends, her parents, they'd all tried to push her in different directions, socially, academically, emotionally, but Boris...Boris let her choose, and that freedom meant a lot.

So yeah. She could stick it out. For a while at least. You never know what's on the horizon.

"Boris was a good man," Burt said, "he was honest. He was kind. But he wasn't always that way. He had to work hard to become that way and, I think, the fact that he did that at the age he was proves that anyone can change at anytime, regardless of age."

Burt took a long pause, exhaled, and continued as he looked out at the crowd before him.

"Admittedly, I didn't get to know him as well as others here did, Carol, for instance, but what I did know of him was that he was a person who strived to undo the wrongs he'd committed in life and come out the other side better for it. That's admirable. I want to be like Boris in that sense."

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked to see Boris standing there. Burt sighed and shook his head.

"This is hard," Burt said.

"Yeah, giving a eulogy isn't easy," Boris said.

The small crowd stood up from their seats and dispersed, heading back to their various activities. Carol approached the little podium where Burt and Boris stood and she flipped through her little notebook she kept for certain things, writing in pen in it as she exhaled, looking frustrated.

"Listen," Carol said, "I know this is important to you, but I can't force anyone to sit through a fake funeral for the sake of your ego. This is a rehearsal, but when the moment actually comes, they likely won't be here and the seats will only be filled with a few people, and I hope you can accept that."

"I'm aware that most people don't care about me, yes," Boris said, smirking, making Carol chuckle as he continued, "but the people who will be here are the ones who matter. I'm gonna get Whittle and John and anyone else I can round up. My wife, perhaps."

"You think your wife would really wanna come to this?" Burt asked.

"She's coming to my actual funeral," Boris replied, shrugging.

"Yeah, cause she's expected to," Burt said, "but this is just like you're putting on a play."

"First of all, she's coming because she still cares about me, not because she's expected to, so, ow, thanks for that. And secondly, she'll come simply because she knows this is important to me and she's a nice person," Boris said. And he wasn't right. Lorraine was a nice person. In fact, when it came down to it, there was only one person he was going to have trouble convincing to go, and it wasn't who he'd expect.

                                                                                                            ***

A few phone calls later and Boris had convinced just about everyone to show up to his pretend funeral. Everyone, that is, except John.

Sitting in the diner, having breakfast with him the day before the living funeral was meant to happen, Boris just couldn't understand why John had neglected to respond to the invite, and then, when asked about it in person, deflected the question entirely. Boris poured some syrup on his pancakes as he watched John tear his hashbrowns in half and sip his coffee while he ate them.

"The nice thing about being so close to the end is I can eat whatever I want with no consequences,"  Boris said as he cut a piece of pancake off and stabbed it with his fork, "I mean, I'm gonna die anyway, so why not just fill myself up with delicious garbage right?"

"So what you're telling me is there are upsides to the afterlife," John said, not looking away from his newspaper.

"I'm just saying it's nice that, at the end, you can give into total wanton indulgence," Boris said, "your innermost desires and animalistic instincts, the most base things one could want, can finally be achieved because, really, what's the downside? Unless, perhaps, you believe in Heaven and Hell and are afraid of spoiling your good name with the big man upstairs right at the finish line, but frankly, between you and me, that seems a little petty on his part. You'd think even God would understand that, hey, it's over, have some fun while you can."

John chuckled as he bit into his hashbrown and chewed, nodding in agreement. Boris finally put his fork down on the edge of his plate, drank his own coffee and then cupped his hands on the table.

"Why aren't you coming?" Boris asked.

John finally looked away from his newspaper and at Boris's face, their eyes meeting.

"Why aren't you coming, John?" Boris asked, "this means a lot to me. I want to know what people think of me before I go. I want to know that I mean something to anyone. And there's nobody I'd like to hear more from than yourself. So what's the deal?"

"...it's too hard," John said quietly, "it's too...real."

"No, what's going to be too real is my actual funeral. This is play pretend. This is a dress rehearsal. John, you're a priest, you of all people should know what it's like to want your last wishes fulfilled. What I'm facing down, the prospect of nonexistence, that's terrifying enough without having the comfort of those who are the closest to me. So why aren't you coming?"

John had thought about this a number of times. How could he properly explain it? He sighed and ran a hand through his blonde hair.

"...when my brother died," John said, "I was the one expected to give the eulogy. My parents spoke too, obviously, but the biggest effort fell to me. After all, he was my brother. Then, when Steven died, again, it fell to me. Course, that one was a bit different. A bit more...private, considering the circumstances, the nature of our relationship, but still. I'm tired of praising the life of people I don't want to leave in the first place. It isn't a personal thing against you, it's a preference for myself. I'm already having to say goodbye. Why must I do it publicly?"

Boris hadn't considered this. He hadn't considered just how emotionally painful it might be for John to speak on his behalf. It was true that, of all the people he knew - friends, lovers, whatever - John was the closest Boris had ever allowed a person to get to him. Boris sighed, wiped his eyes with his hand, and nodded weakly.

"I understand," he said, "besides, what could you possibly say there that you haven't already told me directly?"

John felt bad. He didn't want to feel bad, but he did. He turned his attention back to his hashbrowns and coffee, Boris to his pancakes, and neither one said another word for the remainder of breakfast. What more could be said when so much already had been?

                                                                                                          ***

Boris had rarely worn a suit in his life.

He'd somehow managed to avoid the necessity, and now that he was wearing one, he felt kind of sad about that fact because he looked damn good in it. Dark blue with a yellow tie, he looked nice, proper, clean. Standing in front of the mirror in Carol's room, alone, he couldn't help but admire himself, and he felt good about that too. For so much of his life, he had shyed away from the side of vanity, but now, at the very end, he was allowing himself to appreciate his appearance, even in his old age. That felt good. The door opened and Carol entered, tapping on her notebook.

"Everyone is here," Carol said, "so whenever you're ready, Dapper Dan."

"Everyone?" Boris asked, and Carol's face sunk a little.

"Well, not everyone," she replied softly. Boris knew John wouldn't speak, but he was surprised he wouldn't even come. That, admittedly, kind of hurt. Carol approached Boris and he turned to look at her. She was in a very elegant black dress with pearls around her neck, and her hair straightened. She reached out and adjusted his tie, smiling as she did so, saying, "you clean up pretty nice, kid."

"...why didn't he come?" Boris asked quietly, the sadness in his voice breaking Carol's heart. She pulled her hands away from his tie and placed them on his chest, as he sniffled, trying not to cry.

"Sometimes the people we want the most to acknowledge us don't, even in our time of need, even when they love us deeply," Carol said, "but you have to recognize this is hard for everyone else too, right? I know you're the one who's at deaths door, but, Boris, shit...losing someone you're so close to...it hurts."

Boris walked to Carol's bed and sat down on it, running his hands over his face. Carol followed and seated herself beside him. He didn't talk for a few minutes, then he finally cleared his throat and said

"I love him."

"...yeah?" Carol asked, smiling meekly.

"I ignored myself for so long," Boris said, "but I do. It isn't fair. Polly might've been unable to be unapologetically herself during her lifetime, but she at least got to be with who she wanted. She didn't let shame or confusion stop her. I didn't even get that chance. I never will. I have to go to my grave with a life full of what ifs and half baked fantasies. And now, right at the precipice of the end, he isn't even here. The person I wanted here most couldn't even be bothered when it mattered."

Carol rested her head on Boris's shoulder and exhaled.

"Yeah, people are disappointing," she said, "but look at all those who did come. Lorraine and Whittle and Jenn and all the friends here at the home, Burt, and...myself. I've always been here for you."

Boris glanced at her, and she smiled. She had always been here for him, this was in fact true. Carol, next to Polly and his wife, was likely the woman he'd gotten closest to throughout his life. It had never once felt romantic, or anything beyond general companionship, but her friendship was something he had kind of gotten so used to that he'd started to take it for granted. Carol was the first friend he made at the home. Carol was the first person he told about dying. Carol was the one who helped arrange this living funeral. Carol. Carol. Carol. Boris reached up and rubbed her back, and she shut her eyes.

"...I'm going to miss you," she said softly, crying a little into the crook of his neck; she waited for her voice to stop shaking, then continued, "...you have no idea how much I'm going to miss you."

"I'm gonna miss you too," Boris replied quietly.

And he really, truly meant it.

                                                                                                      ***

The living funeral was better than he expected.

Burt said some kind things, his daughter said some very nice stuff, his wife, his friends. They all had nothing but pleasant things to say. After it was over, and the group went about the "wake" portion, where they chatted amongst themselves and had snacks, Boris snuck away to the outer area of the home, to the gazebo, and sat himself down. Sure, he'd been roasted a little, but hey, he could take some jabbing at his character. He was able to laugh at himself. Sitting in the gazebo, a napkin on his lap with some finger sandwiches on it, he listened to the sound of the birds and the wind in the trees and he realized, just then, that he would miss these things. These simple little things that you hear or see everyday and never stop to fully appreciate. Only once when faced with the void of nonexistance do you suddenly realize just how precious they actually are, the sounds that make up our lives.

"Talk about your rampant unchecked narcissism," a voice said from nearby, and Boris's attention snapped to the front of the gazebo, near the stairs, where John was standing.

"Oh, look, it's an opinion nobody asked for," Boris remarked, sounding hurt. John smirked as he entered the gazebo and sat down next to Boris. Boris hesitated momentarily, then gave in and handed John a finger sandwich, which he graciously accepted and bit into. The two men sat there for a bit, chewing and listening.

"I'm sorry," John finally said, "I know I'm a priest, I know you rely on me, but...I just couldn't do it."

"It's fine," Boris said, "it was callous of me to even think you might. Carol kind of opened my eyes to the fact that despite being all about me it isn't all about me. I might be the one dying, but the ones I'm leaving behind are also in pain. I get it."

"No, I don't think you do," John said, catching Boris's attention; Boris watched him as he turned the sandwich over in his fingers and sighed, saying, "it isn't just about losing you, or the way I feel towards you, it's...it's so much more than that. You and I share a level of emotional intimacy that I never even shared with the men I loved openly. That's a rare thing, Boris. Steven and I, we were so good together, but we never talked deeply about things the way you and I do. I'm not just losing you. I'm losing part of me, and that...that scares the hell out of me."

Boris's eyesbrows lifted, surprised by Johns words. John sighed again and continued.

"And the thing is," he went on, "it's selfish, and I'm aware it's selfish, and I'm firmly in a career field where selflessness is the word of the day. Give your life to God. Help those around you who need council. But...but aren't I entitled to a little bit of selfishness now and then? So much of what I do with my life is at the expense of myself, for others, and I just...I needed to stay away for once. It's too hard to reconcile the reality that is mortality, especially the mortality of those I love so much. I'm never going to share another level of emotional intimacy with another man the way I do with you. That's a hard thing to accept losing."

Boris nodded, looking down at his shoes.

"I'm sorry," he said, making John laugh.

"Don't apologize for dying!" he replied, "that's...I mean, it happens to all of us. One day this situation will be reversed, and I'll be in your place. I only hope that, when that time comes, I'll have someone there for me the way I couldn't be there for you."

"You've been there so much already, John," Boris said, reaching out and taking his hand in his own, squeezing gently, "I don't know why I expected you to be there for this. Everything you said makes sense. You have every right to have a hard time accepting this. A right to distancing yourself. I don't think anyone would really blame you. I'm just so sorry that your life has been touched by death and loss and grief so regularly, and I hope that after me, you won't have to deal with that as much. You deserve to be happy. To be safe and comfortable."

Boris looked towards him, and John was smiling, near tears. Boris smiled back.

"You deserve a life full of life, not of death," Boris said, "and I sincerely hope you get it."

John leaned in and hugged him, and Boris hugged back. Boris knew he'd never get what he wanted, which was a different lifetime, a lifetime of being openly himself, a lifetime spent with this man, but that was okay. The time John had given him lasted a lifetime anyway.

                                                                                                        ***

Boris was tucking Ellen in after a long day. She'd struggled with her homework, and had spent much of the evening frustrated. Boris did his best to help her, and he even helped Lorraine make dinner that night. As he sat on Ellen's beside, pushing her hair from her face and smiling at her, she couldn't help but feel safe. It had been a rough couple of weeks. Her grandmother, Lorraine's mother, had passed unexpectedly, and seeing how close Ellen and she had been, Ellen was having a hard time adjusting to the loss.

"You think she's okay?" Ellen asked, squeezing her stuffed rhino to her chest.

"Yeah, I think she's okay. She's not in pain, and that's a good thing," Boris said.

"It's scary," Ellen said.

"Death is scary, yeah," Boris replied, "and while it can happen randomly, the odds of something like that are slim, so you don't have to worry, kiddo. You're safe."

"But I'm gonna die?"

"Someday, everyone does."

Ellen waited, chewing on her lip, then looked back up at her father.

"And you're gonna die?" she asked, and he chuckled, leaning in and kissing her forehead.

"Yeah, I am," he said, "but not for a long, long time."

It was likely the only promise he made that he kept.

Boris had the apartment to himself for the day.

Whittle and Jenn had taken Melody out for her physical therapy - just going for walks to strengthen her leg muscles - and Father Krickett was at the church, finishing up the last bit of paperwork to make it officially theirs and able to open for the public. Boris put on an old jazz record, made himself some tea and decided to spend the afternoon looking through photo albums. Some of his family, some of his wife and daughter, and some he'd taken while at the home. Sitting on the couch, he turned the page, sipped, and came across a snapshot of himself and Polly while on their little bender. She'd bought a disposable camera, and he was so happy to have these brief moments in time captured forever with her. He smiled, just as a knock came at the door. Boris groaned, stood up and went to answer it. Much to his surprise, Ellen was standing on the other side.

"Hey, well now, this is a nice thing to see," Boris said, "What are you doing here?"

"I made a decision about something, and I wanna talk to you about it," Ellen said, "Can I come in?"

"Of course, you want some tea?" Boris asked, as he shuffled aside, allowing her entrance.

"No, I'm okay, actually I just had breakfast, so I'm pretty satisfied," Ellen said, before stopping and turning to face her father, smiling ear to ear, "Dad. I'm getting married."

"I...I know that. I'm dying, I don't have dementia," Boris replied, making her laugh.

"No, I'm getting married in two weeks," Ellen said, "for you. I'm doing it for you. So you can be there to see it."

Boris didn't know what to say. All his words caught in his throat, and his eyes swelled up with tears. He had to admit, of all the things he could've been given before his death, this was the greatest thing of all.

                                                                                                          ***

Melody hated walking.

She used to love it. She used to go for long hikes and even did jogging at one point. She even ran track in high school. Now though, now that she was expected to walk, she hated it. She hated having things be expected of her, things like continuing to live when she so clearly didn't want to. Whittle and Jenn had taken her for a long stroll downtown, around the bustling shopping areas, hoping that she would get distracted enough by the sights around her that she would forget about how angry she was that she was still alive. It wasn't working. Instead, she just turned stone quiet, unwilling to even communicate. Whittle and Jenn had stopped in front of a large glass window of a store, admiring some dresses, as Melody stood off to the side against the wall with her arms crossed.

"How much longer do we have to be out for?" Melody asked.

"Well," Whittle said, "it's good for you to walk for at least an hour or two every day. Build back your calf muscles."

"Can we at least get something to eat?" Melody asked, and Whittle shrugged.

"I don't see why not," she replied.

"You know you're just buying distractions, right?" Melody asked as the three women started to continue walking, heading towards a small food cart; she continued, "by buying things you're just distracting yourself from the real issues in your life. The things you don't want to face. Nobody wants to face the bad stuff so they put it off for as long as possible."

"I'm perfectly happy with my life, aside from my friend dying," Whittle said, shrugging, "I don't see anything wrong with having distractions if I'm content."

"Right, you mean to tell me you don't have any deep wells of sadness inside you?" Melody asked, "any regrets or anything like that? I find that hard to believe, frankly."

"This might come as a surprise to you, because you're so attached to the idea of wanting to die, but not everyone feels that way," Jenn said, "there are plenty of people who go through their entire lives being thrilled to be alive, never once wanting to end it. That isn't to say they don't experience sadness, of course, but they don't experience it on the level that you do, and it might be hard for you to comprehend that possibility when you're so steeped in depression."

"Coming from the woman who blindly follows faith," Melody said.

"I'm happy though," Jenn said, squeezing Whittle's hand.

Melody sighed and looked down at her shoes as they approached the cart. Jenn paid for their snacks, then excused herself to go to the restroom, Whittle holding onto hers until she got back. Whittle and Melody found a small bench to sit on and eat, waiting for Jenn to return. As Whittle took a bite out of her churro, Melody shook her head.

"I didn't use to be like this," Melody said, "I'm not saying I was happy go lucky oblivious moron, but...I didn't use to be this bitter. I think it's hard to get back to who you used to be when it's been stripped from you for so long. I'd like to, but sometimes I wonder if it's even possible."

Whittle nodded and took another bite, chewing as she thought. Melody started in on her own, and together they sat in silence, eating for a bit. After a few minutes, Whittle swallowed, then spoke.

"I think just recognizing that is a step in the right direction, that this isn't who you were before, and that you don't want to be this way forever," Whittle said, "when I worked at the home, god, I was surrounded by people who just thought this was how they had to be because it was how they'd been for so long. Granted, these people were in their 70s and up, but still. That's one of the admirable things about Boris. He strove to be better. To not be complacent in his shittiness. He didn't want to die not having changed at all. I can respect that. So yeah, I think acknowledging that is a really positive first step."

"And what about your girlfriend? What about her religious fanaticism?" Melody asked, taking another bite.

"It's a safety net, a comfort blanket of sorts, we all have them," Whittle said, "nothing wrong with it. She's just trying to help in the way she knows how."

Melody nodded and exhaled. She knew Whittle was right, and she didn't want to be this way, it was true. She didn't used to want to be dead. But it had come on so strong, and stayed for so long, that she didn't know how to avoid it at this point, and to be someone else entirely felt weirdly disingenious to who she'd been for so long now. Like she was pretending to be someone she wasn't. An imposter in her own skin. Melody hated walking.

But she sure loved churros.

                                                                                                        ***

"When did this decision come about?" Boris asked.

He and Ellen were now in the kitchen, as he poured himself a new cup of tea. Ellen was seated at the table, looking at her engagement ring. Boris, mug in hand, sat down across from her.

"I asked Miranda if she wouldn't mind moving it up, and we could still have another wedding along the lines we'd planned later on, but I wanted you to be there," Ellen said, "and, because she's perfect, she said it would be fine. I was so scared to ask, but I don't know why."

"Cause you're used to being letdown, which is definitely because of me, and I apologize for instilling that within you," Boris said, raising his mug to his lips and sipping, "but I appreciate this, I really do. I was so sad when you told me you were getting engaged and I wouldn't be there to see it. I've missed out on so much of your life, but to at least witness someone else being there to take care of you, that would give me some sense of peace."

Ellen smiled, pushing her bangs from her face.

"Especially since I did such a poor job," Boris added.

"I don't blame you for everything, if that helps," Ellen said, "I mean, you were trying to push me to do things you thought I'd like, and...and I understand that. What happened could've happened to anyone. And besides, if it hadn't happened, I wouldn't have lost my ability to walk, gotten surgery, met Miranda as my physical therapist and we wouldn't be here right now, so in a way...my engagement is a direct result of your parent ineptitude."

Boris chuckled and nodded.

"I can accept that then," he said, "I take responsibility, even if nobody else will fully lay the blame on me, but I've also come to accept that what happened doesn't define me entirely. Especially so close to the end now, it's been easier to look back at who I was and how far I've come even in just the last few years. I like to think that, if nothing else, I'll be remembered more as who I am now than who I was then."

Ellen smiled and reached across the table, holding her fathers hand.

"I think you will. I'll definitely remember you more as the man before me than the man from back then," she said, "and

"...hey, do you still have your old wheelchair by any chance?"

                                                                                                             ***

Standing in front of a toy shop window while Jenn and Whittle admired cookware in the window of another nearby shop, Melody couldn't help but feel oddly nostalgic. She could remember being a little girl, and loving her toys with all her heart. She could remember spending hours playing with them because she didn't have any friends, and how much happiness and comfort their company brought her, even if it was, in essence, just her own company projected onto them. And she could remember coming home one day from school, when she was 13, and her father having thrown everything out, telling her it was time to grow up, to be a woman. At thirteen years of age. She never forgave him for this, and she mourned the loss each and every day.

"See anything you like?" Whittle asked, coming up by her side, surprising her, making her jump a little.

"I mean, it's stuff for children," Melody replied quietly.

"There's no cutoff to comfort," Whittle said, "just because you're not a certain age doesn't mean you're no longer entitled to something that might make you feel safe. We all deserve to feel safety, even if we have to give it to ourselves, and especially if nobody else will give it to us."

Melody nodded, then looked back from Whittle to the window. Her eyes landed on a stuffed giraffe of moderate size, and she smiled. When she was little, she loved animals. She even had a subscription to a magazine about animals, and always loved to watch nature specials on TV. For a good while, she contemplated becoming a veterinarian but ultimately she decided against it only because she knew she wouldn't have the heart to handle when she wasn't able to save someones pet.

"Listen," Whittle said, "I'm not gonna be one of those people who tells you things will get better. That's a sickeningly display of ignorant positivity. But what I will tell you is my own personal experience. A few years ago, I was despondant. I was trapped in a somewhat abusive relationship, and I was unhappy with my career. Boris told me, during a conversation, that he wanted his life to end with an exclaimation point, not a question mark, and that really stuck with me. As such, I left my boyfriend, left my job, and went back to college for my culinary degree. It's been hard work, but you know what was harder? Staying alive in the situation I was in. That took way more effort on the daily."

Melody responded audibly with a soft low grunt, then looked at the window again.

"I want that giraffe," she said.

"Then get that giraffe," Whittle said, patting her on the back, "if there's one thing Boris has taught me, it's not to deny yourself something just because the world has convinced you you don't deserve it."

With that in mind, Melody entered the store, and exited with the giraffe. It wasn't a big change, but she was taking the effort.

                                                                                                        ***

Boris had ordered in dinner that had arrived by the time the girls got back to the apartment. Whittle and Jenn ate a little bit, then took their leave for Jenn's for the night, leaving Boris and Melody alone. As they cleaned up from dinner, Boris looked at the giraffe on the counter and smiled sweetly.

"You get that today?" he asked, and she nodded, not verbally responding; he pulled the strings at the end of the trashbag tight and lifted it from the trashcan best he could, before adding, "I have something for you."

"You do?" Melody asked, and Boris nodded. He set the bag down and then headed down the hall to his bedroom. He re-emerged moments later, pushing a fancy wheelchair out. Melody looked at it with big eyes and approached slowly as he set it up next to the kitchen table. Melody walked up and reached out, touching it ever so carefully, as if it were made of brittle glass she was afraid would crack at the slightest interaction.

"This belonged to my daughter," Boris said, "I caused a car accident when she was a little, and she needed a wheelchair for most of her life until she got prosthetics. But...if you're struggling to walk right now, I figured it could be of use to you. Nobody should rush your recovery, and it should be done at your own pace."

Melody cautiously sat down in the chair and sniffled. Boris pulled out a chair from the table and slunk down into it, groaning as he did. Melody wiped her face on her shirt sleeve, almost as if she were trying to hide her very visible feelings.

"I wish it'd worked," Melody said.

"I know that feeling," Boris said, "and there's no shame in wanting that."

"I just don't understand why people act as though life is some sacred thing when so many of us are brought into this world against our will, given to people who didn't want us, and in the end, wind up being forgotten entirely. Why is there such a negative stigma attached to correcting a mistake?"

"Because people have been brainwashed into believing life is a gift, not a mistake, but not everyones life is a gift and lots of people just can't fathom that. If you come to them with a problem, even if you're truly trapped and incapable of change, they will look at you with the most quizzicle expression because to them they just can't believe someone can't change something because it comes so easily to them so they figure it must to everyone. My best friend OD'd and frankly, the longer I dwell on it, the more I've come to believe it was intentional. She was in too much pain and didn't want to go on. I don't blame her for doing what was right for her."

Boris reached out and put his hand on Melody's knee, and they locked eyes. He smiled sweetly.

"But I want to see you get better, be what I couldn't, and perhaps that's selfishly vicarious of me, but...I think you are capable of it," Boris said, "of being something greater than your sadness. I wasn't able to escape it, but I think you can. I believe in you."

Melody put her arms around Boris and hugged him tightly, making him laugh. Nobody, in her entire life, had ever once told her they'd believed in her, and it was the one thing she needed to hear the most. Most people, if anything, had done the opposite, wearing her down instead of building her up. Most people had given her grief. Boris had given her hope.

Hope, and a wheelchair.

Chrissy had finished lunch and was now headed to her next class. She'd shuffled all her trash to the nearest bin, then gathered up her things and was heading down the hallway. Her next class wasn't for about fifteen minutes still, but she liked that. It'd give her a chance to check up on her homework, make sure everything was in order, and nothing was incorrect. As she walked down the hall looking at her textbook, knowing she also had a test today, she couldn't help but think about how much her life had changed in the last year or so. She was at a nice school, with friends, and her family was back together, actually working hard to be a family. She felt lucky. Chrissy looked up and stopped dead in her tracks. There, sitting on a bench in the hallway, was Boris, with a wrapped gift in his lap. She smiled and approached him.

"Hey," Boris said, coughing, "sorry to come so unannounced, but I really wanted to give you something. How long do you have until your next class?"

"...who cares," Chrissy said, "this is more important."

Boris laughed. That's the girl he remembered helping raise.

                                                                                                            ***

"How about this one?" Whittle asked, and Father Krickett stopped at a coffin, running his hands down it, feeling the wood grain. He sneered and pulled his hands away, giving the very visual impression her didn't approve of it. Whittle sighed and they continued further into the mortuary, looking at all the available coffins. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

"This doesn't feel real," he said.

"You of all poeple shouldn't feel strange in a place like this, considering how adjacent you are to it on a regular basis via your career," Whittle said.

"Yeah, sure, but that doesn't make it easier when it hits so close to home," Father Krickett said, "I don't know, Reggie, the whole thing just feels like it isn't happening, like it's some fucked up dream I keep hoping I'll wake up from. I know it isn't. I know that's wishful thinking, but..."

He stopped and looked at a nearby casket, one with black ivory handles and gold trim across the front. He felt his eyes tear up, and he bit his lip. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked over at Whittle.

"Hey," she said, "I have a lot of experience in helping people deal with their grief, so if you need to talk about it-"

"What would ever give you the impression I wanted to talk about it?" John asked, "seriously, I'm doing my best to avoid thinking about it and not engaging whatsoever, and you think I wanna talk about it?"

"It's happening whether you acknowledge it or not," Whittle said, "John, it's going to happen."

"Let's just keep looking," Father Krickett said, continuing down the hall. Whittle sighed and followed from behind at a near distance. She knew he didn't want to accept Boris was dying, but at some point he was going to have to, and when that time came...she just hoped he didn't regret denying it for so long.

                                                                                                             ***

"How're things going?" Boris asked as he and Chrissy sat on the bench in the hall.

"It's good!" Chrissy said, "Actually I'm really happy here. I do miss you guys though. My parents don't even want me to see you. They say it's healthier if I just act as though nothing happened, which, of course, isn't healthy, but whatever. What do parents know."

"That's the spirit!" Boris said, laughing, "I'm glad you're doing well. I was so worried that after they took you away you wouldn't manage to adjust, and you'd just...collapse. But I can see now you're stronger than that."

"I was sad," Chrissy said, "devastated, actually. Being torn away from you guys after so long...that sucked."

"I'm sure. I didn't like it either."

"Then why didn't you come see me sooner?" Chrissy asked, looking at him, and Boris exhaled. He knew he'd have to answer this question eventually, he just...he didn't want to. She'd already lost him once. Then again, perhaps the distance would help to create a barrier that would help her not feel so bad. He looked at his shoes, his fingertips tapping on the gift in his lap.

"There's...a handful of reasons, most bad, but...uh," Boris said, struggling to say it, "...phew, um. I'm sick. I'm very sick. I'm...I likely don't have much more than a few weeks left, maybe a month or so. I had to come see you now, and I'm sorry I didn't before. It's just hard when you're focusing on the end of your life."

The hall filled with silence, as Chrissy looked at her hands in her lap.

"You're dying?" she asked softly.

"Yes," Boris said, "but! I came here to give you something."

With that, he picked up and put the gift from his lap into hers. Chrissy looked at it, a bit confused, before looking back at Boris, who just smiled weakly at her. For the first time since she'd known him, she finally saw his oldness. This elderly face. Boris wasn't going to be here much longer.

"It's not much, but...it means a lot to me, and so do you," Boris said, "so I want you to have it."

Chrissy carefully unwrapped the gift, then stopped, a confused look on her face.

"It's a book," she said.

"It's much more than a book," Boris said, "it's my book."

"The one you published?" Chrissy asked, "Couldn't I just get that at the store?"

"No, not that one. This is from long before that," Boris said, and that got her interest.

                                                                                                        ***

Father Krickett had stopped at a totally black casket, with bright hold lining on the outside and inlayed golden flower details on the front all the way down to the bottom. He sucked on his teeth and put his hands on it, admiring its smoothness. Whittle was nearby, looking at a different one, but he tried to ignore her proximity. A man who worked there, presumably to sell these coffins and grave spots, approached her, and John could hear them talking but he did his best to tune it out.

Boris. Underground. Nonexistant. He couldn't fathom this.

The idea that the last few years he'd spent of his life with this man would suddenly cease to be, that the man in question would no longer be around, that scared the hell out of him. Why did he continue to lose the most important parts of himself? His boyfriend. His brother. His Boris. Anytime, it seemed, he allowed himself to love something, something took it away. It wasn't fair and, quite frankly, he was sick of the universe not playing fairly. John rested his hand on the top of the black casket, the coolness of the wood calming him down. Maybe he too should go away. Maybe he and Boris should go together.

What was he thinking. He was a priest and here he was, contemplating suicide. Absurd. He, of all people, shouldn't even begin to debate whether or not life was worth living, but when you love someone so much and they go away...it feels like life isn't worth living. John sighed and rubbed his eyes with his other hand. Frustrated. He was frustrated at his lack of crucial thinking as of late. God. Boris. Either way an old man was dictating his life, and he was beginning to grow infuriated at the fact. Whittle suddenly stopped by his side and sighed.

"He said that we don't have to pay everything upfront," she said, "he knows how costly funerary expenses are, and-"

"I shouldn't be doing this," John said, sounding on the verge of a panic attack.

"He literally asked you be the one to do it," Whittle replied.

"I know, and that's the only reason I am, sticking to my word, but," John said, refusing to look at her, "...but I don't think it's right. I don't think people so close to the soon to be deceased should be the ones making these decisions. It's too difficult. It's too painful. I shouldn't be planning for his death. I should be appreciating his life. I feel so confused."

Whittle nodded, listening. John turned and leaned against the casket, looking out at all the others, crossing his arms. He took a long breath, like he was trying not to cry, and then he wiped his face on his shoulder sleeve. Whittle took the same position, if only because she didn't know what else to do with her body at this point. She figured she'd just wait for him to say something, anything, before trying to resume communication.

"You never think it comes for you," John said quietly, "even after you've experienced it, you still are naive enough to believe that you're untouchable, that the people you love are immortal. But you're always wrong. And it always comes back. You can't stop it and you can't slow it down. It comes with the full force of a wrecking ball, because that's what it does, it wrecks things. He shouldn't be dying. He shouldn't be able to be dead. I can't...I can't lose him too."

Whittle nodded, putting her hand on his back and rubbing. She didn't exactly know what to say, she just knew that she should be here for him. John was clearly struggling with some complicates issues regarding morality. After a few moments of silence, she opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

"What kind of God wants to take people away from people they love, that's so selfish," John said, "I've spent my life dedicated to a greedy selfish being who just takes what they want and always asks for more, like a spoiled child. What am I even preaching at  this point? To give in to the delusional whims of a self appointed maniacal power hungry overseer? Why should anyone follow that?"

Whittle was surprised. She certainly hadn't expected John to start speaking ill of his religion.

"...maybe this is just Gods way of telling me it's okay to let go," John said, "of Boris...and religion."

Whittle chewed her lip. She didn't know what to say. What do you say to someone who's not only losing the person closest to them, but the thing they most believe as well? There's no Hallmark card for that situation.

                                                                                                         ***

Chrissy slowly opened the book and started to flip through it, its pages delicate and all the words appearing handwritten. She didn't really understand what exactly it was Boris had gifted her. After turning through a handful of sections, she finally stopped, closed the book again and looked back at him.

"I don't...I don't get it," she said.

"I wrote poetry my whole life," Boris said, "ever since I was a little boy, I've written poetry. It was a form of release I always turned to when things got their worst, or when I felt the best. I wrote poems for others, for myself, for special occasions. Whatever. This book is all of those. I compiled everything and took it to my publisher and asked them to make this one copy. It's the only one that exists, and it's all the poetry I ever wrote that didn't get published in that other book. I wanted you to have it."

Chrissy looked back down at the book and ran her hands across it's smooth, black cover with the gold indented titling.

"You...you want me to have this?" she asked, "Why? Why not your daughter or Whittle or-"

"Because the one thing I screwed up most in my life was raising my daughter, and you gave me a chance to make up for that. I know it wasn't perfect. I know I messed up a few times. I recently finished a bucket list that Carol made me do, and...and it was easy to make those ammends, but the one thing I never could fix was the one thing I wanted to fix the most, and you allowed me to do that just by being in my life. I tried so hard to do right by you, because I did so wrong by her."

Chriss smiled and opened the book back up, then stopped. On the first page was a dedication that simply read "To Chrissy, love Boris. You can do anything." She bit her lip and started to tear up. Boris really had been there for her when she needed someone, and proven to her that the adults around her were capable of caring about the kids in their lives. Hell, his interferance might've been what convinced her parents to get their shit together so she could have a home again. She really did feel like she owed him a lot more than she'd given back.

"I wish you weren't dying," Chrissy said, "it'd be nice to be able to see you more."

"I wish I weren't dying either, believe me," Boris replied, making her laugh as he added, "but I'm here right now. That's what matters. I was never where I needed to be when I was needed, but I'm here right now. I was there for you when you needed someone. That has to count for something. If I screwed up everything else in my life, I can at least comfort myself with the truth that I didn't screw things up for you."

"You sure didn't," Chrissy said, hugging him. Boris stroked her hair and shut his eyes, wanting to cry; Chrissy whispered, "I had the best time living with you guys."

"Having you with us was the happiest time of my life, thank you," Boris mumbled through his tears.

Chrissy didn't make it to her next class. The way she saw it, school would always be there.

Boris wouldn't be.

                                                                                                          ***

"You look like hell," Boris said, entering the diner and seating himself across from John, who was drinking coffee. He was wearing a turtleneck and black slacks. After his day out with Whittle, he needed to change into something, anything, that wasn't related to the church. John scratched his forehead and sipped from his mug.

"You don't look too good yourself," he replied.

"Yeah but I'm old and decrepit, that's expected of me," Boris said, making John smirk; Boris asked, "what did you do today?"

"Went shopping for coffins," John said, "...for you. Found a few you might like, but wanted you to see them first. Figured you should have a say, considering you'll be inside it for eternity."

"I'll be inside it for a maximum of however long it takes me to decay, and then I'll go somewhere else," Boris said.

This statement struck John between the eyes. Boris, talking spiritually? That he'd never expected.

"Are you saying you're eager to moving onto the afterlife?" John asked, folding his arms on the table.

"I'm saying that life was so hard, whatever comes next can't possible be as brutal. If anything, it's a reprieve. I should embrace that. Jenn told Whittle once about how she views the afterlife as The Inevitable Whatever, becase frankly she doesn't know what comes next and, frankly, it doesn't matter. It is what it is and what's done is done. We have no choice but to endure the next thing that the universe throws at us. I wouldn't say I'm excited, and even eager is probably too strong a word, but I can't say I'm not curious. I'm not Leanne curious, but I'm curious."

"...I've been questioning my faith a lot," John whispered, looking down at the table.

"Good," Boris said, "question everything. That's the one thing this society convinces you not to do, so you should absolutely do it. Just because you question something doesn't mean you inherently disbelieve it. You're looking for contextualization. Rationalization. Not proof of it being wrong. Kids get told not to talk back to parents, adults get told not to give grief to authority figures, religious people get told not to wonder about God, but in reality, questioning is the most human thing one can do. Question it all, John. Never stop questioning."

John smiled, nodding. Boris was right. Just because he saw inconsistancies, oddities, things that didn't match up, didn't mean he couldn't still believe. Faith was faith regardless of questioning, and if anything, the fact he still believed in his faith, unshaken from it at the end of the questioning, only proved how powerful it was. John picked up his mug and took a long sip.

"So lemme see these coffins," Boris said.

"Alright but I gotta tell ya, they're pretty gaudy," John said.

"Eh, I didn't splurge much while I was alive, why not go out in style," Boris replied.

So the two men sat together, looking over the photos John had taken of the various coffins, discussing what they each thought about them. Because Boris had been right, when he'd talked to Chrissy. He might be dead soon. There was no avoiding The Inevitable Whatever. But the fact of the matter was right now, he was right here, and he might as well have some fun with the time he had left with the people he loved most.

Those are the moments they'll remember forever.

"It's supposed to be stuff you'd never have done otherwise," Carol said, "things that you might've been interested in doing or scared to do, but now are willing to, given the circumstances."

"Why though?" Boris asked, "why's it got to be things I wouldn't have done otherwise? Why can't it just be simplistic, mundane acts? Why does everything have to be so grandiose?"

Boris and Carol were seated in Carol's office at the home, Carol behind her desk and Boris in a chair off to the side of the wall, his legs crossed, a clipboard with paper on it resting on his lap as he tapped a pen against the arm of the chair. Lately he'd been spending a lot of time at Carol's office simply so he didn't have to be at home around Whittle, and make her feel more uncomfortable with the fact of what was happening to him. Carol picked up her mug and sipped her tea.

"Because your life is ending," Carol said flatly, "that's why. That's when the grandiose becomes acceptable. Try to do these things beforehand in perfectly good health and people just call you crazy. Do them at deaths door and suddenly you're a hero, living life to its fullest."

"There's a rarely seen double standard for you," Boris muttered, making her laugh.

"I don't think enough people acknowledge how actually terrifying facing down the barrel of mortality is," Carol said, "they don't want to, and why should they. Nobody wants to admit they're not going to live forever. Nobody wants to accept that nonexistence is the longest stretch of time. So nobody thinks about these things. But that being said, in the moment, in the face of utter uncertainty, your bravado is what's rewarded. People who go silently into that good night certainly aren't remembered."

Boris nodded slowly, chewing on the end of the pen as the door to the office opened and Burt walked in. He shut the door behind him then leaned against it and wiped his arm across his brow.

"It's hot as hell in here," Burt said, "any room I'm in, I start sweating."

"Yeah, the air conditioner needs to be fixed," Carol said, "I've been meaning to get that dealt with. The whole system is down."

"Maybe I could put that on my bucket list, become air conditioner repair man. Actually learn an employable skill before I expire," Boris said.

"You could install a unit in your coffin, have it temperature controlled for a peaceful rest," Carol said, smirking. Burt seated himself beside Boris and Boris handed him his list. Burt looked down the list while Boris looked back towards Carol, tapping the pen on the arm of the chair.

"So what do you genuinely suggest I do?" Boris asked, and Carol looked up from her paperwork.

"You really wanna know?" she asked, smiling.

                                                                                                      ***

Ellen was sitting with Miranda in a restaurant having lunch. Miranda had a client to get to after work, and Ellen had to get back to the office, but they tried to have lunch every day even with their schedules. They felt that private time together that wasn't strictly in the evening was important. Ellen was drinking from her cup while Miranda explained her latest client.

"I just can't stand that other people in my profession are like 'well they have to WANT to get better in order to do so!', like, that's such a sickening mindset, putting all the pressure on the person who's already struggling. It's like saying nobody will love you if you don't love yourself first. Gross. Way to make someone feel even worse than they already do. I can promise you that I've been loved even at my absolute lowest when I hated myself," Miranda said, stabbing at her pasta, frustrated; she tossed her bangs from her eyes, exhaled and added, "it's just sad. This is supposed to be a profession where we help others, not judge them for not doing better quicker."

"It sounds gross," Ellen replied, "I agree, that isn't right at all. And it's weird that it varies so drastically depending on the condition. Like, for example, when I was unable to walk, people knew that that was something I had no choice in. I was just in a wheelchair. End of story. But then, when I was trying to regain my memory, some of the people working with me would get frustrated for not managing to make progress at a faster rate. It's strange that other peoples expectations of your abilities changes depending on what your disability is."

The chair beside Ellen pulled out, and Boris seated himself, surprising both of them with his presence.

"Hi dad," Ellen said, smiling, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

"What are we talking about?" Boris asked, picking up a piece of bread and spreading butter on it.

"The medical professions complete inability to respect the very people they claim to care for," Miranda said.

"Wow, you don't sound bitter or anything, good on you," Boris remarked, making her laugh.

"It's just gross," Miranda said, "I spent so much of my life getting my degrees, getting the skills and ability, and then I have to stand and watch others in the same field - others who've been in this field for far longer than I and thus should know better - have no compassion for the people they're supposed to be helping."

"I'm old, and so that means I'm gonna give you advice whether you want it or not," Boris said, wiping his hands together, "here's a cold, hard, sad fact of life...people, more often than not, don't care about one another, especially those in your line of work. As someone who's spent a lot of time with so called 'medical professionals', yeah, you're not wrong about their attitudes. We're more often seen as a nuisance than anything else. And while that's so sad, it also is a good thing, because by recognizing that's how most people are...you can strive to be better. To not be like them."

Miranda nodded slowly, taking it all in. She hadn't spent much time with Boris, admittedly, but she was beginning to feel sad that she wouldn't get to either. Here she was, preparing to marry his daughter, and yet she'd never really get to fully know the complexity of the man who helped bring her into this world.

"I try," Miranda said, "I try very hard to be different from that. I care about my patients on such a deep level that...that it feels like I'm somehow the outsider, and maybe that's because I am, and that's sad. But at least I can walk away with the moral superiority of that fact."

"That's the spirit," Boris said, smiling as they continued eating. One thing he'd put on his list had now been scratched out. Spend some time with his family.

                                                                                                           ***

Lorraine was sitting at her kitchen table, going over bills, when she heard the front door open. She cautiously turned towards the doorway of the kitchen, because who enters a home uninvited, before she saw Boris appear and she then felt fine again. Lorraine smiled at him as he seated himself, looking at the papers she had laid out before her.

"Nice of you to drop by," she said, "I was thinking of calling you up and-"

"I wanna tell you how sorry I am," Boris said, "I know I've said it before, but...facing the end, now, makes me really realize how necessary it is for me to take full responsibility for everything that happened in our lives as a direct result of my actions."

Lorraine nodded, set her pen down, and stood up. She headed to the kitchen area and opened the fridge, pulling out a tupperware housing a cake inside it, and set it on the table, removing the lid, before retrieving two forks and two small plates from a nearby drawer and cabinet, respectively. She handed one of each to Boris, then sat back down as they each cut themselves a slice.

"Well," Boris said, chewing, "I know it's the right thing to do, but I don't necessarily think it deserves a treat."

Lorraine smirked as she poked at hers, and said, "when I was young, my mother always told me to deal with bad situations with good food. When my grandmother died, I came home from school that afternoon and she'd already baked a pie, and I learned why it was called comfort food from that point on. Needless to say, she wasn't wrong."

Boris smiled as she scooped some cake into his mouth and chewed. Lorraine sighed and shook her head.

"Feels like it's over before it starts, doesn't it? Life, I mean. You finally start to want to change, to do more, be different, and then it's over, before you even have the chance. Course, you did get the chance. You're much different than you were a few years ago. Almost unrecognizable, even. I'm proud of you, I hope you know that."

"I do, and I'm thankful," Boris said, "but I didn't do it for recognition. I did it because, at a certain point, you realize that you want to change because you want to change. Because you dislike the person you were and realize they aren't who you want to be remembered as. I think that's what was so admirable to me about Polly. She just...knew who she was and didn't let anything change that. She spit in the face of convention. It was something to appreciate. I wanted to be like that, to know who I was with such certainty, and be proud of it, that nobody could convince me otherwise."

Lorraine smiled as she rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist.

"She meant a lot to you, didn't she?" Lorraine asked, and Boris smiled.

"She really did."

"You think you loved her?"

"I mean, I did, but not like that," Boris said, "no. I think...I think the thing I've come to recognize myself the most - which may or may not be partially in thanks to her, ironically - is that I don't really like women all that much. I think I married you because I felt pressured to. Don't get me wrong, I love you. I do. That was never fake. But you're probably the only woman I could ever really feel that way for. There was a woman at the home for a bit, her name was Leanne, but I think she just reminded me of you. If it had been a different time, if I had been a different person...I think I'd have been like Polly. To watch Ellen be herself, that feels somewhat vindicating. Talk about living vicariously, right?"

Lorraine laughed and nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. She didn't need to say anything in response, and he didn't need to say anything more. They had known one another for slong that they understood eachother, often better than they understood themselves. In the end, all Boris wanted was to be a better man for the women he had hurt, and he felt like he'd finally accomplished that. After the visit, Boris climbed into Polly's gremlin and scratched off the next item on his list. Make peace with his wife. Something he'd done a while ago, but something he felt was truly finished now.

Onto the next item on the list.

                                                                                                        ***

Father Krickett was sitting in his office with his legs up on the desk when the door opened and Boris entered. John smiled and waved at him as Boris put his hands in his pockets and paced around the room, admiring it. He had only visited John's office a few times before, so it was still somewhat new to him.

"That's not very professional of you," he said, pointing towards John's legs.

"Well, to be fair, I don't really work in a business where professionalism is highly sought after," John remarked, "I mean, who's my boss? God. You think he's gonna fire me for being a little too relaxed in the office?"

Boris chuckled and pulled a seat over to the desk, sitting down.

"What're you doing here anyway?" John asked.

"I've been going through the day scratching things off a bucket list. Went and saw my daughter, went and saw my wife. Figure I should come see you next. See what you've been up to today, besides casually lounging on Gods furniture."

"Just cause it's in his house doesn't make it his furniture. I paid for it," John said, smirking, lifting his drink to his lips; after finishing, he set his mug back down on the table and asked, "so, what's it been like, wrapping up unfinished business? Or is that just something ghosts have?"

"Wouldn't know, not a ghost, but when I am, I'll ask one and let you know," Boris said, "either way it's been...interesting. It's...it's kind of hard to reconcile your mortality when it's not directly in your face, and when you're doing things that spit in its presence. I'm out here, living life, giving my time to others, instead of preparing to be six feet under. I think death finds that somewhat insulting, despite knowing he'll get me in the end."

John nodded, chewing on the end of his pen. He then pulled his legs off the desk and sat upright, leaning forward a bit.

"You don't think, perhaps, this bucket list is just a way to avoid the things you don't want to actually face? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm proud of you for facing up to other truths that may be uncomfortable, but...maybe you should focus on what's coming up. All you've done today so far for this list, it seems like, is be there for others. Why not be there for yourself?"

Boris sighed and crossed his legs, looking up at a nearby stained glass window of a beautiful female angel in a robe.

"I, uh...I don't know that I can," Boris said, his voice cracking, as he sniffled, "I don't know that I can openly acknowledge it further than I already have. I don't want to think about it."

"It's gonna happen whether you wanna think about it or not," John said, shrugging, "Boris, think about it like this. I know you're not a God fearing man, but just allow me the chance to propose this to you, even as a hypothetical. We're mean to worship God, right? Praise him, love him, accept him into our hearts? Our salvation, as they put it. But we're also told that we're made in God's image. If that's the case, there's nothing wrong loving ourselves, because we're part of God. We can be our own salvation at the same time. We just...we just need to allow ourselves the chance."

Boris looked down at the floor, now crying. John was taken aback, he hadn't expected Boris to come into his office unannounced, much less break down. Boris buried his face in his hands and exhaled, as he spoke between sobs.

"It isn't fair," Boris said.

"What isn't fair?" John asked, getting up from his chair and walking around to the front of the desk, sitting on it in front of Boris now; he continued, "what? To have you die like this?"

"To have me live like this," Boris mumbled, "to...to go through an entire lifetime and never once be satisfied. That isn't to insinuate that I'm not happy with having helped make my daughter, or the friendships I've forged, but...everything...everything I've ever done has been for the benefit of others, and while that's not a bad thing necessarily, it also...it isn't fair. I never got to be me. Born at the wrong place in the wrong time. You're young, you have the chance. Ellen is young, she has a chance. But me...people from my generation...we weren't really given the chance. We missed the boat by a handful of years. And while some managed to live their truths brazenly, flying in the face of societal heternormativity, like Polly, most of us were simply too scared to do the same."

John nodded, listening, his hands cupped in his lap, his heart breaking.

"So right now, all I want to do is finish my bucket list," Boris said, finally looking up at John, his old, weathered face stained with tears, adding, "and just say that, of all the people I've ever met, have ever known, none have done so good for my soul as you. And not because you're a priest. But simply because you're a man like me. And I don't mean that in a masculinity sense. I mean-"

"I know what you mean, Boris," John whispered, reaching out and holding the old mans hands in his, massaging gently, "I know what you mean, it's okay."

Boris leaned in and buried his face in John's chest, as John held him and stroked his back. They sat there in the priests office, two men, separated by a generation but brought together by sexuality. John nodded, thinking about it. It wasn't fair, he wasn't wrong. And just as much as Boris didn't want to die, John didn't want him to die either. Neither one wanted to face the inevitable eventuality that was rearing its ugly head, soon to descend upon them in full force. But right now they had this. Right now they had love. And that was comfort enough.

                                                                                                         ***

Carol was sitting at her desk, still finishing up paperwork. It was almost 11pm now, and she had hoped to be done a few hours ago. She grumbled, frustrated, and finished one page, then flipped to a new one when her office door and Boris entered. She checked her watch and then set her pen down.

"What are you doing here? It's so late," Carol said.

Boris shut the door behind him and approached the desk.

"Boris?" Carol asked.

"...thank you," Boris whispered, sniffling, "thanks for the bucket list ideas. Thank you for forcing me to do something. Are you still working?"

"Yeah, a lot of insurance paperwork for various things," Carol said.

"Can I just...stay here, until you're done?" Boris asked, "frankly, there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Carol smiled and nodded. Boris pulled a chair to the opposite side of the desk and sat down as Carol picked up her pen and continued. Boris pulled his hat off and set it in his lap.

"I love you, Carol," Boris said.

"I love you too, Boris," Carol replied.

The place hadn't really changed.

The exterior might be painted a different color, a more modern front porch and up to date windows, but overall, the house looked the exact same as the last time Boris had been here, which was...hell, he couldn't even recall. Had it really been that long, or was his memory just getting that bad that quickly? As he, John, Whittle and Jenn got out of the car and approached the house, Whittle taking the lead, Boris couldn't help but feel somewhat embarrassed. He didn't particularly want the others here, just John. Whittle knocked on the door, and a man in his early fourties opened it. He was wearing loafers, a light blue button down shirt and brown slacks. He smiled at her politely, as if he'd met her before.

"Hi," Whittle said, "I'm a hospice nurse, and this man," she motioned towards Boris coming up behind them, "is my patient, and he's...he's had a stroke, and he doesn't have much time left, and we were hoping to maybe get into the house to help him gain peace. See, this is where he grew up and-"

"Absolutely," the man said, happily stepping aside, allowing them all entrance. Boris was surprised. That had been far easier than he'd expected it to be. As the man stepped out of their way and the group entered, Boris immediately transported back in time, but...not in the way he wanted. He stumbled going over the threshold, and felt John stabilize him as they continued inside.

"Wow," Boris said, "this place looks almost identical."

"Yeah, we're big about keeping stuff true to form," the man said, "I'm Roger, by the way."

Roger held out his hand and everyone shook it gladly, just as another man entered from the kitchen, finishing drying a glass cup. Everyone turned to look at him.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Wallace, this is..." Roger said.

"Uh, I'm Father John Krickett, and this is Boris. He grew up here," John said, "we're just coming back for some closure before his death."

"Ah, well, welcome back then," Wallace said, smiling as he headed back into the kitchen.

"So, you've kept the interior original?" John asked, as he and Boris walked a bit away further into the house with Roger.

"Well, we've had to open things up to modernize, you know, fix plumbing, electrical, but otherwise yeah," Roger said, putting his hands in his pants pockets as they headed into the hallway, "it's basically the same house as it was when you lived here, more or less."

Boris could hear them talking, but he wasn't really listening. All his focus was being pulled towards his old bedroom. He stopped in the hallway and stared at the door, before reaching out and putting his hand on the knob and turning it slowly. The door opened, and Boris reached inside the room, feeling around on the wall for a light switch. Once flicked, the room flooded with light, and Boris had to squint momentarily in order to see. It looked exactly the same, except for the furniture. Boris stepped inside and stood in the middle of the room, before noticing Jenn was standing beside him.

"Does it make you nostalgic?" she asked, "Sometimes when I visit my parents, I go to my old bedroom, it makes me nostalgic, wanting to be young again."

"You are young," Boris replied, smirking, "but no, not particularly. I wouldn't give up my age for another shot at life. What's done is done. It's written in the history books now. My time here is over. It's just nice to see it again. Makes life feel very circular."

John entered, as Jenn backed out with Whittle, conversing with the men who owned the home. Boris reached back and shut the door, as if wanting privacy. He then approached the desk in the room and reached out, touching it, as John walked towards the bed and sat down, glancing around the room with some regularity.

"It all feels so distant and yet so recent," Boris whispered, his fingers on the vintage oak desktop, "...a whole other lifetime ago, but...but it doesn't feel like that. Isn't that strange? An entire life condensed to a few memories, feeling less like years and more like seconds? They say you blink and you miss it. That it all goes so fast. Doesn't feel fast when it's happening, but then...then you reach the end and you wonder where it all went."

John crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap, listening as Boris walked to the window and felt the curtains.

"I can remember being a young boy in this room," Boris continued, "reading, listening to the radio, writing poetry. Never ocurred to me then that I might leave it someday, never to return. But...I guess that's what life is, right? Loss? Acceptance of that loss?"

"I don't think that's true," John said, "I think life is about many things. Certainly loss is one of them, but it isn't the primary. A range of emotions is necessary, not just honing in on one in particular. If you only focus on one, you're not fully living life to its capacity."

Boris nodded, listening, but not responding. He could remember being a young boy, spending long summer days in this room, reading or writing or listening to the radio. He could almost envision it so clearly and he was amazed at how vivid the imagery of something from so long ago could still be in his head, as if it had just happened yesterday. Finally he turned back, leaning against the desk for support, and looking at John.

"It's only natural to want to see the beginning at the end," John said, shrugging.

"What if there is no beginning or end? What if there's just one line line that never starts or finishes? That's how time works anyway, right? And we're all just living on times watch, so...my life is merely a portion of that. My life isn't significant enough to warrant its own timeline, its own start or completion. It's nothing more than a millisecond in an eternity. Ridding yourself of a beginning and end...that opens you up to a whole new world of thinking, like...maybe, in some way, you're immortal."

"The only person who's immortal is God," John said, smirking, and Boris chuckled.

"So far," Boris replied.

Out in the kitchen, Jenn and Whittle were seated with Roger, eating crackers, while Wallace continued to do the dishes. Jenn was looking around the kitchen and taking it all in. Modernity housed in age. A beautiful, simplistic thing. She sighed. This was what she wanted. She didn't mind giving part of her life to the church, helping others find their path and keeping them on track, but...she wanted this. She wanted the home, in the suburb, with Whittle. She was just scared to find out if it was something Whittle wanted too.

"You guys did a spectacular job," Whittle said, crossing her legs as she sat in her chair, "like, seriously, this place is gorgeous."

"Well, we both grew up in cities, and wanted something a little more cozy than that, especially if we wanna have a family at some point," Roger said, cutting some cheese and placing it onto a cracker before eating it and adding, "don't get me wrong, a city can be a great place for a child to grow up too, exposing them to people and viewpoints they might be shielded from elsewhere, but we have a very specific lifestyle in mind."

Jenn smiled and nodded, before clearing her throat.

"Do you..." she started, "...how did you..."

She looked towards Whittle, their eyes meeting, and Jenn got nervous, stopped speaking and excused herself, much to Whittle's confusion. Jenn stepped outside into the backyard and took in a few deep breaths. She wanted her future now, not later. But moving too fast ran the risk of scaring people off, and she didn't want to scare Whittle off. She saw a beautiful rose garden in the backyard, with a koi fountain as a centerpiece, and approached it. She knelt down and dripped her fingertips in the water, giggling as the fish came up and nibbled at them weakly. Whether it was love or it was comfort from religion, she knew the things she wanted...she just didn't know how to get them.

Back in the bedroom, Boris, now seated on the bed beside John, looked at his hands in his lap and sighed.

"My whole life," Boris said, "I was running away from things that I didn't know how to handle. Only too late before I learned how to deal with them, too late to deal with them, and in the end it feels like because of that, perhaps I haven't lived at all. You're lucky, John, you discovered what you wanted early on and you went for it. It might've been driven by tragedy, but you did the opposite of me, you ran towards it, not away from it. I shielded myself. You opened yourself. That's the inherent difference between us."

"That's one inherent difference, certainly, but don't speak on my behalf as if my tragedy was any less traumatic," John retorted, "because, God knows, it wasn't. I lost the man that I loved, and I had nobody to blame but myself for it. Others turn to blame God, I turned to God for forgiveness. I accepted the fault, and asked God to show me how to go on. Does that make me stronger? That's not really for me to say. Others opinions mean more than my own in regards to my actions. I'm the last person who should ever be able to accurately judge the things I do. But it did give me strength, wisdom, perspective. Experience, even if it comes from the worst things, is still experience, and it can be shared to help others."

"I wonder what I would've been like," Boris said, "had I given in. Had I...had I not run."

John shifted and looked at Boris, confused. Boris sighed and reached up, rubbing his eyes, groaning.

"I always knew I wasn't like every other man around me," Boris said, "I always knew that, inside, there were differences. Most of the men I grew up around were tough, were strong, were upfront with their masculinity. I hid mine. I receded into myself because I knew I didn't have the same things they did. I didn't care about sports, I didn't care about sleeping around, I cared about poetry. I cared about..."

A moment, Boris paused, and slowly exhaled.

"I cared about David Morgan," Boris finished, and this got John's attention.

"Who is David Morgan?" John asked.

"David Morgan was a boy who grew up a few blocks away from me," Boris said, "we went to the same school, and we became friends. David was also not like your other typical boys, we shared a lot of the same interests, scholarly pursuits, hence why the friendship blossomed as well as it did. We used to ride our bikes to the library and try to find unknown poets, discover new writing together, and sometimes we even wrote poetry together. He liked painting, so I tried my hand at it, and we took painting classes downtown at a local gallery. I was never very good, but David was great. He gave me a painting for my birthday one year, and I still have it. I gave him poetry, and he loved it. It was a friendship built on mutual respect for the arts, and for our differences that set us apart from the others, but gave us hope with eachother."

"That's really beautiful, Boris," John said, smiling.

"And then David met a woman," Boris said, "our first year of college. He met this woman named Patricia, and she was nice, she was a lovely person. They too shared similar interests. But I...I couldn't bring myself to let anyone else have him, especially not in the ways that we had shared for so long. It felt like being replaced. So I repressed my anger, my resentment, and instead I tried to date as well. It never went very well, but...I tried. But every single time I would be out with some new girl, even if we did get along which we often would at least to some extent or another, the whole time I was thinking to myself 'I could be having this conversation with David'. That scared me. I was from a generation that wasn't supposed to accept that. So I didn't. I kept it away and..."

Boris sniffled, tears forming in his eyes, his voice cracking. John reached out and put his hand on Boris's back.

"...and after a while, I just sort of managed to ignore it best I could," Boris said, "met my wife, had a child, had a life. An entire life, being someone I wasn't. And I managed to stay that way, that hidden, until I met you. You fucking ruined everything."

"My bad," John said playfully, shrugging,  both men chuckling.

"These men who now own my childhood home together," Boris said, still crying, "they...they probably do realize it, but it's easier for me if I believe that they don't realize how good they have it. How lucky they are to be able to be who they are and do what they do. I wasn't given that option. So I hope they appreciate it, as I'm sure they do. Another time...another place...had we been the same age...this could've been us."

John's heart dropped, and he now felt like he wanted to cry too. He knew that in a few short months, maybe less, the man sitting beside him would be dead, and once again, a man he loved would exit his life. John looked down at his shoes and sighed softly, trying not to cry, when he felt Boris take his hand in his own and squeeze it gently, and then John had no chance. The tears came. Quietly, but they came.

"In all my years of earnestness, I've been blessed with the ability, to quietly manage to finesse, a sense of true senility. Always acting like a fool, pretend I don't see what is around me, my false dementia is a tool, that continues to ground me. I can live with the acknowledgement that nothing else may be true, but the one thing I have to acknowledge is how I feel for you."

John looked up at Boris, who was still looking out at the room.

"That was the poem I gave him," Boris said, "and he never gave any inclination that he truly understood the subtext, but I like to think he did. I like to think we both felt the same way, if only because unrequited love is so very tragic. It was his poem, but I'm giving it to you now."

Boris finally turned his head and looked at John, the two staring at one another for what felt like minutes. Neither saying a word, both barely breathing, as if to live would ruin the moment. John then hugged Boris tightly, and Boris laughed, hugging him back, patting him on the back. Boris looked around the room while they hugged, and he smiled. His time might be over...but this house still had so much left to see.

Meanwhile, out in the garden, Jenn, who was now sitting on the edge of the pond, her fingertips trailing gently at its surface, heard the screen door shut and looked up to see Whittle approaching. Whittle sat down as well and sighed as she finished the last cracker she'd brought with her from the kitchen.

"We should probably get going soon," Whittle said, "give these guys their house back for the day."

"Would you want this?" Jenn asked, surprising even herself with her sudden question, "...with me?"

Whittle smiled and put her hand on Jenn's knee, causing her to blush.

"Someday," Whittle said, "that sounds nice. Once Boris is gone, I certainly won't want to live in the apartment anymore, between Chrissy and him, it'll just be full of sad memories. I think I'd like to stay in the city for a while still. But someday, definitely. I'd love to own a home, be able to say I have my own place."

Whittle then put her hands on Jenn's shoulders, causing Jenn to look at her.

"...and there's nobody else I'd wanna do that with than you," Whittle finished, leaning in and kissing her. Roger and Wallace watched from the windows, smiling to themselves. This house was a safe place, because they'd made it that way, and they were happy to share that safety with those like them who needed it. The world was such a wreck, it only made sense to give comfort where they could to those who required. After all, what even was life without helping others?

That's what drove John and Jenn to the church, after all.