Homecoming
Bill decides to go to the funeral because, he figures, it’s the polite thing to do.
Word travels fast in a small town and, despite not receiving a direct invitation, he knows the time and place three days prior to the ceremony itself. He also knows he doesn’t need a direct invitation - be it a casual BBQ or traditional holiday dinner, his neighbors had always extended the invitation to anyone who would come, even relatives and friends who were visiting someone else in town.
Bill’s parents had taken him over once when the neighbors first moved in (it was the polite thing to do, after all,) and it had been absolutely overwhelming.
In high school, Bill tried again on his own; he attended a party the neighbors were throwing for their son’s 16th birthday. He’d lasted less than an hour before escaping outside and never quite recovered the nerve to go back in.
Frank had found him later anyway. Bill will never forget the vivaciously smug grin Frank wore as he appeared with a cake slice in-hand, gesturing to the sloppy uppercase B etched in the frosting. “Snagged you the B slice! If I have to eat my first initial every damn year, so do you!”
“My first initial is a W.”
Then Frank had pursed his lips in the particular way he did when suppressing a broader smile. He’d sat down and knocked his shoulder against Bill playfully. “The B stands for ‘Bite Me,’ William!”
Before he had pinned down the reason why, Bill noticed the rental car in the driveway next door – a driveway that had been empty for a long, long time.
And, of course, he’s noticed Frank walking up and down the street this past week. Sometimes, he’s pacing uneasily with his phone pressed to his ear. Other times, he appears to be doing it for his own enjoyment, often breaking into a sprightly jog or stopping to admire things Bill cannot discern with any kind of certainty.
Bill can, however, discern one thing – Frank is in great shape. Better shape than he had been in high school, even – or maybe this is just the first time Bill has been able to look at Frank for this long, safe behind the dark cover of his dusty blinds.
There is something intangible about witnessing another person in candid; an ethereal beauty reserved for these quiet moments, frequently-lived but seldom-spectated, undisturbed by obligatory interactions and the influences of other people.
Okay, so, it isn't just politeness that convinces him to attend Dolores Brightman's funeral.
It's sentimental and perhaps a bit pathetic, but Bill feels a creeping dread at the thought of watching Frank leave again without seeing him face-to-face – even if it is just to share a handshake and a fleeting gaze, a remorseful nod; even if it could be for the very last time.
Because it is the very last time, Bill knows. His last chance to… to what? To gain some closure, maybe. To set things right; as right as they can be after so long of not knowing.
It’s fitting that their last meeting will be at a funeral; Bill has been in mourning since the night he’d knowingly and inescapably stifled the sparks of something more. At least, this way, he can finally say he’s sorry, and Frank will know that he means it.
–
Bill questions his decision as soon as he arrives at the church.
The lot is overflowing, and he should have anticipated this. The Brightmans had always been well-liked in town, the generous and good-natured, and hospitable people they were. Dolores had not lived there for several years now, but proof of her impact was all around, in the people who came to honor her memory.
Bill sits in his truck for a few moments and fights the sickeningly familiar urge to bolt.
“Okay," he breathes, switching the engine off. He won't give up now, not when he's spent so much damn energy to get here. The fearful ache he feels in this moment – that he knows will only intensify when he enters that church – is nothing compared to the despair that waits for him if he chooses to leave now.
Bill eases himself out of the truck and turns to face the looming building.
–
Bill settles for a pew towards the back of the church, camouflaging himself amongst the other people piling in. He leans forward, forearms to thighs, and watches from beneath tufts of dark hair.
The ceremony passes in a blur of hymns and proclaimed eternal peace, eventually dissolving into an open invitation to share stories of happier days.
Grimacing, Bill settles back in his seat and tentatively shuffles his legs, earning him a hip-to-toe explosion of pins and needles. Fuck. He hadn’t exactly been planning to run to the podium or anything; it’s just an especially terrible time to try to sneak out and shake his damn legs awake without drawing attention.
It’s bad enough that he’d take the scornful eyes of strangers over sitting here, wiggling his stupid toes back into existence. But when he looks up, Frank is standing at the front of the church, addressing the attendees with a tired, grateful smile.
Bill would rather sit there in restless silence – awkwardly and painfully stretching one leg at a time for an embarrassingly small amount of relief – than be the one to disrupt Frank’s anecdote about his mother. And so, that is exactly what he does.
He sits.
He shifts.
He stares forward in conclusive concentration.
And then…
Frank falters, his forgotten word falling into the space between them.
Bill snaps his eyes down, cheeks hot.
And, in that instant, he is certain Frank’s looking at him. Still looking at him.
Bill cannot – or will not – raise his eyes again to check.
Frank finishes his story. Bill basks in the benefit of doubt, dismissing the encounter as an anxiety-induced delusion.
–
After the service, Bill watches nervously as the attendees individually approach the family to offer condolences. It's the reason he's here too; the real reason. Although the paresthesia subsided a while ago, Bill’s legs feel as heavy as lead, and he cannot move. There are just too many people; too many eyes to pass silent judgment upon him.
Bill feels that terrible dread building in his chest once more as he watches the guests start to taper off. Finally – when he knows he’ll miss his chance if he stalls any longer – he takes a deep breath, rises, and inches towards the front of the church. He plunges balled fists into his front pockets.
Frank's sisters have already shuffled outside, but Frank himself is still standing there, speaking softly with an elderly woman, a tired smile on his lips. They embrace, and she dabs her eyes with a tissue, walking away and leaving Bill to his pursuit.
Visibly tense, Bill pulls his hand from his pant's pocket, wipes it hastily on his pants, and holds it out to Frank, only daring to meet his eyes afterwards. They are glistening pools of blue, outlined by red-rimmed lids and bursting with raw emotion.
Frank's gaze pierces Bill in a way that lays him bare. Before he has the chance to reorient, Frank has already bypassed his hand in favor of a tight hug.
Bill stiffens automatically in response to the sudden contact. He is hyper-aware of how Frank's quivering breath tickles the hairs on his neck and, while it is not an unpleasant feeling, he can't shake his rising panic.
"Thank you…" Frank's voice sounds like something between a laugh and a sob, "Thank you, f-for being here."
Bill starts to relax then, the other man’s words quelling his ever-reactionary nerves. It’s not the words themselves, rather, the way he says them – affectionate, in a timbre reserved for a friend.
Or a lover.
This last thought slips right by Bill’s defenses and causes his cheeks to flush in shame. Suddenly desperate to do something, he squints at where his hand still hangs limply in the air and – oh god, how long has he been standing here like a dumbstruck idiot? – adjusts his arms clumsily to complete the embrace.
Much to his surprise, it feels… like a relief?
They stay like that for an extended moment, just holding each other.
“I… I still think about you, ya know,” Frank whispers finally, “I miss you.”
His lips are so close to Bill’s ear, Bill fears Frank can feel the heat on his cheeks. Or worse – the tears stinging in his eyes.
"M-Mm…Miss you t-too.." Bill closes his eyes; he hates the way his own voice swells and breaks so blatantly.
How, after thirty three odd years, does Frank unwind him so quickly, and before Bill has even choked out three words to him?
Frank pulls back from the hug then, not fully – his hands grip Bill's shoulder and arm with a comforting firmness – but enough that, when Bill opens his eyes, they’re looking at each other directly. Noting how Frank's cheeks glisten with the ghost of tears, he doesn't feel so self-conscious anymore.
"Can I… see you tonight?”
Entranced, Bill almost nods automatically. But then, the image of the dilapidated treehouse comes into his mind, and he swiftly shakes his head instead.
“O-Oh..” The disappointment in Frank’s voice is unmistakable and, for a second, he looks uncertain.
“T-Tomorrow.” Bill means it as a question, though it didn’t quite come out that way. He just can’t bear the way Frank’s face falls at the assumed rejection.
“Tomorrow.” Frank echoes him without hesitation, smiling now; his eyes glint with a mischievous confidence that chases away any evidence of doubt. Confidence looks at-home on his features.
Already, Bill is skimming his mental index in preparation for what ‘tomorrow’ may entail. For the first time in… well, maybe ever, there’s a layer of jittery exhilaration commanding his anxiety. Because, until this very moment, he has not considered the possibility of a tomorrow.