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Every year, for a period of three days, Maverick wants to hop on his motorcycle and ride as fast and as far away as possible. The two days leading up to The Day are almost worse than the actual Day itself in the way Maverick’s chest aches when he looks at a calendar or the way his hands shake and sweat at the thought of flying. The actual Day, however, Maverick is just fine, thank you for asking. He’s so well that the thought of Goose’s death definitely does not phase him in the slightest. He goes into Miramar, does his current punishment desk job as penance for his most recent fuck-up, and leaves. Even Ice, who Maverick considers to be a good friend, cornered him and asked him “How are you really, Maverick?” He’d tell him the same thing: “I’m great, Ice.”
His house knows a different story of this day, though. His nightstand sees the way he barely rolls himself out of bed in the mornings and the slow, sluggish tears that trail down his red cheeks. His floors feel the drag of his unwilling feet and his counters are subject to minute-long naps as he waits for his coffee machine. His door feels the muggy air enter the house as he hesitates at the threshold, one foot on the way to work and the other remaining inside, wallowing in grief.
When he returns home, his couch is subject to becoming a storage unit as he dumps his things on the way to the kitchen table. The table holds his tears for him when he himself can hold them no longer. The chair creaked in time with his shivers in a melancholy attempt to soothe him. The lights throughout the house gazed sadly at him, knowing they won’t be lit for the rest of the day. His house knew the real story.
And when Maverick gave Ice a house key last month under the excuse of “We hang out a lot on the weekends” Ice became privy to what happened on The Day behind closed doors.
The door eased open silently and Ice stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the house, he noticed that a picture on the entryway table had gone crooked. With a closer look, he realized it was a picture of Maverick and Goose, smiling and golden and joyous. Compared to the cooling, dark house, the picture seemed to radiate physical warmth. As he stooped to take off his shoes, he noticed that Maverick’s jacket and bag were simply tossed on the couch like the jacket wasn’t one of his most prized possessions. Maverick’s shoes didn’t make them onto the shoe rack, so Ice placed them next to his. As he moved further in, he picked up Maverick’s jacket and hung it up, only to pause as he peeked around the corner.
There, at the dinner table, was a lump of Maverick, hunched over and suspiciously quiet. Ice walked to the table, snatching the water bottle from the counter on his way. He knew Maverick had a tendency to bottle up his emotions on Goose’s death anniversary but this was the first time he was allowed to see the whole day. He paused at the light switch but decided against it. Sometimes emotions are easier to face in the quiet of the night.
He set the water bottle down in front of Maverick, carefully avoiding the puddle of tears and snot. Wordlessly, Maverick took a small sip then promptly returned to staring at his bland kitchen floor. Ice knew that little sip was meant to satisfy Ice’s protective streak, but Maverick should have known that would have only made it worse, proving just how out of it he was.
“Maverick.” He whispered. Anything louder would have sounded like a shout in the quiet of Maverick’s dark kitchen. Ice stared gently at the slumped Maverick. “You don’t have to be strong right now, Mav.”
A twitch. He was listening, however unwillingly. Ice wanted to comfort Mav, his dear Mav, but he wasn’t sure what Mav would accept in his raw, unsteady state. So, words it was. He gently cleared his throat, then said, “I’m sitting here with you at your own kitchen table. You don’t even have to say anything. I’m here.”
Maverick slowly lifted his head to face Ice at the other end of the square table. His face slowly melted in tears, chin trembling with the extreme effort of fighting back mighty sobs. In a mournful whisper, Ice repeated, “I’m here, Mav.”
In slow, awkward movements, Mav stood up and made his way around the table, bumping into a chair before stopping before Ice. With tears freely flowing down his face, Mav raised his arms. Ice didn’t think he could have stood up any faster to hug Mav, one arm wrapped around his back while his other hand cradled Mav’s head into his neck. They stood there for hours, holding one another through grief.
Maverick didn’t know it at the time, but he helped Ice that night just as much as Ice helped him.
The graveyard sees so much grief, from the workers who prepare graves for those they will never know to the closest family members of those she holds. Now, she sees a heartbroken man kneeling at his late husband’s grave. His son, long lost but newly found again, wanders nearby, attempting to give the man some semblance of quiet. The man reaches his left hand out, resting his gold-laden hand against the tombstone.
“I’m going to miss you at the kitchen table tonight, Ice,” the man says, throat thick with unshed tears. He bows his head further. “Thank you for sitting with me that day, Ice. I love you.”
The graveyard feels the warmth of the sun break free from the clouds. The man in the grave is looking down from the sky upon his lover, partner, husband, wingman. The man in the grave wants to wrap his warmth around his love again, wants to hold him until they both disappear from memory. He can’t do that, though. Not right now. So he settles for the gentle breeze that passes through the graveyard and the caress of sun rays on a hot summer’s day. He settles knowing that the son he helped raise will be there with him until his love joins him in the sky. The man in the grave feels comfort in the knowledge that his love is not as alone as he might think.