Sometimes he would withdraw to himself completely and in those few fleeting moments you could see all the sadness lurking behind his gentle face. You could also see something else... you could see melancholy,bleak and grey like cold sheets,twisted uncomfortably the morning after his 1st night with the man he had truly,unconditionally loved.
Dear Robert, Yours,
I received your letter with a 3 day delay due to unspecified reasons.
I really missed you more even if it was just a goddamn letter.
When you don't write to me I feel a sickness creeping up my heart,I can't hear you talk about death anymore, I will try to come to you as soon as possible. I promise.
I miss your warmth and your slim figure. I miss our late night conversations...
Why must you leave? Why must you always, always leave?
Cambridge is as boring as it ever was. It gets colder and colder and I feel lonely...
Tell me you love me Robert. Please...please.
Tell me you love me and do not talk about death anymore...
Rufus Sixsmith.
Sometimes those feelings bring pearly tears to his eyes and he blinks them away and he smiles so as not to worry anyone.
He goes to his room and sits on his bed and cries over piles and piles of wrinkled yellow paper and he plays a record of orchestra music over and over again.
In those hours, when the record plays subtly and the rustle of papers is barely evident in the room he swears he sees the slim figure lying gracefully beside him with his pale thin arms open waiting to take them in their secluded shelter.
AN: This might or might not be the last chapter of this series. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed.