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"I want to grow old with you," the letter started. "I mean, I know that sounds strange to hear, and it's pretty strange to write, and to be completely honest, I never expected to think something like that, let alone ever, ever have the courage to say something like that, but it's true. I want to grow old with you. I want to see your muzzle turn grey ...-er, I want to fetch us mugs of tea to drink while we sit and watch sunsets - that's what old people do, right? -, probably something nice and herbal and caffeine-free, because that's what old people care about, right? I want to help you keep track of your medication and remind you at breakfast to take the blue pill now, and the _yellow_one after you eat something, dear. I want to help you find your glasses when you lose them. Hell, I want to be there when you finally admit you need them, because the amount of difficulty you have reading street signs has been getting a little worrying whenever I let you drive, hon. Just being honest here.

"And I know it's strange, it's really, really strange, but I want those arguments couples that last more than a decade have. About your job and the mortgage, about bullshit like groceries and the price of butter and how much milk you leave in the carton for me to have cereal with in the morning. Or how you drink so much of it, because you do. Again, just being honest, here. It annoys the shit out of me, sweetie, it really does. But that doesn't matter, because I want that, I want to have those spats and fights and petty arguments. I want the nights we'll spend, one of us alone in the bed (probably me), one of us stuck on the couch (probably you), and both of us thinking about how sorry we really are for whatever it is that we did to piss each other off, and both of us ready to jump up, in the middle of the night, to run into the room the other's 'sleeping' in to immediately apologize and beg for forgiveness. And I definitely, definitely, want the makeup sex we'd have. Oh, oh yes.

"But above all else, I just want to grow old with you. Because all of that will come, naturally, if we can just have that. God damn that 'let's be young forever' mentality, because it's stupid. It's really, really stupid. Nobody stays young forever, and whoever tries to chase youth ends up chasing somebody else, leaving the one they love, and I'd rather give up all my handsome charm, my pretty, pretty fur, my perfect teeth and my ability to bench press as much as we both weigh combined (mostly because I know that still makes you jealous, even though you don't admit it anymore) - I'd give that all up if it just meant getting to hold on to you for a few decades more. Until fifty, at least. But I'm aiming for eighty. Aim high, right?

"There were things I never told you, dreams I never share. You always sit around, thinking 'I'll have time. We can talk about those things later.' But Later comes and they never come up. That's how it's like, right? I wanted to marry you the moment I met you, but that's just not something you start a relationship, let alone a conversation with. I mean, I guess you could, but that'd be a little forward, wouldn't it? And so I started with coffee, and moved on to pie, and eventually took you to that Thai food restaurant you always, always talked about wanting to go try, but never had an excuse to do so. I'm kinda glad you waited for me to take you. It gave us one of those oh-so-rare, once-in-a-lifetime moments, where I got to be one of your firsts. Also, it made it so I got to watch you snort peanut chunks out your nose when you couldn't stand the spice. I would not trade that for the world, Michael. Who else can say their first date ended with a snot-and-peanut-chunk shower? Nobody, so far as I know!

"I wanted to tell you then, but the timing just always seemed off. I mean, who proposes before the appetizers are served on the first date? And I wasn't going to interrupt my dinner to do it, that's for sure. And after the peanuts? Oh, I ruined my chance of saying anything romantic after I fell out of my chair laughing. If I could breathe after that, I was happy, I promise you. So I didn't say anything then, and I didn't after the second, because I wanted to have a good date before I did. And we did! It was glorious, I have to say. Then we had sex on the third date, and that just made it awkward. 'Hey, I know we just fucked, but ... marriage!' I know I'm stupid, but I'm not nearly that clueless.

"And then the fourth and fifth came and went, then the sixth. Then you moved on. Then you got your undergrad and went on to get your Master's degree while I dropped out of my seventh year working towards my Bachelor's in Graphic Design. The hell could I say, then? What could I have brought to the kitchen table after that, besides a few paint stains that never came out (I'm still sorry, even if you've pretended to forgive me for that one). So I didn't say anything, and then you graduated. So we moved into this big, fancy house that you practically paid for all by yourself, got yourself that nice, cushy desk job that paid six figures, and I was still welcoming people from behind my register whenever they came in. With a smile, no less! How - how! - could I propose to you, then?

"I just kept waiting, figuring the right time would come up. Told myself 'we'd have time.' God, Michael. I knew I was an idiot, but I never thought I was that big of one at the time. I'm sorry, you know? I hope you know. Because I am. I'm sorry I never had the balls to-

"No, wait, positive. We're being positive here, right? So, yeah. I always wanted to grow old with you, always wanted to see those stupid little things happen that people buy shit to cover up. Wrinkles, grey, crook in your back, aches in your joints, all of that. I'm sorry I never came out and

"No, no, no. And damnit, I'm writing this in pen, too. You can't tell, but I'm sighing, here. It's hard to phrase this right. Hard to put this to words without ... something. I don't know. Look, what I'm trying to say is, Michael, that I'm sorry I ... took this long to tell you. Because I always knew it. And I had a feeling you knew I knew, and I thought I knew you wanted it too, and knew I knew. I know that doesn't make sense, but just bear with me, hon.

"So this is it. This is me finally saying it. I always loved you, and I always, always wanted to be with you forever, but I just never felt like I could tell you, and always felt like I had just one more day to tell you tomorrow. I don't have a ring, and, well. This is a letter, so I'm not actually saying it. And this letter can't really take a knee. But just bear with me - this is the best I can manage, ya know? I couldn't do it in person, face-to-face, so I'm going to do it this way.

"So, Michael. Let's just pretend I'm taking a knee, and have a ring, and all of this is after some big dinner date or hot air balloon or a trip to Pairs - whatever! Just hold those thoughts in your mind when you read this, and know that I mean this, with all my heart, and always have.

"Michael, will you marry me? Call me yours and stick with me through thick and thin, and give all those vows and promises I know you'll mean if you say them to me? Will you stay with me until we both go grey-er, and we both need to remind each other where our glasses are and when to take our pills? Will you hold out until we're fifty, or eighty, or whatever, and love me all the same, even then?

"Will you grow old with me?"

Michael held the letter in his paws. Its envelope discarded in the seat next to him. He was surprised by how stead his paws were, all things considered. He thought he'd be crying, but he wasn't, and was glad of that fact. The room was crowded, and he'd come straight from work, so he was still dressed in his starched, ironed shirt, silk tie, and freshly dry-cleaned suit. The amount of stares he was getting was enough for him, as it were. It was, after all, not every day that a wolf was seen in the waiting room of a musteloidea-only hospital. Let alone one in a suit.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Its arms pressed into the sides of his thighs painfully, and there was no room to tuck his tail around himself to curl up in his lap for comfort. Not to mention his knees were practically to his shoulders. He felt a bit like a clown, sitting there, in the too-small chair in the too-small room he had to hunch over to fit in when standing. Crying was the last thing he needed. Then he'd look like a sad clown.

Michael looked up from the letter when he heard the door open. His eyes met a middle aged weasel's, dressed in wrinkly blue scrubs with eyes to match. "Mister ..." she glanced down at her clipboard. "Avericci?"

Michael nodded. Stood, or at least he tried to. The chair almost came up with him when he did. "Me - that's me," he said.

The nurse nodded. She glanced back down at her clipboard. She didn't look up until he crossed the room and pushed his way through the door sized just so for her, but was comically small for him, to stand in the hallway outside. "He's awake, now," the nurse said. She closed the door and stepped into the hallway next to him. "You can see him, but not for too long. He needs his rest. This way."

The nurse lead him down the corridor, taking a left at the first intersection, then a right, a right, another left, and finally stopped in front of a closed door with a little paper insert labeled "GIBSON, CHRISTOPHER" slid into the plastic holder. It was eye-level for the weasel, but closer to armpit level for Michael. "Ten minutes," the nurse said. She looked back down at her clipboard and walked off in another direction at a pace too brisk to stop her.

Michael put his paw on the door handle, drew in a deep breath, and turned it while stepping forward too quickly to quit once he'd begun. He stumbled through the doorway, half slouching in his suit as he locked gazes with the room's sole occupant.

"Hey," Chris said. The raccoon's voice was thin and frail, rasping, and very weak. Michael didn't want to admit that he sounded like he looked, but the thought poured out from his heart faster than he could stop it. It was enough to make Michael want to run out of the room, screaming at the top of his lungs. He wanted to throw himself against walls, slam his head into things, jump out of a window - anything to wake him up from the nightmare he knew, just knew he must be having.

But for all he wanted to, he didn't. Instead, he took a step forward (one was all he needed to practically cross the room) and reached a paw out to find the raccoon's. "Hey," he said back. Michael slid his fingers between Chris'. His fingers, once so strong and sure, were now thin, and felt brittle. Michael wanted to squeeze, but couldn't. He was too afraid he'd snap the raccoon's bones if he did.

"You look good," Chris said. His face curled into a phantom of the smile he used to wear. "Sexy, as always."

"So do you," Michael said on reflex.

Chris snorted. "No I don't," he said. He gestured at himself with the paw Michael wasn't holding. "If this is sexy to you, then I shouldn't have let you watch all those zombie flicks you liked so much." He chuckled. It sounded hollow. Like a cough. "Come to think of it, maybe that's why you watched so many of them."

"It's not," Michael said. He brought his other paw up to rest at Chris' cheek. He held him, keeping the raccoon's face pointed towards his. "And you are," he said. "You always are. To me. Always."

Chris' eyes didn't turn away from Michael's, but the wolf felt as his lover's face dropped. There was a glassy sheen in the raccoon's eyes that Michael had never seen before. "I read your letter," Michael said.

Chris scowled, his brow furrowing as he looked back at the wolf. "The damn thing says 'do not open until after I'm gone,' you numbnut."

"I know, I know," Michael said. "But you handed it to me, and I just ... I couldn't not read it, especially with a title like that on the envelope. You know me better than that."

Chris rolled his eyes. "You always were terrible at following instructions." He settled his eyes back on Michel's. The glassiness had faded, replaced with annoyance. But it was mock annoyance. Michael knew him well enough to know that. His words? Chris could never say "I wanted you to read it" out loud. It was too blunt, too honest, too vulnerable for him. But his eyes? His eyes screamed it to the wolf, louder than anything he'd ever heard in his life.

"Well?" Chris said.

"Well?"

"Well, come on," Chris said. "You said you read it, so ... well? What do you say?"

Michael smiled. And choked. His paws were shaking, now, the tears he expected coming predictably late. His vision blurred, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against the raccoon's.

"Yes," he said. It was all he could