Tyler's hair is cloud-white, his body lean, pared down. At eighty he's strong in a way mountains and rushing rivers are; elemental, permanent. Dan never babies him, not even when Tyler's mind goes walkabout in the past and he's vague about dates and events. Tyler always snaps back when Dan says his name, still responds with an easy lust, spiced with tenderness, when Dan kisses him in a way that would have shocked the youngster he was when they met.
They sleep together, Tyler rising early, napping in the afternoon, and Dan often wakes to listen to Tyler's even breathing wondering if one night he'll be woken by sudden silence.
It will happen. But there's sometimes a sense he has that he might go first or that they'll slide from one world to the next together, as easily as Tyler used to slide inside him, as easily as it'd been to fall in love.
He doesn't wish for immortality. If he wishes for anything, it's that he's not left alone for long.