Work Text:
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
- Christina Rossetti
Burt admired the painting by some young artist whose name he didn't remember and waited for his husband to come back with a drink.
The artist had talent. A little undisciplined, something was a little off about his lines and color choices, but that made it more interesting. A couple dozen more paintings under his belt, and he'd really be something.
It reminded him of a painting he'd seen somewhere before. He couldn't place it, but he thought the colors and subject matter were similar. It must have been at another showing a long time ago. He'd stood and admired it with someone, he didn't think it was his husband, and talked about art. People had those conversations all the time at showings, but this one stood out in his memory even though the details were hazy.
His husband appeared with a glass of wine for him. As he took it, his breath caught and a wave of longing washed over him.
"Honey?"
Burt raised his hand. "I'm fine. I was just thinking how much Irving would enjoy this painting. I wish he were here to see it." He took a sip, the wave of emotion passing. It must have been his husband that he'd viewed the similar painting with, after all. He remembered someone standing so close by his side, with Burt feeling so happy. Of course it had been him.
"Irving? Who's that?"
"Who?"
"You said you wished Irving could be here. Is he the really handsome one at the dentist's office who makes you want to get your teeth cleaned every time you turn around? Should I be jealous?"
Burt grinned back at him. "I do like it when you get a little jealous, but I don't know anybody named Irving. And the hygienist's name is Enrique, just so you know where to aim your jealousy." He lifted his wine glass.
"You sure you're okay?"
Burt scoffed. "I'm sure."
"You did lose your reading glasses twice this week."
"And you left the burner on once after making dinner. Face it, we're just a couple of old dudes who are forgetful sometimes. But we're fine." He kissed his husband's cheek.
A crushing headache woke Burt in the middle of the night. As he squinted into the bathroom mirror, the light almost too bright to take, he realized the headache hadn't been what had woken him. He woke talking in his sleep, and only when he was fully awake and wondering what the hell he was saying did the pain hit him like a truck.
For a few terrifying minutes, he worried he was having a stroke or an aneurysm. When the pain started to subside and he had no problems lifting his arms to the same height or speaking, he pushed that thought away. He didn't want to go to the hospital in the middle of the night and spend several uncomfortable and expensive hours there for nothing.
What had he been saying? It had sounded like gibberish at first, then actual words before his head split in two. Stay, he'd felt him saying. Stay with me.
"Stay with me," he whispered, frowning. "Stay. Irving! Stay—"
He couldn't breathe as pain shot through his skull again. He pressed his palms to his temples and squeezed. His stomach knotted as Irving's face filled his vision, and he felt himself sliding down the wall. Burt reached for the edge of the sink to hang on and stop his fall, but he went all the way down, his butt hitting the tile hard enough to make him grunt.
"Irving," he breathed, the words almost inaudible. "Oh my god."
Burt held his head and pulled his knees in close, unable to stop the sobs that came as he remembered, bit by bit, what he'd left behind.
When he had control of himself, he rested his forehead on his crossed arms. Obviously, something had gone wrong with Lumon's implant. Maybe he had suffered a stroke or some other kind of incident. Going to the hospital, and contacting Lumon, would be the wisest things to do.
But they'd fix it. They'd make him forget again. Out of the question.
Burt hauled himself up and splashed water on his face. When he went back into the bedroom, he stared at the familiar, sleeping figure beneath the covers, wracked with guilt. Burt loved his husband. He'd never had an affair in all the years they'd been together. He'd never even looked at another man before except in shallow appreciation. But it wasn't really his fault that he'd fallen for Irving, was it? How could he have prevented something he didn't know was happening?
His breath hitched again. "I'm so sorry, babe," he whispered. "I never meant for anything like this to happen."
Burt started to get back into the bed, and found he couldn't do it. The sun would be up soon. Irving would be going to work. Burt couldn't go back to Lumon under any circumstances, but he could watch the access road. He could see Irving again, even if only a glance from a moving car. He needed that suddenly more than anything else.
He dressed and wrote his husband a note that he couldn't sleep and decided to take a drive to watch the sunrise. He promised to bring home doughnuts from the bakery on 3rd street that were delicious enough to smooth almost anything over.
Burt got into his car and drove toward Lumon. He found a place he could watch traffic where he didn't think anybody would pay much attention, then he parked and waited. When the sun rose, lighting up the massive Lumon Industries building, Burt thought it was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen. He'd often thought that, but today, knowing what they stole from him, he hated it even more.
The sunrise itself was beautiful, though, and he wished Irving were sitting next to him, watching it with him, even as guilt washed over him at thinking such a thing about anyone but his husband.
"I'm just going to see him again, just for a moment, to sort of say goodbye. I deserve that much." Like when he talked in his sleep, the words almost came out on their own, but he knew they were lies long before he spotted Irving driving in, held head high, his face serious and unlike the slightly bemused, pleasant expression Burt remembered so well.
Just the tiniest glimpse of him was enough to make Burt's hands shake and his breath catch. Those bastards. The things they took from us. It's not right.
He could find Irving outside of Lumon. Tell him everything. Maybe Irving would remember, too? But what if Irving would never remember him, and the feelings swirling through Burt would have to stay one-sided for the rest of his life. Or what if—
He could barely stand to think it, but what if these recovered memories were only temporary? Something had malfunctioned, but if it set itself right soon, he'd lose Irving again.
"No, no no," he sobbed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he tried to figure out what to do.
Burt walked into the house with a stack of notebooks and fresh doughnuts. His husband was awake and concerned, which was fair-he'd never driven off in the dark before. But Burt convinced him he'd just had a bad night, and he felt better.
He felt refreshed, if he was honest, since deciding on a course of action to keep his memories of Irving, no matter what.
Later, when his husband checked on him, he took a break and had lunch. His hand was cramping from the furious writing, getting down every memory as it came to him, written in the form of notes to himself, like a caring friend guiding him through that forgotten part of his life. It would hurt less to type it all, but he felt like he needed a handwritten hardcopy. Maybe he'd scan the pages eventually, as a backup. But having his only written memories as bytes somewhere, so easily deleted, didn't sit well.
He'd made a few poor sketches that didn't do Irving justice. He planned to get some photographs as soon as possible to put with his notes. He'd have to follow him and get close enough to sneakily take his picture. It felt wrong to do so, but Burt was sure that if Irving knew why he was doing it, he'd approve.
Around 4:30, he asked his husband if he wanted to go out to eat, expecting that he'd prefer to order the food and eat at home. He didn't like how crowded their favorite restaurants got on Friday nights.
"Call in the order, and I'll pick it up," Burt suggested. "I want to grab a few things at the market anyway."
His husband almost insisted on going with him, but he managed to convince him he was fine. He'd pick up a cheesecake to bring home in apology for all the subterfuge. He left, with just enough time to get to the access road and watch Irving leave work.
Several cars came out, spaced apart thanks to Lumon's policies, and then there he was. His face drawn, far too stern-looking. Was something wrong? Maybe Burt could help.
You're getting too far ahead of yourself.
He followed Irving, the thought of finding out where he lived giving him an illicit thrill. Maybe he should stop Irving before he went into his home and tell him they worked together. Maybe he should tell him everything. But would Irving even believe him? He might think Burt a crackpot and be leery of him. That wouldn't do. Irving deserved to know everything, but Burt couldn't just jump in front of him and start blurting things. He had to be calm and deliberate about this.
When Irving pulled into a small corner grocery store, Burt followed and tried to decide what to do as he watched Irving get out and stride across the lot. He walked with such purpose, just like he did at Lumon. And when a woman with a young child smiled and nodded at him, he smiled back, and Burt's heart nearly burst.
The thought of Irving turning that smile toward him again was almost too wonderful to bear. He had to have it.
Ten minutes later, he'd followed Irving through almost the entire store. Burt was doing the right thing, he told himself. There'd be nothing for Irving to find unusual or suspicious, nothing to make him think Burt was strange or someone to avoid. People met in grocery stores all the time, didn't they?
He gripped the handle of the shopping cart ridiculously tight, and then he gasped at the mistake he almost made. Burt slipped his wedding ring off and dropped it into his pocket. Then he waited until Irving was alone, looking at a small display rack full of oyster crackers, and he rammed his cart into Irving's.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, touching his arm. "Did I get you?"
"No, no. Not at all."
"I was distracted, trying to remember whether I needed crackers."
They held each other's gaze for a long moment, and Burt's heartbeat sped up with the possibilities.
"Do you?" The corner of Irving's mouth turned up.
"Yes." Burt laughed. "I think I do."
Irving took a bag of the oyster crackers from the display and handed it to him. Burt's fingers brushed his as he took it. "Well," Burt said, unable to hide how pleasantly flustered he felt. "My hero."
Irving chuckled, and he looked so much more like Burt remembered him. So handsome, sweet, a little shy. Irving leaned closer, like he was going to share a secret. "Wait until you see me pass the canned goods. You'll be blown away."
Burt laughed with delight. He put the crackers in his cart and noticed a strawberry cheesecake from the deli in Irving's. The same one in Burt's cart, his husband's favorite treat. He'd deal with such guilt later.
"I see you like the same cheesecake. Delicious, isn't it?"
"It is. Very creamy. Very sweet." Irving said the words slowly enough that Burt's stomach fluttered.
As they continued to stare at each other, Burt understood how different Irving was on the outside. He was still the same wonderful man he fell for on the severed floor, but with the memories he wasn't allowed there. Memories of mundane activities like grocery shopping, memories of flirting and lovers and—
He glanced at Irving's hand. No ring, but that didn't necessarily mean he was single. Burt didn't have one on either, after all.
Irving cleared this throat. "So, if you'd like to be impressed by my can-passing skills, I'm headed to that aisle now." He gestured in that direction as if to say after you.
Burt shifted his weight to lean against the cart and swallowed hard. "Please forgive me if I'm wrong, as I'm terribly out of practice . . ." Please don't let me be wrong. "But are you flirting with me?"
Irving's smile was so much more beautiful than that morning's sunrise. "I'm trying to. Is it working?"
Burt winked at him. "Like a charm."
Irving extended his hand. "Irving."
"I'm Burt," he said as he took it, his knees nearly going soft at being able to touch him again. "And I'm so very pleased to meet you."