It had been almost a week since the formal dance and winter break was slowly but surely creeping to an end, though the frigid weather was still relentless. You hadn't seen or heard from Gilbert since the dance, but you didn't really think anything of it since you'd be seeing him at school next week anyway.

It was a quiet afternoon, and you were in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea for Matthew, who had been a bit under the weather lately. There wasn't much to do since the livestock had already been taken care of and the heavy snowfall left no crops to tend to, so you made yourself a cup as well and were about to join your family in the den when you heard a light, but frantic knock on the door. You opened it to see a familiar face, but not one you knew well; it was Mrs. Kincannon, the woman that Gilbert worked for after school.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Kincannon." You smiled politely. "What can I do for you?"

She seemed a bit winded. "Good afternoon, (Y/N). I'm sorry to stop by on such short notice. Gilbert sent me to get you."

"Gilbert? What's wrong?"

She paused, her expression very pained. "It's his father, dear."

You were overcome with grave understanding and nodded solemnly. "I'll fetch my coat."

--

The ride over was completely silent. The uncomfortable kind. Once at Gilbert's house, Mrs. Kincannon led you inside, and up the old wooden stairs to a hallway. She stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall and went inside. A few moments later, she came out, followed by Gilbert. You rushed to him and the two of you hugged immediately. He held you tightly for a few long moments. Pulling away, he studied you; his eyes were puffy, and you could tell that he'd been crying heavily. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping much, either. He smiled gingerly at you and gently took your hand.

"Come on, there's someone I want you to meet." Gilbert led you into the room, over to the bed where an ill John Blythe lay.

"Dad, this is (Y/N)."

You curtsied shyly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blythe."

He coughed weakly, gesturing with his hand. "Come closer dear, so I can see you." You did as he said, stepping over to the edge of the bed. He gently held your hand.

"My, what a pretty girl. And smart, too, from what Gil's told me. My son is very lucky to have you." He smiled feebly, pulling you closer to whisper something in your ear. "Please, take good care of him. For me."

You could feel hot tears welling up in your eyes and placed your hand firmly on top of his. "I will, Mr. Blythe. I promise."

"And you," John said, looking over at Gilbert. "Be good to her, now. I want grandchildren, so don't mess this up!" he began to laugh heartily. Gilbert smiled softly, but his eyes were pained as John's laughter soon turned into a fit of coughing.

Gilbert turned to you and took your hands in his. "(Y/N), could you give us a minute?"

You nodded, affectionately brushing his cheek with your hand before leaving the room. Doc Spencer passed you as you stepped through the door frame. You don't know just how long you waited in that hallway- it felt like hours. Mrs. Kincannon was there with you, as well as some other neighbors and family members. The silence among quiet weeping and sniffling was the most deafening thing you'd ever heard; you felt physically sick, to your very core. You were lucky not to have been there for your own father's death- it allowed you to imagine that maybe, somewhere, he was still out there. You had often invented fantasies in your mind to alleviate the pain and loss you felt.

The bedroom door eventually creaked open and the small gathering of people in the hall looked up expectantly. Gilbert stepped out- he wasn't crying, but his expression was unlike one you'd ever seen before; one of absolute grief and bereavement. He hesitated a moment, and just nodded gravely. You all understood what that meant. Mrs. Kincannon stepped forward first to hug him, followed by the five or six other family friends and loved ones. He eventually made it over to you, and you stood on your tip-toes to reach his shoulders and wrapped your arms around him. He did the same, holding you tightly. You were crying now, too- not for your own feelings, but it was like you could feel everything through Gilbert. That was real love, you supposed. Taking the pain of others as your own.

--

The funeral was the following morning. You, Matthew, and Marilla had taken the wagon to the church, where just about all of Avonlea was gathered. It was a bitterly cold day and the snow fell with no abandon.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbert," Gilbert's uncle, David Blythe, greeted you as you entered the small white chapel. The adults continued to talk, but you couldn't hear them anymore- you spotted Gilbert across the room. The two of you locked eyes for a moment before you were approached by a group of girls- it was Diana, Josie, Ruby, Tillie, and Jane. Diana hugged you first, and the others piled on.

"Are you okay?" Diana pulled away, holding both of your hands. You nodded.

"I'm fine. I'm worried about him." Your gaze wandered back over to Gilbert, who was sitting in the pew with his aunt, uncle, and cousins. The girls continued to ask you questions which you patiently, albeit distractedly, answered. You eventually took a seat with Matthew and Marilla in the fourth pew. It was a beautiful, bittersweet ceremony. David Blythe gave the eulogy, and many people who knew John well also spoke fondly of their late friend. Eventually, Gilbert got up to speak.

"I would like to thank all of you for coming. It means the world to me and my family that you all care so much. My father would be overjoyed to see all of you gathered here today to celebrate his memory." He paused, and to your surprise, his eyes wandered over to you in the crowd. You gave a sweet, melancholic grin, urging him to continue. He went on with his speech for a few more minutes, and speaking very highly of his beloved father and sharing some good memories.

After the service, everyone filed out to the churchyard for the burial; you had managed to lose both Marilla and Matthew in the crowd, as well as your friends. You felt a familiar hand graze the small of your back. Turning around to see Gilbert, you immediately enveloped him in a tight embrace. You could feel him sniffle quietly against your neck as he squeezed you back. You stayed by his side throughout the remaining entirety of the service, offering consolation and support whenever he needed it. Once the casket had been lowered, people began to go home- you were set on staying, and Marilla understood, telling you it was fine as long as you weren't home too late. It was just you and Gilbert now, his gaze still fixed on the fresh mound of soil of his father's grave which was right next to his mother's, who had passed a year earlier. He clenched his jaw. It felt like the two of you stood there for an eternity, two dour figures in the snowy haze. Eventually, he pulled a worn, leather-bound book from his jacket and flipped to a dog-eared page. You already knew what this was.

"Song of the open road, by Walt Whitman. Afoot and lighthearted, I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me. The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose," He recited the poem flawlessly, hardly even looking at the book in his hands for the next fourteen stanzas. It was on the last stanza when his voice began to falter, then crack and fade out. He stopped, lifting his hand to his mouth and stifling a cry. Instinctively, you seized his other hand and gripped it tightly, looking down upon the snowy grave.

"Camerado, I give you my hand," You recited, trying to keep your trembling voice steady. "I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?" your voice began to weaken, but you pushed on, squeezing Gilbert's hand. "Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?"

--

The walk back to his house was silent, but you still clutched his hand in yours. In fact, not much was said between you for the rest of the afternoon, but there was a heavy feeling of dependency for one another; the two of you needed each other in that moment.

Understandably, Gilbert couldn't bear to stay inside the house that evening. Instead, the two of you took some blankets and a kerosene lamp and climbed up to the hayloft in the barn. He was nearly catatonic but did utter something every now and then. It was always a quiet, brief exchange of words.

"Are you cold?"

"Yeah," you peeped, nearly inaudibly.

He took off his cardigan sweater and draped it over you like a blanket. You slipped your arms into the sleeves. More silence. The two of you lay on your sides, facing each other, his fingers tenderly intertwined with yours. It was getting dark outside, but you didn't care. You didn't want to be anywhere except here, with him.

"(Y/N)?"

"Mm?"

"I love you."

Your body stiffened, frozen in disbelief. "You do?"

He nodded softly, his deep brown eyes making direct, intense contact with yours. "I realized it a while ago. The day Ruby fell into the river. I was scared I'd lost you," he stroked your hand with his thumb. "When I walked into that room at Doc Spencer's, I knew."

"I love you too, Gil," You murmured sleepily. "I loved you when you just about decked Billy Andrews for me at the picnic."

He laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. Slowly, he leaned over and kissed you. First on the lips, then on the nose, his lips just barely grazing your skin. The kiss was slow and soft, comforting in ways that words could never be. His arm rested next to your ear, and he hovered over you a moment, his face inches from yours. Your drowsiness had now subsided as your heart was pounding, and you felt a rush of butterflies in the pit of your stomach. You pulled yourself upwards, sliding your hand up onto the back of his neck, and kissed him again, this time deeper and with more passion. The two of you stayed like that for a while, now laying on your sides, wrapped up in each other. He pulled you into his chest and you held onto him as if you were the last two people on earth. You wanted to remember everything about this moment; his warmth, the crickets chirping, the dry, dusty smell of hay, the way his face looked in the warm light of the kerosene lamp. Everything.

--