#griefmourning
Chapter One: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185293293554/much-that-once-was-is-lost
Chapter Two: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185450418502/mtowil-chapter-two
Chapter Three: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185608593907/mtowil-chapter-three
Chapter Four: lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr. com/post/185777913642/mtowil-chapter-four
AO3: archiveofourown. org/works/14322486
Wanting things he couldn’t get was a reoccurring theme of Tim Drake’s life. One might argue that it was a part of everyone’s life, but Tim believed that it repeated itself often enough in his life to be elevated to that of motif or possibly even TV Trope entry.
When he was a boy, Tim had wanted siblings, a brother or sister be friends with. He had wanted a pet to fill the emptiness of the house. He had wanted parents who acknowledged his existence. He had wanted someone around to just give him a hug every now and then.
Then he had grown and had wanted nothing more than to be a part of the mysterious family next door. To swing across rooftops with them. To make a difference with them. To help relieve some of the reckless, self-destructive pain he saw. And those wants had been granted for a time, only to now be ripped away again, and Tim found himself wanting fiercely to stay stay stay stay stay let me stay. That seemed about as likely as Jack and Janet Drake rising from their graves and scooping him up into a warm group hug. So, ever the pragmatist, Tim had wrapped that wish up and tucked it deep with all of his other deferred hopes and dreams.
But that didn’t mean that he stopped wishing entirely. Even when his big dreams faltered and collapsed, Tim kept himself buoyed with little desires, like narrow sandbars that lifted him just enough above the current to save him from being dragged under. He never stopped hoping. Never stoped dreaming. Never stopped wanting even though his life was nothing more than an unbroken string of denials and setbacks.
Over the past week and a half, Tim had kept himself afloat by daydreaming about pushing Charles Drake out a window. Or maybe stamping “I support industrialized logging” onto his forehead and dropping him off on Pamela Isley’s doorstep. Tim did his best not to be picky.
He had done his best to avoid his uncle over the past week and a half, a difficult task since Charles was ostensibly in town for him. Not that Charles was at all interested in being a supportive, caring uncle. He kept in nearly constant contact with Tim, but there were no words of condolence, no apologies for being absent for literally Tim’s entire life, no gestures of comfort. No, Charles Drake didn’t seem capable of that sort of emotional labor. What he was very capable at was giving orders.
Timothy, you’ll be sitting with me at the service. Timothy, we’ll see to getting your father a proper headstone. Timothy, you will return to my hotel after the burial; no need to impose on Mr. Wayne any longer. Timothy, send my secretary your vital statistics for the custody arrangement. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy—
It was enough to make Tim consider changing his own name. Not that that would completely help. Charles had called him Tom the first time they had met inside the church, and Tim could only thank the stars that none of the team had been in earshot. He was used to being insignificant, but to be so insignificant that your closest living relative didn’t even know your own name? Pathetic.
Well, Charles was more than making up for the name swap now. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy…
A few years ago, Tim might have immediately folded under the barrage of orders. But after a few years withstanding the gauntlet of Bruce, Dick, and Damian, he at least managed to sink at a slow enough speed that it looked like his own choice. Rather than abandoning Wayne Manor entirely, for example, Tim moved back into his own house to devote his full attention to cataloguing its contents for the estate sale. He had resisted the little commands Charles gave as best he could when he thought they were wrong or unhelpful. He had avoided all talk of custody and had “forgotten” to contact Charles’s secretary.
But he was so tired, and every time Tim resisted Charles’s domineering ways, he had a little less to give. Now, after eleven days of text and phone calls, Charles had bestirred himself to come to the Drake family home. Tim still wasn’t sure why. Between his inability to concentrate and Charles’s propensity to drone on, he had only caught every third word.
Tim leaned against the edge of the dining table and fiddled with a teaspoon, watching mesmerized as the sunlight flashed off the silver. For kicks, he made it flash out SOS, which tempted a tiny smile to his lips, but the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. The part of his brain that was monitoring his uncle relayed that Charles was telling some unnecessary anecdote about a horse race and a dog-faced woman. Or a dog race and a horse-faced woman? Whatever.
Tim carefully placed the teaspoon in the box next to him and rubbed at his eyes. Moving back to the mansion had been a mistake. Wayne Manor was no party central, but its veins still thrummed with living, breathing people. The Drake estate was nothing more than a shrouded corpse, Tim a virus clinging to a life source that had gone dark. He spent his days packing and cataloguing and trying not to run face first into the memories that crowded the halls. He spent his nights clinging unabashedly to the stuffed bear he had brought from Cass’s pile and trying not to suffocate under the layer of ghosts and dust entombing his bed.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on doing this unnecessary work yourself.”
Tim choked back a sigh. What was unnecessary about saying goodbye to the last pieces of his entire life? The house needed to be sold. He and Charles both agreed on that. What did the man care if Tim was the one to prepare it?
“This is my house,” Tim explained for what felt like the tenth time. “These are my parents’ things. I want to do it.”
Mine. MY house. MY parents. I have so few things left to me, so let me do with them what I want.
Tim’s brow creased as Charles picked up the teapot he had been polishing, scraping its foot against the lacquered tabletop in the process. For a moment, he pictured… No. He was too tired to even summon up a satisfying fantasy scenario. All he could enjoy was a momentary homicidal fizzle, and then he was left with the cold hunk of ice in his chest.
“As long as this mess is wrapped up quickly,” Charles drawled as he checked his teeth in the reflection of the teapot.
Another fizzle of rage, and Tim’s jaw clenched. Maybe this was the moment when he would finally put his foot down, tell Charles to clear out and go home, that rats weren’t welcome under this roof.
“We have tickets on the 10 AM flight back to the West Coast on Sunday. Anything you haven’t finished by then can be taken care of by someone else. I have a board meeting Monday morning that I will not miss.”
We?
Had Charles managed to wrangle custody from a judge, then? Even as Tim wondered, he knew what a foolish question that was. Charles Drake didn’t need Tim’s permission or cooperation to take over. He was a close relative, didn’t have an egregious criminal record, and he had the means to take in a stray. What judge would say no?
Tim’s hand gripped the edge of the table as his knees quivered. Leave Gotham? Leave the Waynes? Even though he had told Damian that was the most likely outcome, he had thought… he had hoped…
“I can’t leave.” Even to his own ears, Tim’s voice sounded strained and so very young. “My… my life is here. I live here. In Gotham.”
My home is here. My family is here. EVERYTHING is HERE.
“Don’t be silly,” came Charles’s immediate reply. “There’s nothing for you here. Your parents are dead. Your belongings are being sold. I’ve arranged a buyer for the house, and your father’s assets will be liquidated and held in trust for you until you come of age, with me as your legal trustee and guardian. What could you possibly have to keep you in this dismal little city?”
Batman! Batman needs me! HE was the one who had saved Bruce from himself after Jason had died. HE was the one who had pulled Bruce from the time vortex. Tim had spent the last few years doing everything he could to be indispensable to Bruce, and if he had to have faith in anything, he would have faith in that.
In his anger and panic, Tim only barely managed to catch himself from saying just that to Charles. Instead, he choked back Batman’s name and instead countered, “What about Bruce and the Waynes?”
Tim knew Charles hated Bruce the way a tall man hates a taller man. He wasn’t used to being cast in someone else’s shadow. But he also knew Charles knew to fear Bruce in Bruce’s own city. So Tim expected some consideration at best, annoyance at worst.
Tim hadn’t expected Charles to laugh right in his face.
“Don’t be silly.” Charles waved the teapot dismissively, then set it down on the table. Tim immediately snatched it back up and placed it in the box where it belonged. “Your internship can be transferred to my company. I’m sure we can find a place for you at Drake Holdings.”
Tim tried to explain that he couldn’t just leave. He owed them more than that. Surely Charles would understand the concept of that debt? They were his family. Family wasn’t supposed to just leave.
“They’ll be happy to be rid of you, I’m sure.”
Tim’s breath stuttered as his uncle spoke into the dust-flecked air the words that had wallpapered his nightmares for as long as he could remember. It almost would have been easier to take if Charles had spoken angrily, but he didn’t even look at Tim. His gaze was off somewhere over Tim’s shoulder, as if Tim wasn’t worth the effort of eye contact. As if they were two awkward acquaintances at a dinner party neither had wanted to attend.
“Bruce Wayne is a powerful and busy man, and as one myself, you can take my word that he will not mind in the slightest. Do you honestly think he’ll be sorry to no longer have you underfoot? You were a nuisance that he took in—well, come to think of it, I don’t know why. Charity, perhaps. Or a rich man’s whim. Whatever the case, he will be pleased to have his home free of interlopers.”
Once, on patrol, Tim had gotten separated from the other birds in a fight. It had gone pretty well, considering how badly he’d been outnumbered, until his foot had hit some loose asphalt chunks and he’d gone sprawling. The breath had been knocked out of him, and before he could struggle back to his feet, he’d been encircled by three thugs who then proceeded to kick the living snot out of him. It had been terrifying and painful. He’d been bedridden for days. Had had nightmares for weeks.
This was a hundred times worse, each of Charles’s words more painful than any steel-toed boot to the ribs. At least then he had known he just had to hold out for Batman to rescue him. Now, he was alone.
Bruce Wayne won’t mind.
Would he? Would Bruce mind? Or would Tim’s disappearance cause not so much as a ripple on the surface of Wayne Manor?
Underfoot… a nuisance… a charity case… a rich man’s whim…
Tim’s shoulders curled in under the verbal blows, and he pressed his palm against his rib cage. He pictured the team sprawled on the couch in the den for movie night, happily taking up the extra space he’d left behind. He pictured Bruce’s sigh of relief at the peace his absence left. No more fights with Damian. No more tension with Dick. No more surprise attacks from Jason. He pictured his room at Wayne Manor empty. Or worse, filled by another boy. Someone smarter, funnier, stronger, better.
Tim’s chest heaved with panic. He was down and he was trapped and no one was coming for him and no one would miss him and Charles was calling him an interloper and hearing someone else use Damian’s pet slur was like taking an uppercut when he already couldn’t breathe and—
“I had no idea we were so close that you could presume to know my wishes, Charlie.” Both Charles and Tim jumped as Bruce’s well-cultured voice spoke from the previously empty space near the kitchen.
Charles turned to answer, his embarrassment already smoothed over by a phony smile, and Tim tried to use the moment to regain his composure. How much had Bruce heard? Enough, by the low growl under his words, but what did he object to? What Charles had said or that he had been crass enough to say it? Tim swallowed hard against the rising sick in the back of his throat, only to nearly startle again when Bruce stepped around Charles and placed a tray on the table next to Tim.
“Alfred sent me with lunch and instructions to extract a promise that you’ll be over at five for dinner. He wants your opinion on the sauce for the pasta puttanesca.” The words were gentle, not pitying, but kind, but Tim couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes.
Tim nodded, gaze on his feet, then froze as a large hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. He could count on one hand the number of times Bruce had touched him in a non-emergency situation, and half of those had happened since Jack’s initial illness. Bruce Wayne did not do physical affection. Sitting with Tim on his dead father’s bed or holding his hand as he cried himself to sleep was one thing. But Tim wasn’t crying. Charles was here watching. And Bruce was two days shy of being free of Tim for good.
Bruce kept his hand on Tim’s shoulder even as he pivoted to talk to Charles. Tim was deaf to their argument, his focus on the warmth spreading through his shoulder by that inexplicable hand. Or, not entirely deaf. He heard what they were saying—what Bruce was saying—but the words didn’t make sense.
Brightened my home… a comfort… happy to keep… never been in my way… leave him…
Was he dreaming? Or dead? Had he died instead of Jack? Because that was the only explanation for those words coming out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth about anyone, but especially about Tim. But Tim could still feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from Charles and behind Bruce’s broad back, sheltering him from view. Then Bruce let go to step toward Charles, and the sudden absence snapped Tim back into focus.
“What’s Tim’s favorite brand of coffee?”
What? Tim thought even as Charles echoed the question aloud.
“Coffee,” Bruce snapped. “Favorite brand. Come on, that’s an easy one. Something any family of Tim’s would know. No? What about his favorite movie?”
“Bruce?” Tim took a small step forward, ready to reel Bruce back in. But Bruce was just getting started, and for every question he asked, he took another step forward, driving Charles back and away from Tim.
“What does he want to do with his life? Where does he want to go to college? What’s his favorite flavor Skittle? Come on!”
Bruce’s shoulders were tight with rage, making Tim’s eyes go wide. What was this? Bruce didn’t lose control. It wasn’t part of his persona. Heck, he hadn’t seen Batman lose control since Jason, and that was only because Bruce had thought he’d lost his son.
“Bruce?” Tim tried again, louder this time, only to jerk backward as Bruce drove one powerful forearm against Charles’s chest and pinned the other man to the wall.
“What’s his middle name?” Bruce demanded, nearly shouting now. “WHAT’S YOUR NEPHEW’S MIDDLE NAME, CHARLES?”
Tim couldn’t let him hurt Charles. Not because he cared about Charles, but because he cared about Bruce, and attacking another person was not something Bruce Wayne did out of the cowl.
“Bruce!” Tim cried, springing forward. “Bruce, stop! Let him go! Bruce! BRUCE!”
He managed to get ahold of Bruce’s other arm and used his full body weight to yank the older man backward. Geez, Bruce was shaking. Tim pulled him back to the table, as far away as he could from Charles, letting go only when Bruce’s broad shoulders deflated and slumped.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” Bruce said, his voice no louder than a whisper now. “I told myself that this had to be your decision and no one else’s. I don’t want to make it for you.”
Tim held perfectly still as Bruce reached out and cradled the side of his face with his hand. One large, calloused thumb rubbed against Tim’s cheekbone gently, as if wiping away tears that weren’t there. Not now, anyways.
Bruce, don’t. Don’t be nice to me then send me away. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I—
“I’d fight for you.”
Tim’s eyes flew up to meet Bruce’s. Bruce’s blue gaze was steady and clear and… Soft. Almost sad, the way he looked sometimes when Dick would fall asleep in the living room after a long night of patrol. If he thought no one was looking, Bruce would stand at the end of the couch and gaze down at his eldest like he thought Dick would disappear at any moment. Or had disappeared, only to come back as someone new. Like he was proud and resigned all at the same time. But that made sense. That was Dick, a boy Bruce loved more than his own life, a boy he had watch grow up from a gap-toothed circus orphan to a full-grown man. Tim… wasn’t. He was just Tim. Why would Bruce look at him that way?
“If you wanted to stay, I’d fight for you, and I promise you that I’d win. But this is your life and your choice. And he is your uncle.”
He’s your family, Tim’s brain supplied. That’s what Bruce meant. But also, I could be your family, too.
Tim could have basked in that moment for a lifetime, but Charles had found his tongue, so Tim cut him off before he could draw Bruce’s attention away again.
“He’s a douchebag.” Tim’s voice wobbled, but he swallowed and kept going. Look at me, Bruce. Pay attention to me.
“My dad didn’t even like him. Always said he was an opportunistic parasite with bad taste in opera and worse taste in wives. They hadn’t even talked in years.”
Tim bit out each word with spiteful glee, deepening his voice just enough to echo Jack’s disdain, and then delighting in the whisper of a smile on Bruce’s lips.
Bruce’s hand was still on his face, so Tim reached up and placed his own hand atop Bruce’s. Don’t go. Don’t let me go.
He wasn’t too proud to beg. “Can I really stay, Bruce? I want to stay. I never wanted to go, but I thought I had to. Please let me stay.”
Please don’t let me be alone. I want to stay. I need to stay. You’re my family, please please please, Bruce, don’t leave me, too.
Tim choked back a sob as Bruce moved his hand, but instead of releasing him as Tim had feared, instead Bruce pulled Tim into a tight hug. “Of course you can. You will always have a home with me.”
Entire body shaking with silent tears, Tim threw his arms around Bruce and buried his face in Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s arms enveloped him, and Tim sobbed in earnest. His nose filled with Bruce’s subtle aftershave, the laundry detergent Alfred used to make everything feel soft and clean, the faint hint of diesel fuel and leather. This was right. This was home.
Tim had thought finding his place would feel different somehow. Like in the moment he took Bruce’s hand and they strode out of the Drake estate toward the Manor, there would be this great rending of reality, forever hewing his life into Before and After.
And he was right. Because no matter what happened now, he knew Bruce would never let him go. He had a family. A place to belong. A home. He was not alone.
——-
Thanks for reading! Please see the AO3 version’s end notes for the little Jason snippet I couldn’t make fit into the final fic.
Bullets for a Wedding
byElDiablito_SF (E, 31k, wangxian)
Summary:Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are disgustingly in love and happily cohabitating six months after the events of “Pearls for a Funeral”. But a vindictive power will not let them rest. Trouble is brewing at work for Detective Jiang Cheng, and just in time to create all kinds of problems for his sister’s wedding (not to mention the invitation list!). A mysterious letter starts off a non-stop, wild, noir ride which takes our heroes from the foggy climes of San Francisco to the verdant hills of Napa Valley. Can Wangxian once again prevail over the powers of darkness and save their love as well as each other? I don’t know, I don’t know, I really don’t know.
Part2ofNoir AU (2 works, series in progress)
My comment: Ah, a very satisfying sequel to Pearls For a Funeral (here’s mypost). In which the bad guys from the first story just won’t stop making trouble, prison and looming execution notwithstanding. POV alternates, and it’s a ride through a visceral 1940s landscape with loads of angst and kidnapping and perilous situations (both physical and emotional). Fun time!
Excerpt:One would have thought once you’ve lived through one abduction, the second one would be a walk in the park, and yet, Lan Wangji was discovering, one would have been entirely incorrect. What was even more beneath his dignity was being held hostage by the man who used to wash his car. Oh no, if Uncle found out, he would be absolutely livid. This assassin, this Xue Yang personage, who had dared beat Wei Ying into a bloody pulp and trespass against his clavicles (a sin for which Lan Wangji had already damned the man to the ninth circle of hell), was barely worthy of so much as being in Lan Wangji’s presence. Unfortunately, he was hovering extremely uncomfortably close to his presence, and leering in such a way that made Lan Wangji pull at his restraints despite his valiant attempts at keeping his considerable cool.
noir au, case fic, 1940s san francisco, established relationship, mystery, intrigue, private detective wei wuxian, rich socialite lan wangji, background nielan, shameless lan wangji, gumshoe wei wuxian,kidnapping, light torture, BAMF lan wangji, hurt wei wuxian, hurt lan wangji, misunderstandings, angst, POV alternating, lack of communication, feels, hostage situations, grief/mourning, happy ending, @jadedbirch
(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
All Exits Look The Same
byAhlai
T, 15k, lan sizhui & lan wangji, lan wangji & lan xichen, lan wangji & madam lan, wangxian
Summary:Banished from the Lan Sect after Wei Wuxian’s death, an unexpected revelation sets Lan Wangji on a new path.
My comments: Lovely peek into what an exiled lan wangji would do (it’s still waaaay better than the 33 lashes!). He takes a-yuan and wanders for a while, but has a tip that his mother might still be alive, so heads towards the general area she might be found. Meanwhile, he strengthens his bond with his new son and learns a new way to be in the world. Mom, when he finds her, is pretty great.
lan wangji is banished, lan wangji nopes out of the lan sect, 13 years, cut hair, shorn hair, grief/mourning, parent-child relationship, healing, feels, character study, rogue cultivator lan wangji, madam lan, lan wangji’s mother, rogue cultivator madam lan, family feels, exiled lan wangji, POV lan wangji, canon divergence, madam lan lives, happy ending, @ahlaishepherd
(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
You’re Not The Only One
G (maybe a very soft T for making out), 82k, wangxian, marked as incomplete, but it feels wrapped up tight, so ignore that
Summary: Alternate Universe - Jiang Fengmian never adopts Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan meets Wei Ying as a beggar on the street and convinces Lan Qiren to allow him to come live in the Cloud Recesses.
Lan Zhan and Wei Ying grow up together as best friends. Nothing has really changed, but everything is different.
My comments: A soft story wherein the Lans take in homeless wei ying and he and his lan zhan grow up together, tightly entwined. We get glimpses of their earlier childhood, pass through the cloud recesses study arc (look at lan wangji making friends! and being stoically amused by intimidating nie huaisang, who had the audacity to sneak liquor into his cup). There is light angst and pining, before they figure themselves out, but the wen attack and sunshot campaign bring them to a new understanding.
child wei wuxian, child lan wangji, in which wwx goes to gusu as a child, adopted by the Lans, non-yunmeng wei wuxian, friendship, different first meeting, POV multiple, growing up together, light angst, pining, students at cloud recesses, lan wangji has friends, oblivious wei wuxian, feelings realization, getting together, love confessions, attack on cloud recesses, sunshot campaign, fix it, soft, fluff, first time, fade to black
(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
One with Nature (2020)
I sat down to work on the Hel prompt for #mythober and I had every intention of making her as fierce and downcast, and half blue (or half dead) as the author Snorri claimed she was or is, but here’s the deal, that’s not what happened. (And you can expect that if you try to focus on anything that belongs to Loki, things may go sideways rather quickly. That is the essence of chaos.) I am still hesitant to call this piece “Hel” but that truly was my intention when I started it. Death, in my opinion, is not the end, it is a transformation. It is an exchange from one form of energy to the next, a caterpillar into a butterfly, a tiny acorn into a massive oak tree. When I first intentionally sought out the Norse myths, I understood that the people who once followed, and are still drawn to follow these old gods are a people one or becoming one with nature. Their followers have no big cathedrals, no mega churches, they have no need. The forests, mountains, and the seas; nature is their church, always has been. There were and still are believed to be numerous places the spirits of the dead could end up, just as there are in life. I have interpreted Hel in my mind as a spiritual personification of the energy transformation that comes with death. In my mind, It’s her back that is the “dead“ half although it is very much alive in this piece. Her body is becoming a forest, her hair the rocks and he dress the river bed and snow. Hel is drawing part of you to herself, always to the mound and you can’t look away, you understand or will understand the eventuality of your life. Always moving forward, always transforming. Once on the other side of her you will understand that you can’t go back because you aren’t going that way, just as in life. This is just my interpretation, I’m still learning but have an enormous amount of respect for the followers of Norse paganism trying to piece everything back together. Skol!
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One with Nature (2020)
I sat down to work on the Hel prompt for #mythober and I had every intention of making her as fierce and downcast, and half blue (or half dead) as the author Snorri claimed she was or is, but here’s the deal, that’s not what happened. (And you can expect that if you try to focus on anything that belongs to Loki, things may go sideways rather quickly. That is the essence of chaos.) I am still hesitant to call this piece “Hel” but that truly was my intention when I started it. Death, in my opinion, is not the end, it is a transformation. It is an exchange from one form of energy to the next, a caterpillar into a butterfly, a tiny acorn into a massive oak tree. When I first intentionally sought out the Norse myths, I understood that the people who once followed, and are still drawn to follow these old gods are a people one or becoming one with nature. Their followers have no big cathedrals, no mega churches, they have no need. The forests, mountains, and the seas; nature is their church, always has been. There were and still are believed to be numerous places the spirits of the dead could end up, just as there are in life. I have interpreted Hel in my mind as a spiritual personification of the energy transformation that comes with death. In my mind, It’s her back that is the “dead“ half although it is very much alive in this piece. Her body is becoming a forest, her hair the rocks and he dress the river bed and snow. Hel is drawing part of you to herself, always to the mound and you can’t look away, you understand or will understand the eventuality of your life. Always moving forward, always transforming. Once on the other side of her you will understand that you can’t go back because you aren’t going that way, just as in life. This is just my interpretation, I’m still learning but have an enormous amount of respect for the followers of Norse paganism trying to piece everything back together. Skol!
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Post link
This website put me in touch with one of my closest, and yet geographically most distant, friends @verbaldeathwish-blog
Close to ten years we have known each other, spoken almost daily, been there for each other during incredibly difficult times. I remember when he became a father. I know how much he loved his daughter and the plans he had for the future. Constant voice notes and video messages over years, a constant source of support, someone I would rush to tell the happiest and saddest moments of my life.
I know we can trivialise online relationships. But I sincerely love him.
Last time he spoke to me was on Christmas Eve.
He never got the messages I sent him on Christmas Day. And now I know it was because when I sent them, he was already dead.
I just found out today (27th of December) that he died in the early hours of Christmas Day, with his partner, in a terrible car crash - his partner was the only other person in his ‘real life’ that I was in contact with. I found out about their deaths through anguished posts from friends and family on their social media.
My heart is truly broken. This is the first time, despite losing family members before, that I’ve experienced grief like this. Because realistically, feeling this way, the one person I want to speak to and process it with is him.
This loss is something I can’t even articulate. And I know it’s going to crash down repeatedly on me because he was such a constant part of my life, such an important part of my life. And now he is gone. So young. In such a sudden and violent way.
I’m posting this here because this was the platform that brought us together. We had plans to meet in person, some that could have happened but fell through, some that were projected into the future. But even though we never met, I can’t pretend that he hasn’t been one of the most meaningful friendships I’ve ever had.
I want this to be a joke, I want this to be a misunderstanding or mistaken identity or something that means he’ll pop up on my phone again apologising for ignoring my messages. His absence is painful, I’ve never wanted to speak to someone so bad in my entire life.
Matt, I love you, and I’m going to miss you more than I can even begin to explain.
This week I broke down in the car.
I saw your house for the first time since and I remembered that you don’t live there anymore. That you will never live there, or anywhere, again.
As soon as the car door shut behind me, it all hit me again and I couldn’t breathe. It feels harder and harder to grasp air these days, like my lungs are always heavy, my heart too full of lost love to pump with any vigour.
It comes in waves, cruel torrents, natural disasters that strike when I think I’m okay now and that the pain is easing. Grief rushes in and fills every space, unwanted and unrelenting until there’s no room for much of anything else.
I miss you more and more, and grief will not stop creeping into every corner of my heart.
“hurt and grieve but don’t suffer alone”
“today of all days”
“there may not be meaning so find one and seize it”
“the most dangerous thing is to love”
“you will heal and you’ll rise above”
“it’s more courageous to overcome”
-achilles come down Gang of Youths
I don’t think grief is a feeling I’ll ever get used to, in any of it’s forms. The floor falling out from beneath your feet. Your heart and stomach dropping with it.
Vignettes for mourning, for people I miss.
Sometimes grief is the mortar that holds your bones together.
She heard him mutter, “Can you take away this grief?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “Everyone asks me. And I would not do so even if I knew how. It belongs to you. Only time and tears take away grief; that is what they are for”
