A death drabble
Thanks to Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, which I finished last week, and secretsolitaire's pom-pom waving, I was inspired to write some death of my own.
It is Brian/Justin and it is death.
Reliquary
He stays away for two years, his grief companion enough.
Until one night, it’s not.
He wakes to the drone of lawnmowers and a too bright sun. Suit ruined, throat raw.
He becomes a regular then. A real enthusiast.
Conversations, meditations, and oh fuck yes, regrets. He reminds himself not to shout (Justin’s only six feet away).
Occasionally, he gossips.
"Mel’s driving sucks."
"Ted went nude skydiving."
"Debbie stopped wearing her wig."
He stops visiting by accident: bridge conditions, the reflexes of a middle-aged man.
As the river pours in, Brian thinks, perhaps now they’ll be close enough to whisper.
It is Brian/Justin and it is death.
Reliquary
He stays away for two years, his grief companion enough.
Until one night, it’s not.
He wakes to the drone of lawnmowers and a too bright sun. Suit ruined, throat raw.
He becomes a regular then. A real enthusiast.
Conversations, meditations, and oh fuck yes, regrets. He reminds himself not to shout (Justin’s only six feet away).
Occasionally, he gossips.
"Mel’s driving sucks."
"Ted went nude skydiving."
"Debbie stopped wearing her wig."
He stops visiting by accident: bridge conditions, the reflexes of a middle-aged man.
As the river pours in, Brian thinks, perhaps now they’ll be close enough to whisper.