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Summary:
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by
*peter*
He's gone. Dead. Deceased. Whatever. Don't really care anymore. The name you give it isn't the important part.
*peter*
The important part is him. The fact that it's not just anyone who's gone, but HIM. Peter. My Peter.
* . . . peter . . . *
I'll never see him again. Never talk to him, never kiss him. I'll never wrap my arms around him, press my face against his cheek. I'll never smell him again. I'll never touch him again.
*peter*
I'll never wake up to him again. All those lazy mornings we spent together--I took them all for granted. Thought he'd always be here, with me, holding me.
*oh, peter*
It's just hitting me now that he's not coming back. I'm finding it hard to get my mind around that concept. See, I always loved him. Always. Since the first day I met him, I loved him. When he was being kind to me, I was loving him. When he was making half-assed jokes, I was loving him. Hell, even when he was yelling at me, putting me down, I was loving him.
* . . . p-peter . . . *
I will never again make love to him. I'll never hold him in my arms, stroke him tenderly. We'll never snuggle again, beneath layers of quilts on the bed, clinging to each other as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered.
*dear god, peter . . . *
The last time I saw him, he was angry with me. Yelling at me about something trivial, I don't remember what. It doesn't matter now. But I made it a point, like I always did, to tell him I loved him before I left. He just looked at me for a minute, those big gorgeous eyes of his welling up with tears of regret. He came over and wrapped his arms around me, held me tightly and told me he loved me and he was sorry. There wasn't time for a kiss--we were running a million miles an hour in separate directions. But we knew. And it was enough.
*peter*
The next I knew, Adam was running up to me, screaming something about Peter having a heart attack and being dead. I didn't want to believe it. But it was true. Real. Whatever. He died on the lot, in my arms. Long gone before the ambulance even got there.
*p . . . *
His funeral is a quiet affair. Nobody loved Peterİİnobody but me. Lots of people showed up, paid their respects, and left as soon as possible. They had more important things to do. But this is my Peter. Which is why I've been standing here for three hours, three lonely hours alone and cold, missing Peter so desperately it feels like my heart is going to rip in two.
*baby . . .*
There is someone behind me. Short, choppy steps in what sounds like high heels. Wendy, then. "Stuart?" Her voice is gentle, she's trying to understand. The only other person who loved Peter, besides me. "Stuart, it's time to go. Come on, I'll take you home."
*peter*
I clear my throat, fighting the tears lurking hot behind my eyes. Peter thought my eyes were beautiful. "Okay," I choke, my voice strangely tortured. I kneel beside his grave. Press my fingertips to my lips, then to the headstone, then to the rich dirt.
*i love you, peter*
"Okay," I repeat, standing. Wendy wraps her arm around me as we walk away, but it doesn't help.
*peter*
It hurts too much.
*i'm coming*
I'm already dead.
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