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“Asshole.” The first words that left his mouth were spit, painted with faux venom that he couldn’t muster up to be real.
“You told me you’d be safe.” The second thing he said, as he rubbed one hand over his face, and another over the gravestone in front of him.
Jim Moriarty. As alive in death as he was in life.
“The detective prat lived, why couldn’t you?” He couldn’t help the anger that bubbled in his chest, because really, how could he do this?
“God, if you were alive, I’d probably kill you again.” He laughed. A dry, forced, hurt laugh. He looked away, into the woods, never settling over a spot as long as it wasn’t the grave.
“I loved you, fucking prick.” He whispered, as if it was a tragic, precious secret he held close to his heart.
In a way, it was.
“I know you’d call me weak. Call me sentimental or whatever bullshit you called it, but I did. I still do. I don’t think i’ll ever stop.” He wished he could cry, but all his tears had`drained the day Richard came up the steps, looking down at shaking hands, dried tears marking a red, flushed face.
“I failed. It didn’t work. He’s gone. Jim’s gone.”
“I’m sorry. For that. For loving you. And for thinking for a split second, you could love me back.”
With that, he turned around, leaving behind his words, a rose, and a flame that blossomed into a fire. Raging, bright, destructive. Everything Jim had been.
And he didn’t look back, even when a part of him swore he heard the whisper of a voice forgotten.
“I loved you too, Bastian.”