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The thing that they never tell you about grief is this: it does not always fade with time. Sometimes, it instead opts to let itself in and make itself quite comfortable, like the stray cat you once fed that never really left you alone after that. It curls around your heart, rubbing against you and purring, settling into the very marrow of your bones. Poets sometimes describe it as a ‘comforting blanket of grey’, but it more often than not feels like cement, weighing one down and making it hard to breathe.
It gets easier with time, they all said. It’ll pass, you just have to let it move through you, they said.
What do they know, though?
A unique situation, they called it: and sure, maybe they were right on that one, but there’s nothing unique about grief. Perhaps it is one of the oldest human emotions, perhaps it isn’t –– what does it matter, anyway? Grief is grief, and the heaviness of it lingers over Chris, a hulking beast of something that, some days, threatens to swallow him whole. God knows how many tears he has cried, God knows how much he’s stared at Josh’s contact in his phone -– and maybe even called it once or twice, just to hear Josh’s voicemail message.
How do you cope when you feel like you just lost part of yourself? Tell me that. Tell me how to move on when I feel like I lost a piece of my heart.
Grief is a funny thing, and it is grief that brought Chris back to the place where it all ended. There is still a chill in the air, despite the sunlight that shines its way down to the earth below. It feels somehow like both an eternity and merely seconds since he was here last: somehow, it all feels like a dream, a terrible-awful-no-good dream that he can wake up from, that he did wake up from, and he is awake, the memories a haze, and yet––
(And yet Josh is still gone, and there is an ache in Chris’ chest and horrors in his mind that he cannot talk about.)
A breath is drawn as Chris closes his eyes, tilting his head back towards the sky before he re-opens them. He exhales slowly, watching his breath mist away into the afternoon sky, hands shoved into his jacket’s pockets. He fidgets with a piece of paper in his pocket (gum wrapper? a receipt?), swallowing hard before he begins to walk. Fingers twist the paper around (maybe it’s a napkin), nails scraping against it. Part of it is almost grounding (why the fuck is it bothering him so much that he doesn’t know what it is?), the rest nervous energy. (It has to be a receipt. The texture says receipt.) There is a ball of nerves that makes Chris feel as if he is going to be sick, sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach as he tears the paper (no, napkin, it’s gotta be a napkin, right?) into little pieces in his pocket.
“Maybe it was a bad idea to come back here,” Chris mumbles, his voice falling flat in the living silence of the mountain. He knows that he had to come back, though. He had to. He has to make peace with the fact that… That…
“He’s dead,” Chris says aloud, and though his voice is barely a whisper, it feels like a sharp pain in his chest. It is a physical pain, sharp and stabbing, and it feels like his heart has shattered. It’s an agony that hasn’t gotten any easier, despite what everyone has been telling him. It’ll get easier, they say, and he has to resist the urge to scream When? When does it get easier?
And this is why: this is why Chris is here. He had to come back to know that Josh is dead and gone, lost to the mountains. He has to know that it is okay to move on, it is okay to mourn, even though there is no body. He can let himself lose what hope he remains (stubborn spark, refusing to go out, a candle in a window). Chris’ steps are slow, measured, and with each one he tries to focus on the world around him to quell the mounting pressure of feelings in his chest.
The birds are singing.
josh is dead he is dead look around you he is dead no one can survive out here
The wind is whispering by.
it’s so far away from everything and it’s cold out and those things are there and
The air is brisk and cold, stinging Chris’ cheeks.
look around you he is dead he has to be dead and you have to let go now you have to move on eventually
“I don’t want to move on.” Chris doesn’t realize he has spoken aloud until the sound of his own voice startles him. It sounds unnaturally loud in the silence of the mountain: the words seem to fall flat, but at the same time it is like a thunderclap. A shiver runs down his spine, though he cannot pinpoint why: something makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle, the primal part of his brain suddenly very aware of the silence. (Had it always been so quiet? Had the wind always seemed so loud?) Chris hunches his shoulders, shivering again –– this time it is from the cold though, he tells himself. It’s just colder than I expected it to be.
The walk is not a long one, really, Chris’ first destination being the cabin that sits a little ways away from the lodge. He doesn’t think he is ready to see the lodge yet (God knows he sees it enough in his nightmares) –– and so cautious footsteps bring him towards the lonely wooden building, a growing sense of trepidation settling over him.
Perhaps it is primal instincts that become aware first, or perhaps it is simply Chris’ paranoia talking. Whatever the case, the closer he grows to the cabin, the heavier the knot of dread grows in his stomach. Something prickles at the back of his neck, a sensation of you are not alone. Chris’ brain supplies him with the phrase ‘prey instinct’, and the phrase makes him shiver. Calm down, I’m just being paranoid, he tells himself, but all the same, he cannot stop himself from glancing around, searching for any flicker of movement as he finds himself coming to a standstill.
They can’t see you if you don’t move, his brain says, and Chris mentally smacks himself. There is no ‘they’, I’m fine. I’m just on edge.
He almost doesn’t see the figure standing just before the treeline alongside the cabin –– they almost blend in with the reaching branches and towering tree trunks, the grey light of a cloudy afternoon serving to wash everything out in a greyish hue. It is only because they move ever so slightly that Chris even sees them at all: a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, the slightest shifting of shadows, and Chris’ gaze is jerked over to them, every muscle in his body alive with tension and anxiety.
For a moment, his heart pounds, the cold ball of dread heavy in his stomach, nausea rising as he swallows hard, breathing growing shorter as he holds himself stock-still, is that a person or––
The way the figure stands is familiar, the jacket, the dark hair. Chris would know him anywhere, anywhere, even in hell, he thinks, even in hell. He would recognize Josh no matter what, and how can he not? Josh is (was? no, not was) a constant, has always been a constant, even when everything else was upturned and gone.
“Josh?” The word, simple and quiet, laden with so much emotion slips from Chris’ lips unbidden. A step is taken towards the figure, the action unconscious as Chris feels an unnameable emotion swell in his chest.
The figure turns, and Chris’ heart leaps. “Chris?” Josh’s voice is raspy, sounding as if he hasn’t spoken aloud in who-knows-how-long. It is dry, cracking, and Chris doesn’t know if he is about to laugh or cry. “What––” Josh clears his throat, taking a few steps towards Chris. “What–– the hell are you...doing here?” His voice sounds almost pained, as if the words do not come easily. His voice, raw, almost jagged-sounding, is somehow the best thing Chris has heard in God knows how long.
He moves forward, steps almost halting, and Chris feels that warmth, unnameable and almost painful, an agony that is euphoric. As Josh comes out of the trees’ shadows, Chris gets a clearer look at him –– the skin of his cheek torn, teeth and muscle and gums revealed beneath it, dried blood smeared up the side of his face and into his hairline. Josh’s clothing is torn in places, smeared in dirt and God only knows what else, and the bags under his eyes are darker than Chris has ever seen them before. A you look like shit is barely stopped from slipping out, and Chris swallows hard.
“What…” Chris’ voice is a whisper, eyes wide, and he finds himself crossing his arms over his chest. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“You shouldn’t be here.” Josh’s words are brusque, blunt, and almost feel like a punch to the gut. His expression is nigh unreadable, though Chris thinks he catches a look of something unnameable, something warm and painful and agonizing and maybe hopeful, in his eyes.
“Wh– What the fuck, Josh, I just found you! After I thought– I mean, we all thought you were... you know!” Now that he has Josh again, Chris can’t bring himself to say the d-word. Before, it was alright, before, when he was trying to make peace with it, but now? Now, there’s a chance, maybe, a shot at things going back to normal, at things being okay.
(Deep down, Chris knows it isn’t true. Deep down, he already knows, he thinks, but he shoves it aside.)
“It’s dangerous up here, dumbass,” Josh retorts, tone matter-of-fact. “Why’d you even...come back up here?” His words are still halting, voice raw from disuse. He sounds like one might expect a decrepit house to: dusty hallways and creaking doors, broken windows and a ramshackle porch. If skeletons could speak, they might use his voice.
Chris raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, arms crossing over his chest again, falling to his sides, and then folding once more. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, feeling like a bowstring pulled too taut. Nervousness roils beneath his skin, a sea that he might just lose himself in. “Couldn’t, uh, leave my best bro hangin’, right?” A nervous laugh follows these words: an emotional release, pent up feelings constrained in one sound. “I… I had to come back up, y’know?” Chris draws a shuddering breath, finally settling on wrapping his arms around himself in a mock hug. Words fail, sticking in his throat, and Chris feels a deep, bittersweet happiness welling in his chest.
“I can’t believe you came back,” Josh says, and the emotion that hangs off his words is almost tangible. The grey light of day only serves to highlight the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the dried blood standing out in stark contrast. “It’s–– It was stupid, stupid as hell, but… I’m––” An unspoken I’m glad you did hangs heavy between them, and Chris feels as if he might burst into tears at any moment.
Breathe, Chris. Breathe.
The tension is broken by Chris speaking once again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you…come back, Josh?” (He thinks if he speaks any louder, his voice will fail.)
Josh does not reply, instead opting to look off to the side, expression unreadable.
“...I missed you, J,” Chris says, voice cracking on the last syllable. “I missed you so fuckin’ much.” The words fall flat, it feels like, swallowed by the immensity of the mountain. The thought the mountain takes everything springs to mind, and it makes Chris shudder.
“I missed you too,” Josh replies, and his stoic expression melts ever so slightly: a crack in a façade that is not meant to last, emotion twisting greyed features. There is that bittersweet pang again, and Chris knows Josh feels it too. He knows him; he knows Josh. (Chris would know Josh anywhere, even in death, even when it feels like the world has been turned upside down.) It’s still Josh, even though the longer he looks, the more he notices: there are changes to Josh, changes to him that are just on this side of being wrong, changes that almost hit uncanny, things that are just not right.
(Chris knows. He knows, and he does not acknowledge it.)
Are you coming back, Chris wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and he instead takes a step forward, wrapping Josh in a tight hug. He feels Josh tense under his touch, and for a moment, Chris is terrified that he fucked up. Just as he is about to pull away and apologize, however, he feels Josh’s arms wrapping around him, hugging him tightly.
“Mind if I stay a bit?” Chris mumbles.
“...Not at all,” Josh says, and for the first time in a while, Chris doesn’t feel like he is missing half of his heart.