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Six months. In six months it had progressed all so fast—the cancer. One moment you had been enjoying Christmas with your old lover, that damned cowboy, Dorian. Yet, by June, he was being lowered down into the ground. It shouldn't have been this way, you told yourself time and time again. Hell, you had always thought that Dorian would get better as he had entered remission at that time, but the cancer had been far too aggressive on his still somewhat young body. The man had only been fifty-three and in rather good shape for his age, but cancer doesn't—never—discriminate.
So many damned people told you that they'd pray for you, but that would never bring your baby back. Not now that the earth had him. Even with him being in that hospital bed, losing weight and that precious light in his eyes, it was all so agonizing. Some days you wished it were you in that bed instead of him, but he argued that he lived a good life. You both knew that even before the diagnosis, that you both wouldn't have a lot of time together, and it motivated you both to spend every waking moment to the fullest. Alas, you'd enter this house without him.
It was so odd as you entered the house lost to time. The funeral was alright, the weather almost mocking with its sunlight boring down among the land. Could it not see you suffering in losing the one man that meant so much to you? There was only so much anger you could express to the universe, hell, even to God. Although what good what it even do you? It'd never bring back the time spent and gone away—nothing could.
The floorboards had creaked under the weight of every step. You didn't even have a direct objective, but you were at the cabinet in the kitchen and grabbing out the bottle of whiskey that had been long abandoned—unfinished by your cowboy. With a deep breath and no care for class, you opened it and took a deep drink. It was fucking awful but brought the only warmth worth while in your body. It was almost as if Dorian himself was embracing you through bitter liquor. You swore you could hear him teasing at how you always grimaced at the harsh taste before he took a poker face swig.
It had begun as one drink, then another. Lord only knew how much you had drank from the bottle, but you were now laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and speaking as if Dorian had been there with you—as if you went to someone else's funeral instead. Although, you looked at the couch to find the deathly reminder of loneliness. You didn't even realize that you passed out with that being the last thing you saw.
As if the waking world wasn't enough agony to enslave you with, the sleeping one had been like a cold bucket of water. Morning sun kissed your skin, the sheets feeling finer than that of silk, but the mass of warmth from the sun paled in comparison to the man next to you. Dorian. He turned over to face you, a slow and lazy smile tugging at his lips at the sight of you.
"You're finally up," he reached out and caressed your face, admiring how you looked when you first woke up in the morning.
There weren't any words that could come from you, getting nothing but stuck in your throat. Dorian had chuckled warmly, tugging you closer in this peace of mind that kept you clouded from harsh reality.
"Oh, come here, lad," he kissed your temple, arms snug around you. "I missed you."
Oh, how you missed him, too.
Cold and hard had been the floor, a stark contrast to all the warmth that dream taunted you with; to add salt to the wound of all this, the hangover was making your head pound. For years you have heard of the dead communicating through dreams, but you knew how Dorian was. He'd probably slap you upside the head for sulking like this rather than being grateful for being able to have these years to him. That mere notion made you laugh bitterly, tears falling down that you didn't even know were there.
Birds chirped outside, the sun beginning to kiss the horizon as the new day came. Never did the stillness of the house ever cease, and here you were, the only living thing. Never would those boots leave the area by the door again, his cowboy hat remaining upside down on the kitchen table, and all his clothes—dirty and clean—being strewn about the house. Although, the only part of him that would disappear would be this whiskey. Your only comfort you could ask for in the silence; talking now long off the board.
The farm could wait five more minutes.