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Anthony Crowley-Fell had always been tall and slender, willowy in his old body. He was certainly a bit frailer, these days, wearing the toll of a hip replacement and a crooked spine.
On the day of Asa’s funeral, though, Anthony was truly fragile.
Slow tears slid down his cheeks, any energy that could have been devoted to holding them back instead focused on holding him mostly upright, leaning against a cane that Asa had carved for him six years ago. His other hand curled around his lost husband’s ring. It looked as if he might shatter entirely, blood and flesh turned to glass, poised to crack and cut if he let go of the warm golden band.
Friends— so many friends, Asa loved this many, this many people loved Asa— shuffled through, shaking Anthony’s hand and pulling him into careful hugs. Bee’s eyes were softer than Anthony’d seen them in years, snark gone from their voice. Their Gabriel had passed away twelve years earlier, they knew this pain well. Warlock wept quietly, Adam squeezing his hand tight while Joshua whispered comfort to Anthony as he sank into his arms. They’d all come to see Asa as a sort of uncle in their years. Their own daughters came to mourn their godfather, Ruth wearing a baby of her own on her hip and June wearing a long black dress.
There was a time where Anthony craved only his stars, his plants and perhaps a good scotch.
Asa changed his life in a single question, and now he had this family. Now he’s crumpled in on himself trying to summarize decades of love in a eulogy that would never be enough to represent the man he loved.
Nothing could ever measure how Asa loved.
How was he meant to live without him?