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"Psalm 116:15 tells us, ‘Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his faithful servants,’." The quiet voice of the preacher barely registered in Brando Webber's ears as he looked down at the memorial pamphlet in his hand; he hadn't had the heart to look at it since it was handed to him at the church; he had immediately rolled the piece of paper into a cylinder and clutched it in his hand. He couldn't bare to face the reality that he was moving through. It felt wrong for the day to be as beautiful as it was, with the sun shining through the trees and the skies as blue and cloudless as he'd ever seen them. None of it felt real.
He closed his eyes to keep his tears from escaping, trying to measure his breaths before reopening his eyes as the preacher started speaking again. "Today, in the sight of our Heavenly Father, we celebrate the life of Wilson Elijah Barnes, taken from us all too soon. But for the faithful, Death is not the end but a beginning of a journey more wonderful than we can imagine."
Bran inhaled slowly, that action making his lungs burn with the effort to keep himself in check. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, facing the sky, tuning the minister out the best he could. He lifted one hand and wrapped it around the wishbone necklace that lived there, the pendant resting against his heart; God, what he wouldn't give for all of this to be a nightmare -- that he'd wake up and this wouldn't be real. Fuck, what he wouldn't give to open his eyes and find Wilson standing next to him, wearing an impish grin and that light in his eyes.
But the universe had a uniquely macabre sense of humor and when he opened his eyes, instead of raven colored curls and a pair of brown eyes that shone caramel in the right light, stood a raven colored casket covered in blue bonnets.
The sob that left him felt like it was punched out of him and he dropped his chin to his chest, his shaky fingers covering his lips as he tried to catch the sounds that threatened to spill out. He felt a hand rubbing the back of his shoulder and he wasn't sure who it belonged to; his mother, perhaps. Fuck, he wished he could go back and fix it all, apologize and grovel at Wilson's feet, beg him, promise him the world, bring him the moon, carve out his own heart -- goddammit he'd give anything to trade places. He'd do and give anything just so that the love of his life wasn't laying still in that box for the rest of time.
God, the fact it took Wilson being dead for him to recognize the obvious; the fact that he'd let his fear of discovery ruin what they had and now -- now Wilson will never hear the words he longed to hear from Bran in life. Grief rolled over him in waves as the realizations came faster than the flood, Bran trying to catch his breath from the onslaught. The knowledge that he'd never hear that sweet voice singing silly love songs in the cab of his truck at 3 am, that he'd never hear that angelic laugh or see that smile ever again was more deadly than a knife to the ribs.
The guilt and shame of what he did to Wilson would haunt him for the rest of his life; the amount of times he'd hurt his best friend by being afraid, by loving him in private and hiding him in public, pushing him away when Wilson needed him to be present -- these are things he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forgive himself for. He had to live a life without Wilson because of his own selfishness, and he wasn't sure how he'd do it. Or if he even wanted to. Whether Bran had wanted to admit it or not, Wilson had owned him, body and soul from the first time Wilson shared his crayons in 1st grade and flashed him that pretty smile.
As the service ended and the mourners wandered away, Bran remained, his eyes focused on the casket that was a blurry mess of raven as the tears wouldn't stop coming. He stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, until he stood directly beside the casket. He sniffled and looked down at it, his vision swimming as more tears fell down his cheeks. Oh God, it hurt so much. He reached out a shaky hand and placed his palm against the shiny metal, another sob ripping out of him before he leaned down to rest his forehead against the metal. "I'm so sorry," he wept, closing his eyes tightly, realizing that even if he had a thousand wishes, nothing could undo this damage. "God, I'm so fucking sorry, Will, I'm so fucking sorry."
Why did you leave me here to live without you?
How foolish a thought; that he'd somehow be let off the hook when he voiced his apologies to the wind, hoping to be absolved of his sins. He stayed like that for God knew how long, his sobs settling to silent tears as he came to a resolution. Bran sniffled and brought his fingers to his lips. He kissed them then placed them down onto the casket. "Why'd you go where I can't follow?" he asked quietly, his voice breaking once more, closing his eyes. "Until we meet again, Will," he whispered before turning away and walking down the hill of the cemetery toward his car.
- - -
Since the funeral, time stood still. The sun still rose and set in it's similar fashion, the Earth still spinning on her axis. For Bran -- he was stuck going through the motions. Wake up, go to work, go to the bar, get shitfaced, go home. Sometimes alone, sometimes not, but it all didn't really matter. Nothing really mattered; he felt like he was living his life like the Truman Show, watching everything from above, as if it was happening to someone else. Nothing felt real to him.
He'd put on a smile, forced himself to look presentable to his family, while he was dying inside; at Wilson's graveside, he had made a decision and a promise. It had taken careful planning and precision, but he had managed to do it all while putting on the greatest show he ever performed.
The calendar on the wall told him that it had been two weeks since Wilson had been laid to rest, and it had felt so much longer than that. Bran tapped his pen against his lower lip as he sat at the kitchen table of his dinky trailer, with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels next to him. Alcohol made him impulsive and moody, as Wilson had often told him, and he huffed a bit out of his nose. It had been his company of choice for the last while and it was the only company he could stand with any certainty. He licked his lower lip and reached out for the bottle to take another swig, sitting it down again. Looking down at the piece of paper in front of him, a half written note in his chicken scratch. He hovered the tip of the pen over the paper as an errant thought passed through him, but was gone just as quickly.
Oh, well. He'd said what he wanted to say. That was enough.
Standing up from his seat at the table, he looked around his trailer and everywhere he looked, the ghost of Wilson lived. There wasn't a corner of his life that hadn't been haunted by him and he let out a hefty sigh as he took another drink. Bran was a little woozy, his head swimming deliciously as he stood there. He'd 'borrowed' some of his mothers vicodin and washed it down with Jack to help this part along. It was just a matter of time now, he reckoned, checking the watch on his wrist. Bran moved to sit down on the couch, still holding the bottle in his hand, resting his forearms on his knees. He vowed to drink it until there wasn't a drop left for the flies to consume when it was their turn.
Bran closed his eyes for a second, starting to feel sleepy and a bit drowsy, blinking them open to see Wilson standing in front of him, wearing a sad smile. This made Bran smile sleepily, the empty bottle slipping from his fingers. "You came," he whispered, offering him a smile before closing his eyes again.
- - -
To Whoever Finds This --
I'm where I want to be.
Will needed me and I couldn't leave him alone.
I made a promise.
-- Bran.
- - -
The Webbers buried him next to Wilson, just as he wanted.