Work Text:
It hasn’t dawned on me yet that you’re gone.
I still wake up every morning, with the dogs at my feet, and find myself yearning for your smiling face.
As it is with repeating fashion, the bed is empty and I am cold.
I miss your feet tangled with mine, and the warm hands that met mine in the narrow space between our chests.
You always told me not to worry when you’re gone; you told me to remember the good things in life, and not you.
It doesn’t help that you were the greatest part of my life.
The part in this story that upsets me the most is that your thoughts were so firm and unsettling.
You were so adamant that you were going to leave, you didn’t even bother to think about me.
It hasn’t dawned on me yet how selfish I am being.
What people don’t get is that you were mine.
I’m the one you saw every morning and every night; I was the first and last thought on your mind.
You always seemed to show how much you loved me, but I never returned the favor.
I never told you that without you, the stars don’t shine.
I never told you that without you, my life isn’t the same.
I never told you that you were— are the love of my life.
Sometimes I remember the day you passed.
Most of the time, my memories are clouded, and I only remember the little things.
You were angry at me for not putting enough creamer in your coffee.
I argued that you shouldn’t have been mad at me, that I didn’t drink coffee in the first place, and that I could have spit in it before I gave it to you.
The grin you gave me as you set the mug down was priceless.
“I knew there was a reason as to why I loved you."
You said this is in a jokingly matter as you leaned in to kiss me. All I said back was a quick “I love you too!" as the taste of hazelnut spread across my lips, making both of us laugh in the process.
I realized that this was the last “I love you" we shared a few days after your funeral.
From your mom, I learned that you were in the car accident.
I was sitting in the studio, putting the final touches on an album.
Details like this escape me now, but it’s not like they mattered in the first place.
Gabe tapped on the door and I let him in, knowing the album would have to wait for whatever he just HAD to tell me.
“Hey, did you hear about the massive wreck downtown? A semi hit like, five cars, and ended up killing everyone." His eyes were big and curious, and I wasn’t in the least bit interested.
“No, Gabe, I didn’t. I’m really busy and I’d like to get this done. Plus, if I’m late again for Pete’s spaghetti, he’ll be pissed."
Gabe’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. Pete likes to be a stink about that kind of stuff. I’ll just check up on you later, Stumpie."
With that, he left.
It wasn’t until 4:48PM on September 3rd, 2007, that my life as I knew it was over.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Time stopped.
Hours passed before I could even think again.
Your mom was frantically calling my name, but I’m assuming she realized I wasn’t going to answer any time soon.
She stayed on the line with me for what seemed like an eternity.
I couldn’t fathom the fact you were gone.
Your funeral was the following to be the following Thursday, your mom said after she heard me breathe into the mouthpiece.
I was asked to help with the planning, but I think we all knew that I wouldn’t be much help there.
Instead, I sat in the corner of the small funeral home’s office, listening in when only they said my name.
I was asked to say something, anything.
I pleaded with my eyes as a protest to your mom, who understood.
Hillary spoke in my place. She said you were a cool brother.
Needless to say, the whole thing was a piece of shit. People who even I’ve never seen showed up, telling the whole world at the reception how much a certain “Peter" meant to them.
I sat there with a blank expression on my face the entire time, and kept wondering how you would take it.
Sure as hell wasn’t a fun-eral, as you would say.
I miss that part of you, the jokester.
Who am I trying to kid?
I miss everything about you.
So do Hemingway and Rigby.
Every day, around 4:45, they wait.
Some times it’s minutes, some times it’s hours.
I sit and watch them most nights.
They huff and turn around, looking at me for food.
It’s really ironic. Sickening, to say the least.
In the months after you leave, I’m not really a person.
Work understands, they give me an extended time of leave.
I’ve been thinking of quitting, in all honesty.
It’s not like I need a job anymore.
I have nothing to look forward to seeing.
I sit at home in the dark.
People call or come by, I don’t answer.
They are worried about me.
The nights are long, and restless.
I look in the mirror just to see a ghost.
It hurts me to know I never said goodbye.
I know I’ve said this before, but you never knew how much I loved you.
You were my one and only, and I can only imagine how you felt about me.
Six years isn’t a long time with somebody, but for me and you, it definitely felt like home.
I’ve tried to stay strong for you, Pete.
I really have.
You’ve kept me strong up until now.
I can’t live without you.
The stars may shine now but they sure don’t shine for you.
I’m seeing things that remind me of you, of us, and I just can’t take it.
I want to pull my hair out in frustration.
It’s been a year.
A year of worthless shit that doesn’t matter.
Except it all does.
Hemingway died, Pete.
Hemmy died and I just called the animal shelter to come and get the body.
I didn’t even say goodbye.
Nothing matters to me anymore, except being with you.
I hope we meet again soon.
I’d like that.
They say heartbreak can kill you in a few short months.
Where’s my cut?
It’s been five years, Pete.
I’m still not realizing you’re gone.
I celebrated our ten-year anniversary last fall. People looked at me with cloudy expressions as I sat down on the ground with a piece of cake, to talk to a tombstone.
That’s what you are now.
A stone.
You’re my rock.
The days continue to get shorter and the nights longer.
I wish you were here.
To hold me.
To comfort me.
To tell me everything will be okay.
To love me.
Never have I felt your presence like I did tonight.
I felt your warmth and the serenity you bring when you enter a room.
I miss your face.
The pictures don’t count.
It’s lonely.
I’m sad.
Now after ten years have passed, I note that I am beginning to feel okay- whatever okay means.
I have smiled.
I have laughed.
I have loved.
Nothing has compared to when it was with you.
I asked you last night if it was the right time to join you.
I didn’t receive an answer.
I have a feeling I know what you would say, though.
I love you forever and always, Pete.
See you there.
Patrick Martin Stump, aged 33, was found dead in his home on September 4th, 2017, the cause of his death currently deemed as natural. He was born on April 27th, 1984, and lived an adventrous life as a major record label producer. Stump was proceeded in death by his husband, Pete, and their loving companion, Hemingway. The funeral proceedings are on the following page, B11.
Heaven is actually a lot like Hell.
I’ve been searching for you and Hemmy for what seems like ages.
It takes me as a complete and utter surprise when you spin me around, giving me that ridiculous grin of yours.
“Hi," you say, not dropping the smile.
“Hello," I breathe, looking up into your eyes.
“You’re the strongest person I know, Patrick." You’re breathing softly, and you lift a hand to cup my jaw. “You kept me stable all this time."
I now know where I belong, and it’s with you.
You and I collide and I know I’ll never be happier.