The funeral was at noon.

Exactly eight hours and thirteen minutes from now, not that he was counting or anything. He closed his eyes to hide from the red numbers that illuminated from the alarm clock on their, erm… his bedside table. It had been a week now, yet he still had a hard time transitioning from their apartment to his apartment, or their bed to his bed, or any other mundane item that he had previously shared with the love of his life.

Because honestly, it would always be theirs.

The haunting thoughts alone of the proper way to address the items that now belonged to him alone brought upon a new wave of tears. No matter how many times he cried or sobbed, he never ran out of tears. He would never run out of things for him-

Somehow, sleep, however futile, was gifted to him for perhaps the first time since his death. He woke before the sun even considered rising, sitting up in their bed, now alone, and running long fingers through his messy black hair. Six hours and fifty one minutes…

Moving stiff limbs out to the kitchen, he went through the motions of successfully making a pot of coffee. At the rate he had been drinking it lately they might as well hook an IV up to him. He got out his usual gray mug, setting it down and pouring an unhealthy amount of the liquid energy into his cup, before dragging his feet over to fridge to get out the creamer (something he had previously always been harassed about because men didn’t put “ing creamer” in their coffee, but the comment was always followed by a playful smirk and a quick kiss to his temple).  He leaned against their kitchen counter, brining the rim of the mug to his lips and breathing in the familiar scent before taking the first long gulp, as per his usual morning routine now.

From there, he moved his lanky body to their swollen leather couch, plopping down in his seat, making sure to leave room for him to the right to join later on. Yet no matter how long he waited, time and time again the seat would never be filled.  Looking blankly into the depths of his creamy coffee, he allowed the time to pass, and his mind to drift out to times that weren’t so dark.

At three hours and twenty-seven minutes, he stood in their room, watching his fingers in the mirror as they slowly tied the ebony tie around his neck, a feat he would never have accomplished if he hadn’t had shown him all those months ago after getting fed up with his clip-on ties. Funny how the skill was now being used to tie a tie in order to complete the mourning attire for his own funeral.  

When only two hours on the dot where left, a knock came upon their apartment door, signaling the arrival of his own mother who would, undoubtedly shed her own tears (despite the fact  that she didn’t know him like he did), and offer comfort to him that would do anything but. Regardless, he opened the door, allowed her to attack his body with feverish hugs and proclaims of just how sorry she was, and how this was such an unexpected tragedy, and to let her know if she could do anything for him.

Unless she could somehow bring h