Lullaby.

The TV was on low in the corner, his eyes stupidly watching the people on the screen. He was curled up in the corner of the couch, his knees up at his chest. A cigarette was burning between his fingers, barely more than a cylinder of ash. He'd need to buy more before too long, he was down to his last pack, but even going to the store made him sick.

It wasn't that he was old and frail, nor that he disliked his neighbors' dogs or children. It had nothing to do with the clerk at the corner store, or the few roads he'd need to cross. He had his reasons for becoming a total stranger to the world.

Jumping a little as he felt the hot ash of the cigarette fall on his hand, he crushed the filter into the ashtray.

He sat for a moment more before deciding he needed a drink. Sometimes it was an herbal tea or diet soda, and sometimes it was Jack Daniels. Since the accident, he seemed to ignore the fact that the bottle nearly killed him last time, but he never drank as much as he used to. Never.

He shuffled through the kitchen door, pulling a coffee cup out of the top cupboard and turning the kettle on to boil.

As he waited, he leaned against the bench, staring out the window. He didn't need to go outside to know it was cold out; it'd probably rain later on. He lost himself for a short moment, his mind blank as he just... looked.

But almost as soon as thought left, memories came flooding in. It was like thinking, even about the smallest thing like the buzz of the TV, put up some kind of wall... and even then, the wall could be broken down.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking to the ground and smiling. This... he didn't deserve it. In the past he'd done so much wrong, gone through so much without lifting a finger, it seemed. He didn't work for this, it just... fell into place.

The blonde beside him touched his fingers, pressing their hands together. It had been a while since they'd been able to be like this. If one of them wasn't on tour, the other was... and if neither of them were, they were off to various places for interviews and press conferences. Even when all they had was rehearsal in the studio, there was never any time.

“What's wrong, kulta?” the blonde asked shyly, resting his head on the other's shoulder.

“It's nothing.”

“C'mon, Ville. Talk to me.”

“...I'll tell you when we get home.”

He was interrupted by the high squeal of the kettle. It didn't take him long to fix himself a coffee, and after putting the milk back in the fridge, he made his way up to his bedroom.

The bed hadn't been made in an age, and the same empty glass sat on the nightstand on the far side. The lamp hadn't been touched since it happened. His side of the wardrobe was an absolute mess, with unwashed jeans and shirts thrown in haphazardly, and the other side was as perfect as it had always been.

It was like the room had been split down the middle. He only touched one side, his side, and the other sat perfectly, waiting.

He put his coffee on his night stand, moving the ashtray closer to the edge so he could reach it. Pulling a book out of the top drawer, he flopped down on the bed and began reading.

He wasn't big on this one, not if he was being honest. But it was something to do, something that wouldn't make it start all over again. It occupied his mind even if at the same time it dulled it.

“Ville... are you okay?” Kristian asked, pushing through the door quietly. It was today.

“'M fine.”

“The car should be here any minute... just thought I'd let you know.”

“I'm not going, Kris.”

Kristian turned around, looking at him. “Ville, I know it's going to be hard... I mean, it's going to be hard for all of us, but-”

“No, Kris. I don't think I can go.”

“Of course you can. You were his-”

“I know, and that's why I can't do it.”

Eventually, between Kris, Migé, Linde, Bam and Lauri, they'd managed to coax him out of the house. He sat between Migé and Bam at the chapel, sobbing silently into Bam's shoulder as Migé held his hand. He tried so hard to rid his head of the pictures that just wouldn't go away, but they seemed... stuck.

He sat up with a start, as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. It'd be another hour until he fell asleep again, surely. Another hour of trying to do something, anything, to just keep himself occupied.

As he wandered down the stairs and into the lounge, he thought for a moment on the advice Kris had given him months ago.

“You know, Ville... maybe you should sell this place. Like... start new, a clean slate. There's some apartments up in Tampere not far from my place-”

“No, Kris,” he stated without so much as a second thought.

As much as this house was haunted, he'd never leave. As much as it hurt him to stay, he couldn't just leave it all behind. It was where everything had happened – their first Christmas, their first blackout, their first time together.

Everything was engraved in the high walls of this house.

He settled in the corner of the couch again, lighting up a cigarette and turning on the TV. Interest in the show meant nothing, it was just something to occupy his thoughts.

“Ville, what's wrong?” Jonne asked for the umpteenth time that night. “You seem a little on edge.”

“It's nothing, love. Don't worry about it.”

“It's something. I know you, Ville... what's wrong?”

“Can I tell you when we get home? It's kind of... complicated, Jonne. That's all.”

The blonde sighed. “Fine, but I am not letting this go. Don't think I am, because I'm not.”

“You will,” the other laughed. “It's green, darling.”

“I know, I was getting to that,” Jonne smiled. “I love you.”

Ville smiled back, his stomach buzzing with butterflies. “I love you-”

He sat bolt-upright, his heart jumping out of his chest. The TV was still on, the cigarette was a line of ash in the tray.

He cursed himself for falling asleep. He knew he needed it, needed to be able to function... but it was... he couldn't deal with it. The dreams were more vivid than the flashbacks, they hit harder and faster and sometimes he just didn't want to wake up from them.

He wanted to be sucked back in time, back to the accident. He wanted to stop it, to make it so he was the one on the driver's side. He wanted Jonne to live, for him to die... or for both of them to go either way, together. It was the guilt, that's what the shrink had said. The guilt of having to let him go without their lives being lived together. The guilt of not telling him what he'd been thinking, why he'd been on edge that night.

It was trauma, yes. He'd survived the car accident that had killed his lover. He'd been semi-conscious before the paramedics arrived, and even if his conscious couldn't recall it, his subconscious had images etched in so deep, in such detail, that to simply erase them would be virtually impossible.

“Prozac. Prozac. Prozac...” he muttered to himself, moving bottles and boxes through the medicine cupboard. He hated taking them, hated it, but he knew when it was inescapable.

It'd give him a couple hours of sleep at best, but those couple hours could see him through a couple of days as long as he kept his caffeine up and his mind busy. Remembering seems to wear him out, tire him.

It was like some sick lullaby. A lullaby filled with blood and tears. A lullaby about the most perfect person and the way he looked through the stages of death.

There was the before, when he was still breathing and laughing and kissing his lover on the cheek. There was the middle, where it happened, and where he was bent up awkwardly with shards of metal and glass sticking into his skin. There was the immediate aftermath, with the coffin and the hearse and his lover crying into someone else's shoulder because that was all he had.

And then, then there was the now. The time some two years later, where the one left behind searched through a bathroom cupboard for a bottle of pills because he knows it's just getting too much. This is when the living downed a couple of shots and quadruple the recommended dose, and held on to that picture in the frame.