I'll Be
Your Crying Shoulder
It shouldn’t have ended up this way.
He stared defiantly at the casket being lowered into the ground, as if challenging the man that lay inside it to open the lid and reprimand him for being rude. But it could never happen, because the man was his father, and his father was dead.
He continued to stare, even as the number of people that crowded around the now-filling hole dwindled, even as the earthen soil above it was flattened and topped with burial flower arrangements, and even as a raindrop spattered on the top of his head.
To be honest, he thought the rain was sort of annoying; did the sky want him to stop using his tears to mourn by showing off? Well, fuck the sky. It was his eyes, his tears, his life; his father that was dead. He was going to fucking bawl like a baby if he wanted to.
“You don’t have to do it alone,” a smoky and melodious voice said from behind him, as if reading his mind. The merciless barrage of rain on his prone frame halted as a shadow loomed over him.
“No need to catch a cold,” the voice continued, as if they were having a proper conversation.
Ryan didn’t turn around, but he didn’t have to. He could already picture Brendon’s countenance: red rimmed eyes for a man someone else lost, his full mouth frowning in sadness and worry, and his gloved hands, clutching an umbrella. Same old presence, same old Brendon.
He suddenly felt two slim arms wrap around his middle, a pointed chin tucking itself in his shoulder, the hard rod of the umbrella trapped between them.
“I’m so, so sorry, Ry,” said the voice that gotten just a bit higher, quieter.
His face contorted in sheer misery, and he almost went down on his knees had Brendon not kept his hold on him firm. He wrenched himself free from his friend’s grasp and shifted positions so that he was now facing Brendon. Ryan buried himself instantly in his chest, wallowing in the comfort of familiarity. The umbrella fell uselessly to the ground on their side, but the rain was as unforgiving as it has been earlier.
His sobs were silent and his tears mute as he wept, and it was Brendon who cried out loud, for the both of hem. Always the voice, his voice.
“I’m here, Ry,” he choked out as the older boy’s tears mingled with the rain on his skin.
“I’ll always be here.”
He stared defiantly at the casket being lowered into the ground, as if challenging the man that lay inside it to open the lid and reprimand him for being rude. But it could never happen, because the man was his father, and his father was dead.
He continued to stare, even as the number of people that crowded around the now-filling hole dwindled, even as the earthen soil above it was flattened and topped with burial flower arrangements, and even as a raindrop spattered on the top of his head.
To be honest, he thought the rain was sort of annoying; did the sky want him to stop using his tears to mourn by showing off? Well, fuck the sky. It was his eyes, his tears, his life; his father that was dead. He was going to fucking bawl like a baby if he wanted to.
“You don’t have to do it alone,” a smoky and melodious voice said from behind him, as if reading his mind. The merciless barrage of rain on his prone frame halted as a shadow loomed over him.
“No need to catch a cold,” the voice continued, as if they were having a proper conversation.
Ryan didn’t turn around, but he didn’t have to. He could already picture Brendon’s countenance: red rimmed eyes for a man someone else lost, his full mouth frowning in sadness and worry, and his gloved hands, clutching an umbrella. Same old presence, same old Brendon.
He suddenly felt two slim arms wrap around his middle, a pointed chin tucking itself in his shoulder, the hard rod of the umbrella trapped between them.
“I’m so, so sorry, Ry,” said the voice that gotten just a bit higher, quieter.
His face contorted in sheer misery, and he almost went down on his knees had Brendon not kept his hold on him firm. He wrenched himself free from his friend’s grasp and shifted positions so that he was now facing Brendon. Ryan buried himself instantly in his chest, wallowing in the comfort of familiarity. The umbrella fell uselessly to the ground on their side, but the rain was as unforgiving as it has been earlier.
His sobs were silent and his tears mute as he wept, and it was Brendon who cried out loud, for the both of hem. Always the voice, his voice.
“I’m here, Ry,” he choked out as the older boy’s tears mingled with the rain on his skin.
“I’ll always be here.”