I fagged out emotionally and bodily

The worst part was that everyone kept acting like food could fix it.

Like grief was something that could be softened around the edges if you put enough biscuits on a plate, if you filled enough mugs with tea, if you made sure there was always something warm and comforting waiting in the kitchen so that when the person left behind finally broke, they would at least have something to hold.

Arthur wanted to scream every time someone pressed a cup into his hands.

He wanted to tell them that tea did not make the house less empty.

That sandwiches did not make Merlin walk back through the door.

That no amount of homemade bread or carefully wrapped leftovers could change the fact that there would never again be a morning where Arthur woke up to Merlin half-asleep beside him, hair sticking up in impossible directions, complaining about how early it was even though Arthur knew perfectly well Merlin had already been awake for twenty minutes.

Everyone kept saying Merlin had been loved.

As if Arthur didn't know.

He knew Merlin had been loved.

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

Merlin had been loved by everyone.

By the people who came carrying flowers. By the neighbours who told stories about him from years ago. By the friends who laughed through their tears when they remembered the ridiculous things he had done. By the people who stood in the kitchen, eating food they barely tasted, saying things like, "He was one of a kind," and "There was nobody else like him."

Arthur knew.

There had never been anyone else like Merlin.

And now there never would be.

The living room had become a museum of him.

A photograph on the mantle.

A jacket left over the back of a chair because someone had moved it there weeks ago and Arthur had not been able to touch it since.

A mug in the cupboard that no one used anymore because Merlin had always insisted that his coffee tasted better in that specific one, even though Arthur had spent years telling him it was the exact same coffee in every other cup.

The stupid things were the things that hurt the most.

It was the ordinary.

It was knowing there would never be another argument over whose turn it was to wash the dishes.

There would never be another late-night conversation where Merlin rambled about something completely ridiculous until Arthur pretended to be annoyed but secretly listened to every word.

There would never be another hand reaching for his in the middle of the night.

There would never be another, "Arthur."

Just his name.

Just Merlin saying it.

Arthur had never understood how much of his life was built around one person until that person was gone.

People came and went through the house, offering condolences, sharing memories, telling stories that made everyone laugh for a few seconds before the laughter collapsed into silence.

Because that was the cruel thing about Merlin.

He made people happy.

Someone would say something about him forgetting where he put his keys, or the time he tried to fix something and somehow made it worse, or how he always pretended he wasn't worried when he was obviously worried, and for a moment Arthur would almost smile.

Almost.

And then he would remember.

The smile would disappear.

And the world would become unbearable all over again.

"You should talk to people."

Gwen's voice was gentle.

Arthur hated gentle voices. He hated everyone being careful around him, as though he were some fragile thing that would shatter if someone spoke too loudly.

"I am talking," he said.

She looked at him.

Arthur knew what she meant.

She meant talk.

Really talk.

Not the empty words he had been giving everyone for days.

Not the polite nods.

Not the automatic responses.

"I'm fine."

The biggest lie he had ever told.

Gwen sat beside him on the sofa, leaving enough space between them that he knew she was giving him the choice to move closer.

She had always been good at that.

Giving people choices.

Giving people room.

Merlin had been terrible at it.

Merlin had always barged into Arthur's life like he belonged there.

Like Arthur belonged to him.

Arthur remembered the first time Merlin had called himself his best friend.

Arthur had laughed.

Because Merlin was impossible.

Merlin was annoying.

Merlin was stubborn and reckless and far too willing to throw himself into situations he had no business being in.

And somehow, somehow, Arthur had fallen in love with him.

It had happened slowly.

A thousand tiny moments.

Merlin making him laugh when he didn't want to.

Merlin knowing when Arthur was upset before Arthur even admitted it.

And Arthur had spent so much time thinking there would always be more time.

That was the stupidest thing about being alive.

You always thought there would be more.

More mornings.

More arguments.

More apologies.

More chances.

More "I love yous" you could say later.

Arthur stared at the photograph beside the guest book.

Merlin was smiling.

Arthur hated the photograph.

He hated that it captured a version of Merlin who did not know he would leave.

He hated that everyone else could look at it and see a memory.

Arthur looked at it and saw a future that would never happen.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered.

It was the first honest thing he had said all day.

Gwen's expression broke.

Because she knew.

Everyone knew.

Arthur, who had always known what to do.

Arthur, who had always had a plan.

Arthur, who had always stood in front of everyone else and carried everything until his shoulders ached from the weight of it.

Arthur did not know what to do without Merlin.

He had never learned.

He didn’t want to start now.

Arthur did not want people to tell him it would get better.

He did not want promises.

He did not want anyone to pretend this was something that could be fixed.

He wanted Merlin back.

That was the only thing.

Not a lesson.

Not a new beginning.

Not some beautiful meaning hidden inside tragedy.

Just Merlin.

He wanted Merlin.

The house slowly emptied as evening settled.

The food remained.

That was the strange thing.

Everyone left, but the evidence of everyone being there stayed behind.

Half-eaten plates.

Folded napkins.

Flowers beginning to wilt.

Proof that people had come to mourn someone who was gone.

Arthur sat alone after everyone left.

The silence was worse than the noise.

The silence meant nobody was coming.

Nobody was going to interrupt him.

Nobody was going to tell him to eat.

Nobody was going to make some ridiculous joke to get him to smile.

Nobody was going to say his name like it mattered.

Arthur reached out and picked up Merlin's mug.

Held it carefully.

And for the first time since the wake began, Arthur let himself cry.

Not the quiet tears he had forced himself to shed when people were watching.

Not the controlled grief everyone expected from him.

Grief that came from loving someone so completely that losing them felt impossible.

Grief that made the whole world feel like it had continued moving without permission.

Grief that whispered, over and over again, that the person who had been his home was gone.

And Arthur was still here.

That was the part he could not understand.

How the world could keep going.

How the sun could rise.

How everything could continue when Merlin couldn't.

Arthur pressed the mug against his chest and closed his eyes.

For a moment, just a moment, he let himself imagine it.

The front door opening.

Merlin walking in.

Complaining about everyone being dramatic.

Asking why there was so much food.

Telling Arthur he was being ridiculous.

And Arthur would laugh.

He would laugh and he would hold him and he would never let go.

But the door stayed closed.

The house stayed quiet.

And Merlin did not come home.