#p2answer

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Well, it's that time of year again.

There is no one in this grave. That part really shouldn't hurt, but at least the chance for a final goodbye might've softened the blow a bit.

It technically isn't the date of your older brother's death yet. You had learned by now not to come here on the actual date--there would always be something wrong, some bad traffic or a storm or someone just in the way.

Losing your older brother, then mom and dad, in such a short and sudden succession of events--losing them viȯlently, all three killɇd rather than just passed away... You've long since inured yourself to self-pity or pointless misery. But on days like this, you let the tears fall.

The truth is, you know this can't last forever. Two people can't disassemble bioterror on their own, and it's not like you're saving anyone who wasn't already doomed. Maybe it's just to feel like getting some of your own back.

"Hey Piers..."

It wasn't right. The two graves nearby--Madeline, and Saul--their graves held bodies, wrapped and prepared by a mortician. The grave next to them should have held a son, if only to complete the family picture.

You aren't sure if you believe in Heaven or Hell. You hope they're real, if only so that there's something like justice for someone like Piers.

"I still miss you, big man. I'm still wishing it's all a prank and that you'll come back to us soon. You could at least write back."

You hated crying. Unmasculine, weak. But what else is there to do? All your heroes are gone.

You lay the flowers on the grave and sit down, arm slung over shoulder, head turned to the side. Just in case you weren't alone and some squirrel or bird or ghost was watching you. You just aren't good with talking, never have been. But you can't leave.

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"I've seen worse."

(This is his idea of being mean.)

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Silas really thought you didn't know already that he came to the grave early every year.

You had been so young when this happened. Now you were at an age where you barely remembered what it was like to be five, eight, twelve. Some little kid with no idea how the world worked or how brutal it could be. If there had been a time where Saul was a good father, and not one who barely knew what was going on in the house until someone pissed him off, vaguely pretending at being a happy family largely to keep up appearances, then you don't remember it.

What you do know is that you were the runt of the litter, often ran and hid when you were presented with a threat, and were often shielded by your older siblings. You loved them all so much. Between Piers, Blythe, and Silas, you'd thought you were going to grow up with the biggest cast of best friends one could ask for.

You're so afraid of losing Silas now, and you know Silas feels the same way. Tries to keep you on a tight leash, under watch at all times, just to make sure nothing could happen to you. This gravestone was the reason why. Proof that life could be looking up and then death would come take it all away.

You only try to deny the tears for a little while, but when they come, they come fast and hard. Wasn't stuff like this supposed to fade? It's been years since he died, and years further since they'd met each other. Someone like Piers should have become a virtual stranger to the man you had grown into by now.

But every time you see a picture of him, you remember his face so clearly, remember how warm and strong his hugs felt. It wasn't the same when Silas did it. Silas' hugs were filled with tension, a desperation to not let him go, to keep him alive. He misses the hug of assurance that everything was going to be okay. Seems he'll have to be the ones doling those out for a little while longer.

Your tears are pathetic, wailing and bawling and sniffling, but you don't begrudge it of yourself. Once you've finally collected yourself, you whisper the first words of your fresh eulogy:

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You survey the woman carefully. Small. A certain look in her eye that spoke of...nerves. There's a certain energy to her minute motions. She's hardened, but not steeled to fight to the death. Ready for fight or flight--maybe searching for escape routes?