Pumbaa holds him as he passes on. The night makes its usual noise, and Pumbaa listens to Timon’s last even breaths. He knew it was coming, they both did for days. Pumbaa felt it deep in his heart leading up to this night. Suddenly there's one less instrument playing its music through the darkness. He doesn't do anything just yet though, he still needs a few more moments to lay with Timon in their nest in the jungle. 

Dawn breaks slowly, the sky greying and the stars blinking out one by one. Pumbaa hasn’t slept at all when at last he gets up. Rafiki is already waiting a ways off down the trail, and it's a wordless exchange as he scoops up Timon’s tiny body and places his hand on Pumbaa’s shoulder in comfort. The two of them walk soberly towards the meerkat’s final resting place, a spot at the base of Hakuna Matata falls, under a weeping boer bean in full bloom. After they lay him down, Pumbaa takes his time in picking the first flower while Rafiki goes to tell the royal family. It’s only now, while he lays this first flower, a white lily nearly as big as the meerkat himself, and while its petals brush his face, that he begins to cry. Slowly he sinks to the ground next to the small form of his best friend, and he brushes his snout against Timon’s palm one last time. 

The royal family arrives, and Kiara’s eyes are already red. She chokes a bit upon seeing him, and leans into Kovu as Simba steps past them, and he lays down a red jungle flower before coming over to nuzzle his face into Pumbaa. The hue of the flower and Simba’s mane both strengthen as daylight continues to seep from the sky and into earth. This wasn't the first time Simba had lost a father. Then Kiara went, with a small yellow bloom she had picked along the way. She sniffed and blinked out her tears as she came to sit next to her father. Next came Kovu and Nala, then Rafiki himself. As the sun climbed into the sky, more animals showed up to pay respects. Vitani’s guard, the lionesses of the pride. The elephants, then the grazing herds. The hippos and the Prideland’s crocs arrived together. News slowly spread around the Pridelands and then further, and soon even the hyenas had shown up with small desert blossoms. Even the birds, who didn't usually trouble themselves with the rest of the Pridelands’ affairs began to appear: Ono’s flock, Ona and Kulinda, the kids Bunga used to babysit. The only ones missing were Bunga and Ono themselves, as well as the rest of Kion’s Guard. Pumbaa knew that Fuli and Ono had no doubt rushed off to tell the rest of the guard at the Tree of Life, but he was sore for their company in the absence of his youngest son. 

All in all, it was one of the most impressive and well attended funerals the Pridelands had ever seen, and certainly the second biggest since Mufasa’s, the last true king- seconded only by Zazu himself. Animals came from near and far to honor the pair who had saved their king, who had (if inadvertently) brought about the end of Scar’s reign, and who had helped to bring a new era of peace to the Pridelands. By the end of that day the flowers had piled so high only the baboons, galagos, and birds could add to the top; dropping blossoms out of the branches above and flying overhead. 

Once Pumbaa could no longer see his love’s face beneath the petals, he walked off a bit to lay down in the soft green grass and watch as more and more animals came to add. Some approached him to offer condolences or comfort, but most just passed him by with sad, pitiful looks. They had, for a time, been coming over regularly while Simba and Kiara and then just Simba had laid by his side, but as the royals walked off not so many came over and he was glad for the peace. Pumbaa took small solace in this. It was proof that Timon had been the more popular, the more talkative and outgoing, the more well known of the pair. Timon’d had the bigger personality. Everyone had loved him at least a little. Most animals simply weren't here for the warthog. 

By the time the sun set that day, the pile of flowers brushed the lowest hanging boughs of the tree, the red boer blooms mingling with the rest, and it was so wide and deep Pumbaa didn't think he could find Timon in the mess even if he tried. And that was that.

He had lost him.

The realization that the last time he would ever get to see Timon had passed hours ago hit him hard, and while the colors faded from the assorted blooms as the sun sank lower, Pumbaa pitched into quiet sobs. The sting of the loss was too much for him to bear. So he sank into the grass and cried and cried, while the cicadas and nighttime bugs crooned and sang their own little love songs. The black jungle earth was cool against his bristle hair, and the sharp scent of decaying leaves stuck in his nose. 

When the moon rose, its strange light made the world look eerie. The jungle noises were more frightening out here, and without Timon it was downright unsettling. Suddenly, Pumbaa was totally alone. So, Pumbaa lifted himself heavily from where he laid, and slunk away into the trees towards an empty nest. 

Sleep did not come easily that night. The full moon was far too bright. In fact, it would have been a good night for hunting insects, if Pumbaa could convince Timon to get up out of their nest. Where he wasn't- Which he wasn't in. And he never would be again. Pumbaa forced his mind away from that, (his head hurt enough from the crying he had already done) and instead he opted to think about those nighttime hunts. How Timon would groggily clamber up onto his back and grasp onto his mane, muttering and grumbling about how Pumbaa had made up the term “nocturnal”, and how he was “...keeping a lookout… for the flyin’ ones” and act like a young child woken up for an early trip. The real child, Simba or later Bunga, would rush ahead, scampering about here and there in the pale moonlight, high on the fun of having been allowed to stay up so late. 

“...Pumbaa?” Pumbaa jerked his head up to see Simba standing sheepishly on the path, with the look of a cub just woken up from a bad dream drawn plainly across his face, clear even under that big shaggy mane he now sported. He could almost hear Timon mutter out a sleep muffled “your turn.” 

“I… I couldn't sleep.” That was all it took. Pumbaa was up, and Simba squeezed in next to him, curling his big, panther body around him. They nestled close, just like they had every night from the day they met to the night Nala had showed up. Only tonight, Timon wasn't there to say goodnight. It was technically Pumbaa’s turn to start. For the Simba count, at least. With Bunga they had a whole different rotation. But… That didn't matter anymore. And maybe Pumbaa didn't want to push it any more towards Timon, who would never start it again. Pumbaa tried again to divert his thoughts. Instead, he nosed in under Simba’s front leg, and quietly drifted off to sleep. 

The next day, more animals showed up. Not as many as the day before, but there were still some, enough to lay a thin coat of fresh flowers over yesterday’s wilted mound. Some animals, like Tiifu, came for a second time, having found a prettier or more fitting bloom than had presented itself the day before. Members of Timon’s colony also began to show up, tittering and frowning. The two souls there who had ever accepted Pumbaa’s mate as anything more than their savior had already passed on; Max and Nina both from old age, just like Timon. A good fate for a meerkat. But anyway, they were the reason Pumbaa stayed away that second day. He couldn't stand to hear the cousins and aunts and uncles, and all the other family at that, chattering about how Timon had been just “...so brave, so creative. Such a unique little boy,” comforting and consoling themselves. “Remember that time he collapsed the north tunnel, trying to dig a hole into the food stores?” “Yes, yes! Oh, Nina never did reprimand him enough for that. Amazing to think that he would be the one to find our great new home!” Pumbaa could feel his anger heating the skin under his mane. Practically shaking, he took a deep breath before forcing it out of his nose in a huff. The noise caused a few of the gathered meerkats to jump, like they had forgotten Pumbaa was even there. So he turned and left them. What was he going to do anyways, trample them? They weren't worth even his anger. 

The sun had set again and the world was bathed in purple twilight when Pumbaa heard the familiar sound of his little honeybadger son crashing through the underbrush. “Bunga, the trail?!” He heard Kion call after. “AWE, C’MON KION, THIS WAY IS-” Bunga’s sentence dropped off and he froze as his face broke through the leaves, and he caught sight of Pumbaa. After a moment, he broke out of his stupor and rushed over and wrapped his arms tightly around Pumbaa’s neck, his long hard claws digging into the warthogs fur. They stayed like that for a moment as the rest of the Guard and Makini walked out of the trail. 

Kion approached first, hesitantly, before nuzzling in and joining the hug. Then Ono, then Fuli, and finally Beshte, who was struggling just watching the emotional gesture, let alone join in. Makini stood to the side by Aanga, uncharacteristically reserved for the moment. 

Finally, after nearly two days, the Lion Guard and Timon and Pumbaa’s other child got to partake in the funeral. The colony had thankfully by this point dispersed, and were probably already sleeping soundly without a wink lost on account of their dearly departed kin. So, there were no comments about that “dreadful child”, with such big black claws that used to dig up the colony’s jungle tunnels when they would visit back when Bunga was a baby. That was another reason Pumbaa hated them, aside from the pain they'd put Timon through. If they hadn't known Simba as a child, they despised Bunga twofold for it. 

“Hevi kabisa…” came the whispered awe as the group took in the incredible pile of leaves and blooms, Timon’s impact on the world materialized in such a viscerally tangible way that it brought tears back into Pumbaa’s eyes seeing it again. It was only once he had blinked them away that he noticed how Makini had plucked her staff clean of blossoms, as it was too dark to find any of their own now. Bunga alone had brought an entire bouquet, picked over the past two days’ journey, that Makini had been holding for him during the hug. Well, that explained why she hadn't joined in. 

“To the left a bit.” Aanga pointed out, being able to see better than the honey badger even in the fading light. The kid scrambled about, a little less enthusiastic than usual, sprucing up the places in which yesterday’s flowers were brown and faded. 

“Gimme a lift?” 

“Sure thing, little b.” 

And then it was time for them to go. Kion and Ono made off for Pride Rock, and Fuli and Makini headed in the direction of Rafiki’s tree. Beshte went to see his pod at Big Springs, and Aanga flew off towards her old nest to see if it was still hers, agreeing that if it had been taken she could roost with Ono in the lair. Pumbaa and Bunga watched them go, and the atmosphere dampened as Pumbaa and Bunga were left alone, with nothing but a massive mound of flowers to fill the empty space where there should only have been one tiny meerkat. 

After a moment, Bunga pulled his eyes away from the trail and looked at him. “...Uncle Pumbaa?”

“Hm?” 

“Can we go home now?”

Bunga’s voice was raw, so different from what it had been only a few minutes ago. The happy clip of it had been dropped, and tears had formed, waiting now to fall. He had been holding it together for his friends. 

Pumbaa took a step closer. “Of course, Bunga.” And then Bunga’s arms were clutching Pumbaa’s neck and Pumbaa was holding Bunga as close as he could and Bunga cried and cried into his shoulder. 

“I thought-” Bunga sobbed. “I thought we would have more-  more time- I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” and it dawned on Pumbaa what Bunga was saying. He had been away. So far away that he had missed Timon’s funeral. 

“Oh, Bunga, that's not your fault.” 

“I wasn't here! And now he’s gone forever-”

“Shh, shh… it's okay. It's okay.”

“-and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Once Bunga had cried and yelled and cursed and sobbed and had gotten everything out, he slumped up against Pumbaa’s chest, exhausted. 

“Ready?” Pumbaa asked in a soft, low tone. Bunga climbed onto his back and buried his damp face into his uncle’s coarse black mane. 

“Mhm,” came the muffled reply.

THATS DISGUSTING!!!!!!!! WHY IS TIMON STANDING THERE LIKE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!

HE’S FUCKING FLABBERGASTED. THEY CONFUZZLED HIM. VIOLATED AND CONFOUNDED.

He went from irritated to YAY ONO’S HERE to fully perplexed in the span of 14 seconds.

I CANT.