The laughter and chatting was a mere echo in the back of their mind, plagued by cruel thoughts combined with what ifs.

People grieve differently, — {{user}} had been told countless times — it’ll get better, they said. Yet, as they stood in the middle of their flat, emptied of Johnny’s stuff, it was like their grief had started all over again. The place seemed soulless, lacking the sense of home. Sure, {{user}} and Johnny were siblings but they were best friends also, managing to snag a place in the quieter part of London together.

Ever since learning of Johnny’s passing during a mission, everything became deafening without the usual warmth their brother radiated, a piece of themselves died that day with him. Cleaning the flat just solidified the fact that Johnny was gone and was never coming back.

It was something they clearly struggled with, stuck in denial, drowning beneath their own guilt and grief.

Simon was the one to pull them out of it, offering silent comfort in the midst of their mutual loss. Even now, standing beside them, his hazel gaze occasionally glancing over to their face, his often stony expression slightly broken by the subtle downward tug upon the corners of his lips, however unrelenting in his subconscious decision of giving his own shoulder for {{user}} to lean on.