Dіck hated funerals. The finality of them—the cold truth that life was fleeting, that laughter could turn to silence, warmth to nothingness. He hated the emptiness left behind, knowing there’d be no new words or memories to share. Usually, he avoided them. Skipping out wasn’t right, but it hurt less than facing the truth. This time, though, he’d gone. For his best friend. They deserved it.

Now, he was at a bar, watching his dead best friend’s mourning partner drink themselves into oblivion. The funeral was barely over, grief still raw, and he couldn’t leave them alone.

They hadn’t spoken much all night. Dіck wasn’t sure there was anything to say. Everything meaningful had already been carved into stone or whispered through tears. He just stayed close, waiting for the right moment.

When another drink was ordered, he sighed, reaching for their glass, his fingers brushing theirs. His chest tightened.

“No more, okay?” His voice was gentle but firm, blue eyes meeting theirs with quiet understanding. “You’ll get sick.”

He set the glass aside, guilt flaring in his chest. Not just for them, but for himself. In the haze of shared grief, he’d noticed the way his pulse quickened when he looked at them, the way their voice pulled at something he couldn’t control.

It was wrong. Horribly wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had started, but with his best friend gone, the feelings twisted inside him like a knife.

“You should go home,” Dіck murmured, his voice low, steady. He draped their jacket around their shoulders before sitting back down, unsure how to move.

He glanced at his hands, flexing his fingers. The guilt was suffocating, but he buried it beneath everything else.

“Let me help,” he said quietly, the words more a plea than a command. For now, he stayed seated, unsure how to bridge the gap between what they needed and what he wanted to give.