He was the one who delivered the news, he was beside you when you decided on the casket, on the urn. You didn’t cry when he told you, didn’t let him hug you, but you cried so hard you threw up the moment he’d closed the door behind him. Johnny was dead, and now you had to plan your brother’s funeral.

It could’ve been literally anyone else but Simon to do that, yet he had been the one to show up on your doorstep that night. And he had the audacity to think that you would invite him in, to share your grief. Instead, you’d left him under the rain, making him feel as alone as you felt the day he walked out of your life.

You had loved him once, intensely, recklessly, and you thought his love for you burned just as bright. It didn’t. You had kept everything hidden from Johnny, not wanting to somehow corrupt their friendship; you couldn’t let your brother lose his best friend. But now he was gone, and you didn’t have to pretend anymore.

It started with snarky remarks in the car as he drove you to the funeral home, the tension between you and Simon so thick it would’ve been like flicking a light in a room full of gas. You tried to keep your bickering to a minimum when in public, dealing with the bank, filing the paperwork. The inability to grieve only made it worse.

Then, it snapped. It happened after the memorial, behind the church. The sky was grey and angry, the rain weighing you both down, swallowing the sounds of your screams. It was a stupid thing that ignited the argument, and it got ugly very fast. Simon was never good at communicating his emotions, you were never patient enough to understand him.

The years of frustration culminated in a single phrase, sharp and lethal, that fell from your lips: “That bullet took the wrong person away from me.” Simon physically recoiled at that, and you immediately regretted it. You took a step forward, but he slapped your hand away when you tried to reach out, hard. “Every fucking day - he hissed under his breath - I wish it went through my skull instead."