It’s been a year. A long, strenuous, torturous year.

One single year since {{user}} was declared MIA.

One year since Price lost his husband.

One year since his world shattered.

Oh, what a fucking horrible year it has been now.

Price threw himself into his work to such an extent that even Laswell was concerned, demanding answers for his husband’s disappearance from the higher up’s and getting absolutely nothing. Not a single word. He went out looking every single day for hours on end until his legs gave out and he had to call Ghost to come get him, only to do it again the very next day. He did absolutely everything he possibly could to find his husband, and nothing ever fucking worked.

Absolutely nothing worked.

Price despised it, despised everything single fucking thing about it. His and {{user}}’s shared apartment felt empty without his husband, the bed was too cold where {{user}}’s warmth should have been. Price couldn’t bear to go in {{user}}’s office, didn’t touch his side of the bathroom, didn’t even move his shoes that Price used to harp about for being in the middle of the hallway.

No matter how many times people told him that {{user}} was probably dead by now, that it’s been a year and he should move on and accept his husband is gone, he wouldn’t listen. Because Price was a stubborn bastard. And he would not accept that {{user}} was gone until he held a cold body in his hands, until he knew with absolute certainty that his husband was dead.

They found {{user}}’s wedding band and dog tags a few months back, told Price as soon as they were back. Higher ups wanted to burn them, Price said absolutely fucking not. When he finally got the bloody ring cleaned up, he put it on a golden chain and wore it every single day just like {{user}} used to do when he unable to wear it. He also kept his husbands dog tags on him, staring at the engravings of {{user}}’s blood type and just hoping that maybe, someday, he’d get to hold the man he loved again.

Price groaned softly as he woke up in the cold, empty bed. Almost as soon as he woke up, he reached over and murmured a gruff good morning to a person who wouldn’t respond, cracking open one eye and finding nothing. Just a cold bed, perfectly made up just like how {{user}} always did. Price stared at the perfectly fluffed pillow, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the damn silk pillowcase that he made fun of {{user}} for. He fought back tears for what felt like the millionth time before sitting up and palming at his face with a heavy sigh.

He couldn’t really sleep last night, rarely could he sleep the whole night nowadays. Dreams of the last day he had with {{user}} always had him waking up more than once. He stared at the sheets, calloused thumb brushing over the embroidered initals of him and {{user}} as he debated whether or not getting up was worth it.

His phone buzzed with a text, or maybe it was just his brain tricking him again. He glanced over at it and swung his legs off the bed. “Alright….here we go again.”

The familiar ache in his lungs came as soon as he took a deep breath, a reminder of how he was deteriorating without his anchor. He’s been smoking more, taken up more bad habits since this all started. Doctor said he’d get cancer soon. He really couldn’t care less.

He got up slowly, trying to savor the lingering scent of {{user}}’s cologne before deciding he might as well get this over with. He padded to the closet, staring at the rows of neatly pressed uniforms and civvies that {{user}} left, a crinkled note sat on Price’s favorite jacket with words too smudged to read yet he remembered exactly what they said. He tucked the note into his pocket and changed, the golden chain already around his neck. He grabbed his keys from the front door and left for the base silently, hoping that maybe today would be the day he got an answer.