The yellow hue beamed down like lasers onto the damp, cobblestone pavements and reflected onto the swirls of water.
He missed him. He missed the way he always burnt the toast, the smell of his cologne. Yet he never missed the chaos, the demolition, the way both of their worlds were falling aparts. And he craved him. He craved his toxic touch.
He enveloped into his outsized, ratty green hoodie. He walked underneath the desert skies. The man was in mental agony. He was losing himself slowly, more and more everyday.
He then found himself at the cafe that him and George spent a lot of their time together in.
As he entered, he was swarmed with oceans of nostalgia. Waves of forgotten memories suddenly flooded his mind. He missed him so, so much.
The blistered paint peeled off the coarse walls, delicate cobwebs cascaded across the room. He stood at the door, debating whether he should get a table or not.
He was distracted by his own thoughts, in his own world. But he snapped out of that when he heard a familiar voice talking about everything and nothing.
The voice did sound familiar and all but there was just a certain twang to it that made it sound so unfamiliar at the same time. The voice sounded so... well, dead.
The screeching sound of chairs scraping the splintered, scarred wooden floor consumed his ears. He despised sounds like these, the ones that send shivers down his spine, made him cringe; knives and forks scraping on empty plates, fingernails on chalkboards, people chewing with their mouths open, squealing bicycle breaks.
