You Should Be Here

It's perfect outside its like god let me dial up the weather
Got the whole crew here, I ain't seen some of them in forever
It's one of those never forget it, better stop and take it in kinda scenes
Everything's just right yeah except for one thing...

You should be here, standing with your arm around me here
Cutting up, cracking a cold beer
Saying cheers, hey y'all it's sure been a good year
It's one of those moments, that's got your name written all over it
And you know that if I had just one wish it'd
Be that you didn't have to miss this
You should be here
~Cole Swindell
———
Funny isn't it? That the anniversary of one of my dear friend's birth is also the anniversary of my best friend and lover's death? Interesting. Maybe it's an apology from whatever holy deity took away the most precious gift. I won't accept it, although it has been a few years. The world wants me to get over it and move on—and it might be right. But, he was everything that made me whole, and he was ripped from me. And the last thing he heard from my mouth was...

Or perhaps it isn't an "I'm sorry for your loss." Perhaps, it's sheer mockery. A big ol' "Fuck you, you absolute bastard!". Yeah, that's what it is. A celebration! A punishment. I had hurt him. And as a result, he's gone. It's not my fault, they keep telling me. Especially Ms. Johnson, my therapist. Except it is. Had I not said what I said, and then left him alone in the apartment, he wouldn't be in a scarlet colored urn sitting on his father's bookshelf, it's golden, iridescent patterns reflecting his beauty as the sun raised and died every day. I left him alone. I take a swig of my drink and think about the after-party of our wedding. It wasn't all too different from this.

You did love your parties.

"Merls!" Gwaine slurred. My heart pulsed inside my chest. "Wha's wrung?" I smiled.

"Your taste of alcohol!" I humored. He hiccuped and gave a bellowing laugh. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and slumped into me, the booze in his hand slopped onto his shirt. I pushed him off as he began spilling a drunken tale that had no plot or meaning.

I look around and I see Gwen. Morgana (surprisingly!). Will. Leon. Freya. I finish off my drink, the beverage burning my throat like the vile that rose from my stomach when I came back home to find my husband dead with blood draining from the three gunshot wounds that killed him. Of course I reported it to the police, and I was undoubtedly their main suspect. They ruled me out quickly, though, as they discovered him hanging out close by the scene, spewing words of hatred. Faggot got what he got, he said, glaring at me. Burn in Hell. Arthur's blood stained his white shirt, and a pistol hung from his fingers. Was he talking about me or Arthur?

Percy waved me over to where he, Lance, and a tipsy Elyan stood. They knew Arthur. They knew how much we loved each other. They were the ones that reached out to me first. Gwen, Morgana, and everyone else too wrapped up in their own grief to do anything. I understand though, and I hate it when people worry over me. They shouldn't. I'm not worth it. They only tolerate me because they feel bad. Yeah, that's it. Another drink is downed. Another surge of pain ignored. It was Gwaine's birthday. He didn't need my snotty nose and salty tears ruining his day—ruining everyone's fun. I should be over it by now, anyway. It's been three years. Arthur hated me before he died. Hell, I think he might have hated me before the argument.

"You know you didn't have to come today, right?" Said Lancelot over the loud music.

"I'm fine. It's all fine," I lied. I smiled again.  "Perfect, actually." Elyan smiled back. It was awkward, and forced. It had to have been. I excused myself to the bathroom. "The alcohol," I explained. Really, it was my soul. I wept for a long time, longing for the comfort of my lover and best friend.

"I hate you!" I had shouted, "I wish we'd never had met!"

"Yeah? Well me too!"

I hate myself, not you. I never hated you. I want you back. I need to apologise. I need you. I love you.