dearly departed

Chapter 1

Peter can't use his kitchen table. Hasn't been able to for almost a year now. It has nothing to do with the table itself. It's a nice table, one they had barely used. The reason he can't use it has more to do with what's on it. Those little white and gold cards he just can't bring himself to throw out.

Sitting at the table is just one item of a long list of things he can't bear anymore, not since last November.

It's October now, the chill has started to creep into the air and the leaves are changing to brilliant shades of orange, yellow and red. It's the perfect time of year for a photographer, but Peter finds the colours too bright, too cheerful for the way they make his heart ache. They remind him of last October, the look on Sam's face, haloed by the most vivid red leaves he'd ever seen from Peter's vantage point on one knee.

Peter shakes his head, taking another swig of wine. Funny how he'd avoided alcohol so long. Maybe he'd had a good reason. All the wine is doing is making the hole in his chest ache around the edges, making the urge to pick up the phone so much stronger than he can bear.

Two more glasses is all it takes before he can't stand it anymore.

“Hello?” says a familiar voice. A voice he hasn't heard in far too long. A voice that almost brings Peter to his knees at the flood of memory and emotion it invokes.

“Hey,” he chokes out, startled at how rough his voice sounds.

There's a moment of silence, a moment where Peter wonders if he's about to be hung up on.

“Pete?” Sam says, his voice wavering on what used to be his favourite word. Peter closes his eyes, wills himself to be strong when all he wants is to scoop Sam into his arms at the sound of his name on his lips. “What's wrong?”

There's a lot of ways he could reply to that question. You aren't here. We fell apart and I can't fix it. I messed up and lost the best thing in my life, and now I can't do anything without seeing your face or hearing your voice or remembering you.

“Nothing,” he says instead. He already regrets making this call, but he has a long list of regrets and it's not like this is the worst. “Nothing just... it's October.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and Peter knows he feels it too. He can tell by the way his voice cracks. Why is it that there are so many cracks in their lives now? It feels like all these seams and fractures are about to shatter them, and now here he is poking at them with a phone call. But still... still it's nice in a bittersweet way, to hear the pain in Sam's voice. To know he's hurting just as much. Sometimes, alone in the apartment they used to share and haunted by Sam's ghost around every corner Peter wonders guiltily if Sam is even hurting at all. Something about the proof of his pain settles something in him. At least he isn't alone in this torture.

He's not sure what prompts him to ask his next question. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the date. Maybe it's just Sam's voice, the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line.

“Come over?”

Sam's going to say no. After all, they both know what a bad idea that is.

They've texted a handful of times, emailed a few too. There had been one or two phone calls right after the split, and two meetings. One to give back the ring, and one when they'd thought they were ready, gathered with their friends. It had turned out they weren't. The night had ended in screaming, in tears and accusations and private baggage spilled out in public.

“Peter...” Sam sounds tired. Peter wonders if he'd interrupted him while he was packing. Part of him vindictively hopes so.

He stays silent, closing his eyes and waiting for the rejection.