Sebastian is alone, his bed colder than it normally was, the absence of Jim pervading everything. He sits at the edge of his bed, the dusty blinds leaving only the thinnest slivers of the world outside visible against the grimy white metal. The world continues to shift, the people continue to throng and mingle.
Sebastian takes off his dirty shirt, putting it in the hamper rather than throwing it on the floor. Jim never liked it when Sebastian left his clothes all over. Jim. Jim is gone? There are no tears, no rage. Only a solid, heavy, smothering disbelief.
This isn't real. I'll wake up tomorrow and the little fuck will be prancing around to ABBA, waving around my gun as he hums out loud.
His mind feels slow as he goes over what he heard from the stairwell opposite Bart's. A gun shot. Singular. He remembers watching Holmes step up to the edge. Remembers wondering where Jim was.
It can't be.
He remembers rushing up to the roof after he watched Holmes' body being whisked away, staring across the void in between the two tall buildings, seeing the small figure dressed in black lying still.
Numb. Sebastian is numb. Everything is muffled under his refusal to take Jim leaving him like this as fact.
This is bullshit. It's a joke. Jim likes jokes.
Sebastian stares at the ceiling, letting the darkness fade and pulsate as he searches for something that isn't there. Something that's missing.
Jim'll be here. He always comes back, even when he threatens to leave forever, which he does every other week. He'll come back.
Sebastian's eyes close. Jim's pale face, set with a corona of blood, smiles at Sebastian in his dreams, and Sebastian smiles back.
The sniper weeps in his sleep.
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