He calls out for his name, but he receives no reply.
He's been used to having him around—to annoy him, to make him smile, to make him laugh, and just to make him feel like he wasn't alone. He made him feel like he was always there for him, that everything would be fine and that they'd go through anything together. He made him feel safe, wanted, loved, and cared about. Being with him felt just right, and nothing satisfied Lovino more than his existence in his life.
He searches the room for him, for any signs that he was there—
If he'd still hold him like the way he used to, if he'd still poke his cheeks whenever he got angry, if he'd still squeeze his hand tightly to tell him things will be okay. Will he still embrace him with those arms that made him feel safe from anything? Will he still caress him with those cold yet gentle hands of his? His touch brought warmth to him; warmth that saved him from the cold that his solitariness brought to him.
He listens close, his ears yearning for the sound of his voice.
That voice, hoarse and low— that voice which would whisper to him intimate words, words that would make his heart clench and race yet full nonetheless. The voice which irritated him to no end, loud and obnoxious, very much like its owner. But he does not admit, at least not in front of him, that no matter how loud his voice rung in his ears, it calmed him. Because that voice tells him that he was not alone, that he was indeed there with him, that he wasn't going anywhere.
Lovino screams, cries, falls on his knees and weeps. He holds himself close, choking on the air that has been caught in his throat as his chest began to burn. He screams his name one more time, hearing his own voice echo and fill the dark, empty room that he had confined himself to.
He lets himself drown in his tears as he no longer attempts to call for him. Because as much as it was killing him right now, he knows—
Gilbert was no longer coming back to him.
He was all alone.
