A/N: Written for the May 2011 Merthur Party on Tumblr for the prompt: Character Death (Arthur or Merlin)

Rating: NC-17 Genre: AU Warnings: Character Death, Angst

There are films I can no longer watch. I gave away 13 DVDs and 8 VHS tapes.

There are songs I can no longer listen to. I deleted 154 off of my iPod.

There are placed I can no longer go. I haven't been to Kensington Gardens, or Greenwich Market, or the Zoo, or any of the other places you liked to just stand still in the middle of a crowd and just breathe.

There are books I can no longer read. It would have hurt too much to give away your books, so I packed them up and put them in storage and tried to lose the key.

It's still sitting on the counter, with sunlight glinting off its ragged edges.

I flinch when the doorbell rings, and I cringe when voices fill the flat. They're always too loud, too jolly, too friendly.

I can't look people in the eye anymore. Because that means I would see my reflection, and then I would see what you once loved and cannot have anymore because you are gone forever.

There are questions I never asked, things I never said. Someone told me to write them down once, but that didn't help.

I burned the paper. And my fingers, because I didn't even notice when the match had burnt down to my skin.

Sometimes I get up at 3am and stand in the dining room and stare at the poster board of pictures that Gwen put together for the wake. Some are from Hunith, and only show you, her, and Will, but most include me, Gwen, Lance, Morgana, Gwaine, Leon, everyone.

There is one in the center that I almost didn't have her include. It's that one that you took when we were lying in bed early one morning, and I'm half asleep, and you're smiling like an idiot and kissing my cheek. I wasn't sure if I was ready for the world to see you as I got to. I didn't want to share you.

But then I realized that now that you were gone you had to be shared.

When I look at the pictures late at night Kilgharrah comes over and sits on the table next to the board. He starts purring in that way he used to whenever one of us was upset, or we were fighting. Its like he knows what happened, and he knows why I'm there, staring at a board full of pictures, not moving or making any noises.

One night I was walking up the street from a run to the store to get milk, and I thought I saw you. It turned out to be a tall 12-year-old girl with a short haircut, and I laughed at how indignant you would be when I told you.

Then I remembered I would never be able to tell you.

That night I sat on the couch and cried. I hadn't cried at the wake, hadn't shed a tear at the funeral. People congratulated me on being "so strong", and I was proud of that. Stupid thing to be proud of.

As I cried for the first time I thought of being with you. I thought about how you used to try and touch me as lightly as possible, and how it tickled like a feather being drawn across my skin. I thought about the way your lips felt as they murmured nonsense words across my collarbone. I thought about your body, all sharp angles and hollows, and how it felt pressed to mine.

I thought about your cock in my hands. About our mouths on each others. About how the pressure would build between us until I was sure one of us would burst into a million shining pieces. I thought about that first time I let you fuck me. You were so surprised and happy and adorable and I almost regretted it because after your reaction I just wanted to hold you up against the wall and never let you go.

But I didn't because you were so bloody amazing that I was pretty sure that being fucked by you would be the best way to die. I told you that, and you laughed for ten minutes straight.

But neither of died in each other's arms. We did not die making love and telling each other that we would never leave. I did not die at all.

You left for work and just never came home.