He wakes up after forty eight hours. Forty eight hours of blissful sleep, of nothing but vague dreams and memories and Rachel. He opens his eyes and the light from his window blinds him and it takes him almost a minute to find his bearings. The clock on the wall says that it's 12:03, and he wonders why Rachel was letting him sleep in when she's always annoying him in the morning with her chirpy wake up calls and peppy optimism. His hand brushes against the woolly fabric of one of her cardigans and he looks around in confusion at all the clothes strewn on the bed. He looks up to see the open wardrobe, and it hits him.
She's gone.
The sorrow that had been held off in his sleep slams into him like an avalanche, and he's being run over by it, becoming a part of this snowball of misery that's hurtling towards nowhere at full speed.
The lamp on his bedside table crashes against the wall and he doesn't even remember ever holding it in the first place.
It's the real world. And he wants nothing more than to go back to blissful sleep.
Xxx
He cuts his finger on a splinter of the ceramic and he barely feels the pain. He stares stupidly at the blood running down his palm, wondering why it doesn't hurt as bad as it looks, why it barely registers against the gaping wound in his chest.
Xxx
There are almost a hundred missed calls on his cell phone, sixty three messages, forty four pieces of paper in different sizes on the floor of their (his) apartment, near the door.
He takes out the battery of his phone, throws it against the wall and shoves those papers into the trashcan.
He goes back to sleep.
Xxx
The burst of cold water against his face jolts him awake. He's drenched from the waist up and he sees his brother in front of him, face livid.
It takes him a minute to remember again.
"Get up," Kurt orders, hands on his hips.
"How did you get in here?" he asks, his voice still hoarse from, how long has it been? Four days of sleep. Ninety-six hours.
"There is a very nice, very built man in the living room whose body just rammed through your door. I'll pay for your broken lock. Now get the hell up."
He stares up at the man standing in front of him, looking down at him expectantly, like he's just going to magically move his body and get up. Who the fuck does he think he is?
"Go away Kurt," he mumbles, holding back the sudden blinding rage that fills his body.
"I'm not going anywhere. Do you have any idea how worried I was? How worried we all were? We couldn't get a hold of you for days Finn. Days. Nobody knew where the hell you were. Carole's been crying non-stop for four straight days. Rachel's fathers-"
"Go away Kurt," he repeats, gritting his teeth in an effort to just- to just, not.
"Detective McGill wants to talk to you," Kurt continues, picking up her clothes, folding them neatly. What the hell is he doing? "He wants to know when you-"
"Get out Kurt!" he finally yells, sitting up and snatching her little red coat away from Kurt's hands, balling the outfit in his fist.
"Finn Hudson! You listen-"
"Get the fuck out of our-" He stops, his whole body trembling as he tries to retrace his steps. "Get the fuck out of my house! Get out! Get out!" He's standing by now, his voice rolling around the both of them like thunder as he grabs his step-brother by the shoulder and drags him out of the bedroom. Kurt's staring up at him and for the first time in his life, he thinks he sees fear in those eyes, and he doesn't care.
"Is there a problem here?" He turns to see the very nice, very built man Kurt was talking about looking at him almost menacingly. He's overcome by a desire to laugh hysterically at this, at the man who just broke their (his) front door, looking at him like he's the criminal.
"Yes," he says instead. "You just broke my door. Now get the hell out," he says, shoving Kurt roughly through the doorway and glaring viciously at the man next to him. He's about to slam the door in their faces when Kurt speaks again.
"Talk to your mom, Finn," he says softly. "She doesn't deserve this."
He closes the door and pushes the heaviest furniture they (he) have, the couch she had been hell-bent on getting, against it.
He goes back to bed.
Xxx
He calls his mom two days later. He can't remember much, but she was crying and he was crying and it was all just a fucking mess.
Everything is just a fucking mess.
Xxx
She's in his dreams. She's alive in them, laughing at him, as he tries again and again to catch up with her.
"Come find me," she whispers in his ear and he's trying to.
Oh God, he's trying to.
Xxx
Rachel, he thinks. RachelRachelRacheRachel.
Where are you, baby?
Xxx
His mom comes the next morning. At the feel of a warm touch against his jaw, his eyes fly open.
"Rachel," he breathes. This time, the broken look that crosses over his mom's face is an instant reminder.
"How'd you get in here?" he asks, remembering her (his) couch pushed against the door.
"Burt's got some strength left in that old body of his."
"Oh."
"Look at you," she says in dismay, tears pooling in her eyes. "You look horrible. Have you eaten anything?"
"Yes," he answers quietly. Rachel had insisted on buying her organic-only cereal on their way home from their wedding (Could it be called a wedding? Or was it just marriage?). It was the only edible thing left in the house. Three times in almost seven days, he poured some into a bowl, just like she told him to, and ate. And three times, in almost seven days, he threw up immediately. Mostly he drinks a lot of water. And just enough aspirin to knock him out cold for a few hours because that's the strongest thing they (he) have lying around the house.
"I brought you some chicken soup. Get up sweetie," she says, her voice gentle and soothing, as she gently grips his wrists and pulls him up. He wishes he is young again. He wishes he is seven, when all he needs is his mom's voice and her chicken soup and her soft mom hands to make everything better.
He's not.
"Okay."
She pushes him gently into the bathroom, turns on the shower and helps him take off his clothes. He freezes when her hands pull up the white dress shirt he's wearing. He's been living in those clothes for days. It's what he wore when she was still in his arms. It's what he wore to the funeral. The spot on his shoulder where her head had laid still smells like her. His mom smiles at him encouragingly. He allows her to take it off.
He holds the shirt in his hands once she leaves, staring blankly at the fogged up glass of their (his) shower as the water beats angrily on his head. Slowly, he brings it up to his nose and sniffs. It doesn't smell like her anymore, he realizes. It just smells like sweat.
He can't tell if the hot, burning water rolling down his jaw is from the shower or from his tears.
Xxx
Burt stands up awkwardly from the chair he was sitting on, and he almost bolts back into the safe haven of their (his) room.
His mom takes his hand, and forces him to swallow down the soup she heated. He forces the fluids down his throat, forces the bile back down.
"Hiram and Leroy are worried about you," she tells him carefully as she places a glass of water in front of him. He nods his head and drinks up.
xxx
He can't sleep anymore. He just closes his eyes and pretends.
"Come find me."
But he can't. He can't find her anywhere.
Xxx
"You can't just stay holed up in your apartment Finn," Kurt rants through his newly fixed door, complete with an extra set of locks. "I know you're heartbroken and I know this is hard, but she wouldn't want you to be like this!"
That's bullshit, he thinks. Nobody know- knew. Knew. Nobody knew Rachel like he did. Nobody. And he doesn't know what she wants now. He doesn't know what she wants him to do now that she's gone, because the hey-baby-just-in-case-I-die conversation never happened between them. Maybe it should have.
But it hadn't and he doesn't know.
So what the fuck would anyone else know about it?
xxx
Her ring has a secure hold around his left pinkie finger. It looks odd, out of place, like it's not supposed to be there. Because it isn't. It's supposed to be around her finger, supposed to be on her.
He looks at it first thing when he wakes up. It makes things less confusing. It makes it easier for him to remember.
Xxx
It takes him two weeks to finally remember that everything is his, to turn ours into mine, theirs into his. It's his apartment. His room. His couch (not hers). Everything is his, everything is singular. He can't remember anything being only his since he was sixteen years old.
The loneliness crawls up his back and presses down onto his shoulders like a crushing boulder.
It suffocates.