His first thought is that this can't be possible.

It can't be real, it makes no sense at all. Leslie can't be dead because the sun is still shining, the earth is still moving, people are still smiling. She can't be dead because if she was, he would feel it in his heart like an open wound, something missing, something taken from him. She can't be dead because it's not fair.

It's not fair that so many bad people are still walking around right now, alive and well, while she has to die.

It's not fair that Ben is sitting here in Pawnee while Leslie is gone, when she was a much better person than he ever was. Ann said it herself.

It should've been him.

For a while, he can't find it in himself to move. He's somehow still standing on two feet, but his vision goes blurry, noise is fuzzy. People are talking but he has no idea what they're saying, people are sobbing but he doesn't know who. All he knows is his hands are trembling and the earth has swallowed him and why is everything still moving? How is it that the entire earth hasn't completely stopped to stand and to mourn, how are they still here?

Why her?

Why her?

"It's not real," he says suddenly, his own voice enough to slowly break him out of his reverie. Faces turn to look at him, some tear streaked, some pale, all horrified. "It's not real." He doesn't know what he's saying, but somehow it makes sense to him. It can't be real. It can't be. It's not possible. "She's not dead, guys. That's just fake. They're lying." There's a sad, high-pitched laugh that escapes him as he says it, like he's gone totally insane. "She's not dead, guys."

"Ben," April says, in a voice far too soft to be her own. It's actually pitying, for once in her life. She reaches to touch his shoulder, and he flinches at the contact. "Ben, you really need to see…"

"See what?" he snarls, yanking his arm away from her. "See what? This is stupid, that we're all crying. It stupid, there's no evidence, just their word. I mean, do they even have a body? It's so—"

"Ben," she says, more firmly. "There's pictures."

Pictures.

Of her? Are his nightmares coming true?

He scrambles for his phone, ignoring his low battery, pulling up article after article about the news. "How could there be pictures?" he asks into the air, scrolling aimlessly down, words like Leslie Knope and dead jumping out at him. "Why would they even…"

"I think they got leaked," Jen adds, clutching at her stomach. Not even she looks okay, even she looks on the verge of tears, her arm wrapped around a very still Ann. "The police only know about it because they were anonymously sent photos that got leaked. Nobody knows where she is still, or what happened to her."

And that's when he realizes, he really realizes, just how his friends are reacting. Tom isn't speaking, for once in his life, clinging to Jean-Ralphio for support. Donna is still silently crying. April and Jen are both pale, shaking gently, staring at Ben. Andy is staring off into the bushes with no expression on his face at all. And Ann still hasn't moved, not even once, staring at her phone, too frozen to even tremble.

He opens a link on his phone, and—

The bile rises quickly in his throat, but he pushes it down, clapping his hand over his mouth. He heaves for a breath, wanting to throw his phone aside, but he can't look away. It kills him, but he needs to know, he needs to see that it's her, needs to process what's happened.

It's her. It's her.

The photo is dark, a little grainy, but it's her, lying on a cold metal floor in the same clothes he saw her in on the last day of school. Only this time, they're stained red. It's in her matted hair and it's on the floor and her eyes are closed, and—

Ben throws his phone.

He throws it, refusing to look any longer, trying to wipe the image from his brain. He doesn't care if he never gets his phone back, as long as it means he never has to see that picture ever again. It is his nightmares, fully becoming reality now, as if they had been predicting the future all along. The future where she's gone, she's really gone, and the last fucking thing they did together was fight.

"No," he groans, shaking his head and clutching his stomach. "No, no, no."

"Ben," April says again, and it should mean something, that she's trying so hard to comfort him when she never has before, but he can't focus on that. He can't focus on even April being so jarred that she's resorted to empathy and niceties, which is more out of character than anyone. She's wiping tears from her eyes and falling back to curl into Andy, standing behind her now… "Ben, do you need to—"

"Shut up," he hisses, taking several steps back. "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with all of you?"

April looks around the backyard, making note of everyone, lingering particularly long on Andy, who doesn't nothing but cling to her, and Jen, hugging Ann to her side, who still hasn't even seemed to blink. "What are you talking about?" April asks him, and he catches once more the tremble of her palms. "Ben, this is hard on everyone, you know that, and if you need to talk—"

"What's wrong with you? Sitting around here, staring into nothing, doing nothing? This isn't going to accomplish anything." He feels his anger bubbling up to the surface, kept inside for too long, threatening to explode now at the worst possible time. But he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. "This isn't… we can't give up. We need to find out who did this, where she is, she could still be alive! Why are we just letting this go? She could be out there somewhere, just waiting for me—"

"It's not all on you, Ben, you're just going to hurt yourself if you make it all your responsibility—"

"It is my responsibility!" He chokes on a sob, and he knows he must look deranged, pointed fingers flying, face red. "It is my responsibility, because it's my goddamn fault. It's my fault, April, I did this. I should've known, maybe, I could've stopped her from leaving that day. I could've stayed, I could've told her… you don't understand, I had so many things I had to tell her still, and why didn't I stop her? Why didn't I—"

"Ben."

April's voice is firm, cutting through his rambling, her hand landing on his shoulder. She looks him in the eye, enough to paralyze him, and he knows exactly what she's going to say. He prays she won't say it, prays, he can't hear it now, not now—

"Ben," she whispers. "It's over."

Something in him deflates, fizzles out, and he knows he has to leave.

He escapes out the gate and he runs home, and no one stops him, no one calls for him. No one comes knocking on his door, and maybe that's for the best. He manages to keep himself controlled until he throws up in the bathroom, emptying all his insides until his throat burns of acid.

He falls asleep in the shower, her name still on his lips.

…

Ben dreams of her again that night.

Her eyes are open this time, but they stare at nothing. They look straight ahead.

They're glassy, cold.

Empty.

…

The police put out a statement the following day.

We are deeply saddened to inform the citizens of Pawnee that one of our own, eighteen-year-old Leslie Knope, has been pronounced dead as of yesterday, June 26th. She was always a bright, ambitious, and passionate member of our community, showing love and kindness through her time volunteering and her dedication to making this town a better place. We have much to thank her for.

As of today, her death has been ruled as an accident. We currently believe her to have escaped Pawnee as a runaway, and didn't have the means to survive on her own. Her body has not yet been recovered nor do we know who took these pictures and allowed them into our possession. We ask for your understanding and your patience as we close her case indefinitely to pay our respects, or until further notice.

Out of respect for her and all that she's done for our town, an open casket funeral will take place one week from today on July 3rd, at Pawnee City Hall. Everyone is welcome to come and speak on her character and her life.

Through this mourning period, we ask all of Pawnee to come together and remember the brightness that Miss Knope has shown us. To end on one of her favorite quotes from the great Eleanor Roosevelt, "It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness."

Thank you.

Ben crumples the statement in his fists and tosses it, and shoves his recovered phone under his pillow so he doesn't have to read any of it ever again.

He shuts off his lights and doesn't leave his room for five days.

…

The morning of July 3rd is impossibly quiet.

It's as if no one speaks at all, too afraid to break the silence, worried that opening their mouths will start the tears. Ben hasn't cried yet. Ben hasn't felt much at all yet. He's been sleeping for days on end and staring at his wall and trying to figure out exactly how to stop thinking, which has been working out beautifully for him, until now.

Now, as it nears time to go and he knows he has to get ready, it's suddenly a lot harder to be numb. His brain sparks with remembrance, and everything reminds him of her. Even his own reflection.

He sinks into his finest suit and reaches his heavy arms up to straighten his tie, wondering why he's bothering to look professional when she'll never even get to see it. He shouldn't bother to do anything at all if she'll never know, because isn't that half the reason he did things anyway? To get her attention? Four years he spent trying to find a way to get her to look at him just to know now that he'll never even see her eyes again.

He sees his lips, and he remembers them pressed to hers. He sees his fist, he remembers curling it when she yelled at him. He sees his fingers, working between her legs, and his nose, bumping against hers as they try to kiss each other in the darkness of the closet. He pulls on his belt and remembers the way she tugged at it, and when he breathes he imagines her sigh, the way she panted his name, her hair falling in her face. So beautiful, so beautiful.

And just like that, it's all gone. So inevitable, that happy picture of her fades from his mind and switches with a horror shot, that terrible picture on his phone, where she's lying still and covered in blood. He can't even see the blue of her eyes but he's not even sure he wants to, because it won't be the same anymore, she won't be there anymore…

Ben's only seen that picture once, but it haunts him everytime he closes his eyes.

"Ben?" His mother knocks on his door gently, and for once, his parents are trying their hardest to get along. It's not working well, and there have been so many slip-ups, but they are trying. They're trying. "Are you ready to go?"

He closes his eyes and nods, speaking for the first time in days. "I'm ready."

…

It strikes him one more time as they walk into Pawnee City Hall that this can't be possible.

Maybe it's the voices all around him, the people milling about, trying to find seats and trying to comfort each other, but his brain seems to wake up, jolting him back into reality. He can think again, really and truly think, and nothing about this feels right at all. There's still so much to do.

Leslie is still out there, somewhere. Shauna still knows something. This story isn't over yet.

And it's just his luck that the first person he recognizes here is Mark Brendanawicz.

"What are you doing here?" Ben asks him as they walk past each other, Mark clearly having hoped to avoid this exact conversation. He sighs and doubles back, dressed just as nicely as Ben.

"Don't ask me that, Wyatt," Mark says, his voice much lower than usual. "You know why I'm here. It's the same as you."

"No it's not," he insists. "It's not. You didn't know her."

"I dated her."

"But you didn't know her. She was nothing to you, I know that. Just a girl to kiss and fuck."

"Dude," Mark hisses, ducking down slightly to match Ben's height. "Can you not say that shit here? Right now? This is the worst possible place to do this—"

"Why? Why is it? Actually, I think it's the best. I mean, we're all here to talk about her life, right? Pay our respects? How can you respect her death when you never even respected her life?"

It's the first he's actually said the words out loud, publicly acknowledging her death, and it hits him like a punch in the gut. He suddenly feels dizzy, and Mark is standing in front of him with red eyes and curling fists. Ben doesn't even remember actively choosing to start a problem, or to fight with Mark. Maybe he just needed to feel something. Maybe a punch to his face would wake him up.

"Listen, Wyatt," Mark growls, pointing a finger right into his chest. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't want any part in it. You're not on some moral high ground, you know, you caused her just as much hell as anyone else did, if not more."

"You're an ass," Ben says. "An ass, the worst—"

"I get that you're grieving, dude. But let it go. Cry, or something. Clearly you need to."

Mark claps Ben's shoulder and walks away, leaving him stunned and unable to formulate a response. Cry? No, Ben won't cry. He's cried too much to be able to cry now. There's no tears left. No, all the tears left in this world have gone to people like Ann, who carries enough emotions for the both of them combined. Ann, who's wearing a black dress and clutching Jen, staring past heads to look right at him.

He's just gotten caught.

And just like with Mark, he can feel his self destructive tendencies jump into overdrive. His emotions shoot through the roof and everywhere he looks, there's something to be upset about. Ann looks away from him and walks away, after not speaking to him for a week. His parents are bickering in a corner. The police are here, along with the Chief and his son Dave, looking at the floor and pretending to be hurt. Even worse, Marlene Griggs-Knope rushes in as if she's late, refusing to cry as if it might ruin her makeup, straightening up Leslie's photos as if that's the most important thing to do right now.

He debates between all of them, but he settles with Ann.

"Ann," he calls out, pushing through crowds of people to chase after her. She's pointedly ignoring him, he can tell, curling tighter to Jen. "Ann."

"What do you want, Ben?"

Jen pats Ann's shoulder and goes to get her a cup of water, leaving Ann and Ben alone. She's a wreck when she turns around, not even bothering to wear mascara this time around, her face red and tear stained. She's still crying, even, trembling softly, and for some reason all Ben can do is be angry. Angry that she's crying instead of doing something, she's wandering around instead of talking to people, she's pushing away from him when they really, really need to come together.

"Ann," he gasps. "She's not dead."

Just those three words seem to slap Ann in the face, making her stumble, clutching her gut. She struggles to breathe, for a moment, trying to find her voice. "We've been over this. I know April talked to you…"

"But what does April know? Please hear me out, please, it's all a mistake, don't you think? It makes no sense, Ann. There's not even a body."

He didn't even plan on saying the words, but they make sense to him, clutching desperately on this last little bit of hope he has left. There's the smallest spark of a flame inside of him that's keeping him going, so close to flickering out, so close to letting him drop and drown and break. He doesn't know why, but he needs to say this. He needs Ann to understand.

"You saw the picture, Ben," she cries. "You saw it. Listen, I want to have hope as much as the next guy, and I want her back more than anyone, but how? It's just… it's a pipe dream, and I think if I continue on down this path, it'll just keep destroying me."

The anger flares up again. "So you're giving up."

"Honestly, Ben, sometimes I think giving up is the healthiest option. And maybe you should consider that, too. I mean, look at you, I'm worried for you—"

"Are you kidding me? I'm worried for you. How do you not see the problem here? There's just… there's so much to wonder about still. Do you think Shauna knew about this? Do you think that's why she said—"

"Please don't do this—"

"Do you think the police are involved? I mean, we all know she didn't run away. She was kidnapped, so that statement they put out was total bullshit, they're probably covering up their own tracks—"

"Please," Ann sobs, begging him now. "Please, please just let it go…"

"I can't! She could be waiting out there right now, Ann, right now! There's something else going on here, and I can't just give up until I get the whole story. I mean, there's still people to talk to. We can go back to Swanson, or that janitor Jerry. We still have to talk to Dave Sanderson about their history— oh! And her mom. Marlene. God, I really have a bone to pick with her, how can she be absent for every one of her daughter's events and then shows up like this at her funeral? No, it's all fake, we definitely need to talk to her, and probably Principal Traeger while we're at it…"

It takes him too long to realize that Ann is truly and genuinely sobbing, loudly and openly, causing Jen to rush back to her. "Please, just…" Ann sniffles, wiping her face, and gives Ben her most sincere look, right into his eyes. "I'm begging you. Please just leave me alone today."

For a moment, he's dumbfounded, opening and closing his mouth. He can feel the slight tremor in his palms, threatening to send him into a much more emotional breakdown that he fights off, pushes back, but it's too much, too much…

"But…" he whispers. "But Ann—"

"Go!" Ann screams it, eliciting stares on all sides, people who look horrified at the idea of raised voices at a funeral. All of a sudden, everything seems to get a lot more quiet again, that dull knife cutting into his gut again, straight to the heart. "Go, Ben. Please. I just… I just can't do this. Not anymore."

She finds Jen's arms and curls herself there, burying her head into the crook of her neck. Jen, shocked at the outburst, presses a hand to Ann's head, gently stroking her hair, looking at Ben with a look that he can't describe, somewhere in between pity and pure fury.

"Leave her alone, Ben," Jen demands of him in a low voice. "Don't you think we're all having a hard enough time here?"

Both girls don't even give him enough time to respond, turning on their heels and walking away to find a seat before the ceremony begins. When Ben looks around, he can tell it's close. People clutch sheets of paper, wanting to speak, while others cling to their handkerchiefs. Others still look as if they don't belong at all, milling around like its any other event, but it's a testimony of how much Leslie meant to this town that these people are few and far between. And suddenly, looking around the room one more time, a chill runs down his spine.

It's cold.

His hands shake violently now, almost impossible to calm them, and he knows the tears are going to come before he can stop them. Just like that, his pathetic bit of hope is slipping away again, and it seems ridiculous that it ever existed in the first place. The air is cold and the voices are soft and there's nowhere to run anymore, nowhere to hide, and he just wishes, wishes he could see her face one last time.

Even at their worst… even at their most horrific of fights and their hardest days, she never once deserved the way he treated her. She never once deserved the hell of all four years, the insults they would throw around like stones, too tired and too scared to put their weapons down and say I think I love you.

And now she's dead.

It hits him in full force as soon as he finds himself at the front of the room, hardly remembering getting here. Her casket stands in front of him, looking larger as he gets closer, and for a moment, he expects to see her. He expects to find her lying peacefully there in all white and her hands clasped over her stomach like a sleeping princess that he can just kiss to get her to wake up. But this isn't some fairytale. All the kisses in the world can't bring her back now.

Of course, she's not there. Nobody knows where she is. But as he gets closer and looks over the open casket, the smell hits him with a memory, so clear in his mind, so heartbreakingly sad. Her casket is full, he sees now, and it's so casually cruel what they've done, because it's filled to the brim with—

Wildflowers.

SENIOR YEAR

TWO MONTHS BEFORE GRADUATION

He almost walked away when he saw her.

He didn't even really mean to come here. It was after school, after Student Council, and Ben had assumed everyone had left the building. The halls were quiet, and his footsteps echoed, choosing to take a walk with his hands in his pockets, wondering about her.

It was always her.

It was funny, really, how after four years, she was still the first thing on his mind. Since the moment he met her, the first day of school when she helped him open his locker, to now, two months before they would graduate and quite possibly go their separate ways forever. And it was cruel, really, so terribly cruel, that they hadn't even been talking, because just one month ago he left her sitting half naked in a closet at a party, words of regret whispered between them.

But here she was, like a figment of his worst intentions, a reminder of all the bad he's done, looking far more peaceful than he had seen her in a long time. Sitting right on a bench in front of a wildflower mural that the school has on their second floor, her shoulders relaxed, her eyes closed so softly. She smiled when his footsteps stopped.

"I know you're there," she whispered without opening her eyes, without moving at all. "It's okay. I'm not gonna yell at you."

Ben flinched, feeling caught, but inched slowly closer to her. "Are you sure?" he teased gently, just hoping he wasn't going over the line. "And how do you know I'm not here to yell at you?"

"I just know." Leslie opened her eyes then, lifting her head to get a good look at him. There was a tension there, something deep and palpable that made his heart thump loudly in his chest. "You can sit, you know."

"Oh, I… I mean, I wouldn't want to disturb you or anything, if you're… if you're taking time alone."

"Oh, I am," she admitted, but she scooted to the right to make room for him anyway. "But I don't mind. Sit."

So he did. Just far enough away that he didn't feel as if he was intruding on her, but close enough to touch. The bench wasn't exactly comfortable, but he felt something, just sitting underneath the mural, even if the flowers weren't real and they were very much still inside a building. But something smelled like clean air and fresh starts.

They were quiet for a long moment, just looking down the hall, a silence more comfortable than he had ever felt in his life.

"Have you ever just sat on this bench, just to think?" Leslie asked him suddenly. "Not to do anything, but just to think."

"Not really. I always thought it looked nice, but I've never actually sat here before."

"It's a good place to sit. It's my favorite place, actually, in all of Pawnee. This wildflower mural on the second floor. I come here when I want to be alone, when I need a moment of quiet. When I want to look at the wildflowers and pretend I'm in a field of them."

"Why not actually go to a wildflower field?"

She giggled, something so deliciously carefree, and turned to meet Ben's eye. "I'm scared of bees."

He took a moment, then, to really pay attention to her, to watch Leslie Knope in this place that is her own. The mural really was beautiful, all yellow and green and bright enough that just looking at it, you felt a little more at peace. You felt like everything was going to be alright.

It suited her. She glowed underneath it, like there was nowhere else she belonged more. And she was letting him in now, when this was her place to be alone, to be truly vulnerable, and she let him in. Despite their mistakes and the careful silent treatment they had been giving each other for a month, despite agreeing to never talk about their moment in that closet, despite pretending like they didn't want to kiss each other every time they saw each other.

Ben decided it was time to take a leap. Swing for the fences.

"Do you ever regret it?" he asked her, watching her expression. "All those years spent fighting, since the moment we met. Do you ever wish we could take it all back?"

And she didn't even hesitate. "All the time."

There it was, clear as day confirmation, and suddenly everything in him seized. Every time they walked away from each other flashed through his mind like a movie screen, showing him all their past mistakes, the moments they could never take back. And it wasn't even enough now, to say they were sorry, because it was likely years too late. Now, apologies were given with a heavy heart, a sense of goodbye.

Ben told Andy Dwyer four years ago that he felt like Leslie was going to change his life, whether for better or for worse. And he was right about that.

"I'm sorry, you know," he breathed, and suddenly his voice was shaky, trying to find all the right words. "For all of it. It's all so confusing, and I… I never knew what to do about any of it, how to react. And I got so scared. That night, at Tom's party, with you…"

"Don't," she interrupted him, but she was still smiling. "Don't worry about it. There was nothing we could've done differently, I don't think. It was probably for the best."

There was something dark about the words they said, and how they were accompanied with a soft voice, the gentlest of smiles. She wasn't mad at all, just resigned. And despite the fact that they sat underneath a wildflower mural and dreamed of the sun, he knew at the end of the day, the rain was always going to come.

"Thank you," she whispered, and her hand gently squeezed his, "for sitting here with me."

No, he could never give her peace.

PRESENT DAY

Her casket is filled with wildflowers, yellow and purple, too bright to be here in the darkest of places. The contrast is enough to give him whiplash, smacking him across the face, and these new tears that he's been keeping at bay sting at the corner of his eyes, making it hard to see.

But if Leslie has to be buried with anything, he's glad that it's wildflowers. Bright, colorful, stubborn little things that grow just as freely as she always did.

Ben reaches down to grab a fallen yellow one from the floor, crumpled in his palm. He imagines himself presenting it to her, curling her hair behind her ear to place the flower there, yellow on yellow, so perfectly suited for her that he can't even imagine a more appropriate send off.

And it's fucked up, so unbelievably fucked up, that she's not even here to lie on her own bed of wildflowers. No, instead she's curled up somewhere dark, her skin cold to the touch, nothing but dead, empty weight that they may never recover. It's wrong, so wrong, that he can't even give her this.

With shaking hands and a heavy heart, Ben places the lone wildflower in her casket, right where her head would be, as if he's placing it in her hair, and he whispers five words, just for him and just for her.

"You belong among the wildflowers."

…

By the time he gets home, he's not sure he remembers anything from the funeral at all.

He knows that people spoke. He knows Marlene said something, empty words for a daughter she didn't even know. He knows Chief Sanderson said something, some reiteration of the statement he already put out. Ann tried to speak, but ended up stumbling over her words and bursting into inconsolable tears, needing Jen to come collect her from the stage and take her outside for a moment to breathe.

So many people Ben didn't even know were speaking on her life, on her character, what she meant to them. Even Ron Swanson, who was never one for speeches, stood up and told them all that the last great thing on this earth had left us, and without her, they were doomed to fall. He didn't sugarcoat it, didn't try to make people feel better, and that was the scariest thing of all— his unwavering honesty. The way that Ron sat back down and actually cried into his hands for a girl that he saw as his own daughter.

Ben didn't even try to speak. He didn't think he had the right to, at the end of the day, for all that he had done. Even if he tried to get up there, his voice would suddenly leave him, and it would be over just as quickly as it started.

He falls into bed that night holding his phone to his chest, feeling the beating of his heart, unable to find the energy to do more than sit there and breathe. He wants to punch things, throw things out the window, or cry into his pillow, but he can't do any of that. He can't even get up, can't even think, nothing but static and a loneliness so deep that it aches.

April's words are the only thing to cut through to him, pounding into his brain like a mantra, cruel and unforgiving.

It's over. It's over. It's over.

Around midnight he gets a phone call.

He doesn't want to answer it. Actually, he's kind of pissed off about it, because the ringing is piercing his ears and the vibrating is buzzing at his chest. He curses whoever is calling him at this time of night, as if he even has the energy to lift his arm to accept, but something else hits him then.

It's a force of habit, maybe, years spent answering his phone every time a random number calls, just hoping it would be her. He knows it's not, it never has been and now it never will be, but the habit sticks with him, driving him to do it, as if he's somehow honoring her by taking this call on the day of her funeral.

Not expecting anything at all, he accepts the call and brings the phone up to his ear. "What do you want?" he hisses, far too tired and far too broken to bother being polite. It's not like there's a chance anybody is even really there at all.

But there it is, the soft sound of breathing.

"Ben." A whisper, deadly quiet and rushed, something begging. "Ben." A chill runs down his spine, and everything changes, everything spins, and if he wasn't on his bed surely he would already be collapsed to the floor right now, because—

That's her voice.

"Leslie," he gasps.