Alex thought it would be quieter, is the thing.
Cars rush past, sleek and hurried and petrol in the air, dying grass below Alex's trainers and it feels ordinary. Below his feet, in earth made cold by the dying of autumn is the mouldering skull and decomposing flesh of the man who was his uncle.
Alex is gangly now, well-won muscle roping his skin and jaw firmer, baby fat eaten away by the dragging wind of time and stress and work. He wonders what Ian would think of him now, two steps to adulthood and skin marred. He wonders a lot of things, like if Ian had known this is what he was training him for, if Ian knew, if Ian knew and was trying to protect him or if Ian knew and was trying to prepare him and Alex wonders if they are one and the same.
He wonders if he had been a little less skilled, a little less trained, if it would have never been needed in the first place.
Alex wonders if he would have been never found, if his body would have been left to bloat and break apart in the tank of a monster, in the bottom of the ocean, in space.
The grass crunches beneath his trainers, yellowed with the last frost. The trees above him are nearly barren but for stubborn leaves clinging to their twigs, rebellious against the chilled wind.
Someone has been cleaning Ian Rider's gravestone, he thinks, it as meticulous as the man in life.
There are wild violets growing just to the left, shadowed by the little Union Jack fluttering beside the stone. Alex wonders if they ever grow over the dead grass in front of immaculate stone. He wonders who removes them if so.
He wonders if he should feel more, standing here in the cold with a jacket pulled tight around his shoulders and a black car waiting for him. Alex just feels tired, grief long burned out in him and he thinks that something more should be brought to the surface by standing here, staring at the letterings and the knowledge of his uncle being six feet away and further than Alex will ever reach again in life banging in his head.
Alex just feels tired. That has become the usual.
He bends down, flower stems bruising in his hands as he settles them, perfect roses and tulips wrapped in paper and embossed and sets it in place, picture perfect. He stares at it for a long moment, cold air tussling in his hair and his throat spasms.
He remembers Ian Rider laughing, lines in his face easing with it as he tosses Alex in the water. He remembers curling up beside him on the couch, reading together quietly. He remembers mistakes in the kitchen and Ian toppling over a log and his throat is tight and Ian Rider might have been meticulous but he was human too and he remembers the words patriot ringing in his ears three years ago, before the world had opened up (had closed him out) and the confusion of it, surrounded by strangers.
He thinks Ian Rider would have fucking hated it.
Alex bends down again, knees creaking, and snags wild violets and clovers and wild flowers and settles them on the grave. It is a riot of color, uneven stems and leaves and dirt and something eases in his chest, loosens. It is unseasonal, stubborn plants sucking in the last cool rays of sun.
"I'm ready to go," he says, quiet as he turns his back, settling his hands back in his pockets. "Where to next?"