A/N: First of all, sorry that it took me two months again and I'm sad to tell you that my exams are coming so no new chapters for at least 3 more weeks. Secondly, this is quite a sad chapter and it kind of revolves around death, so a little warning about that. It wrecked my soul, too.
Like he said: it was only a matter of time before life would screw him over.
He just didn't think it would be like this.
It starts with disbelief. He is surely still asleep and is being scourged by a nightmare. A very vivid one.
When he was a little child, Killian would often have bad dreams. The kind where you woke up disoriented, with a layer of sweat coating your forehead. Your chest heaving of distress and fingers clenching the rumpled sheets. Liam was a sound sleeper and chances were he would not even wake if the room was filled with soaring flames, so Killian just lied awake staring at the ceiling, trying to separate fiction from reality.
Of course everything the man is telling a load of crap. His brother is safe, sailing around with a camera in his one hand and a beer in the other. Relishing in the exotic sun with not a cloud in the sky. It's just a foul antic to fool him.
But as the seconds tick away, Killian can't even believe that. There's this forlornness. Like he's no one anymore. Everything he was and stood for vanished with only one phone call. Liam is- was. The past tense. Because he's not here anymore. Liam was the person who had defined him. Who had molded and raised Killian into the person he was today. Without Liam, there was no Killian. There is no Killian.
Killian brings his hands up to his head and pulls at any strands he manages to find. The room is still distinguished by darkness, it being only shy of five. The comfort nighttime had always brought him before is nowhere to be found. He couldn't just close his eyes and relax when his brother, his only brother, his only family, is no longer here. The anger rolls over him.
In a surge, he throws his phone across the room where it lands with a sound not prevailing anything good. But he just can't make himself care. There's a storm swirling inside of his head, absorbing everything positive and good in his mind. A storm filled with vexation and fury. Why did Liam go out to sail when he knew bad weather was coming? Why? He was a fine sailor who knew challenging nature was not a great idea. Killian can still hear his voice repeating that same warning over and over every time even the smallest of cloud appeared, the slightest surge of wind took place or the littlest of wave hit the Jolly.
"A fine sailor does not only know how to sail a ship, but also knows when not to sail a ship."
How fucking hypocritical of Liam to keep saying that to him, but not do it himself.
How fucking stupid that he went and got himself killed.
Oh god.
He's dead.
Tears form and tears fall. Instead of the air of his bedroom, his lungs yearn for fresh air. Maybe not his lungs but his brain, to clear everything from it. Or at least pretend. Heavily panting, Killian runs towards the window, nearly tripping over the carpet next to his bed. He forcefully turns the window's handle to let it open. The cool, slightly polluted morning air hits Killian and he inhales like a swimmer coming up after a long dive. His eyes, still flooding with tears, roam over the almost completely streets. A group of young people is walking home, clearly from a night clubbing and talking with voices too loud for the hour.
Killian doesn't know how long he watches, but at a some point the lonely souls wandering over the dark, barely illuminated streets turn into early risers on their morning run and people going to work.
At a certain moment, Killian runs out of tears to shed and just stands there. Goosebumps spread all over the skin of his chest, the cold causing them together with a blue-ish shine. The cold doesn't trouble him, though, because he has other things to worry about. Not one second does he stop thinking of his brother but the acceptance… Well, the acceptance never comes.
It's raining when he arrives. The perfect "welcome home" gift. No, not home, he would not call it that. It has been a long time since England was Killian's home. It was his home when their mother was there, his home he could return to when Liam was still there, but now it meant nothing. Nothing but pain and memories he could only try to remember.
Sighing, he yells for a cab to take him to the place he has so carefully avoided for years.
Liam had no problem with living in their childhood house. No problem with the thoughts that lingered in the rooms or the loud cries that traveled through the walls, but Killian couldn't ignore them. So, he had fled. Out of the city, out of the country and even out of the continent. He needed to, in order for him to start over. Liam was always the braver one, the stronger one. He was able to be a man of honor, staying and rebuilding a house that had suffered through so much. Killian didn't doubt that while Liam spent time fixing windows and walls, he simultaneously repaired himself.
The car halts in front of the all too familiar door and house number. The heavy rain has stopped, but there is still drizzle trickling on the streets. Killian doesn't bother to open his umbrella. While the driver is walking towards the trunk to get Killian's luggage, Killian grabs his wallet. Out of it, he takes money to pay his ride. Because the 50-something man understood with one glance that Killian was in no mood for small talk, he kept it quiet, something Killian appreciates. He adds some extra pounds to show his gratitude.
"Here you go," he says, getting out of the car.
It's like they have an illegal trade off. Killian's luggage for the money. Drugs for hard cash. On any other day Killian would smile.
"Thanks, lad." The money disappears in the grey haired man's back pocket. "Whatever it is, you'll get through it," he continues in a very dialected English.
Killian nods with acknowledgement and steps away from the car, towards the front door. The children playing next door are laughing, too happy for Killian's taste. The sound the doorbell makes, seems too quirky. How can they continue, when he's not here anymore?
The door opens and reveals a woman with long, dark curls, wearing a dark blue dress.
"Killian," she says with a sad smile. Her body approaches Killian to give him a hug. This must be the girl Liam was talking about in his letter. His new girlfriend. Killian is meeting his brother's girlfriend for the first time and his brother isn't even alive to see it. Tensed, Killian lightly pats on her back. Liam never even told him her name.
"I am so glad you're here," she muffles against Killian shirt.
She is a petite woman, her head not even surpassing Killian's shoulder, but Killian instantly feels that that isn't the case with her heart.
"I'm sorry, lass," Killian speaks, "But I'm afraid my brother never mentioned your name." The embrace is over, both of them reminded that they are strangers and taking the appropriate distance. Her grey eyes widen, as if she had forgotten that they've never met.
"Oh, of course." Her index, nail polished with burgundy color, tucks a brown strand behind her ear. "I'm Hazel."
Killian softly smiles as a reply, feeling the jet lag kick in all of a sudden.
"Come in, I'm sure you are dead tired and could use some rest." Hazel picks up. She takes a step sideways, granting Killian entrance to the house.
Although a lot has changed, Killian only notices the things that have not. The green color of the living room wall. The big bookcase Liam and he used to hide behind while playing hide and seek. The place where the desk stands, still the same after over 20 years.
"If you want, you can stay in the guest room. It's a bit messy right now, I wasn't really expecting you, but nothing that can't be cleaned up in minutes."
After he heard the news, Killian had just booked the first flight he found, almost immediately leaving for the airport. His phone had suffered of the anger he felt that night and hadn't shown any sign of life since then. He would have to buy a new one here.
"Apologies for not letting you know I was coming, I didn't really think about it," Killian confesses.
Hazel shakes her head to show that she doesn't mind.
"Nonsense, there's no need to be sorry. It's your house too. Liam-" She bites down on her lower lip, eyes casted somewhere in the room. "Liam would have wanted it like this."
Her eyes meet Killian's again, a watery edge to them.
"I'll let you settle in and sleep for a bit. We can talk later."
Gone she is, while closing the door. Leaving Killian in the room he spent so much time in, so very long ago. The first thing he notices is the picture of their mother, the same one that Killian has in his apartment. The tears return to blur the vision of his blue eyes and Killian sets his suitcase down. He drops his body on the sheets of the bed. A smell of lavender fills his nostrils. Freshly washed sheets. Perhaps Hazel was expecting him anyway.
Close his eyes, defer his thoughts, sleep. All things he should do, but just can't. It's like an invisible weight on his chest; there being nothing, but silence and his thoughts. A burden keeping Killian from breathing properly. Preventing his body from relaxing. Regardless of how hard he tries to get rid of it physically: tossing and turning, trying the flat of his back, the uncomfortable position on his side, it simply stays there, caging him in.
Suddenly, the previously crushing silence is chased away by sobs coming from downstairs. As they grow louder and more frantic, Killian contemplates on descending the stairs. Some people prefer to be alone. To deal with grief in their own way. He knows that. But there's something in the way Hazel had clung to him before. With such relief that there was someone. As if he was the person she needed right now. Well, second best to the person she needed right now.
Judging from Liam's letter, Hazel and he had only been in a relationship for a couple of months max. Months can do a lot to a person, however.
The third step of the stairs groans under Killian's weight, signaling the end of his so-called rest. The weeping sounds decrease quickly and when Killian arrives downstairs, the brunette rapidly wipes the palms of her hands over her cheeks, ridding herself of the last proof.
"All rested up?" Hazel asks, half a smile on her lips and a false cheer in her voice.
"Didn't close an eye," Killian replies frankly.
Hazel's smile falters. Her eyes search for Killian's and seemingly find the same trace of emotional, physical and mental exhaustion in his.
"I need to plan the funeral and I'm really not ready for it," she then admits.
Killian motions towards the table and takes a seat himself. Perhaps they could share agony. Perhaps they could get to know each other. The two most important people in his brother's life should know each other.
Thus, they talk. Every conversation has a common theme: Liam. Stories and stories. Laughs and cries. Hazel keeps on talking, the words trickling out of her like fresh water from a creek. She tells so many stories that it seems impossible for them to have taken place in the span of months. The tenderness with which she tells them is a deep rooted love. One that doesn't appear instantly but gradually grows, branch after branch over time. Killian has to ask, because something isn't adding up.
"Hazel, my brother and you. How long were you..."
His eyebrows slightly crease and Hazel shrugs as response.
"A while," is her simple answer.
It shows how insignificant she finds it, but it is important to Killian.
"Longer than the few months my brother told me, right?"
Hazel partially hides her face behind her curled left hand, pressing her lips against the knuckles of her fist. The movement is nearly imperceptible at first, but her head moves up and down to confirm Killian's hunch. Her stare is fixated on the table forged out of light wood.
"Tell me."
There's no reason Killian can come up with why they might've lied about that or why they would want to withhold the truth. None at all.
The hesitance with which Hazel speaks is drawn on her features.
"Four years," she says.
Killian's hand goes to cover his mouth, something needed to keep his jaw from dropping. Four years? How was that even possible? That's as long as he has "A Cup of Jones." Solely by surprise, Killian doesn't react for a while, lets the two words simmer between them.
Bloody hell. Four years.
"So, when he came to visit me in the States?" Killian finally speaks.
"Not yet. It happened right after that."
It's just impossible to wrap his mind around.
"Four years," he says, his voice infused with incredulity. "How could he keep you a secret for so long?"
"We were going to tell you, but at first we wanted to wait until things got a bit more serious. Then our first anniversary came and our second. We were so happy but after that we hit a rough patch. Your brother was gone the entire time for work and at first I admired it, but then I started to feel lonely. We nearly broke up and after that we needed some time for ourselves. To mend what had been ripped. A couple months after that, he sent you the letter."
Hazel stands up, smoothing her dress with her hands. She asks if Killian wants some tea and he agrees, secretly craving a good cup of English tea. Towards the kitchen she walks, going to place a kettle on the stove.
Killian still doesn't feel like he's hearing the complete story. He knows- knew his brother. Liam didn't do things without a reason. When Hazel returns, Killian is in deep thought, only being shaken out of it when the steaming, porcelain cup is placed in front of him.
"But why not tell me in the first two years? Two years is most definitely long enough for a steady relationship."
She takes a breath as if she wants to say something. Then she huffs it back out when she can't figure out the way to formulate it.
Hazel eventually settles on "Liam didn't want to."
Her middle finger softly traces circles on the wood, producing a faint noise.
"He felt guilty to leave you in Boston all alone. You didn't have friends or people you could rely on and he did. Because he stayed and you left."
Killian never expected his brother to follow him to the U.S., never asked him that. It was a well thought-out decision. For Killian. Liam had other things to do and wanted other things
"But that was my own choice. I chose to leave and start over. It might've taken a while but I was alright with that," he says.
Yeah, it took a while, but he has found his place and friends and people he could rely on. Just like Liam wanted.
"He just didn't want to start bragging about how happy we were when you were all alone, 3000 miles away," Hazel tells.
How could Killian be mad at someone who always put his own happiness on the second place? And did it for so long without him knowing about it.
"The selfless bastard," Killian puffs.
"Yes, that he was." Hazel smiles knowingly.
It's a true miracle when on the day they chose for Liam's funeral the droopy, English weather makes place for the sun. When Hazel prepares herself to say a word, Killian sends her a reassuring smile.
It's been difficult the past week, figuring out the details and meticulously planning everything from music to guests, to how the obituary would look. So many things go into a funeral. So many things Killian never wants to do again. He and Hazel might not always have seen eye to eye on some aspects but no way he would've survived without her.
By the time he has to speak, Killian is crying openly and he has stopped attempting to wipe them away. He clears his throat to speak.
Draft after draft ended in the trash, no words being good enough to describe his brother. When he did find the words, it was impossible to pour them into a sentence. There were just too many adjectives, too many superlatives needed to paint Liam's picture. If his brother had heard his speech he probably would have said something in the lines of: "Little brother, there is also such a thing as exaggerating." But that was unimaginable.
Killian returns to the spot Hazel is standing and watches the rest of the service besides her. After it ends, they get approached by everyone.
They had asked all of the invitees to bring a picture that reminded them of Liam. One he took or one with him on it, it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that he is remembered by the thing he loved so dearly: photography.
So everyone comes to say their condolences and hands them the photograph they chose. One of Liam's coworkers steps away and reveals a face that Killian hasn't seen in 22 years. His black hairs are streaked by silver ones, the area around his eyes and forehead bears more wrinkles than it used to, but besides that, he looks exactly the same.
Killian schools his features into a look of indifference.
"Who invited you?" he asks dryly, void of any emotion.
"I did," Hazel replies before the man can.
Killian looks at his sister-in-law, standing a bit taller than she actually is.
"It's time to heal old wounds, Killian," she continues.
The man hands him a picture. The ends have small tears in them and have gone yellow. It's hard to distinguish but when Killian looks closer he recognizes his own face and Liam's.
"I don't feel up for this right now," he says, handing the picture back.
"Please, son." He places a hand on Killian's shoulder.
"Do not touch me, Brennan." Killian brutally pulls his shoulder from under his father's touch. It looks like Killian calling his father by his first name also shocked Brennan.
"Just don't." Killian starts walking away. "I'm not ready." He mumbles a small sorry to Hazel and leaves her standing there.