A/N: I wasn't planning on having more of this story. But then this just kind of tumbled out, and yeah... so here it is xD I plan maybe one more chapter? Meh, we'll see how it goes. I don't even know. I just got to thinking about loss and how I still miss them so much even though it's been years, and it kind of just got poured into Barry, so... :P Yepp. Here this is, now.

Length: 1372

Onward!

Speaking a Dead Language - 2 - Words Unspoken

The grave is silent.

That's to be expected, of course – graves can't talk, and the people buried beneath them are long dead and silent. But the silence always gets to Barry every single time he comes here, he thinks – it's just too… quiet. The wind barely makes a sound, and there are no leaves rustling, or birds chirping, or anything. It's just silent, like the world has fallen into a hush because it's a cemetery.

Barry's used to the silence, he thinks. He hopes. It still bothers him, but it's something he's come to expect with every visit.

Nora Allen is buried atop a small hill, with few tombstone neighbors. As a child Barry liked the solitude this hill brought him; as an adult, it just adds to the silence. He feels as though if he speaks above a whisper, he might shatter the moment – and he's never sure if he wants it to shatter or not. Breaking it makes it feel more real; then again, there's a tentative, childlike part of him that hopes if he breaks the silence, shatters the moment, that it won't exist at all. He'll blink and wake up in his bed, eleven-years-old, and still have both his parents.

It won't happen, and it never will, and it just leaves him feeling empty.

He usually tries to visit his mother's grave at least on the anniversary of her death, or the day after. Sometimes Iris and Joe go with him; sometimes he's completely alone. Today, he's not alone.

Len is a solid and warm presence at his side, real and silent.

Barry didn't ask him to come.

He simply said he had something he really had to do today, and Len offered to drive. And that was that. Barry couldn't say no.

And here they are, and it's awkward and silent and Barry doesn't know if being alone would be better or worse, but the silence is really starting to get to him.

He takes in a shaky breath and kneels next to the chiseled stone. He runs numb fingers over the smooth carvings, hesitating briefly over the description of 'Mother'. There's a catch in his breath, air lodged painfully in his throat, and his eyes burn mercilessly. It's been fourteen years, and he's still fighting back tears. Sometimes it hurts worse now than the day it happened. It's crazy.

Pain like this never really goes away. It lingers, and it aches, and it digs down so deep it becomes a part of him he has no hope of ever digging out. It'll always be there, lurking and waiting in the dark crevices of his mind, in the pit of his stomach, ready to pounce when his mind wanders.

Most days he smiles and thinks about other things.

On this day, once a year, he won't allow himself to think of anything else. To do so would be an insult to her memory. He misses her. He misses her all the time, every day, and it never really gets any easier.

The pain doesn't lessen; it's still there, consuming in its magnitude. Ready to drown him with the onslaught when that image of his mom's blank stare plays behind his eyes. It's still there, and it won't go away; it doesn't really lessen, but it does get easier to ignore it.

And ignoring it only works sometimes.

At some point, the pain turned into strength.

He'd listen to his mom's favorite songs, or watch her favorite movies, or stare at her pictures for hours. He'd cry, and sob, and smile. Smile because he remembered how much fun they had. He remembered humming along to these songs while they did dishes after dinner, while his dad sat in the living room watching the game. He remembered being confused, as a child, when his mom cried at the ending of certain movies – tears of happiness and sorrow. He remembered, and it hurt just as much as it sewed him back together.

It's not something he can describe, but the feeling's there all the same, and it hurts.

"Hey, Mom," he says weakly, voice a mere breath of air, easily stolen away in the light breeze. He stares at the hard curve of the 'o' in 'Mother', seeing but blind. "I miss you. I… I brought a friend…"

He's not sure if Len can hear him until that moment.

Len steps forward so he's standing flush against Barry's back. Barry falls back on his heels, leaning against Len's strong legs, unaware he needs the support until then. There's a hand atop his head, fingers curling lightly in the strands, and nothing is said but somehow it's perfect. It's enough.

He swallows thickly; knives in his saliva. Painful, but necessary.

"This is Len," he says to the gray stone. "He's…"

And he stops, because he doesn't know what Len is to him.

Friend? Maybe. Enemy? Well, not really anymore, right? Boyfriend? Okay, no. Nope.

It's complicated, trying to label what they are.

In the end he doesn't have to.

"He's special," Barry says.

Len's fingers tighten marginally in his hair – almost enough to hurt, but then they relax, smoothing through the strands. Barry realizes, belatedly, that he's being petted, but that's okay. It feels nice. Calming. He takes in a shuddering breath. It shouldn't be this hard.

"I'm… I just wanted to tell you, me and Dad, we're okay. We're both okay," Barry says quietly, biting down on his lower lip.

It's what he tells her every year – they're okay. It's hard, and it won't ever be truly easy, but they're okay. They're alive, and one day, maybe it won't be so hard. They're okay.

He wishes he could tell her that to her face. He wishes he could say a lot of things to her face.

He can't.

It's not okay, but it's something he has to live with.

"I love you, Mom," he says – another thing he says every year.

He can't remember if he said that to her before she died. He can't remember if he wished her goodnight that night, if he said 'I love you, Mom', or if he just smiled and rolled over, ready for bed. He can't remember if she kissed him goodnight; can't remember if he hugged her or kissed her back. The only thing he remembers vividly is that blank stare as he pulled the sheet back. The one image he wants desperately to forget.

He never will.

Barry's voice doesn't want to work anymore – that's okay; he doesn't really have much left to say, except…

"Sorry I didn't visit last year," he says raspily. "I… I was in a coma. I'm so sorry. I… I got powers, Mom. I became the Flash…"

He wanted to come see his Mom as soon as he woke up from his coma, realizing he slept through the date, but was unable to do so because he was instantly thrown into everything. He barely had time to see Iris before his powers started kicking in – confusing the hell out of him at first. And then there was Mardon… and Joe found out, and he had to keep it a secret from everyone…

And somehow, his mom got pushed to the background, and for that he'll never forgive himself.

"Mom…"

His voice betrays him, then, finally breaking off, stuck under that lump in his throat.

He doesn't try again.

Instead he just sits there with his back against Len's legs, Len's fingers lost in his hair, and he thinks about his mom.

He's not sure how long he sits there; the wind is this low drone, and the silence is deafening. Eventually Len moves; Barry stiffens after nearly toppling over, but Len's not moving away. He crouches, then sits on the ground just behind Barry, arms easily guiding him backward so he can lean into him again, more comfortably now, for both of them.

Len doesn't have to do this. He doesn't have to be here.

He can leave.

He could leave so easily.

He stays.

He stays, and he's warm and solid and real, and Barry leans into him like he has nowhere else to go.

No words are spoken, but then, no words are needed.