ficlet; 005: grief
pairing: aizawa kosaku/shiraishi megumi
word count: 877 words
note: prompt from kimimappi: the passing of Aizawa's grandmother.
It was a miserable day. The skies were blackened by ominous thunderclouds, and the rain was pouring without any sign of stopping. Fleetingly, Shiraishi thought about how cliché it all was – a thunderstorm at a funeral, yet at the same time, it was so fitting. Even the heavens were grieving the loss of the wonderful, kind-hearted Aizawa Kinue.
She sat at the back of the room, as the ceremony for the wake went on in front. Hiyama, Fujikawa and Saejima were all with her – Fujikawa had wanted to sit right in front, determined to show Aizawa that he was here for him, but Shiraishi stopped him. Instinctively, she knew that Aizawa would not want them up close; he would not want them to see him the way he was now. His face was blank, and his shoulders were rigid with composure, but his eyes, although dry, were red and she noticed the slight tremble of his hands as he bowed to a friend of his grandmother's from the nursing home, who just finished his eulogy.
Aizawa didn't say a single word, did not choose to take the podium to eulogise his grandmother, and Shiraishi understood why. He was never a man of many words after all, and all the words and sentiments in the world would not be enough, to even begin to describe what his grandmother was to him, what she meant to him. He didn't want a public goodbye, not this way.
They took their places in offering their condolences after the ceremony, and he nodded and thanked each of them in his usual monotone, not giving any of them another look. Fujikawa and the rest left soon after, but something compelled Shiraishi to stay, so she did. She stood outside the hall, her hands twisting themselves together as she waited. She didn't know what she could realistically do, but she just wanted to be there.
She waited, but he didn't come out, and after a while, she peered into the hall, and saw him sitting in front, staring straight ahead. Gathering her courage, she walked in, and sat down next to him.
He turned to look at her. "What are you still doing here?" he asked flatly, face twisting slightly. Perhaps she had intruded upon his grief, but she felt that she couldn't leave him alone.
"Aizawa," she started, and then she stopped. She didn't want to say the reassuring words, because she knew they would not comfort him, not now. Words would only be hollow and empty. So she said nothing, looking at him resolutely, her eyes letting him know that she was here for him.
He looked away from her. "I'm fine."
He wasn't, she knew. He had been trying to control his emotions for too long, trying to maintain that façade, but the reality was that he desperately needed to grieve for what that had been lost.
"I loved her," he said suddenly. "All my life, she was the only person I had ever loved, and she was the only person who loved me. And I never told her." And then his composure finally cracked, and his grief poured forth, as he leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, burying his face in his hands. "I never told her that I loved her…" he choked out, and Shiraishi's heart ached.
Moving closer to him, she reached out, hesitating for only a moment, before she slid her arm around his shoulders. Almost instinctively, he moved closer to her in his moment of anguish, his head dropping on her shoulder as he shook with silent, uncontrollable sobs. She had never seen him like this, so vulnerable and raw with pain, grief and regret, and her heart constricted.
"She knew," she told him, tightening her arms around him. "There's no need for regret. It's okay that you never said it, because she knew."
He said nothing, he couldn't say anything, but she hoped he understood. Words were just that, words, and Shiraishi was sure that Aizawa Kinue knew how much her grandson loved her, even if he never said it.
She continued sitting there, staying by his side as he finally allowed himself to grieve fully. She didn't leave him, just as he never left her, all those years ago, in the rain.
Aizawa returned to work two days later, looking as he usually did, composed and collected in his Neurosurgery scrubs as he walked into Emergency to assist with a subdural hematoma. He acknowledged her and the rest of the team with a nod, and immediately launched himself into the surgery, and not another word was exchanged.
Shiraishi found him at the launchpad after work, sitting on the railing, hands clasped together. He wasn't surprised when she took her place at the other end of the railing; it was almost as if he was expecting her.
They sat in companionable silence, and he turned to her after a while. "Thank you," he said simply.
She gave him a small smile, knowing that he was still hurting, still mourning, but he had taken that first step towards remembering his grandmother with fondness and not with regret. And she hoped that he knew, that as long as he needed her to be, she would be here for him.
A/N: Grief is indeed not easy to write at all. The next ficlet will hopefully be more cheerful.
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