The chapel was too quiet for someone like Jude Kinkade.
Zero sat in the third pew—hands folded, back straight, sunglasses on even though the sky outside was overcast like it, too, couldn't deal with this day. The room smelled like lilies and regret, and there were too many people dressed like they barely knew Jude, like this was a business luncheon and not a funeral.
The casket at the front of the room was closed, draped in white flowers and navy-blue ribbons. Jude's favorite color, of course. Always classy. Always composed.
Zero hated it.
Because Jude wasn't just navy-blue ribbon and polished wood. He was fire and flaw. He was biting wit, rare smiles, pressed suits, and unspoken fears. Jude was a man who gave his whole heart even when he was terrified it'd get ripped out—and in the end, it had.
Literally.
"He had a heart attack." That's what the doctor had said.
Zero had stared at him like the words didn't compute, like the man was telling him the moon had fallen into the ocean.
"But Jude's 34," Zero had said, as if age alone could rewrite fate.
"He had a genetic condition," the doctor replied softly. "It was undiagnosed. Sometimes, these things… there's no warning."
Yes, there had been. There was always a warning. Zero just hadn't heard it.
Flashback: The hospital room, sterile and cold, machines beeping in rhythms Zero would later hear in his nightmares.
Jude looked too pale, too still. His brown hair tousled, lips chapped, IV in his arm. There were bruises from chest compressions. Zero had arrived too late. Not late enough to miss the goodbye, but too late to change anything.
"You always did know how to make a scene," Zero whispered, half-choked. "Even now."
Jude didn't respond. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, but he was already slipping.
Zero leaned in, clutching his hand. "Hey. Don't you dare leave me. Not after everything. You hear me, Kinkade? I'm not done yelling at you about laundry and your obsessive labeling system."
Jude's lips moved, barely.
"What was that?" Zero leaned closer.
Jude exhaled. "You… always left the cabinet doors open."
Zero let out a wet laugh, holding his hand tighter. "Yeah, I did. I still do. Sue me."
Jude blinked slowly, painfully. "I love you. Even when you're annoying."
Zero pressed his forehead to Jude's. "I love you. Even when you correct my grammar."
And then—just breath.
And then—silence.
The flatline came like a door slamming shut.
Back at the funeral, someone tapped the mic and began reading a eulogy, but the words blurred into a fog. Zero's mind kept drifting.
Back to their apartment.
To their morning rituals—Jude with his black coffee and financial reports, Zero half-awake in boxers and socks that didn't match, muttering complaints about early practice.
To Jude laughing at the dog park when their adopted mutt took off with someone's designer scarf.
To their fights—god, the fights. Fierce, ugly, passionate, followed by silence, then apology, then desperate, hungry kisses like the world might end.
To the night Zero told Jude he wanted forever.
"I didn't think forever was possible," Jude had said, his voice thick. "But then you ruined me."
"I'll ruin you every day," Zero had promised. "If you let me."
Jude had smiled, watery-eyed. "I think I already did."
Now forever was just ashes and folded programs.
People filed past the casket. Hands shook. Hugs were given. Condolences muttered like awkward scripts.
Zero barely noticed until Lionel sat beside him, dabbing her eyes.
"He loved you so damn much," she whispered.
Zero didn't look at her. "Not enough to stay."
"Not his fault."
"I know," he said. But his voice cracked anyway.
Later, at the burial, the sky broke open. A soft rain. Because the world was poetic like that.
As the casket was lowered into the ground, Zero stepped forward, removed his sunglasses, and knelt.
"I'm not good with speeches," he said softly. "You always said I was better with actions than words."
He placed a single, crisp white rose on the lid.
"But I have a few words today, so listen up."
He swallowed.
"You changed me. Not overnight. Slowly. Through Sunday breakfasts and stubborn debates and that dumb playlist you made for road trips. I never believed in forever until you made me want it. You were my 'after.' After fame. After ego. After the noise."
He stood up, wiped his face roughly.
"And now I've gotta figure out how to live in the 'after you.'"
He looked up at the sky.
"Save me a seat, Kinkade. Front row."
That night, back home in their—his—apartment, Zero opened the fridge. Inside was still Jude's almond milk, half a container of his "ridiculously overpriced" organic yogurt, and a Tupperware labeled "For lunch. Don't eat at 3 a.m., Z. – J."
Zero opened it.
A single, stale brownie. Jude's idea of a joke.
Zero sat at the counter and ate the whole thing, sobbing between bites.
The next morning, Zero got up. Brushed his teeth. Closed the cabinet doors. Walked their dog. Stared at the untouched side of the bed.
Grief was loud and then suddenly quiet.
He picked up a photo of Jude smiling, that half-laugh caught mid-moment.
"I'll keep talking to you," Zero said aloud. "Even if you can't argue back."
There was no reply.
Just the quiet creak of the morning, the smell of rain, and the lingering presence of a love that hadn't vanished—just changed form.
And in the silence, somewhere deep inside him, Zero carried the echo of Jude's laugh, the warmth of his love, and the strength to keep going, one step at a time.