The funeral was the hardest part.

Not because he had to watch them lower Luke into his final resting spot, not because he had to accept hugs and make conversation with everyone there, not because everyone pitied him and kept asking if he was okay, no.

It was hard because of who else was there, standing in the back, dressed in their darkest clothing, completely silent, not daring to take a step towards Jonathan and his grieving self.

They stood out, with their uncomfortable stance and the way they held their arms at their sides, as if ready for a fight.

Jonathan took one look back there and his breathing hitched. His teeth were clenched as he tried to keep himself from crying, and he was thankful for the hand on his back that rubbed gently, reminding him that he was okay.

Jon reached for the arm by his side, squeezing it and whispering a small, "thanks, Ry." under his breath.

He received a nod and a small, reassuring nudge in response, and he let his hatred go for a second, so he could mourn in peace.

It wasn't until after the funeral did he really lose himself.

After all the hand shaking, hugs, and pitied apologies shoved in his face, after the lowering of the casket, and after the last mourner had left, Jonathan let himself shed a couple tears as he walked rather briskly to his car, cursing himself slightly for looking back at the fresh grave.

When he got in the car, he turned on the radio and tried to drown out his thoughts with music, but it hardly helped.

It just forced him to think louder.

And when it started to pour, as if in conjunction with Jonathon's tears, he cursed the gods and goddesses above for everything.

He kept his jaw clenched tightly, along with his hands on the wheel as he drove. He drove through the pouring rain, skies gray and sickly, wanting nothing more than to be home, where he could curl up in his bed and cry for the umpteenth time that week.

He wanted to be alone in his home, where he could go over every picture, every article of clothing, every goddamn memory, and cry.

Ryan had asked him if he needed anything, wanted anything, anyone, at his house. Jonathon knew what he meant.

He wanted to know if he needed a shoulder to cry on.

But Jonathon had simply shook his head and insisted him and Bryce not worry too much. He could handle himself.

Of course, he wasn't so sure of that now.

He wasn't sure at all when he felt a fresh set of tears roll down his face and blur his surroundings. Small drops fell from his face, others sliding down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

They left warm trails on his face and a starting puddle in his lap, trickling down, much like the rain pouring just outside his windows.

His vision blurred too much for his liking, everything in front of him just a watery mess of shapes and colors. With a sigh and a harsh swallow, Jon pulled over to the side of the road.

He couldn't keep driving while crying his eyes out. Not unless he wanted to crash.

Jonathon mentally slapped himself as his inner thoughts answered the statement rather bluntly.

Crashing might solve his issues.

He shook his head and dragged a pale hand over his face, subconsciously playing with the piercing that casually decorated his dull lips.

The same piercing that had come about from a childhood dare.....from Luke.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the steering wheel of his car-the car Luke had bought him as a birthday present a year ago.

Everything seemed to be from Luke.

His fingers wandered aimlessly over the leather of the wheel, feeling bumpy edges and a cool surface, stopping at the sides and staying there, curling around to a steering position.

He cursed loudly, raspy, as a familiar voice came out of the radio, ready to torture him just a little bit more.

If the sky

That we look upon

Should tumble and fall

Or the mountain

Should crumble

To the sea

He gripped the wheel tightly as the lyrics poured out, along with his tears, his once favorite line of the song becoming his most hated. Because the words became relatable in a sick sense, when turned around they stood for everything Jonathon was going through.

I won't cry

I won't cry

No I won't

Shed a tear

Just as long

As you stand

Stand by me

They became a part of his world, a testimony to his misery as they were sung, going into his ear and finding their way into his brain, where they played over and over again until he was forced to break down.

He couldn't stop crying, hurting, feeling. And he hated it.

He hated everything.

Luke, stores, criminals, himself.

His hatred and sadness kept growing and growing until he was forced to scream, a scream filled with guilt and a plea for release, loud enough to be heard outside his car.

But not loud enough, unfortunately, to drown out the radio, or his phone, which was now ringing the same tune radiating from his car speakers.

One look at the caller ID and he was melting further into his state of misery, hatred taking center stage as his eyes roamed over each letter, forming the name of the person he wanted to kick from his life forever.

He couldn't bring himself to answer it. Not now.

He knew that if he answered this person, he'd break down, yell every profanity possible, threats spilling out of his lips as a form of closure.

Not only just for closure, but to also take some of the blame off himself. Because, when Jon really thought about it, this caller was also at fault for Luke's demise.

If Luke hadn't met him, if he hadn't taken Luke from Jon, the two never would've gotten into a fight, and Luke never would've left without his concealed carry on, and he would still be alive.

Still he here.

With Jonathan.

So he let the damn thing ring, ring ring, until he got a notification that he had a voicemail.

But, he wouldn't listen to it.

He didn't want to hear anything from the person who had helped betray him, ruin his relationship.

In all honesty, Jonathan just wanted to be dead.

As harsh as it sounded, it was true.

He didn't want to live anymore. He had nothing, no one, to live for anymore. He was a broken shell of a man, one who would never be whole again.

How could he ever be whole, when he just forever lost his other half?

His shitty, cheating half, but his other half nonetheless.

What was the point of living anyway, when you had nothing to look forward to, when you had nothing but the constant emptiness and sadness of loss greeting you as you walk through your door?

The way Jon looked at it, that was Hell, and he wanted none of that.

He didn't need the constant reminder that he would forever be unhappy. He didn't need the slew of memories that would send him into the breakdown of the century. He didn't need the agonizing questions from his friends that would burn into his being and leave their marks.

He just needed Luke.

And the one person he needed, was now 6 feet under and covered in dirt, with a bullet hole through their chest.

And it hurt like a bitch.

And he, well.

He didn't know what to do anymore.

He was sick and tired of acting strong, acting okay, when he was secretly dying inside, his thoughts and emotions eating him whole.

Everything was leading up to one great big breakdown, including this car ride of self-loathing and guilt. Everything was steering him in a sick direction, his hands gone from the metaphorical wheel, sadness taking full control.

As he looked down at the real steering wheel before him, held tightly, knuckles white from force, he shook his head and swallowed the lump in his throat, removing one hand from the wheel and practically punching the radio.

The music died, and Jonathan laughed.

It wasn't the only thing dead.

He shook away the sick joke and tried to swallow the ever growing lump in his throat.

But his throat was dry, and when any sound came out, it was harsh and scratched, terrifying compared to his usual bubbly words.

His nose was running, probably from the amount of crying he was currently doing, and he sniffled quietly, eyes and shoulders drooping with the heaviness of emotion on his form.

Snot pooled beneath his nose, tear streaks gathered on his face, and he felt it all, using it as a distraction. He used the back of his hand to wipe his face, noticing how cold he was, but ignoring it to focus on his sniffling.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He couldn't keep fucking walking around like everything was normal.

He was hurt, in pain, emotionally, and it felt like his emotions were tearing him apart. All he felt was hatred, fear, pain, and this undeniable sense of loss.

He could've sworn there was an actual hole in his heart, a piece missing. And he couldn't do anything about it. All he could do was cry and beg for this all to be one shitty dream.

But begging was useless, and a dream was just as stupid to think about. He didn't get the privilege of a dream. Instead, he earned himself a harsh reality that would haunt him to his own grave.

It was punishment enough to him, but somehow, it got worse.

With every reminder, every memory, every little thing that screamed "Luke", he felt his whole world really, truly crumbling, falling apart.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

So instead, he drove.

He drove all the way back to their-his house, straight through traffic lights and stop signs, not giving them a single glance as his foot pressed on the gas and his hands clenched the steering wheel, worrying his pierced lip between pearly whites once every now and then.

Luke used to yell at him for that.

He kept going, down the roads, turning when needed, not stopping to wave at his neighborhood friends who only looked at him in pity, scowling lightly and tapping a finger against the wheel impatiently as he tried to get home.

Luke would always tell him to calm down when he did that.

He took a sharp turn down his road and followed the path to his driveway, pulling into it harshly and slamming on the brakes, his body lurching forward ever so slightly.

Luke always made him park slowly and safely to make sure he didn't do that.

He pulled himself out of his car, stuffing his otherwise neglected phone into his back pocket and slamming the car door shut, not bothering with locking it as he trudged up the steps and into the house.

Luke usually made sure the car was locked himself before going to bed.

He kicked his shoes off and let them land somewhere random in the house, pulling off his coat and throwing it onto the floor, walking past the kitchen, living room, dining room, bathrooms, straight to their-his bedroom, pulling off articles of clothing as he went.

Luke always made him pick up his clothes so there wasn't a mess in the morning.

He made his way to his dresser and pulled out his pajamas, the teddy bear pants and matching colored blue t-shirt, shedding the last of his death ready dress up clothes and replacing them with his comfortably safe, childlike sleeping clothes.

Luke had bought him that pajama set last Christmas.

Jonathan made his way to his bed and fell into it, on his stomach, one hand over the edge of the bed, hanging limp as the other was used to throw the large comforter over his form, absent mindedly reaching said arm across the bed to drape over a chest that wasn't there.

Luke always accepted his late night touches with a tired eagerness.

Luke.

He couldn't help but notice the empty feeling in his room, his gut.

His heart.

The empty side of the bed that belonged to his lover, that still belongs to him. The one that had held the bearded man until noon, when the two would sleep in from filled evenings and late nights laced with love and affection.

The side of the bed that had sometimes held two bodies, when Jonathan was feeling rather clingy and would crawl on top of Luke, the older man accepting the form of love with arms wrapped around a slim waist, noses nearly touching.

The same side of the bed that would join with the other, through clasped hands and entangled legs, soft breaths and slowly rising chests, completely domestic, entirely innocent.

Yet also joining in the middle through creaking springs and clenched fists, ragged breaths and enticing whispers, completely exciting, entirely sinful.

But, it was empty now. Sitting atop it only a handful of memories that felt like rocks in Jonathan's mind, but at the same time leaving him feeling completely hollow.

He found himself subconsciously moving his hand around on the floor, moving his fingers over the rough wood, dipping underneath the bed.

His fingers ended up touching something entirely different from the cold oak, the object soft and worn, somewhat thick, definitely cool to the touch from being on the floor for so long.

Job wrapped his frigid fingers around it, pulling it out from it's hiding spot and immediately regretting his actions.

In his hands was Luke's dark red hoodie he wore when he was running out to grab something, or going to the gym, sometimes even just to wear around the house.

Jonathan felt his heart shatter for the millionth time that night, and all he could do was hug the damn thing to his chest and breathe in Luke's scent, mint and cologne, that had miraculously still been on his hoodie.

He sat up in his bed and bit his lip, holding back tears as he did the only thing he thought fitting: put on his dead, cheating boyfriend's sweatshirt.

He tugged the soft fleece over his cold, barely together body, smiling weakly at the size.

He had always been quite a bit smaller than Luke.

It was huge on him, covered his hands and went down to his thighs, but it was oddly comforting.

It made him feel closer to Luke, even if he didn't know how to feel about him in that exact moment. He was so undeniably lost without him.

So undeniably, absolutely lost.

Fuck.

Jonathan officially didn't know what to do.

And he hated himself for it.

Just as much as he hate-loved Luke.