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Its just a dream.

 At least that's what Mark utters to himself as he finds himself in an all too familiar kitchen, his own in fact and he swears that the kettle boils for a moment longer than it used too, the not so subtle noise drowning out his loud thoughts at the minimum. Then again Mark swears a lot of things are different now that Jacks not around anymore; swears this is just a dream and that he'll wake up tomorrow next to the man he hasn't stopped thinking about since he passed - swears the interior is different from the last time he checked, given he hasn't been here in a long time - couldn't face it; His kitchen used to be his albeit cramped, happy place. Not anymore.

Maybe his mother had been in and added some different touches to the place. Mark wishes things were back to normal, how his kitchen used to be before it burned to the ground and almost swallowing the whole place with it. Even standing here doing the same thing he used to do a million times before the incident it just feels off, missing something; Mark already knows what and hes not gonna say the real thing that is missing and instead insists its something to do with the wallpaper.

Mark wishes his beloved kitchen looked the same as it did when Jack was still here, it was cluttered and felt small when the pair baked together in it but it was his joyful place; even more joyous when they were together. He'd always complain to Jack for leaving the various baking supplies out like the whisks and the trays - tell him that they had a place in the kitchen that wasn't laying on the batter covered counter and Jack would just smile and apologize, then scoop up some of the spilled batter from the counter and eat it but he'd never learn and each time they baked it'd be Mark who put the supplies away.

Thinking about it now, he'd rather a messy kitchen with Jack in it than a clean one and no Jack. Its odd what you realize when its gone; Mark often thinks about what could have and should have been and it keeps him awake on nights like these and thus finds himself in the very kitchen where everything went wrong. It's funny, he used to love his kitchen and take pride in it and now he hates and hates; he used to love and laugh here yet now he cries and despises. The thoughts of that night will forever haunt him all the what ifs and whys; his stomach twists even thinking about it now. It weighs on his conscious always.

'It was all your fault.' ringing through his head and in his ears. The kettle flickers off and it makes him startle away from his own self destruction; like a car hurdling towards a cliff and then it stopping at the edge, dangling above life and death. He pours his tea and the hot water is tempting, to just chuck over his unsteady hand; to feel the slight pain to make him feel like hes actually here, living and breathing when someone he loved so dearly is not. To give in to that guilt, make him feel something that's not regret, a fraction of the mental pain he feels or the pain Jack felt that day when the place was engulfed in flames. Yet as tempting as it is, he doesn't and pours his tea without causing himself harm; Maybe he does feel something under all the anguish but its not enough to show on the surface.

Mark thinks he should do something productive if he cannot sleep, so writes down some ideas for recipes which he can take back to the cafe, his little pride and joy well, it used to be as of late its more of a distraction than anything but he knows that if he goes in at this hour he'll have nothing to do during the day and then his employees will question it, which is the last thing he needs; more questions he can't answer. Won't answer.

Maybe he'll go on a late night walk to clear his head - the night is fairly warm for the time of year and the stars are bright enough so its not as dark as it could be and perhaps he can check Jacks grave again, make sure the red roses he'd put down haven't died. His mother had told him to stay away for a little bit and that its not good to plague him and be at the face of it but he feels less lonely that way even if Jack cant hear his apologies uttered through sobs. The countless apologies aren't enough to bring him back though, he knows; surprised Jack hasn't haunted him for it yet.

He decided to walk into the night; street lights lighting his way, drunken people wondering, singing whatever songs come to mind and sending smiles his way. Mark smiles back; the kind of smiles you send to strangers names you don't remember. The moon is out tonight and its oddly comforting, hes under the same moon as Jack once was. He wonders where his feet take him which of course happens to be where his beloved lays.

His headstone is still in the same condition it was the last time he visited on one of his nightly wanders, only the flowers are looking a little tired. This a reflection that its not a dream and that no, he cant wake up and its bittersweet to be here, like rose thorns prickling him but the rose is so pretty; and reminds him of somebody so he can't let go of it no matter how much the thorns hurt. He removes the flowers as it just doesn't feel right, putting them in a bin that is within the graveyard and although some might find the place creepy or eerie at night; Mark finds it peaceful. The headstone reflects the worst day of his life, a day of course he'll never forget - the day which he will take to his own grave. The night disappears him, he stays there rambling to Jacks headstone as if the man himself will come back from the grave and speak to him, accept his apologies.

;

They're baking in the kitchen; the wallpaper which he and Jack picked out and argued over newly on the walls, Marks baking supplies he brought home from a shift at the cafe down the street on the counter beside them. The oven is on, being heated to the appropriate temperature ready for them to put the cake in the oven. Its red velvet, one of Marks favorite; surprisingly, hes the one with the sweet tooth. Jack is mixing a batter and making an awful mess which Mark cannot find it in within himself to be angry at him, he looks so cute - some of the batter managing to get onto his face; his tongue sticking out like a child concentrating. Marks heart swells just looking at him and there's a sick part of him that knows the story; that's been here before and it always ends the same. A feeling of premonition in his bones, deep in his soul.

They lose focus, take their eye off the ball for a second too long and suddenly the smoke alarm is ringing, ringing, ringing and there's smoke in the air. The cooker; left too long and its caught fire. The air is suffocating and Jacks in the midst of it all, Marks lungs feel clouded and he yells to the man; screams at him to get out - reach for his hand but the smoke is thicker now and there's flames in front of him. His mind is in a haze and he just remembers fading blue eyes and then sirens flashing in his irises; eyes he can't seem to close without seeing the flames behind them, without seeing Jacks pleading eyes in front of him again.

He could've saved him, saved him from the smoke invading his lungs - if he got him out sooner maybe the countless paramedics, nurses and doctors could have too.

He could've saved him.

;

Mark wakes up on a chilly bench he doesn't remember climbing onto, but hes in the graveyard nonetheless. He checks his phone for the time, and realizes hes late for his shift. His back hurts from sleeping on the wooden bench and waves Jack a farewell for now and sleepily walks out the graveyard. Hes a wreck without Jack here and there's a void he needs to fill somehow; a void that baking or working in the cafe he has given up on cannot fill.

Nevertheless he turns up to the cafe he built, same cafe he bought Jack numerous coffees in and sneaked him new things that hadn't been added onto the menu yet. Mark greets his employees with a smile even he knows is not genuine but its close as he would get nowadays.

The serves a lot of customers in a day but they all seem to be faceless, just some other people in the crowd. Sometimes their faces become clear and Mark wonders that if the women with the tired eyes asking for a black coffee is just having a tough time at work or feels what Mark does but realizes that not a lot of people will feel what he does, hell, he doesn't even know what he feels.

;

[Grief; intense sorrow, especially caused by someone's death.]

[Grieving; People dealing with intense sorrow differently; some turn to dirty habits in search for an escape of the feeling - some drink, some smoke, some cause themselves harm and some simply do not cope.]

Marks grieving. Hes also making a mess of things and got himself into a ditch. Stuck in a pattern of repeating, just existing and doing the things hes always done - Visiting Jacks grave during ungodly hours of the night, go home and 'sleep'; replay of the night and work.

Yet, there is a new ingredient added to his pot of grief, his bad habit which makes everything ten times worse. Hes been sleeping around; it started with the man in the cafe whom looked similar to Jack and they got talking and even though his brain was yelling at him this isn't Jack and never will be he still fell into the mans bed and lied when he said he'd call him back after leaving - he felt too sick too, is this really what he'd resorted too? Falling into strangers beds who even remotely remind him of his loved one, not for the sex or the one night stand, rather for the soft touches and sweet nothings he craved and missed from his dearest.

A silent cry of' Please come back, Jack. I need you.'

But hes stuck in the dark hole of guilt, grief and repeating the same things and cant get out. Doesn't know what to do anymore, Jack was his everything and he let him die because he was careless; careless like hes being now.

;

Its not until a few of his old, lost in contact friends visit town - friends that have no right to know him so well after not being in contact for so long but he supposes old habits die hard and they know him enough to see the telltale signs of his own self destructive paths, Mark has his own red buttons and he pushes them himself, before anyone else does. Bob is his cheery yet serious self when he visits, Mark trying his best to make it look like hes stayed here the past few weeks, make it look as though hes not a meteor crashing into his own already broken earth. But, of course hes not convinced. Unlike the rest of the faceless people or employees whom Mark gives fake smiles too Bob sees right through it. He was at the funeral too but kept his distance, knew it was better too let Mark grieve.

Yet he sees that Mark has hit that button again and again and again - and Bob is the one to bring him out of it, wake him up a little and bring him back to earth. Tough love is not always the way but with Mark here drowning in self pity and guilt from it all, it is the way for him.

He breaks the silence; voice booming. Perhaps one of the first words Mark has actually heard in a long, long time.

"Do you think Jack would want you to be like this?" Marks eyes widen, obviously not expecting for Bob to say something like that. His eyes show more emotion than ever - Bob can see it; The cogs turning in Marks brain, he watches the hazel irises switch between angry, to offended, to sad; sparkling with tears in them.

"No but he wouldn't have wanted me to be the end of him, either." Mark utters, broken;

"It wasn't your fault, Mark. You couldn't have saved him."

"If I tried I could have!" Mark snaps, voice cracking, echoing through the room.

Bob shakes his head, reaching out for the man in the form of a hug and Mark eases into the embrace sniffling.

"You couldnt save him. Its not your fault, he wouldn't want you to live like this, guilt ridden and rotting. Do better in his memory, but you have to get yourself better too."

Bobs words are comforting and linger there for a moment or two and for the first time in months, maybe years he doesn't know; time has escaped him - he hears the words Bob is saying.

;

It takes time, of course it does; A day cannot fix his broken heart but tomorrow starts with him cleaning his apartment, it takes most of his enegry to do so but he feels better now that the place is cleared from the numerous takeaway and various treat boxes that once cluttered the place. He wants to make Jack proud, he does. The guilt he feels won't ever subside Marks sure of that but he hopes to lessen it and live; actually live and not just exist day to day; wants to see peoples faces when he serves them at the cafe - wants to love his job again.

His world is upside down, black and white and gradually he wants to turn it around and add splashes of color to it again.

;

Its been years and he still visits the grave which reflects the worst day of his life. Only things are different now, he used to come here to apologies and now he visits to ask if the man here is proud of him.

Hes got little splashes of color here and there now. He smiles more genuinely at customers now - There's a second, new cafe opening soon too and its in Jacks honor. Hes going to serve his favorite cakes there too and paint the walls his favorite colors. He doesn't fall in and out of strangers beds hoping to find another Jack; He prays that he was still here but having something in his honor makes him feel better.

Everything he does is for Jack, because Mark feels he didn't do enough when he was here and although he can't bring him back he can honor him and make him proud. Hes thankful for Bob and the rest of the gang that helped get him back on track, lord knows he couldn't have done this on his own.

;

He cuts the large ribbon blocking the door to the new place, hes put all his effort into lately and hes happy its finally opening.

'Jacks Cafe.' In bright green above the door way the open sign hanging up already. Everyone who has gathered here cheering. The bell chimes as he welcomes customers and Mark says a few words before they get to drooling over the variety of cakes and coffees.

'This is for you, Jack. Everything's always been for you and always will be.'