Fear of Dying

Blair asks me once, lying drowsy in my arms, what the scariest moment in my life was; what I fear.

I think he's expecting me to say that morning at the fountain when he died and I thought I'd lost him, and, yeah, sure, that makes my stomach lurch just thinking about it.

But it's not it; hell, I got him back, didn't I? Told them he wasn't dead, I told them…

It hasn't happened yet, that event that's going to make everything I've ever endured (could tell you stories, Blair, scary ones, but I won't) fade to beige, merge to gray.

It's going to, though.

One morning, I'm going to wake up and Blair's not just going to be dead, he's going to have been dead for long enough that I've given up hope of a miracle, a second chance, a knock at the door and it's a stranger with his eyes. (This is Blair. He'd find a way. All those candles can't have burned in vain.)

That's what I'm scared of. That I'm not strong enough to hold on until the day I die, because if I die not believing he's waiting for me, I might get just that.

Nothing. A heaven empty of Blair.


I tell him spiders, because I once woke up with a hand-sized one asleep on my face (true), and he laughs, disappointed I didn't trust him enough to share, but willing to play along, and there's one waiting on my desk the next day, cute and furry, with big green eyes and a string to pull it along, its eight legs jiggling.

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