He's gone. I can't...It can't...be true. They must have gotten it wrong. Completely, horribly wrong. He can't have left me when I only found him such a short time ago...He wouldn't do that. He promised. He told me he wouldn't leave without telling me.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up into Angel's eyes, those big, sympathetic eyes and I just want to run from them, hide from them. I'm taking this harder than anyone else. I don't know why...But yes, I do, don't I? We had just...we told each other that we...how we feel just yesterday and like that...he's gone.
I want to ask how it happened, but when I open my mouth, the only sound that comes out is a soft whine and I clamp my hand over my mouth and hang my head, finding I really don't want to know. The hand on my shoulder squeezes gently, wringing another soft cry from my lips and I just want to hide. So I do.
I run from the meeting room in this monstrosity of a building that we shouldn't even be in; I go to our place. I go up to the roof and sit in the one spot of the structure that's always shadowed because both of us like it that way. Liked it that way, I remind myself. One of us would burst into flame if he was exposed to sunlight and the other simply avoided the sun in favor of his books.
I choke on a sob and bury my face in my hands before something strikes me, and I look up. I look around me, take in the feel of the Los Angeles air and realize how appropriate the timing of his death is. It's his favorite season.
It's his summer.