Talking with Jude had done a few things for Grayson. It had lifted his mood after the terrible disappointment of the Colts losing their undefeated season, and it had made him think about things he'd been avoiding. Grayson was a pretty spectacular avoider when it came down to it; it was almost impossible to make him confront someone when there was a problem, unless it was on the behalf of another person. When it came to his own troubles and worries, he'd rather bury them and move along with other things, somehow thinking that if he didn't acknowledge them, they wouldn't be able to hurt him. It wasn't true, but it was what he did. He just didn't have the strength of mind or heart to do some things, or at least, not when they needed to be done.

Everything was at his own pace. He'd been that way as a child, when it had taken him a year longer than everyone else to learn how to read, to tie his shoes, to be potty trained. Grayson couldn't be rushed, reacted very poorly when you tried. Even still, it was time to make some peace with his not so distant past.

Standing at the edge of a pretty, polished stone, his throat tightened, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. It was hard, but it was time to try to make some peace.

Maybe he didn't look like he belonged, but there weren't many other people around. In a place like a cemetery, people gave each other a wide berth unless it was absolutely impossible not to, and for once, he was grateful to be alone. He'd barely found Benny's grave, after all, and here he was, choking up a bit just reading his name.

Benson Beldon.

He brought one hand up, massaged his neck as he took a few cautious steps forward. His boots, scuffed and worn as they were, collected beads of moisture from the grass; the hems of his jeans were already damp. He got a chill that had nothing to do with the January air, and no amount of sweaters could have protected him from it.

He paused next to the headstone, reaching shaking fingers out, and touched it lightly. "Hi, Benny."

There was no response. Of course there wasn't.

He retracted his hand slowly, shoulders hunching inward as he dropped to a crouch. He'd brought a handful of wildflowers, picked from the side of the road as he walked, and he carefully laid them in front of the grave. That was fitting, wasn't it? Benny had given him wildflowers. He kind of thought the other boy would appreciate them.

Grayson blinked, then he blinked again, and slowly lowered himself entirely to the grass. There was probably something horrifying about sitting just over the top of someone's grave, but as he propped his elbows up on his knees, eyes tracing the delicately carved letters that detailed his birth and death, he couldn't think of it.

Someone's whole life. Right there, just like that. Someone who laughed, loved, who did the right thing even when it was the scariest thing in the world.

Tears slipped free, and he brought a hand up, cupping it over his mouth to force back the hysterical laugh that wanted to break free. They'd died together, he and Benny. Put guns to their heads and fired, even if that wasn't the death that had put him in the ground in the first place. And yet, here Grayson was, living and breathing, six feet above all that remained of the last boy he'd kissed.

"Sorry I'm late." His chest hurt, and his voice was a little tight as he began to ramble. No one was around to listen, but it still felt better to be able to talk. "I... I don't even have a reason."

His vision blurred, and he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the grief. He had no reason, except that he hadn't wanted to come, to see real proof that Benson Beldon was no more. That he would never appear again, never laugh, never casually grip Grayson's hand and lead him around. There would be no prom, no dinner, no night of his life courtesy of Benny.

Had they even been dating?

Did it even matter?

He sat there for a while longer, rambling about things that were important to him that he'd never gotten the chance to share with Benny. He talked about his parents, how glad he was that he'd been able to see them again. He talked about Tristan, and there was pride that warred with the grief then, and an impossible love that made it somehow easier to fight his words through the tears. He even forgot that he was crying, though it was a steady, quiet sort of grief that afflicted him.

Then he apologized, for not being able to get Benny out of there. For not asking him questions about his parents, what he liked to do aside from tennis, whether he had any plans that didn't involve tennis in the future. He apologized for spending so much time at Barren Pines and not noticing him, for sleeping in when he could have met Benny for coffee and gotten to know him better.

And, both hands coming up to his face, he apologized for living when Benny had died.

Night fell around his shoulders, and by the time he'd said all he could, he was raw and aching inside. He didn't feel any better for visting Benny's grave, but he didn't feel any worse, either. He stood up and shifted tired, stiff joints, walked slowly over the the hill and back down to the opening of the cemetery. He called his pop, and rode home in silence, a respectful one on Van's part.

For once, he didn't ask any questions. For once, Grayson just leaned his hot forehead against the cool window and watched the road go by.

He'd go back again, he knew.