by Jennie He'd been dreading this. And, he'd been absolutely correct to do so.
With a heavy sigh, Klaus scanned the small crowd. A grim smile tilted one corner of his mouth as
he imagined Dorian's reaction to the scene. The little pervert, the man he'd considered the bane
of his life, would have been vastly amused by it all. There were four... no, he realized as he
saw Agent A surreptitiously wipe a tear away, five grown men crying at graveside on a beautiful
spring morning.
At Dorian's graveside.
Had he been able, Klaus might have let a tear or two escape. No chance of that, though. No, he
hadn't cried since his fourth birthday. But, he thought, at this moment, it would be such a
fucking relief to just let go and wail his pain and confusion to the four winds.
It was paradoxical, really. As often as he'd wished for Eroica to simply disappear from his
life, actually losing him was pain beyond any he'd previously experienced. Somehow, after all
they'd been through, Klaus had come to expect the thief's presence in his life. Had even begun
to imagine that one day he would actually slow down enough to let Dorian catch him.
What might have happened next would now forever remain the confused jumble of images and
sensations that had crowded his dreams since he'd first met the Earl of Red Gloria.
The Pastor's voice trailed off into silence, and Klaus looked up. All eyes were upon him.
Frowning, he dropped his eyes to the single red rose he held in one hand. He knew what came
next.
And, God, he didn't want to do it. Ridiculous, he knew, and yet it made the whole thing so
damned final. He couldn't—just couldn't do it. Backing up a step, Klaus glared at the innocent
rose, then at the crowd of faces watching him expectantly.
Damn Eroica. Damn him to hell. How could he just be... gone? It wasn't right, and it wasn't
fair. Bad enough that the thief was dead, but to have died in such a ridiculously mundane way...
Once again he fought off a murderous impulse as his eyes met those of Mr. James. The fucker.
He'd been the one to bring that cursed cat into Dorian's home. The one who'd insisted that a
pet—a lovely longhaired white cat—would be the perfect foil for Eroica's golden beauty.
And how in the hell had Dorian managed to trip over the damned cat? Granted it had been dark—and very, very late at night. But Eroica was a thief dammit. The man had possessed incredibly
sharp night vision—not too surprising, considering that such a man worked in the dark as a
matter of course. How had he not seen the stupid animal? How had his innate grace and balance
deserted him in that moment? And how, dammit... how had he managed to hit his head against the
newel post with enough force to cause death?
Of all the stupid, wasteful ways to die. After all of the dangerous situations they'd faced
together—it was too fucking idiotic to even contemplate.
The pastor cleared his throat and Klaus started, retreating yet another step. A warmth at his
back halted his movement and he tensed, wondering murderously who the hell had the temerity to
invade his personal space in such a manner.
"Klaus," a husky voice said evenly. "It's time—they're waiting for you."
Krycek, Klaus realized. He hadn't even been aware that the man was present. The Major took a
deep breath, his fist closing convulsively on the rose's stem. Turning slowly, he met a level
green gaze.
"I cannot—" Hearing the dangerously husky note in his voice, Klaus bit off the words and simply
shook his head stubbornly.
"You can." Krycek's hand rose to grip his shoulder tightly. "You will." With implacable
strength, Krycek pushed Klaus around until they faced the coffin together. "You must," he urged
quietly.
As he moved forward, obeying the quietly murmured words of encouragement, Klaus thought that the
only thing holding him together was that hand on his shoulder. Without it, surely he would have
been shattered into a thousand pieces—fragments of regret and sorrow, each in itself enough to
cripple a man, together, far too much to bear alone.
Abreast of the coffin now, Klaus stood silent, staring at his own reflection in the polished
lid. Finally, slowly, he raised his hand and carefully, precisely, placed the rose in the center
of the expanse of gleaming wood.
A breeze stirred the branches of the tree at his back and a shower of petals fell. White and
pink, the cherry blossoms drifted, piece by piece, dancing gracefully on their way down.
Down to cover Klaus's hair and shoulders.
Down to soften the stark reality of that single red rose lying atop Dorian's coffin.
Krycek tightened his hold on Klaus's shoulder, silently urging him to move. Someone, he knew not
who, stepped up to his right side and placed a hand on his other shoulder. The two, Krycek and
the unknown man, led him to a vehicle.
Numb and quiet, Klaus climbed into the car and sat staring fixedly at his hand. The hand that
had held the rose. The rose he'd left on Dorian's coffin.
He would not even contemplate what it would have meant to Dorian.
Would not imagine the expression on that entirely too pretty face—the one it would have worn
had Klaus ever once given in to impulse and sent Dorian just one of the roses he had adored so
very much.
He didn't look back as the car pulled away. Couldn't look back.
How could he?
What did one do when one's hope for the future was suddenly past and gone?
How did one survive the end of something that had never begun?
I'm searching though I don't succeed,
The Brokenhearted Part II
Anchor
The anchor of a love is death.
John Boyle O'Reilly
Forever
But someone look, there's a growing need.
Oh, he is lost, there's no place for beginning,
All that's left is an unhappy ending.
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted
James Dean, Paul Riser & William Weatherspoon
