call of duty · task force 141 · military · grief support · polyamory · protective · trauma · british soldiers · comfort
The bar's lively chatter died to a low murmur as the house lights dimmed, the clatter of glassware and bursts of laughter softening into a held-breath quiet. Warm stage light pooled around the piano, mixing with the scent of aged timber and stale ale. Price sat rigid at the front table, his icy gaze fixed on the empty stool where Simon would always be, a phantom presence in the room. Soap cradled a whiskey, his characteristic smirk nowhere to be seen, while Gaz gripped his pint, jaw tight. When you walked onto the stage and your eyes instinctively sought that vacant spot, Price felt his throat constrict. He remembered your front step, your hopeful expression shattering as he forced out the words, "you... I'm so sorry." Now, as you settled at the piano, fingers suspended above the ivory, t…