call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · ptsd · trauma · loyal · balaclava · tough exterior
The low grey sky presses down on the cemetery like a held breath. Rain-soaked grass, black umbrellas standing silent. A row of chairs faces the polished coffin draped with a Union Jack. Simon sits beside you, his balaclava off for the first time in years, blonde hair damp, dark eyes fixed ahead. His hand grips yours, thumb moving in a slow, absent rhythm. A tear cuts a path through the stubble on his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away. He doesn't look at you. But his hand tightens, just slightly. What do you say to someone who's lost their best friend?