The work takes him through the night and most of the next day; he sets down the last piece from the broken bed amid long shadows cast by a sinking sun. He has lost count of how many trips it took to carry every book from the library up the maintenance stairs to the roof, plus all the boards from the bookcases that lined its walls. Then it was the living room furniture, as much of it as he could break down, as well as the dressers and nightstands from the bedroom and the dining room table and chairs. He did not rest, did not pause once in his work, until he had lugged up as many of the apartment’s flammable goods as possible. Now his limbs tremble in protest, begging for a brief respite and threatening collapse should it not be given, but he is not done yet. 

Tanim carries his final and most precious burden up the stairs to the roof just as the sun’s last light sets and full darkness settles over the city. He lays his lover’s shroud-wrapped body gently atop the makeshift pyre, lingering for a moment to draw in the scent of blood, cigarettes, and metal one last time. Then he is uncapping a bottle of Everclear and soaking the shroud, the wood, using up every bottle of alcohol and lighter fluid from the apartment until the pyre’s broken boards gleam wet in the ambient glow of the city lights. 

He holds back the last few ounces of the final bottle of bourbon, staring into the amber liquid as he searches for words. Not the right words, necessarily, just any words, any at all, yet none will come. With the hard labor which kept him busy for so many hours now complete, Tanim has nothing to distract him from the aching emptiness in his heart. He opens his mouth, draws in a shaky breath… and when still no words come, merely sighs and downs the remaining bourbon in one long pull. Then he tosses the empty bottle aside and draws the dented silver lighter from his pocket. 

“I know I should say something, Daren,” Tanim mutters as he strikes the lighter and stares at the little flame. “I just, I don’t…” He clears his tightening throat and tries again, lifting his gaze to the recumbent form atop the pyre. “What the fuck am I supposed to say? Rest in peace? You’re in a better place now? At least you’re no longer in pain?” His laugh is a short, harsh thing, lips pulled back in more sneer than smile. “What good does that do you? Or me, for that matter? What good does any of this do us?”

As quickly as the anger flares in him, it dies again. Tanim’s sneer flickers out as he looks back down to the lighter in his hand and its steady, familiar flame. “I’m so tired, darling,” he murmurs. The admission breaks something inside him, or perhaps simply unlocks it, because suddenly he has to clench his jaw against the tears that blur his vision and the sob welling up in his throat. He could not speak now even if he had any words left worth voicing; instead, he tosses the lighter onto the soaked wood and falls hard to his knees as flames engulf the pyre. The crackle and roar of the growing fire cannot quite mask the sound of his howling.