WHO: Krys and Cyd WHERE: Cassie's grave then probably somewhere less depressing? WHEN: WHAT: Talking?
Despite their eye-opening-yet-painful discussion, Krys hadn't seen much of Cyd since. She was still keeping him at arm's length, as he would expect her to, and he tried to tell himself it was for the best. Yes, they had reached milestones during that conversation, overcome a lot of their anger and grief, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that meant everything was okay. He didn't deserve for it to be, though Krys' self-deprecating thoughts had quieted slightly since they'd spoken. Even if he didn't deserve it, having Cyd's forgiveness had been a type of healing. It didn't change things, except maybe make him dream about her in equal frequency to his nightmares about Cassie and that night.
The bassist threw himself into music in the weeks following their conversation, trying to keep his mind off the pain. It might have been lessened but he doubted it would ever be gone. Not to mention, her forgiveness had only made the pain at not being with her worsen. Krys didn't expect that they'd ever get to be happy much less happy together but telling his heart that was easier said than done. He hadn't broached the subject with Cyd either, knowing it was wrong and selfish and entirely impossible. Music helped, acting like a bandaid covering a wound that actually required stitches. Far from perfect but at least he could get through each day.
Especially this day.
As he sat in his car, looking out over the expanse of green mottled with somber grey, Krys let out a long breath. This was something he had to do, something he hadn't done since they'd put Cassie in the ground. He hadn't visited on the anniversary of her death, on her birthday, or the anniversary of them becoming a couple. He couldn't. How was he supposed to face her when he had so many conflicting emotions? How could he tell her that he missed her when he knew he hadn't loved her the way she'd loved him? It made him feel like a fraud, like a despicable piece of garbage, so he'd stayed away. But after talking with Cyd, well, something had shifted and now here he sat. His fingers unclenched from the steering wheel, one hand lifting the lock on the door and pushing it open. He couldn't sit here all day.
Krys approached the grave like a man walking the plank but drew to a full-on halt when he spotted someone already there. Familiar inky hair let him know what his senses, and their connection, had already told him. It was Cyd. Swallowing, he stayed where he was, not sure what to do. He didn't want to interrupt but felt like turning and going back to his car would be even worse. More cowardly. So Krys stood, like a statue, waiting for some cosmic sign of how to proceed.