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Going home always hurt these days. It never felt like his home, just Scott's, because they never really had the chance to make it theirs. He could get used to staying in the house, even if it hurt, but now that the school year had started and he had to work, he realized that it was worse to keep having to come and go.
Half-unpacked cardboard boxes lay neglected in the living room, the bedroom, a couple in the kitchen. Going through Scott's old stuff took priority over his own, and now that he'd gone so long without sorting those out, it felt like there was never going to be a good time to start. That was fine, though: this house had been molded to fit one inhabitant, and there was no longer a need to make it fit two.
He crashed down onto his side of the bed, shoes still on, after only just getting home. There was no reason to go out anymore—his friends had their own lives to get back to, they shouldn't have to be stuck trying to deal with someone else's grief—so most of his free time had been spent doing nothing.
Sometimes, he'd pull out an old hoodie, or a sweater, or even just a shirt of Scott's, and cling to it like it's scent would bring him back. It never did, but that didn't stop him.
Jimmy went over to the dresser on the other side of the bed, reached down to the drawer on the bottom, and pulled out a white hoodie. It had been folded messily in the back corner, and when he lifted it up a little black box fell to the floor.
The hoodie had been a hiding place. Scott had been hiding something. Something in a little black box.
Jimmy didn't realize just what kind of box it was until he opened it. A little gold band stared up at him, one inlaid ruby twinkling despite the darkness.
He was going to be sick.