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The cemetery is mostly empty, a few people here and there sitting quietly on the grass or picnic blankets by their loved ones' graves. Mark instantly feels out of place, which is probably insane, but he can't help the feeling that he's somehow doing something wrong by coming here, knowing he's not really here to mourn like everyone else. He considers going back to the car and waiting until it's empty, but the sun is already setting, and Oliver will get worried and call if he's not home when he normally is, and Mark is really bad at lying to him.
He follows Sam's directions to find Owen's grave. It's nice, his real name carved on white granite, beloved son written underneath. The flowers Joan had left last week are still there, starting to wilt.
The grass looks dry and warm in the dimming light from the sunset, and briefly thinks about sitting, but decides against it, in case he changes his mind and needs to get out of here as fast as possible. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “I know Joan comes here a lot,” he starts, a little hesitantly still. “To… talk to you.”
For a second he almost expects a response, and obviously none comes. But he's still here, and doesn't feel like he needs to throw up or run away, so he decides to sit down after all.
“And, no, it wasn't Joanie's idea that I come here,” he says after a moment. “She doesn't even know, she thinks I'm at a gig. The only person who knows I'm here is Sam. And… and you probably don't care.” He sighs. “Joanie says this is therapeutic, or something. I guess I don't really get it and I just wanted to see for myself. Not like— She misses you. I don't. I'm not really even… I'm not sorry. Y'know, I'm in therapy now, and she says it's important that I'm more honest with myself, and if I'm honest, I'm not sorry you're dead. And I only feel… a little guilty about that. And only because I know Joanie misses the shit out of you.”
“There's just— there's so much I wish I could really say to you. Like, say it to your face and see how you respond. I never really got to give you shit for hurting my sister, and what kind of brother would I be if I didn't try? So, here I am.” He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in the cool air before looking back at the gravestone. “I hate you. I don't think I'll ever not hate you. You— I know you were trying, in the end. But you hurt a lot of people I care about and you hurt me. You hurt Joanie. I know she forgives you, because she is the most forgiving person I know, and she loved you so fucking much it was almost painful to watch. But wherever you are I hope you know that I'll never forgive you, for what you did to me or her.”
The sun is down below the trees now, and the wind whistles in the silence. It's getting darker, and when Mark glances around he notices that most of the other people have left, only one girl still sitting there by herself. Mark stands up, stretching and wincing a bit as his back cracks. He looks at Owen’s grave, now sitting in the dark, cold and silent, nothing to say back to him.
He thought he'd have more to say. In the years since Owen’s death, in the years since he first learned who Owen was to his sister, he'd always thought there was so much to say. There were so many grievances to air out, so much shit to talk (the list of threats Mark had spent months drafting had gone out the window before, for obvious reasons).
“I don't know how much Joanie tells you about me,” he says eventually. “But I'm assuming you know about me and Oliver. And— God, I hope you're rolling in your grave. I wish I could have seen the stupid fucking look on your face when she told you.”
His fingers absently find his pocket, fidgeting with what's inside through the fabric before slipping in and pulling it out. He rubs his thumb against the velvet surface of the box and takes another breath. “I'm going to ask him to marry me tomorrow,” he says, and he can't help the smile that creeps onto his face despite himself. “Sam found a photo of the ring on his Pinterest and helped me find it. I picked it up today.”
The only sound in the cemetery is a short, light trill from a bird up in the tree above them.
“Y'know, I'm…” Mark sighs and shakes his head. “No, okay. Honestly? I wanted to rub it in your face. I wasn't— I wasn't planning on coming here just to tell you about it, I was already going to come here. But maybe I guess I decided to do it today because I wanted to make sure you know that I'm fucking thriving. You— the AM— you hurt me so fucking bad, and Oliver. And I hope you can hear this because I want you to know how much better I am, we both are, now. Despite everything you motherfuckers did to us. We're still here and we're winning.”
Mark reaches up to rub at a sudden itch in the corner of his eye and touches wet skin. He blinks, feeling tears in his eyes now. “Fuck,” he laughs a little, startled, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “Shit. I guess that took a lot out of me.” He pockets the box and scrubs his hands over his face, taking in a shaking breath. “I hate you so fucking much,” he tells the gravestone. “And I'm definitely never coming here again.”
His familiar ringtone starts playing from his back pocket, and he grabs his phone, swiping up the image of Oliver's contact. “Where the fuck are you?” Oliver demands as soon as the call connects.
“Sorry, I'm on my way home now.” Mark holds the phone away to catch his breath again quickly. “Gig ran long, I'll be there in ten.”
“Okay, well. Text me next time, then. There's leftovers in the fridge, I'm not leaving chicken out on the table for however long you claim is ‘ten minutes.’”
Mark rolls his eyes. “Alright, Oliver. I'll see you soon, love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Mark puts his phone back in his pocket once Oliver hangs up and looks back at the headstone once. “When you see Wadsworth, by the way, whenever she finally kicks it, can you repeat all of that for me? I'm so not ever doing this again.”