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It’s late.
Always so late.
They always wait until the sun dips below the horizon, then wait some more. It’s easier to spill secrets and make confessions as the hands on the clock tick over into a new day. It’s been Steve’s routine for as long as he can remember. It’s how they got to know each other.
He thinks Eddie must have gotten it from him.
Must have noticed the way that Steve can’t say anything important, anything urgent, while the sun is still up. He must wonder what happened to Steve that made him like this. Nothing did – at least, Steve doesn’t think so. Steve thinks it’s just human nature to wait, to make bold moves and big changes under the cover of darkness. The daylight makes him feel too exposed, too easily seen. He worries that if the sun hits him just right, everyone will see right through his skin, and into the ugly, tangled mess inside him.
Steve is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring at his hands. He hasn’t said anything in several long minutes. He doesn’t know what to say. He suspects that he doesn’t really have to say anything, though, because Eddie is sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting. Waiting like he knows what’s coming. Steve hasn’t looked at Eddie since he sat down, but he can feel his eyes boring into the top of his bowed head.
“Steve…” Eddie speaks quietly, softly, like he’s worried he’ll spook Steve. “Do you wanna come up here?”
Steve shakes his head, and doesn’t look up. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see the look on Eddie’s face. He doesn’t want to do this.
He has to do this.
Steve sucks in a breath, steels himself and scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip before he speaks.
“I love you, you know that, right?”
And he does. He loves Eddie so much, more than anything, and he thinks that maybe that’s why this needs to be done.
“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says, voice trembling. “I love you too.”
Steve nods, swallows, and buries his face in his hands as he takes a shaky breath before he continues.
“And… You know that things – uh, well. That things have been hard, between us?”
And they have been hard, but that’s not the big issue.
Steve has been through a lot of hard shit. He’s been through shit that was so difficult, he wasn’t sure he’d make it out on the other side. This isn’t just about things being hard, but he doesn’t know how else to say it.
He doesn’t know how to say I don’t think we’re as compatible as we thought, and it’s showing more and more with each passing day. He doesn’t know how to say I think we ruined a good thing by making it more. He doesn’t know how to say I love you more than I could ever hope to express, but sometimes love isn’t enough. Putting a bandage on a bullet wound only delays the inevitable, and you and I are hemorrhaging blood quicker than we can replenish it.
As much love as he has for Eddie, and always will have for him, Steve constantly fears that they ruined their friendship by making it a relationship. He wonders if the kissing and the cuddling and the sex was worth passing the point of no return, and guaranteeing that there would only be two outcomes: being together forever, or breaking up and never seeing each other again.
Rationally, Steve knows that there are more than two possible outcomes. There are a million ways things could end up, but when things start going downhill, it's hard not to focus on the extremes, especially when he's felt from the beginning that it would be the latter option that befalls them.
They're two puzzle pieces, and the conundrum is that they fit together beautifully, but the edges keep rubbing together and catching and pulling. The friction is painful and obvious, and it feels like they're one errant movement from accidentally tearing each other wide open. Yanking on a thread until it unravels completely.
“Yeah,” Eddie answers, startling Steve from his thoughts, despite his voice being nearly a whisper. “Steve, I – if this is about what I said yesterday, I swear I –”
“No,” Steve cuts him off quickly. “No, Eds, it’s not that. Well, I mean, not just that, I guess.”
Why are we even doing this anymore, huh? It feels like you always have one foot out the door anyway, so what's the point?
It was a valid question, and Steve tried not to take it personally.
But he takes everything personally, lately.
He's not sure if that was the tipping point, but it was the thing that made him wonder. The thing that kept him awake all night, tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling and thinking, he's right. What's the point?
He looks up for the first time since he sat down, and regrets it instantly. Eddie is wringing his hands in his lap, eyebrows pushed together and eyes glassy. Steve tries to rip the band-aid off, but doesn’t quite manage it.
“It’s not you.”
Eddie’s not having it.
“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare,” he spits, expression morphing into something harder. Angrier. “If you’re gonna break up with me, don’t say the same shit you’ve said to half the girls in this fucking town.”
Steve probably deserved that one, but it still hurts. Still makes his heart kick painfully in his chest.
Eddie already looks like he regrets saying it, and now it’s his turn to hide his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, and suddenly the distance between them makes Steve want to throw up.
“Eddie, I – fuck, I’m sorry,” Steve says, pushing himself up off the floor. He stands in place, awkward and unsure. He wants to sit with Eddie now, but feels like maybe the offer’s been retracted. Like he’s too late. Always too late. “I meant that it’s not just you. It’s both of us. It’s just not –”
He can’t finish his own sentence. This is going so much worse than he anticipated.
He approaches Eddie slowly, but doesn’t sit down beside him. He reaches out a hand instead and brushes a finger against one of Eddie’s wrists, testing the waters. Eddie lifts his head a little, sniffles, grabs Steve’s wrist, and Steve takes that as his second invitation. He sits down next to Eddie, maneuvers his hand so that their fingers lace together. He squeezes tight even though he knows it won’t help. That it might make it so much worse.
Steve gives himself a moment to gather his thoughts. When he opens his mouth again, he still doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what’s going to come out.
“We just aren’t working,” is what he says. “We’re not good for each other, at least not right now.”
He feels Eddie squeeze his hand, and risks a glance over. Eddie’s looking into the middle distance, eyes fixed on some point on the wall, features fighting between sad and emotionless.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
And it’s true. They aren’t good for each other. Not anymore.
In the beginning, things were fine – great, even. It was a seamless transition from friends to more than friends. They'd never put a label on it, never clearly defined what they were to each other, but Steve knew. He felt it. He'd been feeling it since they day they met; this gravitational pull, this desire to be more. To be everything.
That didn't last, though.
At first, Steve thought it was just the honeymoon phase wearing off. He thought they were coming down from that weeks-long high and settling back onto stable ground.
They had their first fight a month after getting together.
Steve thought that was normal. He's dated around a lot, had a lot of first fights with a lot of girls, some of them having come much sooner than a month. He thought it was normal. Better than normal, even.
But then their first fight turned into their second and third fight, all within a couple weeks. Stupid fights about stupid shit, but it didn't feel stupid in the moment. It never does, he supposes.
They'd always make up, but they never really talked about it. Never really addressed the issues. They'd just apologize and kiss and fuck and pretend it never happened.
Now it seems like every conversation leads to an argument. Every argument leads to a full-blown fight, and half the time, there’s no apologies anymore– just sex. Always sex in place of open and honest communication. Steve's come to realize that they’re both too stubborn, too unwilling to admit to any wrongs when they’re each so sure that their side is the right side.
The fights aren't stupid anymore, either. Even if it starts as something stupid, it always comes back to the same shit, the same insecurities and the same unmet needs.
So many screaming matches about Steve not being good enough for Eddie, that Eddie should leave while he can and find someone worth his time. Eddie always says that he doesn’t want anyone else, better or otherwise, that Steve is it for him. He says that Steve needs to get it through his fucking head that he’s not going anywhere, not unless Steve is the one to end it.
Too many nights where Eddie yells until he’s in tears, begging Steve to please, just talk to me, what did I do? You never open up to me anymore. Steve tries to tell him that he can’t, he won’t, it’s not worth it. He's not worth it. Nothing Steve divulges now will make things better. None of it will change the fact that this’ll all come crashing down anyway, so what’s the fucking point?
So he kind of lied, maybe. Steve lied. He said it’s not just Eddie, that they’re both to blame – but that’s just not true. Eddie isn’t to blame at all. Steve turned every one of his fears into a self-fulfilling prophecy, and Eddie’s just too nice to say so. Steve says they're not good for each other, but it's him who's not good for Eddie. It always comes back to him not being good for Eddie.
And then the cycle continues.
And now Eddie agrees.
"I don't know how to fix it," Steve says. It's an admission. An admission of guilt, of failure. How does he fix something he seems so hellbent on breaking?
"Me either," Eddie says, words coming out at the end of a sigh. He lets go of Steve's hand and flops backward, the whole bed shaking as his back hits the mattress. Steve twists around to look, and Eddie has an arm slung over his face.
He wracks his brain trying to come up with a solution, something that will fix this. Something that will snip away the frayed edges and fill in the deep foundational cracks in this relationship, but he comes up empty. Everything feels so deeply damaged, that he’s not sure anything even could fix it.
So he lets out a breath and joins Eddie, laying back so that both their legs dangle off the edge. He allows himself a short moment of internal debate before scooting closer, pressing their arms together from shoulder to elbow.
He shouldn't keep touching, but he can't help it. Steve's always been drawn to Eddie like a magnet to steel, his body always on Eddie's in one way or another. Fingers brushing across his back, legs draped over his lap, lips on lips and bare skin beneath Steve's palms.
So he touches.
He takes Eddie's hand again, and feels him stiffen. Steve holds his breath, waits for Eddie to take his hand back. To push him away.
Eddie doesn't push him away, though. In fact, he turns his head and presses his face into Steve's neck, lets out a shuddering breath that dampens Steve's skin and makes him break into goosebumps.
"This is it, huh," Eddie mumbles, lips brushing against Steve's throat. It's not a question.
"Yeah, I think so."
Steve's eyes prickle and sting, but he doesn't let himself cry. This is on him, this is his decision, and he doesn't get to cry about it.
"Forever?"
Steve almost doesn't hear it, the way Eddie whispers it, voice so low and quiet that it barely hits his ear.
"I don't know," Steve says honestly. He doesn't want it to be forever, but he fears he'll never be capable of being the man Eddie needs. The man he deserves. "I hope not, but… for now? It needs to be over."
Eddie nods minutely, sighing. He rubs his thumb over the back of Steve's hand and pulls back, lifts his head until Steve meets his eyes.
"Can it be over tomorrow?" he asks, voice melancholy and tinged with reluctant acceptance. Steve takes in a stuttering breath, and feels his lips quirk into a small smile.
"Yeah," he agrees. "It can be over tomorrow."
Eddie offers a sad smile of his own, says thank you in a watery voice that breaks Steve's heart, and leans in.
When Eddie kisses him, Steve does cry. It's just a couple of tears, but he's embarrassed and his chest hurts, and he loves Eddie so fucking much. He doesn't say it, though, not again. Eddie knows.
"Will you stay? Tonight, I mean?" Eddie asks when he pulls away.
"Yeah, of course."
He shouldn't.
But he can't make himself leave.
They don't undress, just maneuver themselves on the bed until they're facing each other, limbs tangled and sharing a single pillow. It's a little uncomfortable in jeans, but Steve can't bring himself to get up to take them off. He simply pulls up the blanket to cover them both as Eddie reaches to turn off the lamp.
They don't fall asleep right away. As exhausted as Steve feels, both mentally and physically, it takes him well over an hour to finally close his eyes. He keeps a hand on Eddie's cheek, stroking his thumb across Eddie's cheekbone, hoping the touch conveys how sorry he is. How guilty he feels.
They do fall asleep, eventually, after trading gentle kisses with the silent acknowledgement that this would be their final night together.
In the morning, Steve wakes up first. When he opens his eyes, Eddie's face is the first thing he sees.
He looks peaceful. The sun is bleeding through the blinds, casting stripes of yellow light across his face, illuminating the pale, barely there freckles that dust the bridge of his nose.
The sight makes Steve's heart race, but it hurts.
It hurts so, so badly.
When he slips out of Eddie's arms, out of bed and out the door, he doesn't look back.
That hurts just the same.