Work Text:
“I wrote you something!”
Worn-out papers flood every surface. The darkness of the night press in. Tear-stained marks on pillows that have seen better days.
Illuminated by the sole light of a lamp on his nightstand, his once-tanned fingers tremble as they held the last letter that dripped with love and sorrow.
“You may just be cheesier than I am, Joe.”
Eight long years of pouring out every effort, down to the last cent of affection and service. The precious times of shared pain and pleasure- gone to ashes. He personally witnessed just five seconds of his former lover in the arms of another, nights ago in a restaurant he worked at. And it was all it took for his resolve to crumble to powdered dust.
“Elijah, why are you acting like this? Don’t you love me anymore?”
All the shouting matches, extreme blaming, and him feverishly begging on his knees to knit what has been undone. To be forgiven for the sins he’s never done. All to be loved.
He gasps and claws at his chest for air. The letters gently flutter around him as he sinks to the floor. He peers down soullessly, his unkempt red hair falling in strands across his face. He was never good at denial, and now he feels the full force of the tide of his emotions. Like water rushing through his ears, he drowns.
His soundless cries merge within the silence of the night.
“All this time… and all those unanswered calls and cold texts… Why?”
“But you always let me have what I want, so why not now too? Eli, please, I thought you loved me!”
How could Jo- that man say those words with such desperate expression? The person he held in his arms so sweetly and gently, so pure of love, has casted him into the shadows. Has never thought he was wrong, and left it to Elijah to adjust, as he always had.
“God… Is there a god out there? Fuck,” he chuckled humorlessly, his clenched fists opening up to reveal moon-shaped prints on his palms. “I’m so… so fucked up. Please, I don’t… I’m…”
All alone.
It’s been eight years since he’s met someone he thought he’d live a married, happy ever after with, and two nights since the rift they had grew wider and finally snapped the bridge that he held for them together.
The moonlight creeps into the room that’s fallen into depression onto his bloody palms, almost like it was comforting him. He was so tired. If he closed his eyes now, would he wake up later and think it was all a dream? Would he wake up on their ratty, old yellow couch with Joseph in his arms, jokingly whining at him to buy a new one?
No. He stays awake.
He gets up to prepare to move out.