Work Text:
Lying awake in the breathless silence, tracing outlines of imaginary shapes above the bed, Sam found himself unable to sleep. Every perceived motion, every sleepless tremor, only served to remind him of the impending departure. Choking on a sharp breath, he rolled over slowly—so as not to wake the other occupant of his bed—and stared at the wall over the hills and vales of the blankets, willing himself not to look down. If he did, surely he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together. Surely he’d change his mind.
Such things were inevitable though. His untrained eyes disobediently found their way back to the body next to him, traveling upwards to look upon his face. Though he knew he wasn’t supposed to touch him, he ran his hand slowly over the blankets and up his back, finally coming to rest on his cheek. Caressing it gently, he stared in quiet adoration, watching the closed eyelids for any hint of movement, watching the thin lips for quivers of words. His Echo. Quickly, he corrected himself. No, not his Echo. Sorrow washed over him like a well-worn blanket and, as he ran fingers over rough, stubble-peppered cheeks, his heart ached more than it had ever.
It was just one last night.
--
"I'm leaving you."
The words weren’t meant to be spoken so bluntly, but despite his best efforts to be gentle, they came spilling from his careless lips before he could even think to refrain. He swallowed, watching Echo's brow furrow in hurt, in confusion.
“What...?” The rest of his sentence died on his lips.
A stilted moment passed between the two. Echo's dark eyes dropped to the floor, lips quivering as though he wanted to say something, wanted to react, but found himself unable to do so. His fingers trembled, twitching, as he rubbed them together. Sam had wanted so badly to avoid this but he couldn't take it anymore, so it almost didn’t matter that he was hurting him, breaking him. Echo was tearing him apart piece by bloody piece. He’d tried, he’d stood this toxic relationship for as long as he could, and he simply had nothing left to give to himself—much less to Echo.
Suddenly, Echo looked so thin and pale. Everything his body betrayed him at the moment—the awkward, uncomfortable stance, the nervous tics, the obvious physical decay—was nothing more than a reflection of how Sam felt, a visual manifestation of what he'd become even in the most basic of senses; that was why this had to end here, today, now. Long fingers closed in on sweating palms as he fought to remain sturdy, though the delayed turmoil was anything but distant, was heavy enough to threaten to come crashing down on him any second now, to shatter him into splinters of tainted glass.
Echo still failed to continue even as seconds turned into minutes. His shaking increased, and the simple twitches of his lips turned into more violent gestures of chewing and gnawing at the dry, loose skin there. Breathing out in a rush, Sam forced himself to remain calm and strong against the storm. This too would end; it was only a matter of time.
"Why?"
The question came out of nowhere and hung heavy in the stale air. Sam flicked his gaze up despite himself, meeting Echo's agonized, ever darkening stare for what felt like the first time—though it was now the last. He tried to talk, to find the words, to think, to move, to breathe... All his attempts proved to be futile, and he was left with nothing more than the hauntingly devastating image of Echo's watering and pained starless eyes burned forever into his mind.
He asked again haltingly, voice edged with a strained, barely suppressed cry now. "Why?"
Sam winced. As Echo gripped the back of the chair, breaking before his eyes, falling into the fragile pieces they'd worked for so long to keep together, so long to carefully piece and glue in hopes that it would stick this time, he felt as though he could have never been more right and more wrong.
He began, “Echo…” Slowly, he reached out a gentle hand to steady Echo's arm, to try to keep him together. The need to console him, to keep him going, to be that fuel and that reason to live, was deeply ingrained.
Echo swayed, trying to shove his hand away but eventually accepting it with his head bent low so Sam couldn’t see his shame, and his anguish, and his anger. But he didn’t need to see it. He could feel it burning everywhere he touched, like a tongue of fire that lashed out against him and singed his tender flesh every time he got too close.
Heaving a shuddering sigh, Echo's shoulders slumped. "Why won't you answer me? Tell me why." His voice was small, weak, sick.
Though he didn’t say it, Sam knew he was already blaming himself—and he couldn't offer assurance to the contrary because it was him. He provided a soft, uncertain touch to his back, as though he couldn't touch him, as though he didn't have the right anymore. Echo's muscles tensed and rippled under his tentative fingers, a tell-tale sign of his inner battle—whether he should strike out at Sam or retreat into the small, blackened shell he'd created for himself.
As he searched Echo’s miserable, imploring gaze, he let his hand run up and down his bony spine in a desperate attempt to comfort him. When Echo’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion and frustration, in pain and fury, he hastily constructed something—anything—that might suffice. But his honesty betrayed him.
“I can’t take it anymore.”
Echo’s frown deepened and he clenched his teeth. His tattooed fingers snaked around Sam’s arm and gripped like a vise, hard enough to leave a bruise, sharp enough to leave red half-moon marks. “What do you mean?”
Sam refused to back down. He never let Echo control him in this sense and he would be damned if he started now. Though he winced visibly, he easily tore Echo’s hand from his arm; then held it tightly in his own to keep it safe. He could feel it shaking, fingers closing and crumpling in on themselves like legs of a dying spider. Echo’s eyes flashed when he met them again. It was all he could do to stay calm.
“You’re killing me,” he said gently. “We’ve been over this before. I just can’t take it.”
Mouth trembling, Echo whispered, voice weak and ragged and hoarse, “I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m trying so fucking hard.” The last three words were emphasized with sharp, breathed punches.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam heaved a sigh and tried not to feel sorry for him. The cold sensation washed over him in waves; it wasn’t fair to hurt him when he loved him so deeply, when Echo was truly trying like he said he was. Still, that didn’t change the fact that Echo was sick; his illness was spreading like the malignant cancer that it was, smothering the life out of him until he couldn’t see or feel or think anymore. Could he really ignore that?
He didn’t need to think to answer the question. His mouth made up his mind for him. “I know you’re trying. But you’re not doing enough.”
The words echoed in his head as Echo’s dull-dark gaze bore into his own. The air that had been buzzing with electricity seconds earlier was suddenly still, silent, stagnant. Pressing his lips together tightly, Echo breathed deeply. Then he said, tone laced with bitter poison, “If trying isn’t enough what am I supposed to do? What the fuck do you want from me?”
Despite his better judgment, Sam dropped a hand to Echo’s and stroked it gently. All it earned him was Echo’s scorn as he threw the unwanted touch from him, all but slapping him in the process. A nervous smile stretched its way across Sam’s face. Echo did not return it.
“I’m sorry,” Sam began, doing his best to remain strong though his voice didn’t reflect his conviction. “If you wanted to change, you wouldn’t let it consume you. The thing is…” He paused, unsure if he should press forward. But Echo was staring at him expectantly, disgust and indignation evident. “You have some mental problems you can’t change.” The words tasted too heavy on his tongue.
“Are you saying I’m crazy?” Echo asked, shooting him an icy, biting glare.
Swallowing, Sam shook his head and quickly retracted his statement. “No, that’s not what I—”
“So you’re leaving me because you think I’m crazy?” Echo asked, lips drawing back in a snarl. He pointed a rigid finger at Sam. “There’s a difference between depression and insanity. If you can’t see that then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I know that,” Sam argued. “But you’ve crossed that line. You won’t control yourself.” He was losing his temper, getting fed up. He was so damn tired of running in circles like this, knowing that there wouldn’t be an end, knowing it would keep cycling for as long as the relationship was alive. Sick… He was sick. They were sick.
“What have I even done to you? It’s not your problem so it shouldn’t matter.” Echo’s voice was rising in pitch and volume, teetering dangerously close to hysterical. His eyes were filling up again, his fists clenching.
“It does matter,” Sam told him slowly, “Because you’re hurting me. I’ve told you that already.”
The words formed on Echo’s lips but they never came out. He bit down on his lower lip before they did, harder and harder until Sam was sure he’d injure himself. Concerned he’d pushed it too far, he placed his hands on Echo’s shoulders and rubbed his thumbs against them in lazy circles. He started to speak but Echo interrupted.
“Please don’t go.” Now his voice was small, scared. “I love you.” His breath hitched. “I can’t live without you.”
Though he meant every word, Sam couldn’t help but feel as though they’d lost their meaning somewhere along the way, somewhere after they’d been spoken one too many times. Anyone—everyone—said those exact words. He couldn’t accept them no matter how much he wanted to.
“I know,” he said slowly, unconsciously drawing Echo’s shivering body closer. “I love you too.” He stopped, lowering his head to sneak a glance at Echo’s face. He wouldn’t look at him. “You won’t put any effort into this, though. You’re too selfish.” He paused momentarily, studying Echo’s features for any sign of a reaction. There was none. “I understand you’re hurting but you won’t do anything to fix yourself. How can I help you if you won’t accept it? How can anyone? You don’t want to feel better. You’re only hurting yourself because it feels good.”
“Stop,” Echo spat, seething. “You don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do,” Sam said firmly, grasping Echo’s shoulders again. “You have to get a grip. You’re the one pushing everyone away. If you don’t want people to leave you, you have to stop hurting them.”
“It’s not my fault,” Echo insisted, fingers digging into the fabric of Sam’s shirt, twisting it. “I can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can.”
Echo flicked his gaze up, thousands of scathing, scalding words burning in his eyes but never leaving his mouth. But they didn’t have to. The look was worse and the impression ran deeper, lingered longer, than if he had spoken them, had released a verbal barrage of everything he felt. He only allowed himself three measly words, but the commanding, frightened tone behind them was enough to invoke guilt—and pain. “Don’t leave me.”
Though it tugged at his heart, made him want to bury his face in the familiar, warm junction of Echo’s neck and collarbone, kiss it, whisper soft assurances, he forced himself to remain calm, to stand his ground. “I have to.” His words were gentle yet firm. Gingerly, he pulled Echo’s hands from his shirt and only held them for a brief moment before dropping them. “I love you but I’ve had enough. I’m done.”
“Please—Are you sure?” Echo’s voice was begging him, desperation accentuating every word, every motion, every glance. When Sam refused to reply—only shot him a look—Echo crumbled. He gripped the back of the chair again, shoulders heaving with every shaky breath, and he broke into a million tiny pieces, spilling himself all across the floor in the form of sprawled limbs and too many tears.
Sam swallowed back the pity. It was what Echo wanted from him. Though inwardly falling apart, he forced himself to turn around. And so he turned his back on Echo, turned his back on his failure. He only prayed it would not come back to haunt him later.
--
He’d thought the hard part would be breaking the news to him. However, he soon found that it’d been easier than what was to come. Packing his belongings shouldn’t have been so wrenching. And yet the more he thought it would be cleansing, would be a symbolic gesture of his freedom, the worse he felt.
Old, dog-eared notes read one too many times rubbed him raw. Though he didn’t mean to, his eyes caught on every single word of sweeping, messy calligraphy, on every purposely ambiguous poetic phrase so painstakingly crafted for his eyes and only his eyes to ever see. An entire lifetime—no, he corrected himself, only eight years—of searching and trying and longing and loving was spelled out for him in plain black and white, in parchment and ink.
The realization that he wouldn’t be receiving these sentiments again hit him in the gut, freezing the blood in every vein.
Hurriedly, he stuffed the notes to the bottom of his bag, not wanting to look at them anymore, not wanting to think of them anymore. The move was futile. The words continued to cycle relentlessly through his mind, a constant reminder and a constant source of torment.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of perceived movement, and whipped his head towards the doorway only to find it had been a figment of his imagination. Swallowing, he blinked at the empty space before him. He must learn to get used to this. Even though Echo was still downstairs, was occupying some niche of his life, it wouldn’t be for much longer. He had to leave this place behind, leave Echo behind. It was no longer his home, and Echo was no longer his refuge.
Straightening up, he planted his hands on his hips and gazed around at the disheveled mess he’d created in the once so tidy room. He needed to keep packing and preparing for the start of his new life—though it could hardly be called new when it beckoned to him from just one town over—but he feared he might break down if he touched any more of these old things, even just to throw them out. Swallowing around the sharp lump that arose in his throat, he decided to get out of the house; he needed to drive, to feel the freedom, to feel miles of roughened, gray-black asphalt as they extended before him only to disappear.
After all, it was his last day here. He might as well find closure for his memories’ sake. They were all he had left.
--
Snow is falling. Sam stands on the front porch with his bare arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the tremors and the pinprick of sharp cold. The wind picks up and draws its icy finger across his cheek, sending chills up and down his spine. Huddling in the thin fabric of his T-shirt—the only thing that shields him from the unforgiving winter bitterness—he watches the car in his driveway intently.
A smile scrawls its way across his face as Echo pulls back from the trunk, large, taped-up cardboard box safely wrapped in his arms. On the front, in messy Sharpie lettering, it proudly proclaims its title—clothes. Sam’s grin broadens as his eyes sweep up to look upon Echo’s face, at his flushed skin and his rosy cheeks, at the same smile on his lips that adorns his own. In the very back of his mind, he finds himself enraptured by the sight, and soon his entire being is frozen in adoration and awe, completely breathless of this exquisite creature before him. As the dark, burning coals of eyes rise to meet his own, contented smile turning mischievous, he learns how to breathe again and allows his exhale to come out in a windy rush.
He watches him come up the slick, slush-lined front walk. Echo stops in front of him, tilting his head a bit to one side, a stray strand of black hair falling away from the messy bun. Shaking his head and grinning, he sums up everything he’s thinking into one word.
“Silly,” he teases, lowering the box just enough to lean in.
His breath falls moist and warm on Sam’s face as he comes closer, and then there is no distance between them. His lips are hot and chapped, but the pressure is pleasant—slight and gentle. A shiver unrelated to the cold wracks Sam’s body, and he slips his arms past the box and around Echo’s waist, drawing him closer, deepening the kiss. They mouth at each other with soft smacking sounds for what feels like minutes—though Sam acknowledges it could be hours and he wouldn’t notice the difference. Echo is the first to pull back, and when he does, his smile lights up his eyes in a way that makes Sam catch his breath in his throat. His heart flutters as he realizes he’ll see those eyes and that smile every morning for the rest of his life from the pillow next to his own.
He feels that he’s never been happier.
--
Cold reality swept over him harder and heavier and more unforgiving than any winter wind. His eyes followed the path that Echo had taken to come into his life, and the path that would take him out of Echo’s life. It felt wrong, almost as though he were the traitor, the one who’d caused the most damage. But that wasn’t true. Echo was the reason it came down to this; he had to tell himself that over and over again. No matter how much he did though, the sharp, aching pains of the freshly torn wound continued to surge through him and he blamed himself. It was Echo’s eyes that caused this, that told him oh-so-scornfully and resentfully that it was he who was the problem.
He was not.
Slowly, he went down the walkway to his car, shivering in his light windbreaker. Wisps of cirrus clouds drifted delicately through a bright sky, a dying evening sun sending her goodbyes from somewhere in the western distance, blanketing the land in fiery hues of red and gold. He would drive and, he promised himself, he wouldn’t look back.
He did anyway.
It was not his intention to do so, but before he could contain it, the name slipped past his quivering lips, and one lone tear slipped down his cheek.
It was too much for him. Sliding back into the car, he breathed deeply and cleared his mind. He wanted to have closure with the town he’d grown up in; instead, he found that every inch of space reminded him of Echo. And that was why he had to leave.
--
It’s the third day and Echo has yet to leave their room. Sam stands awkwardly just beyond the threshold, fist raised to knock on the door but he loses the courage and drops it. The last time he and Echo spoke was after the fight erupted and reached a screeching crescendo, when Echo flung the chair near (at?) him. The realization that his condition is steeply flying out of control sends a cold, sick feeling through every nerve, every vein.
There’s a muffled sob and Sam can’t tell if it’s his or Echo’s. Listening intently only amplifies the silence that surrounds him—and he starts to worry. Although Echo hasn’t given any indication that he’d hurt himself, he’s been destructive all along, throwing things or hurling insults whenever he’s upset; his temper and attitude are abominable. He can’t count a day that's gone by in which Echo didn’t complain about something. The smallest things set him off. It didn’t seem so bad while they were merely dating, but now that they’ve lived together for a year the true colors have finally bled through. He doesn’t understand how he could’ve missed—or, rather, ignored—the obvious signs for so long.
Before he can properly pull himself from his thoughts, his knuckles are rapping softly against the wood, and though it’s quiet, he cringes at how loud the sound echoes in the empty hall. There’s a brief sniffle, followed by absolute, eerie silence. Uneasy, he shifts and debates whether or not to walk away now while he still has the chance. There’s no telling what sort of mood Echo will be in when he opens that door. And Sam never was afraid of anyone before, but he can’t deny that he’s very much so afraid of Echo, and more so than he’s been of anything.
The door opens just a crack. He stiffens; he can see Echo’s eyes now, how they are red-rimmed from tears and lack of sleep, how they are dark in the deep throes of bitterness. His mouth is trembling in that ugly-insane manner, teeth digging into his lower lip, gnawing like an animal. His eyes flash and are suddenly full of fire, full of life, and his nails dig into the peeling white paint of the door. Sam feels meek, sheepish, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to make amends or to apologize for what he’s supposedly done, for the sacred ground that he’s disrupted and trespassed on. The next thing he’s aware of is the sharp, painful pricks of Echo’s nails embedded in his sensitive flesh, the grip growing increasingly tighter by the moment as Echo’s own knuckles turn ghastly white from the pressure. He winces, and Echo speaks.
“What are you doing here?” he says spitefully. “I thought I told you to leave.”
Lamely, Sam replies, “It’s my house.”
“Our house.” Echo is quick to correct him, eyes narrowing. He readjusts his grip, eliciting another cringe from Sam. “I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I was worried about you,” Sam says quietly.
Echo glares, baring his teeth. “I don’t care,” he says, violent trembling encompassing his entire being. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Don’t bother me again.”
He jerks his hands away from Sam’s wrists suddenly, as though he’s been burned, and shoots him a wounded look. Something in his eyes is dangerous, tells him to stay away, that he’s injured but he can still do his fair share of damage. And Sam believes them, and he heeds the warning, stepping back with his hands outstretched in a show of submission and surrender. It’s not enough for Echo. He lifts his hand, almost as though to slap him away, but instead of falling on Sam, it falls to cup at his own gaping mouth to stifle a sharp, ragged sob. It’s in this moment that Sam abandons all thoughts of wanting to get away, and feels instead the need to protect Echo from himself.
Tugging at his hair in desperation, Echo shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry,” he gasps through the hiccups. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
As he collapses to the floor into a mess of tears and splayed limbs and fast, erratic breaths, Sam is right by his side, supporting him, trying to sweep him up and pull him back together like he always does. He’s terrified—terrified because Echo’s getting worse, terrified because Echo’s lost everything he’s ever had, from family to friends to jobs—and he’s all Echo has left and he knows it’s his sole responsibility to try to get him help. His hurt is far too deep for anyone to fathom, for anyone to fix, and it’s foolish, Sam knows, for him to assume he’s any different.
He’s not. Love doesn’t make a difference. It only serves to complicate that which is already too far broken.
--
Stepping under the low-hanging ledge of the apartment complex, Sam breathed in the musty scent, jamming his hands in his pockets. This place held so much significance; he couldn't even count the number of times he'd walked that very hallway, up those stairs, on his way to visit Echo.
As he ascended the steps, the warm cozy feeling was soon replaced with heaviness, and he found himself standing alone in the middle of the stairwell, gripping the railing with all his might. His entire body was shaking. He felt as though he’d transcended that which was real, that which was palpable, and had been left behind as a vacant shell of what was truly him. He craned his neck as voices of ghosts past filled the hallway, echoing off the stucco walls and enticing him with familiar words. Readjusting his grip around the cool, metal rail, he squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see them, but closing them only made the vision clearer, sharper. It played out through his mind like an old film, as though it had been yesterday; maybe it had been yesterday. Maybe it was now.
In his mind's eye, Echo was still sitting beside him, on that very step (at least he thought it had been that step). His black hair fell in ringlets around his face, and an intent frown furrowed his brow. His lips were moving but Sam couldn’t hear the words; all he could hear were muddled whispers of the wind whistling through the cracks, coming between him and his vision. Echo’s hand was outstretched in some sort of sweeping, grand gesture, and he was turning to Sam with a look of speculation, with a look that sought approval. It was anxious, and his eyes sparkled like too many dying stars in the vast expanse of ebony sky, smile reflecting it all in something taut and weary. Sam shakily brushed his shoulder with a hand, locking their eyes together—fire and ice. It was unspeakable, unthinkable. The rocky sick-hot sensation fluttered uncomfortably in his gut and he wiped a strand of hair away from Echo’s face, reveling in the imagined silken-rough feel of skin against skin. Echo shuddered pleasantly in response, leaning into the touch, but he didn’t feel him anymore.
He wasn’t there anymore.
It had been the first time that he could recall experiencing such a fleeting emotion—such a strange, curious thing. Instead of dwelling on it, he tucked it neatly in a box for safekeeping and whispered words he could not hear in response to Echo’s request. For a moment, the Echo in his memory seemed puzzled and unsatisfied with the response; he tilted his head to one side and frowned a disapproving frown, eyes clouding over to cloak any less than ambiguous emotion that threatened to show through. His lips pursed. And then they smiled.
Echo drew him into a gentle hug, and Sam felt free. The exhilaration meant everything to him, and he remembered realizing for the first time that he was in love.
--
Days turn into weeks turn into months. Echo still has not left the house; he spends his days by the window or locked in their room in bed, pouring over books or writing furiously. The atmosphere feels cooler; his apathy has grown to distance. And now it’s not even that. Sam doesn’t know what ails him because he won’t speak of it, won’t let him look at his compositions. Even if he were to try to sneak it, he wouldn’t find out anything because Echo is far too secretive and far too vague for his own good.
Worry—it clouds his vision from the inside out. He watches Echo disintegrate piece by piece every single day, yet remains powerless to stop it. It’s Echo’s own doing, he fears. And maybe this time his theories are more than just that; maybe this time they are the whole truth.
He watches from his bar stool, taking a long sip of scalding coffee, as Echo nervously flits about the kitchen, perhaps like a bird, prey, in danger of being captured, in danger of losing its small, (in)significant life. His cheekbones are more prominent than they were two weeks ago, and his eyes are darkly rimmed and sunken in their sockets, lifeless and dull. He remembers how vivid and animate they were before, and in comparison to now… There is no comparison. It’s as though Echo is no longer with him, no longer among humanity as a whole. A ghost. He is a walking ghost, an apparition.
Sam sets his mug down on the glossy counter top and shakes his paper open, though he watches over the jagged edge. Echo has finished preparing his tea and is sinking down into a seat at the small table in the breakfast nook. Though he refuses to speak to him, refuses to even look at him, Sam won’t give up that easily. Dropping his paper and letting it flutter to the tile floor, he softly makes his way over to where Echo sits. He drapes his hands over Echo’s tense shoulders and starts to knead the anxiety out of them the best he can. All he receives in return is a quick, blank glance. Apprehension.
“Are you okay?” His voice sounds strange amongst the stillness, and he quickly chokes it back. How foolish. Of course he’s not okay.
Nodding carefully, Echo replies with a soft hum. He doesn’t look back up at Sam, instead choosing to gaze down at his tea as he stirs it around and around, creating a miniature whirlpool and looking as though he wants to disappear into it, to drown in it. Sam knows because his eyes darken with something sinister and wistful.
Of all the things he could say next—about how Echo doesn’t look all right, about how he can talk if he wants to, about how he can trust him no matter what the situation is—what he chooses to say is far too callous. “When are you going back to work?” His voice sounds foreign even to him, and for a split-second he can’t believe he just said that.
His question is met with hostility. The angry clatter of the metal spoon against the ceramic lip resonates in the small space, and the bitter-dark of Echo’s eyes seer into Sam’s own. He snaps. “I can’t keep a goddamn job.”
Sam swallows, hands gripping Echo’s shoulders tighter despite himself, despite how Echo hunches away from them. His tongue continues down the path of offense. “I’m sure if you keep trying something will work out.”
“I don’t feel like trying anymore.”
“Why not?” Sam blinks. His mouth is going dry; his stomach is freezing and slipping beneath the tumultuous waters like a sinking ship.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” is all Echo replies with.
He stands suddenly, brushing Sam’s hands forcefully from his being and sending him a sharp look from narrowed, fearful eyes. It’s the weary exhaustion edging them that keeps Sam from pursuing the matter, instead murmuring something even he can’t quite make out.
As Echo turns to leave the room, he mutters one final remark that’s quiet enough to make Sam wonder if he heard right, but just clear enough to strike sick concern in his middle. “But, to be honest, I'd rather die.”
What should be a merely sarcastic or hyperbolic statement is sheathed with just enough desperation and longing that it turns into something deadly, something more than mildly alarming. Because he knows Echo isn’t just exaggerating. Because he knows Echo truly means it.
--
Coming back home meant coming back to nonexistent, cold-harsh arms. Sam felt it the second he stepped foot in the house. The only sound was the ever present exhale of the heating. His smile waxed sad-saccharine, and he walked briskly up the steps, taking them two at a time, hoping to get the rest of his packing done without interruption. His desire was not to be fulfilled, however; he found Echo sitting on the edge of their bed with jutted shoulders steeply and tensely slumped, arms crossed and closed in over his vulnerable middle. His head was hung in the utmost shame and when he lifted his eyes, they spoke the same humiliated brokenness as the rest of his being. Pausing in the doorway and finding himself unable to move, he gaped at the creature before him, so very tormented by himself and his own thoughts and his own actions that he had been reduced to nothing more than what he saw.
Echo choked, voice laced with a hoarse rasp, words tumbling over themselves in sloppy, forced arrangement, “I never— I don’t want you to… Why?” Trembling palms splayed flat over his face, fingers gradually closing in and gripping.
“We’ve already talked about it,” Sam grunted in response.
He stepped over the stacks of taped-up cardboard boxes to come closer. Echo peered up at him, nibbling at his lower lip, but he refused to meet his gaze directly. Brushing past him, he flung open the top drawer of the nightstand and began to shuffle through their belongings, pulling out every item that was solely his and throwing it on the mattress. Echo dropped his hands in his lap and folded them neatly, brow furrowed and perplexed and worried. He watched Sam’s every move with such intensity it almost drove him away. It was driving him away. After a moment, he straightened up, finally letting his eyes drift to Echo’s crumpled form. He counted the tear stains on his face, and then their eyes locked.
“Please stay with me,” Echo whispered, patting the edge of the bed. Sighing, Sam obliged. A beat elapsed before Echo continued slowly. “I know you’re set on leaving.” He swallowed, tongue darting out to lick at his cracked lips. “Will you consider staying the night? Maybe you’ll change your mind in the morning.”
Sam shook his weary, heavy head. “I won’t change my mind.”
“But will you at least stay the night?” Echo asked, determination rising in his voice. He seemed less upset now, more authoritative and firm.
Hesitating, Sam weighed his options. If he left that evening it would surely be easier to break away. But at the same time he had to wonder if it would provide enough closure to ensure he wouldn’t run back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Echo turn towards him, nervously rubbing his twitching fingers together. Shutting his eyes to the sight, he concentrated. He had to say no; no, he had to say yes.
A feather-light touch fell on his knee, and upon cracking disobedient eyelids to look at it, the numbness was replaced by a violent twist, a punch in the gut. Mechanically, he reached out and closed warm fingers around the cold hand, gripping tighter and tighter until Echo hissed. The unbearable sting buzzed behind his eyes and nose, and the words that went unspoken were mutually agreed upon and acknowledged by a curt nod.
Then Echo leaned over, one hand still on Sam’s knee and the other coming to rest on his cheek. He stroked it for a moment, eyelids falling halfway shut, and then he closed the space between them. Sam knew he shouldn’t accept it but he did. He did, and his world all but stopped turning. A few breathless seconds were spent in silent rapture, in combined pressure and warmth and sensation. And then Echo was on him, pressing him down to the bed and holding him there with all his might, body quaking and uncontrollable, mouth opening and closing and biting and huffing. Too stunned to move, Sam lay beneath him, hands tentatively hovering over his sides, half-heartedly returning an open-mouthed kiss.
His eyes fluttered shut as he sank beneath the crashing waves of agony and relief, and he let the tide have its way with his listless body, casting him upon many jagged rocks in utter, complete destruction.
--
The sun rose blood-red and orange against the horizon. He stared at it from where he lay, tangled amongst too many pillows and sheets and limbs. Echo’s body remained flush against his own, flesh just as cool and sweat-ridden as it had been hours earlier, face pressed into his bare chest so the stubble scraped against the tender skin of his breastbone. Head lolling to the other side, to curl more around Echo’s fetal figure, he took in the deepest breath he could muster, and then released it in a wracking rush. Echo didn’t even stir. He took this as his cue.
Carefully, he pulled back, shivering at the colder-sweet sensation of air slipping between the sheets. Looking first towards the deadened newborn sun, he turned to face Echo and watched the covers gently rise and fall with his breaths, watched his face for any indication of discomfort or hurt or sorrow—but there was none, only placid ease. Echo would survive, he realized—maybe even better than he would. After all, who was to say that within a few months he wouldn’t be forgotten? He wouldn’t put it past him.
His heart protested, so he allowed himself to gingerly run a hand over Echo’s face, brushing the short hair back. A deep breath; a heavy sigh. It was the last time. With this excuse in mind, this just-good-enough reason, he bent down and pecked each of Echo’s closed eyelids, his hand barely cradling the side of his head. He paused, then finally gave the final kiss, the final goodbye, and pressed his lips to Echo’s as softly and sweetly as though it were the first time. Then, he broke away.
That was it. No tears, no gently whispered affections, no well wishes. There was nothing. And surely he had everything again. For a brief moment, it stirred within his core like a newly fledged bird, swelling and rising and filling him with lightness and exhaustion. It was finally over. Freedom had never tasted so close and so beautiful; and yet, as the feeling ebbed and receded inside him—freedom had never tasted so ashen and so uncertain.
Pushing all thoughts and regrets aside, he arose quietly from his side of the bed and slipped away.