Work Text:
Thirty-nine minutes past midnight and Lance has resorted to tricks again. An accidental press just so Fernando can think about calling – so he knows it's still an option.
Why won't he call?
am busy, lance
He doesn't even mention it. Won’t text like he used to.
Fingers dragging with a certain heaviness he has grown used to, a misery he had hoped to never bear, Lance types out,
all good
was an accident
good night
He types a new message, hesitates, thumb hovering over the send button. He briefly wonders what Fernando would reply – if he even would. It doesn’t matter. The words will never feel as good as they used to.
Lance bites his lip, ignores the ache that blooms within his chest and bleeds into the rest of his body.
The i love you goes unsent.