It’s 2am…
Cw: abuse discussion/injuries
It’s 2am.
Eddie stares at the ceiling, tendrils of smoke drift lazily in the air, watches as they weave, twirl, dance then dissipate. He grimaces a little, even he’s unimpressed by his own need for nicotine at such an ungodly hour, “fuckin addict,” he mumbles softly to himself as he takes another drag.
He does need it tonight though, he reminds himself, needs to steady the constant jitter, the constant itch that lives just below his skin, he wants to feel grounded, calm, steady, for this.
Another inhale, then more smoke streams out on a sigh. He looks to his left, to the golden boy bathed in silver light, stretched out, eyes closed, lips lightly parted.
He looks like a god, Eddie thinks.
And Eddie could write, he could write anything in this moment, poetry, lyrics, love letters for his golden boy bathed in silver light. But he’s not going to, not tonight, tonight they need to talk.
Because that silver light catches not only his beauty but also his pain. Catches the inky bruises that spatter his chest, that seep into each other, that meld into an indeterminable array of purples, greens and blues. Catches the barely there threads of webbing scars that twine intricate patterns into his skin. And Eddie sees them, he sees them with a lump in his throat, a stone he can’t swallow no matter how hard he tries.
And Billy won’t speak, won’t speak of important, serious matters in the hours of the day, but in the night…in these hours sometimes he’ll sigh and say something so raw, so tender, so sweet, that Eddie finds he can’t quite breathe.
These hours, there’s something about them, something about the soft, secret hours of an early morning, when the air is still and the sky is black. Something that cracks them open, that lets the hard things out.
Eddie stares a little longer before he starts to speak, “who was it?” he says it gently. It’s a simple question, one that has no weight if your asking something mundane like, who ate the last biscuit? who dropped the milk? But it’s one that feels like lead when you ask it of a boy who lies next to you littered with wounds.
Billy keeps his eyes closed, “who was what?” he murmurs back, his voice husky with sleep.
Eddie sighs, takes another drag, looks down eyes brimming with sadness as he whispers back, “you know what, darling.”
They sit in the silence of the night for a beat, Billy takes his own deep breath, opens his eyes. Watery blues meet warm brown, they sit suspended for a moment. And Eddie can almost hear Billy say, god Eds please don’t ask.
Eddie licks his lip, stubs out his cigarette on the bedside table and oh so slowly reaches out a hand, gives Billy time to stop him, he doesn’t.
When a light finger touches, the tiny circle of a scar seared just above Billy’s heart a small whimper is followed by one word, “cigarette,” his own heart contracts painfully in his chest. He moves on traces the edge of a thicker line that curves from his back, a shaky inhale followed by “belt,” and god Eddie wants to kill someone, he breathes out slowly traces a thin short scar that runs across his bicep, Billy presses his eyes shut, a tear tracks down his cheek, melts into his pillow “glass,” he whispers, a little cracked.
They continue, on and on, Eddie’s touches silent questions, Billy's words, heart wrenching answers. They keep on until Eddie can’t bear it, until Billy can’t bear it, until Billy’s pillow is salt soaked with their combined tears.
The questions stop, and Eddie goes back, places a gentle kiss on Billy’s lips, then on the burn, then the on the belt, then on the glass, Eddie grits his teeth. He continues, he kisses, he kisses and he kisses and Billy threads a gentle hand into Eddie’s hair and smooths his thumb softly over sensitive hidden skin.
Eddie keeps kissing, presses his love over scars, into bruises, focuses on the love he feels for his broken boy bathed in silver light, pushes the anger away for now.
A little later, he feels Billy tense, sees him work the muscles of his throat, as he pushes out an answer “Neil,” he says it staring at the ceiling, he says it with a crack in his voice, with tears on his cheeks and his hand in Eddie’s hair.
Eddie can see him teetering on that edge, gets ready to catch him when he falls. It doesn’t take long, it’s Eddie’s response, a gentle cracked “oh sweetheart,” that sends him crumbling into sobbing, gasping breaths. But it’s ok because when Billy breaks, Eddie’s right there with him.
Mungrove - hard conversations at 2am inspired by @giurochedadomani’s post about them and sleep x
