❀ ⇢ requested: yes | no
❀ ⇢ genre: angst | gender neutral reader
❀ ⇢ word count: 1.4k
❀ ⇢ a/n: this was written at like four a.m and not at all proofread. read at your own risk
a relationship is give and take, back and forth, like the ebbing of an ocean. but with tension and a growing wall between the two of you, you find out just how impossible it is to give help to someone who refuses to take it.
Muting the tv, you tried to avoid looking at the final score again. Not that it was much use anyway, the numbers already burned behind your eyes, bringing forth a familiar bottomless pit of dread.
9-0. Nine nothing.
Swallowing harshly, you attempted once more to get comfortable on the sofa with your laptop. It would take a while still for Carter to get home and you were determined to try and finish up at least one of your assignments before that. He had already given you enough shit for not being able to go to the game tonight in the first place, not wanting to accept that it wasn’t your fault your professors were piling work onto you.
Things had become...tense between the two of you lately, for lack of a better word. It wasn't like you could fault him that much, you knew how much he’s been dealing with. The team slumping, fans on twitter shitting on them at every turn, him being scratched and pulled nearly every game—and if that wasn’t happening, then he was letting in far too many goals and blaming himself for all of them. You knew it was a lot to handle and you were quick to forgive him, but you just didn’t know how much more you could take.
What used to be a strong relationship was now strained. You used to barely be able to wait to see him after games and now the only thing you felt was anxiety. You tried so hard to be supportive, but god, all you wanted was for things to go back to the way they were.
Time passed as you lost yourself back into your work, trying desperately to keep your mind off of everything else. You managed to finish up a few of the smaller assignments before you heard the front door swing open and Carter let himself in. Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath and closed your laptop, turning to face him.
He looked about as good as you were expecting. Which is to say, like shit.
Hair disheveled and sticking up at odd angles, you just knew he had been running his hands through and pulling at the strands. Hell, his posture practically radiated tension. You let your eyes wander up to his face and drank in his tightened features. From the furrowed brows and creased forehead down to the clenched jaw that you could see from where you sat.
Sighing, you moved to stand. “Cart—”
“Don’t,” he cut you off, dropping his stuff by the door and making his way to the kitchen.
Plopping back down, you let your head fall down into your hands, running your fingers through your hair. Part of you wanted to just stay where you were, but the other part was yelling at you to go comfort him, to hold him and talk him through everything the way you used to.
Except things had changed, and you still weren’t quite sure when.
Regardless, you couldn’t bring yourself to go against old habits and you found yourself rising to your feet. Slowly, you made your way to the kitchen.
Coming up behind him and leaning against one of the counters, you crossed your arms and studied him. He noticed your presence despite his back facing you, one of the remnants of your relationship left unchanged. He let out a ragged breath and turned partially to you, raising an eyebrow.
“You know this game wasn’t your fault,” you told him softly.
He scoffed, turning back to his original position. “Yea, that’s what you say after every game we lose.”
Tilting your head, you made a face, “And I’m usually right.”
There was a beat of silence, one in which you could practically feel him rolling his eyes. You waited somewhat patiently for him to respond and found yourself rewarded soon enough.
“I could’ve been better. I should’ve been better.”
Shaking your head, you reached out to lightly tug on his arm. He let you pull him to face you, avoiding your eyes.
“The entire team should’ve been better,” you responded, trying to catch his gaze, “you came into the game when it was already what? 5-0? There wasn’t exactly much you could do at that point.”
His hand found its way into his hair and tugged roughly at the roots. You watched his face contort as he gathered his thoughts, looking so achingly frustrated that your heart clenched.
“But that’s the point, I should’ve come in and gave them a chance to come back and I didn’t. I couldn’t do my fucking job and that’s on me, not them.”
Frowning, you internally cursed his habit of blaming himself for everything that could go wrong. No matter how much you’ve tried to get him to stop doing it, he never got over it.
“Carter,” you tried to reason with him, “the score was 9-0—”
“Yea, thanks. I kinda already knew that,” he grinned sarcastically, the smile holding no humor.
Gritting your teeth, you continued what you were trying to say. “You let in the goals, but the team in front of you couldn’t get a single one in the other net. It wouldn’t have mattered if you stopped every damn shot when you were put in because the game still would’ve probably ended up 5-0.”
He shrugged off your hand from its place on his arm and walked away. “That’s not the point.”
“Why do you have to always martyr yourself?” You called after him, resisting the urge to yank at your own hair.
Barely sparing you a glance, he shook his head. When it became clear to you that he wasn’t even going to bother answering you, you couldn’t fight back down the words that had been bubbling up inside of you for weeks.
“Why can’t you just let me help you?” you nearly begged him, chest tightening to the point of pain.
Why can’t you just let me help you? Because that’s exactly what it was. This refusal of his to let you in anymore, to comfort him, to help talk him through the things that you used to. It was all pushing you away, building a wall that you couldn’t scale on your own.
And it seemed like that well inside of him flooded over, too, because faster than you could process, he spun around to face you and with a wave of his hands, yelled back, “Because I don’t want your help.”
Rearing back as if he had slapped you, you could feel something inside that was already cracked split wide open.
Ignoring the way your face had crumbled, he steamrolled on. “You always try to ‘help me’,” he mimed air quotes in the middle of his wild gesturing, “but it’s not helping. I don’t want it. Why can’t you just fucking get that already?”
Trying desperately to hold back the tears you could feel building, you gave him a bitter smile. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”
Silence greeted the tension already suffocating the room like an old friend, blanketing over the two of you with far more weight than you could ever hope to carry. Screwing your eyes shut, you focused on your pounding heartbeat and not the ragged breathing from across the room.
The sound of footsteps heading towards the front door had your eyes reopening, gaze slightly blurry but still clear enough to see the man you loved, trusted, leaving the home you shared.
“Where are you going?” you could barely find the energy to ask him, all the fight leaving your body in a single breath.
It didn’t escape your notice that he didn’t look back at you, never strayed from his course as he picked up the bag he had only just recently put down back up. “One of the guys’ house,” he told you, voice soft and head down as he opened the door. “I’ll let you know whose when I get there.”
And with that, he was gone.
Finally caving in on yourself, you let yourself slide down to the floor. Already, you could feel the tears you had been able to hold back in front of him leaving wet tracks down your cheeks. Breath was harder to come by than it had been, but it gave you something to focus on.
In, out. In, out. Curling your arms around your knees, you let everything go.
You should’ve known that it didn’t matter how much you gave and gave because in the end, he was never going to take.
