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Summary
“I’m dead weight.”
Eddie’s voice is so tiny, it almost undercuts his resolve. Almost.
But it’s a fucking fact, so his useless resolve doesn’t really matter either way, which is kind of a comfort.
Until Eddie blinks, and between lashes fluttering: Steve’s in his face. Leaning over him, caging him in not with his arms so much as the heat of him, the weight of his presence more than any part of them touching.
And those fucking eyes; stars could be born inside them.
Eddie just wishes he deserved a future where he’d get to watch a whole new one burst into life, where he’d deserve that kind of privilege—
But he wasn’t exaggerating. He is dead fucking weig—
“I know what it feels like when you’re the closest you’re ever gonna fucking get to dead weight,” Steve somehow bites out so sharp while sounding so level, just stating facts like his eyes aren’t on fucking fire:
“This is nothing like that.”
—
Or: Eddie can’t quite understand how Steve can love him, when he can’t see how he brings anything to the table—but you know what they say:
One man’s flaws just might fill another’s empty spaces fucking perfectly.