Ford was breathing so steadily and Cash could still barely get past this hitch in his chest; he couldn't remember the last time he'd admitted to what happened to him. (The thing with Antigone did not count — what he told her was so distant from the actual truth that he couldn't manage it.) Other than Angie, had he actually told anyone? He thought about it all the time. He was going to be broken forever because of it, and he couldn't tell anyone, because Eli was dead and because Cash had loved him. And he'd confessed because he had to and there was still this; the steady heave of Greengrass' chest in and out, and his chin on Cash's shoulder, and the weight of his arms over Cash's shoulders.
Cash's breathing started to regulate, although it was still shallow; he was worried that if he inhaled too deeply it would dislodge whatever was waiting in his chest and waiting to be set off. He didn't want to feel it; it was bubbling up anyways. I died for you and you don't even remember, and the Eli he'd seen in his own mind had been right, except that Cash remembered loving him. Belphoebe could take the rest of it but she couldn't take that, and maybe he would have been better off if she had. He kept his fingers tangled in Ford's coat.
He tilted his head towards Ford; the curls at the top of the other man's head were pressing against the side of Cash's face. "You shut that thing in a wardrobe," Cash said, soft and a little wry; he might be trying to deflect again, and he knew it, but he was not putting an abundance of thought into the deflection. "You can make me talk about whatever you want."
Cash's breathing started to regulate, although it was still shallow; he was worried that if he inhaled too deeply it would dislodge whatever was waiting in his chest and waiting to be set off. He didn't want to feel it; it was bubbling up anyways. I died for you and you don't even remember, and the Eli he'd seen in his own mind had been right, except that Cash remembered loving him. Belphoebe could take the rest of it but she couldn't take that, and maybe he would have been better off if she had. He kept his fingers tangled in Ford's coat.
He tilted his head towards Ford; the curls at the top of the other man's head were pressing against the side of Cash's face. "You shut that thing in a wardrobe," Cash said, soft and a little wry; he might be trying to deflect again, and he knew it, but he was not putting an abundance of thought into the deflection. "You can make me talk about whatever you want."
MJ made this!