Archive of Our Own ^beta

The moment he told Liz he had to leave, you were already on your feet, following after him. But as you walked through the crowd, time seemed to slow down. The sound of your wedge heels knocking against the linoleum echoed through your ears, and you took a deep breath. You didn't have another chance where you'd gain this much confidence to approach him again.

He looked so nice in that crisp tuxedo you almost didn't want to do it. You didn't want to ruin his night, much like he had with Liz's.

But as you watched him push open the doors and run to the lockers where he lifted it up, you finally spoke. Heart pounding, you could feel the adrenaline rushing through your veins.

"I had a therapist tell me once,"

He stopped, lowering the locker when he heard your voice. As he turned to face you, he looked nervous, as if he was scared about being exposed.

But you didn't care about that. "It was ironic how much love I gave out, 'cause I didn't give much to myself."

He took a step towards you. "(Y/N), I-"

You held a hand up, and he didn't speak. "She laughed like self love was a sick joke. I chuckled, and cried at home. I had someone tell me once I could not love anyone else until I learned to love myself. This time I got to laugh. This time the sick joke was mine. It was me. I might as well hate myself forever."

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, but he didn't make any move to respond. He knew you weren't done.

"I remember hating myself at the age of seven; journals filled to the brim with criticism by eight, I had enough pages to stitch them into wings to fly close enough to the sun to see my tears turn to steam, felt the wax burn on my shoulders and mold into thick skin."

He took a few steps forward, not knowing if you'd let him get any closer. You could feel the tears begin to stream down your face, black against the skin of your cheeks, mixed with the mascara that you had carefully put on a few hours earlier.

"I was nine when I wanted to die, thirteen when I found a solution, figured if I could cut my legs enough, gravity would let me go." You swallowed the lump in your throat. "When it didn't, I tied a pillowcase around my neck, twisting like the rope swings I knew so well from childhood. Hear my heartbeat pound in my ears like a warning drum, then fade. I'd almost convinced myself I'd done it."

At your confession he was walking quicker, lips pressed into a flat line. His stomach was churning with distraught at what you were saying. Why didn't you tell him this before?

"When I started writing, I smeared my blood on every page to remind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence. I'd hoped to stall the clouding long enough-to give myself to the craft and let myself go."

He was in front of you now, his hands on either side of your face. Your head was tilted down, fists clenched at your sides. You felt his thumb wipe away some of the tears that were building at the bottom of your throat.

"I have died so many times." Your voice cracked, and you choked back a sob. "So when I told you that loving you almost makes life worth it, I was not joking." You looked up at him, bottom lip quivering when you noticed that he was crying, too.

Why was he crying, when he didn't give a damn about you? It was always Liz, not you.

"When I tell you that loving you almost makes me forget how much I hate myself," Your hands subconsciously gripped his blazer, knuckles whitening from the tension. "It is not poetry." You gasped and pushed him away harshly.

"Loving you is taking all the love I could never give myself and putting it to good use. It is reminding myself that if someone can love a dying thing this way can hold the lazarus of my body and give thanks for the way it holds back." You gasped again, trying to push him away once more as he wrapped his arms around you.

"If someone can kiss the scars, administer the pills, absorb the bad days and wake up smiling next to me then I can try to breathe again." Your breath stuttered, arms tucked against your chest. "Because self love does not always come first, or second, or even ever. Let your love be the guard rail on the ledge, be the drawers that hide all the sharp things, be the body that carries my collapsed frame into bed, be the flowers you bought, because even though they are dying too, they still dance."

His hand tilted your face up to his, and you saw him grit his teeth, rolling his jaw as he tried to distract himself from crying.

"Love will not heal me." You muttered to him. "It will not wipe my slate of a body clean, I will always be a woman of wounds; a rope-marked neck, and melted skin."

You dropped your head into his chest, listening to his heart beat. "Love will not heal me, but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself, and maybe teach me a joke that I can stay alive long enough to laugh at."

You looked up again, making no move to wipe the mascara-stained tears from your eyes or the ones that were running down your cheeks. "I love you: enough to want to love myself too."

His lips felt like fire against your own.