And they will try to stay away from each other (and fail every time) because what they have is dangerous, shaky. One wrong word and everything will collapse. They are time bombs, ticking closer to each other until they explode and make the world fall into place.
a Nate Ruess fanfiction.
Warning: self-harm


4. Ever Enough

 No, I'm never gonna leave you darling

  No, I'm never gonna go regardless 

Everything inside of me is living in your heartbeat 

Even when all the lights are fading 

Even then if your hope was shaking  

I'm here holding on    


"Why don't they fight anymore?"  

Andrew shrugs.

Sandra and Nate are out for breakfast, having left a note on the table. 

"Don't know." 

"It's weird," Jack says slowly. "I can almost pinpoint the day it happened."

Andrew swallows his Lucky Charms. 


"It's like they.. came to an understanding." 

"Yep," Andrew pauses. "Do you ever think that there's something... different about them?" 

Jack nods. "Yeah. Like, when they used to fight all the time."  

"They were always smiling," Andrew agrees. "Like they enjoyed it."  

"Maybe they did."  And for some reason this unsettles them both.

They don't talk for the rest of breakfast. 


Sandra giggles as Nate feeds her a bite of chocolate chip waffle.

  "Yum," she murmurs, looking up and meeting his gaze.

Nate doesn't look away (he isn't scared) and smiles slowly. He reaches across the table and takes her hand, making his sleeve ride to reveal the mark, still not fully healed.  Sandra stares at it, the light leaving her eyes.  

"Why did you do it?"

He falters, looks down.  "I don't know."

 "There had to be a reason."

 "I don't know."  

"You can tell me."  He looks up (his eyes are navy).

"I don't fucking know, okay!?" 

She recoils, dropping his hand.

"Oh. Okay." 

He sighs, rests his head in his hand.  "Fuck. I'm sorry, Sandy. I just..." 

She gets up and sits next to him in the booth. 

"It's fine. I understand." 

It's strange, he supposes, that they've had sex and yet this is the closest they have ever been.  

"Everyone says that. They say they understand, but they don't. No one does."  

She's quiet. 

"Okay. But I will always be here if you need me, okay?"

  He leans his head atop hers.  "Okay." 



"I think I'm falling in love with you." 

He shifts, kisses her hair. "I love you, too."

 And nothing has ever felt so right.


 Sandra is sleeping next to him. 

That is the only thing that anchors him to where he is now.

Her. His Sandra. His hands are clammy, breathing shallow, heart beat too fast. He's slowly suffocating, his thoughts are detached, part of something else that isn't here and he can't breath- 


The only sound is his panicked pants.

  "Sweetheart," Sandra soothes, hugging his head to her chest.  Slowly, his thoughts be organized again and rationality returns. 

They fall asleep, arms wrapped around each other, cheeks pressed against each other. 

They fall asleep together.


Nate is worried. He doesn't show it, because even if he isn't as afraid (as he used to be) he still refuses to let every emotion cross his face. 

This fight is big, too big. Words are too violent, said with too much truth behind them. Reality is gone, carried away by the wind, and the things yelled at each other from across the room has the same hazy substance of dreams, too terrible and unreal to  be real. 

It's only when she's gone, out the door with the parting words of 'we're over' does it all register.  She's gone. Away from him. The one thing that secures him to the world has walked away from him. 

He sits down on the sofa, eyes blinking rapidly, breath coming faster and faster and shallower and shallower and his thoughts are everywhere, he can't breath. Disorganized, broken, unfixable. Hands shaking, tears burning his eyes and nose, he can't breath. 

With stiff, awkward movements he's in the kitchen, holding the razor she liked to use to cut tortillas.  It's clean and sharp and he presses it onto his forearm, watching, waiting as the it breaks the skin and blood leaks out.  His thoughts return, he can breath now.

He sighs (happily, almost) and washes the blade, sticks it in his pocket. 

He'll need it again.

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