I walk home absently, biting my lip as I desperately try and fail to fight the rising emptiness in my chest. That excruciating ache, the haunting echo of a darkness that I had barely managed to escape so many years ago. I claw at my chest, groaning at the feel.

I stagger into my flat, moving into my bathroom as I tug off my clothes.

The shower splutters into life, steam rising quickly as the hot water scolds my skin. Anything is better than the ache. The hollowness. But it doesn't help. I lean my head against the cool tiles, my fingers tugging at my hair as an empty sob escapes my lips.

Dry tears prick in my eyes, crawling down my cheeks as I sink to my knees. The hollowness in my chest spreads, reaching into the furthest corners of my body as I cry. My finger nails dig into my flesh, desperate for a different type of pain, anything to distract me from this.

My sobs tail off, and whilst it felt good in the moment, I'm left with a heaviness that is oh so familiar. It makes every breath laboured, my lungs restricted by a vice like grip. The water from my hair drips into my eyes as I retreat into the recesses of my mind, helpless to resist any longer.

From then on, I exist on autopilot. It's like my soul has disassociated to sunny fucking Spain and all thats left behind is an empty, hollow shell and that addictive, awful ache inside my chest.

I stare at the sculpture in front of me vacantly.

I'm only in my blue joggers, the heat from my frustration making it impossible to wear a shirt. It'll be less clean up in the long run anyway.

I've been at it for at least a week now, with sleep evading me with renewed vigour. I had forgotten how exhausting it is to be tired all the time.

My curtains are now constantly closed, feeling a tedious nauseam at how consistently the sun rises and falls.

A knock sounds at my door and I ignore it, my brow crumpling when I hear Amyas call out.

"Ledger? Let me know you're alright, please?" He asks and I sigh, stumbling over to the door.

His face is crumpled with concern, and it doesn't improve when he catches sight of me.

I can tell what he wants to say. That I look like shit. But he doesn't and I'm glad.

Music is blasting through my speakers but I don't care. I don't care about anything but getting this stupid sculpture finished. It's ironic really, the one thing Everett accused me of and here I am, torturing myself over it in entirely new ways.

I wipe my hand down my face, ignoring Amyas' curious gaze over my shoulder.

"You're still working on it?" He asks and I nod hopelessly.

"It's the only thing left." I say vacantly and he nods hesitantly.

A thought occurs to me, like a sharp moment of clarity.

"I have to get it out. You'll take it, right? When it's done?" I ask and his eyes widen.

"What?" He asks and I nod, feeling insane.

"You'll take it away? Sell it, give it away, anything, I don't care." I say desperately and he watches me with a shell shocked expression before nodding slowly. I hate the thought, giving Everett away but I can't live with it any longer.

"Yeah, I can do that." He says and I exhale heavily, leaning against the door frame.

"When will it be done?" He asks sternly, his brows furrowed.

"Is it morning now? Then I guess this evening? Yeah, this evening." I say and he nods.

"I'll send someone round to move it. Keep your door unlocked." He says and I nod gratefully. Even if I'm asleep, which is unlikely, I have nothing worth stealing.

He leaves quickly and I close the door, reluctantly turning back to the sculpture before me.

Regardless of the ache in my chest and the hurt coursing through my veins, my fingers are gentle as ever, caressing the clay like it's his skin. For a moment I can almost imagine that it is him, his soft skin gliding beneath my fingers like it did so many times before.

I shape his fingers with painful delicacy, using the sketches that are taped to the side of my desk as my guide, and when that's done I return to his profile. I stare at it for a moment, hateful resentment of my own talent staring me in the face. I smooth my fingers beneath his cheekbones, closing my eyes as I picture what his face felt like beneath my palms. I frown gently, smoothing down the left side.

A small tear dribbles down my cheek and I pause, my hands shaking as I curiously wipe it from my cheek. My tear ducts had remained stubbornly out of order since the shower incident.

But that one tear seems to be the catalyst however, for they continue to fall down my cheeks until my hands shake too much to work.

I bite my lip, biting so hard I feel my flesh rip beneath my teeth but I don't care because it helps.

The pain soothes me, distracts me long enough from my emotional turmoil to stop shaking.

I move to his hair, detailing every strand with a sick sort of devotion that I don't like or recognise. But that's a lie, because I do recognise it.

Every inch of this sculpture proves how I feel about Everett.

Devotion, admiration, love.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away and continuing my back breaking work without complaint. The aches and pains running through my body are soothing to me now, just like the thrumming throb of my torn lip.

I don't notice the sky darkening, or my music changing, and as I am crouching to sign my work I don't notice the sound of my door opening either.

"Ledger?"

I freeze, my fingers trembling as my eyes flutter closed.

I slowly place my tool on the ground as I exhale heavily. Footsteps approach and my body goes rigid at the gentle touch of finger tips against the skin of my back.

Fuck.

I forgot that my torso is exposed and my jaw clenches as I flinch away from the contact.

I stand up brusquely, turning my back away and in turn facing him.

He looks tired. His features sunken and defeated, heavy bags beneath his red rimmed eyes. But worse than that he looks upset. I glance away, my jaw still locked in place.

He looks unsure, hesitant as we stand at an impasse. Neither of us sure what to say.

Then he tosses down his bag, shrugging out of his coat and peeling off his shirt with it until he's stood, just as bare chested as I am. It's stupid and makes no sense at all, but it makes me feel better.

And I hate that he knew just what to do.

He steps forwards tentatively, looking at the sculpture properly now. The image of him, staring at his replica is odd and makes me uncomfortable. I haven't done him justice, I always knew I wouldn't.

I look at it distastefully.

His sculpture got in the way of everything, it took all that was good in my life from me. Except I know that that's not true either. I did that, not my art. My selfish greed to create, to be inspired, to be discovered and brilliant and in awe of and for what? To end up lonely? It just isn't worth it.

And I had to lose the best thing in my life to realise it.

I sink onto my stool, picking up my cloth as I begin to clean my long fingers.

"You finished it." He states monotonously and I nod, not bothering to look up.

"Yep." I mutter.

"What are you going to do with it?" He asks and I shrug. It's not mine. I open my mouth to express my indecision when I realise that it really wasn't ever mine to begin with.

"You tell me. It's yours." I say, my voice devoid of anything but exhaustion.

His head turns sharply, looking at me in bewilderment.

"What do you mean?" He asks and I meet his eyes, frowning at the ache in my chest.

"He wasn't ever mine." I say, more to myself than to him as my eyes fade out of focus, my mind in an unhappy turmoil. No, he never was mine.

"Destroy it, sell it, do what you want with it." I murmur, turning away as I head to the bathroom.

I clean my fingers brutally, scrubbing at them violently until they're raw and pink before finally drying them off. I spot clay on my abdomen and running across my temple but I don't bother with that for now.

I grab a flannel shirt from the ground on my way out and pull it on self-consciously, very aware of Everett's eyes following me.

He moves towards me, his body blocking mine and I find I don't have the energy anymore. I don't have the energy to fight him and I can't stand to be away from him any longer.

"Everett, please." I whisper, my eyes darting away as I let my despair seep into my voice.

His fingers lift my chin, our eyes meeting as he searches my expression, his features rigid and tense until finally, his grip loosens. His features relax, his eyes almost hopeful.

"Trust me?" He asks, his voice just a whisper and I frown sadly.

"You know that I do." I say, unable to return his smile.

His fingers brush gently along my collar bones as my eyelids fall closed, exhaling heavily as I enjoy his touch, perhaps for the last time.

His hands find my shirt and brush it away, over my shoulders and I let him, allowing the material to fall to the floor. He moves then, brushing against me constantly as he comes to face my back.

His touch dances over the scars that are littered there, ugly scarred flesh ripping from shoulder to hip again and again. His touch makes me feel beautiful and a shiver wracks through my body as his nose runs along my shoulder.

His fingers slowly apply more pressure, massaging the flesh of my back until I'm putty beneath him, all the while laying tiny kisses to anywhere his mouth can reach.

"You finished it." He murmurs, his lips pressing another kiss to my neck as his fingers continue to caress me and I sigh.

"I had to." I utter, resigned to the fact. I know how it looks, especially after everything he accused me of, but it was the only thing left of him. How it would have tormented me if I hadn't've finished it, I dread to think.

"And yet, you still have that haunted look in your eyes." He says, his voice more level now and I turn to face him.

I frown, watching his expression.

"You thought that finishing a sculpture would change that?" I ask incredulously and he hesitates, glancing at it.

"You think that anything can distract me from loving you? You were always the work of art, I always knew that and if you think a piece of fucking clay is going to change the way I feel about you then you're sorely fucking mistaken." I spit, irritation coursing through me.

Haunted? It's a good way to put it because I feel persecuted by the thought of him.

Because at first, it had been infatuation. The sight of him was thrilling to the artist in me, but it would pass. It always did.

But, instead, the fleeting, short lived passion had evolved into something new, something frightening and fierce. He had bared his soul to me and I am dazzled by it.

He stares at me blankly, his jaw slack as his eyes flick between mine.

And then he's kissing me.

He presses against me almost painfully, like a man starved of affection and I am more than happy to oblige him. My fingers rake through his hair, cradling his face as I kiss him just as fiercely.

My teeth pull at his bottom lip and I smile at the almost painful groan that reverberates through his chest.

My own lip is screaming in pain but I don't care, tugging him back to me as I continue to show him my frustration, my lust, my adoration.

He pushes me against my wall, his hands caging me in as his chest heaves. His eyes are so dark they almost look the same colour and they flick between mine.

He leans closer, one of his hands moving to my chest, keeping me pinned in place against the wall.

"You love me?" He whispers, his lips brushing mine as he penetrates me with his stare.

"You know that I do." I hiss, almost angry at how he's playing me. But I know I'm helpless to resist, like a fiddle made just for him, we create the sweetest tune.

His lips turn upward then, into the most heartbreaking grin I've ever seen. I take it in, burning the image onto my brain as I realise yes, this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I lean my head back, my eyes still scanning his face as any trace of anger leaves my body. I can't be angry at him, not when he looks so happy that I could cry. I'd do anything for him, willingly and I glance away from him as I accept the fact.

"I don't like it when you look away from me." He says quietly, his fingers pulling my chin back until our eyes meet again.

"You don't like it when I look at you." I point out and he smiles again.

"I don't mind it." He says slowly, his shoulders shrugging and I raise an eyebrow.

He clears his throat, looking down for a second as he shifts, his face still just an inch from mine.

"I love it, actually." He whispers, glancing back up.

And suddenly, it's like I can breathe again. That awful emptiness that had consumed me is gone and it feels so fucking good.

"I love the way you look at me. I love the way it makes me feel alive, like an electric current is coursing through my body." He admits and I smirk.

"I love your passion, even though I don't understand it." He adds, his hands coming away from the wall to run through my hair.

"I love how you pull off corduroy." He mutters, shaking his head as though it's ridiculous.

"You pull it off me so much better." I state and he laughs; a full, rich laugh.

"I love it when you flirt with me," His eyes glittering as his smile grows,

"I hope you'll always do it." He says quietly, vulnerability seeping into his voice and I sigh.

"I think I can manage that." I say airily.

"I love how beautiful you are," He says, leaning his forehead against mine.

I want to contest this but I get the feeling he isn't done.

"I love everything about you. I want you, all of you. I want your good days, bad days, talents and vices. All of it. I love you." He says, almost to himself as his eyes shyly meet mine.

I kiss him softly, our lips moulding together for the first time with no ulterior motive. There's no passion here, no fire, no time limit. What I had previously thought would never be enough is somehow sweeter, and more, than I ever could have imagined.

I keep his head close to me as I pull away, my lips brushing his.

"You love me?" I ask and he chuckles, pressing a kiss against my lips as he rolls his eyes.

"You know that I do." He says and I grin, kissing him again as I melt in his arms.

I pull him to my bed and together, we show each other just what it means to be loved.