Blabla: it's actually the first time I'm trying to write them- I hope it's not too bad, and that you will somehow enjoy it.
About the disclaimer, H50 and its characters don't belong to me; I'm just borrowing them.
The title comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda, A song of despair.
"Can't sleep?," Steve murmurs as he makes his way into the room, quietly walking on the tip of his feet so as to make as little noise as possible. Danny shifts under the blanket, eyes wide open, staring intensely at the ceiling, and his heart aches for he is longing to be home, at this precise moment. He shots a quick glance at Steve before getting back to his watching.
"I miss Jersey, sometimes," he replies under his breath, and there is a lump in a throat, somehow, and he doesn't understand why—he is tougher than this, than these emotions, he knows it, but they still show up and fuck him up, and he gives up; he can't really fight back against the grayness of his thoughts, he thinks bitterly, and gladly allows Steve some room in the bed, as he feels two strong arms wrapping around his waist, and a familiar weight against his shoulder; Steve's head rests there and he silently joins Danny in his staring at the ceiling, and Danny cannot express how grateful he is for Steve doesn't judge him, doesn't try to talk him into thinking that being homesick is wrong, and just listens, keeps up with that feeling of sickness until it eventually fades, and there is nothing more soothing than this, than this sensation of being loved and taken for who he is, with all the flaws and all the qualities, all that makes him human and good and bad, and real.