“Did he know then that you loved him?” and there’s a whimper in the background, broken, and something tells Eduardo that this isn’t a game, isn’t a prank, isn’t a mistake or a coincidence — this is real, whatever it is, and it contorts, crosses vessels and veins in him and makes everything light, everything painful and distant, fuzzy at the edges but too fucking clear in the middle, at the heart of it, where it all comes together, where the focus burns true; something tells him that it’s not just a weary longing that never really died that makes that sound, that harsh little moan in the periphery into something sacred, familiar — something like heartbreak against his ear.
The car hits a hard bump in the road; he barely feels the impact. “Does he know now?”
Even more than before, those words strike a chord, regardless of the context, regardless of what’s happening and who it’s happening to, regardless of the insane images, the half-connected thoughts that are racing through Eduardo’s head; and with hands shaking, heart pounding to the point of hysteria, to the point of lethality, to the point where he doesn’t even think about breathing — he tries not to panic, tries not to jump to the conclusions that he’s already steeped in, already paid heed.
Shivering, frantic: Eduardo tries to steady his resolve, tries to listen, and make sense of something, anything — all of it, or just a piece. He tries.
He nearly drops the goddamned phone when he hears the voice that comes out next. (x)