the night starts here.

He feels like a fucking idiot. A lifetime of experience with that — with being an idiot and doing dumb shit, with saying stupid things and having terrible timing — should make it easier. But the fact that he is used to fucking up doesn't make it any less devastating when he does. And this time, he worries that he really has.

Luke didn't even realize it until it was too late, until he heard his own voice, the word already slipped from his lips. He doesn't know when it happened, that he began to think of Eden as his girlfriend. It isn't a word that he's ever used for her before, even in his own thoughts. He's always been content to leave what they have undefined. And since she never pushed for more, he's assumed the same to be true for her.

He must have been right. The evidence is in her non-response, her quick exit, her radio silence throughout the day. If she wanted to be his girlfriend, she would have said something. And maybe it's for the best that she didn't. He doesn't know the first thing about being in a relationship. She probably realizes that.

Fuck.

The worst thing is, it's too late. He already has the suit, the flowers, the dinner reservation. As much as he wishes that he could, he won't call it off now, won't be the asshole who stands her up on her birthday. He styles his hair and sprays on cologne, and rides over in a taxi because it's been raining. In the elevator, he wipes a smudge of dirt off of his shiny black shoes. Finally, he knocks at her door, takes a step back and holds the bouquet before him.

this is a place where I feel at home.

He spends a long time agonizing over this, the anxiety building as the weeks pass and the date nears. He wants to get it right. He needs to get it right.

There is no making up for everything that he missed, for all of the birthdays he wasn't there for. Luke knows that. Short of crossing the universe and going back in time, there is nothing he can do to rectify past mistakes. He can only look ahead, make sure that all of his fuck ups are all in the past. And that's exactly what he's trying to do.

In the morning, when he first hears Jason stumbling around in his bedroom, presumably charting a sleepy trail for the bathroom, Luke has already been awake for a couple of hours. He is sitting at the dining table that he bought shortly after Jason moved in. He thought that having a place to eat together would make them feel more like a normal family. Tied around the back of the chair Jason favors are a few shiny balloons offering best wishes. The table is set around two plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon from a nearby diner. Jason's gifts — professional wrapped in a store, of course — are stacked at the center. In one box, a state-of-the-art two-coil tattoo machine. In another, a set of needles. The third box contains several vials of black ink, and the in the fourth is a power supply, the clip and power cords, and a foot pedal.

When he hears the door from Jason's room open, he stands up. There's a slight, hopeful smile across his face. He can't help that anymore than he can help how fucking nervous he feels. "Morning," he says. Then, after clearing his throat, he adds, "Happy birthday."