Chapter Text
The heat was bearing down on Joel, warmth prickling on his neck where the skin was exposed. His eyes squinted as he looked at the ground, listening to the way their boots crunch on the sand.
Joel and Jimmy had met up at the office, taking a moment to chat with Grian, before Joel had taken Jimmy to his car and drove to the border, where their route started.
Now they were walking along the path, supposed to keep an eye out for anything or anyone out of place, make sure the walls were all secure, dispose of and report any infected animals—dead or alive.
The LIFE organization, a group of survivors in their city working to keep said city safe, in turn for their work, provided them with extra supplies. Sometimes, there would be a different job assigned to their group—Jimmy, Grian, and him—but most days it was patrolling the walls, as they were now.
He sometimes questioned just how useful any of it really was, but it gave him something to do, at the very least, and he was content with that. He thinks he probably would have gone insane, by now, without it.
On the horizon, not far away but not quite close, was a forest, smoke curling above in the warm orange-yellow sky, almost mesmerizing.
It was possible the forest had caught flame from a lightning strike, considering it had been storming quite frequently.
He holds the button on his radio to talk.
“Grian?”
Static for a second. “Something up?”
Ahead of him, Jimmy stops, turning to look where Joel had paused. “Yeah, it looks like there’s a forest fire out there.”
“I’ll report it to the others.”
Joel pockets the radio again, continuing on. Jimmy falls into step beside him.
One foot in front of the other. The sand makes a grating sound under his shoe.
“You think there’s someone out there?”
Joel blinks, turning his head to Jimmy, who was staring ahead of them. “What?”
“I mean, like, out in the forest. Could’ve lit the fire themselves.”
He squints, studying his friend's face for any trace of a joke. Jimmy looks dead serious, looking out at the barren, dead ground surrounding them. Joel huffs, looking away again.
“Why would someone start a forest fire in a perfectly fine forest?”
In his peripheral vision, he is distantly aware of Jimmy shrugging.
“Could be by mistake,” Jimmy offers.
“They’d have to be some idiot, then.”
They keep walking, a soft wind hitting his cheek, cool air on hot skin. He’s probably going to get a sunburn soon. Sunscreen would have been wise—if they had any.
It’s peaceful, listening to their footsteps, almost the only thing he’s able to hear.
Before, he never would have gotten such a serene silence. There would always be cars driving by, people talking, laughing. Kids running around, chasing one another down the sidewalk, squealing in delight. Construction workers, cranes and bulldozers, trucks, cement being laid down.
Sometimes, the bustling city noise would be overwhelming, all too much to bear.
But other times, he could step outside, and he could close his eyes, and all the sounds would blend into serene white noise.
He didn’t quite miss it.
Was that cruel? Dark, twisted, to almost think that it was better this way?
Everything felt so very still. Perfect, untouched by the corrupting hands of humanity. Quiet, empty.
There was still something missing. A piece, perhaps of him—his other half, as some liked to say. Broken, torn, shredded, gone. This was not perfect, and it could never be perfect. Not ever again, not without her.
One foot in front of the other.
They keep walking, and so Joel keeps listening to their footsteps.
“Hey, you said you wanted to talk.” Jimmy says, out of the blue, like he had just remembered. Joel wouldn’t expect any different.
“Yeah.”
“Go on, then.”
Joel bites the inside of his cheek, unsure. How would he say this? He pauses walking, and Jimmy stops along with him, patient.
“Do you ever remember me talking about Etho?”
Jimmy tilts his head, a thoughtful expression. “Yeah. He was your roommate in college, right?”
Joel nods.
“So, he’s, um—he’s the guy we found on the road.”
Jimmy blinks, looking at Joel like he was studying him. Joel looks away.
“That’s…” Jimmy purses his lips, “that’s pretty crazy.”
It was, Joel thought, pretty crazy.
“Are you… happy, to see him again?”
The question took a moment to sink in. He realized he wasn’t sure.
He didn’t think he felt happy. He was… pleased, to know that he wasn’t dead, at least, but he wouldn’t say happy. Not to see Etho.
Jimmy seems to take his momentary silence as an answer, continuing. “You used to speak of him fondly, I think.”
“I haven’t seen him since before the apocalypse—since before I got married, Jimmy. It’s just—I don’t know, it’s… weird.”
Jimmy hums in acknowledgement as they resume walking side-by-side. “Sounds like it.”
One foot in front of the other, crunching the sand beneath their feet, sun glaring down at them, skin prickling. A low whistle of wind, the cloudless sky tinted orange, smoke in the distance. Quiet.
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
Joel considers the question. There is no reason, really. Him and Jimmy had known each other since they were kids—Joel trusted him wholeheartedly, however much he teased him for being clumsy or oblivious. Jimmy was smart; more than he let on, at least, Joel knew. There wasn’t much he kept from the other.
He guesses it hadn’t really felt necessary. Etho had been a big part of his life, and then he hadn’t, and now he was back, and Joel didn’t know what to make of it all.
A lot had changed since they last saw each other. And it wasn’t just the world that had changed—Joel had, too, and he was sure there were parts of Etho that he was a stranger to. He had to adapt to an apocalypse, for goodness’ sake—there was no way around it.
The difference between Jimmy and Etho was that Jimmy had been there for all of it. Jimmy had been there before, and he had stayed there after. They had changed, but they had changed together, each a part of the other’s process.
“I don’t know.” Is what he says after a moment.
One foot in front of the other.
Again, again, again.
Joel’s radio crackles in his pocket. He takes it out as Grian’s voice comes through.
“Hey, you two, the monitors are detecting something moving up ahead. Be on the lookout.”
One foot in front of the other.
Jimmy glances at him. They share a look, an agreement to be quiet, cautious. Joel’s hand rests on the gun secured in its holster on his hip, fingers curling around it, retrieving the pistol.
One foot in front of the other.
They look around.
One foot in front of the other.
Joel does not see anything, for a moment, before his eyes lock onto what looks to be a fawn, head lowered to the ground by the wall, sniffing. Its legs wobble. It looks starved, ribs poking into skin.
On its side, gashes mar the short fur, dried blood clinging to its body. A sickly yellow-green crusted over the wound, infected.
The smell of rotting, of the disease. He grimaces, breathing in through his mouth, though he can still smell it, almost taste it. He feels sick.
Then, there is the muffled sound of a gunshot, and the deer crumples to the ground with a wounded cry. He sees it, dark blood, fresh and soaking into the deer’s fur.
He looks away.
His eyes land on Jimmy, who is slipping his gun back into its holster, face scrunched up in practiced neutrality, determination, focus. He thinks he sees Jimmy’s lips move, mouthing words that Joel can’t quite hear past the static in his head.
Perhaps it was a mercy. If the state of the deer had anything to say, it was more than likely it was in pain. Compared to the disease’s drawn-out, slow process of death, the swift release of a bullet was far kinder. Perhaps it was a mercy, to no longer need to endure the hardships of this world. An escape from the death, rot and ruin, agony and despair.
He breathes in, the smell nesting itself in his throat, a memory, a reminder, a warning, an offer, hand held out for the taking, a smile that had no life behind it. He does his best to ignore it, shutting his eyes for a moment as Jimmy pulls out his walkie-talkie.
“It was a deer. Infected.”
“It’s dealt with?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll mark the location down and send it in. Keep an eye out for any more.”
“Thanks, Grian.”
Joel opens his eyes to see Jimmy put the radio back away, eyes flicking up to meet Joel’s. There is a look of understanding, a small reassuring smile. Jimmy approaches him, taking his hand, leather gloves and skin brushing his fingers. Familiar comfort, warmth on his palms.
They keep walking.
A small sigh pushes itself out of his lips. This was a repeated routine, every step memorized. No matter how many times he smelt it, no matter how many times he saw it, he would never get used to it. It was awful, disgusting, through and through.
However horrible it was, it was their job. And it was not of cruelty, but of survival.
The memory still hung in his mind either way, of a face, so soft and kind, eyes sorrowful and loving, dark bags beneath them. Sunken in cheeks, cold skin, an apologetic smile, faded pink hair disheveled and knotted. Hands cradling faces, his or hers he cannot remember, comforting words spoken softly. Hot tears rolling down, the taste of salt on his tongue, anger and grief and despair bubbling beneath the surface, a boiling pot of water set on the stove. Hands peel him away from her, he fights back, he tries, but he is so, so tired, his throat is sore, his chest aches, his head hurts.
Jimmy is the one to pull him away. A lifeboat in the middle of the ocean, he clings to him, white knuckles grasping at fabric. Jimmy is the one to save him, Jimmy is the one to make sure he eats, Jimmy is the one to make him get up in the morning.
Jimmy is the one who brings him to the city, Jimmy is the one who carves them a new life in a new place with new people and new memories to be made.
Jimmy does everything for him, all the while carrying the same grief that Joel did.
And yet Joel had never expressed any gratitude towards him in return. Back then, he had thought his actions to be cruel; why save him, if he didn’t want to be saved? Why try, when any reason he had to do so had rotted away with her? She was his everything—more than that, so much more than he could have hoped to be, held so much more purpose and individuality than he ever did. She wasn’t meant to just—die in such a way, wither away without reason.
What was she now? Reduced to the past, some old ghost that kept on haunting him no matter how long it had been since the wrenching pain in his heart had eased to a lonely ache? Did she hold no more purpose than that, now, individuality lost to the blurred lines of his memory? A plot point in some sick storyline, one more step closer to their own extinction, one more indistinguishable life lost in a sea of death?
No, is the immediate answer. The idea of it still brings back to life that awful guilt and grief.
Now, the hand in his own squeezes, intertwining fingers. He looks up, brought back to the present. Jimmy is there, like he always has been, looking down at him, just as broken and hurt, but still gentle, caring and concerned.
He looks like he knows what Joel is thinking. He looks like he was thinking the same thing.
They do not speak. Arms wrap around him, Joel’s head hooked over Jimmy’s shoulder, fingers clenching the fabric of his jacket.
It is warm.
It is warm, so very warm, though not uncomfortably so. It is like all the times as children that Jimmy had tripped over his own clumsy feet, scraped his knees, a sobbing, snotty mess. Joel would help him up, pull him into a hug, even though he wasn’t really the hugging type, because it was Jimmy, and Jimmy needed him—needed someone.
Was he now the one that needed Jimmy? The broken, shattered mess that needed the hand to pull him up and glue him back together, band-aids covering the cracks?
He thinks not. Or, he thinks that he is, just that he is not the only one to need someone. He thinks they need each other. He thinks they will always need each other.
There is a lump in his throat and tears that sting his eyes. But he pulls away, hands sliding down Jimmy’s arms until they reach his hands, grabbing on like he is his lifeline. He looks up at him.
“I know when something’s up with you, Joel.”
Somehow, Joel huffs out a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. He lets his head drop onto Jimmy’s collarbone.
“Is it about Etho?”
He shakes his head, though the effect is lessened by the fact he is headbutting Jimmy’s chest.
“I—no, I—” his voice is scratchy, raw, “I don’t know.”
The vibration of Jimmy’s hum thrums against his forehead.
“Did something happen before you separated? Like, a big break up?”
Joel wrinkles his nose. “I—we weren’t together, Jim, that makes it sound like we were together.”
Jimmy laughs, a melodious sound that makes Joel’s chest feel impossibly lighter, tension dissolving with haste. He didn’t hear people’s laughs much anymore—not with how there was no reason to. It tells him that he is not mad, it tells him that they are okay, it gives him normalcy in unusual circumstances.
He pulls back to see the mischievous sparkle in Jimmy’s eyes, wiping at his own with his sleeves.
“You’re avoiding the question, which tells me something did happen.”
“No—nothing happened, Jimmy.”
“You just stopped talking to each other for no reason?”
“Well—I was going to, but—we were busy, and I—” he breaks off, unsure where to go from there. The memories are blurred, a hazy film spread over everything. Days melted together, perhaps too much time spent in the sun. Times before were starting to float out of reach, slipping through his fingers like water. “It just didn’t end up happening.”
“Okay, so then that’s the problem.”
Joel is lost. “What is?”
“Nothing happened, but you wanted it to.” Jimmy says, like it's the easiest thing in the world to do. He sounds confident. Joel doesn’t understand how he does it.
“I—what? No, Jimmy, I didn’t—” he breaks off, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “There’s not a problem to begin with. It’s just weird, like I said.”
Jimmy pushes further, “explain more, then.”
He wants to be frustrated at Jimmy’s prying, but everything in him is tired, giving in easily. The softness to his tone doesn’t help, either, a distraction, Joel thinks, from the cruelty of his pushing.
A byproduct of knowing someone nearly your whole life. Pretenses dropped, guard down, unafraid to push and pull and pry, quick to tease. Unafraid of the consequences, not when you have stuck together for so long already. Nobody is going anywhere, not until they are ripped apart by death itself.
Jimmy just wants to understand. He supposes he owes him that, at the very least, after everything.
He inhales deeply, a sigh in surrender. “It’s… It both feels like nothing’s changed, like I still know him, and like he’s an utter stranger to me. I don’t really—I don’t know how to act around him, what to say.
“And for all I know, he could be an entirely different person to who I used to know. I don’t know what’s happened in the last ten years of his life, and he doesn’t know what’s happened in mine.”
Jimmy is uncharacteristically quiet, simply listening. It feels uncomfortable, as it always does when Grian or Jimmy push Joel into talking about his feelings—however hypocritical it might make them, leaving him to squirm. He looks away.
“And I guess I’m just,” he swallows, throat dry, “scared, that it—”
His voice gives out, and he finds it hard to breathe past the lump in his throat. His eyes burn.
“I can’t lose anyone else, Jimmy,” he whispers. He doesn’t think he could get his voice to go any louder.
When he looks back up, Jimmy’s expression has morphed into something mournful, features draped in sorrow and grief. He looks at Joel like he is scared that he might break, though what he does not know is that he is the only thing keeping him together.
A hand reaches out, calloused, rough fingers resting on his cheek. He blinks back tears.
The way Jimmy treated him, like he was fragile, with so much care. Touching him with a gentleness that Joel had always been anything but, that he thinks he doesn’t deserve, that he hasn’t had since—
Well, since her.
Jimmy bumps his forehead against Joel’s, and it’s awkward, it’s awkward because Jimmy is quite a bit taller than Joel, and he has to lean down to get it to work. But the effect is not impaired.
He breathes in, out, lungs expanding and contracting, and it feels refreshing.
“It’s not gonna happen again. I promise you.”
“You can’t promise that.” His voice comes out raw and scratchy.
Jimmy pauses for a moment, pulling back and regarding him with something akin to melancholy in his eyes.
“No, I suppose I can’t,” the fingers on the side of his face press lightly into his skin, sliding along his cheekbone. “I’m so sorry, Joel.”
Joel squints at him. “It’s not your fault I—”
“No, no—I just…” he trails off, sounding just as lost as Joel felt, “I guess I can’t fix everything, can I?” The small smile on his face looks rueful, a weak chuckle. “I’m really trying, Joel. I’m just sorry this all happened in the first place.”
Jimmy’s hands fall back to his sides, stepping away from Joel, who simply stares at him, unsure of what to say to that.
“I can—I can ask if anyone at the office is willing to take Etho in, if you’re not comfortable with it—I should have asked, I just—”
“It was a stressful night, you don’t have to be sorry.” Joel interrupts him, narrowing his eyes into what he hopes to be a firm look. “I’ll deal with him. It’s fine.”
The truth was that he couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving him again. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was already leaning over the edge of caring, after only a day of having him back. Caring for another person, even after knowing how it all ends. How it always ends.
“Alright,” Jimmy says, reluctant, like he thinks Joel is keeping something from him. If he is, then he himself would be oblivious to it.
Joel attempts to start walking again, but Jimmy’s hand catches his wrist, and he stops, looking back. Jimmy’s face is scrunched up in thought.
“You know me and Grian are always willing to listen if you need to talk,” Jimmy’s hand slides into his own, intertwining their fingers. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, just—” Jimmy breaks off, taking a deep breath, “remember that.”
He gives Joel’s hand a squeeze before retreating again. They resume walking.
It sounded like a plea.
He asks for the one thing Joel cannot give, brick walls built up to shield the ache in his chest, wounded, a deterrent, please don’t make it worse. There was no door, there was no gate, no place to let them in.
His heart longs to let them in. It longs to reach out with its clawed hands that were only ever meant to break, stained bloody. It longs to reach out and hold them close, never let go.
If he tries hard enough, those clawed hands would break the wall down, just as they were made to do.
But, after, will the only thing left be rubble? Shield removed, heart left vulnerable, will it only serve as a distraction, to put his guard down, only for long enough until death’s cold hands snuff out the flame and leave him bloodied in the dirt? In the end, will it be worth it?
His empty palm prickles, the air cold against his skin where it had previously been warm. His eyes are glued to the ground, lost in thought, completely defeating the purpose of being there at all.
He watches as his own feet scuff against the earth, tiny grains of sand and rock kicked away by his boots.
Uninterested, he instead focuses his eyes on the figure of Jimmy in front of him, lit by the sun, which still hung high in the sky—it was somewhere around midday, he’d guess, perhaps just past. No clouds obstruct the heat which bore down on them, the heat which made him want to peel off his own skin.
All is quiet but their footsteps. The sound is grating against his ears, louder than he thinks it should be. Unease settles, sinking deep in his stomach like a weight, his heartbeat quickening with panic. He does not want to keep moving, each step creating more noise, scraping his eardrums. His chest tightens, and he grits his teeth.
Speeding up his stride for a moment, he taps a finger on Jimmy’s shoulder, feeling like he’s barely getting any air into his lungs. Noise, he mouths when Jimmy turns, a question in the quirk of his brow that is immediately smoothed over into a look of understanding.
Joel watches as Jimmy’s hand slides into his pocket and retrieves his walkie-talkie.
“Grian,”
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering…”
The relief is slow, but soon the sound of Jimmy and Grian’s banter drowns out their footsteps, Joel focusing on only the timbre of their voices rather than the strident crunch of the sand. The panic retreats. He can breathe again.
They continue to chatter, and Joel continues to listen.
* * *
Eventually, when the sun had dipped below the horizon and their feet were starting to tire, they returned to the old parking lot where Joel’s car awaited them.
He drives back to his apartment—dropping Jimmy off along the way.
It is very quiet. Unlike the past couple nights, the weather had seemingly settled, star dotted sky clear.
When he arrives at the apartment, he can already see the light spilling out the window in his living room, a testament to the unusual circumstances of having someone else in his house.
Unlocking the gate and stepping up the stairs is a thoughtless action, listening to the way his heavy footsteps sound atop the metal; the only sound amidst the still world around him was himself.
He reaches the top of the stairwell, turning his keys in the locked door and pushing it open with an awful screeching noise.
His eyes land on Etho, who looks to have not moved since that morning, tired dark eyes staring back at him. His arms are crossed over his chest, legs pulled up onto the couch, tucked beside him. Joel holds eye contact for only a moment before turning and closing the door. He stands there for some seconds, hand resting on the knob, staring at the paint that was peeling off the door.
He sighs after a minute, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment before he turns to face Etho again.
“Is it any better?”
Confusion crosses the man’s masked face. “What?”
“Your wound,” Joel shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the old wooden coat hanger that sat next to the door, before stepping forward and setting his walkie-talkie on the coffee table. “How is it?”
“Ah.”
Etho pauses, considering his words carefully before speaking. Joel watches a couple feet away, standing between the coffee table and the couch.
“It’s… healing.”
Purposefully vague, as if Joel couldn’t tell just from the pain in the way he held himself. He gives him a skeptical look, setting his jaw with a frown, but he doesn’t push further.
“Right,” is all he says instead, flopping onto the couch and letting his muscles relax from the long day of walking and driving. “What about you?”
He eyes Etho from the corner of his vision, not bothering to turn his head. His eyes scrunch up, eyebrows furrowed quizzically. “What?”
“How are you?” Joel asks, only digging the hole deeper, “in general.”
Etho blinks, an odd expression crossing his face. Joel doesn’t bother to try to decipher it.
“I’m…” he trails off, looking away. He sounds uncertain. “I’m alright?”
Joel almost snorts at how much it sounded like a question, his voice lilted up at the end, like Etho himself didn’t know the answer.
Though, perhaps he didn’t. Joel would understand.
He doesn’t really know why he bothered asking in the first place. Etho was already clearly not being fully honest with him, and if he learned anything from their previous time together, he wouldn’t be keen on talking about his mental state.
Joel had no place asking how he was, anyway. They weren’t friends; not anymore. He might as well consider this a fresh start, like he was meeting the man for the first time. With how long it’d been, calling them simple acquaintances wouldn’t be far off.
(In truth, the idea of starting over brings a whole new sorrow, desperate not to disregard everything else in their past, shared and not.)
It was merely a habit, he decides, an unnecessary politeness left over from the old social structure. He had never cared much for manners, the rules society was built on—though he would be scolded for being brash or rude.
He sighs, looking down at his lap for a moment before his eyes return to watch Etho.
They sit there, looking at each other, an unreadable expression on Etho’s face. Joel purses his lips, trying to think of something to say, but staring into his old friend’s eyes, he finds no words that could make it past his throat.
And that, that, sprouts an ache in his heart. Because before, before any of this, back when all his worries were set on studying enough to pass the upcoming tests or getting enough hours in his part-time job to afford the apartment they stayed in—they split the bill—and all the other living expenses, when he didn’t think about disease or death or whatever other horrible things were on his mind nowadays, back when they knew each other—
Everything had been easier. No matter how much work it was, it was easier.
Now, everything was just wrong.
Seeing Etho, here, was like putting two things together that were never meant to meet. Before and after, his two worlds colliding. Him, something from the before, in the after. It messed with his head, pulling on heartstrings and clogging up his throat.
It wasn’t like Etho wasn’t different to how he remembered. The weariness under his eyes, pulling down, everything about him seemed tired, older; there seemed to be a light lost to the dark of the world. The scar that dragged over his eye was certainly not something he recalled being there before. He had adapted to the wretchedness, Joel could see, but he was simply something so familiar, so unmistakably him. It wasn’t enough to rid Joel of the memories—any that hadn’t already been lost to the repetitive, monotonous days he’d spent in this city.
He was still the same person, no matter how long they’d spent apart, and it hurt that Joel could not act like he was. Desperately reaching out for a distant nostalgia; but there was nothing to cling to, latch his fingers on.
Etho was here, but the rest of the world wasn’t. And they were nothing if not shaped by the environment around them.
Joel swallows and sharply turns away, bringing his hands together to rub his thumb over his knuckles, bumping over the bones that connected his hand. His skin is rough, and he can vaguely see the veins beneath.
How long was this going to last?
A couple days, weeks, a month? Two? How long until Joel could push Etho out his door without remorse, without any guilt? How long until things could go back to—not normal. Not normal, but as close to it as he would ever get.
Was this even worth it? Just to please Jimmy? With striking clarity, the thought of what if he dies anyway turns the ache in his heart to a hand clutching at it with all its might, constricting his lungs. He can’t breathe.
His hands are shaking. The thumb over his knuckle pushes down, fingers squeezing his palm. He digs his nails into his own skin, clenches his teeth.
What if he dies anyway?
He wants to gasp for air, but Etho is right next to him, and so he does his best to maintain composure, taking in breaths that were sharp enough to be heard, but not overtly so.
With how observant he knew Etho to be, he thinks he must notice, but there is no comment or question, and so Joel simply breathes, in and out, in and out, until he can no longer hear it.
He brings his eyes back to Etho, who, for once, had turned away, gaze instead studying the room around them.
Determined to focus on anything but his thoughts, he realizes that Etho was still without a shirt from when Jimmy had taken it off—as well as the jacket he had been wearing—to bandage the wounds over his stomach and abdomen. A small spike of guilt prickles his stomach at not having offered anything to cover him up earlier; the nights could get awfully cold, and though he’d given a blanket or two, they lay in a mess, hanging over the arm of the couch, clearly rejected.
Briefly, he considers the clothes Etho had initially been wearing, but shuts the idea down as he remembers the state of the things—torn and bloodstained.
“Do you—” he breaks off as Etho startles, a glint of panic in his eyes before recognition takes place. Joel frowns, continuing, “do you want clean clothes? I can—there’s probably something around here that would fit.”
“That… would be good, yeah.” Etho says slowly, wary of any form of kindness.
Joel’s lips pucker, brows furrowing, catching the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He pauses for a minute, studying Etho; there is something he wants to say, he thinks, but the words are hooked in his throat. He is not sure what it is that he wants to say.
So instead, he pushes himself up, heading in the door to his room, where there is a pile of clothes he’d thrown haphazardly down upon deciding they didn’t fit him.
He crouches next to the pile, sifting through the various articles of clothing. He squints, holding up different shirts and studying them, trying to imagine them on Etho. He supposes it doesn’t really matter what they looked like, only their function, whether or not they would keep him warm on the chilly nights, though not so much so that they would overheat him during the hot days.
Eventually, he gives up on trying to choose something himself, unsure what might fit. He grabs the pile of shirts and jackets that he’d accumulated as he looked over the clothes, and stands up.
With a sigh, he returns to the living room where Etho sat.