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Joel wasn’t entirely certain how they’d gotten there. First they were on that stupid boat, just messing around, and then things got too personal, too real. He admitted he still cared, and Etho held on to his wrist, and less than five minutes later they were at Etho’s, and Joel had him backed up against a wall, and things were back in place, a mess.
It was easy when it came to each other. Hands found hips, hands found hair, lips on lips and teeth and tongue and bruised necks. And Joel knew this shouldn’t be happening at all, that they shouldn’t give in like this, not there, not then, but they were falling again, falling for the millionth time in a mess of heat and passion, and Joel couldn’t, as hard as he tried, bring himself to care.
They fell into bed easily—too easily, given they weren't allies and hadn't been for a while, but Etho was all Joel wanted, all he could think about as his hands found their favorite places again, as their bodies became homes to each other again, just like all that time ago when this was still alright, when it was them and then the world, when they were a single entity, not Joel and Etho.
But they were Joel and Etho then. Not the boat boys, or the owners of the Relation, or the server’s terrors. They were Joel and Etho, who had given in when they shouldn’t, who had fallen again, who had gone against it all for a second longer with each other.
They lay in bed afterwards, limbs achy, bodies tired, minds exhausted.
It shouldn’t have been so easy. It shouldn’t have, and yet Etho was made to be his; the curve of his lips had been molded to fit his, and his hips had been sculpted to welcome Joel’s hands, and his arms had been handcrafted to wrap themselves around Joel without any rough edges.
But they didn’t touch as they lay in bed.
Joel was lying sideways, staring at Etho, and Etho was looking back at him, and it was too intimate, too overwhelming, too much.
A strand of hair had fallen over Etho’s eyes, and Joel wanted to brush it away, to let his hand linger on Etho’s hair, or face, or anywhere as long as it was him. He thought it might burn.
He didn’t reach out. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did, but he thought he might go insane, might fall again, might give Etho his all when his all wasn’t his to give anymore.
Etho’s eyes fluttered closed. Joel couldn't do it, wouldn’t be able to if he were to try, not when Etho was lying next to him, soft and relaxed and wrongly his. But Etho seemed content to just rest by his side, to close his eyes and surrender to this—whatever this was.
Joel noticed when Etho fell asleep. He knew him, had learned all of him and all about him during the time when this was all alright, and even then, when it wasn’t, Joel knew the moment Etho fell asleep.
He stayed, looking but not touching. Wanting to touch, but unsure if he’d make it out alive if he did.
He left when he couldn’t take it anymore. It was dark outside, and it was dangerous, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. That seemed to be a trend lately.
Slowly, he put on his shoes, tied the laces while trying not to think of the man that slept soundly behind him. He stood, walked towards the door, but paused on the doorway.
He looked back at Etho. His hair was still over his eyes, and his face was soft, and Joel knew he’d be back soon. It was never over. Not with Etho.
He sighed, let his eyes linger on Etho for a second longer, and closed the door behind him.