Archive of Our Own

Soulmates.

That was the concept, as Grian had explained it. Tying lives together—soulbounds, strings tethered by the heart, pain shared and deaths mutual. Pairings as selected by the world, carefully tailored to consider for each player. 

While Joel was not particularly against the idea, he also didn’t think it was for him, exactly.

In the past two of these death games, whatever they were calling them now, he had subjected himself, intentionally or not—to solitude, company thought of as the steady warmth of his wolves’ coats nestled around him, echoing whines and yips throughout the hollow underneath his house. Not friendly, really, though not hostile either, following him out of… out of something. Loyalty, devotion; as only they know how.

He had tried, the last time. He had tried to make an ally, but, as luck would have it, that all had fallen apart much too quickly to ever truly start. So, instead, he forced the solitude to become his friend; or, forced it to work with him, at the very least. 

He’d done alright by his lonesome—bloodied axe in hand, crazed grin, bloodlust and adrenaline ushering him forward. Shaky agreements and truces, betrayals made with barely any thought put behind them, killing with no remorse, no reserves. He was feared, dangerous—to a point, that was. 

He was fine as he was, had been. Didn’t need a partner. Not a team, not an ally, not a friend. 

Liked it just that way; alone. Convinced himself of that fact.

The idea of sharing his lives with someone, being responsible for not only his own wellbeing but someone else’s too, was… unsettling. 

When presented with Etho, falling down into the mineshaft where Joel was stood, he could not have said he expected the subsequent spark of pain in his knees, perfectly in time with Etho’s instant flinch.

When presented with the concept of soulmates, Joel would not have said he expected Etho. Maybe Grian—or even Jimmy, though he’d never say it aloud—but certainly not Etho, someone he’d only talked to on brief occasions. A friend of a friend, nothing less, nothing more.

While Joel was known to be reckless and persistent, ruthless and impulsive, downright destructive, Etho was far more calculated, from what he had heard and seen. Logical, cautious, cunning. Where Joel was loud, clamorous, garish,  Etho had a reputation for being reserved, quiet, deliberate. Unsuspecting until the very moment you’re hooked by a fishing rod and thrown off your feet, no time to react before you’re one life down.

Scar would attest, Joel knows. Had bore witness to the man’s dramatic retelling of Etho’s boogey kill on him with a smile, painful ache in his heart from across the dip between the hill and the mountain, where he stood.

To call them complete opposites certainly would’ve been an exaggeration, but Joel would not have said they match, in any sense of the word. Would not have said they were—well, soulmates; made for each other.

That clearly didn’t matter, though, because the world did not care for what he did and did not expect, and Etho was his soulmate, proven when Joel climbed up to the ledge Etho had fallen from and jumped back down, purposefully landing painfully, waiting for confirmation that came in the form of an overdramatic, playful wailed no from his now-soulbond.

He might have been expecting to feel something when they found each other. Something that told them, reassured them that this was right, that they were right. Might have expected some sort of hole in his heart to be filled, an ache he hadn’t noticed beforehand. Might have expected to feel complete, whole, with their halves then united. Something cliche, something to solidify the soulmate idea, just as romanticized as Grian had made it out to be.

He might have been expecting something, which only served to make the lack of more glaring.

Because there really was nothing.

Nothing but the ache that then lingered in his legs, nothing but he, Etho, and the cold, damp mineshaft that they found themselves in, voices of their friends nearby.

Again he learns: the world does not care.

And so he puts his best face on, grinning and grabbing Etho’s wrist, pulling him along the corridor, footsteps on the stone floors echoing throughout the cave. He was going to put an effort into this. He was going to try.

“We’ve found true love.” He declares, performative. 

“Some kind of love, anyway,” Etho mutters behind him—playful. Laughing along.

However hesitant, Joel was willing to give this a shot, at least.

Willing to give Etho a shot. 

>>>

It was not long after finding each other that Joel messes up, and loses them their first life.

He’s instantly hit with the regret of ever having a soulbound in the first place, despite never having a choice in the matter, because he’s fucked this up, and they weren’t even a week into the game.

Even so, when they respawn next to one another, Etho just seems amused by it all, if a little shook. Relieved to see Joel there, alive and breathing again. 

Which, was mildly confusing to Joel, but it wasn’t bad. Definitely not bad.

“I think—I messed up first, but you messed up way worse, there.” Etho said, breathless chuckle in his voice.

“Yeah,” Joel agreed, laughing at his own expense. “Yeah, I think I did.”

It was good to know it was going to take more than that to really ruin this before it started.

…

The rest of the day goes by much smoother. They retrieve their items with little to no struggle, mess around both with one another and with the other players, find a spot to call base. It was disappointing to lose their first life so soon, more so to be the one at fault, but Joel was no stranger to losing lives quickly—just grateful Etho was willing to give him a chance. 

Even if there was someone else he had been hoping for. Even if Joel was far from his first choice.

He sees the way Etho acts with Bdubs. He’s comfortable with him, at home. Lingering gazes, filled with emotions Joel doesn’t feel are his place to look into, though he notices things anyway; the thinly veiled jealousy, critical tone and huffs of disappointment. Regret and guilt and longing and yet they still bounce off one another with ease. Can’t stay away, although it hurts to be near.

He’s pretty sure he knows why. He remembers the last game, how it ended, is aware of how close the two were—even before their team-up. He can guess what kind of position it would put them in this time, even with his limited interaction. He doesn’t know the intricacies, and he doesn’t really want to. And he can’t pretend to get it, exactly, but at the very least he can do his best to be a distraction to whatever was going through Etho’s head. They were stuck together now, and maybe neither of them were entirely happy with that, but it was what it was.

He had to deal with that fact, now.

…

“Joel.”

He looks to the side, eyes landing on the face of his soulbond, unspeaking. Etho watches him just a step away, listless, looking conflicted.

“I think—I’m going to go see if I can corral some animals over here, uh,” he pauses for a moment, “yeah. I’m gonna—do… that. That’s all.”

Joel nods absentmindedly, gaze returning to where he’d been looking across the ravine where Grian was setting up some chests. “Alright,” he says, distracted.

He got along well with Grian. During Last Life, he had briefly teamed up with him whenever they were both on red. They had worked well together, in their chaotic, deadly way. Joel thinks that, if he had to choose anyone here, he would have said Grian should’ve been his soulmate. 

But Grian had Scar, however involuntary. And Joel had Etho. 

Soulmates. His. 

Unwanted.

“Did you want to come with?” Etho offers.

“No, thanks,” Joel says, sending Etho a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think I’ll set up some farms. We need to get a food source going up here.”

“Good idea,” Etho nods, taking a step back. “I’ll, ah, see you later then.” He turns around, starting to head off. Joel doesn’t wait to watch him go, more interested in what was going on on the other side of the gorge, thoughts wandering idly. 

“I’ll be expecting a grand mansion when I get back, by the way!”

He snorts with a shake of his head, rolling his eyes—fondly.

It wasn’t too hard to fall into stride with Etho, truth be told. Their back and forth banter feeling fairly easy and comfortable, Joel found himself enjoying his soulbond’s company more than he expected. It wasn’t like Joel thought he would be awful, certainly not—the others always spoke highly of him, and he had no reason to think any different—but he didn’t know him very well, and Joel didn’t typically feel that comfortable with strangers. Which, Etho wasn’t, but—it was close enough. The point is; they weren’t very close at all, and though Joel might put up a front of overconfidence, he wasn’t really quite outgoing. He wasn’t expecting Etho to be this… likeable.

It was awkward—of course it was awkward—but the more time they spend with one another, the more Joel starts to realize that, maybe, this could work.

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, though. These games were always unpredictable, and no matter what, it never seemed to end quite the way he wanted it to. 

He knows that by now, after the last time.

Beyond the sheer drop off of the cliff down to the river, Grian starts walking off into the forest. Joel watches for only a moment more before turning and starting to craft together some composters and other supplies needed for his farms, making good on his promise to Etho. He’s certainly not getting a house done yet, but he can at least get them a bit more settled here.

Sometime during his work, he notices Grian had returned back to his spot across the ravine, and began to put together some farms of his own, Scar now lingering to the sides. Further along the way, he can just barely make out Tango and Jimmy’s ranch being set up as well. Somewhere more in the middle of the map, he knows Bdubs and Impulse were probably working on their mid-century modern house—or… something along those lines. Joel wasn’t really paying attention when they explained the direction for their base.

Feeling the soil between his hands as he plants the wheat seeds with practiced ease, going almost autopilot. Some hours go by, and soon the sun is setting, and he’s wiping the dirt off his palms, sitting down against a tree with his arms propped up on his knees. He leans his head back on the bark of the tree, staring out at the horizon. 

He listens to his heart beating in his chest, ghosted by another caging his own—Etho’s, he can only assume. It’s strange, though not uncomfortable, almost right, he thinks, like it belongs there, in some way. 

He wrings his hands together restlessly, thinking about what’s happened, what’s to come. The game had only been going for a couple days, by then, but he was already starting to grow fond of the world they’re building. The world they’re inevitably going to destroy. 

They always do. 

…he doesn’t think he minds very much.

>>>

Etho returns early that coming morning, a couple sheep in tow, though he insists it wasn’t much—which Joel shrugs off, pointing out his own lackluster progress. The sheep fit perfectly for his plans—be them a work-in-progress—anyway.

More days pass by. One morning, he finds a t-shirt in their chests that has a pixelated version of Etho’s face on it, and, delighted by the discovery, promptly steals the shirt for himself. 

“Is that—my shirt…?” Etho asks, blinking at Joel, sleep still in his eyes, ears tinged pink. Joel grins, all sharp teeth, and Etho seems flustered.

“It’s mine now,” he answers gleefully. Etho laughs, incredulity in the sound. 

“I’m sorry to say, Joel, but that really, really does not fit you.” 

Joel says he’s got plans to build them a base. Etho says he’s going to go visit some of the other pairs. He parts—not before reminding Joel of their situation, however. That if he takes damage, they both do, urging him to be careful—and soon Joel starts working on his idea: a boat, as put simply.

The Relation.

He had gathered most of the materials he needed; dark oak and spruce wood for the majority of the ship, cloth for the sails, some bits of steel to reinforce the hull. Reinforcement that, would likely do nothing in the face of a threat, but added the visual interest Joel was always looking for. He wasn’t really sure if, with the way he planned to construct it, the ship would have actually been able to sail had that been its purpose—but, it very clearly wasn’t. Built to be utilized as a living space, rather than to carry itself and its cargo safely across an ocean.

However much he might have rathered to escape the barriers of the world they’d been stuck in. 

He thinks that maybe it would be a bit more painless, that way.

Building the thing comes relatively easily to him after years of experience, working smoothly with the materials to create what he wants. Tools in hand, he grins when he first stands back to look at the wooden frame of the ship, hours of work later. 

It feels good, as it always does, to see the start of a new project. To know his next creation is in the making, to get that first good look at making his ideas reality. Building is an energy-drain, and awfully time-consuming, but he has a love for it that has always had him returning to the practice. The satisfaction of a completed piece, the feeling of getting into the details, carving into the material, getting to call it a home, of his own making.

It takes a couple days, and somewhere along the lines Ren had come over to check out his work in progress, but eventually the ship is complete—save for the interior, but Joel figures that can wait, considering he can see Etho in the distance, just leaving the ranch—Jimmy and Tango’s base—and heading his way, returning from whatever excursions he’d gone on.

Joel already has an idea of what those excursions might have been, based off the chat messages on his communicator, implying Etho had gone to the deep dark.

Joel’s just starting to lay down the flooring of the upper deck when he hears the ping of a chat message coming through on his comm. He pulls it out, disinterestedly scanning along the lines until he sees the most recent message—his breath hitches for a moment, dragging his teeth on his lower lip. 

Okay, cool, yeah. Sure, whatever, his soulbond’s just wandering around near skulk sensors, nothing to worry about. That certainly doesn’t freak him out one bit.

He slides the small device back into his pocket with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation. Etho’s reminding Joel not to get into trouble, and yet he’s down playing with wardens. He shakes his head, anxiety nagging, but still resuming his work on the ship.

“Joel, I saw it from a mile away—it’s beautiful!” Etho calls out when he gets close enough, pace slowing down as he offers a wave of greeting.

Joel grins, dropping down onto the ground from where he’d been stood on the deck. “Thanks,” he says, meeting Etho as he stops in front of him, grabbing his wrists and tugging him closer. He thinks there’s a smile on his face, based on the way his eyes squint, skin crinkled at the outer corners, cheeks lifted just a tad, his mask with them.

“You’re looking all shiny and enchanted,” he comments, eyeing the glint to Etho’s armor. “You went to the ancient city?”

Etho looks almost sheepish, “yeah—I didn’t manage to get much, though. The warden kind of, ah, chased us out.”

Joel barks out a laugh, letting one hand go and leading Etho over to their chests. “You saw the warden?”

“There’s like, five of them down there.”

“Five?!” Joel shrieks, simultaneously impressed and horrified, dropping Etho’s wrist and spinning on his heel to stare at him in shock. 

Etho laughs, head tilted slightly to the side, some strands of hair falling in front of his ear. “Uh-huh.”

He first shows him the fruits of his outing, gifting Joel an enchanted iron axe and pickaxe, which he takes gratefully. There’s other loot that Joel’s particularly excited about—skulk sensors—but they’ll have to wait to use them.

Then, Joel’s showing him around the ship, and Etho’s so excited for it, and his chest feels warm, bright smile and light giggles. A feeling of belonging. 

“It’s called the Relation.”

“The Relation?” Etho repeats, a lilt to the words. 

“Yeah.” Joel confirms, grin widening before he gives it away, “the Relation what?”

“Relation… ship?” Etho guesses, amused smile in his voice.

And they’re both giggling, and it’s fun, and Joel can’t stop just smiling at Etho, watching his reaction to his build. At their base.

Their home.

He hopes it can be, at least.

>>>

A while after he’s done showing him around, Etho pulls him along to visit Bdubs and Impulse, something more serious to the tone. Joel, mostly confused, goes along easily, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

His mind strays to the last game. Going red far too soon, death after death—Scar breaking the bridge between them, literally, others watching on the sidelines that Joel doesn’t remember because all he remembers is the utter defeat. The regret in Scar’s eyes, the exhaustion dragging Joel’s feet after his repeated failed attempts at getting a boogey kill, finally succeeding with Scott only to be finished off by Pearl. 

He remembers shooting Grian off the half-finished ghast farm, remembers the brief companionship that followed. Remembers getting a life back, from Scar, who had looked betrayed the moment he’d realized what Joel and Grian had been trying to tell him. Remembers immediately losing any chance at reviving Magical Mountain when Scar drowned at Scott and Pearl’s tower. Remembers the end, desperate and abrupt, the satisfaction of his two permakills followed by the sword plunged in his stomach, and nothing more after.

Loss and gain, loss and gain, and loss again. Nothing stable, always tentative.

He wants this time to be different. He hopes, desperately, that he doesn’t end up alone again. 

“Joel, we need to have a talk.” Etho says, eyeing him, fully aware of Bdubs and Impulse hanging around the edge of their conversation. Joel offers him a raised brow above his now strained smile. “I’ve heard rumors,” he starts, implicit, “that you’ve been… ah, saying things, about me.”

Joel almost laughs. “What?” He shoots a look Bdubs and Impulse’s way. “Why would I say anything bad about Etho when I’m wearing this?” He asks, high-pitched, leant into the dramatics, as he tends to do. Gesturing to the shirt he’d stolen, he declares, “I’m his biggest fan.” 

He glances back to Etho. “I hadn’t even seen them this week before now.”

Bdubs barks a loud laugh, surprised, and Impulse grins, turning to his husband with a hand blocking his mouth from view as he fake-whispers, “oh, he’s good.”

Joel rolls his eyes, leaning towards Etho with a smirk, a menacing edge to it. “You know what, I think they’re projecting their own problems on us.”

“You know, we didn’t want to get involved in this—” Bdubs tries to say, Impulse nodding beside him, murmuring something Joel doesn’t care to hear.

Etho seems to stutter, blinking at him with a flush that barely peeks out from the top of his mask. Then, he huffs a laugh, nodding and stepping closer to Joel, a hand reaching out and wrapping around one of Joel’s own. His gaze flicks over to where the newlyweds are standing. “You’re right,” he says, drawling, theatric, “they’re not happy with their relationship, so they’re trying to make everyone else less happy with theirs.”

“No—no, no, no,” Bdubs denies immediately, clutching Impulse’s arm, who looks down at him affectionately. “We’re very happy!”

“We’re very happy.” Impulse agrees, a reverent grin on his lips, a hand snaking around Bdubs’ waist.

Joel looks to Etho, who seems to recoil at the sight. Abruptly deciding to end this conversation, he squeezes his hand, attempting reassurance, starting to drag him away. “Come on, let’s go, Etho.”

His soulbound follows behind him, almost tripping at first, though managing to catch up. 

…

“So they’re just feeding me lies now,” Etho sighs eventually.

“Just rumors.” Joel says, glancing back at him. He has his other hand shoved in his jacket pocket, complicated expression tugging at his face. Seeing it unsettles something in Joel’s stomach. “I’d never betray you.” 

Tell me you wouldn’t, either. Tell me this matters to you.

That, at least, seems to get through to him, a weary smile showing in his eyes. “I thought so, but,” a shrug of his shoulders, “…I don’t know. Bdubs’ always been a bad liar.”

Joel giggles, though it’s not quite as lighthearted as he’d hope. 

>>>

Joel can’t sleep.

It’s late, and he can’t sleep. It’s their first night sleeping in the Relation, sleeping in actual beds.

Or, well.

One bed.

For them both. 

Because Joel did not have the foresight to make two. Because he’s not used to having to make two. At the very least, it was decently sized—though certainly a little cramped for two, a dip in the middle only dragging them closer to one another.

He sighs, barely keeping himself from groaning out of frustration. Pushing himself up, he carefully drags the covers off himself and scoots closer to the headboard, pulling his legs close to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, grimacing at how loud the rustling sound of the sheets is. With a glance to his left, he sees Etho on his side, back facing Joel, as much distance put between them as they could before being at risk of falling off the side. 

It’s dark, though Joel can see his hair is messy, tangled and mussed. The blank white shirt he’s wearing is bunched up slightly on the side he’s laying on, his left arm squished between the pillow and the mattress, the other bent so his hand is just under his chin, fingers curled into his palm. 

Joel feels overwhelmingly fond at the sight.

He turns away, heart aching, resting his cheek on his knee and staring at the wall. Inhale, exhale; he can hear Etho’s steady breathing in the quiet, subconsciously attempting to match it. 

The night is entirely still. Almost silent, only interrupted by their breathing and the heartbeat in his ears. Joel untangles his hands from one another, sliding his right hand up to the pulse point on his neck and pressing his fingers to it. The skin is warm, heartbeat thumping under his touch, once, twice, again, again, again.

He remembers the way it’d felt while Etho was in the deep dark—heart racing even though he was relaxed, just building, if a bit far from the ground. Odd, strange, leaving him there, only able to hope that Etho was okay. That he wouldn’t get them both killed.

He draws in a shaky breath through his teeth. Closes his eyes.

It’s cold without the blankets. Too hot with them. The pillow’s too thin. It’s going to give him a headache.

He’s still sitting up in bed. He still can’t sleep.

He moves his legs so they’re almost flat against the mattress, moves his hands so they both lay still in his lap. Leans back, the back of his head knocking against the wall. 

“…Joel?” Soft, quiet, murmured.

“Joel.” Direct, clearer.

He opens his eyes, finding Etho awake, maskless, looking at him with something like concern. He can’t tell. It’s dark.

“You’re awake,” he says, dumbly. Etho tilts his head, hair falling to one side. Joel doesn’t make eye contact, stares at his hair instead.

“Are you alright?” Etho asks, sleep in his voice, rough. 

He nods, wincing at the ache that blossoms in the back of his head when it hits the wall roughly. “I’m fine.” He turns his head away, his insides twisting the more he looks at Etho. “Couldn’t sleep, is all.”

“Is it because I’m—we’re, uh—” Etho stumbles over his words, awkward. “I could sleep on the floor? If that would be better?”

“No.” Joel says, too quickly. “No, I—it’s fine, I just—” he breaks off, unsure. “I’m not used to it. And the, ah, temperature’s all weird. But I don’t want you to sleep on the floor, mate, if you hurt your back—”

“I know,” Etho interrupts him. 

A pause. “…is there anything I can do to help?”

Joel sighs.

Quiet.

Then there’s a hand being laid over one of his own, spidery, long fingers intertwining with his. Etho’s hand is cold, and it feels nice against his own warm skin. Joel looks down at their joined hands, and there’s so much emotion, he’s drowning in it, it’s choking him, he feels strangled, his eyes are pricking with tears—

“Joel.”

He screws his eyes shut, curling his upper lip inward and scraping his teeth against it.

“What’s going on?”

Vulnerable, bare. He suddenly feels very bare, the short-sleeved shirt and sweatpants no longer feeling like enough. He wants to curl in on himself, hates the way he knows when he opens his eyes he’ll see Etho staring at him. Inhale, exhale, shaking breath. His heartbeat, Etho’s, still in sync as they always are, here. The emotions are a swarm, engulfing him, too much, too little, too hot, too cold. He thinks there is something in his chest and he thinks it’s clutching his heart tightly and he thinks he’s going to die because he’s finding it awfully hard to breathe. 

“Nothing,” he lies, a shaking whisper. “It’s nothing.”

Shuffling.

Etho’s knees poke into Joel’s thigh, and his forehead is resting on Joel’s shoulder, and the hand that’s unoccupied is pressed against Joel’s upper back, cool fingertips just touching the skin right above the neckline of his shirt, sending a shiver along his spine.

His breath seizes in his throat, and he opens his eyes, looking at where he can feel Etho’s breath on his arm. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, absently, without thought, “I’m sorry.”

Etho raises his head, far too concerned for Joel to handle at that moment, “what for?”

“I’m not—used to this.” He says, not really as an answer, more a continuation of the apology. He doesn’t really know what for. His voice breaks.

“This?”

“This.” He repeats. “You, us—this. Being—having a… teammate.”

Soulmate. You’re mine, I’m yours. Soulmate. I need you; say it back.

Etho watches him, eyes boring into Joel near uncomfortably. Somewhere, distantly, he thinks that his eyes hold the same look of devotion that his wolves’ had, before he’d marched them all off to their deaths.

“Oh,” Etho murmurs after a moment. “Oh, Joel,”

The look he’s giving him hurts, too much care and sympathy and Joel doesn’t know what to do with it all. 

“It’s, um. I’m trying to, make sense of things, and, um—you’re—I’m—” he huffs, looking at Etho helplessly, attempting to convey whatever he’s trying to say with his eyes. It’s not something he’s ever been good at, on either side. “It’s too hot, but then it’s too cold, you know? I can’t—it’s hard to get comfortable.”

It’s not what he wanted to say.

He also doesn’t really know what he wanted to say. Words aren’t really working in his brain, all tangled and jumbled together, like puzzle pieces that don’t fit, shoved together inelegantly. He’s tired. It’s late, and dark, and quiet, and still, and the blankets make him too hot, but then without them it’s too cold, and Etho’s hand is still lazily covering his own, almost protective, and he’s tired.

And Etho’s still looking at him like he’s some sort of code to be deciphered. Analyzing. Joel’s not sure how to feel about that.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Joel repeats, “that’s all? Okay?”

There’s a smile creeping up on Etho’s face. Joel can see it in the dark, though not very well. He’s not wearing his mask. Joel tries not to focus on that fact.

“Okay.” He says again, tipping his head slightly to one side. “What? I don’t control the temperature. I don’t know what you want me to do about that.”

Joel lets out a breathy, forced laugh, turning his head away. “Go back to sleep, Etho.”

“What about you?” He asks.

Joel hesitates. “What about me?” His eyes flick over to where their held hands are, contemplating, “don’t worry about it. I’ll—um, figure it out.” He assures, looking back to Etho. “But it’s, like, three in the morning and at least one of us should get some good sleep.”

Etho hums, hands finally retreating. He knocks his forehead against Joel’s shoulder once more before scooting away from the top of the bed and lowering himself to lay flat on the mattress. He stays like that for a moment before turning his head to face Joel, who is still simply looking at him.

“Lay down.” Etho instructs, straightforward. It draws a real laugh out of Joel, unexpected.

“I’m not a dog, Etho,” he huffs. Acquiescing anyway, he imagines the eye roll Etho gives him while he’s not watching.

The moment he’s settled, Etho moves closer, wrapping his arms around Joel—right hand cradling the back of Joel’s head and the other draped over his middle, head buried in his chest, warm breath hitting the skin just below his collarbone. 

Still for only a moment, Joel responds in kind, one arm laid over Etho’s back, the other hand placed delicately on one of his shoulders. 

“Clingy,” he remarks, soft, doing his best to hide from the avalanche of emotions trying to crush him. 

“Loudmouth.” Etho mumbles back, too affectionate.

And oh, god, he’s really not used to this. 

It’s all he can do to try to keep composure, to not give in to the sobs stuck in his throat, because it’s overwhelming and it hurts, and he doesn’t want to be feeling this much, where did all this come from, yet—at the same time, he never wants to let Etho go.

>>>

When he wakes up that morning, Joel finds himself pressed impossibly close to his soulbond, limbs awkwardly tangled, shared warmth. 

He can’t stay. (He never wants to move.)

It makes him ache, to pull himself away, but he does so anyway. Disentangles himself from Etho, steps out of the bed, suddenly feeling very cold in the morning air. He slips his arms into his vest and pulls his shoes on, heads up the stairs and stands out by the bowsprit of the ship, waiting.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, staring out at the sunrise, but when Etho emerges from the lower deck, it’s apparent he’s been awake for a while. Jacket pulled over his usual dark turtleneck, messy hair pinned into a loose bun, still looking unkempt though put-together—in the sense that it fits. Everything the same as it always is. Always seems to be.

He was smiling, again, as he approached, tilting his head in that way Joel was beginning to find endearing, reaching out to take Joel’s hands in his own once he got close enough.

Joel simply stares at him blankly, curious. 

He half expects Etho to question him about the night before, about the swirling pool of feeling in his stomach that was surely strong enough to feel even a semblance of through the soulbond.

Yet, he doesn’t. Doesn’t so much as mention it, to his relief.

“Aren’t you cold out here?”

Joel hums noncommittally, studying Etho’s face. “It’s a bit nippy,” he admits.

Etho moves his hold on Joel’s hands to his arms, gently guiding him to turn around, before he wraps his arms around his middle, chin hooked over his shoulder. Which, at first just makes him colder, though eventually warms up.

“Is this better?” Etho asks, teasing smile in his voice. It only adds to the warmth, heat on Joel’s face from embarrassment.

“I guess,” he mumbles, pointedly looking away from where Etho’s face is right next to his own. “Are you always this cuddly?”

Etho snickers. “No, you’re just special,” he says, playful. “No, I, um—it depends, I guess.”

Joel huffs, unconsciously leaning back into his touch. “Weird.”

“Is it?” Etho questions, ever so curious, painfully genuine.

“I mean,” he says, carefully, “I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. I’m just not used to it.” 

It also makes him feel all warm and soft and fuzzy and his heart’s racing and he tries to ignore that because he knows Etho can feel it too and that is also weird. 

He’s not used to this kind of… domesticity, with other players, in these games. They’re meant to be killing each other. Hell, if this was either of the past games, Joel would have just stabbed Etho right then and there without hesitation. 

… it wouldn’t have been the first time, either.

“You’re still weird, either way.” He decides. That makes Etho laugh, and Joel decides he likes the sound of it.

They stay like that for a little while longer, taking time to discuss their plans for the day before heading off.

To the ancient city. Because they needed iron for tools, and Etho had suggested going to an iron vein Impulse had found when they were both down there, while Joel was still building the ship.

Really, it wasn’t as scary as he thought it’d be. The temporary blindness was awfully disorienting, and it was certainly nerve-wracking, but they managed to get in and out—even looting one of the chests!—without spawning a warden. It makes him wonder how loud the previous group had to be to spawn the supposed five wardens Etho had told him about.

Later that day, Scar comes by, offering to sell them paper—or, two pieces of it, which, they can’t actually do anything with. 

“I’m not allowed to hold the sugarcane.” Scar says, looking increasingly uncomfortable from their continued questioning. 

“But you do have sugarcane, then?” Joel presses, leaning forward. Scar takes a step back, eyes flitting around, swallowing.

“No, no, no,” he backpedals, hands held up, placating, “nope, none!”

“You just admitted you have sugarcane, Scar.” Joel says, tilting his head, sideways grin planted on his lips, menacing, baring his teeth.

Joel almost wanted to kill him, then. Felt his hands itching to grab hold of his axe and teach Scar that they weren’t messing around. 

He didn’t. He held back, even if he’d practically been able to smell the blood he could’ve spilled. This was only their third week; there would be plenty of opportunity and time for Joel to let loose, when they were red.

Admittedly, he was rather excited.

>>>

It turns out he didn’t have to wait much longer.

They’re messing around with fishing rods at Bdubs and Impulse’s base, and they don’t realize how much damage falling from that height really did, and—

Joel gets flung into the air. 

He doesn’t hit the ground.

Or, he does. No, actually, he definitely, certainly, hits the ground.

But it’s so fast, and he doesn’t even realize he’s died before he’s waking up in their bed in the ship—and he’s furious.

Right beside him is Etho, looking a bit dazed. Joel doesn’t wait for him—pushing himself out of the bed, legs straining with the weight after being broken and mended so rapidly.

“They better give me my stuff back,” Joel hisses, stumbling down the hill, Etho just behind him. “Bloody hell—they’re dead. They’re so dead.” 

And then they’re getting their stuff, and a lot of things aren’t there, and Scar points out Pearl just holding their diamond chestplate, grinning wickedly, and they’re running after her, and when Joel brings his axe down into her back to deal the last damage, it’s the most amazing feeling in the world. 

Because they’re red, and they just killed someone and he’s out of breath and there’s blood on his axe and his face and his hands and his clothes and everyone’s scared of them, backing away and Etho’s right there with him and—god, Joel thinks nonsensically, Etho’d never looked better than he did then, smattered with Pearl’s blood. 

Not long after, they’re returning back to the Relation, nighttime approaching quickly. The high of the kill is beginning to wear off, though Joel’s still giggling to himself as they descend the stairs to the lower deck. 

Throwing himself onto their bed the moment he’s close enough, he turns to lay on his back, limbs splayed out like a starfish. He stares at the ceiling, grin stretching across his lips, still out of breath. Etho lingers to the side, leaning against a pile of barrels.

“That was great.” Joel says, the first time either had spoken since they left Bdubs and Impulse’s base. 

“Uh-huh,” Etho says, audibly smiling. 

“No, really,” he insists, “did you see how panicked Grian and Scar looked? They were terrified.”

“They were, yeah.”

“We did that, Etho.” Joel pushes himself to sit up, leaning back on his hands as he looks at his soulbond. “We’re red now.”

Etho nods, raising a hand to unhook his mask, stuffing it in his jacket pocket. Joel watches him intently, and Etho stares back.

“You’ve got blood on your face.” Etho points out, tilting his head to the side. “Actually, you’ve kind of got blood all over you.” He doesn’t sound bothered by it, at all.

“I do?” Joel asks, smile showing off all his teeth, tilting his head to match Etho. 

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” He says, snorting. “I couldn’t have guessed.”

Etho grins crookedly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Joel scoots forward to sit next to him, kicking his feet against the floor. 

“You also have blood on you.” Joel pokes his shoulder, blunt. 

“Not as much as you, though, I bet,” Etho says, retaliating by booping Joel’s nose, leaned in close. Joel scrunches up his face, glowering. Etho tilts his head again, daring, smile stretched widely so his lips part. Uneven, yellowish off-white teeth just barely visible. 

Joel squints at him. Leans forward, their noses brushing. There is something heated in the air.

He reaches a hand up, then pinches Etho’s cheek between his thumb and pointer finger, digging his bloodied fingernails into the pale skin, ignoring the consequent faint spark of pain mirrored on his own face.

“Ow!” Etho hisses, huffing a laugh as he swats Joel’s hand away. “Uncalled for, man.” He says, pouting. It makes Joel giggle.

Etho rubs his thumb against the spot he’d pinched, brows knitted as he looks at Joel, affronted. Joel just blinks innocently, corners of his lips quirking up. It stays like that for a moment—simply looking at one another, silent, pleasant and comfortable. Strange, for two people having just brutally murdered someone. 

After a minute, he brings his hand up again—Etho flinches back, but Joel just gently places his hand over the one Etho’d held over his own cheek. He stares at Joel, curious. 

Joel then curls his fingers under Etho’s palm before bringing it to his lips and gently pressing them against the back of his hand, letting his eyes fall shut and listening to the way Etho’s breath seems to hitch, intertwining their fingers.

It’s delicate. It feels delicate, fragile. Far too much so—they haven’t even washed the blood off their hands, faces, and clothes. Most of it’s dry by now, flaking off their skin, settling into the threads of their clothes, stiff. Now mostly just uncomfortable, having sobered from the bloodlust.

Joel breathes in through his nose, out through parted lips. He lowers their hands to rest on his thigh, blinking his eyes open and tilting his head to look at Etho, who held a far away look in his eyes.

“You alright?” He asks, after a beat of silence. Etho startles, blinking, briefly squeezing their joined hands, face looking slightly flushed. It’s hard to tell; they’re quickly losing light. 

“Yeah,” Etho says, soft, “yeah, I’m fine. You—sorry.”

Joel quirks a brow up, though he doesn’t say anything else on the matter. 

“You know,” he starts, conversationally, “I’ve been really enjoying having you with me in this. I didn’t think I would—I mean, not because of you, just the whole, soulbound thing—but, I am.”

Etho seems to perk up, at that. “Yeah?”

“Even though you’re weird.” Joel nods.

“Even though I’m weird,” Etho repeats, chuckling in that soft, hiccuping, quiet way he does most often. “Thanks.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Joel insists, grinning, “I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s good. Kind of. You’re kind of good-weird.” When Etho doesn’t look convinced, he adds, “I like it, okay? Stop looking at me like that. I like that you’re kind of good-weird.”

Etho hums, moving closer to lean into Joel’s side. “You like me.” He drawls.

“I did not say that.”

“No, but you like me.” He says, and Joel can hear the smile in his voice, not exactly smug, but something like it. Cheeky. Unfairly endearing, as Joel finds so many things Etho does to be.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, defiant, feeling warm.

“Mm-hm.” Etho murmurs, “sure you don’t.”

Joel huffs, shaking his head. He melts into Etho’s touch despite himself, his head leant on Etho’s shoulder, Etho’s rested atop his. Assured, comforting weight. 

A moment. Then, “it’s okay, you know. I like you well enough, too.”

“Well, obviously you do,” Joel replies haughtily, “everyone likes me.”

Though Etho snorts, dubious, he then hums pleasantly, and Joel feels the vibration in their proximity. “It’s hard not to,” he whispers, under his breath; it makes Joel wonder if he was meant to hear, at all. He considers inquiring, but Etho changes the subject before he gets the chance. “D’you still have that water bucket from earlier?”

“I left it in one of the chests,” Joel answers, peeling away from Etho to look at him, “what’re you thinking?”

“We need to wash off the blood.” 

“Oh,” he says, looking down at his hands, where the blood was now drying. He has the urge to scratch at it, pick at the crusting edges. “Right.”

“I’ll get it.” Etho offers, pushing himself off the bed and leisurely stepping over to their storage. 

He rummages through it—opening chests and barrels filled with materials, tools, useless junk, the like, in search of the water bucket. It takes a moment, quiet and still while Joel simply watches. Then Etho’s turning around, a bucket and rag in hand, gaze flicking up to meet Joel’s for a moment before he turns it to the space next to him, where he sits back down a second or two later.

“Hold out your hands,” he instructs. Joel complies easily.

And it strikes him, then, how unusually complaisant he’s become with Etho; how… pliant, passive. He has a habit of resisting most every suggestion, dislikes following orders, difficult simply to be difficult. He does, what he likes, as he likes—yet when Etho asks something of him, Joel struggles to refuse. 

It’s not necessarily a bad thing, he supposes. He trusts Etho, here, at least—senseless, it’d be, to betray someone who shares your heart and soul. And however peculiar he may be, Etho is not senseless. Joel knows that, trusts that, if nothing else. 

So, easily it is, that he holds out his hands, palms up. And gentle is the touch he receives; cold fingers curled around the back of one of his hands, the wet rag slowly, tenderly as one can be, scrubbing off the blood from his skin. Soothing, back and forth, dips in water, until there’s no longer any trace of the blood that’d been on his hands. 

Then, Etho looks up, meeting his eyes. He raises one hand to Joel’s chin, tilting his head up before bringing the water-soaked rag to his cheek, swiping his thumb up and down on the textile—thumb on textile, textile on skin. Unconsciously, Joel leans into it, all the while keeping eye contact, as soft and vulnerable as he allows himself to be.

When all the blood’s been scrubbed off, Etho moves his hand from Joel’s chin up to his cheek, eyes lingering. Joel feels odd, there, the subject of Etho’s near-reverent gaze.

Soulmates, they are.

Soulmates, they’re supposed to be.

Is that what this is? Was love ever supposed to be so bloody? 

Does he care? 

No, he doesn’t really think he does. 

They are, how they are, will be, as they want. Joel kills and he is guiltless for it. Etho follows, and when they are done, they will withdraw back into this facade of calmness, careful, kind touch, so unfitting for who they are—one who is always anything but careful and kind, who knows nothing but the destruction and ruin he creates, and the other who watches all that destruction and ruin and thinks it’s wonderful—divine, though it’s—they are—perhaps the furthest thing to holy. 

It doesn’t matter, he decides, in the end; it is them, and they are there together, and they do not care for much else when they already have each other.

>>>

They lose their cool quite quickly, after that. First they visit Grian and Scar, making threats in hopes to persuade them to hand over the enchanter Scar had previously stolen—it gave them next to no payoff, a shaky promise held on by a thread that they highly suspected was just another ploy of Scar’s to deter them for a while.

It’s nearing the end of the week when they arrive back at their ship to find Cleo and Scott had been waiting for them—offering four diamonds in exchange for Jimmy and Tango’s demise. Which, they accept, though hesitantly; they’d been making good friends with the ranchers, but—four diamonds was a good deal, after all, and Joel and Etho didn’t tend to care very much who it was they were killing, only that it happened by their hands.

Then, a notification on their communicators lets them know that Jimmy and Tango had somehow managed to enchant something, which, said lightly, was irritating, considering they hadn’t been able to get a hold of the enchanter themselves.

So, hastily, they’re setting off without a plan, the bloodlust so prominent it leads him to feel lightheaded. He wants to kill, he wants to taste the fear and defeat and know he is the root of it all. He wants to feel the blood on his hands and he wants to look over to Etho just to see the same true for him, to feel that thrill washing over him at the sight, the desire, hunger, utter adoration, infatuation—he wants to kill. He needs to kill.

And the argument could be made that it is at the fault of the game, only an effect of being on your red life. That it’s not really a choice, that they’re forced to do this, preserve what humanity they can—but Joel has little interest in pretending to be good, not like how some of the others may believe in themselves. 

It’s a simple fact; he enjoys this. He is not good, nor are any of them, really—and he doesn’t care. Especially not when he has Etho, who understands this all the same. Who understands him, more than anyone else could hope to, now. He carries half his heart, after all.

When Etho’s arrow hits its target and Jimmy’s body slams into the roof of the Red Velvet Keep, Joel is not abashed by the instant gratification it lends, the laugh that pours out of him, the pride that swells in his chest. 

That was my soulmate, it says. 

Isn’t he incredible?

>>>

Some days later, they’ve just returned from the end—finally—of their hunt for Grian and Scar, and Joel’s sat on their bed, leaning backwards and staring at the ceiling, propped up by his hands. A couple steps away, Etho’s stood near some of their storage, using the flat space on top of the barrels to lay out some materials as he carves out arrowheads from flint, room lit only by warm candlelight from the few lanterns scattered around the ship. 

They’d been discussing ideas for traps they could set up in the morning, something around an hour before. Joel’d originally suggested to trap the ship, but the alarm he’d seen in Etho’s eyes at the prospect had shut it down. They’d come up with a better idea, anyway. 

They’re nearing the end of the game, the both of them know—most of the server is red by now, only three pairs that haven’t turned yet. There’s much preparation to be done, and Joel probably should be doing something of use with his time, but he’s awfully lost in thought. 

Joel doesn’t want this to end. 

Because the end, means the end, and it won’t matter if they find themselves back again, it won’t be like this. They won’t be together again.

He used to be alone, and it was simple, like that. And now that he isn’t alone, he finds all this to be much more complicated; he supposes it’s easier to let go of your life when you haven’t got anyone around to live for. 

It’s struck him, now, that he’s not really quite ready to lose Etho. Doesn’t know if he ever will be. Yet the end is approaching quickly either way, and it will not wait for him to be ready.

The world does not care, and so it’s really quite the unfortunate dilemma to find that Joel does. 

He kicks out his feet, restless. There’s only the gentle sound of his own breathing, and the sharp noise of the flint being chipped away at. He desperately wants it to stop, even if they do really need the arrows. He wants Etho to stop. Wants him to stop preparing for an end he doesn’t yet want to face.

Huffing, he sits upright, crossing his arms and picking at the sleeve of his shirt. Glaring at the wall. If only they had more time.

“Etho.” He says, sounding gruff and unhappy.

Etho looks up. “Yeah?”

“Can you…” he trails off, puckering his lips in thought for a moment, “stop doing that?” He asks, unlatching one hand from where it was squeezing his arm and waving it around in nebulous, meaningless gestures. 

His face lit in a soft warm glow, Joel watches as Etho furrows his brows in confusion. “Why?”

Joel exhales sharply through his nose, frustrated both with himself for not being able to quite place why himself, and with Etho for not immediately being able to understand. “I don’t—” he breaks off, looking away, scowling into darkness, guilt stabbing at his heart for being angry at Etho, who hadn’t really done anything wrong. He tries to ease the vexation in his tone. “I don’t know. Just, please.”

There’s a dull thud, like the items being set down, before he hears the creaking of the wooden floorboards, then a weight sinking into the mattress beside him. His eyes flit back up to see Etho looking at him with concern. It twists his stomach, as it has every other time. 

“Are you okay?” There’s a pause in the middle of the question, awkward, unsure. They’re not very good at this, it seems.

Joel takes a moment to simply stare at him, study his face. He can’t help but find his expression somewhat cute, despite how much it makes him want to throw up. That observation, unfortunately, also, makes him want to throw up. He finds it a bit difficult to not reach out a hand, cup his cheek, make sure he’s real and there, attempt to smooth out the worried creases in his skin.

He wants to memorize every curve, angle and line of what’s in front of him. His acne, the hair that frames his face, the steep slant of his nose bridge, thin, pale lips and near gaunt-looking cheekbones. The way he looks in this light, warm and intimate. 

He doesn’t want to forget. They won’t have this again, will they? 

However careful he’d been, intended to be, he realizes just how precious this all has become to him. It’d snuck up on him, a slow rising incline until he finally realized what that heavy, contorting weight in his chest was. 

And god, it hurts.

A hand lands atop one of his own, lacing their fingers together. Joel looks down at it. The cool of Etho’s skin feels, as always, nice, next to his own warm self.  “I’m okay,” he murmurs softly, staring at the metacarpal bones in Etho’s hand. “I’m… I’m okay. You’re still here, anyway; that’s—that’s good enough.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” 

…

Devastating, really.

“I—” he bites his lip, lifting his head again to see Etho’s face. He’s frowning, brows knit, but certainly not in anger—never once in anger. Joel envies him, somewhat, for that; the ease in which he keeps his cool. Joel’s considerably worse, words always spilling out on impulse, regret and guilt fast to accompany any meager, childish irritations.

“I don’t know.” He says finally.

“Joel,” Etho says, his other hand reaching out to cradle Joel’s face, something like a mimicry of their first night on red. Joel can’t place his expression, something incredibly gentle, like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. Maybe he is, to Etho, in that moment. It makes him feel fragile. He lets out a shaky breath, letting his eyes fall shut. “We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Joel says in confirmation, though it’s more like a raspy whisper.

“Right. And I’m not leaving.” He says it so easily, unfalteringly sure. Etho is not an open person, he’s sure of that; yet he showed Joel more vulnerability than he deserved, and so simply, easy as breathing. It makes him wonder what he possibly could have done for Etho to trust him so much. With the tip of his thumb delicately tracing Joel’s cheekbone, he continues, “I’m here. As long as you want me, I’ll be here.”

“I want you,” Joel says, so softly, turning his head into Etho’s hand. “Oh, goodness, I want you.” 

Desire. An addiction. Hatred for what he’s done to him. A love so saccharine sweet, he thinks it’ll make him sick. 

He can feel Etho’s irregular heartbeat thumping in his own ribcage, and when he opens his eyes again, he finds him smiling. Joel thinks, idly, that he looks ridiculous, and how ridiculous it must be of Joel, to think he also looks quite pretty, especially in this light. The hand clasped around his own squeezes gently, and he feels impossibly warm. 

He bites his lower lip, breathing sharply. Emotion like a swarm of bees, sickening inside his stomach, an incessant buzzing that’ll drive him mad.

Though, sometimes, he wonders if, really, he already is.

I want you. I need you. (I love you; I hate you.)

(Please tell me that you hate me too.)

Joel doesn’t want to lose this.

He’s not ready, to lose this.

He doesn’t really have a choice, though. Not a say in the matter. The game is going to end, one way or another. The best he can do is savor it while it lasts.

“That’s good,” Etho says, laughing lightly, sounding somewhat relieved, “that’s—yeah, that’s really good, actually.”

Placing both of his hands over the one Etho had cupping his cheek, he feels a tug at his heart.

“Thank you for staying,” Joel whispers. 

“Thank you for letting me.” Etho responds in kind. 

>>>

“God damnit, Etho,” he mutters, feeling the sting of burns on his skin. “You—” 

“I’m such an idiot, I know,” Etho interrupts, clipped, “you don’t have to keep telling me, Joel.”

Their ship was gone.

Well, not gone, not entirely. It was still there, it was still burning. But it was far beyond repair, by now. Was, before they even had a chance to do anything to save it—they’d gotten back too late; it was already engulfed in flames by the time they knew it’d happened, worse when they’d arrived to see it for themselves.

Etho’d still tried—grabbed his water bucket, hauled himself up the rungs of the ladder and tried to douse the fire. It hadn’t worked, of course, only earned them multiple red-hot and raw wounds, stinging and throbbing. He’d had to shout at Etho, grab him by the arm and send them tumbling off the side of the ship into the grass below to stop them from burning to death.

Joel sighs, finishing wrapping Etho’s arm and roughly tearing the roll of makeshift bandages away to move on to another spot.

He understands being upset by your house being burnt down—that’s reasonable, expected, even. It’s a lot less reasonable to risk your own life to save a build—and Etho, was usually quite reasonable.

Right now, Etho is angry. Joel can tell; the tight feeling in his chest, his clenched fists and set jaw, glowering down at the grass. He’s not angry at him, he knows—Etho’s angry at whoever did this.

And Joel would be, too, if he wasn’t trying so hard to, for once, be the anchor that ties them both down. To be reasonable; if only to allow them a couple more days here, alive, together.

The silence of the still night hangs over them, unbearable, and thoughtlessly, he continues. “I didn’t know you cared so much about the ship.” 

The anger settles in his ribs, a stagnant pool of hot water. Faded and distant, easily identified as Etho’s rather than his. He watches as Etho seems to deflate, hunching over more than he already was. “Yeah, well,” he says, “you did a good job with it.”

“But it wasn’t just the build, was it?” Joel prods. When Etho doesn’t answer, he continues, “it meant something to you.”

The quiet, still, is his only reply.

He huffs, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to turn around,” he says, doing Etho the favor of dropping the subject, “I can’t reach your hands like this.”

“You know, I can do it myself.” Etho grumbles, still turning so his right side faces Joel, anyway. 

“You could,” Joel agrees, scooting forward and taking Etho’s hand in his, wrapping gauze around his palm. “I don’t want you to.”

Hopefully, the burns’ll only last till morning. Wounds don’t tend to stick around for long, here, though it still helps to treat them. They’ll hurt either way, but it’s easier, and quicker, to get back on their feet. 

He knows he’s getting the watered down version of the pain—Etho will have it much worse, since the damage is actually his. It’s all the more reason for Joel to be the one to deal with this. To take care of him.

… he wishes he was better at that.

When he finishes securing the gauze with the bandages, he sets the materials on his lap and places his hands on either side of  Etho’s bandaged one, looking up at him. Etho doesn’t look back at him, simply staring at his lap. Joel frowns. 

“It’s just nice to have somewhere safe to come back to.” Etho says, soft. “You know?”

“…yeah.” Joel gets the feeling that’s not the whole reason Etho’s upset. The tightness in his chest keeps worsening, and he’s not sure what to do with it. “No, I know.”

Without having to be asked, this time, Etho adjusts himself so that Joel can reach his left hand comfortably. He does so, allowing them to sit in the quiet as he treats their injuries. The smell of smoke lingers in the air, coarse in his throat and lungs; in any other world, they might have wanted to be more careful about inhaling the smoke—but it doesn’t matter here. They won’t be around for much longer. 

Pressing the gauze to the burns on Etho’s palm, then winding the bandages around, tightly enough to keep the gauze in place but not so much so that it was uncomfortable. He’s no professional—doesn’t even usually treat his own wounds in these games—and they don’t have any sort of ointment to soothe the burns. The best they could do, was what they did; letting the burns sit in the cold water down the ravine for a while before coming back here and bandaging them. 

Joel makes sure to be delicate with the movements, make it as painless as he can. Etho’s hands are still shaking whenever he lets go, and it makes his heart hurt.

He continues to bandage the wounds on Etho’s body in silence, until each one’s as cared for as needed. 

When he finishes, he places the gauze and the bandages down, and gets up. He steps in front of Etho, and lowers himself to the ground, kneeling. Taking both Etho’s hands in his own and dragging them down to hang in front of Etho’s knees, he gently presses his forehead to Etho’s knuckles, letting out a heavy breath and allowing his eyelids to fall shut.

He stays like that for a moment. It’s peaceful.

Then, “Joel?”

He raises his head.

“I want them dead.”

He says it flatly, candid, though Joel sees the shakiness in his expression. He’s not used to being this angry; Joel doesn’t know if it’s from the soulbond or if he’s just rubbed off on Etho, but he thinks that he can tell quite clearly that he’s overwhelmed either way.

Still, Joel can’t help but crack a toothy grin. A better person might have tried to ease the bloodlust rather than encourage it—but, Joel was not that person.

He doesn’t think that’s what Etho would want, anyway.

He drags his thumb over the bandaging on Etho’s hand, feeling the minuscule bumps where it wrapped over itself. 

He replies; “I think we can make that happen.”