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There is a subtle shake in Josh’s hands as he scoops the remnants of cabbage stew into a bowl, the earthy scent still lingering in the air despite dinner having since past. Elijah wipes the table clean with a stained hand towel left on the counter, watching carefully in the peripheral of his vision, eyes narrowed, as fingers twitch and splatters of precious stew sprinkle on the counters. Josh’s expression tightens, mouth pulled in a thin line, like the mere action of a slip-up is a testament to his character.
Josh is always anxious.
And Elijah is always watching.
He pauses in his movements, the towel scrunched under his hand, as Elijah watches his husband struggle. Dark circles under his eyes are subtle indicators of lack of sleep, and the rawness of his lips betrays the anxious worry of teeth. While Josh is always quiet, always stoic and to the point with his words when they converse, even dinner was oddly silent. Gentle pushings from Elijah lead to half-hearted reassurances and a gaze fixated on the chipped wooden floor. In the moment, as stew cooled in bowls and quelled the constant ache of hunger that gnawed at their bellies, Elijah didn’t push.
Frustration began to stir, however. It’s a familiar feeling for Elijah, the tightness in his chest and the clench of fingers, puffing out slowed, deliberate breaths through gritted teeth. Too often, he deals with things beyond his control, things that cannot be changed, but it never stops the curled heat in the pit of his stomach and the closing of his throat, and when it comes to Joshua, the desire to predict and guide blooms tenfold. The circumstances of their world are not something Elijah can help, but Joshua is one of the few choices he was able to make in his life.
Doesn’t Josh understand that? That he is the one good thing in this wretched world? That Elijah would rip apart threats like a big cat on the prowl, would give up every aspect of his health if it meant Josh would be better?
He would give his life for him without a second thought.
Elijah already nearly has.
And yet, Josh won’t even let complaints loose or confide in his husband over something as simple as a migraine.
“Joshua,” Elijah finally says, hip leaned against the rounded table, and Josh stiffens for just a moment as he slides leftover stew into the fridge. “Your hands are shaking.”
“It’s fine,” Josh murmurs as the fridge clicks shut, the typical, yet aggravating assurance slipping from his lips. “Tired.”
Oh, the flare of irritation that has to be soothed with a sharp swallow to prevent a curse from being mumbled to his husband. Always fine. Always tired. Always so put together when pain threatens to tear at the seams.
“I think you’re lying,” Elijah says instead, pushing forward on socked feet to place a warm palm over Josh’s forearm. The skin ripples as he feels his muscles stiffen, curls falling in his face as brown eyes turn away. “I’m a doctor. I can read the signs of pain as well as iron burns a witch.”
A rough chuckle leaves Josh then, though it is low and pained, like it's being pulled through shards of glass in his throat, and the sigh Josh heaves tells Elijah everything he needs to know. While most of Elijah’s medical expertise comes from dying Sanses with gaping chest wounds, missing limbs, and intestines spilling from stomachs ripped by bullets, blood thick enough in the air to choke on, he can pick up on simple signs of pain from something less fatal.
Like the twitch of Josh’s eye when the lights are too bright, or the spasms over temples of smoothed, warm brown skin, the chewing of a cheek or the tightness of shoulders. Josh is always a bit hunched, curled and trying to appear small, but his actions over the past few days have been more so. More worrying. Enough to set Elijah off and watch him with an owlish gaze from behind round lenses that tint his eyes. While he was willing to let it lie during dinner, let Josh eat his food in peace, he was unwilling to let him continue any longer in his act of stupid selflessness. It was time for love interpreted as interrogation, anxiety hidden by stubbornness.
“Your head hurts.”
Finally, Josh’s shoulders slump, and a hollow victory settles over Elijah’s bones. Josh rubs over his eyes with that trembled hand, hard enough that Elijah knows colors bloom over closed lids, and it takes a substantial effort not to pull his hand away. It’s not good for his eyes, but right now, that’s not the point.
“I guess it does.”
A rueful huff leaves Elijah at the lackluster admittance, brushing a thumb over his arm, sliding his hand down to squeeze Josh’s wrist. With a gentle tug, he pulls him away from the fridge, the counters, allowing him to follow on quiet feet to their bedroom.
“Come on,” he urges, hearing the door creak as they step in, carpet cold and ragged under toes, and Elijah goes to the dresser at once to rifle through secondhand clothes, riddled with patches and stains that don’t scrub out for something comfortable to wear. “Let me help.”
Evening light flits through the curtains, an ugly brown color that works well enough to dim the light that makes Josh squint. Pulling out a pair of sleep pants with a hole in the knee and too many tears near the crotch, he pushes them into Josh’s hands in an unspoken command to change. Unlike before, Joshua has no mumbled words of protest as he strips out of his uniform and begins to fold, and Elijah resists the urge to roll his eyes with a familiar fondness. Even now, Josh can’t just let clothes crumple on the floor for a single night.
Elijah watches silently as Josh pulls pants over long legs, too long for the fabric, and it stops just above his ankles as the string is fumbled with trembled fingers. Wordlessly, Elijah reaches down just about his waistband and ties a simple knot for him. A twinge pulls deep in Elijah’s chest as ribs jutted through skin pulled too tight catches his eyes as he looks up at Josh’s haggard face, the sharp angle of hipbones covered by fabric that has to be tied extra tight so they don’t slip down in his sleep.
He reaches up to cup Josh’s face, fingers swiping over his cheekbones, and plants a gentle kiss on his nose. A soft nuzzle of their faces, a stubbled cheek rubbing his, and Elijah gives a gentle squeeze of his cheeks before turning away, changing into his own clothes for the night.
The bedframe creaks as they both clamber onto the mattress, lumpy and old, with spring digging into shoulders and sheets scratchy, old cotton yellowed with age. Elijah plops himself right in the middle of the thin bed, holding out his arms for his husband, giving him no choice but to crawl into his arms and make himself at home against his chest.
Which Josh is more than willing to on most days.
They both run warm, but right now, Josh is a welcome heat against his chest. Heavy, soothing, skin soft under his fingers as his husband settles against his body, head tucked up under his chin. Strong arms loop around Elijah’s thinner torso, and hair tickles his nose as Elijah lets his cheek rest against his head, those choppy curls giving off a scent of sweat and soap. For a moment, Elijah lets himself absorb the presence of his husband, drawing hands over the knotted muscles in his shoulders, his heart a steady thump against his own, warm breath ghosting over his neck.
At this moment, this is everything. Josh is everything.
Always everything.
He’d do anything for him, but even more so, in these soft moments, Elijah feels love bloom and swirl in a way that aches. Love that makes his eyes burn and throat close up, love that makes fear and anxiety twist in ways that feel suffocating.
“Tell me,” he whispers above the steady breaths of Josh, letting his fingers glide into uniformed curls, and one day, Elijah hopes Josh can grow them out. How fun it would be to play with them. “Why you're so stressed.”
Josh’s heart quickens, only briefly, at the words, before his husband forces himself to relax once more under his hands. Still, he feels the man curl up a bit more, cuddle closer, like a small animal trying to hide in his ribs. Elijah wishes he could let him hide. He wants nothing more than to tuck him into his arms and keep him there.
Josh’s fingers pick at the sheets, and Elijah presses lips to his head. “Canyon Pass.”
Now, it’s Elijah’s turn to force down the fear that threatens to spill over, cluttering his controlled, practical thoughts, overlaying them with a sense of dread and despair. Canyon Pass. His husband’s latest foray into peril, commanded by those who’d never have to stand under a thunderstorm of bullets and blood and hoarse voices that shout command, for a conflict that has stretched so long, that those alive at its origins no longer exist.
A conflict that has shattered them both, manipulated their lives into something full of grief and hunger and desperate desire for something more, scrapping by on frayed ration papers, corruption, and a hierarchical system that keeps those unlucky underfoot, and those blessed enough with a pretty name ahead of those who form the foundation.
Canyon Pass is just another attempt in the ever-growing bloodshed that mars the world. Another deployment that thrusts his husband headfirst into primal survival and under the command of those who view him as nothing but disposable. Colonel Preston, an asshole who bought his way into power, with little care for those labeled with the name Sans, and a pompous, snobbish persona that made Elijah bristle like a cat, was to lead them to the Eastern Front along the Great Divide.
Spouted as a way to break through the Great Divide and take hold of the Southern Fire Temple, owned by the witches they’ve fought so long and hard against, in order to take a prominent foothold on the side of the continent that the enemy has dubbed Megalaceros. An attempt to change the tide of the world, to put the chance at victory into Deerland’s hands, and if a victory, a pride that would be thrust into the Careers, and not the ones who fought for it.
But there is no trust in Elijah that it will come to pass. There is no trust in those higher than him, in false promises, in his country or government. No trust it will be successful. No trust all that is laid in motion will come to pass, no trust in anyone but himself to ensure the safety of those he loves and get things done.
Words like that will not quell the anxiety that stews in his husband, however. Angry outbursts at the world and God and command that could lock him in a cell with a snap of his fingers won’t soothe Josh and help his headache to ease. Now is not the time for his anger, for his rants, and instead, Elijah takes both his hands and begins to massage thumbs into Josh’s temples.
His husband lets out a relieved groan, sagging into the touch, his weight becoming heavy against his chest in a way that pushes breath from his lungs, and Elijah feels a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. His fingers are hot, and his head blurs for just a moment as he keeps those gentle circles working across flushed skin.
“It’ll be alright,” he assures him, making no indication to his own fear at Josh’s safety despite how it makes his stomach churn. An ugly thing that crawls under his skin, and will haunt his dreams when he goes to be alone at night, no Josh to curl around him and warm him as he sleeps. No steady breathing aside him and knowledge that he is safe, alive, and whole. “You’re smart.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.” The familiar sense of selflessness bleeds from Josh’s words, the disregard for his own safety that always sends Elijah into a tailspin when it comes to his brother. “It’s Ethan.”
“And Ethan is smart too,” Elijah adds on easily, massaging his thumbs a bit harder to stave off that migraine. “Sometimes smarter than you, I might add.”
A breath that edges on laughter sounds at the quiet tense, and it's enough to let Elijah settle just a bit, even as Canyon Pass looms over them. An inevitability neither of them can change, but this moment is their own, and Elijah wants to spend it with bellies full of cabbage stew and bodies snuggled under ratty blankets, sharing warmth and softness and love. It will not be snatched by fear and uncertainties and unknowns.
Just this. Just them. That’s all Elijah needs for now.
“I can’t lose him,” Josh’s fingers move to rub lazy, absentminded circles on his collarbone as the massage against his temples continues. “I don’t know what I’d do.”
“You won’t lose him,” Elijah counters firmly, a hand cupping the back of his head to pull his face closer to the crook of his neck, Josh’s nose brushing skin. “I can’t lose you, and you always come back to me. Ethan is no different. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because we both have you, Josh,” Elijah breathes out, and this time, he pulls his face up so they can look each other in the eyes, and there is a slight lump in his throat as he’s briefly overwhelmed with emotion that claws its way through his defenses. “You, who cares far too much about everything in this world. The smartest, most wonderful man I know. You will come back to me, because you always do.”
Josh’s face scrunches at the word, not from pain this time, but with something indiscernible and muddled with feelings that they both struggle to navigate. He opens his mouth to speak, but Elijah beats him to it.
“I love you.”
“God, I love you too, Eli,” Josh cracks out through a stifled voice, and his head buries against Elijah’s in a sudden hug, arms squeezing hard enough to crack his ribs, and Elijah hugs back in equal strength, hanging onto his husband like it's the last time they'll see each other. They both linger, wrapped in sheets and a thin blanket and in each other, taking in the real sounds of their hearts and breathing, the tangibility of life and the knowledge of each other. Elijah feels heat beneath his eyes, but a deliberate breath keeps anything dangerous at bay.
“It’s going to be okay,” Elijah believes, and for a moment, he truly believes it will all be okay. A world in which it doesn’t work out is not within the realm of possibility. “Everything is going to be fine.”