Work Text:
“Thank y'all for coming in this morning.”
Bdubs can’t help the slight curl of his lip at Joe’s words, his eyes rolling toward the large windows of the conference room. Their beige curtains are drawn back to reveal the beginnings of a snowstorm—nothing but a healthy dose of snow for their small town of thirty-something thousand.
It really looks worse than it is, the wind working to push snowflakes into a foggy haze of white beyond the glass; not much snow will live to see the next sunrise. He just hopes it keeps the inevitable line of tourists to the surrounding mountains and not the town itself. What’s good for business isn’t always the best for traffic; especially not if ice manages to stick along the main roads.
Seeing a wreck first thing in the morning isn’t the prettiest wake-up call. Speaking of...
Snow blows against the window as the conference door clicks shut, and two sets of footsteps slip further into the room. One soft and measured—almost imperceptible if Bdubs didn’t know what he was looking for—the other weighted and loud even against the carpeted flooring.
Now that pricks at Bdubs’ attention. He straightens in his chair, pressing his palms to his jeans as Etho and his supposed lawyer round the table to the other side of chairs. Man is the guy tall, enough so that Etho looks almost normal standing next to him. Which is saying a lot; Etho’s always looked freakishly tall next to Bdubs.
You make it sound like an achievement, Etho would always tease. Yeah, well Bdubs would say it was pretty damn hard to make a 5’11 guy look short.
Joe stands from his seat to Bdubs’ right, tucking his tie back into the buttoning of his suit and offering a smile. “The name’s Joe. I presume it’s you whom I’ve been emailing with?”
“Doc,” Etho’s lawyer grunts out, his voice heavy and thick with an accent Bdubs can’t place. From out of town, at least. Maybe out of country at most. But where?
He doesn’t get his answer. Doc only sets his briefcase onto the table and clicks it open, shuffling a few papers out of it before he pauses. His gaze lifts toward the extended hand Joe offers across the table, then to the friendly smile still plastered on the shorter’s face. The corner of Doc’s lips dip into a frown. Definitely not from America. “Let’s get this meeting over with. My client and I have better things to do today.”
Oh, and isn’t that a treat to hear? It’s gotta be a rare day when a lawyer wants little to do with the case he’s being paid to handle.
But Joe’s expression doesn’t waver. His hand falls to skirt smoothly across the table and toward his own stack of neatly assorted papers. “Sure, take a seat—anywhere will treat y’all right. There’re only a few more things we need to go over...” he slides a pen across the table. “The rest of it’s reviewing paperwork and puttin’ it in the hands of the judge.”
And take a seat Doc does. The seat right in front of Bdubs, that is, leaving the one in front of Joe—and whose tablespace is still being taken up by Doc’s briefcase—for Etho. Bdubs smile then, low and sharp, as Etho sits back into the chair’s black leather.
Bdubs can’t resist doing a once-over; what’s the point of a divorce if you’re not allowed to fully take in the few moments you’re legally obligated to see your ex-husband?
Etho looks almost uncomfortable in his seat, and it only takes a moment to realize it isn’t because this is the first time they’ve seen each other since the night Etho left. The conference room chairs had felt big to Bdubs when he first sat down; it somehow manages to both dwarf Etho and look too short for his torso simultaneously.
Etho’s arms raise to rest his elbows on the metal arms, propping a mug up so he can hold it at his chest, the ceramic white and indistinct and so unlike the collection that awaits in their cupboards at home. Where are the strange logos, Bdubs wants to ask, logos from companies who didn’t last long enough to see their divorce, likely from the crazy designs that Bdubs had only bought because Etho teased him about the color or shape and Bdubs had to prove it would make a good mug.
None of the mugs in their kitchen cabinets match the one Etho holds now, so bland it looks like it’d been stolen from some cheap diner. Bdubs can’t help the nagging feeling that it was.
He forces his gaze back to the window. It almost feels reminiscent of their days in college, when Bdubs had first stepped into Etho’s dorm room and gotten an eyeful of his dishware balanced on nondescript shelves. It’d been like comparing snowflakes to one another; no two plates or bowls looked alike.
“What dish pack could you have possibly gotten to get all this stuff?” Bdubs had asked, voice strained in his attempts to smother his laughter.
But Etho was just as shameless as Bdubs was loud. “None,” he’d hummed, and slung his backpack from his shoulder to the ground. Thin fingers had just barely found the top pocket zipper when he spoke again. “They’re from around town. Some from Tango. Which notes did you need-?”
...Bdubs would bet the deed to their house that Etho’s bachelor pad looks every bit like that old room.
Close enough to it, at least. The bare minimum bedframe, the cheap desk that was empty at the semester’s start and cluttered to hell by the semester’s end. The only thing missing would be the mountains of shelves the school installed, not that Etho would have any knickknacks to fill those with. He hadn’t packed much of anything from the house, just a backpack of clothes and the keys to his beat-up pickup truck. That, too, had been around since college.
Bdubs still remembers watching Etho and that dumb truck back out of the driveway for the last time, certain that giddiness was the stone that’d sunk like lead within his stomach seeing cracked break lights fade beyond the street. It was an eyesore to their modernized house, even more so in the times Etho forgot to park it back in the garage. Etho taking it with him in the divorce had meant a return to uniformity within the yard, and it wasn’t like Bdubs had the grounds to demand Etho leave it until they settled asset ownership.
That’s what Joe had said, anyway. Bdubs would’ve had to pray for a miracle if he wanted ownership of that truck, especially considering Etho was the one to bring it into the marriage. You wouldn’t want that, Joe continued, Mr. Slab probably wouldn't stop contacting you until you came to a compromise about it. That’s what my ex-wife did.
The worst part wasn’t that he was putting his divorce in the hands of a fellow divorcee, it was that Joe was right. Etho would’ve continued to linger along the edges of Bdubs’ life if Bdubs was given the title of that truck, crossing in and out of contact as necessary until they found a compromise. That stupid thing would be the only reason for Etho to stay, with Bdubs forking over its keys every now and again being nothing more than an awkward moment of contact between strangers, as though Bdubs wasn’t someone he’d shared over fifteen years of his life with.
He forces himself to exhale, anger itching beneath his skin. He knows for a fact Etho drove it to Joe’s office, just as he knows the coffee in that ceramic mug is 90% caffeine and 10% milk. Man, he should’ve asked Joe if they could sit on the room’s window side—given himself a discrete way to peer into the parking lot in search for familiar scratched paint dusted in snow.
Instead, he locks onto the soft thudding of Etho’s foot under the table. A small part of Bdubs feels strangely validated by his discomfort, laid out on display for the world to perceive. See, that part of him wants to say, all nasty and smug, you could’ve changed and we wouldn’t have to be here right now.
Nobody wants to make time in their schedule for attorneys. Legal jargon and ulterior motives swept beneath polite words will never not be grating to Bdubs’ ears. It’s why he avoids work parties when he can; why he had never once criticized Etho’s aversion to social gatherings.
But Etho hadn’t blinked that cloudy Saturday morning, when Bdubs handed him a packet of papers thick enough to rival the books on their coffee table. He’d continued to sip at his coffee as he read over the words “Record of Divorce” like it was the day’s headline and asked for the pen in Bdubs’ other hand.
To Bdubs, that was it.
If Etho wasn’t willing to fight for their marriage, then Bdubs had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t keep fighting to keep Etho’s life comfortable. He’d schedule meetings on his own time—would bang on Etho’s door at 7 AM if that meant Bdubs could meet with Joe at a convenient time.
...it’s kind of why he hired Joe in the first place. There’d been plenty of divorce lawyers in town, but Joe was the only one who refused to meet if it wasn’t in the morning. The afternoons—Joe had claimed—were best for actual paperwork and time with his daughter.
Was it petty? Yeah. Was Etho surprised? Bdubs didn’t think so. But man, what he wouldn’t have given to see the look on Etho’s face when he got the news that he’d have to be out of the house before noon for the first time in two decades.
Etho’s finger taps against the ceramic of his mug and Bdubs’ can’t help the way his head snaps to attention, straining at the distinct clink that rings throughout the room. A glance proves that Etho still wears a silver band around his ring finger, polished as it’d been the day Bdubs had slipped it onto his hand and promised him forever.
Like static Joe’s words fizzle further into the background. He knows what their attorneys are saying is important, but it feels like droplets from a leaky faucet compared to the floodgates of anger rattling within his mind. Etho’s face is carefully blank, like he hadn’t meant to do that, leant forward in his chair as he pretends to pay attention to whatever paperwork Joe gestures to with a pen.
Pretends, because Etho’s never given a damn about paperwork before.
Hell, it’d been Bdubs who had to remember to grab their marriage certificate—Bdubs who had to slip it and a pen into the picnic basket for their private wedding Etho had fought tooth and nail to hold. Bdubs knows Etho has never been one for large events—especially ones that included dozens of Bdubs’ family and none of Etho’s—but it’d still felt like a slight against Bdubs’ childhood dreams of getting married surrounded by those he loved.
In the end, Etho got his quiet wedding on a hill, dressed in a suit and gaze aglow with the setting sun, and Bdubs got a reception chalk-full of family members that Etho smiled through for an hour before he excused himself for the night. Marriage was all about compromise, they’d told each other.
Etho’s face suddenly pinches and Bdubs’ thoughts quiet just enough for him to tune back into the conversation at hand.
“...house? There’s a possibility of liquidating it and dividing the proceeds evenly,” Joe’s offering with a cheerful tone. No wonder Etho looks pained; the idea of selling their house makes Bdubs’ own stomach twist itself into knots.
But Doc nods. “We could have it inspected and listed within the next month or-”
“I don’t want it.”
Bdubs swears his heart stops, his jaw aching from how hard his teeth clench. What?
Etho’s gaze doesn’t shift away from Joe. His shoulders roll, but it does little to release the tension that keeps them rigid. It’s such a foreign look for him—it was always rare to find Etho without his signature slouch, even more so for mismatched eyes to be void of that careful fondness that Bdubs would catch in quiet moments.
Never been good with words, he remembers Etho saying, not that Bdubs ever minded it. His eyes were proof enough.
Here, Etho looks conflicted, and if Bdubs didn’t know any better, upset. “I don’t want to sell the house.”
Oh. That’s...better. Bdubs nods along.
Joe’s chair squeaks as he leans forward and into the edge of the table. “Mr. Slab,” he says sweetly, “I recommend settlin’ to sell the house. There’s no guarantee the court will grant you ownership.”
“Good.” Short. Clipped. He doesn’t think he’s seen Etho look so irritated. “I don’t want it.”
In the corner of Bdubs’ eye Doc’s brows shoot high. Bdubs beats him to his words.
“You don’t want our home?”
Bdubs stares as Etho remains stock-still in his chair, his face restoring itself back to that careful blankness. Like Bdubs is some prehistoric creature that won’t be able to see Etho so long as he doesn’t move. It’s cowardice, and Bdubs wants to throw something.
Instead he offers a rattled exhale, certain is face is turning red. He can feel it in the way the blood within his veins begins to boil and the way his throat grows tight with an emotion he refuses to call anything but anger. If it isn’t, he’ll make it so.
“So that’s it?” He thinks he might throw up. “No fight? No big hoopla about our divorce? You’re just gonna throw away fifteen years without so much as an argument?”
Doc’s lips press firm. He looks annoyed for someone meant to play telephone for Etho, and if anything, Etho shouldn’t have even spoken if Doc had done his job right. “Mr. One Hundred.” Oh, and he sounds so unimpressed too. “If you can’t be professional, we will be forced to continue this meeting over email.”
He knows a poorly veiled threat when he hears one, but Etho won’t move. Why can’t Doc see that? Why can’t he see that Etho has yet to look away from Joe, like Bdubs hadn’t spoken—like his husband of fifteen years isn’t here at all.
Fine. That’s...that’s fine. God, he can’t believe he thought—that just maybe-
The corner of his lip lifts into a smile, and with that, he grabs what little decorum he’d had left and throws it out the window. “Oh great,” it comes out far too soft and Bdubs barks out a hollow laugh to fill the shortcoming. “That’s just great, huh. You go ahead and ignore the problem like always, let the world and people pass by you while you sit there like some stupid fly trapped in a freaking web you made. Shows how remarkable you are.”
Finally Etho’s gaze drops to his mug. It’s so hard to decipher the twitch in his brows—why is it so hard to read someone he’s lived with for fifteen years? He could tell someone the perfect golden Etho preferred his pancakes to have and the temperature of the room Etho needed to sleep and that Etho couldn't solve a problem without an ear to talk to.
Why can’t he read Etho like a book that Etho confessed so long ago only Bdubs seemed to have?
“I’m giving you the house.”
“You’re not!” His chair almost tips with how fast Bdubs stands, discarding it behind him. “The only thing you’re giving me are those five words! Five! And they’re not even good ones!”
Joe moves somewhere to his right. ”Let’s sit down-”
But Bdubs isn’t done. He doesn’t want to sit down, to take this like some—some child being told “that’s too bad, sweetie, but that’s just the way it goes.”
“Where is my apology?” He asks instead, like that would change anything. He doesn’t even want a dumb apology, not even one for only giving Bdubs fifteen years of a warm bed and a house full of laughter and inside jokes and mornings spent soft and quiet in each other’s company or for promising Bdubs forever and then never again.
“You made fifteen years of my life one big joke signing those papers. And all you can do is claim that you’re ‘giving’ me the house?”
Etho doesn’t move and Bdubs’ feels his anger evaporate in one breath. His voice cracks. “What am I supposed to do, Etho?”
Etho’s hands look practically white from how tightly they’re wound around his mug. He turns, looking up to Bdubs with a finality that drops stones straight into Bdubs’ stomach.
“Take it. Move on.”
Bdubs had been so sure that his life had crashed the moment Etho signed their divorce papers without so much as a question of why. And yet it feels like Deja Vu, the way his heart lurches over four measly words laid out before him and shaped by the broken fragments of their marriage.
Without another word he turns and dares his first steps away from the table. Distantly he registers the fact that Doc is standing, shoulders squared in a way that reads aggression in a bold font.
Bdubs can’t find himself to care, his face hot and vision blurry. It casts the other three in a dark sea of choppy waves that grow farther and farther.
The door to the room swings open. Bdubs doesn’t let it hit him on the way out.
They’ll continue this without me, he reasons. He'd been looking for an excuse to visit his parents anyway.