“Later,” he agrees. Even if he really doesn’t want to have that conversation later. It’s one of those things that has to happen. Like Atty. The comparison makes his stomach sink a little and he has to remind himself: Jon isn’t Atty. God, he can’t think about Atty right now. He has too much to think about already– and he has to have a conversation later about the stealing. More and more and more.
If he was a little more drunk, a little bit more ready for all of this– because of course Jon would show up outta the blue the one day that Ethan decides to torture himself with the past and present in his room– he would have pushed. If he was more prepared for the resistance, he would have said something in retaliation. But, he wasn’t, so he just pressed his lips in a little line because Jon was being sigh-y and he didn’t know what to say to make it better.
“I’m not really materialistic, so. Just tell me I’m pretty sometimes.” Where Jon’s words were bone dry, Ethan’s carry the throat-y telltale of emotion and a dull twist of amusement. The contradictions between them are… Really, thinking on it, they’re embedded in this friendship. Jon’s dry and often dark humor, matched by Ethan’s typically lighter playoffs which are usually sprinkled with earnestness. Now, though, Ethan can’t help but feel off balance in it. Like he’s trying too hard to match Jon’s quips, trying to meet them in the middle instead of responding as he would before. Jon does have a tendency to catch him on all his off days. At his lowest. It should, in a way, make him uncomfortable. To have someone who’s seen him scrapping the bottom of the barrel then somehow getting under the barrel.
It didn’t, though. No, instead, there was an odd intimacy to it. Being stripped of most of his metaphorical armor and having someone there to dress the wounds, to address the problems. To be there and see him, bleeding and hurt and raw. It should have been terrifying, but Ethan was never one for really adhering to the norms of interpersonal relations so where it should have been terrifying, it was relieving. Okay, so, it was still scary and he still tried to build up some sort of block to keep his burdens from breaking over Jon’s head, but regardless.
He had someone who was going to simultaneously call him out on his thoughts and also be there to help with the aftermath.
Jon was right. He was right and Ethan didn’t want him to be. “Doesn’t mean I can’t feel like shit for not shooting Hitler.” Not the most solid argument nor the one he wants to make, but he’s not trying to argue. His eyes itch and he’s not trying to argue right now. He’s just tired and this is impossible. “I don’t– I don’t wanna kill Hitler. No, I– that’s not… I’m not– I would kill Hitler. Anyone would kill Hitler.” Huffing, he decides to not go into his complicated emotions regarding murder and Hitler. “The time people are at least trying to do the right thing, Jon. Lincoln was a good president.” In a moment of startling sobriety, he just… Jeez. ‘Lincoln was a good president’. Pressing a palm to his head, he struggles between laughing and reaching for the rest of the bottle.
“You know? If– If Lincoln’s wife knew what was gonna happen, she’d have taken the bullet. The time travelers are… they have hindsight. But what if… What was her name…” The hand slips from his head and into his too long hair to tug at the locks. Elizabeth? Mary? “What if Lincoln’s wife saw Booth? In that moment, I just– If I was her, not the time travelers, I would have felt like I should’ve done something. I’ve been given a ton of moments like that, and I don’t– I still can’t save them. Life can be unpredictable, yeah, but that doesn’t give me an out for being a coward.”
Something like die. Die in the place of Abraham Lincoln. Rebecca. Amelia. Billie. Any number of the people the Community has lost. Part of him, deep down, knows this is guilt. Knowing that, though, doesn’t make it easier. You can know what’s wrong and still not know how to make it stop. You can know and also realize that after so long, maybe it won’t stop. Maybe it just gets worse and worse and worse, piling on top of you until you’re crushed by it. Stuck, unable to do anything but let it take the air from your lungs and the bruise your bones and–
Dammit, okay, this is why he doesn’t drink. Why drinking at all was a bad idea. He’s never touching alcohol ever again. Even if he’s just blaming it for his own thoughts, which were bubbling beneath the surface anyway, he doesn’t like how he can feel his stomach churn. How his throat still burns if he swallows hard enough.
Ethan presses his mouth into a taught smile. The Community. His Community. Which, somehow, gave so much of their safety and trust over to him, when in all honesty he has jack to provide for them. But, that’s going to change. He’s going to be a goddamn leader even if it kills him. Even if they don’t know he’s not a leader right now. “I didn’t kill McMillan for them, Jon. It wasn’t bravery. It was– pity. I knew he wasn’t going to make it. He was going to– they would have fucking torn him apart, you know? And it wouldn’t have made them feel better.” He’s sure he’s told him this before. Or, maybe he hasn’t. Actually, okay, he probably hasn’t. That’s okay. This is fine. Might as well. “I don’t even hate him. He killed my sister and I feel bad for him, still. He killed a lot of people and I just– He was gone. He wasn’t coming back from whatever that was. And no one would have been able to forget killing him.”
A real leader would have known what to do. They would have found a better solution than Ethan had– he doesn’t know what, but he can’t believe that killing McMillan was the best solution. Looking back, he wouldn’t change his choice, but he swallows down the lump in his throat and knows that it wasn’t the one a real leader would have made.
When Jon says that he’s the one screwing up, Ethan is torn between grabbing his arms, looking him dead in the eye, and telling him to please realize who the one who is ALWAYS there is; the other option is just staring at him in disbelief. He chooses the latter because he doesn’t have control to touch Jon and not hug him. “How’s that screwing up?” He makes literally no effort to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice. “You’re here. That’s… Jon, I couldn’t ask for more than that. You’re listening to my mess. You’re responding to my mess. Jon, you’re– Fuck, jeez, you’re one of the reasons I’m not dead. You think I can make it through this if I’m just going on for me? Fuck no, Christ.”
As soon as he realizes the movement for what it is, there was a burst of warmth in his chest. It spread, tumbling through his veins and to his finger tips as he returned the hug. Full force. Too tight, way too tight and desperate but it’s so grounding that he doesn’t notice. He just curls his fingers into the fabric of Jon’s clothes, hard enough that he’s surely white-knuckling it. So hard that the tips of his fingers are numb that his hands shake with the effort of it. He needs him. Jesus, he really fucking does and he’s so sorry. Jon doesn’t do physical stuff– Ethan knows that. But, here he is, hugging him. That ache for contact, the undeniable ebbing hunger for connection that gnaws relentlessly at the back of his mind for a second, for this moment, is sated. Because he needs him and he has him. For right now, he has someone. Tomorrow can fuck off.
Little harsh. He shouldn’t be so aggressive towards tomorrow. It’s done nothing to him besides loom. Then again, fuck, isn’t that a crime in itself? Hovering like an anvil dangling by a thread. Right over his head.
Ethan adjusts his arms, the height difference between them only making it mildly difficult to get comfortable hold. The awkwardness of it doesn’t register. It’s a miracle that the words do. “Shut up, you’re– Jon, you’re just… Shut up.” The ‘shut up’s are his last drunken defense, honestly. Only to be used sparingly because they’re not effective at all. He just needs to have the right words to tell Jon how much he doesn’t suck but those aren’t in his jumbled, mumbled vocabulary right now. “You would have to try really goddamn hard to screw anything up.” It’s all choked and smothered into the hug, but it’s not like Ethan acknowledges that. Not like he cares.
Really, Jon could fucking stab him right now and Ethan wouldn’t ask why. Because, hey, he must have a reason. (Exaggeration, he’d ask why, but only because that’s a more appropriate reaction to being stabbed than ‘okay’)
“Okay. Okay, but, it’s not dealing with it if I want you here.” It, inevitably, shakes into something like a sob as it catches in his throat. In his best attempt not to ruin the hug, Ethan presses his face into the crook of Jon’s neck and shoulders. Another ‘sorry’ gets murmured during the process but it’s just barely audible and smothered by another trembling inhale. “I miss you when you’re out doing whatever, by the way. You can always come by when I’m not crying.”
There's an undeniable flutter that winds around Jon's rib-cage at the request, placing cracks in the stony expression cemented into his features. "Alright. I guess that's reasonable enough," It almost sickens him to think how willingly he'd be spoon feeding compliments to Ethan under different circumstances - soft little whispers, dripping with saccharine and a huskiness deeper than all his years of smoking could even produce. But those types of thoughts are self-destructive, because it's simply not the kind he would have. In another life, where he hadn't allowed the worst parts of the world to erode away his heart, where he could smile and maybe, possibly, rise as high into the sky to float alongside the bright star that was Ethan.
What-if's always sucked, though. They were what-if's for a reason: because it was never going to happen. But it didn't mean his being here and now was completely useless. Not if he could suck back enough of the darkness, so it wasn't like a sea of inky blackness - but a night sky, soothing, with the moon casting beams of calming iridescence. Not a sun, but soothing enough so Ethan could know that he wasn't alone in all of this.
"Okay, don't-- Alright maybe that wasn't the best of metaphors, 'cause you weren't actually supposed to overthink this. The main point is: shit happens. And yeah, it's really fucked up that we can't prevent every disaster from occurring in the world, but, we're doing the best that we can, man," Jon's eyes flicker to the ground between them, thumb and forefinger rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. In hindsight, giving this example wasn't exactly the best course of action. Ethan's ability to run off with a proposal, while normally amusing, could easily spell disaster if he overthought things. And now, it felt like he was sprinting down a crumbling highway thanks to Jon's ineptitude at encouragement.
It actually takes Jon a few beats to ponder the woman's name; facts like that had always seemed useless, back when he was actually in school. Now they were more like ancient writings buried in deep, dark crypts under the earth. "And what if you had done something? Odds are, Booth probably would've shot you, then Lincoln and gotten away with TWO murders. Look, I get wanting to be brave and shit but, it's like you're saying you'd rather die a hero than... Just, don't go down that path, Ethan,"
There's a laughter that stings on it's way out, bitter on the tongue, his body turning away from Ethan as he shakes his head. Jon was hoping to avoid this point in their conversation, although he knew it would have to emerge eventually. This is the boulder in the middle of the road - how would he even begin to calm those kind of thoughts down? Was he even supposed to-- or, did these things just, run their course? Fuck, he can't be that emotionally compromised, can he?
Slowly, he's rounding back to face Ethan again. "Then what makes you think it wasn't for them? You just said, they wouldn't be able to come back from killing him. You knew it would only make that pain worse, so you technically did both him and them a favor. The only person you really screwed over was yourself. 'Cause now you gotta carry all of that pain and guilt," And it's written like sharpie marker all over his face, how much that load actually weighs. "I know you didn't want anyone to die. I know you didn't want to have someone else's blood on your hands. You don't deserve to... carry all of this alone. And you aren't going to,"
For at least the hundredth time, Jon is inexpressibly grateful that Ethan can't read his mind. While he's here, praising what should be a completely normal, voluntary response for a real friend. And yet it's taking what feels like chunks off of Jon's life to even be standing here, silent or not-so-silently fighting the urge to take flight. This certainly makes the battle no easier, it's just another heaping helping of guilt. But he'll swallow it down as best he can. For Ethan.
"You give me way too much credit," Between the closeness, that churning in his stomach which is oddly reminiscent of nausea, the words are taught. His limbs feel equally stiff, and there's the consistent urgency that he needs to pull away before he's swallowed up in the simple action. Despite all that his body is protesting against, there's another... foreign feeling. It's there when his fingers smooth over Ethan's back, uneasily at first, attempting to decipher how the curve bends along his digits. A shudder courses through him when Ethan's breath hitches against his neck.
"Shit--" he exhales through a rumbling chuckle, teeth grazing over his bottom lip. "Stop being so... fuckin' sorry for everything, geez. You're fine," Not really. Nothing is ever truly fine but, hey, they'll get close enough some day, right? "You're fine, Ethan. 'Sides, it's not the first time I've been used as a tissue, believe it or not," He doesn't pull back completely, but enough so he can slip a hand between them to catch Ethan by the chin. "Hey," Fingers gently tilting his head up, dark brown eyes unusually soft as they're lost in rheumy, crystallized blues.
"... I'll work on that. Don't expect me to come knocking at your door every day, though. You may be... pretty, but, I'm not the desperate type, Avrams," The much more familiar smirk dances across his lips, rough fingertips slowly lowering to lay his hand atop Ethan's shoulder. "And yes, I did just imply that you look pretty even when you cry. You're welcome,"
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