❝ come back ❞

Jacob nodded his head at the other man’s words. Happy to hear that nothing serious was going on…At least, physically. Jake wasn’t naive enough to think that everything was fine. “I suppose that is stretching it, huh?” Jacob said with a chuckle as he looked at the other. Jacob put his water bottle back into the spot in his pack. “Did you manage to catch how long of a walk this is going to be?” Jacob asked curiously.

Ethan’s own laughter caught himself off guard. A pleasant surprise. Shaking his head, he looks behind them to see of anyone else is falling behind. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He readjusted the strap of his bag, thinking. He’d gone over the details of this trip more than enough over these past few days. “Little over a month, if everything goes right. It’s going to be a trek, but... Should be worth it. There’s gotta be something better on the other end of that radio rainbow.”

“You alright? you’re looking a little rough.” Jacob had noticed the other starting to walk a little bit further behind the group. “I have some water if you need some?” Jacob offered.

In comparison to the remaining survivors now huddled together, some taking the resting period to actually conserve their energy, others anxious, pacing with wary gazes, and those who look as though they may just drop to the parched ground, never to rise again - alive, at least - Jon strangely finds himself not faring all that badly. Nothing is broken, whatever bruises he possesses are slowly fading away. Honestly, his biggest task is attempting to spread thin they’re already fading medical personnel.

But it’s not as if he’s foreign to working under pressure. Part of this feels almost natural - things going to shit, some asshole spouting even more crap about submitting to his rule, forcing them to leave everything behind. Their camps, their homes, months upon months of Intel and research into how they could survive, bodies of people he had once just been smiling - actually smiling with only days prior, only to put a bullet in their head and for fuck’s sake he wanted to r i p Tyler’s hand off and slit his–

“Shit!” Jon hissed inwards, the pair of scissors he’d been disinfecting slicing against his thumb. God, who he was he kidding. Everybody, apparently but, never himself. He could only deny being unaffected for so long, and even then, he wouldn’t be fooled into thinking he was alright. A ragged sigh rolls past his lips, before securing them around his thumb thoughtfully. Somehow the tang of crimson is almost comforting…

He doesn’t even bother removing the digit when he hears footsteps, eyes flickering to Ethan before retreating to the space in front of him. Or a greeting, for that matter; Ethan’s usually the one to start talking first, anyway, but he does find himself surprised by what is clasped between his fingers. A small, dry chuckle. “I’d take a cigarette over both of those - chocolate, however…” He reaches over, taking the stick of chocolate carefully before switching it out with his thumb, “Chocolate’s always a close second. Where the hell’d you find it?”

“Also, I look fucking fantastic, thanks very much,”

Honestly, catching Jon when he wasn’t tending to someone was a miracle in itself. Ethan knew how short everyone was-- on both trained and prepared professionals and supplies. The mixing, while overall beneficial, also led to heaps of distrust. His own services he knew were going back and forth between breaking up fights, talking with the other leaders about what they needed to get done, mothering the Community members, and providing what medical services he could in the time he had off. But, really, he couldn’t feel guilty by sparing a few minutes to breathe. 

Not when he’d been auto piloting most of his actions since the set up of the ambulances. When every  choice was something that was both tremendous and small simultaneously, and almost all came one after another with no pause for thought. 

Ethan took his own stick of chocolate and folded the wrapper with his spare hand. In theory, just throwing the trash on the ground couldn’t hurt the world any worse than an apocalypse could-- still, that civic duty was so engraved in his head that he stuck the wrapper in his pocket. “It was a ‘thank you’ gift. Really, I’m happy it was candy. I’d be worried if a little girl was giving out cigarettes as thank you’s. Needed or not.”

Now with the benefit of proximity, Ethan could also get a better look of what Jon had done to his poor thumb. When the digit was removed from the other’s mouth, he could make out the fresh slice in the skin. Pulling over his bag from his side, Ethan carefully searches through the different folds and pouches before his fingers find the box he was looking for. Band aids. “Hand,” was his command as he held his half of the candy bar between his teeth. A little gesture with his fingers was even given, a beckoning. 

People were angry. 

He could understand why. Ethan’s own anger had settled into a heavy weight in his chest, though-- it didn’t make his fists ball up or his insides light up. It was just a heavy, blunt anger. Some of it because of losing Scottsdale, but most of it is because of what losing Scottsdale meant-- 

He didn’t get to say goodbye to a lot, and too many questions had answers that he wouldn’t be able to know now. Wouldn’t be able to know ever, actually. But, thinking about everything he couldn’t do or wouldn’t ever know wasn’t even the slightest bit ‘progressive’. Ethan HAD to be progressive, now. 

Twice, now, Ethan had counted the Community’s survivors. He’d counted the others, too, but he didn’t know the number he was looking for. Trying for optimism, Ethan let himself think that everyone who should be accounted for was accounted for.  He was going to go a third time when a familiar face (who was busy the first couple of times) got caught in the corner of his eye. The instinctual pull he has towards Jon kicks in, but as he moves closer worry pulls at his brow. Eyebrows furrowed, he presses his mouth into a thin line as he takes in more of Jon’s disposition. 

He dips a hand into his pocket, and digs out a sad, half-melted Kit Kat. It had been gifted to him by a  teary-eyed six year old, and it was probably expired, but he still snapped it in half through the wrapping. Wordlessly, he then let his sore feet carry him over to his best friend. Once close enough, he settles down next to him and holds out the bar. 

Charlie watched as the others rested. He got a few dirty looks as if to say he was part of the problem. A part of him wanted to confront them, to clear the air. However, Charles didn’t really care if people hated him for exposing the Roamers, or if they are upset that his group knew more than they were letting on. Everyone had to work together regardless of their past in Scottsdale. 

She cleared her throat. Tyler broke Samantha, he was the straw that broke her. A part of her wanted to just give up, she didn’t see the point in trying to fight the evil in the world. After everything they had been through, she was sure they’d experience all the bad out there. “Matt…Blaize…Jax,” she said clearing the tears from her eyes. Sam tried to think back to the last time she’d seen them.  

 “We have to find a way to fight,” she said in a defeated voice. She knew that the odds were slim, but she wanted to in memory of those who went against Tyler, or maybe she wanted the certain death that went along with defying Tyler. “His people are…loyal…if we take him out, how would we be sure someone else doesn’t take his spot or retaliate? We can’t have them suffer anymore,” she said referring to their people. 

Instinctively, Ethan edged closer so he could reach out to try and put a hand on her shoulder. While his hands were steady, his voice shook.  “I know. I know, Sam. They were such good people. And-- And... They didn’t deserve that. No body deserves any of this.” 

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,”

“What’s the point in living if you aren’t living for something, though, Jon? We push and we fight and we suffer every day, but why? Why-- Why survive if it just means you have to survive again tomorrow?” It was something he’d been asking himself earlier, with cool metal resting in his palm and a clouded head full of too many thoughts (he always thought too much). An argument that he wanted to be dead and gone and never brought up again, but he couldn’t help but reiterate now. Ethan did always have a problem with running his mouth; never in a bad way, but he could take a string of an idea and stretch it out. Somehow turn what was a three inch concept and knit a goddamn sweater out of it. 

Now, though, he couldn’t make much sense of his own thoughts or feelings. Alright, that was a lie, he could. He knew what they were. It was the words that were spilling out wrong-- too rushed, too blurted and distorted by each other. And in trying to explain, he was starting to realize how much he wanted Jon just to prove him wrong. To tell him to shut up. 

“I don’t-- That’s not... I don’t want to kill myself, okay? Maybe... Maybe for a bit it was-- It was something I thought about but I’m not...  I... I just wanna have something to live for. And if I don’t have that, then I want something to die for. And I know what that is, now. Or-- Or I think I know. but it’s something.” Ethan’s heart was simultaneously pounding in his chest and stuck in his throat. In his ears, in his fingertips. The deafening pulse and thrum of his own life trying desperately to drown out his own voice. Or so it seemed. “I know. I can’t keep going for me anymore. I’m not... I don’t care about me. I care about you. I care about Sam. I care about all these people, and you’re right-- Logan McMillan is dead just as much for them as he is for himself. And I’m trying, Jon, I am-- but I’m lying to them, too. And they don’t deserve to be lied to.” 

His voice hitches dangerously, thoughts scratching along with it. It cuts the stream of words, the mangled remnants of points, and gives him a chance to be berated by his heart beat once again. 

When the words sputtered out, it was relieving. Even if they were swallowed up by the air between them. The short distance between Ethan and one of the very few people he had left in this world. One of the few who had weathered the storm that promised to rage on and on and on outside the doors of this hospital. Scratch that-- this chaos wasn’t limited to any area. It swarmed and swept through everything and everyone. In the moment, it always seemed like he’d only have himself; shaking body, heavy mind, and bleeding heart. Then, for a second (this second), the raging fades to white noise and he gets a glimpse, a moment, to see who else is left standing with him.

“Sorry,” which was both a jest and a sincere apology for apologizing so much. As distance it put between them, Ethan tries to will his grip to lessen but all he can do is transfer that clutch to his hold on Jon’s arms. Once his chin is caught, he closes his eyes which gives a tear enough of a reason to slip down his cheek. He reopens them to meet Jon’s eyes, and when he does the upturn of his lips is instantaneous. It’s a gentle curve, a slight smile, but it’s got a twin carving itself into Ethan’s heart with painful sincerity. 

After being released, his smile shakes itself into a hesitant grin. “You’ve got a nice smile. It’s all,” Ethan pulled a hand off of Jon’s arm to motion to his own face-- his eyes to be specific. “-- up here. You can see it, it’s-- Like... I don’t know.” He moved his hand to grip Jon’s forearm again. His own smile was crinkling his blue eyes, somehow making them brighter than the dullness they’d been shining with the past few... Well, since the new year. But now, they were a little brighter-- reflecting the tiny sparks of hope that tended to whisk through his body whenever he could be around the people he loved. They always threatened to light him up from the inside out. “... Jon, I’m kinda wasted. Wasted and crying and I’m still pretty to you.. Raise those standards up. Gotta reward me for trying.” 

His smile settles itself after a few moments, though, and there’s a strong-- almost overbearing-- urge to pull Jon back into another embrace. All due to a thought. A request that he knows he shouldn’t bring up. “... Can... This is a lot to ask, but--” His still-tight voice caught in his throat and he laughed, more so at his own inability to carry out a concise thought than anything being actually funny. Shit. This was too much, he wanted to ask too much, but he’d downed pretty much the remains of a formerly pretty-full bottle of vodka so--- 

Samantha was not happy about having to try the leaders of the Roamers group, but they had crossed a line. A line that Tyler, a person who was part of her own group, crossed so easily. “I want…I want to have a funeral for them,” she said once they his people were gone. “We should have a funeral for them. They,” she paused, “They were strong and brave…and deserve a proper farewell.” 

“They’re getting a funeral,” Ethan said faintly, his fingers still on the table top. He was... Shock was a word for it. Anger-- ANGER was another one. Accompanied with such a remorse, such a carving and endless guilt that he thought he had felt the worst of before. That he thought couldn’t run deeper. But, again, he had blood on his hands. Because he trusted the wrong person. Because he let another person curl up close, nestled in his group, then attack them all from the inside. He remembers seeing Matt’s face. Watching in horror as ‘no’ formed on his lips.