we were born sick

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. 

Since he needed to at least pretend to defend his blatant call-out on Jon’s worse-for-wear appearance, Ethan waved a hand with a light laugh. “Hey, everyone looks like they need chocolate.” Everyone also looked like they needed a smoke. Or thirty years of rest. Or a global reset. “… You do look like shit, though. That’s coming from a place of love.”  

Little miracles. Although, the word "miracles" was utilized rather loosely. A kid with a considerably big heart handing over a precious luxury to an equally large-hearted adult - yeah, because, that was something that normally happened these days. Jon almost wanted to roll his eyes at how cliche the entire thing sounded, but decided to keep that particularly asshole observation in the memory banks. He found that tended to occur a lot when he found himself around Ethan. Many things were different when it came to Ethan.

"Okay, but, if she ever decides to go that route, let a guy know. I'll gladly exchange some candy for it," The sentence is punctuated between crunches of wafer and chocolate, a low but satisfied hum rumbling in Jon's chest. It's not only the unexpected treat, but taking the reprieve in itself, having a moment to sit down. Not kneeling over slashed midsection or, tending to a broken arm but just... sitting, and talking, in leisure.

Fuck, this is nice.

At first, there's a hesitation - he snorts at the gesture, subconsciously brushing the slightly bloodied digit against his pants leg. It's impossibly bemusing how much Ethan reminds him of a soccer mom, half-expecting him to pull out a juice box and stuffed animal. "It's a paper cut, Ethan. Don't go wasting those things on shit like this," It's not that he doesn't appreciate the gesture, he does; and, well, normally he isn't so anal but, the risk of infection is so much higher than just requiring a trip to the hospital.

Jacob nodded his head at the older man’s words. “Alright man. If you need any, don’t be afraid to ask for some.” Jacob offered with a smile as he looked up at the group. He has barely been with the group for a few days, but some of them were already growing on him. Jacob was brought back to reality from the other man’s words. “Would you rather I let someone possibly be weak and injure themselves or someone else just cause I didn’t want to share water?”

Technically, now would have been a perfect time to turn off the snark, peek over the defenses and simply nod his thanks towards the other. And yet, that seemed to be the most impossible, inconceivable option - too bad, it really just didn't take much to grate Jon's nerves. "Alright, first thing - don't ever fuckin' imply that I wouldn't take what I needed, when I needed it. I don't need some damn motherin' bastard to ask me every five minutes if I'm thirsty or hungry. Number two? You do that shit too many times, eventually you're gonna wind up minus a water source and with a knife in your back," Jaw clenched, he turned to set his gaze straight ahead. "Nice guys always finish last, kid,"

“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.

Jon's head lifted upon hearing the male voice ahead of him, hesitating before giving a firm shake of his head. " M'fine," He preferred lingering near the rear of the back; less people, less opportunity to get caught up in conversation. And he could keep an eye on everyone much better from this vantage point - namely his patients. Patients... God, when he had gotten so damned sentimental? But he couldn't deny, the thought of a straggler getting side-swiped by an incoming walker or simply falling behind, well...

He was fine where he was.

“so, uh… when we get to where we’re goin’.. are we gonna split up again?” atty’s a little worried about what it means for her. she got them this opportunity, but don’t think she doesn’t notice the glares and stares she still gets. people don’t trust her. she gets it, but.. 

"I doubt it," The response comes through monotonous, though a sharp flicker of his eyes cast a rather cold gaze on the blonde. There are still lingering traces of disdain whenever he thinks about what had been cooking [ pun heavily intended] in the roamers camp. It's not exactly that he's angry anymore, that mood has swung back and forth enough for all the shit they're currently wading through. But her question does jump-start his thought process on the topic - is there a point to sticking together, with a group this large? "Depends on what our 'council members' want too. Not that everybody is gonna listen and follow through, but, it's a factor," Although, he has an idea of the direction one particular member may lean towards.

@jonfaria

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. 

“… It’s not coffee or an actual meal, but… You look like you need it.” 

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?"

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. 

"Just keep as much pressure off it as you can. Take it easy for now, don't know how long we're gonna get to rest,"

Eyeing the young boy whose ankle he'd just finished examining, Jon rose to his feet and simply nodded at the families thanks - a mild sprain, but nothing that wouldn't heal with time and proper rest. As if they had either of those to spare. The air was hot and thick, permeated by a tension nobody seemed willing to address besides murmurs and grumblings between small pockets of people. Honestly, he wasn't sure if he even cared how Charlie was faring at this point. Jon never did take to people who went seeking out trouble, that and the two males never did see eye-to-eye on most within their previous group.

Deep-set brown eyes flickered open, attention drawn to the glass thermometer held between his lips. He fervently denied the tremble shivering along his fingers as they rose to clasp the stick, steadily holding it before his gaze - and he could barely stifle the groan rolling up his dry throat. 102.7. Monitoring the climbing temperature felt utterly fucking useless at this point. He knew what it meant; deep down, right back to the fucking moment he'd realized the stinging sensation just above his ankle. A small gash compared to most of his other injuries so far - but in a horde of walkers, filthy, reaching fingers, clawing and mobile despite being sliced in half... It was one stupid misstep--

A hand clasped against his clammy forehead, lungs shuddering with the onset signs of hyperventilating. No, no he was not gonna lose his shit over this. He couldn't, it would just make everything within the group already more chaotic. It was why he had insisted on settling with guard duty in the first place - high enough that he could keep himself out of sight, no wandering, wary gazes, then set with panic because nobody got this sick unless it meant they were done for.

“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.