(inspired by a post by @draculism)
The elevator ride is silent but not necessarily tense; at least John wouldn’t describe it as tense, no, not tense, nothing about tonight has been tense, save for perhaps the ride to the bar where he played with his wedding ring and wondered if Etho was fucking with him.
No, in fact, that’s the thing. Everything about Etho is easy. Being with him is like he’s known him forever, and, well, that’s true, he’s known him a third of his life at this point, right? It’s easy to forget there was a point he didn’t have Etho in his life. Tonight, even, it’s easy to forget he never knew his face. He closes his eyes and rubs them with the heel of his palm, and when he opens them bruises dance in the air. Etho doesn’t ask if he’s OK, but he is watching him, and John feels his stomach flip.
He’s not stupid, OK. He’s not a kid, and he knows what this feeling is. He can’t say it, or he won’t, and he definitely shouldn’t, but he knows. He fiddles with the ring on his finger. All too soon, the elevator doors open.
Etho takes the lead, of course. It’s his room. They walk silently down the hall and John feels the weight of eyes on him. There’s no one in the hallway, but something about this feels suddenly very heavy. But there’s gravity pulling him towards Etho, and he follows him up to the hotel room door.
Etho fumbles with his wallet for a second, and John is relieved to see it’s barely holding together. A piece of ancient leather held together by tape and a dream. It feels so Etho that for a moment he’s lighter. Everything in the world is this man in front of him, and everything else feels far away. Etho swipes the card. It blinks red once. Buzzes. He mumbles something, and swipes it again. It flashes green. The door opens.
The hotel room is ugly as sin. Dark, forest green carpet, deep brown walls that might have once been yellow. Everything looks like it was built in 1970, save for the bathroom and the digital clock, and the mini fridge. John flicks on the light, and these horrible fake gold seashell sconces flicker to life with a sigh. They make a horrible noise. An electric humming as outdated as the decor. On the nightstand, there’s a copy of the bible. John laughs.
Etho turns around, half hunched over the half open mini fridge. “What?”
“The–” John stammers for a moment, gestures around. “Is this a smoking room?”
“It was cheaper,” Etho says. They stare at each other for a moment. “I don’t–”
“–is there a lamp in here?” John says. He breaks eye contact, and Etho doesn’t respond, just digs into the mini fridge. John keeps his hand on the lightswitch, as if staying at the threshold means he hasn’t crossed it. And he hasn’t, not yet. Not really.
Etho pulls out two beers. They look tiny in his hand. The Coors Lites shimmer silver in this ugly room, and John swears he can imagine the light reflecting up on Etho to be angelic in nature. He walks over slowly, not unsure, not confident, just walking, and hands a beer out to Bdubs. He’s beautiful, even against the most dingy backdrop in the world. Like a highlight, the shitty hotel room just serves to make him stand out more. They say nothing.
He brushes his hand over Etho’s to take the beer, and Etho’s hand is warm, and lifelike, and suddenly he’s grabbing his wrist and pulling him in and smashing their faces together; he misses. He misses, but Etho course-corrects, leaning in, and it’s not romantic, but their lips connect, and they’re dry, and the feeling of the beard on Etho’s face is foreign, he’s never felt anything like it, and it’s not great, but it feels OK, and he keeps a grip on Etho’s wrist, like it’s real, like it could be real. And he hears a can drop to the floor, then Etho’s teeth slide against his lips and they bump teeth. They bump teeth but it’s OK, it’s more than OK, this is the worst kiss he’s ever had, it’s the best kiss he’s ever had, but it’s the worst, and it feels like a door opening. It feels like a warm light shining through a door, right on his skin, and he feels hot, and he feels Etho slip his hand around his waist to the small of his back, and suddenly it’s heavy, it’s heavy and bad and Etho’s mouth is the wrong shape and the beard is weird, bad weird, and his breath is too hot, his hands are too hot, John is too hot, and he rips away from Etho, and in his heart, a door slams.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he says.
“OK.” Etho says, frozen in place.
John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We shouldn’t…”
“OK, Bdubs.”
“It’s still weird being called that in real life,” he says, and forces a laugh. Etho doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything.
They stand like that a moment longer, Etho completely still. John sweeps the room with his eyes. The sconces are still humming. Etho’s beer spills out on the carpet. John’s mouth feels stuffed with cotton. He says nothing. Etho says nothing. John turns on his heel, and stumbles out of the room, feeling horribly, terribly drunk. It isn’t until he’s in the cab that he realizes he’s gripping the mini can of beer so tight it leaves a ring on his hand. It’s lukewarm now, but his wedding ring has absorbed the cold. He tosses the can in the neighbor’s trash bin when he gets home.
